Archive of Our Own

In another place, in another time, much later;

King Baelor (second of his name) is ash on his funeral pyre. Tomorrow, King Valarr (first of his name) will be crowned. And Prince Maekar, who will never be king, climbs up through the silence of the Red Keep to his chambers. His face is dirty with ash and he inhaled at just the wrong moment, enough to breathe in the smoke from his brother’s corpse. All he can taste is bitterness and he thinks, this is the last time I will have anything of him in me.

After the coronation he will return to Summerhall. He will respectfully turn down his nephew’s offer of becoming Hand; Bloodraven will do well enough for now, bastard and sorcerer though he is. Maekar has no stomach left for that battle. Or any battle at all. If the Blackfyres return he’s leaving it to his brother’s children and their sworn men.

Too old, too old. His knees creak, his jaw aches. Probably going deaf, too. Age found him well before it found the King. And then it found his brother all at once. Baelor had died peacefully in his bed, as quietly and calmly as he’d ruled. The kingdom in order; gold in the coffers, grain in the vaults, his children married with heirs enough to survive another Dance.

On the climb to his chambers he thinks he hears a servant crying. What a king, to have those who you ruled weep for your death. There might not be another Baelor for a hundred years, or a hundred years more than that. Valarr doesn’t have it in him to be a bad King, but he will never be a great one, either.

His chambers are cool, and smell of fresh linen and lavender. There is a copper bowl filled with water and clean cloth to wipe away the mortal remains of his brother. And it strikes him that Baelor is gone, never to return. For the first time in many years Maekar does not lock his chamber door behind him.

The immense four-poster bed stands in front of him, the bed of his childhood. It used to yawn open like the mouth of a grave. Now it is simply a bed. With a giddy rush he strips; boots are flung into a corner, tunic on the floor, breeches discarded.

Naked, he climbs into his now-just-a-bed, and buries his face in the pillows. Tomorrow he will ride back to Summerhall, and for the first time in almost half a century, will order curtains to be hung around the bed.

He thinks of his children; Daeron and Aerion long dead. Aemon in the citadel. Aegon at Blackwood, with his merry, dark-haired bride. Rhae and Daella married, too. His first grandchild will be coming within a moon’s turn. He’s not been a good father to any of them.

Too busy being a good brother, he thinks, and fights down the urge to start laughing hysterically.

Some time earlier

Lady Rowan Fossoway closes the door to the now-quiet chamber, leans back against it. Oh, to unknow the things she knows. Knowing these might kill her, might kill her children. Lord Bloodraven has a thousand eyes and one, they say. But then, if she knows, or can at least guess, then he does too.

When she was whoring, if a customer should raise a hand, then she could scream. Breony would come running, usually with a man who’d be lured to a free fuck if he’d be willing to throw the mean cunt into the street. The kingsguard probably stood around like statues, staring at the walls. Not-hearing, not-knowing, through sheer force of will. Maybe even a little jealous, because serving the Targaryens seems to mean being a bit sick in the head.

The raven had come from King’s Landing, informing them of Dunk’s arrival. He was unwell, the letter said. Needed rest and care. The Fossoways would give that without question. And her Raymun had said, why don’t we send a raven to Lord Baratheon as well? It’s been almost ten years since Ashford, and I owe him a decent cider.

Ser Duncan the Tall had ridden through the gates, but he hadn’t, at the same time. No squire with him, the little prince elsewhere. It seemed so wrong to see them apart, as if Dunk was missing a limb.

Raymun had known something was wrong as soon as he’d seen his friend. Just the way he stands, her husband had said. Rowan looked into Dunk’s eyes and not found anything looking back. He’d been quiet at supper. Sat there at the high table like his own grave statue.

Not even Lord Baratheon could break him out of his silence. They’d ridden out, just them, into the bitter Autumn night. And then Lord Baratheon had returned, alone, face frozen in - what? What was that face? Dunk had wanted to spend some time under the stars, he’d said, and began to prepare to leave almost as soon as he got off his horse.

Lost in thought, she misses the footsteps coming towards her. Lifts her eyes to see the Laughing Storm, although he’s not laughing now. Almost if she was a seer, she looks past the expression on his face and sees a thousand men dead and a thousand dragon banners trodden into the mud.

“How is he?” A low murmur. The quiet voice of a man who wants to start a fight.
“Sleeping.”
“Did he -”
“Say anything? No, My Lord.”

He didn’t have to. Dunk had never been one to talk about his troubles. If anything, it seemed that he had no troubles at all. A smile for everyone, a strong hand for the helpless and the weak. But no one had come running to help him.

