The Anvil and the Spinster-Chapter 10: The Things That Take Root
Summary
Emma Ashford does not ask for belonging at Summerhall—she builds it.
At breakfast, she is tested. By midday, she is judged. By dusk… she begins to change the shape of the house itself.
Daeron watches her like a storm waiting to break. Maekar watches her like something already inevitable.
And somewhere between politics, quiet understanding, and hands that linger just a moment too long—
Emma begins to take root.
Warnings
slow burn (like… SLOW slow burn)
emotional tension & character-driven conflict
stepfamily dynamics (complex but respectful)
power dynamics within marriage (balanced, mutual respect)
political undertones / leadership themes
introspection & internal struggle
grief-adjacent themes (fear, being unseen, pressure)
developing intimacy (non-explicit but getting closer đź‘€)
protective instincts / possessive undertones (soft, not toxic)
“he notices everything” energy
“she changes everything” energy
Breakfast at summerhall was not a ceremony.Â
It was a claim.
The long table in the morning chamber caught the eastern light, sun spilling across polished wood and silver goblets. The windows had been thrown open to let in the wind; it stirred the banners hung along the walls and carried with it the scent of damp grass and distant smoke from the kitchens.
Emma paused just inside the doorway.
Maekar was already seated at the head of the table — not because he demanded it, but because the chair seemed built for him. His dark tunic bore no ornament beyond the small dragon stitched over his breast. Severe. Exact.
The necklace he had fastened around her throat rested warm against her skin.
She felt it before she saw it reflected in the polished silver of the serving dishes.
Summerhall should know it.
She took her seat to his right.
Rhae was there, poised and composed, buttering bread with careful strokes. Daella sat beside her, murmuring something about a hawk she had seen that morning. And across from Emma—
Daeron.
He had not yet touched the goblet at his elbow, though it was filled. His silver hair fell loose about his shoulders today, unbound. There was something older in him than his years — not solemn like Maekar, not studious like Aemon from what she’d heard. Restless.
His gaze flicked to the necklace first.
Then to her.
Then away.
“You wear our house well,” Rhae observed lightly.
“Thank you princess. I intend to,” Emma replied, lifting her cup.
Daeron leaned back in his chair, studying her as if she were a cipher.
“You intend many things,” he said.
Maekar did not look up from his plate. “Speak plainly.”
Daeron’s mouth twitched. “I only mean that intentions are not the same as belonging.”
The words were not cruel.
But they were sharp.
Emma met his eyes.
“And what would you suggest is required?” she asked calmly.
He tilted his head, as if genuinely considering. “Time.”
“Then I am fortunate,” she said. “I have quite a lot of it.”
Daella suppressed a smile.
Rhae hid hers behind her goblet.
Maekar’s hand brushed Emma’s beneath the table — not to silence her, but steady acknowledgment.
Daeron’s eyes flicked downward at the subtle movement.
Interesting.
Breakfast passed without open conflict, but the air between Emma and Daeron felt like the charged hush before a storm. Not hatred. Not even dislike.
Wariness.
He did not yet know what she would be.
And she did not yet know what he needed.
Summerhall did not idle simply because a new princess had arrived.
By midmorning, petitions waited.
The small solar off the western gallery served as her receiving chamber. It was not the grand hall of King’s Landing, but the matters brought before her were no less real.
A shepherd disputing grazing boundaries along the southern hills.
A mason requesting coin to repair storm-damaged outbuildings.
Two stablehands accusing one another of theft.
Emma listened.
Not with indulgence.
With attention.
She asked questions. Requested figures. Sent for the steward when necessary. Promised nothing she could not deliver.
When the shepherd grew flustered and raised his voice, she did not flinch. When the mason attempted flattery, she ignored it entirely.
By midday, word had already begun to shift.
She was not ornamental.
She was deliberate.
And in the doorway, half-shadowed against the stone, Daeron watched.
He had slipped in quietly — not announced, not summoned.
Observing.
When the final petitioner bowed and departed, Emma allowed herself a slow breath.
“You listen as if weighing coins,” Daeron said from the threshold.
She did not startle.
“I am.”
He stepped fully into the chamber now. “Most would have deferred to Father.”
“Most are not tasked with learning how Summerhall breathes.”
He approached the table, glancing at the scattered parchments.
“You sent the shepherd away without deciding.”
“I sent him to bring proof of his claim. Men lie less when asked to produce numbers.”
A flicker of reluctant approval crossed his features.
“You do not fear being wrong.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I fear being careless.”
That stilled him.
For a moment, something almost vulnerable passed through his expression — a flash of something heavier than his years.
“They whisper about you,” he said.
