#vicksqueaks

WHAT NATURE ALLOWS

It rained harshly the day of her arrival at the castle. Baelor would have been far more worried if not for the presence of his younger brother, Maekar, who had offered to escort her back. Unwillingly, he thinks. Dark, pregnant clouds fermented in a stone gray sky. He would have loved to welcome his daughter with a blazing sun, her favorite, but it seemed the weather took reins in order to lessen the impact of the difference in her stay at Summerhall in the stormlands. 

Valarr pulled a muscle in training, subsequent to hearing his father announce that his twin would return in a few days to Dragonstone after her brief residence at the other Targaryen alcazar. He would finally have his half back, as some nobles would say. Couldn't help but think it might be tinted with a nod to old customs between brothers and sisters of their name. He never cared for misunderstandings when expressing his tenderness towards her, having shared a womb. Or expressing his frustration, as it is normal between siblings, a healthy rivalry that both of them could recall with a smile at the memories of broken toys, hard shoves, scrapped knees and tugs of hair. But he recognized the strangeness of these circumstances —yes, his father missed her and her loveliness displayed on the castle and the dinners and at court, but he swore to give her a change of airs after what transpired— and he's incapable of avoiding the thought: they are of age, and unmarried. Yet. Strange that being a first born does not secure you a position of heir if you're of the gentler sex, but it's not his choice, and of course, his father understands more of how it should go. It's his will, after all.

He remained waiting, something vibrating on his chest. Early that morning on the day she was to arrive, he picked, alongside with help from Matarys, flowers he knew she liked. His shoulder muscle he pulled, yet he disregarded it to choose between cream honeysuckles and lavender snapdragons, violet larkspurs and rose nerines. The garden held beautifully —in the often cruel weathers of the palace— under the protection and delegated care of their father, so Baelor would, should, understand his intrusion and reaping of these guarded blooms in a place where mostly thorny hedges and wild roses grew. Valarr chose a ceramic vase after careful decision —with Matarys' input—, a vessel for his good intentions, to set it in her chamber. Told a servant girl of hers to tidy up because the eldest was coming back that day. As if the girl hadn't known, when it was the event of the week! Sister, he thinks, and it was all he thought, stops at that. Sister of mine. He didn’t know exactly the hour, how or with what temper Myrrha would arrive, having his memory of her sloped shoulders and her trembling, tulle-covered visage etched on his mind. The last time he saw his twin was in a hurried goodbye, good luck, I'll miss you. And she seemed sad but relieved to have some time away from them. 

The prince chose to hold a small feast as a welcome, reduced to only family members, since it wasn't necessary for the court to know of her return until the next day. Word would run and it would pass from mouth to mouth, yes, but Myrrha would endure the posterior sunrise with a smile. Her father wanted it so because she didn't have the heart to ask him to please let her rest after her journey, but he has a way of helping, already alerted, that makes him as clever as a whip. Far more gentler, though. 

Still, that afternoon, the harsh hail welcomed her with wind wrapped at her back, a reminder of the stormlands. Mud against the soles of her boots, the hand of her uncle guiding while her face remained covered with a thin veil, servants covering them and their stone path from the rain.

Crossing the threshold, torches illuminated her leather coat, pried from her shoulders by her maiden who remained a step behind and openly smiled at her arrival. Coal velvet gown with scarlet details, Myrrha stood before her brothers who welcomed her warmly at the entrance, after hearing the chatter and bustle, hugging close to chest even if her youngest brother had to tiptoe. She had to make a pause when Matarys excitedly started speaking of some events that happened in her absence, having missed her so much —so badly that Valarr even recognized the same, that he also saved some stories to tell her—, because she wanted to thank her uncle for safekeeping her. Her maid brought her new, clean shoes, and took care of the muddy boots in swift silence. Removed her veil, dropping it at her back like a thin cape curling over her shoulder, and showed proudly her sunkissed skin after her comeback journey passing through Dornish lands. For a brief moment, Maekar thought he saw his mother's visage on his niece, but she lowered her head in polite tenderness, smiling as she thanked him, and all he saw was the breed of lady Jena Dondarrion and his older brother. 