The Gods had always loved Duncan the Tall. The branch snapped. It took three men to drag him back to the hall. Their Maester had died not two weeks ago so it fell to her, as Lady, to tend to him.

Under the bruise of the rope there had been more bruises, older ones. Five even scratches down one shoulder. Ten bruises on his hips. And bite marks on those strong thighs.
Rowan is angrier than she remembers herself ever being, not just at what happened, but the who of it all.

“He said something to you, though,” she says. “Didn’t he, my lord?”

And Lyonel Baratheon turned his eyes to the ground, face ashen.

It had happened to her a few times. Sometimes the other whores came too late. But they had come, often with wine and a cuddle if she wanted it, and soothing words. They always understood, and they always said it wasn’t her fault. There was always someone stronger. Someone crueler. Sometimes you were so terrified that the screams wouldn’t come.

Fuck you, she thought, as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands refused to meet her gaze. I know you said that it was his fault. I know you said that he probably wanted it. When Ser Duncan the Tall called for aid, when he called for a friend, all he got was harsh words. You wanted him happy and strong and laughing. You wanted the memory, not the man. And that was ruined that for you, and now someone has to pay.

Rowan shoves past him. She needs to find her Raymun. She needs his arms around her, his face in her hair. Lyonel Baratheon can rot, staring at a door that’s going to be shut in his face forever.

Some time earlier

All the incense in the world cannot disguise the stench of a long-closed sickroom. Maids hurry past Brynden Rivers, called Bloodraven, holding soiled linen, dirty shifts, pots filled with foul smelling substance. How did she keep this from him? He’s dazed, heartsick; a thousand eyes and one, and he never saw this coming.

Shiera always said she wanted a beautiful death. She’d been more distant of late. He’d taken it as another one of her quicksilver moods. Perhaps a new lover, although they’d come less and less over the past few years. But there had been Blackfyres, and plague, and the argument between the King and his son. Shiera couldn’t always have his attention, no matter what she wanted. Was it not enough that she had his complete love?

No, it was never enough for Shiera. Her hunger was like an endless black pit. She tried to sate it by devouring men’s love, women’s hate, all the silks of the world and all the gems of the earth. It was the most Targaryen thing about her. Aside from him. Aside from them.

But she was dead now. Dead and burned. Only he and the King had been there; apparently she had wished no others. But Shiera was never rich in friends.

When the woman he loved was ashes, the King turned to him.

“She made me the man I am,” he’d said. “I owe her more than you could ever know.”

Brynden had looked into those beautiful eyes and felt a strange chill. Like the bitter winds that blow down from the North, it seemed to go straight through him and settle in his bones.

He knows that I know. He thinks it is because of something that she did. He thinks what he did - does - is acceptable because of the example we set.

Suddenly Bloodraven wants away from this place; maybe he will go North. Take the Black. Gods know it’s not love that keeps him here. Baelor’s father had been a gentle man, good and kind, and easy to love. He’d thought the same of his son.

It was time to send Ser Duncan back to the Stormlands. Via New Barrel; no harm will come to him there.

Sometime earlier

“One day you’ll understand.”

Said as soft as a prayer, but it’s both a threat and a promise. Valarr feels the blood trickle down his chin, from a cut his father’s ring made in his lip. The light from the candles flickers erratically, dancing in the cold sea wind that blows off Blackwater Bay and into the Red Keep. The shadows of the once-familiar objects in the room are large, then small - sometimes the candles are close to going out all together.

“It was either this, or -” the King makes a gesture, which his shadow mimics. “It would be the world.”

“What?”

The world spins off its axis. The Prince of Dragonstone sinks to the floor, grabbing at the cold stone beneath his fingers. This doesn’t feel real. He keeps thinking, I am dreaming, this is a grotesque nightmare, I will wake up and my father will be kind and smiling and still the man I thought he was -

“If I could not do this, I would be Maegor come again,” his father says, as if they were talking about shipyards or horses or any other ordinary thing. “I must do it. I need to do it.”

Valarr had thought Ser Duncan was dead when he entered his father’s chambers unexpectedly. He saw the bed, his parents’ marriage bed. Then he saw the large body sprawled on bloodstained sheets; eyes staring at nothing.

In the corner, his father was washing his face, his bare chest gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. He turned to stare at his son with a stranger’s eyes.

“What lives in me lives in you,” a prayer-promise-threat. “This is in our blood. This hunger. This cruelty.”

“No-”

His father hauls him up off the floor. Those rough hands cup his face, as if he was a child. Gentle. Valarr could count each callus. And he asks,because he must ask, even if if the answer kills him stone dead.

