Chapter Text
The travel had been long and torturous. The dry, sun-drenched, lemon-scented air of the Red Mountains and Starfall slowly gave way to the humid, salty, and frankly foul-smelling air of King’s Landing. Her Dornish maid handed her a scented handkerchief as the air within the carriage seemed to worsen.
Nervously had she sat within the carriage, her adorned fingers fiddling with the golden bands as she wondered about the man that she was supposed to convene—supposed to wed. Hair in a silvery glow, eyes shining in a violet hue. They said that Prince Maekar was the most Targaryen-looking out of the four sons of Daeron the Good.
What shade would his eyes carry?
Never had the young girl seen a Targaryen with her own two eyes. She had only heard of the Valyrian beauty, men and women alike, and read of the infamous traits of their heritage. To her, those were as mystical as the creatures they once rode, the creatures that once the Kingdoms feared.
Would her children inherit those features?
Girls her age, fresh and still naive to the world, had this fascinating way of wondering, imaginations still unbent by wifely duties that would busy them soon enough. Childbearing was a concept that was indoctrinated into their brains until it became a dream. So they dreamed about the traits of their future children in the safety of their minds. They looked up to their mothers who seemed to glow with a child in their womb. The dangerous aspects were overseen or went unnoticed in their eagerness to carry their own offspring.
The young girl in the carriage on the way to her Prince was no different.
The royal party welcomed the arriving carriages and horses with their riders. Once they halted, she stepped out, her eyes landing first upon the King and the Queen at the front.
King Daeron did not possess a warrior’s build, nor the fierce, towering presence of the dragonlords of old Valyria. He was round-shouldered and gentle-faced, with thin legs and the slight, soft curve of a belly beneath his heavy robes of state. Yet, there was a profound, quiet dignity in his lavender eyes and the pale gold of his hair.
Beside him stood Queen Myriah, the very embodiment of the Dorne that she missed so terribly. The Queen was a woman of sharp, sun-baked elegance, her dark eyes flashing with the sharp wit of Sunspear, her deep olive skin a beautiful contrast to the pale Targaryen beside her.
But the moment she stood in front of the fourth son of the King, her face fell. Oh, she had imagined something else. The Prince was slightly taller than she was. His hair was in a cut that seemed unfitting to the shape of his head. These short bangs which were practically useless, for they did not cover his forehead one bit, and the awful length to his ear—an accident perhaps? And then there were those pox scars that covered his cheeks and made her pity him, a Prince of the Realm. Nothing at all what she had imagined.
But it seemed as though Prince Maekar was not pleased either. Perhaps she was not to his liking with her plum purple dress and the shape of her nose. Perhaps a woman already held his heart in soft hands. Perhaps she just was not fit to be the bride of a Prince.
Nonetheless, the first impression seemed to be likewise: unimpressed and uncertain.
But the decision had been made, not by them but by their parents who seemed pleased with the union of their houses. It would tie Dorne further to King‘s Landing while House Dayne would gain a higher reputation. And the two of them carried the burden of it all.
The worst of it all was the stroll through the Garden of the Red Keep to acquaint the future couple.
He said his few pleasantries as she did with hers. He complimented the rich silks and she thanked him with a humble bow of her head. Soles crushing pebbles and birds singing overtook the rest of their conversation. Now and then, she would glance back at the entourage following a few feet behind, too far to understand the words shared but close enough to see that there were no words shared at all. Her mother would urge her on with an encouraging nod each time their eyes met before she turned her attention back to Queen Myriah. Then her head would turn back to the grim Prince strolling beside her with an arm’s length space in between them.
His hair shone brightly in the sun’s yellow rays, creating a magical glow that surrounded him. It forced her to take him in further, to acknowledge that he, perhaps, was the Prince with the unique Valyrian traits that she had imagined. If he only did not look so grim as though she was at fault for all of this.
She noticed the sharp angles of his jaw or the stiffness of his shoulders, which seemed to give him a defensive posture. The young Prince was not just ignoring her. He was actively holding himself back, built like the unassailable Wall in the North.
Perhaps she had to do the first step to melt the ice that he carried. So she sucked in a deep breath to calm her racing heart.
"I have been nervous throughout the whole journey," she broke the heavy silence that had crept around them like a shadow with a quiet admission.
"But I believe that nervousness burdens you too, perhaps? Or perhaps it is only my wishful thinking or a desperate try to find a topic to discuss."
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she scolded herself internally for saying such dumb words. At least she had not started talking about her latest embroidery. Prince Maekar would have surely fallen into a deep slumber of boredom.
But the moment he did not answer? She felt that this would be a tough future, a quiet marriage with a grim husband. And that was the absolute worst for a girl like her, a girl who enjoyed life and its small pleasures, who laughed and smiled a lot. Her days would be grey from now on. Colorless and dreary as the clothes that he wore. Their marital bed would be as cold as his heart.
