Chapter Text
The Two Kings
Chapter Six
Lady Myranda Targaryen,
The Lady of Summerhall
209 AC
Myranda has never left any of her children. Not in the six years she has been wed to Maekar. Not the ones who were not born to her, least of all the ones she carried in her belly and fed at her breast.
And it sets her body to tension the closer and closer they get to their departure date. But her dreams the night before they leave are violent.
If she had not spent days not sleeping: she is not sure she would have even settled the night before. Of course though, it is her luck that she is dragged into a Green dream. It is probably the only reason she even is pulled to sleep.
In a wall of mist she walks as she sleeps, bare-footed and quiet as she looks for Alayne. She never made it easy. The woman said purgatory was a place between the heavens, hells, and the land of the living. It was not meant to be easy: it just was.
And that just was happened to be a place those of power who still had business with the living remained, even in death.
There were others she had seen, far off in the distance. But never close enough to recognize.
The world in which she walked, the one shrouded in mist was an image of their own. But it was different. There was no light here: only dusk. There were no creatures left living here, and the creatures that did walk were not creatures of their world. And if they had been: they were long gone. They never come close to her. In fact--they seem to run.
Still, Myranda walks through the mist with purpose, eyeing the great field before her with little reservation.
“And where is this?” She calls out, knowing Alayne rarely lingered far from her even if she made her search for her.
Torn between testing her and protecting her. Or preparing her.
“Where you will go,” the woman calls out from the mist. “And what you will face.”
She hears steel on steel, screams and yelling--shrieking and fear. The crying of children and screaming of men. Sobs of women, and molding of flesh to death. Smells it too.
A dragon roars off in the distance and she flinches at the sound.
“And what will I face?” She demands.
“An old lover,” Alayne answers. “And one that turns a storm and wields it, another that shields the dawn from the darkness and brings peace to that which is broken, and reality to the one who runs from it.”
Myranda scoffs and continues forward. “How enlightening you are.”
“I answered your question girl,” the woman says. “You will find meaning in what I say soon enough.”
“Meaning,” she bites out, “Means little when you speak in riddles I must solve.” The woman chuckles and Myranda stops--the mist circling her like smoke. “When is this?”
“Sooner than you would like, but farther than it seems,” the woman says. Myranda rolls her eyes, hands on her hips.
And far off in the distance--she hears something.
Myranda, whispers in the wind.
“Who calls for me now?” She asks Alayne, eyes closing.
“Your destiny,” the woman says, unhelpfully.
“Well,” she bitches under her breath. “If that not the most unhelpful-"
She is torn by her gut, and finds herself pulled forward, pinned to a tree, cheek pressed firm.
“Do you trust me?” A man’s voice asks, voice rough as the wind whips around them, her skirts hiked, cold steel at her inner thigh. It is not familiar, the voice, and it twists, disembodied as the gods twist the sound in her ear.
“Do I have a choice?” Her voice sounds, but she does not say. It strangles out of her instead. He presses himself forward and the bark bites at her skin, his hand on the inside of her thigh.
“I like my women willing,” the man says. “And I prefer women--not little girls. Take the blade, scream extra loud, and claw at me. When he comes close: I will strike. Do you understand?” She hears a child crying, whimpering below her. “Take the girl and run.”
“Why are you doing this?” She asks. “He will kill you-”
Myranda, a voice whispers.
“He can fucking try,” the man says in her ear. “I may enjoy my own sorts of madness, but it does not include raping women and children, nor allowing bastards raise with Dragons to torch my lands, kill my men, and take my women.”
She cannot see his face, nor can she smell or feel him. It is like a wall pressing against her and the whimpering sound continues.
“I’m sorry,” the child cries. “I am sorry-”
“Do you understand, Myranda? Fight back.”
Myranda.
A body pressed, her skin pinches, and more of her flesh is revealed, covered by his body. She knows what lies before her--knows the implication, and laughter fills her ears. But it is not from the man that pins her. And her body struggles against his, shoving, fighting, skin scraping against the tree.
Myranda.