“Were you like this with mother? Is this how she died?”

“No-” his father looks wounded, as he is the one who was struck. “I would never. I loved her.”

“Then who else was there? Before Ser Duncan.”

He does not want to know the answer. He does not want to even think it -

The King’s hands close around his throat. Black spots dance in front of the Prince’s eyes, and Valarr thinks maybe the hedge knight will rouse now. But the other man does not stir, and the shadows rush up to claim him.

Some time earlier

Howling of dogs. Horses’s hooves on packed mud. The air is crisp and cold. It's a fine day for a hunt, Manfred thinks. Pity there’s no good hunting to be found in the Marches. The King and his brother have come down from Summerhall, for his father is throwing a tourney to celebrate the anniversary of the rebuilding of Blackhaven. A modest gathering; many knights won’t come this far south, especially not this close to Winter.

So they’re all crammed into the castle; you can’t go anywhere without tripping over someone sleeping on a cloak or pissing in a corner. Constant murmur of conversation, distant shouting. Servants constantly crashing into each other.

The King thought his idea of a ride into the Marches was a fine idea; get the dogs out, get some fresh air. He’s clearly restless. Has been since he arrived. Rumour has it that he and his brother have quarrelled.

Unusually. They have always been a pair. Hammer and anvil, certainly, but something closer than that. Jena had written to his mother, her aunt, that they put her in mind of twins. One soul, two bodies. She’d said that she found it charming at first but after a few years of, as she put it, almost being married to both men, was relieved for Maekar to go down to Summerhall.

Maekar had remained at Blackhaven, even though the King had ordered his horse be prepared. They had waited almost an hour before he had decided that they could wait no more.
“Is Prince Maekar unwell, your Grace?” someone had asked. “Shall I call the Maester?”
A shadow crossed the King’s face; only for a single instant, he looked as angry as Manfred had ever seen him.
“Prince Maekar says he is too old to enjoy much sport, these days. Too old to do his duty, as my brother-”
It was a strange way to describe feeling too old to go riding.
There was a pause. Horses stamped the ground, impatient. The King’s face was now as it had always been; charming, kind. “No matter.”
Then, to a servant-
“Send a raven out; I think it is time Prince Aegon was called back to court.” A pause. “And tell him that Ser Duncan is welcome, too.”

Some time earlier

“Madam, won’t you dance?” The woman is silent. Is she sad? Poor lady. Dancing has always been a cure for broken hearts, he knows. He asks again.

“That’s a statue, my Prince, ” says The Someone Kind.

“Oh.” Poor lady, frozen in her unhappiness forever. Mind you, he’s been unhappy of late as well. His sad brother from Summerhall has returned to court and has no time to spend with him. Always with his other brother. The one who is King.

It had been a matter of great confusion, this change. Surely there could be only one king and that was their father. The Someone Kind had said that his father was dead, and Rhaegal had wept and wept and missed the coronation.

Rhaegal was never sure of anything. Sometimes the statues that surrounded him were actually men, who startled him when they moved and talked. Sometimes the hounds in the halls weren’t there at all. And there was music no one else could hear, or colours no one else could see.

Summerhall Brother always understood or would try to understand. Wouldn’t quarrel with him or tell him that those things weren’t there. Summerhall Brother would sit with him, long into the evening, and nod gravely as Rhaegal would inform him of the day's events. Then he would smile and say, I hope you get better sleep tonight, brother. And then kiss him on the forehead and go to war or make him a nephew or some other important thing.

The Someone Kind leads him into the garden. It is raining and all the grass is wet and he is cold but he has work to do. Rhaegal addresses each flower in turn. His Princess Niece has had a baby so he will send her some flowers but they must be kind flowers and not tell her any lies or say rude things. The last time he’d sent her flowers after her baby was born she cried and cried and he was ashamed, for the flowers had clearly been awful.

The Someone Kind had told him that it was because her baby had been stillborn. He hadn’t known what that meant. These were the moments that he missed Summerhall Brother the most. For Summerhall Brother would sit with him and explain such things patiently.

But Rhaegal has only seen flashes of Summerhall Brother since he came to court. He begins weeping. Has he done something to offend? Is Summerhall Brother angry? Last night he had snuck away from The Someone Kind to go slip up the hidden staircase to his brother’s chambers but they were empty. The bed had not been slept in and there was dust on the windowsills.

There is a great and silent dread that fills him. Summerhall Brother has a blackened eye and there are cuts on his hands and on his neck. Rhaegal had tried to engage him in conversation and gotten only silence in return.

