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Your moon blood had not yet arrived. It should have, but it had not.
You had just returned from travelling, it was the stress of relocating, maybe even the change of weather, you tried to tell yourself.
As a Princess of the Seven Kingsdoms of the House Targaryen, nothing about you was secret, so your moon blood was also not your own business. It was your lady’s maid’s business.
“I have gone ahead and prepared that special herb tea for you, that should help with the coming cramps, if you so wish it, my princess.” Dyna said, your lady’s maid ever since your first bleeding.
You, your brothers, and your father had been back for three days now. Three agonizing days on the road, and then three agonizing days in Summerhall, being away from him.
You clutched at the fabric of your red and black dress, a fine silk with even finer jewels stitched into the bodice. A gift for your Name’s day. A gift from him.
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Your moon blood was late. That was out of the ordinary for you, but not extraordinary for a woman. Your mother Dyanna had had irregular moon bloods all of her very short life. Therefore, no alarm was raised. It was simply that. Late.
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Two moon cycles went by. Two moons of lying in your bed, trying to recreate a fraction of the spark his touch had created within you. The immense pleasure and electricity that had coursed through your veins, from the moment his lips had touched yours to his very last one, a chaste and polite kiss on the knuckles of your hand at your departure.
Proper and nothing at all indecent for an uncle to bestow upon his scarcely-seen niece. His favorite brother’s daughter. But his touch had lingered, his eyes conveying what his lips couldn’t.
And in that courtyard you had left your heart with him, as in your womb he had left his seed with you.
The third moon had come and gone, and tension had risen at Summerhall. Your nerves too, for you did not understand this silence. Had he not meant it? Had he not meant any of the loving promises he had left whispered against your skin? Clashing his mouth against yours, whispering his love in that old Valyrian tongue, murmering how he would make you his wife. Take you to the sept -Gods, your father, and anyone who stood in your way be damned- and crown you his before all to see. Had nothing been real?
You lightly cupped your stomach, a small swell starting to show. The proof rising to the surface, but not as fast and high as the ire rising within your father.
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Maekar’s jaw was working overtime, his mouth turned into a thin line while he thought about all the things he would do. Oh, he would fucking kill whoever was responsible for this. Flay them alive, and show everyone what happened to lowly shithead guards who fucking dared touch any of his daughters. But no matter how much he pressed, threatened and shouted, his daughter would not speak one syllable on who it had been. Who had defiled his oldest daughter, his heir, his treasure, his little dragon.
But the little dragon was a grown dragoness now with a mind of her own. His head hurt from the headache he lovingly called his children.
He saw it in her eyes, when he confronted her with the dirty secret her lady’s maid had confessed to him. His daughter, unmarried and with child. She had not been forced. That much was clear from one look alone.
She loved whoever it was that had forsaken his honour to take hers.
It was mere hours ago, but Maekar he felt he had aged a decade in that time.
Everything in the castle was being prepared for this new trip. So soon again after the other.
He would go to Dragonstone and hold a blade to everyone’s throat, every-fucking-last-one, until he found her lover. He put his finger against his temple, another headache, but it had to be done. His anger had subsided a little by the pleading look in her eyes and the pleading words streaming from her mouth like the tears that wouldn’t stop coming.
But his mind was set, and Maekar was not called the Anvil for nothing.
He would end this affair, and then he would do what was necessary. His heart hurt to think about how she would respond when he would tell her. His Dyanna was surely turning in her grave if she had one. But his precious daughter was a princess of their realm, she too precious for scandal and the realm too eager for it.
Baelor had told his brother about his son and good-daughter’s tragedies during their stay, the painful and premature endings of once joyious news. Their souls dying a little with every tiny loss of life before their combined souls even had a chance to grow or even breath life.
It was the best solution. No one, except for her lady’s maid and her chamber maid, and him of course, knew of the situation. Only Daeron had been staring at his sister at the dinner table with increasing focus, talking about future dragons and wings amongst the sky. He paid him no mind, as usual.
It had to happen, sooner rather than later. His daughter would be off to Dragonstone, staying for a year to spend time with her cousins, and then return as his little girl again with her honour restored.
And Dragonstone would be blessed with an heir, a little bundle of joy for his nephew and good-niece to bestow their deceased love upon.
His brother would surely agree this was the best course of action. His honourable, older brother.
Maekar had only just sent word by raven that they would yet again be visiting their family in Dragonstone, and so it would be. The rest he and his brother would discuss when they got there.
And so it was that the Anvil and his oldest daughter left with a small procession to make their way to Dragonstone. Each with a different thought in their mind and a different outcome in their heart.