“A maid you were then,” the voice--the familiar voice calls from a distance, like blade on a stone it drags across her skin. “I will see you fucked the same way you found me, and when he finishes, I will have you the way I would have taken your stepmother. I’ll show you what having a man rather than a beast is like.”
“Scream,” the voice against her whispers. “Pretend. Fight me--and make it look real-”
“I hear your Dragon takes you like a whore--by night’s end I will have you like one.”
“Fight harder,” the man hisses as she does--crying out and pretending while he shoved himself against her, her hand takes the blade and he breathes heavily against her. “Harder-” he hisses.
Steps grow closer and tears burn at her eyes as the laughter grows.
Myranda.
“What has it been like to be the whore of a Dragon?”
The man on her hisses in disgust, but groans too--burying his head in her hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers above her. “A little longer.”
She does not feel fear: just rage.
Myranda.
“They say he keeps you fucked and pregnant--maybe I’ll put one on you. I have had practice making quite a few. And then after--I’ll have the girl. Quite pretty she is--like-”
“Myranda!” Maekar snaps, his face above hers and she shrieks, shoving him away and scrambling out of bed in the dark.
Her knees hit the ground and her heart--thundering and hammering and her skin feel lit aflame.
It is not of desire.
It is in fear.
“Myranda,” Maekar says from the bed, eyes wide as he stares down at her as the dawn breaks in the room. “What--what did you dream of?”
She looks up at him, trembling, her fingers clawing at her own skin. Her breathing is rapid and sharp and Maekar stares down at her, fear in his eyes.
He was calling for me, she realizes, eyes closing as she grimaces down bile. He woke me, he saved me-
This time.
Tension leeches and she falls forward against the side of the bed. “Alayne,” she breathes out. “I-I was in a field but I could not see-”
He slips down and kneels beside her, his hand on the back of her head as he pulls her close. And she feels warmth, the kind you felt when you sat in safety.
That was Gyles laughing, she thinks, turning into Maekar, and clinging to him. But who was the other man?
“What was the vision?” He asks, voice quiet.
She swallows, tears coming to her eyes.
“It was just a bad dream,” she lied to him and herself. “Just a bad dream.”
If he knew--he would never let her go. He would never let her leave the fucking castle again.
Sooner than you would like, but farther than it seems, Alayne had said.
Eternity would be too soon.
“Are you alright?” Melody asks quietly, wrapped in a shall. “You seem-”
Her sisters voice halts and Myranda looks at her with a frown. The children--Aerion, Mya, Aemon, Daella, Aegon, Rhae, Cissy, Bella, Shaena, Nora, and Val all sat in the carriage chattering amongst themselves. She was dreading this stupid fucking trip without the warnings from Alayne. But at least they would be far away from the coast.
Mina stood with Baelor, off to the side. They watched each other with careful eyes, but Mina stroked his arm slowly.
“Myranda?” Melody asks, more quietly. “Maekar said you had a nightmare.”
She scoffs, gaze flickering to Aethan, Baelon, and Aella. They all stood at Maekar’s bent knee, pleading to go. His face was pressed firm, but she could see the pain in his eyes as the Queen shushed them and tried to dissuade them.
“I do not want to leave them,” she says to Melody. “I…I feel like…”
Darkness, she thinks, It feels as if darkness has settled in her belly and clung. More and more these days.
Melody inhales long and slow. “Duty demands it,” she says to Myranda, a sad smile on her face. “The Tourney is five days, seven to get there. Less than a moon turn and you will be back.”
Myranda grinds her teeth and nods, jaw working in a circle.
“What was the dream of?” Melody asks softly.
Her gaze snaps to her sister and she inhales deeply.
“War,” she murmurs. “Or the very start of one.”
If Gyles was coming for her: it did not matter if he rose with Bittersteel or not. Maekar would burn the fucking realm before he him touch her or any of their children.
But…Alayne was never clear. She spoke in riddles, in warnings spoken in tongues she had to decipher.
Sooner than you would like, but farther than it seems
“Are you sure it was just a nightmare? Not a vision?” Melody asks.
She wants to laugh: was there a difference anymore? “Time will tell,” she muses darkly. “It just…it was unsettling. It felt real but it wasn’t.” Not yet, at least.