She lets herself be guided by her younger brother, who assures her she'll eat until she wants to spit everything back outside. But she only wanted to see her father, who had plucked her from Summerhall as if he didn't give her the permission to become a resident some months ago, and didn't wait for her by the doors.

Myrrha calls for her twin in the same manner as when they were children; open hand, extended fingers, wriggling as if playing an invisible piano. So Valarr goes, offers his half injured arm, and doesn't complain when she grasps it tightly. Her hair grew longer, he notices, put up loosely with ribbons that interspersed with her curls, to then draw attention to the ever-growing braids of silver-gold hair over her collarbones, matching his own streak on his head. Still proud of her display. 

“Has it been pleasant?,” he asks, but he wants to know if she truly had dispersed her sour mood that threatened to last moons. The source of it was to eat with them at dinner later that evening. He prays for tranquility on the table, please, he wouldn’t want her to lose her under that veil again.

Matarys leads them to Myrrha’s chambers, unable to contain his excitement, like setting a recovered doll in her rightful place: a pretty diorama. Her loyal servant girl, Yalia, had lit up frankincense and sandalwood, arranged everything perfectly to make her comfortable; clean, fine linen sheets and coverlets, new candles that didn't cry as much, revived the fireplace, and drew back the curtains of the ornamented canopy surrounding her bed as an invitation for her exhaustion. 

She runs her hand through her youngest brother's locks. Under the torches, shines a pleasant red, a reminder of their mother's hair. 

“I felt a connection to Summerhall since we were children. It's different, serene. It helped me.” Myrrha sits on her bed, the youngest joining her, but Valarr remains standing. Her eyelashes flutter as she looks at the bouquet on her bedside table. Her favorite blooms with the colors representative of both her taste and her mother's house. "Have you missed me?", she says, looking at her twin, to then add playfulness before he could even answer, "Was it sorrowful for you two to endure your cousins all alone?".

Again, Matarys encapsulates her attention, but she cradles the vase, petals grazing the soft, tanned skin of her neck, and nods, with a smile that shows teeth, in gratitude at her brother. He, in response, feels a blush creep up his chest, threatening to spill over his face, so he shakes his head in acceptance, to then excuse himself with the fair reason of bringing the good news of her arrival to their father. He surely already knew, Maekar would have told him, but he needs to share the wonderful news that his twin had not lost her spark. Myrrha thinks, distraught, she had gotten so good at not flinching at the mere mention of her father.

Maekar had to round up his offspring for the dinner of that evening, "celebrating", as everyone said, the return of his niece even if her residence at his castle had been cut short. Princess of Summerhall, he had heard and grimaced while on the convoy from her maidens and her shields, but took it as a soothing balm for her wounded ego. 

Stepped out of his rooms, looking for his younger children, who were in the way of becoming unacceptable as his eldest. 

Even if he wasn't looking for him, Daeron was the easiest to find, as booze could make an easy trail to follow. He was in his chambers, a servant boy of his periodically fetching him wine.

“Let your younger brothers know to be present early at the welcome dinner.”

His eldest lazily looked up to him, cheeks reddened and hair mussed, to get out in a raspy voice: “Worry about the presence of Aerion, father.”

Baelor couldn't exempt himself from his duties as the Hand until moments before the dinner. His first born had requested to see him, the first time with her servant girl carrying the message, the second time sending her twin as an unconscious messenger, when he confessed to him that she was as lively and healthy as before her playful nature peeked out in bites. 

“ –need to see her as she is now, the stormlands favored her. I was worried, father, that she would remain a shell of herself after…”

The prince raised a hand to ask for the silence of his son. “Please, let us not refer tonight to what transpired moons ago. For her sake.”

Valarr nodded, spoke a few nothings after to mask his excitement, and went to his chambers to get dressed in velvet blacks and damasks reds with silver threads, faintly knowing his sister would match even if they hadn't had a word of their choices of clothes.

Matarys, on the other hand, urged her to please let him stay with her as she was prepared for the dinner, but his older sister just laughed and ushered him away and out of her chambers.

“I know you missed me dearly, but some moments are reserved for me and my maids.”