Perhaps he is mistaken again; perhaps Summerhall Brother is still in the south. Perhaps this sad, wounded man is a statue.

One day his real brother will return and there will be more talk of the colours that sing and the birds that laugh. Maybe his brother will smile at him and murmur, well that’s just Rhaegal for you, when others complain.

If this man is not a statue and a real living man then he cannot be Summerhall Brother. He is too much changed.

Some time earlier

“Lady Shiera,” a half-smile, the one the King saves for his Father’s bastard siblings and others whose company he’s forced to endure. Shiera, who makes it a habit of studying the expressions of powerful men, smiles back. No teeth, eyes lowered. A new expression for a new king. Her dress is modest, too. Times have changed and she has to see where things lie.

“I came to congratulate you in person, Your Grace. I hear your coronation went smoothly.”

“You weren’t there?”

“It didn’t seem correct.”

“You were invited. Bloodraven was there.”

A pause. It’s the first time that she’s ever heard Baelor refer to her brother as Bloodraven and not Lord Brynden. He has always been so scrupulous about proprieties.

“He is Hand of the King. And I am the realm’s greatest disgrace, or so the Queen used to say.”

“Perhaps she was right.”

Shiera has never counted on being able to charm Baelor, not in ways she has charmed her own brothers. But this small cruelty is new. She arranges her face, carefully - a small smirk, as if she’s in on the joke.

“I have never pretended otherwise.”

“Of all the women in court, you have always been the most honest.” Sarcasm drips from his voice. It reminds her of Daemon. Daemon, Daemon - what lived in him, lived in them all, no matter what her brother and his sand-blasted queen thought. Poor stupid Myriah. She aged badly and died mad, almost as mad as Rhaegal.

Perhaps the madness is contagious. She studies the man in front of her, one eye blue, one eye brown. They’d been constantly compared, ever since the Martell woman had birthed him. Apparently her father had the same eyes, and it was seen as a good omen for them to present themselves in the son, and then in the grandson. It gave them such a noble aspect!

Comment on Shiera’s eyes followed two themes; they either made her more beautiful or they made her a witch. What a difference a marriage ceremony makes - if she’d been trueborn, they’d never speak of her thus. An hour in the Sept could change it all. Why she had avoided it, all these years. If she said no to Brynden then Aegor would cherish the hope she might say yes to him. And if Bittersteel came across the Narrow Sea, and was successful, this time, well. Mother told her that a woman who didn’t plan was a woman who taunted death.

A King is never a certain thing. A Targaryen King even less so. Brynden had once pointed out that many kings - not just dragons - had started out full of promise and goodness. And for sure, Baelor had enough promise and goodness from the start. A talented soldier, a brave commander. Gentle with the smallfolk and stern with his lords.

“Is there some purpose to this meeting?” Baelor stares at her and then through her. “I assume my father’s sister has some other purpose for coming to see me.”

“I have heard some things. Observed them.”

Bringing this to him was a risk. Perhaps he’d sent her into exile, or to the silent sisters, for seeing what she ought not to have seen.

“Different from the ones Bloodraven has? He must be getting old.”

“He’s not listening for this. Or looking for it, either.”

“Speak plainly.”

To a King? A first time for everything.

“I think you should be a little more careful with your cruelties.”

No denial. A flash of something in his eyes, and there is Daemon again, and her father. Bittersteel. A legacy of brutality that stretches all the way back to Maegor. Myriah used to crow about how gentle her son was, as if vipers’ blood could wipe out a dragon’s hunger.

“Oh?”

The King is listening and he’s not angry. A clever king, then. Something not many of their family could claim. Daemon would have wrapped his hands around her neck and bashed her brains out against the wall for speaking to him thus. His namesake would have fed her to his dragon. Shiera feels, suddenly, the weight of all these violent men pressing down on her heart.

“People are starting to -” how to say to him, that before people started talking, they started looking. And people were starting to look at the King differently. As if they were unsure of the King they were going to get today. At least with her father everyone knew the King was always the same.

“I see. Do you have some advice for me, then?” Head tilted, a flash of teeth. Like a dog about to growl.

“If you must be cruel, find someone closer to home,” Shiera keeps her face neutral. She’s not being kind, she knows, because someone will be taking on this burden for the whole kingdom. Probably someone of her own blood. And she does love them, in her own way. From the most wretched to the greatest in nobility. They were still family. “Someone who loves you. Someone who won’t talk.”

It’s too easier for people like herself and the King to find people to love them, although their methods are very different.

