Chapter Text
Calanthe didn’t miss any spot.
Through the antechamber, along the walls, and out on the balcony where she leaned into the open air and stretched her hand as far as she might; a bundle of smoldering sage between her fingers, pale smoke trailed after her, winding through stones and linen curtains.
She had been told by Queen Myriah herself that these chambers housed the brides of Targaryen kings. The queen had dwelt here when she first came to King’s Landing, and now the same rooms had passed to Calanthe, and where she would remain until she, too, would become queen someday.
The place was exquisite; gold gleamed from every surface, ancient tapestries that told of an older reign, and the furnishings of fine craftsmanship. It was a chamber fit for a princess, for any blushing bride to admire.
But for all its grandeur, the chambers seemed to her barren. Her belongings were yet to be unpacked, the flowers in the vases weren’t so fresh, and the air of King’s Landing carried none of the scent she had known in the Reach.
Most of all, Baelor was not here.
He had his own chamber, as custom required. Few knew they were already wed, and even when the court did, such courtesies are to be upheld. Spouses kept their personal spaces, at least for the royals and nobles, and Calanthe sympathizes with a more profound reasoning that this chamber often served as a refuge for brides who found little comfort in their matches.
Calanthe couldn’t claim the same. She was fortunate, more than most Targaryen brides—for her husband was a good man. The best of men, she believed. And for him, she would accept this stifling courtesy with grace.
Though it doesn't necessarily mean she has to fully abide by these restrictions, Baelor would not deny her anything. He had granted her every whim and wish. Truly fortunate, indeed.
Calanthe murmured the names of those who had come before her, each woman who had slept within these walls.
“Rhaenys Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen, Alyssa Velaryon, Ceryse Hightower, Alys Harroway, Tyanna of Pentos, Elinor Costayne, Jeyne Westerling, Rhaena Targaryen, Alysanne Targaryen, Aemma Arryn, Alicent Hightower, Helaena Targaryen, Jaehaera Targaryen, Daenaera Targaryen, Daena Targaryen, Naerys Targaryen…”
The fresh sage she made burned low in her hand as its smoke unfurled into crevices and corners. She spoke for them—for their joys, and for their sorrows. For the marriages that had been happy, and those that had been tragic, whatever had befallen them, she wouldn’t have them touch her fate.
Her marriage is hers, and like a prayer on her breath and by nature’s fumes, Calanthe offered them peace. That their souls would finally rest, and not linger here.
And what was hers; her love, her future, her crown would be shaped by her own hand, and no others.
“If I didn’t know you, I would’ve thought you meant to set your chambers ablaze,” came his voice, warm with teasing, from the doorway.
Baelor found her standing on the vanity, reaching high as she coaxed the last ribbons of smoke into the rafters. At the sight of him, her face glowed.
“I just might,” Calanthe said, “if only to have reason to stay in yours.”
“You don't need to have a reason,” he replied, his gaze drifting about the room before settling back on her. “Do you need any help?”
“No, I am done else I shall choke on my own work.” With that, she hopped and crossed to him in quick steps, tossing the spent sage into a nearby pot before winding her arms about him.
“Good,” he murmured, lifting her chin to kiss her. “I haven’t yet shown you the library.”
“You haven’t,” she answered, her smile turning sly, “and that was the only condition on which I agreed to this marriage.”
He chuckled, “Then I must rectify that, my sweet wife.”
They left her new chambers together, the last of the smoke whirling in their wake. It remained for a time, carrying her prayers, her pure intentions until it thinned and vanished—leaving only the hope of a woman determined to fare better than those before her.
A new beginning for a lucky bride.