Chapter Text
Despite the quietness of the library, Rhaenyra found she felt no peace among the gentle crackle of the hearth and the scent of parchments. She couldn’t, not while Cole marched in the Riverlands, and Hightower forces moved to join them with another dragon from the Reach.
Jace was questioning her more than ever, challenging her in private and at the small council, undermining her authority, for if her own son did not trust her rule, then why would they? My ruler is my mother, he had told her, and yet, it seemed that with every day, he desired to take her place.
He was angry and itching to move, growing resentful that she would not let him leave Dragonstone. Could he not understand that she only wished to protect him? He was the succession, and he was her son. There was nothing of greater importance to her than him and his brothers.
Rhaenyra regretted not spending her time as Princess of Dragonstone familiarising herself with certain more boring parts of ruling the realm, but she had never cared much for economics, nor the monotonous reports of agriculture. Jace had strangely always thrived in this area, in any area of scholarship really. No doubt he will make a great king one day, if only he would wait for his time.
From what she could tell, the state of the coffers was dire, the crown's funds draining exponentially thanks to the war, an advantage for the Blacks as they had the Sea Snake to aid them. But either way, she would no doubt have to raise taxes when she seized King's Landing.
The creak of the door broke through her thoughts, and she lifted her gaze to see who else would be awake and wandering Dragonstone at this hour. Where she expected to find a mess of dark curls, she found one of long, moonlight-coloured waves instead.
“Your grace,” Mireya exclaimed in surprise, freezing where she stood, her eyes wide like a trapped deer. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you.”
“It’s quiet alright,” Rhaenyra replied softly, “come in.” Mireya tentatively stepped forward, lingering in the centre of the room, but not approaching the desk Rhaenyra sat at. “It is late to be wandering the castle.”
“I only meant to find some books, your grace.” Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Literacy is a rare skill amongst those… lower born,” she noted, as Mirya looked down at her hands, wringing them. She was chewing her cheek again.
“My guardian thought it a pertinent skill, for he kept journals with his remedies and methods,” she paused for a moment, looking up and her nervous eyes brightening slightly. “I can write too,” she added. Rhaenyra smiled at the pride with which she spoke of what were such trivial skills to her.
“What have you come to look for?” Mireya stared at her again, as if surprised by her question. Rhaenyra could sense the tension in her shoulders, and wished it would ease.
“Something about the landscape of the island. I would like to see what herbs I might find here, to make my searching more specific.” Rhaenyra hummed and nodded, watching as Mireya's eyes flickered around the room.
“I am not sure if such a book exists,” she commented, “but there are certainly some about medicine in here, if that is of interest to you.” Mireya straightened her back, surprise and excitement evident in her face.
“Yes, your grace, they would be.” Rhaenyra’s smile widened.
“Take what you wish, and feel free to come here when you like.” The young girl's jaw slackened slightly.
“Your grace, that is very kind but–”
“The books would get no use otherwise; it seems like a waste of perfectly good knowledge. And as I commanded, you may move around the castle freely, within limits.” Mireya was smiling widely now, and the sight made Rhaenyra strangely glad. From what she had discerned in their few brief interactions, the young woman was a rather skittish thing– it was nice to see her look like she didn’t desire to run in the other direction for once.
She watched her for a few moments as Mireya’s eyes flickered around the room and she wrung her hands nervously as the silence between them dragged on, her excitement fading quickly. “Your accommodations are suitable?” Rhaenyra finally asked, not wanting to dismiss her quite yet. Mireya nodded.
“Yes, your grace, you have been more than generous.” Rhaenyra hummed, glancing back to the scrolls strewn on the table before her and sighing. Mireya seemed to mistake it for a wish for her to leave. “If it would please your grace, I will take my leave.”
“Very well,” Rhaenyra ceded, not wishing to torture the poor girl by forcing her into a propriety she evidently didn’t understand.
“Good night, your grace,” she curtsied, slipping out of the room.
Rhaenyra wasn’t sure what it was about the young healer that made her enjoy her presence. There was something soft and unadulterated about her presence that Rhaenyra welcomed, so unmarked by the harshness of the world. Perhaps it reminded her of the Realms Delight from all those years ago who burned on the funeral pyre of her mother and brother. Though she had never been as quiet as Mireya, nor as cautious, even when it would have been wise for her to do so.