The King nods. His face settles into something like a face he wore before; the perfect prince, the realm’s pride, now a King that history would adore. He has someone in mind already, she thinks. A flash of horror.

“Thank you for your counsel. You have always done well by me, in that regard.”

Shiera struggles to remember any occasion that she’s given him advice. But she nods anyway. There’s a pause. The King moves to her, then grabs her chin like she’s a common strumpet. Tilts her head up so she’s looking into his eyes. His breath is rank and she can smell the onion bitterness of sweat.

“Do not come to court again.”

The king releases her and turns towards the window.

Shiera smiles sweetly, curtises, and flees.

Some time earlier

Ser Donnel, Ser Donnel. Your hands smell like fish. It was a nasty little chant from when he was first knighted. And it followed him, even now. Someone had even put a tune to it, which people whistled when he walked past. He is well-practised at ignoring what would anger other men.

Besides, he has achieved something that all other knights wish for, even if they do not say so. His father wept when he was told Donnel would become a member of the Kingsguard; it didn’t matter that he was his family’s only living son. It was the honour of it. The glory.

Muffled crying from within the King’s chambers, not from the King. Ser Donnel can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman. No matter; whoever it is will be paid for their silence or face a knife in the dark. Donnel himself has strangled a servant boy who started to scream as soon as he went into the hallway.

Once Ser Donnel thought that King Baelor had no secrets to keep. Now he has, and Donnel remembers his oath. But does it matter, if the king is kind and wise in all other matters? If he is fair and good, apart from this?

There was always a chance that then-Prince Baelor would change, after his great wound. The back of his head is now a gnarled mass of scarring. To make it less ugly the King has taken to shaving his head, which gives him a stern aspect, if not for his gentle and merry eyes.

There have been many kings who have done worse; Aegon the Unworthy, this King’s Grandsire. Maegor, for sure. And another Aegon, the one who fought his sister. Their Kingsguard served them; would die for them. Was he, Ser Donnel, so much worse that he could even consider breaking his oath?

No-

Something smashes again the wall. Another exclamation of pain.

Ser Donnel stares ahead and thinks of that great book, where all the brave deeds of the Kingsguard are written.

Some time earlier

Prince Baelor is dying. Prince Baelor has opened his eyes. Prince Baelor is asking for wine. Prince Baelor is dying. The rumours flutter like so many moths and Kiera feels like she is going to vomit. He’s always been so kind to her, the Prince. Like a second father. The thought of losing him feels like a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

Her husband wanders through the halls of this dirty little keep like his own ghost. It’s too soon, his face says. I’m not ready. All he wants is comfort, and all he wants is his Father. But of course he’d never say that, for a Prince must always be strong and act as if no human feeling touches them.

Kiera goes to the sept, for lack of something better to do. And prays, half-believing, mostly hoping. The gods of Westeros have never paid her any attention before and they probably won’t now. Three dead children and she’s starting to lose hope. Prince Baelor has sworn that he won’t make Valarr put her aside. But the small council might feel differently. And the Prince has always listened to wise men.

After the tourney she was going to announce that she was with child again. Hoping beyond all hope that they would all be in a good mood to receive the news joyfully, rather than in a state of dread. And now it’s ruined.

Gods, she sounds less mature than Gwin Ashford, whose nameday will be ruined forever. The girl bears it stoically enough, as if this won’t ruin her entire future. No one will want to marry someone with such an ill-omen attached to her. In the place of being able to provide real comfort, Kiera invites her to the sept to pray with her.

The sept is even more dingy than the castle, with cheap candles and dust on the altar. Obviously what has been spent on the tourney has been taken from the sept, which might explain, if Kiera was faithful, why the events of the past few days have unfolded so terribly.

Opening her eyes to observe the girl praying next to her, Kiera puts her terror aside to consider her. Pretty and pale and frail, like they like girls in Westeros. A real little beauty. Pity she can’t take her back to King’s Landing as a lady - it would be comforting, even if events turn out for the worst, to have someone with her who suffered through the same thing she did. And if she was in the Princess’s court, then the status would make sure she had someone at least decent. But the Ashfords are too obscure, too poor.

Instead Gwin will end up with one of these tourney knights, someone who’s ugly and scarred and dribbles when they drink too much wine.. In Tyrosh Kiera could have picked her ladies like flowers in her garden. If they were pretty, or sweet, or clever or funny, she could pick from nobles or whores or butcher’s daughters. Here, though. Here she must consider making allies instead of friends.

Kiera is well aware that she is distracting herself and should be praying with all her heart. But how could she, when in her homeland you could pick a new god every few days, as easy as changing clothing?

