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Her husband is not beside her when she wakes, but this comes as no surprise. She stretches, the last remnants of sleep still clouding her eyes, and pauses for long moments to gaze at the canopy overhead. The bed is larger than her own, a relic of bygone days, of the Targaryen reign’s glory, with dark wood carved into dragons whose tails twist and intertwine as they soar. She finds it almost funny to think how many princes were conceived right there.
Two knocks at the door startle her. This is not her room, and she is unsure whether it is proper to let anyone enter without Maekar’s leave. She hesitates, then calls out for a moment’s grace, standing naked as she retrieves her chemise, slipped beneath the bed in the rush of the night before. A small hiss escapes her as the cold silk wraps around her skin, and she reaches for her damask robe to cover what she feels is an unseemly state, tying the sash tight at her waist.
“Enter." She orders with her voice uncertain. She clears her throat as she watches the old maestre move slowly inside, bearing a strange cup in both hands atop a silver tray.
“Maestre. The prince is not here." She informs him with a smile, but the man does not dare meet her eyes as he sets the tray on the nearest side table.
“I know, my Lady. He sent me with this for you.”
“What is it?” She furrows her brow in confusion, stepping closer to take the spherical cup and examine the dark liquid within. Even sealed, it emits a bitter scent.
The old man does not answer at once, deepening her unease. A knot of foreboding coiling in her stomach at the shame that seems to weigh on the maestre’s shoulders.
“Moon tea, my Lady.”
The cup trembles in her grasp before she steadies it to avoid spilling on the rug. In the distance, at the far end of the room, Dyanna Dayne’s portrait seems to mock her, though perhaps that is only a trick of her suddenly blurred vision. The queasiness rises from her belly to her chest, a heavy weight stealing her breath.
“Take it away. I do not want it.”
“I cannot. Prince Maekar gave clear instructions that you are to drink it, and I am to see it done. If you take it quickly, I promise the taste will barely register.”
She blinks hard to hold back tears, but her face betrays her: lips set in a tight line and nose flushed from the effort of containing her sorrow. She was never ashamed of her bloodline—raised in a castle, taught to read and write, never forced to work her hands rough or go hungry. But now, helplessness makes her wish she had been born a Lannister, whose gold the crown needs, or a Tyrell, whose grain fills the Red Keep’s cellars through harsh winters. He would never subject her to such humiliation if she were a great lady.
“Does he know this could poison my womb?”
“I told him, my Lady. But as this is your first time, there is little risk. Your moon blood may be heavier, and you may suffer some cramping, but nothing more. I did advise the prince that frequent use of this draught could ruin even a young woman’s fertility. He said… he would be more careful next time.”
The hunched old man looks at her with pity, and that is the final push she needs. She pulls the stopper and drains the cup in one loud, graceless gulp. It is foul, the taste clinging to her tongue with repulsive tenacity. She sets it down with a dull thud and hurries from the room without thanking the poor man, who is only doing his duty.
“Draw me a bath at once. Now." She orders the servants waiting in her own chambers the moment she crosses the threshold. They stare, bewildered by her sharpness, but obey in silence. As soon as the tub is ready, she dismisses them and sinks in until the water covers her head.
She surfaces only when her lungs burn for air, then scrubs frantically at every place he touched her: her neck, breasts, belly, thighs. She feels dirty, stopping only when she rubs too hard between her legs, her nails scraping her skin until blood wells. She freezes, brow furrowed, disgust churning in her gut and weariness heavy on her shoulders. Resting her head on the metal rim and she weeps.
●
“And you’ve never seen a sunflower?” She turns to look at sweet Prince Matarys, whose cheeks flush.
“No, my Lady.”
“Oh, you must visit my home! Whole fields turn yellow in spring. I know you’d love them. Egg, pass me a charcoal stick, please.”
Her seven-year-old stepson hands her the stick, and she begins to draw on the booklet in her lap. Her septa always praised her way of capturing what she saw, and soon a sunflower field makes the children gasp in wonder, one on each side of her shoulder.
They are resting on cushions beneath the old weirwood in the Red Keep, enjoying the quiet and warm sunlight. Books they forgot lie scattered around them, along with a bowl of colorful fruit that one or the other occasionally plucks from. A Kingsguard watches over them from afar, with his gleaming white armor visible even among the greenery and weathered walls. It is not a place many frequent, so it is somewhat neglected.
“They’re called sunflowers because they follow the sun all day. Incredible, like they have a life of their own. Some smallfolk grind the seeds for oil to dress their food. It’s rich, and in Essos it’s as prized as salt." She explains, and the children listen with utmost attention, as if her words were sacred. That is why she loves being with them so much: they are the only ones who truly listen.