Her ladies in waiting still had not arrived, in another carriage behind hers, same column, and under the protection of other guards. Only in her chambers remained her servant girl —the one who also served her father, who stayed behind as she left months ago, keeping her place tidy and clean until she returned—, Yalia, who had already taken care of her baggage and arranged her bodices, jewelry, dresses and boots and petticoats back where they belonged. She prepared a bath for her, warm water with herb-scented tallow soap, dried lavender and rosemary filling the tub, steam curling around her like smoke, but not even the soft voices of the other servant girls, who assured her gown for the night would be ready after her bath, and the hands of her loyal maid on her hair could clean up the thoughts inside her head. 

Why did her father fetch her with such urgency? 

Maekar found his youngest son, Aegon, before he could find Aerion, so he made him go and retrieve his older brother from wherever he was, much to his dismay. There wasn't much to do in an evening like this, the chatter of rain and rumble of thunder still promising a long storm, and a long night, but he's sure his second oldest would find a way to try and miss the dinner, and he did not want to mediate again between the two. Myrrha held no ire against him, even if he recognized he roused some of her sourness when arriving at Summerhall with the order of voyaging her back to Dragonstone, she behaved accordingly. Even more tender when she asked him why her father sent him, and not someone else, and he answered honestly, spat the answer: he volunteered to safeguard her. Half in wanting to see the sour look on her face, the other half in wanting to ease the tension between them. The journey went on without obstacles, only harsh winds and rain and then the scorching sun in some places, but when the horses and the men needed to rest, she would go and share her meals alongside him, sometimes in silence, sometimes trying for small talk —that ended nowhere because uncle and niece shared only few things, like worries for his eldest son—, but always in polite acknowledgement. Now, he feared his sons would ruin again the fragile yield of her contentment. 

Aerion's complaints could be heard a hall away. He was trying to get rid of his brother, I do not care what he needs me for, I won't be there, leave me alone, and stopped altogether when Maekar called for him with a short and blunt shout. 

His short, spiky hair shone more silver than all the days before. He had his thick, ashen black cloak with scarlet lining on, preparing himself to go somewhere. 

“You will be present at the dinner tonight.” Maekar's tone gave no chance of arguing, and his second son scoffed harshly. 

“Are you going to bother to attend that absurd banquet for her?”

“There wouldn't be a welcome feast if I hadn't offered her to spend time at Summerhall because of your idiotic behavior. Stop being a witless imbecile, and go to the dining hall.”

Aerion's shoulders tensed, and he gave an ill look to his brother beside him, and walked past his father with not a word more. 

Valarr was the one to fetch Myrrha from her room. He didn't need to announce himself to the guards covering her doors, who retreated when he nodded to them, but to her sworn shield, a noblewoman from House Wyl, who swore her life and allegiance to Myrrha and accompanied her where men couldn't. Walya had arrived in the same carriage as her lady, but chose to stay behind for the ladies in waiting at recognizing prince Maekar wouldn't let anything happen to the daughter of his older brother. She narrowed her eyes at the twin of her lady, and asked him to wait by the fireplace because she was finishing her grooming for the night ahead. 

His older sister stepped out a few tense moments later, dark curls —reminded him of their grandmother, Myriah— tightened on the top of her skull, where a veil sat. Dark purple thin fabric mingled with the rest of her hair. It gave an illusion of a longer mane. Her silver-gold tresses sat proudly at the sides of her neck, drawing attention to the rubies embedded in a silver necklace on her throat. He had given her that carcanet as a gift on the nameday she was to be called a woman and not a child, and in exchange, she had him made a fine cloak to wear whenever he wanted: thick wool dyed pitch black, with silk lining the color of rich wine. Depending on the light, it could look red or purple. Silver clasps, and an elegant lapel pin of a three headed dragon in the same material, just above his heart. He kept it saved for special occasions —their shared nameday, court appearances, visits to their mother's grave, for example— but it hadn't occurred to him to wear it now, and he felt a pang of regret. 

He had come to escort her to the dining hall, but also to share the announcement before anyone else. Felt proper to him, the privacy. Straightened his spine and cleared his throat, and her eyes fluttered to him, knowing well the gestures of his unease. The doubt before confessing something.