The silence is broken by heavy steps; she does not need to turn her head to know it is Prince Maekar. He has a fine gift of being out of place in every room he walks into.

“The Prince lives,” he rasps. “The Prince will live.”

“Gods be praised,” Kiera says, automatically. She might not like the dance but she knows the steps. Gwin echoes it more quietly, and slips her hand into Kiera’s.

“I am here to thank the gods,” Prince Maekar says. She turns to look at his face, surprised. Whenever Maekar talks about the achievements of his family he talks as if divine intervention played as much role as the servant who sweeps away the dirty rushes.

“He has made me promise my obedience in all things,” Prince Maekar continues. Who is he talking to? Certainly not them and certainly not the gods. “It’s such a small price to pay for my brother to live. If he died, I would have been a kinslayer.”

Again, Kiera thinks. Remembering the Blackfyre bastard not-princes and that not-king, dead on a field. But Maekar did not deliver the final blow that time. As he would have done with Prince Baelor, had not fate intervened.

Something about his tone scares her. And his words are strange. He’d be obedient to the Prince in all things anyway, because that was his duty as brother and subject. So why say it?

“I will obey him,” Prince Maekar stares down at them, eyes unseeing. “Whatever he asks.”

His cold blue eyes shine with tears. Kiera knows she must leave with Gwin before he unmans himself before a stranger.

“We will leave you to pray, Prince Maekar.”

Gwin turns to her.

“Would you like to see the garden, my Lady?”

It’s barely a garden at all but Kiera would like to be anywhere else. Shiera Seastar had once said to her that being around Targaryens meant you had to have a new sense, a dragon-sense, for when things were starting to turn unpleasant. And she felt it now, a hot prickle on the back of her neck. For Prince Maekar looked wild, mad - not the gentle madness of Prince Rhaegal but something more feral.

“Yes,” Kiera says. She practices her Queen-Smile on Gwin, who goes a little pink. “What a kind thought.”

They walk outside into the sunshine and she thinks she feels the child move. A good omen.
Then Prince Maekar, from inside the sept, makes a noise she has never heard from a human throat.

Some time earlier

“Water, water -” The Dornish sun beat down on her bare skin, and she was lost, all around her was endless sand. And she heard the scream of the dragon overheard. Death was close. Scorching breath upon her cheeks, and those teeth, those teeth -

“Mother.”

No, she wasn’t in Dorne, she was in the Red Keep. There were no dragons left. But death was close, the stranger watching from every corner.

“Mother.”

A damp cloth on her forehead. It takes almost all of her strength to open her eyes.

It’s her father, she can see his wonderful eyes, the shape of his jaw, shadows falling across her face.

“Papa?”

“No, Mother. It’s your son.”

“Baelor?”

“Yes.”

How many sons does she have? Three - no, four. They had wanted a girl, had been sure it would have been a girl. Better that it wasn’t, though. Baelor would have probably married her. The last boy’s name escapes her.

“Your brother. The little one. Where is he?”

“Maekar, mother? At Summerhall.”

“Will he come?”

“As soon as he can. I’ve sent the raven. But Lady Dyanna is unwell.”

Maekar never came when he was called, she remembers. The memories swim in and out of her grasp, like when she was playing in the water gardens and trying to catch the carp in her hands.

“He’ll come if you ask,” she murmurs. The cool cloth returns. “He always did what you told him.”

But she only has herself to blame for that. The boy was born in the dead of winter and nearly tore her in two. And there was a suffocating darkness after that, a mood she could not shift for years after. Even when he was grown, the sense that he was some herald of doom followed like a shadow. Did she ever kiss him? She thinks not.

“It is done now,” Baelor says. There’s an edge in his tone. “I loved him enough for the both of us.”

Oh, that had been out loud? That’s what worries her. She has this half-memory of an ugly scene. An unmade bed, naked flesh. She’d slapped one of the boys, although which one?

No, it wouldn’t have been Baelor. Even though he’d said it was his idea. And he talked her around, didn’t he? It was childish foolishness, boys’ games. In Dorne, such things happened. She’d replied; not with your own brother. That was the dragon-sickness in you. I thought you’d escape it, I thought we taught you better.

“Revolting boy,” she hisses, pushing the hand and the cloth away. The man’s features swim in and out of her vision. Familiar and unfamiliar. “No more. Never again. Promise me.”

Silence. Silence. She calls out for him to promise, promise, please, my boy -

Somewhere, a door closes. Some time must pass, for she is back in Dorne, and the dragon is chasing her across the burning sand.

