Chapter Text
Daella was born at a terrible time for House Targaryen. In the midst of the Great Spring Sickness, which claimed thousands of lives in the great cities, she gave birth to her first daughter in the tranquil chambers of Summerhall, surrounded by her mother and a handful of her sisters, who had traveled from their respective homes to keep her company.
This was a special request from her husband, as she had succumbed to a deep sadness following Aegon's disappearance and the deaths of Valarr and Matarys. The castle maestre had suggested that the company of her family would be best for her, as a feeling as dangerous as sadness would jeopardize her health and that of the baby.
Her daughter became her joy from the moment she drew her first breath. She sobbed as she held her in her arms, pressing her close to her sweaty chest to memorize every feature of her reddish swollen face, which crinkled with each cry of surprise at the new world surrounding her.
She inherited her hair, a mere fuzz of chestnut brown that adorned a large head that had taken several pushes to crown. She wouldn't lie in saying she would have liked to give birth to a Valyrian girl, because that would mean she belonged more to Maekar and the crown than to herself.
Her husband kissed her forehead and congratulated her on her labor. He took the child from her arms with the practiced skill of a father of four and paused for a few seconds before speaking aloud, for everyone in the room to hear.
Her mother had risen from the bed upon seeing him enter, but one of her sisters, dressed in a septa's robes, didn’t even stop refreshing her face with a damp cloth that felt delicious against her skin. Selenys had never agreed to her marriage to the prince. She was not a supporter of Targaryen customs and always deplored their age difference, maintaining that he had taken advantage of her and her naivety.
“I always wanted a girl, and you have given her to me. I think Daella is a beautiful name, but we could consider others if it’s not to your liking.” Maekar suggested, slowly caressing the wisp of fine brown hair on the baby’s head, before a half-smile formed on his lips. She recognized a warm glint in his violet eyes, which had become vacant with the news of the deaths of Baelor’s only two sons.
“I like it." She simply accepted, her voice sore from the screams she couldn’t contain during the last hours, when labor had become torture. She was too tired, and her eyelids felt heavy. It had taken more than a day to bring Daella into the world, and now that she was finally out of her body, exhaustion relaxed each of her limbs.
“Don’t fall asleep. You still have to expel the placenta." Her sister said in a sweet voice, helping her sit up to better rest her head on the pillows soaked with her sweat. She already felt something thick threatening to descend her legs. The same sensation as her moon blood, but magnified by a greater weight.
Maekar was sent away, and the baby was taken to be cleaned while she pushed out a sac of viscous fluid. She then took a hot bath, and the maids quickly changed the sheets and mattress before she could lie down again, falling asleep under the watchful eyes of her mother and sisters, who gossiped about the status they would acquire now that they had a princess in the family line.
An entire year had passed since that day. Daella was now a crawling baby, chasing the sway of her skirts with an eager babble, her curious eyes fixated on the shiny fabric of her blue dress's hem.
She let out a laugh at Egg’s latest letter, which she held in her hands like a treasure, engrossed in the adventures he narrated alongside his beloved hedge knight. Once Maekar found him in Dorne, shortly after his escape from Ashford, he granted him permission to travel with Ser Duncan, giving him a ring with his seal in case, at some crucial moment, he needed to prove his royal lineage. Her husband’s decision had bothered her at first, creating a distance between them during the final months of her pregnancy, to the point where days would pass without them even accidentally seeing each other.
The pregnancy gave her a strange courage and recklessness that prompted her to yell at him for the first time in all their years of marriage. Maekar had been surprised when she confronted him with a diatribe about why it was a wrong decision to let a nine-year-old boy wander the realm with a knight who, practically, was unknown to them.
“You are not his mother." He had stopped her, rising proudly to his full height, shoulders tense and hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The anger in his eyes and his gestures reminded her of Aerion: the fury of a dragon threatening to burn the fragile sunflower that she was. But she was no longer afraid. Perhaps it was the very dragon blood that helped the creature grow inside her that drove her mad. Daeron once told her that some maestres suspected madness came from the womb. Apparently, it also infected the mother.
“I have been more of a mother to him than you have been his father all these years.” He raised his hand for an instant, and she braced herself for an impact that never came. They just stared at each other until he brushed past her, lightly hitting her shoulder, and slammed the doors shut as he left.