“What is it, Valarr?”

He smiled at her anticipation, the way she can read him so easily. “There's a matter I would like to speak about in private, if you are willing, sister.”

Wanted her to get rid of the maids in the sake of quiet. Myrrha lifted a hand, and Yalia indicated the rest of the maids to leave, but halted when she asked her and Walya to stay. Valarr pursed his lips, but the princess caught the gesture and smiled.

“They are my most trusted women. Sworn their tongues to me.” Walya rested her back against the door, gaze lowered, and Yalia went back to tidy her lady's clothes. 

The Young Prince sighed, but watched her with a soft-eyed stare that betrayed his bother. The tendons in her neck stretch with the questioning tilt of her head, reflected in her dressing table's well polished silver glass, as Yalia fixes a stray curl with a silver pin. 

He clears his throat, again. “Myrrha,” says it with torment, a glimpse into how much he’s thought about it. “I am to be married soon.”

She turns sharply, lips parted and a frown upon her pretty face. The silver pins that weren't tightened fell on the carpeted floor with a soft clink. Panic hardened her features. 

Valarr shortened the distance between them quickly and held her hands in an attempt to soothe her. “She is wonderful, sister. Her name is Kiera, daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh. It is a betrothal, but nonetheless, I am fortunate to have found in her a kind and genuine woman.”

“Have you two been reunited?”, she asks, the closeness to him welcome, but a reminder of their growth. He stands taller than what she remembers. His hands remain soft. 

“Not yet. Our correspondence, though, is plenty. She had me sent a painting of her. I will show it to you in the morning, if you like.”

Myrrha licked her lips. Did not want to be impolite to her younger brother, her soon-to-be-married brother. Tyrosh, one of the most important cities in Essos. Key to convoluted webs of trading and merchants, access to ships. The fact that the remaining Blackfyres had been exiled there. She exhaled, ah, the calculated mechanisms of marriages.

Held her brother's hands, intertwined their fingers. “I am joyous to receive her as my sister. I want nothing but your happiness.”

Valarr smiled, tucked his chin to his chest, the same gesture he made when flustered since he was a child, and pressed his lips on her forehead for a feather-like kiss. He drew back, a gentle squeeze on her hand, to go sit near the fireplace, let her be ready for the dinner.

Still, she looked nervous, face flushed —maybe from the warm water she bathed with, maybe from the news, maybe from feeling like a cotton doll, forcefully fit into a corset and laced up boots—. She missed using the veil for this same reason. A physical layer separating everyone's gazes from her own. She ran her hands down her elegant bodice, tight and glittering, in an attempt to soothe herself, and smiled when she caught her brother's eyes. Her maid told her she looked marvelous and she just lowered her head.

“Since we are in confidence, as always, I need to ask you, brother of mine,” she chewed the inside of her cheek, a bad habit that stayed from her childhood, “if you know the reason why I was brought back before the crest of spring.”

He shook his head. A promise broken by their father caught their attention, since he did not send a raven and did not leave a chance for her to reclaim for a few days more, just sent their uncle as a clear message. 

She exhaled and nodded. Pulled her silver-gold locks over her collarbones, a reflex, accompanying her ruby at her throat. Her father had not sent an answer to any of her questions. Had not received her. All of it felt indecipherable. Her jaw clenched and her fingertips brushed her skirts, trembling. And she left her chambers escorted by her brother, her sworn shield a few steps behind. 

The dining hall smelled of smoked meat. Herbs and bread, baked fish and boiled vegetables. 

In Summerhall, Myrrha had developed a sweet tooth, so she took that as her reason for not eating much and not paying attention to her churning stomach. She shouldn't be this nervous when it's just like any other banquets she had. 

Valarr sat next to her, at her left, eyes unwittingly locked on their cousins. He had to deal leniently with the youngest, Aegon, because he was just a lone child, —his brother closest in age was sent to the Citadel years ago, and his sisters stayed in the Red Keep—, even if Matarys had behaved differently when he was his age, but he cannot contain himself on harsher looks for the man-grown cousins.