Some time earlier

“Easy now,” Maekar murmurs to her, as Dyanna hauls her bulk onto the bed. As if she were a horse. She doesn’t mind it; if this is how he knows how to be gentle, then that is how it is. A long marriage, not always happy, but strong. Maekar is as tender as he ever is, during her pregnancies.

This will be six, if she survives. The Maesters are worried, her mother is worried, and Daeron hasn’t been sleeping again. His nightmares grow stronger and stronger, and he hangs around her neck like a child, sniffling into her hair. Aemon watches her, sea-blue eyes round and watchful, like an owl.

These bad dreams must be a Targaryen trait, like the hair and the eyes and the temper. Her Royal Husband was the same, when they first married. He couldn’t even have curtains around any bed he slept in. That was an early argument, which lasted weeks; nights in the Marches can be frigid, even in Summer.

They compromised; separate beds in different rooms. Curtains on hers, but when he visited her, they had to be pulled back. Of course there were whispers. In the early days they were justified. They managed once on the wedding night and then he failed with her for the next few months. Luckily he’d got Daeron on her so she knew he was able, but some part of her husband wasn’t willing.

Neither of them wanted a bedding. Dyanna wasn’t a beauty like her sister, who had been promised to the Prince first but fled to be a septa. Before then her sister had called Dyanna loaf and sallow and mouse haired. Maekar was pock-marked, all over his chest and face and back. He’d stormed off to his chambers and locked himself in, swearing he’d take the Black before allowing himself to be groped by the gossiping hens at court.

Prince Baelor had followed him up and there had been an hours-long conversation through the door. Dyanna had sat, trying not to cry, whilst the Queen patted her hand and the King stared out the window.

“He’s always been difficult,” she’d said. “But you’re such a sweet girl. You'll look after him. Maybe teach him some better manners.” A sigh. “Baelor’s worn himself to the bone on Maekar’s account. For all the good that’s done either of them.”

Baelor, Baelor. Dyanna had never warmed to him. She felt there was something strange behind those well-beloved eyes. A hunger. A bottomless need, to be loved and complimented and adored. Oh, but she could never say anything, not about the Prince of Dragonstone. Certainly not to her husband.

There was some strangeness between them. Maekar adored his brother above all others but seemed to hate him, too.

Once, when she’d been to court, she’d seen Shiera Seastar and Bloodraven together and thought, that’s sort of what it is. But they’re men, so it can’t be. Lady Jena had told her that the Queen had told her that if they achieved nothing else, that particular Targaryen horror would be gone within their lifetimes. There was talk about marrying Aegon to Daella, but it was just talk for now.

Dry lips brush her cheek. Five children and almost twenty years later Maekar has never quite managed real affection. He’s not the knight of legend she dreamed of as a girl. He’s too harsh with the children. Once Daeron had wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and kissed him on the cheek; a childish gesture, for sure. Maekar had picked him up and thrown him bodily across the room.

Thank the gods he was better with Daella, who could be even more trying than her brothers put together. Maybe she’d put the fear of the gods into him, by telling him that if he ever raised his hand again she’d take the children back to Starfall, dragons be damned.

“You should rest more,” Maekar says, pulling the covers over her. “The Maester says you have been running yourself ragged, chasing after the children.”

“They should sit still for a moment,” Dyanna replies. “They’re troublesome, your children.”

“You make it sound like you had nothing to do with it.” A rare smile crosses her husband’s face.

“They’re dragons. So Aerion tells me. So it’s your fault.”

“Aerion and his fucking dragons.” Emotions pass over his face like clouds. Irritation, pride. Daeron has been a disappointment, with his tears and his nightmares, but Aerion shows promise.

“He’ll grow out of it. It’s those Master-at-Arms, the ones you get from King’s Landing. Putting all of that nonsense into his head. Get a decent Dornishman, would you?”

An old argument. But they have it anyway, because they are both afraid, both tired, and it feels good to have because it feels solid, real. She doesn’t know if it’s love, what she feels for him, but it’s enough.

But even that modest feeling is tested when Maekar mentions that once the babe is born safe, Prince Baelor will ride down to celebrate with them at Summerhall.

Some time earlier

There are two hundred and thirty steps to Maekar’s chambers. Baelor counts each one, aware that as he ascends, he is committing himself to something he will never be able to undo. He is seventeen. He is, according to the laws of Gods and Men, second in line to the Iron Throne. He is strong and healthy and does not resemble his father at all.