Nestor approaches, smiling weakly at his wife. “Enjoy this time with less of our hellions,” he says pressing a kiss against her cheek. “I will be back before you know it.”
Melody smiled at him, but her eyes kept flickering back to Myranda, worry clear on her face. But Myranda places a kiss on her cheek and walks by the carriage and out Mya lunges for her, gripping her arm. “I want to stay,” she whispers to her. “I’ll be good but-”
“Why?” Myranda asks, turning to look at her sister. She looked most like Melody, but in her eyes she could see her father. In her mouth--their mother.
Mya exhales sharply. “I don’t want to do this,” she says. “There’s too many of them-”
“Mya,” she says slowly, carefully--repetition born of desperate attempts to remain steady. “You know the choices that lie ahead for you. If you wish to remain unmarried: you will have to serve your house. You refuse to return to Runestone, which mea-”
“If I were born a man, it would be different,” she snaps. Myranda nods once.
“Yes.” She agrees evenly. “And if you were born to another house you’d be married, pregnant, or with the sisters already.” Her sisters face drops and Myranda stares at her, calmly. “If you swear on mother and father’s grave that you will behave for Melody, Mina, and the Queen: you may remain. But you will assist them here.”
Her sister scoffs, removing her hands and crossing her arms over her chest and looking away.
I thought so, she thinks bitterly.
Aerion looks at her mournfully from across the carriage, but shakes his head, eyes red rimmed as he looks away. Aemon smiles at her weakly and she returns it in equal measure.
A hand finds her lower back and Maekar leads her away from the carriage. “Love,” he murmurs in her ear. “Something is wrong.”
She laughs quietly, turning to face him. “Yes,” she agrees flatly. “I have to lead our gaggle of little dragons and my sister across the Crownlands, Stormlands, and the Reach for a girl’s nameday we do not even know, court the new Master of Coin if your father has his way, leave our youngest here, all the while I cannot sleep.”
His face darkens, but not in anger. Guilt lingers in the lines of his face.
She steps forward and smiles tiredly. “At least I share my misery with my love,” she drawls out gently.
He sighs heavily. “I can do it by myself,” he offers quietly.
She smiles. “No, no you cannot.”
“Well,” Baelor says from across the courtyard. “I believe that is everyone.”
She leans forward and presses her face into his chest. “You will have to pull them off of me,” she says as Aethan, Baelon, and Aella begin to cry. He presses his face into her ear.
“This is not the life I wanted for us,” he says roughly in her ear. “Servants to the fucking Crown that does not even-”
Care. Servants to the father who cast us out like outsiders when we would no longer bend to his will.
The Two King's, they whispered. The one that lived and the one that would be: Daeron and Baelor.
They always left out Maekar. But that was fine: because at least that meant he was hers and hers alone. She did not want to share him with the realm. Not the one who would never look at him and see his sacrifice. But she did. Every day, every moment, and in everything he did.
She reaches for him and presses a kiss against his cheek--right on the line of his beard lies that hides the majority of his pox scars.
“I would still choose you over and over again.”
“Will you watch it?” Aegon bickers sharply at Shaena. “This is my spot.”
“Well I want to sit there-”
They both rear back and look at each other--the sounds of tears and bickering children filling their ears.
“And so it begins,” she says dryly.
His lip curls in annoyance.
“Will you all shut up?” Mya hisses under her breath, glaring ferociously at the group of children she was meant to be watching. A rather poor job she had done so far. Aemon stares at her blankly while Daella bares her teeth at her, hands on her hips.
Maekar looks over his shoulder while he soothes a crying Rhae and levels her with a look that could curdle milk and Mya is wise enough to silence herself.
A week of travel has left Myranda, Maekar, Baelor, and Nestor exhausted.
Myranda does the same as Mya: if not to will her irritation to silence. Baelor turns to her and smiles pityingly. She stares at his face and blinks three times in a row before tilting her head. “The King is lucky he is not here,” she says pleasantly, her voice kind despite the undertone of threat under it.