If he was able to smile at all?
Perhaps the young Prince had a condition, the frown etched into his face for eternities.
She would surely spend her time in the Gardens—most of her time—to feel some bits of joy within the gilded cage that would be hers soon. Alone. Perhaps she would be able to find friends among the lady wives of his brothers? Wishful thinking. But a small light in the world that seemed to grow darker and darker each second of their stroll that seemed to pass so slowly. She was at her wits’ end. Nothing seemed to melt the coldness of the young Prince.
May the Crone grant her wisdom for the times to come.
May the Warrior grant her strength to endure her brooding spouse.
And may the Mother grant her mercy… and most importantly a fruitful womb to give him a child and be done with her duty for this union.
Days passed by, too quickly for her liking. Not once had she crossed his path. He seemed to avoid her as though she carried a highly deadly plague. But she found company in the preparations. Hours had she spent on picking the right fabric for her gown. She visited the Great Sept of Baelor and marveled at its architectural grandeur. The Red Keep was in a hustle and bustle, working on the upcoming feast. Servants passed by at a quick pace, carrying silver trays, switching candles, or dusting chandeliers. So much fuss, too much to her liking.
Nothing seemed to be to her liking. She missed Starfall greatly and she would miss it even more once her parents returned home after the celebrations.
The wedding was a grand but swift affair, fitting for a son of the King. She wore the finest lavender colored silks adorned with embroidered silver flowers. Lace decorated the sleeves of her dress. Her maiden’s cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was swept up into an elegant, intricate updo, tight braids wrapping neatly around her head. Highly fashionable, had her maids said, all highborn ladies wore their hair that way nowadays. Here and there, they had placed hairpins ornamented with pearls.
All eyes were on her as she entered the Sept of Baelor. But instead of feeling high and mighty as some ladies, who had the honor of marrying into the royal family, would, she wished to be invisible, to vanish and never appear back again.
She felt misplaced.
And nervous. Oh Gods, she felt so nervous.
The moment she stopped beside him in front of the Septon, her heart faltered. He wore a high-collared doublet of black silk-velvet. It underlined an imposing silhouette that edged in the stiffness of his shoulders. His cloak was fastened to the shoulder pads with two silver dragons.
Her eyes flickered towards him ever so often, taking in his profile, the curve of his nose, the tight line of his lips. Once they turned to face each other, their eyes met and she dared to gift him a slight smile.
Perhaps to apologize for their first encounter. She had been so bothered by his lack of a smile that she forgot that she had not smiled at him either.
She had often thought about the moment that she had stepped out of the carriage during the silence of the past days. She must have looked so disappointed. It must have been as visible as it was tangible for her. And she had wished over and over again to apologize for something that was so unlike her.
The small smile seemed to surprise the young Prince. His eyes wandered slightly bewildered over her features, perhaps even confused. But that impression faded as quickly as it had appeared.
Their voices were in sync as they exchanged their vows in front of the Seven, eyes staying at each other.
"I am hers,
and she is mine,
from this day,
until the end of my days."
"I am his,
and he is mine,
from this day,
until the end of my days."
He removed her maiden‘s cloak and replaced it with the heavy material of a new one with the colors of his house and embroidered with the three-headed dragon of their blazon, symbolizing that she was now a part of his family, that they were now their own family.
His hands were calloused against her much softer ones once she placed them into his palms. They felt cold to the touch, as cold as the rest of him felt. Somehow she wished nothing more in that very moment than to share her warmth with him.
The tying of their joined hands declared them as one in front of the Seven. Husband and wife, two sides of the same coin.
He seemed to take her in more intensely after the small smile she had granted. As she was busy with their hands, mapping them out and internalizing them in her mind, he stared at her soft features. The way the corners of her mouth would twitch, the lines of her lips to the shape of her nose over the flutter of her lashes.
Maekar looked at the maiden who was now his wife—really looked. For the first time since their acquaintance, he was granting the girl a proper look. Why? Because she had smiled at him?
No, it was not just any smile. It had been kind and warm, not solely polite. One that reminded him of his mother in some way. The kind that she reserved for his father, and for his father alone. There was a difference. It may be slight but there was one. The smiles that she directed at him and his brothers were motherly warm. Which, to him, was definitely noticeable. Maekar was someone who took everything in quietly, especially the way his parents treated him and his brothers.
And so it did not go unnoticed by him how much her smile resembled the warmth of his mother whenever she smiled at her husband.
The feast that followed the ceremony was held in the Red Keep, her new home. The bride and groom sat next to each other at the head of the table. Their parents flanked the newlywed couple on either side. Fare and draught brightened the atmosphere and satisfied the guests. Laughter and tunes filled the silence between the husband and wife.
The bedding ceremony neared. She felt like a sacrificial lamb that neared its end, heart racing quicker and quicker the further time passed. If the heavy wooden doors closed on them, they would be all alone for the first time. The heavy thud would be loud and final before the silence swallowed it completely.