Sand-Dragon, his uncle Daemon calls him. Sand-Dragon, with witch eyes and mud hair. Daemon had beaten him almost black with bruises in the training yard, after Baelor demanded he answer for the insult done to his brother. The entire court watched until Baelor yielded; the whole thing made him hot with shame and rage.

Baelor can tolerate Rhaegal being called mad and Aerys being called feeble; they are both of these things, after all. Which is not to say that he does not love them. It is not within him to pretend that they are not what they are. But when Daemon opened his mouth and called Maekar “Prince Scab”, why then - it could not be borne.

The pox had come within a hairs’ breath of stealing his youngest brother from him. What would he have been then? Maekar, with his clear, stern eyes keeps Baelor honest. Keeps him brave and bold. The thought of disappointing him is intolerable. Every day he strives to be the man Maekar thinks he is. The brother he deserves. But he’ll lose him eventually; Lady Sheira was right about that.

She’d been basking in a patch of sunlight in the walled garden, her hair glowing. Light flashed from the jewels glittering around her neck; his grandfather was emptying the coffers so his lovely bastard could outshine every woman at court. Apparently Aegor and Bryden had been trying to throttle each other in a corridor and he had been sent to retrieve Sheira to either get them to calm down or ask her to stop provoking them.

“But I like it when they fight,” Shiera had said, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, enjoying the sun on her face. “It’s how I know they still love me.”
“One day you’ll have to pick one,” Baelor says. He sits down next to her. “Unless you want one of them dead.”
“They love fighting each other as much as they love me. I would be sad to rob them of the sport. You know what they say about young men without occupation.”
“And what if one of them dies?”

Shiera had shrugged. Her chemise slid down her shoulder and Baelor bristled; must she turn into a seduction?

“You could do better,” he had said. “Neither of them are handsome. Both are evil tempered. Good fighters, I’ll warrant, but -”

“Why Maekar? He’s not handsome, and he has an evil temper. Not as bad as Aegor, but certainly worse than Bryden. You could find more amusing companions.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Brynden and Aegor are my brothers. Unfortunately you don’t have my way of keeping them loyal.”

His bastard uncles are not the only ones she likes to provoke. Baelor thinks of those tiny, jewel-hued snakes in Dorne, who hide in flower beds and strike the unwary. She opens her eyes and stares at him, to see if he’s insulted.

“I don’t need to keep him.”

“But you want to, don’t you? And in a few years he’ll be married.”

“Why should that matter?”

“You won’t be his everything any more. He might love someone else.” Another pointed look. “Someone else might love him. I think you’d hate that.”

Baelor had not thought of it that way; them being married into other families was obviously the most natural and proper thing. But he had never considered that someone else might love Maekar too. And that one day he might have to share Maekar’s love. She had been right; he did hate that. It felt like his chest was full of ash.

“It’s a pity you can’t keep him the way I keep your uncles,” she’d repeated. “I think it will be very hard, being you. Without him.”

There are only a few more steps to his brother’s room. Baelor could turn back now. He could leave this path that he has set himself on to. But he thinks about a future where he has to share his brother’s love and it is utterly intolerable.

The door is not locked. Maekar is dozing on the bed, lanky and sprawled out. There are no longer poultices on his face but his bare arms are still covered in bandages. He awakes when Baelor shuts the door behind him; watches him lock it.

“I heard you fought Daemon for my honour,” Maekar sounds vaguely offended. “Stupid. I told you he was a mad dog.”

“We know what happens to mad dogs eventually,” Baelor says. He sits down on a corner of the bed. “He should not insult trueborn sons of the future king.”

He gets an eyeroll in response.

“The King insults us plenty.”

But Maekar’s eyes and cheeks are wet. Since Maekar was a child it has been Baelor alone who has tended to him; picking him up when he fell, tending his wounds, soothing those endless reserves of grief for not being handsome, or brave, or clever. Of always being picked last. Baelor thinks: your pain belongs to me as much as your love does.

“He’s the King. Daemon will learn his place.”

Baelor moves to his brother’s side, puts a hand on his leg.

“You and I will teach him. Together. I promise-”

It happens so perfectly that Baelor feels the hand of the gods in it. Maekar throws his arms around his neck and presses his damp face into his shoulder.

“Hush, brother. I love you.”

“Do you?” Maekar says, muffled. “I don’t believe you. No one loves me. No one will ever love me.”

“I will. I promise -” Baelor unwraps his brother’s arms. Lays him back down on the pillows.

Standing, Baelor begins to draw the bed curtains. He could stop now. He could draw the curtains and leave his brother to his rest.

But he does not. Instead he says -

“I promise that we will always have each other.”