“He was very wise to remain,” Baelor says in kind as Nestor walks up, sees Myranda’s face, nods and turns and walks away, pointing Cissy, Bella, Nora, and Val away.
Maekar reaches for a flagon of wine, drinks half of it and hands it to Baelor who genuinely debates it before he clears his throat, takes it, and offers it to Myranda.
She finishes the other half, corks it and turns to Mya with a smile.
“To Runestone you will go,” she says, voice so cold Shaena blinks widely at her as she looks up from her place at her side. “If you do not learn to at least be fucking kind.” Mya scowls, turning away from her. Beside Maekar, Rhae wipes tears from her eyes.
They usually preferred to let the children settle disagreements on their own. They intervened, of course, if it became too much, too aggressive, too sharp. But with the near twenty children they have spent the last five years with: they all reasoned they needed to learn to advocate for themselves.
Mya alternated between ignoring them entirely or losing her fucking mind at them.
“Shaena,” she says calmly. “Apologize to your sister for ruining her embroidery circle.”
Rhae’s bottom lip trembles and Daella crosses her arms.
“I didn’t mean to,” Shaena says earnestly. “I didn’t see it-”
“And yet,” Myranda says even still, “Her hard work is ruined. I am not asking you if you meant too. I am asking for you to apologize for your sister's hard work being ruined.”
Shaena’s shoulders fall and she crosses the small circle they make. “I’m sorry,” she says with a little voice. “I didn’t mean-”
“You could have just said that,” Rhae says, lips still shaking. In anger--not sadness. “I worked really hard on it-”
“I’ll help you wash it?” Shaena offers with a pout.
“It can’t be fixed,” Rhae says and Myranda waves her hand to Maekar and he hands it to her.
“Come on Rhae, lets go get dinner,” Daella says quietly, pushing her gently forward and away.
Myranda sighs quietly, shaking her head while she looks down at the embroidery circle that Rhae had been working on for weeks. The one she had put on the table and then Shaena had shoved off: right into the mud and gravel.
“Can it be fixed, mama?” Shaena asks, voice small.
“I think, it can be,” Myranda says with a squint. “With some patience. Shaena, collect warm water and lye soap. You and I are going to try, at the very least.” The children settle at camp and separate shortly after, Aemon follows Shaena to gather water from the little stream they camp along and with a deep breath she turns to Mya. “Not everything has to be met with barking.”
Mya rolls her eyes. “They don’t listen to me,” she says shortly.
“Do you give them reason too?” Myranda counters. “All you do is bark and bite: of course they don’t want to be around you.” Mya’s gaze snaps to her and her nose flares open.
“Do you like to be yelled at?” Maekar asks darkly. “They are your nieces and nephews: not men to be led.”
“Elaena-” Mya begins.
“You have not met Elaena Targaryen,” Baelor says, brow raised. “And I assure you she does not speak to anyone like that without reason.” Mya’s shoulders fall and her bottom lip juts out. “Stay within the camp, but you may have some peace from them.”
Them from you, is what he really means from the look he gives Myranda after.
Mya stomps off and Myranda groans. “This is worse than the move to Dragonstone.”
“At least Rhaegel kept the boys entertained then,” Maekar agrees. “Can you fix it?”
Myranda scoffs. “I can fix anything-”
“She will know if you restitch it,” her husband says, voice flat. She pouts and Baelor chuckles.
“One more day,” Baelor says with an encouraging smile. “Tomorrow we arrive-” Both Maekar and Myranda look at him miserably and he winces. “And then spend a week chasing after Lords while our children no doubt cause all kinds of havoc.”
Her nose wrinkles and she looks down at the sunrise embroidery circle, chest aching.
She missed her three babes. During the day it was not so bad--with all of the happenings and travel. But every night they stopped her chest began to ache when she thought of Aethan, Baelon, and Aella. She rather wishes that the King came to flirt for a new Master of Coin himself.
Or that they had been permitted to leave the children. As if bringing more than half of them was somehow supposed to make them behave better?
“Mama,” Shaena says, lye soap bar in hand while Aemon carries a bucket of water. “We can fix it,” she says, grin on her face.