When she finishes, she tears out the page and offers it to Prince Matarys, who takes it with bright eyes. He has his mother Dondarrion’s reddish-brown hair, unlike his brother Valarr, the heir, whose brown locks hold a white streak.
“So when you see a sunflower, you’ll know it." She smiles, and the twelve-year-old stares with parted lips. Aegon had whispered to her one afternoon, in his typical childish recklessness, that he’d overheard his cousin confess to his older brother that he found her pretty. After all, only seven years separate them, even if he is more innocent than most boys his age.
“Thank you, my Lady.”
“Matarys.”
Prince Baelor’s voice is soft but commanding, catching them off guard. She stands first, dropping her booklet to brush grass from her dress, only to realize her fingers are covered in charcoal. Her earlier posture had been unladylike: leaning against the trunk with her knees drawn up, not caring that her stockinged ankles showed. But the children do not judge her that way, and Ser Willem is too far off to make out more than a blur of skin, so she had allowed herself the liberty.
“The maestre is looking for you for your lessons." The prince says, his mismatched eyes dancing with amusement. She swallows hard, knowing she has kept his son from his duties with her foolish stories.
“I’m sorry, my Prince. I kept him too long." She apologizes, accepting the clean cloth Egg offers.
“Do not worry. Time does fly in a place like this, I suppose. Go to the library, son. They’re waiting for you there.”
The boy obeys with a nod, and she assumes his father will go with him. Instead, he approaches with graceful, measured steps. He is handsome, with Dornish features and a beard already showing silver streaks with age. The lines around his eyes speak only of wisdom, and he usually wears a slight smile, at least for his closest kin.
“I would like a word with you alone." He says, and she wants to slap her forehead for her mistake, thinking he will scold her for distracting the young prince.
It had been just Egg and her at first, but they ran into Matarys in the halls, and the boy could not resist an afternoon of cakes, sun, and tall tales.
“Aegon. Would you go check if the cooks have the cakes ready? You can ask for lemonade too, to share. Go on, I’ll wait for you here.” She strokes his chin as she speaks, her voice taking on a maternal warmth she did not know she possessed until she met him. He nods, beaming and eager to please, racing toward the castle with a gap-toothed grin. His beloved tabby cat follows, tail high, rising lazily from the cushions with a twitch of his whiskers.
Prince Baelor watches her until they are alone, but she pretends not to notice, letting her gaze drift to the reddish leaves swaying in the summer breeze.
“Do you believe in the Old Gods?”
“No. I’m a girl from the Reach. Only the Seven for me.” She laughs nervously, trying to sound charming but managing something more like a pig’s squeal.
“And did you choose this place for a reason?” Baelor asks gently, his eyes sweeping over the spot before settling on the plush cushions they brought themselves. Beyond the weirwood’s majesty, it is no match for the gardens where nobles gather.
“It’s quiet. I don’t think I fit well at court, if I may say so.”
She stopped trying to win over highborn ladies when she overheard them speaking ill of her freely in the halls. She had been turning a corner when her name reached her in a mocking tone.
“No wonder he doesn’t want her in his bed. She’s just a little girl. What could she know of pleasing a man?”
“She’s so plain. She couldn’t stir desire in even a desperate sailor.”
Her feet had frozen of their own accord, and her body pressing against the wall to stay hidden. Eavesdropping was rude, but so was speaking ill of others, and curiosity held her fast, even as her pride was trampled.
“And have you seen how she dresses? Like a peasant. I’ve seen brothel girls in finer clothes! And she’s a prince’s wife!”
Baelor says her name, and she snaps back to the present, cheeks flushed from not paying attention to none other than the King’s Hand. She looks down at her dress, fresh grass blades caught in the hem.
“I’m sorry, your Grace. I didn’t hear you.”
“If I may say so? It’s an odd turn of phrase. Does someone forbid you to speak your mind?”
She could tell him of his brother, who values her only for her marital duties and looks at her as if she were the dullest woman alive whenever she tries to talk to him, his expression scornful at her stumbles. But she cannot bring herself to say it, so she shapes a lie, clasping her hands behind her back to hide their slight tremble.
“It’s just a habit, my prince. I am my parents’ eighth daughter. My opinions were rarely asked for.” The half-truth makes her words ring true.
“Your opinions matter to me. You are my good-sister now, and I want you to know you can turn to me for anything you need.”
Prince Baelor Targaryen, future king of the Seven Kingdoms, closes the small distance between them and takes one of her hands in his. His hold is firm like his brother’s, but where Maekar’s touch demands obedience, his offers only kindness.