Alicent had always been quieter, always watching and assessing. But her gaze, Rhaenyra had since learned over the past two decades, carried a cunningness Rhaenyra did not believe Mireya could possess, despite what Jace thought.
— ✧✦✧ —
Mireya felt on edge being back in the Stone Drum. She had staunchly avoided it since her interaction with the prince, happy to spend her time exploring the island, with Silverwing or with Nettles instead. The building was grand and expansive, but not in a breathable way, but rather one that felt empty and made one feel strangely exposed.
Alas, she had been summoned, and given Prince Jacaerys’s very obvious distrust for her and her error the last time she was here, she was certainly going to obey whatever the queen asked of her.
They were gathered in a different chamber than where they had dinner when Mireya had initially arrived. This one was far grander, with a large roaring hearth tucked in its back wall, and in the centre a table with a carved map of Westeros. She had arrived with Nettles, standing slightly behind as if shielded by the unbothered confidence her friend possessed. Even standing there, garbed in the same leathers as the other dragonseeds– thankfully ones that now fit her properly– she felt out of place, dropped into some strange game that she did not know the rules to.
They stood in silence, waiting for the queen, the prince and Lady Baela standing together on the opposite side of the table. Mireya could feel the weight of his gaze on her, making her aware of every movement, every breath and twitch of her hands. She wasn’t sure what she had done to win such attention, though she suspected it was a sign that his suspicion for her had not eased. The rest of the council circled that table as well, old men with doublets donning crests that Mireya could not name. One of them bore hair and eyes in the likeness of the queen, and Mireya wondered if he was from the other Valyrian house– Celtigar or something.
When the queen strode in, she cast the room into a strict stillness, all watching her with anticipation until she stopped at the painted table. She looked so different to the woman Mireya had spoken to the night before, who had been warm in the gentle candlelight of the library, and generous in giving her permission to search Dragonstone's knowledge cache. She didn’t bother greeting them; she had no need, only surveying them each carefully before her gaze fixed on her son, the only presence in the room that came close to equalling hers.
“I have received a raven from Simon Strong, the Castellan at Harrenhal.” Mireya watched as Jacaerys’s shoulders straightened and tensed, his hands moving to the pommel of his sword as they always seemed to do.
She hadn’t spoken to him again since bumping into him in the corridor, nor even seen him very frequently, though that was to be expected given she spent most of her time either exploring the island, with Nettles or in the servants' quarters with the other girls of the household. She had occasionally seen him at the Dragonpit, though he was always either leaving when she arrived or arriving as she left, or noticed him gliding through the sky on his own emerald dragon, but they had never spoken any words to each other. Not that Mireya minded, for the prince’s stilted tone put her on edge.
“Daemon has amassed an army out of the Riverlords at Harrenhal. Simon Strong fears he has done so in his own name, rather than mine, and,” she inhaled deeply, “I am inclined to agree with him.”
The room went still for a moment, holding its breath. Mireya’s eyes flickered around to the faces of the council. Some were shocked, others unsuprised; there was disappointment, and fear as well. Baela looked frozen in place by the news of her father's suspected treachery. Then her gaze settled on the prince, his face devoid of any emotion save for the tension in his jaw.
“The Winterwolves ride to meet Daemon in the Riverlands. If he acts of his own accord, it will become a massacre,” he noted, gesturing to the table where a small icon of a wolf head was resting in the North.
“We would lose their entire battalion– even Northern soldiers are no match for Caraxes,” Rhaengyra agreed, turning one of the rings on her finger, “and it would no doubt push the North to remove themselves from the war.”
“No,” Jacaerys said quickly and with certainty, “Cregan would not. There has never been a Stark who forgot an oath.”
Mireya watched as the queen suppressed a reaction, her face remaining impassive save for a tick in her jaw that she recognised from in her son as well. Jacaerys continued to speak, but had switched to High Valyrian, so Mireya had no idea what they spoke of. She glanced at Addam, whose grasp of the language was the best out of all of them, but he looked just as lost as the rest of them. The pair conversed like that for a while, their voices each growing more exasperated, and Mireya found it amusing how both their bodies betrayed their frustration in the same way, the son a mirror of his mother.