And Myranda softens: she always does when their children look at her like that.
“We will certainly try,” she agrees, nodding to Maekar and Baelor before she goes to find a quiet corner of their camp. Not that there really is one: just less noisy. And she sits on a log, settling Shaena between her legs. “We have to be gentle,” she whispers in her ears.
“Gentle,” Shaena agrees with a nod. “I really didn’t mean too,” she says quietly, bottom lip pouting.
Shaena was willful: like Aegon. But so kind like him too, when she wasn’t digging her feet in like her father. Myranda pecks her cheek three times and her first babe giggles. Shaena may drive her up a wall but she did everything earnestly. Just not always for the right reasons.
Shaena turns and presses a peck against her cheek and Myranda sighs.
It makes the ache fade. It is still there, of course. But it feels less like a gaping wound and more like pressure.
“You see the thread?” Myranda asks, pointing at it. “When we clean it, we have to follow the direction of the thread, rather than against it. If we do not, it will loosen and fray.”
“Loosen and fray,” Shaena murmurs to herself.
“We can take our turns,” Myranda murmurs, “When my hands tire you can take over. When your hands tire, I will.”
“Like mama and papa,” Shaena says, turning to look back with a smile. “Or mama, papa, aunt Mimi, uncle Baelor, aunt Mel, and uncle Nestor.”
She nods, pecking her cheek again. “Just like that, baby, just like that.”
Shaena’s little fingers are growing longer, losing the pudge that coated them for so long. Aethan, Baelon, and Aella were at the very beginning of doing the same. Round, plump babes full of life and fire they had been, but now little people with their own opinions and personalities. Although: they had always had them. Now it was just more apparent. Shaena had been demanding, Aethan happy, Baelon sweet, and Aella was demanding too-but not as sharp as Shaena. Lazier.
Her daughter's hands are soft, smooth, and she is patient with Myranda, quietly working out the mud, dirt, and little stone stuck between the thread.
“I love you little dragon,” she murmurs in her red hair.
Shaena scoffs. “Obviously.”
Myranda closes her eyes and smiles. Because for all the grief her many children give her: they give her more peace than she ever knew as a girl.
The rest of the night is quiet, and while Rhae’s embroidery circle is not perfect, loose thread is easier to contend with than marred thread. Sleep comes to her easier because of it, and Shaena takes her place on Maekar’s chest where she always lays when she sleeps with them.
“Nearly halfway through it,” Maekar mutters in Myranda’s hair.
“Not nearly close enough to the end,” she says in response. He snorts, but does not disagree.
None of them wanted to be here: but there was not an option in not following their duty.
But it did draw on her in ways she could not describe.
And tonight: she lets herself float to escape it.
The Reach is beautiful at night. The sky is full of stars unobscured by clouds and storms like in the Stormlands and Crownlands. It reminds her a bit of the Vale: but with flatter ground.
As a bird, Myranda flies amongst the sky. She knows her body is further back a few miles, slumbering against Maekar. But in the sky, free from the things that pulled, she does feel free.
Her abilities had grown in five years: in ways that were terrifying. But this was the simplest part of her ability. It was easy now to move mind to mind of animals. Her own mental defenses were strong, practiced, her will concrete.
It was what made her fear for Mya: who was quick to anger, quick to frustration, and quick to use her abilities. Aerion heeded warnings but Mya never did. Daella did not have the same scope as Myranda and Aerion, hers were more like Mya. She easily took Princess and could take weaker birds: but she could not hold them longer than an hour at a time without struggling to find her way back.
The longest Myranda had allowed herself was an entire day. A test she had completed at Maekar, Baelor, and Mina’s great hesitance. But she had done it easily. Melody had been the only one to support her in doing so openly. It is a skill that needs to be mastered just like a sword, she had said to Maekar whose shoulders had fallen because he knew the stubbornness of Royce women would beat him.
And Myranda does enjoy it.
Out here, if she just closed her eyes she could imagine she was home, in the Vale.
Open fields, sweet smelling flowers and crops--
A light flickers in the night. Her belly pulls her there and she allows herself to follow it, down, down and towards a figure, a man hunched over a fire. Myranda lands on a tree branch and watches, head tilting as her strange eyes take in the crunched figure.