“I would be disappointed if they did not.”
“That you are not easily frightened.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Is that meant to be a warning?”
“It is meant to be an observation.”
He circled the table slowly, restless energy coiled in him. He did not sit. He never seemed entirely still.
“You dream,” she said.
He stopped.
His gaze sharpened. “You presume much.”
“I observe much.”
The silence stretched.
“I do,” he admitted at last. “Though most would prefer I did not.”
She studied him more closely now.
Not the defiance.
The strain beneath it.
“Do they trouble you?” she asked softly.
His jaw tightened. “They are only dreams.”
But his fingers flexed.
She rose from her chair.
“Walk with me.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Before you decide I am insufferable.”
That startled a laugh from him — brief and unguarded.
He followed.
The hills beyond Summerhall rolled gold beneath the afternoon sun. Wind tugged at Emma’s skirts and sent Daeron’s hair streaming behind him like a banner.
They walked without escort.
Without title.
“I saw fire once,” he said abruptly, eyes on the horizon. “Before it happened.”
Her heart tightened.
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they would have called it madness.”
She considered that.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “they would have called it fear.”
He glanced at her.
“Of what?”
“Of what they cannot control.”
He went quiet at that.
They climbed a low ridge, overlooking the southern training yard. Below, squires sparred, their blades flashing in the light.
“My dreams do not ask permission,” he said. “They simply come.”
“And what do you do with them?”
“Drink.”
The honesty of it startled her.
She did not scold him.
“Does it help?”
He hesitated.
“No.”
They stood side by side now, wind pressing them closer without either acknowledging it.
“You are not your dreams,” she said. “And you are not the fear they bring others.”
His throat worked.
“You speak as if you know.”
“I know what it is to be measured before one has been understood.”
He studied her then — not as a rival. Not as an interloper.
But as a possibility.
“You do not pity me,” he said quietly.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you do not need it.”
The air shifted.
Something eased.
Not resolved.
But softened.
When they descended the ridge, their shoulders brushed once.
Neither stepped away.
Dusk painted Summerhall in amber and shadow.
Emma returned to their chambers later than expected, the weight of the day settling into her bones.
She found Maekar at the window, watching the hills darken.
“You were missed at supper,” he said without turning.
“I was occupied.”
“With Daeron.”
It was not an accusation.
Merely a statement.
“Yes.”
He turned now.
“And?”
She removed her gloves slowly, laying them upon the table.
“He is not defiant,” she said. “He is afraid of being dismissed.”
Maekar’s expression shifted — subtle, but there.
“He believes I do not see him.”
“And do you?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
She stepped closer.
“And yet you do not say it.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened slightly. “Affection does not strengthen a prince.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “But neither does silence.”
The space between them grew charged — not with anger.
With something deeper.
“You presume to instruct me,” he said.
“I presume to love your children,” she replied.
The words hung there.
He moved first.
Closing the distance in three deliberate steps.
His hand came to her waist, firm and grounding.
“You speak boldly in my house.”
“Our house.”
His eyes darkened at that.
The dragon pendant glinted between them as she tilted her chin upward.
“You walked with him,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“And he followed.”
“Yes.”
A slow exhale through his nose — not disapproval.
Recognition.
“You unsettle them,” he said.
“Good.”
His mouth curved — faint, rare.
“And me.”
Her breath caught.
“That,” she whispered, “was never my intention.”
“Liar.”
The word was almost tender.
He brushed his thumb along the chain at her throat, following it down until it rested against her collarbone.
“You wear my mark,” he said quietly.
“I chose to.”
His hand slid from the necklace to her jaw, tilting her face upward fully now.
“You walk my land,” he continued.
“Yes.”
“You speak for my house.”
“Yes.”
“And you stand before me as though unafraid.”
She held his gaze.
“I am not.”
The silence that followed was thick — alive.
He kissed her then.
Not hurried.
Not restrained.
His hand tightened at her waist as if anchoring her there, as if claiming and being claimed in equal measure.
She rose onto her toes, fingers sliding into his hair, loosening it as she had that first morning.
“Maekar,” she breathed against his mouth.
His forehead pressed briefly to hers.
“You draw my son closer,” he murmured.
“And you?” she asked softly.
His hand slid lower along her back, slow and certain.
“I have been closer since Ashford.”
Her pulse quickened.
“And yet,” she teased faintly, “ we still drift around each other."
His mouth brushed the curve of her throat, just beneath the pendant.
“We do not,” he said.
Outside, the wind moved through the hills.
Inside, Summerhall held its breath.
And Emma — Princess of red stone and rising dragons — felt the walls of it begin, at last, to close around her not as prison.
But as a home.