“I will fly to Harrenhal and handle Daemon, and whether as his queen or his wife I will ensure he heeds me,” the queen finally said, putting an end to the prince’s insistent talking, her tone final enough that none of her council dared challenge her. Mireya supposed that if her own son could not change her mind, the rest would be unsuccessful. “Addam,” she continued, turning to look at the collection of Dragonseeds, “you will accompany me. Seasmoke and Caraxes are familiar from the Stepstones, and I seek to avoid animosity.”
Animosity, Mireya thought to herself, another word for slaughter. She knew little of the queen’s husband; few spoke of him in a castle, but she had heard stories in the Riverlands, and while she took care to remember that words passed from word of mouth can often grow fantastical, any man that can encourage such thought did not seem like the kind to be trusted. No wonder the queen suspected treachery.
She felt pity for Rhaenyra. Mireya could not imagine what the weight of a kingdom at war felt like, now compounded with the threat of losing her husband as well. She couldn’t help but wonder how she remained so composed through it.
She also did not like that Addam was going. Daemon was dangerous; that much was unquestionable, and while she could have faith he would not harm the queen, he held no love towards Addam that might inspire restraint. If the queen felt it was necessary to take two dragons to face him, why not take Hugh and Vermithor? He was the biggest after all.
Mireya immediately felt shame for her wish for another to be sent in Addam’s place, for she should not desire that Hugh be sent into danger in the place of Addam. She may like Addam more, but Hugh had done nothing to win her ill thoughts, and had given her that lovely embroidered handkerchief from his wife as a thank-you for the tincture for his little girl. She scolded herself for valuing Addam’s life over his.
Prince Jacaerys seemed to share her displeasure about Addam going, but she suspected not for similar reasons. She watched as he let out a frustrated grunt, flexing his hands and turning to face the hearth briefly before storming out of the room. Mireya thought that Baela might follow her bethrothed, but she remained where she was.
She and Nettles accompanied Addam to the Dragonpit to watch him depart. Nettles seemed to share Mireya’s anxiousness about the third member of their trio going to see the Rogue Prince. The pair had come to rely on him as they navigated Dragonstone, for he had a better understanding of the workings of nobility than the two of them.
“Can both of you please unfurrow your brows? I’ll be fine,” he sighed as they trailed behind him through the halls.
“Forgive me for bein’ worried abou’ you goin’ead to‘ead with the Rogue fucking Prince,” Nettles responded.
“I’m not going head to head; I am accompanying the queen to meet her husband.” Mireya reckoned he thought the emphasis on their marriage would soothe their worries, but she knew well enough that a woman's husband was often the last man she could trust.
“Well, don’t die,” Nettles said in a commanding tone, “we both need you around, ‘specially ‘er,” she gestured to Mireya, winning a confused look from her, “she’s bloody clueless ‘bout everythin’.” Mireya let out an offended gasp.
“That’s hurtful. I am not clueless,” she defended, and felt even more annoyed when Nettles and Addam shared a knowing look.
“I wouldn’t say you’re clueless…” Addam started cautiously, “but you also didn’t know what the term ‘raising banners’ meant.”
“That is not common knowledge,” Mireya scoffed.
“It is,” both her friends– nay, enemies now– said simultaneously.
“You are both unbelievably cruel. And Addam, I take back the plea I made to the warrior and mother for you.” Addam let out a shocked gasp and grasped his heart dramatically.
“Mirry, no! I take it back, forgive me, please!” Mireya suppressed a smile and let out a fake musing hum. “You are the smartest person on this island. You understand everything, and we would all be lost without you.” Mireya allowed herself to laugh at that, dropping her exaggerated offence.
“Very well, you are forgiven,” she told him before skipping down the corridor towards the Dragonpit, with Addam and Nettles trailing behind with chuckles.