Myrrha almost stood up when her father entered the hall, cape swishing behind him, and couldn’t help but bite back a smile. It reminded her of when she was in nonage, a child, and was his chosen cupbearer. Frustration dissipates on her stomach and the tense line of her shoulders, because before standing by the head of the table, he put a palm over her shoulder and squeezed gently, admitting only to her ear a soft "my dear."

Maekar shot a cruel look to his first son, who rolled his eyes at the circumstance as a whole, even if he wanted to do the same.

The heir to the throne raised a hand to ask for the silence of his blood. With a gentle smile, he paid gratitude to the Seven for the safe return of his only daughter, and thanked his younger brother for volunteering and scouting her. Maekar contained a scoff. His brother knew it was specifically to clear the air between her niece and him, everything an act to appease her. She looked tranquil enough, and maybe it had worked. 

The short speech ended with Baelor welcoming everyone to eat, and Myrrha just wanted to disappear under her veil. Her servant girl filled her plate with a bit of everything, even if the dinner was going to last at least three courses more, so she just bit into white flesh of a fish, trout with herbs, more as an act and not hunger, fresh and not too seasoned, to wash it down with water. 

Aerion was missing from the table, but no one commented on it. Yet each one of them noticed. Myrrha internally thanked the gods for this little act of mercy. She'd pray on her knees later that evening.

Daeron is the first to speak to her. Lidded eyes while eating as little as possible, but his cup remained always full. His blond hair had grown wilder since the last time they saw each other.

“How was it in the stormlands, cousin?”

She had just swallowed a boiled potato that she had crushed with her utensils. It stuck to her throat for some seconds more than what she would've liked, and the silence felt thick. She coughed. “I was received warmly, with a lot of pastries. I thought I wouldn't fit in my dresses from how much I was fed. The castle remains beautiful. It is cared for. The rest, well, I ate a lot of fish”, she pokes and prods at her own serving on her plate, “from the nearby rivers. I missed the kitchen here, withal.”

Another lapse of silence on the table. The sound of chewing, cups being set on the table, the soft chatter between siblings but not cousins.

Valarr clears his throat, speaks lightly. “I was told you were visited by some nobles from House Baratheon. Did they pay their respects as expected?”

She smiled, reminiscing about it. “Yes, yes, The Laughing Storm came to me. I held a small feast for their visit since he brought me some... fineness, delicacies. As if I need to be brought gifts in my,” her eyes flicker to her uncle, another smile, “our, own residence.”

Maekar scoffed. “Ah, did he.”

Myrrha pushes the rest of her food with her fork, playing with it almost absentminded. “I only knew the stories about him, but he's quite the company to share the table.”

Baelor presses his lips together into a tight line, and she misses the gesture, attention diverted, because the meal gets to her favorite part; sweet smelling pies, baked crusts and pastries filled with fruit. Valarr hands her a bowl with almonds, nuts and berries, and sees her gleam at the gesture. Then, macèdoines of stationary fruits. 

“Is he as imponent as the stories say?”, her youngest brother asks, while cutting up a pastry filled with plum coloured jelly. 

Their father intervenes. “The stories come from boasts of the battles, altercations, and other circumstances where it would not be proper for a regal lady to be present. He should have acted cordially, and nothing more.”

She dismisses the strange edge of her father's voice. “And he was. Lord Baratheon does have a particular way of being a gentleman and still be humorous.”

The older man frowns. Lyonel Baratheon's probable sweet-talking of nothing to his daughter had worked to charm her, he thinks. Sees it in the crinkles of her smile. He should have urged her sworn shield to pay more attention, to guard her more ferociously, just in case. 

The dinner ends with her second yawn, with even more macèdoines present on the table, more herbal water being served to her, the conversations being strained and short. She was glad that no one from her uncle's side of the family had even wanted to look at her. Maybe only Aegon, childish curiosity when stealing glances. But they wouldn't see the healed, pink jagged line on the palm of her hand when picking her cup up.

Her father immediately noticed her restrained exhaustion, and warmly gave an end to the dinner, telling her she was dismissed from the table if she wanted to. 