Their dispute was never mentioned again, but sometimes, despite all the moons that had passed, traces of the anger that had engulfed them both that day still seemed to linger. The most significant change occurred in the intimacy of their chambers: she no longer lay for him with the stillness of a doll, as her septas had taught her. She bit him, scratched him, and kissed him with an almost violent roughness, as if she wanted to inflict upon him the same pain she had endured throughout her marriage.
He never hit her or hurt her on purpose, but he wounded her with his actions, with his coldness, with his comparisons, with his words, with his mockery, with his expressions. And there was a limit to the contempt a woman could endure.
Once, in the haze of pleasure, with him thrusting on the verge of spilling, she whispered her ex-fiancé's name in his ear. She wasn't actually thinking of him, because she had never known the cock of any man other than Maekar, but the idea of returning the same offense he had done to her on their wedding night was stronger than the respect for her beloved dead fiancé.
"What the hell did you call me?" The large hand gripping her hip tightened like iron on her skin, and she hissed from the sudden pain, but didn't stop smiling. Her eyes were clouded by the orgasm, but her mind was clear, savoring the bewilderment in his gaze.
"Maekar." She lied shamelessly and saw doubt cross his face before pulling out his cock with a grunt of annoyance. She had already come and she already had a daughter, so she didn't need to beg for his seed like she used to.
"Liar." He spat, getting out of bed to wrap himself in a robe, and she didn't even bother trying to attract him again. She simply lay back on the bed with a sigh of satisfaction as he retreated to his own quarters. The ones he once shared with Dyanna, of course. She was given the second best.
The next time he had her, it was brutal. He fucked her as if he hated her, and she responded with bites and scratches that left a permanent wound on his back and shoulders. When they finished, both trying to catch their breath, side by side on the feather bed, he apologized for the first time in all their time together. One of his hands traced the curve of her waist in a gentle sway, as if he didn't want to stop touching her body, even though she had her back to him, admiring Daella's toys piled in a corner.
"I deserved it. You were young and scared, and I... humiliated you by calling you by her name. I'm so sorry." He kissed her in the hollow between her shoulder and neck, and she shed a solitary tear as she remembered how horrible she had felt that night: the blood staining her thighs, the burning and strange pain from the stretching keeping her tense like a bowstring, and she froze when he exclaimed Dyanna's name with his eyes closed.
Daella grabs at her skirt with surprising strength for a baby who has only seen one spring, stopping her steps mid-letter at an anecdote involving the clumsy Ser Duncan and a donkey.
Her hair is now a tangle of short, loose curls that she loves to touch, enjoying their softness and color under her fingers. She turns to look at her feet when Daella stretches out her chubby little hands demandingly, as she always does when she wants to be picked up.
She doesn't dress her in red or black. Her dresses are always in light colors: pink, yellow, sky blue, lilac, white. She can boast of her dragon's blood when she is an adult woman.
“Now you are my baby. Mine. Only mine." She exclaims her thoughts aloud, rubbing their noses together in a tender touch to make her laugh. Daella babbles a word that sounds much like "Mama" when she settles her on her hip bone, setting the letter aside to carry her to the window.
Sunny days are very rare in Summerhall, and she would have wished her daughter to grow up in a warm place like Sunhouse, among fields of sunflowers and sunbeams to redden her cheeks. Instead, she must settle for the few good days granted by the fierce Stormlands.
“Do you want to see the duckies? Duckies? Quack, quack!” Her daughter claps excitedly at the sound she associates with the mentioned animals, but before they can move, the solarium door bursts open with a slam that startles them.
“Fuck!” Maekar strides in, jaw clenched, throwing a crumpled letter to the floor with a child's fury. A single glance at the golden wax seal tells her it comes from King’s Landing.
“Pack what you need for yourself, Daella, and Daeron. King Aerys has just summoned us to the capital in a few days. We leave at dawn.” His anger slowly dissipates as he sees his daughter, approaching to take her in his arms when the baby calls him with a whimper. She had tried to say “Papa” first before anything else, much to his delight.
“Why?”
“Bloodraven must be whispering in his ear about my supposed insurgency for not going to kneel before him as soon as he was crowned. I told him we would go when our daughter was old enough to endure such a long journey, but apparently, he cannot wait to meet her. If he wants to see a baby so badly, then let him bed his wife and in nine moons, he will have one he can look at whenever he wants.”