He sniffled, rubbing at his face and Myranda looks past him--at a freshly laid grave.
Two horses below her huff and puff, a sword and shield on the war horse. And a sob breaks out of the man’s body. Her chest aches instantly, and the man stands. And Myranda gapes.
Because this is not a man: but a boy taller than any man she knows.
And he is crying, sobbing, face covered in tears and dirt as he heaves in breath.
And she is ripped from her dream, gasping up in the air and clawing out of bed. Clawing to get towards the boy who has haunted her dreams for five fucking years.
“Myranda?” Maekar hisses, sitting up, and she is panting, searching, searching for shoes.
“He is here,” she breathes out. “Here--the man is here in the Reach but he is not a man he is a boy and he is crying and we have to find him-”
Shaena sits up and groans. “Mama?”
“Are you listening?” Myranda hisses, glaring at her gaping husband and he just blinks and blinks. “Maekar!”
“What the fuck did you just say?” He says, gaping with a curled lip. She throws her slipper at him and Shaena gapes at her too, hair sticking in all different directions. They said she looked like Myranda, but now? Now they held matching expressions, her husband and their daughter.
“Theomore Talltree!” She hisses. Maekar looks at her as if he has swallowed a cut lemon whole and her fists meet her hips. “The man--in the flame with Aegon, my vision the one that keeps-”
“Changing,” Maekar says, eyes widening as he slips down the bed.
“He isn’t a man, Maekar,” she says sharply. “He is a boy--but he is huge,” she says, “Now give me my slipper--he is close-”
It takes a considerable amount of time to convince her husband to let her go too, after refusing to explain the directions twice to Maekar and Baelor when it is clear he does not want her to go. Joss is staring at her with a frown as she sits upon her horse urging them forward at a trot because Maekar and Baelor say it is too dangerous to move forward at a faster speed.
Despite her just being here, as a bird.
“You are mad,” he mutters under his breath.
“I am a Greenseer,” she says pointedly as they continue down the road in the middle of the night. “And he is a boy--I am sure of it. He was crying-”
“Was he alright?” Baelor asks, frowning.
“He buried someone, his father or mother, maybe?” She suggests with a frown. “He had two horses, but to his left was a fresh dug grave-”
And flame comes into sight, and so does the sound of crying. Maekar immediately pushes forward before them all--Joss moving to follow him instantly as they put themselves before her and Baelor. He always anticipated threats, always.
But there was none here: and he would see that soon enough.
“Seven fucking Hells,” Maekar mutters as they get to the top of the hill, and the boy wider than her husband comes into view. “Tall? That does not constitute as tall, what is he a fucking giant?”
And the sob comes louder and Joss winces. “Maybe it is best, the lady came.”
“There is no way that is a boy Myranda-” Maekar hisses. “H-he-what the fuck-”
Baelor sighs, dismounting at the hill, tossing the reigns to Maekar who forces his horse before hers when she tries to move to him. “Really?” she demands and her husband’s nostrils flare, mouth pressed flat.
He looks like Aegon here--like he had when Shaena had thrown food at him.
Baelor is slowly walking down, Joss following at a distance. The boy is sobbing still, just off of the beaten path and he does not hear them until his horse jerks.
His face snaps up--and a dirty, pale face meets them. Tear streaked, and he flies to his feet, eyes wide. “I-I hav’ nothin’ t’steal-” And then he blinks, looking at them with a deep frown.
“We are not here to steal,” Baelor says with a small smile, pulling out a handkerchief. “Are you alright, my boy?”
She takes the opening Joss leaves and rides past Maekar who growls in annoyance.
“Really woman?” He bitches.
Wide, blue eyes meet them and the boy blinks rapidly. “I-I don’t wanna ruin yer cloth, ser-I-I mean m’lord-”
Myranda looks back to Maekar, who frowns deeply as he approaches too. “He does not like he is bigger than him,” Joss whispers at her side.
Maekar snaps to look at him and bares his teeth.
“My name is Baelor,” Baelor offers. “What is yours?”