She gave a little frown in response, not understanding. Wouldn't he want to speak about the reason for her early arrival? Wouldn't he want to speak to her about anything at all? She ended up not saying anything, rising from the table with a polite goodbye and a heavy heart, promptly leaving for her chambers. Yalia remained a step behind, feeling her unease. Years of closeness had attuned her to her mistress' mood. But she didn't ask, not even when Myrrha sighed with a certain sadness while her corset was being taken off for the night. So she didn't know about the weight of worry in Myrrha's chest, threatening to spill all over the sheets the moment she's left in her lonesome. 

It was deep midnight, everyone at rest except for her anxious mind and body. Myrrha is sure even her maiden and her sworn sword could hear her turn and sway, lying awake and lighting candles, thinking, to then shroud herself in darkness. Her chambers were cold even if the fireside crackles alive, and the curtains surrounding her bed suddenly give the sensation of a trap. Rays of moon from the window caress her as she parts the tulle and linen, trembling, fetching a thin cloak with her mother's color. She needed to ask him, see him, satiate herself, or she would not sleep. 

Forgive her intrusion as a father would when it comes to his offspring. 

Stayed barefoot to not wake Yalia, dismissed and silenced her guards at the doors with a gesture of her hand, and made her way to her father's bed chambers. It was not late, but even if it was, she knew of his owlish tendencies. Again, a flick of her wrist at the guards covering his door, and she knocked on the hard wood. 

Entered without waiting for the permission.

Baelor thinks he would've liked to have some Dornish sun locked in a box to keep the healthy, tanned look inherent of his daughter. Her nightgown shows the slope of her shoulders, collarbones, and the rest is an undiscovered terrain under the thin purple cloak. She had asked long ago for cloaks and dresses in the colour of her mother's house, exquisite violet taffetas and damasks threaded with white and silver. Wore them to cut short, as she could, the distance between her living status and her deceased mother, in such intimate moments as when missing her on her nameday, or the anniversary of her death in Matarys' day of birth, or when feeling blue and limiting her day to walk through the gardens as she did with her and then locking herself in her room. Still, she had inherited almost each one of Jena's dresses, wanted to fill them with the same charisma and temperance her mother wielded, but lacked at the threshold, feeling such vulnerability in mulberry silks, leaving her with a heavy heart and a tight-lipped faux smile. That was the reason Myrrha, grown and mostly reclusive but still with bite, drew strength and let everybody else see her in her favorite colors: ashen black and sanguine red. But not with him. He didn't think his eldest still kept her purple nightgown in her closet, mourning even under the sheets, but finds himself proved wrong. 

“My grace,” she says, arms tightened around her violet cloak when she does a curtsy. He told her it was never necessary when they were alone. Not with Valarr, Matarys, or even his own brothers around. “Father.”

She closes the door behind her as he rises from the table, all the scrolls and books suddenly forgotten for this little visit, secretive and urgent as it looked. He knows she had jumped from the bed and wore the first thing her hand caught. Knows it because of her hair —longer than what he remembered—, curled beautifully over her shoulders and chest, shone under the trembling light of his candles and torches, free from plaits and twists and ribbons. She loved the intricate coiffures that her maids elaborated, but reserved her natural mane in intimate moments.

Baelor nods to her, indicating with a permissive hand to let her be seated in front of him, sharing the table, but she makes a few steps inside before stopping. Myrrha looks smaller than she has ever been in the middle of his chambers, because she's with doubts. It makes him remember all the times in her childhood, confessing to Jena and him that Valarr had pulled her hair, had shoved her when playing, had stolen her dragon figurines. Clutched, crying, to Jena's skirts, his fingers threaded in curled dark locks inherited from him. Inherited from his very same Martell blood. Don't they say the eldest is always the portrait of the father?

She stares at the hearth, thick eyelashes lidded. Over her collarbones he now sees laid the silver-gold tresses belonging to the nape of her head, her pride. She doesn't speak until a crackle of the wood makes the flame call her closer. 

“What have I done to be the crux of your indifference?”

His mouth opens, then closes, choosing to let a sigh out in relief. Worry had turned his stomach for the few seconds she stood there, and it reminded him of the infrequent times, counted with his fingers, where Jena found herself troubled with something and wouldn't dare to tell him. The line of his shoulders softens, but he does not want to dismiss this as a bizarre thought, as if treating her as lesser, and sending her back to sleep. The first time after months he's reunited with his daughter without leery eyes and it's because of worry. Pictures her turning and turning on her bed, dipping her hands in cool water at her bedside to damp her face, exhaling at the feeling. 