It was clear that Maekar would not forgive his brother for choosing Brynden Rivers as his Hand over him. She sighs and places a hand on the forearm holding Daella, who tugs at his beard with her usual curiosity.
“There’s something else. He suggested a marriage between Daeron and Kiera. The crown no longer has any excuses to keep her, and her damned father threatened to join the rebels if they didn't find an appropriate place for his daughter. As if it’s our fault the girl couldn't conceive a single living child.”
She gasps in rebuke at the cruelty of his words, more than at the idea of the union between her friend and her stepson.
“Daeron won’t want to leave his wine and his whores for a wife. He’ll run away as soon as I tell him. But it’s time for him to become a man, and perhaps the company of a woman can straighten him out for once. We won’t tell him until we’re in the capital. If he’s going to refuse, he can confront Aerys himself, and we'll see if he has the courage to do it." Maekar kisses his daughter’s head as he mutters. Daella laughs when his beard tickles her, kicking her chubby legs covered in stockings.
She doesn't agree with bringing Daeron under false pretenses, but she sighs with resigned assent. She has too much to pack to protest. Plus, she needs to leave instructions in case Aegon and Duncan decide to return in their absence.
A week later, King’s Landing greets them with an eerie silence. It sends shivers down her spine like the Stranger’s breath on her neck as the carriage sways through the main streets. The new king assured them the sickness was under control, but still, she doesn’t dare draw the carriage curtains to look outside, nor lift the veil covering Daella’s face.
Aerys is dressed in white and gold and wears his grandfather’s crown, King Aegon IV. The last image of Baelor on the Iron Throne leading a petition session as Hand flashes back to her, making her blink as she bows before the new king, her gaze fixed on the floor. Maekar beside her doesn’t do so immediately, shifting in place until he lowers his head.
He loves his brothers, but he was always closer to the eldest, who had promised to make him his Hand upon inheriting the throne. Aerys’s decision had struck a blow to his pride, even though he had promised him nothing. He is Aerion’s father, after all. The boy had to get his irascible and proud temperament from somewhere.
Aelinor, at the foot of the imposing throne of swords, approaches her with a dazzling smile, looking like a true queen with a gold crown. She always had a predilection for being the best dressed in court, for having the largest jewels and the most expensive fabrics. Maekar used to say, teasingly, that the poor woman filled the emptiness of her marriage with luxury, in the absence of children.
“My queen." She greets her, and does not hesitate when Aelinor offers an bejeweled hand for her to kiss the back of it as a sign of respect... or smugness. Both ignore Maekar's snort.
Her daughter had buried her face in her neck since they entered the hall, terrified by the enormous figures of ancient kings decorating the columns and, above all, by the fearsome Iron Throne where her uncle now sits. Aelinor asks for her with a radiant smile, and she can’t help but share a nervous glance with Maekar, because their little princess hadn’t found the long journey pleasant and her behavior had become capricious and tantrum-filled during the last few days.
“What’s her name?” The queen asks, holding Daella rather awkwardly, trying to adjust her with obvious discomfort. Her child has a pout on her lips and looks at her with large lilac eyes as if about to cry. It unsettles her to the core, feeling helpless at having to hand her over to someone else’s arms.
“Daella, your Majesty." She answers slowly, getting used to her sister-in-law’s new title. She hadn’t known queen Myriah. She had already passed away when she married her fourth son.
“It’s a beautiful name. But she has your hair, dear, which... a pity.”
As if in disagreement, her daughter stirs so strongly that Aelinor looks like she’s about to drop her at any moment. She acts on instinct, closing the distance and snatching her back into her own safe, firm arms. She pats the baby’s back to soothe the start of a whimper and quickly makes an excuse as she catches the reflection of indignation on the queen’s face. She always wanted to boast of having an affinity with children, but in reality, she never possessed such a gift.
“How dare she say my daughter’s hair is a pity? Does she think she has the right to say stupid things now that she wears my mother’s crown? She’s an envious bitch, because you’ve accomplished in four years what she couldn’t in over twenty." Maekar complains as soon as they reach their newly assigned chambers, near the nurseries, which were recently vacated by Rhaegel’s twins, now old enough to sleep in their own rooms.