Her first instinct is to pull away before someone sees them and draws wrong conclusions. But when she finds the courage to meet his eyes, she sees his brow furrowed with anger, not directed at her.
“You know." She murmurs, cheeks burning with shame as she tugs her hand free and crosses her arms, shoulders slumping with embarrassment.
He knows her husband lay with her last night and forced her to take moon tea this morning. She does not know if Maekar told him, or the maestre himself. There is no privacy in the Red Keep: servants gossip, nobles whisper, and guards watch. It is a nest of vipers, all waiting for the next victim to tear apart. Lately, that victim has been her.
“He has no right. You are his wife, not some… girl he can force into such degradation.”
“He can do as he pleases, your Grace. He is my husband and a prince of the realm.”
And he already has four children by the woman he loves, even in death. It is clear why he wants no more heirs with her. Baelor knows it, everyone knows it. She will never be a shadow of what Dyanna Dayne was. Maekar would never have married again if his father had not forced his hand. She is nothing more than an obligation to him, and, incidentally, a warm body to share his bed without staining his princely pride.
Egg appears with a servant, her salvation at last. The boy runs to her, his lips stained with jam, and she sits back on the cushions, this time making sure her skirt covers her completely. Baelor watches her every move before finally sighing. His large shadow blocks the sun, towering over her like a statue or a Valyrian God.
Perhaps her brother-by-law had misjudged her, thinking she was strong enough to stand up to his brother, but she is not. If she is honest, she fears him at times. She was blinded by betrothal and wedding finery to see what she was walking into, and now that the glitter has faded, all that remains is her husband’s indifference. A cold comfort she is slowly growing used to, with each new wound his actions leave.
“Would you care to join us for tea, your Grace?” She asks as the servant sets a tray of cakes and lemonade between her stepson and her. But Baelor shakes his head.
“You are a good woman. It is a shame he cannot see it.”
●
Shame over his own choices drives Maekar from her bed for many moons. She focuses on other things: caring for and teaching Aegon. Reading with him, writing letters to his brother at the Citadel, playing cyvasse, embroidering his doublets and cloaks, or simply lazing beneath the weirwood on fine afternoons. Sometimes Daeron joins them, if only to escape his father’s worst drunken rages, dozing off on any surface he can find for a few hours.
She avoids the tea parties highborn ladies invite her to out of duty, but she attends Lady Tyrell’s gatherings. This is only because the woman is married to her father’s liege Lord—and because she offered her shelter in her wing of the Red Keep before she was chosen by the prince. The room was small but comfortable, and she would not be ungrateful.
She stops humming and stitching when her chamber door swings open without permission. She looks up quickly, then drops her gaze back to her hands as she catches the glint of silver hair and the rich red-and-black robes of her husband. He closes the door behind him and stands still for a moment, as if hesitating, before approaching the bed.
“I… cannot sleep.”
The words carry an unspoken meaning she knows. It is likely well past the hour of the owl. She goes to bed early, right after dinner, but struggles to fall asleep when her mind is busy. Like now, thinking of the small booties she is knitting for her soon-to-be-born nephew. The black wool will keep his feet warm when he learns to walk, and her sister—who has little skill for women’s work and would rather skin an animal than knit—will be grateful.
She does not answer, but sets her needle in the basket beside the yarn skeins, leaning forward to place them on the side table. She wears a plain linen chemise, her hair braided in a long plait that, as the women whisper behind her back, could not inspire desire in anyone. But she does not care, not after what he forced her to do the night she wore a pretty silk chemise for him. Baelor was right: she was his wife, not a whore whose bastard he would not suffer to grow in her womb.
“It's okay, my Prince." She murmurs as he lingers at the bedside, as if waiting for her permission. She sees him frown at her flat tone, but he undresses anyway and slides beneath the sheets beside her.
Since neither of them moves for a long time, the discomfort compels her to act. She had married him as pure as a septa, and although their engagement had lasted for years, her beloved knight never touched her beyond a chaste kiss on the cheek. He was young and vigorous, eager to feel her body, but he loved her and, above all, respected her.
“Would you like me to pleasure you as I always do?”
As I always do. Like a whore kneeling for a handful of coins. She knows what he likes, having done it so many times, though she finds little satisfaction in it. Perhaps if he loved her, she could find pleasure in such a humbling act.
“No. Take off your chemise.” He orders it, and she obeys, sliding the linen off to bare herself before him. Her skin still glistens in places from the oil she rubs on after her bath to keep it soft, carrying a faint floral scent.
“What…?”