She clings to the cloak, even if his chambers keep warmth, and meets his eyes with a soft frown. Inherited from Jena —not quite anger but a lot of frustration, a rasp of distress—, yet sees his own eyes in her. So he has no other choice than to go to her and clutch her tight to his chest. 

“Not even a raven you sent,” she says, cheek pressed to his clothed collarbone, half swooning at the closeness but still bothered. Butterflies inside her stomach that turn into wasps.

“There are matters one cannot speak of in letters, Myrrha.”

Her eyes narrow, the tendons in her neck stretch with the questioning tilt of her head. “So you do not deny your apathy?”

Baelor shushes her, in the same manner he must have done ten years ago in childish terms. 

“Do you have me as someone apathetic towards the queen of love and beauty?”

She contains the chuckle at the sobriquet, unused as of lately since she does not attend jousts anymore. Stopped when she saw Aerion purposefully spike a horse in front of her, that poor thing, blood splattering to the tip of her boots. 

“No,” she nuzzles further into him. “But do not deny your silence. Why send for me before the end of the season?”

He presses his lips in a tight line, unsure of giving her the honest answer. He chooses not to. “It had to be done. I feared a false spring, like the one years ago. Autumn brings the worst tempests, it turns savage. And you would be locked in Summerhall for more than expected.”

She recognizes the half truth in his words, knows his silences, and chooses to push.

“The important matter being the usual monsoons?”, she draws back, at arm’s length, and he sighs. “What is it that you are unable to tell me?”

“I gave the permission for your residence at Summerhall, and know of my regret of cutting it short, but I need you here, more than ever. As my eldest, my only daughter, understand that we are stronger when we are together.” 

“And you noticed after letting me stay there for how many months?”, her voice raises unconsciously, perplexed. She remembers what her mother said, the eyes and ears and mouths on the walls. Now, a hush. “Please, I’m trying to understand, but these reasons feel veiled.”

He sucks his teeth. Shakes his head, clever girl. She would know sooner or later, and he preferred it was from his mouth. He straightened as he spoke, his shoulders going back; planted himself still more firmly. 

“I have been asked to name an heir.”

Myrrha freezes, eyes widening. The cipher of circumstances crushed together in her mind for a reason. The motive why everyone kept silent around her, like a stranger, even from her other half. Valarr. The first son. Soon to be betrothed to a beautiful, important woman from Tyrosh. Her father's hand is still grasping her arm. She exhales, lips parted and not knowing what to say. How could she not recognize it? Summerhall made her soft in the head. Came back to watch her brother be officially named the heir of the Iron Throne. The title of the Young Prince more deserved than ever.

She swallows thickly, gaze lowered. Something she does not want to name burns in her chest. “He’s grown to be a good man. A kind one. He will be a good king.” Swallows again. Speaking with truth burns. “Though I ask the Seven to let his reign be in a far time.”

Baelor's grasp tightens, and he lowers himself, crossing the space between their bodies, to fix his eyes on hers. “Valarr was not the first born, my girl.”

Her brows furrow, eyes so wide he can see the white of the rest of her sclera. Her father smiles, and she denies with her head, tries to draw back, overwhelmed. “There was only one Princess of Dragonstone and we both are aware of how that ended.”

“I do. Myrrha, believe me. Your brothers adore you, the court does. I do. I wish for it to be you. But I do not want it to be imposed, you have to want it too.”

Turning her head away, not bearing the pierce of his blue and umber, she fixes her gaze on the hearth again. Eyelashes fluttering in a disquieting rhythm, her chest trembling. The ember in her ribs weighs. “I cannot, father, my grace, please. Your hopes are misplaced, I do not know…”

“You will be my Hand when the time arrives. Do not fear to learn, my girl, you will be taught under me.” His voice softened, making her remember he used the same tone when encouraging her as a child. 