She sighs at his reckless diatribe, given that they are surrounded by servants they don't know. Some are carrying their trunks, and others are finishing preparing the room, dusting the furniture and plumping the cushions of the armchairs. All pretending not to hear the prince insult the new queen.
She places Daella on the floor, and the baby crawls towards her father’s legs, who is observing the balcony views with a hand on his hip, in that stance he always adopts when something displeases him. She forces her best smile and asks the servants to stop what they are doing and leave, thanking them for their work.
“If Aelinor has no children, it’s because your brother doesn’t invite her to his chambers." She reminds him once they are alone, positioning herself beside him with her arms crossed.
Lacking attention, her daughter crawls towards the balcony, so she keeps a close eye on her to ensure she doesn't get too close to the abyss. Daella pulls herself up using the stability provided by a flower-filled pot, which she curiously touches, plucking petals with an energetic babble. An orange butterfly flies over her head.
“You’re saying my brother prefers a book to his wife’s cunt?” She catches a glimpse of his furrowed brow, but when she turns to look him in the eye, she recognizes a glint of amusement at the corner of his lips.
“That’s not what I said.”
“No more smiles for me? Now you only save them for the servants?” The question takes her by surprise, but she doesn't even contain the snort with which she replies.
“You never appreciated them.”
“I never told you, but I do. How else would I know that one of your canines is slightly crooked? That the only dimple on your right cheek only shows if your smile is genuine?”
She doesn’t even know if what he says is true. She’s not sure she has dimples, as she isn’t prone to seeking her reflection in mirrors. Although Maekar doesn't seem to be lying, to her, these are just empty words. Every time she thought their relationship could transform into something beyond the carnal, she was met with nothing but disappointment. And she’s so tired of of that exhausting feeling than she no longer even tries.
At her silence, he sighs with his jaw clenched, and turns away with hurried steps, muttering something she can't quite hear. She watches him disappear behind the door, and when it slams shut, she lets out her own sigh, relaxing shoulders she hadn't realized were tense.
It’s at night that they resolve their problems, like a toxic habit that both poisons and comforts them, because it’s the only way they have to exhaust the frustration they feel for each other. He sits on the edge of the bed with her in his lap, riding him, her nails digging into the back of his neck as she devours him with her mouth. His hands hold her hips to keep her pressed against his pelvis, and she throws her head back when Maekar’s lips descend down her throat, pulling her closer to his sweaty chest when one hand travels down her back to tug at her loose hair.
“I don’t like your new attitude, girl.”
“I learned it from you.”
A moon later, Daeron and Kiera’s wedding is celebrated. It’s not ostentatious or crowded, as the people of King’s Landing are still suffering the consequences of the plague, too much for the royal family to rejoice with a grand feast.
Aerys does not have a good image as king, because he is serious and unfriendly, and although Maekar is similar in some ways, he has the advantage of having the respectable reputation he earned with his participation in the Rebellion. Both her brother-in-law and Aelinor will have to work to win the affection of the populace and the nobles. Especially in such difficult times for the realm, which still keenly feels the unexpected deaths of Baelor and his descendants.
Neither the bride nor groom looks excited about the marriage: Daeron’s eyes are glistening from wine, and Kiera’s from held-back tears. So, when they recite their vows, they don't even look each other in the face. It’s a sad sight, both for her stepson and her best friend, who still has to wear mourning for Valarr, as a full year has not passed since his death.
At the banquet, Maekar snatches a jug of wine from his son, who intends to serve himself when he is clearly too drunk to even speak, and whispers something in his ear that makes him pale. Daeron sinks into his seat with his long fringe covering his forehead and pecks at some pieces from his plate, ignoring Kiera beside him, whose mind seems to be elsewhere, judging by her lost gaze.
The king eats with an open book beside him, as is his custom, and the queen laughs with her father, newly ascended to an honorable position on the small council. Her other brothers-in-law are too far away for her to see them, but they also didn’t look excited by the union at the religious ceremony. The only one who seems happy is the bride’s father, who drinks and laughs at a table accompanied by his Tyroshi compatriots.
No one is imprudent enough to call for the bedding ceremony, but as soon as Kiera stands, announcing that she is retiring early, with her plate still untouched, she follows her without hesitation. As soon as they reach the rooms prepared for the consummation, she wastes no time helping her remove her dress and hairpins.