Once they reached the cavern, the three of them sobered. Nettles pulled Addam into a tight embrace, which Mireya followed once she released him. “Be safe,” she pleaded, and Addam promised her he would be, though she couldn’t help but think how he could not truly promise such a thing, for the matter was not in his hands.
They watched as the queen departed on her sunshine coloured dragon, Addam following closely behind. Mireya gripped Nettles hand as the pair stood there long after the two dragons were out of sight, muttering quietly to the Mother that she protect her friend.
Eventually, Nettles squeezed her hand and started to lead her out of the Dragonpit. “Come, I’ve got somethin’ that’ll distract us.” Mireya looked at her cautiously, for her tone was far too laced with mischief to warrant any other reaction, but allowed her to lead her enthusiastically through the halls.
Mireya was surprised to see that Nettles had led her to the training yard, pulling her behind a corner with a cheeky smile. From the vantage point, they had a decent view of the soldiers training, but were also well concealed.
“Netty, what are we doing here?”
“Makin’ sure the queen’s men are up to scratch,” she responded mischievously, before turning away to watch the soldiers spar. Mireya wasn’t a fool, and she knew exactly why Nettles had brought her there. Part of her screamed that she should run the other direction and leave the soldiers be. Still, the other quietly enjoyed the sight, especially because in the casual environment and midday sun, many had shed their armour in favour of simply their undershirts.
“Ah, he’s doomed,” Nettles declared as a young squire stepped up to spar an older, far stronger-looking soldier. She was right, and the pair giggled as they watched him scramble up from the ground and scurry off in defeat. She continued her commentary on the subsequent spar, Mireya occasionally offering her own insight, but mostly remaining quiet to admire the nice view.
Nettles was right; this had been a distraction, and a welcome one, for even the soldiers under the watchful eyes of their commanders carried a playful air to them, a reprieve from the heaviness of the walls of the castle.
But that all shifted suddenly when another figure joined the group. The soldiers all straightened their backs, offering curt respectful bows as the prince wandered through the yard.
“At ease, please, I only mean to train,” he told them, and Mireya thought she detected a slight chuckle in his voice. It surprised her how next the men's formality seemed to melt away, familiarity settling over them and the prince. She supposed he must come here to train often. She didn’t know why, but she had never thought that a prince would train among the household guards.
Nettles shot her an excited look at the prospect of watching the prince spar while Mireya tucked herself further behind her, aware of her desire to avoid catching the prince’s gaze, given that, although they were not forbidden from this part of the castle, she wanted to avoid a repeat of the week earlier.
While tucked away happily out of the prince’s line of sight, Mireya let her nerves soothe, and found herself watching keenly as he drew his sword. He was masterful with it in a way that made her breath hitch as she watched him wield it with grace, far better than any of the soldiers they had watched earlier.
When he beat the first man he challenged, the pair chuckled as he yielded with grace. It was the first time that Mireya had ever seen him smile, and the sight made her stomach tighten, her eyes never leaving him as he began another spar. Her focus was only broken when Nettles bumped her shoulder.
“Someone catch your eye?” she teased, and Mireya rolled her eyes.
“I just find it interesting. I’ve never seen people swordfight before, let alone a prince.” She hoped to flush she was feeling creep up the back of her neck hadn’t plagued her cheeks as well. Nettles narrowed her eyes and hummed, clearly not believing her, though Mireya wasn’t lying.
“He is very skilled,” she paused briefly, as if contemplating whether to continue, “‘Ave you noticed that he stares at you a lot?” Mireya froze. Though Nettles words did ring true- though a lot was an exaggeration given they had met a handful of times, and only twice that Nettles had been present for– it was the implication of her tone Mireya found ridiculous. It was like she was trying to tease out some strange relationship that did not exist.
“More like glowers,” she responded, feeling frustration bubble up inside her. She had apologies for the night on the wall; she had ensured she had not even stepped foot near the Stone Drum until summoned, and largely had simply stayed out of his way, and yet still, the moment she was in his presence, his mouth would pinch into a frown. “I don’t understand his issue with me. I haven’t done anything!” Nettles snickered.
“I think he’s just dour,” Mireya grumbled in agreement, though unsatisfied, and went back to watching the prince.