Her lips tremble. “That is not my sole worry. Even if you make each and single one of the men of the Houses swear fealty to me, that does not assure that they will recognize me as heir. Look at me. Years ago, they did not recognize the only child, the next in line of the king because she was born a lady. The Realm's Delight, with her silver-gold mane and her dragon. Look at me. What will they do to me, father?” Eyes hardened and yet they brimmed as if they melted. Myrrha never expressed any negatives about her Dornish blood, of course, it was the blood that gave her the same characteristics as her grandmother and her father. The tan skin and curled dark hair; the beautiful visage, strong nose with thick eyelashes and a full mouth. Yet he could imagine that his own diffidences about his appearance not fitting with the Targaryen archetype trickled down to his offspring without wanting. All the mouths, mutters, denying heritage and royalty just because of a lack of silver-gold hair. At his age, he was past on feeling anything about his Dornish blood but the adoration for his mother. Past on feeling anything at all at the remembrance of the time, moons ago, he sent Maekar for the tongue of a noble man after he spoke with misguided liberty about the young twins' Dornish aspect.

A whisper. “What will my own do to me?”

“Hush now. It is your right by blood. You might believe that fear will protect you, and I assure it paralyzes and withers.”

She writhed, raised her hand, pushed it in front of him to let him see the jagged pink line on her right palm that goes down the tender skin of her wrist, memory and gift of squeezing a pure silver blade. “Do not diminish my feelings.”

Baelor takes a step back, inhaling deeply. Tension vibrated on his temples. “Forgive me, my daughter.” Takes her previously wounded hand, kisses her knuckles. His beard prickles her skin, welcomes it with a shiver of her spine. Wasps and butterflies swim together in her navel, climbing up her ribs. “I understand what I ask is of staggering weight. But I would not request for you if I knew you could not follow.”

Myrrha looks at him through her eyelashes, tightening her hand imperceptibly on his. And sighs, weary and half frightened. His words, to her, were etched in stone. Firm and true. Her lips part. “Allow me a pair of nights and you will have your answer.” He furrows his brows, and she doesn’t like the unrecognizable thing weighting over his countenance. Taciturn, still waters. Wanted to dive and seek the truth beneath, lay it bare and live with it like a naiad. “I will beg on my knees if it comes to be necessary.”

Her father gives in, chuckles, pulls her into an embrace. He runs a hand over her back, the other cradles the back of her head where her silver-gold locks grow. Soft curls rivaling the silk of her cloak in delicacy. It had been a few months since he had made the same gesture with her —missed doing it, repeated it with Valarr and Matarys, the short hair of his boys a stark reminder of that evening, and it wasn’t the same—, and felt a sudden, rekindled, thrum of need to safeguard his eldest daughter.

“You have your days,” he says to the crown of her head. She draws back a little to look at him, taking in his hard profile. Watched the tight line of his jaw relax. “You should get a good night’s rest. I'll tell your brother to take you tomorrow to the flower gardens. I think they’re blooming early just because you came.”

Myrrha catches his gaze. Different colored eyes meet hers. Matched with her father and brother in a distinctive manner; while Baelor and Valarr possessed blue, bright eyes with a bit of umber, hers were totally inverted. Even Matarys inherited blue eyes. It was like the gods wanted her to be a stark image of her grandmother —Martell heritage that meant more than the king's love for his wife—, and she shook the thought away every time it crossed her mind, of denying her own Dornish blood to favour the silver-gold hair growing on her nape, when the land and its people treated her so kindly. How could she when it also was the reason for her father's good looks? 

“Can't you come with me?”

“I would love to accompany you, but let tomorrow be a day for you and your brother. Tell your maidens, if you want, to also enjoy the gardens. I have matters to take care of, but rest assured we will share days together.”

Myrrha frowns, and he rests his thumb over the spot between her eyebrows, pressing lightly. To her it is a patrician promise, a gentle ask to let her worries behind, just for a day. Woman-grown, clever as she is, she will suffer incessantly if there’s no one to stop her. She nods, listening to her father. He gathers her cloak around her shoulders, around her chest, ties a bow gently over her bosom, a rasp of his calloused palms over the structure of her collarbones. 

“Now go rest, Myrrha. New flowers are blossoming, waiting for you.”