The boy stares at him, stuttering and gaping when Myranda dismounts and walks to Baelor’s side. “Hello there,” she says pleasantly, taking the handkerchief and splitting the distance.
“Myranda,” Maekar hisses, following her step, but is stuck with two horses and fists the reigns while he stands between the two of them.
“It’s alright,” she says gently, smiling down at the boy who stares at her wide eyed. “Will you lean down?” She asks with a smile. The boy leans with a frown and she gently cleans his face. “When was the last time you ate,” her voice trails off and she smiles.
“Dunk,” he says, clearing his voice. “I-I mean Duncan, m’lady-”
“Hello Duncan,” she says gently, ignoring his smell. “My name is Lady Myranda Targaryen, of house Targaryen of Summerhall in the Stormlands. And this is my good brother, Crown Prince Baelor Targaryen of Dragonstone, my husband who is scowling--it’s just his face--”
Maekar lets out an indignant noise and puts his hands on his hip--staring at her with a dropped jaw.
“Is Prince Maekar Targaryen, of House Targaryen of Summerhall. And our Kingsguard, and a dear, dear friend Ser Joss Qorgyle.”
“Hello,” Joss says pleasantly. “How tall was your father?” He asks conversationally, before his brows raise. “How tall was your mother?”
Duncan blinks at him. “I-I don’t know, ser,” he admits. “I’m a’orphan.”
Joss lets out a long, awkward noise and nods. “Well, open mouth and insert foot,” he says, clearing his throat while his mouth purses.
“You did not answer my good-sister,” Baelor says, hand on the middle of her back as he steps to her with a smile pointed at Duncan. But he steps a half step forward, so he is closer. “When was the last time you ate?”
The boys stomach growls and she smiles. “I-I don’t, uh, my apologies m’lady,” he says, gently stepping back. “I am not suitable t’be around a lady of y’standing-”
“Our camp is just a thirty minute ride back-” she offers over him and his brows raise sharply. Her eyes flicker back to the dug grave and then his shield and sword. “Did your Ser pass, dear?”
The boy stares at her, swallows, and nods.
She nods with a frown and reaches for his hand. “Well,” she says with a small smile. “I happen to know a very good Knight. One looking for a squire. He has a squire already--our son, but I think,” she says slowly turning to Maekar who is gaping at her. “Our son could use a good strapping influence from a boy as sweet as you.”
Baelor clears his throat, smothering a laugh at his brothers genuine surprise and Joss turns away to face the horses, leaning into hers as he smothers his laugh.
“Don’t let his gruff exterior repel you,” she says with a gentle smile. “He is quite tender.”
The boy looks down at her and sniffles. “I don’t wanna be an’ inconvenience, m’lady-”
Maekar hisses and stomps his foot once, letting the reigns go with a heavy sigh now that Joss is close, not that he remains by their side either.
“Get on your horse boy,” Maekar bitches. “My wife said you’re coming with us.” She smiles pleasantly at the giant boy with raggedy blonde hair. Maekar walks past them and with his own canteen--puts the fire out. Joss gathers the boys meager things, and Baelor coaxes him gently.
“He fucking stinks,” Maekar hisses to her. “He’s bathing-”
“At first light,” she says, hand on his chest as she smiles. “I love you.”
He bares his teeth at her. “He better not be as dumb as he looks.”
But she can see the worry there too: because how was a boy his age meant to run through a field of dragon flame and save their son?
“Who the fuck is that?” Aerion demands before breakfast, hands on his hips and she mothers a snort at how alike he is to his father.
“He is going to be squiring with you for your father.” Aerion gapes and whips around.
“I am father’s squire.” He says sharply. She nods.
“Yes,” and his shoulders deflate a hair. “And now so is Duncan.”
“He’s so tall,” Aegon gapes as Aerion’s hackles rise in jealousy. Aemon looks at her with knowing eyes, and then he and Aegon go to join him as he stands with Maekar, who is handing him a fresh tunic of his own. It would be tight--but cleaner than what he had with him. They had scrounged up pants which did not fit, but the stockings over them made them suitable. At least until she was able to get her hands on fabric to sew suitable pants.