“The only good thing about all this is that now I’ll live with you. I’m so tired of this place.” Her friend takes her hand to kiss its back, and she leans against Kiera’s back, wrapping her arms around her neck in a protective embrace.
The door opens at that exact moment to reveal Daeron, who stumbles in, cheeks flushed, guided by his father, whose last words echo in the corridor. Kiera’s shoulders slump with the weight of what is expected of them: a marriage is only valid when consummated.
“Do your duty.”
When the heavy oak door closes behind them as they leave the room, she knows Maekar is thinking of the disastrous occasion when he took her virginity, perhaps seeing again the clumsy, innocent girl he made cry. The guilt and remorse reflected in his eyes comfort her, showing her that he is aware of the harm he has caused her. But she can also recognize something else: the doubt of not knowing if he made the right decision or if he condemned his son to eternal unhappiness. It is difficult to know, because only time will tell, although she feels it is her duty to grant him some peace from his worst thoughts. She is his wife, after all.
“You did the right thing." She tries to convince him, raising her hands to cup his cheeks, feeling the stubble of his beard scrape beneath her fingers. The torches illuminate the side of his face, highlighting his sharp jaw and his naturally stern demeanor.
Daeron was the only Targaryen available to marry, with Aerion exiled in Lys and Rhaegel’s son just a child, like Aemon and Egg. Furthermore, he had long fled marriage, enjoying hedonism in brothels and taverns like a man free from the heavy responsibilities of a prince. Maekar might be right. Perhaps a wife is what would finally give meaning to his life.
“I should have told Aerys to go to hell.”
“That wouldn’t have been prudent.”
“You always know what to say, don’t you? You are the only sure thing I have in life.” He takes one of her wrists to kiss it over her veins, never taking his eyes off her.
“Your sons...”
“My sons despise me or disappoint me. All of Aegon’s letters are addressed to you. I haven’t heard a damn thing from Aemon in months. My informants tell me Aerion is filling Lys with his bastards, and Daeron… You know how he is. That poor girl. Marrying my firstborn, after Baelor’s, is nothing short of a punishment.” His words are laden with bitterness, and he doesn’t release her hand, intertwining their fingers.
She discreetly sniffs the air, trying to figure out if he’s drunk, even though she didn’t see him drink more than two cups of wine. But finding nothing but his natural scent, the leather of his doublet, and the steel of the dagger at his hip, she sighs to remind him that they still have a daughter together.
“You have Daella.”
“And I’m glad she looks like you. I hope she has none of me. None of this family. May she be as gentle as you are. That way it will be easier for me to love her.”
She suddenly frowns, displeased by the last word. Nothing but a lie. She pulls away from his grip with a jerk and turns her back on him, walking towards the balcony to lean on the stone railing. Below them, some servants are still carrying jugs and trays for the banquet, and an old Lord she cannot recognize has cornered a giggling young woman in a corner.
“Don’t be cruel. You don’t love me, Maekar.”
“You’re a fool. If I didn’t feel something for you, I would have sent you home to your parents a long time ago. I know I was a bastard. Fuck! Look at me.” She gasps when he roughly turns her around, gripping her arms without gauging his strength. He’s desperate, beside himself, with frantic eyes and a lock of hair escaping his perfect coiffure.
“I thought I would never love another woman besides Dyanna, but you got under my skin like a poison, and that rattled me, that’s why I behaved like an idiot with you. You’ve never had anything but smiles and kind words for me, and now that you’ve taken them away, that you hide them from me… Gods damn it, you’re driving me mad.” His speech leaves her speechless, and she blinks several times to make sure she isn't caught in a bad dream. The hand that rises to firmly cup the back of her neck is what lets her know he is truly confessing his feelings to her.
“Maekar." She whispers when he leans down to press his forehead against hers. She thinks she hears footsteps in the distance, but there is no one else but them now, because he overwhelms all her senses, leaving her immersed in a kind of feverish dream, drawn from her deepest desires.
The heat beneath his doublet burns her like dragonfire, the weight of his hands as they squeeze her flesh and the sincerity in his voice as he promises her is what finally makes her sigh.
“From now on, it will be different. You can cut off my balls if I lie.”
Oh, of course she will.