He had removed his black doublet, now left in only his thin undershirt and breeches like the other men around him. Through it, she could trace the line of his body, the taut, lean muscle it covered glimpsing through as he moved. Mireya had always appreciated beauty in the world– wildflowers, the sun as it seeped through canopies of trees in the morning, soft trickling streams, and even the beauty of people, of men– but she had never found her eyes fixated on an example of it quite like she herself found in that moment.
“What are you two doing here?” A voice behind them startled her out of her quiet watchfulness, making her jump as she braced her hand on her heart.
“Eric,” she gasped, “Don’t sneak up on us like that!” The man chuckled in a cocky way that made Mireya think he was far too proud of himself for startling them.
“Placing bets on the spars,” Nettles answered his question.
“Oh really?” He smirked and glanced around, “Care to take a swing at it?” Mireya’s eyes widened, but Nettles seemed overjoyed at the challenge. This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid, drawing attention to herself in the presence of the prince.
She followed the pair anyway, not wanting to be left standing alone and also wanting to avoid teasing from Nettles about why she wouldn’t participate. Eric drew them to an empty corner, a few eyes tracing them as they moved, and tossed Nettles a wooden sword.
“Alright, place your feet apart like this,” he began to instruct, and Mireya watched as he showed her how to position herself and hold the sword. She tried to pay attention, suspecting she would soon be forced to do the same, but in all honesty found the entire thing boring; she was uninterested in learning how to wield a sword.
As the two began to whack at each other, Mireya allowed herself to wander slightly, humming quietly to herself as she catalogued the different weapons in the yard with her eyes. She felt a gaze on her as she moved, multiple actually, but ignored them. She was no stranger to stares, and knew that unlike in the villages and taverns, she was in no real danger here. Especially when all the soldiers would no doubt be on their best behaviour in the presence of the prince. She stopped when she noticed a bow and arrows; her fingers lingered over it with silent temptation.
“Want to have a try?” Eric came up behind her. She didn’t answer him with words, only a grin, but he understood her all the same, grabbing the bow and arrows and leading her over to a barred-off area with targets. Handing them to her, he tried to offer instruction on her stance, but Mireya ignored him, extending the bow in one hand and positioning the arrow in the other, her focus entirely on the target as she took slow, shallow breaths.
“Alright, not a bad start…but with your stance you’re going to want to–” He was cut short by a loud thwack as the arrow hit the red centre of the target. Mireya took a moment to relish in the pride of the sight before turning to smirk at Eric, whose jaw had become dislodged from his mouth as he let out a chuff.
“Something about my stance?” She gloated.
“Beginner's luck,” he scoffed. Mireya accepted the challenge and drew another arrow, ignoring whatever unhelpful things her friend was saying to focus on releasing another arrow. She felt herself smile as it landed just below the first one.
“And that one?”
“I do not have an explanation for,” Eric conceded, and Mireya let out a victorious giggle.
“That was some impressive shooting. Where’d you learn that?” One of the other soldiers approached them, and Mireya realised that she had, in a folly, drawn the attention of most of the people in the yard to her little boast.
“I live in a forest,” Mireya answered, “I’ve hunted my own food my entire life.” The soldiers let out a breathy chuckle and nodded in understanding.
“Maybe you could show him a thing or two,” he said, gesturing to Eric, who proceeded to curse at him as Mireya laughed.
“Ha, that’s my girl,” Nettles jogged up to join them and flung her arm around her shoulder, “she showed you, Eric,” she jested, pointing at Eric mockingly, who rolled his eyes in return.
“That was impressive,” a stern voice from behind them suddenly interrupted their teasing, and Mireya’s heart stuttered. She turned to find Jacaerys standing with his usual rigid posture, his sword drawn with its tip resting on the ground. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his brow, and his rich dark curls were no longer smoothed back like they had been earlier that day. When she met his gaze, she didn’t find the cold distaste or annoyance like she had come to expect. Instead, he bore something far more inscrutable. It was reserved and formal, but not unkind.
His compliment caught her by surprise, and she felt a flurry of butterflies in her stomach as he spoke, her eyes widening despite her desire to school her face. “Thank you, my prince,” she replied, a slight smile creeping onto her face.
