Chapter Text
The Targaryen party moved slowly towards Ashford, and Jedys Marsh—recently wed, and so recently that she was continuously forgotten as the party advanced—rode straight-backed on the Andalusian mare that her husband had bought her as a wedding present—or, she suspected, one of his retainers had arranged for, as he famously disliked horses and rarely had the foresight required to make plans. Her father-in-law rode up beside her, looking vaguely annoyed. "Your highness," she offered, by way of greeting.
"Where is my son?" Maekar Targaryan demanded, and she inclined her head.
"Aegon was impatient to arrive at the tourney, so they rode ahead," she told him.
"When?" he demanded. Maekar didn't intimidate her half as badly as he had when they'd first been introduced, but only because if any of his wrath was ever directed at her it was in the service of herding his unruly sons, a burden she shared more often than not.
"Just this morning." He swallowed a deep sigh and said nothing as he rode back to his place in the procession, and she continued on her way.
Nobody was pleased that she was there, but they remained, as ever, far less pleased with her prince.
. . . . .
Jedys's brother Brenn had saved Aemon Targaryen's life. The boy was young and destined for the Citadel, so it was no great bravery nor anything worth much note, except that he did it and House Targaryen insisted it did not have debts and to name a boon. Knowing Maekar a while made it clear that he would have, if a little reluctantly, given Brenn the moon for saving one of his sons, but at the time the house was in upheaval over this unexpected windfall. A freer man might have asked for something personal, but Brenn was their father's only heir and so couldn't join the Kingsguard or some other foolish pseudo-honour. The family agreed that it seemed gauche to ask for money, and a position in King's Landing simply far beyond the ability of any of their able members.
So, it was agreed that he would ask to join their Houses, having expected at best a distant cousin but more realistically, another lowly vassal that was close enough. House Marsh was itself a northern vassal just far enough south that while they shared the north's scarcity, they rarely enjoyed the warmth of their hearth and many assumed that they were crannogmen. It came as a shock to everyone then, that they received a contract for Prince Daeron Targaryen, Maekar's heir if not his namesake's.
Up to the week of her wedding, Jedys couldn't figure out why she'd been handed a prince. There were the obvious caveats—he wasn't in the direct line for the throne (barring a true series of tragedies), and she'd had to press very little to hear rumours that he was a drunk. Even with such considerable flaws, he should have easily bought a Stark or a Tully, and that was only counting people outside of his own house as Targaryens were...rather famous for preferring. He himself was the product of at least two marriages outside of the blood, but you'd need to live under a rock to not know how many generations before that had been sibling matches which was close enough to make offspring unviable in animals.
The answer came from the horse's own mouth, as it were. The first time she laid eyes on her husband-to-be, he was squinting in the bright light of afternoon and offered her the mare someone had no doubt handed him the reins of and told him to bring to her. "I hope this beast conveys my sincerest regrets," he offered, which had taken her aback.
"Are you...displeased, your highness?" She'd been so wrapped up in the what is going on of it all that it had never occurred to her that her prince may have been offended at being sold off to nothing and nobody.
"Me? No, no—displeasure requires expectations, and I had none from the minute my grandfather sent my brother away. It's you who was tricked, Lady Jedys." He delivered the news very casually, so much so that she had difficulty telling whether or not he was serious or not. "Surely you've wondered how you got here when by all accounts I should have been sold to some Dornish princess."
That isn't who she'd anticipated the oldest of Maekar's sons to marry, and it must've shown on her face because he leered. "I have wondered," she said, ignoring the I caught you thinking about the incest look. "It's an incredible windfall for my house and we're very grateful—"
"Mm. Grateful," he hummed. "Do you know what happens if I marry a Dornish princess?" he asked.
The realm celebrates for a while, the other great houses grouse about the clear favouritism of House Martell, the vassal houses might get invited to a real party. "No, Your Highness."