And Myranda rolls her eyes, gathering her son in her hands and pulling him close as he fumes. “His own Knight has just died, Aerion,” she says quietly. “He was like Duncan’s father--show him kindness. He needs it.”
“I am father’s squire,” he says through clenched teeth, but he leans up against her searching for comfort and she can see the worry in his eyes.
“And you are his son,” she promises gently. “And no giant boy can take your place.” Aerion squints and him with a pout. “He needs a friend, Aerion. He is only a year or so older than you-”
“That’s it?” He mutters, brows raising. “Is he a giant?”
She smiles, pressing her mouth up against his cheek. “Go, introduce yourself.”
Aerion sighs, rolling his eyes as he walks by and Valarr approaches next. “He…is from your vision?” He says quietly. And Myranda nods, inhaling deeply. “He really is a giant,” Valarr mutters. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that tall.”
“Holy shit,” Rhae hisses. “Who is that?”
The younger children gather, eyes wide, and Daella--
Daella is blushing.
She and Valarr slowly turn to look at one another with wide eyes.
“Maybe…” he says, clearing his throat. “We don’t mention that to uncle?”
She nods, patting his arm. “Good man,” she whispers in fear.
“He is so tall!” Bella says with wide eyes.
“Where did he come from?” Cissy asks.
“How is he so tall?” Shaena asks, titling her head. “I thought papa and uncle Baelor were the tallest men ever. But he-”
“He’s-” Daella stutters out, neck going pink.
Matarys blinks as he comes out of his tent and Myranda frowns deeply. She counts--turning to look at Duncan and his growing number of spectators. Nora and Val are with him, bouncing at his feet. Aegon and Aemon, Aerion-
“Where is Mya?” She says, voice sharp. Valarr begins turning--looking in a circle all around and they both look at each other with wide eyes.
Valarr keeps turning and he shakes his head. “I haven’t seen her since-”
“Last night,” she says, chest beginning to pound. “Maekar!” She yells, and her husband scowls.
“What? Seriously woman, stop yelling, you’ve cause enough-”
“Mya,” she says sharply, hands shaking. “Where is she?”
Baelor turns and both brothers look at one another. Maekar turns to look at her, dawning crossing his face and she shudders out a breath when he turns and begins moving through camp. “Mya!” He begins barking--Aerion chasing closely behind.
And Myranda is sure her stomach drops to her feet.
Someone grabs her arm, tugging and pulling and she turns to look at Daella’s face. “We can look for her mama,” she says, brows furrowed. “You and me and Aerion-”
What was I thinking? She thinks sharply. Why did I think she would behave now? If she could not even remain and behave?
Her mouth trembles and her feet--they lose step.
“You’re alright,” Baelor says, behind her suddenly. “Valarr, go help your uncle, Daella, Aemon, Matarys--get the rest of the children to breakfast. Joss, I want you to notify the rest that we will depart later than expected.”
“I-is everythin’ alright, m’lady?” Duncan asks, voice stuttering. “I-I can help-”
“Her sister has run off,” Joss hisses, “Seven fucking hells that girl-”
“I know th’parts,” Duncan says. “I can help-”
“That way boy,” Joss says, hand on his back. "Follow Maekar and Aerion-"
“I never should have brought her,” she hisses to Baelor as he holds her arms and turns her. “What was I thinking-”
“That you could help her find the lesson, Myranda,” he says gently, pushing her towards a tent, looking down the rows for Maekar. She clings to him as her heart pounds and ears ring.
Hundreds of men would attend this tourney. She was just a pretty girl, alone. Arrogant-
“Breathe,” Baelor urges carefully. “Breath Myranda.”
But she cannot: because all she feels is an overwhelming sense of dread for what lies before her.
They may not be near the coast, but threats lay everywhere for pretty maidens. Especially ones stupid enough to think themselves immune to them. “We will find her,” Baelor promises, soothing her upper back. “You lot--help my brother look for Mya Royce-”
Please, she thinks, eyes turning up to the sky and wind. Please let her be safe.
“He will find her,” he promises. “He will find her.”