Those were the only words the pair exchanged before he turned and strode swiftly away, but Mireya did not feel disheartened like she had the last two times she had watched him walk away from her. Instead, she felt satisfied, suppressing her smile before it could widen at her little victory.
— ✧✦✧ —
She was out there again, staring at the open ocean and expansive night sky. Jace couldn’t make her out very clearly from his window, but her hair glowed so bright in the moonlight that it caught his eye anyway. He wondered if he had sensed her presence there, for he didn’t know what else had drawn him to his window.
The image of her from the training yard was still clear in his mind: the confidence with which she held the bow, the quiet cockiness in her frame after she hit two bullseyes. She’d looked different then; the jitteriness and fear dissolved from her body so she seemed almost comfortable holding her own as a crowd of men gawked at her. She had giggled in a heart-stuttering way and grinned at that guard she had been with, a similar unbridling smile to the one he had seen when she looked at Silverwing that first day, and not since.
He still didn’t trust her, but something about the warmth he had witnessed had shifted his resolve– not broken it, but rearranged the bricks of the wall he had built around himself. He wouldn’t let the barrier down because he didn’t understand her, or why she was here. If not for glory or reward, why had she placed a stake in this war? For virtue of what was right? Such pure justice did not exist in this world.
He found he liked it when she smiled.
His hands twitched as he forced his feet still. He had resigned himself to staying in his chamber, despite how badly he itched to go outside. He had not seen her for a week until today in the Chamber of the Painted Table, where she had seemed far smaller than she had even when she arrived or in the corridor that day, virtually hiding behind Nettles, other than the occasional passing in the Dragonpit when he would catch a glint of silver-gold hair scurrying past him. Then, he had welcomed her absence, for it allowed him to put her from his mind, to not be so unnerved by the way she seemed to study his face whenever their eyes met.
But now he wanted to hear her speak again, the soft melody of her voice as she let words spill out without restraint. He stopped himself because it was improper and nonsensical for him to think such things, and because she looked at peace out there, and he knew he would not receive such softness; even her quiet words in the training yard had been guarded. He felt a small stab of guilt when he remembered the fear in her doe-like eyes when he snapped at her that day. Perhaps he had been unnecessarily stern the last time they had spoken…
He didn’t know why he was wasting his worry on such matters as Mireya. What she thought of him, her smile, her laugh, were not concerns of his. His concern was what his mother had told him of her trip to Harrenhall.
Daemon had pledged himself and his men to her, though even so Jace could not bring himself to give him the forgiveness his mother had, for the image of her that day in her chambers, the sound of her laboured screams still echoed in his mind unbidden.
Daemon, the man who had stood on the cliffs of Dragonstone and mixed his blood with his mother, whispered those vows in High Valyrian, who had cut a man’s head in half in the name of his wife and stepsons, yet left her to dress their own daughter in her funeral shrouds alone.
It is easy for a man like him to show devotion with blood, but when it came to her tears, he abandoned her.
Jace could not understand it. Daemon claimed to love Rhaenyra, yet Jace held no devotion to Baela like his stepfather held to his mother, and he would never do such a thing as leave her cries for him unanswered in such a time.
Ser Harwin would not have either, had he been permitted near the birthing chambers when they were born, he was certain.
Jace had always wondered if Ser Harwin had loved their mother. He had been unwavering in his loyalty, devoted without question, but was that love? He knew he had loved him and his brothers, at least in some way, the little he was allowed to show it. But Jace had never known what it was like to love someone the way Daemon claimed to love Rhaenyra– he had been fond of Sara, and her of him, but to neither of them had it been love– so he could not say if Ser Harwin had felt that way as well.
Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps it was Daemon's love for his mother that had driven him to act in such a way. Love is the death of duty, was the saying, wasn’t it? Perhaps that was why Daemon abandoned his duty as his mother's husband, and why Jace did not think he could do the same to Baela.
Senseless thoughts for him to have, for love did not matter to people like him, to princes, and especially not to crown princes.
He took one last glance at the woman standing far outside his window, watching as the wind bellowed her wild hair, and abandoned the sight for a restless sleep.