She falls silent as he throws back the covers with a jerk, kicking them to the foot of the bed and making her shiver in the sudden cold. She nearly covers herself on instinct, until recently, she was a maiden, and she has not grown used to being naked before a man. But Maekar will not let her hide her modesty as he settles between her legs, still dressed in his breeches.
Her heart races with uncertainty as he begins to caress the insides of her thighs in slow strokes that drift lower each time. She is exposed, her chamber is brightly lit with all its candles, since she was knitting.
He moves with the ease of a man who has fathered four children and been married nearly twenty years. He leans toward her sex, and the thought repels her, without thinking, she pushes at his shoulder to pull away, but he holds her hips fast to stop her.
“I don’t want this. I don’t like it." She babbles, nervous and shocked, but he only exhales, his warm breath brushing against her most sensitive spot and drawing a stifled moan at the strange sensation.
“I haven’t done anything yet. How can you say you don’t like it?”
It's true. He had done nothing more than stare intently at her there. She knows men can pleasure women the same way, using their mouths. She’d heard one of Kiera’s ladies complain that a Kingsguard, those who swear a celibacy they so rarely keep, didn’t know how to “eat a cunt.”
“Good with a sword, hopeless with his mouth. A real shame, though it’s rare to find a man skilled at both.”
“I’ve heard wonderful things about your father-in-law.”
“Prince Baelor doesn’t lie with anyone.”
“Not that you know of, dear. He’s a widower, not a corpse—and for all his honor, his blood runs as hot as any man’s.”
“What about your husband? I've heard from your predecessor's ladies-in-waiting that they don't call it The Anvil for nothing."
Very good indeed.
She had felt lost in the conversation, not knowing what to say and making them laugh at her innocence. Kiera’s friends had been raised differently from girls in Westeros. No septas had told them the gods would condemn them to the Seven Hells as wanton sinners if they touched themselves at night.
Now she understands why Maekar likes her to do that for him so much. She writhes as he kisses her there like a starving man finding a feast between her legs. It is unlike any sensation she has ever known—his large, powerful hands, the same ones that helped win the rebellion, gripping the dimples of her lower back while his beard tickles her thighs.
She feels the building heat in her belly, mounting with every movement of his tongue until she clutches the sheets and arches her back in pleasure. She is on the verge of release when the door slams open, jolting them both and snuffing their passion like a candle flame.
“What the hell?” Maekar snarls, springing upright with his chin glistening with her arousal. She scrambles for her chemise atop the pillows to cover herself as hurried footsteps approach.
“Aerion. My kitten. Please, he’s going to drown. You have to help me.” Aegon appears beside the bed, sobbing uncontrollably, unaware—or uncaring—that she is naked with his father between her legs. He tugs at her arm, tears streaming down his face.
“Get out of here, boy! Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to...”
“Please, Mama." The child begs, cutting his father off. Maekar lets out a heavy breath, as if struck by a hammer.
He has never called her that before. Days after their wedding, he had asked if he should now address her as such: he barely remembered his mother’s face or her love. It had broken her heart, so she pulled him close and told him he did not have to if he did not want to.
“Dyanna will always be your mother. She carried you in her womb, gave you life, and cared for you until the gods took her far too soon. I will be here from now on, for when you’re sad, happy, or sick. You can always come to me, and I will protect you from anything. I promise.”
She reacts before Maekar can, pulling on her chemise with surprising speed and climbing out of bed. Egg takes her hand and forces her to run, though she wishes she could grab a robe or cloak first, knowing no one should see her in her nightclothes. He leads her to one of the nearest courtyards, stopping at a deep well where he leans over the edge and she lets out a horrified cry.
“Don’t get too close! You could fall.” She takes his shoulders to pull him back, but the boy struggles, clinging to the stone with a cry of distress.
“Aerion took him and threw him in! He’s going to drown!”
She leans over to look down into the well. Though she can see nothing in the faint moonlight, she hears soft splashing as the poor creature fights to stay alive. She steps back, shaken by pity and empathy for the terror of such a death. Maekar arrives moments later with a pair of guards, and Aegon pleads for help they cannot give.
“Son…”
“No! You have to help my kitten! If you throw down a rope, he can climb up. He’s so smart, he always does what I say.”
His innocent words bring a sting to her eyes. She kneels before him, cupping his cheeks to try and soothe the sobs shaking his small shoulders. He looks utterly defeated: his silver hair tousled from sleep, wearing the chemise she embroidered herself with dragons on the sleeves and collar. His face is red and his eyes sunken with desperation.
“He’s gone, Aegon. He’s with the gods now, my love.”
He flings himself into her arms, weeping hard, and she lifts him up, holding him to her chest and rubbing his back. Maekar watches as she rocks his son, whispering small prayers for the kitten’s soul.