"She writes her Dornish father to tell him that I'm insane, and he takes her home," he answered, handing her the reigns of the horse. She took them, her body trying to fight through surprise to hang on to the intensive courtly lessons she'd undergone to try and hide it. "Targaryens must be careful with the Dornish. Less careful with—" Wisely, the sentence stopped there, before presumably calling her a frog-catching swamp girl from nowhere. She followed him as he began to walk, unsure of where they were going.
"Still," she said. "There's the other great houses who famously complain of being neglected."
"That's worse," he pointed out. "At least the Dornish want us on the throne, they'll just see it as their business to handle the situation. Baratheon? Stark? Tully? Then not only am I insane, but dangerously insane."
"Are you?" she asked, then bit back the question. He smiled wryly, his eyes bleary.
"Am I what?" he prompted.
"Dangerous?"
He pretended to think about it, then shook his head. "I'm a drunk, a whoremonger, and I hate swords and horses. At worst I think I'm just deeply unimpressive. And, just so you don't have to ask, my lady—I'm far too old for my sisters, fresh out of cousins, and have no aunts to speak of."
She took as quiet a breath as she could, glancing at him to find that he was amused. "Well. So long as we both agree I didn't ask."
He snickered, but his face drew grave quickly. She almost apologised for offending him before he rounded on her, making the horse shift nervously. "You were tricked," he said urgently. "Given a husband that isn't good for anything at all because my father can't abide a debt and the alternative to you for me was no one. I understand this." He spoke in a rush, the red ring around his eyes seeming to intensify as his face grew pale. "I will...I can endeavor to make you happy, if you tell me how. I would hate to see a pretty northern girl suffer here."
She held it back as best she could, but wasn't able to swallow the laugh. "A pity for the ugly nothern girls," she murmured, pressing a hand over her mouth. Daeron's mouth twitched and he dissolved into laughter too.
"No, no. They gave me a pretty one—" He stared, then laughed. "Sorry. You're a lady, I shouldn't—"
She laughed, the sound punching its way out of her torso wholly against her will. The septas hadn't covered every minute don't of court, but she was fairly certain she was meant to feel out this interaction very firmly as unadvised. She ducked her head behind the horse's shoulder, trying to collect herself. She cleared her throat then looked back at him. "We don't have to merely tolerate each other," she suggested, her voice more quiet than she'd hoped it would come out as but blessedly only a little wobbly with laughter. He blinked. "I'm stuck with you because this marriage is an unimaginable honour for my house. You're stuck with me because you're a prince who needs a wife that can't break confidence with him. We're both stuck in this together because the contract's already been drawn up."
"It sounds terribly depressing when you put it like that," he agreed.
"I can be a very loyal champion, your highness," she said determinedly. "All I ask in return is that my freedom not be...needlessly restricted." She resisted the urge to wince, annoyed at herself for hedging. She didn't want to be restricted at all, nor did she think the man swaying in front of her would be more reasonable than she could be when it came to necessary restrictions.
Daeron only seemed amused. "I wasn't interested in restricting anything," he said, watching her. "Ask for something better."
She felt her fingers twitch. "I would ask that you not maliciously embarrass me," she suggested, which was once again too vague and polite to suggest that he could make her life a nightmare by simply not caring very much about how people viewed her through the lens of him.
"That's a harder bargain," he said thoughtfully. "But still within your right to ask. Harder."
She paused, then averted her eyes. "Don't resent me," she said. He seemed to be waiting for more, but that was all she had; he had every reason in the world to eventually see her as a burden his family had forced upon him, and nothing would make their lives more miserable than her becoming the outlet for his frustration.
"I know better than to ask the same of you," he said gravely, then stuck out his hand. A handshake was such a bizarre and masculine gesture that she laughed self-consciously as she did it, with a grin that was taken up by him as well.
They had been married a week later. She'd asked him to be sober for it, and he'd obliged so miserably that she couldn't help but laugh, which at least seemed to amuse him as well; as much as he could be amused, through the hangover that made his eyes so dark.