Her gaze flickered towards him, trying to decipher his mood by a look from the corner of her eye. He stared ahead at the frisky guests, sipping wine from his goblet.
And suddenly his head turned towards her. Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes snapped over to the plate in front of her on the table.
Had he caught her? Noticed how she stared at him?
A silent prayer was sent to the Gods above.
When she felt his eyes on her after something that felt like an eternity, she hesitantly turned her head to return the gaze.
"Is my face free of blemishes, Your Highness?"
Her voice was quiet, unsure, lost beneath the chatter that sounded through the Hall. He had to decipher the words said by reading the movements of her lips.
How much he wished to see that smile upon her lips again—he quickly ushered that thought out of his wandering mind.
"Yes, My Lady," he answered shortly, dull almost.
That answer was bothering her heart. How shall she converse with such a callous spouse?
She leaned a bit closer, shortening the distance between them that had settled upon their bodies and minds.
"I ought to apologize, Your Grace. Perhaps I have insulted you somehow during our first encounter. I did not intend to do so."
Apologize? This girl—his wife—apologized? For what exactly?
He tried to remember their shared words on that day—which were few to begin with. Maekar did not remember any insult that she may have directed at him. He only remembered those sweet features that darkened as the sun would on a cloudy day the moment that she had stepped out of the carriage.
Had he seemed so frightening to her?
He was not a man of many words, never was. Only a few were fortunate enough to witness him fully immerse himself in their audience. But was he so intimidating?
He must have been. Otherwise, her lips would not have thinned into this firm line, the corners twitching downwards. Her eyebrows would not have knitted together questioningly as though she was scrutinizing his appearance.
"Apologize for what exactly, My Lady?"
"Perhaps for my initial impression… it seemed that I must have disappointed you in some way. I promise you wholeheartedly, I did not intend to seem so unhappy with our union. I was merely exhausted from the long journey," she gave him another one of her smiles, a helpless one but a smile nonetheless.
His gaze flickered over to Baelor who was watching from further down the table, reassuring him in a way that only a brother was able to do. Baelor was the only one who could, although Maekar sometimes envied his oldest sibling.
When his eyes returned to hers, he noticed the earnest way that she looked upon him. She had no ill intent, he saw it in the way her eyes shone so brightly in the candlelight of the Hall.
"I hold no grudge against you, My Lady," he saw the relief in her eyes, "my wife shall not apologize to me for something so minor."
His wife. She was his wife and only the Stranger could do them part.
Her lips lifted with the same relief that had flickered within her eyes. The young Prince may not be as brooding as she had thought of him. The Mother had granted her mercy.
This small but significant moment eased her heart for the bedding ceremony. And when the moment came, she even laughed with the cheering crowd that grabbed the groom and his bride to carry them towards their chamber. Loud chanting and boisterous laughter, hands on their arms and shoulders. The crowd was eager and in a spirited mood. The bedding ceremony was a part of a wedding that entertained the guests but appalled most newlyweds, especially the poor maiden.
Once their gowns were taken care of, the pair was left in their undergarments facing each other, and the heavy door slammed shut with a resounding thud. The noise was eerie, leaving a ringing silence.
"I was against this ceremony," he said into the quiet that had settled between them as it did so often.
This confession was simple but held so many underlying secrets.
Maekar had a soft heart. Somewhere beneath this hardness that he carried, somewhere beneath his coldness, he held a kindness. A kindness that he did not show openly—at least not for now—but hinted at it subtly.
"You do not need to worry, Your Grace. I hold no grudge against you," she laughed at the use of his own words. The noise was quiet, more of a breath but a laugh nonetheless. Her cheeks were flushed from wine or the warmth of the chamber, he did not know. But the color suited her, made her seem so lively against the cold stone walls of the Red Keep.
His finger hooked around the stray curl, twirling the strand with a slowness that felt almost reverent. For a man who handled broadswords and heavy shields, his touch was unexpectedly light, barely brushing the sensitive skin of her jaw. She held her breath, the steady thump-thump of her heart echoing loudly in her ears. Wide eyes stared up at the cold violet shade of his eyes, which seemed so much warmer in the amber glow of the fireplace.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them shifted, losing its rigid, polite edges and turning into something thick and heavy with unspoken thoughts. Maekar’s gaze tracked the movement of her breath, his thumb tracing a slow, careful path down the line of her jaw before his hand reluctantly dropped back to his side.
"The hour is late My Lady," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp that broke the stillness of the room. He stepped back, giving her space, though his eyes never left hers.
And then he added ever-so-softly: "You should rest, My Lady Wife."
A part of her yearned to feel that careful touch again. He had held her with so much care, as though she were the most precious thing in the world. It was a softness that she had not expected of the brooding Prince, much like the many other things she had never expected to find in him.
Her hands reached out to carefully place them into his palms, feeling this callousness against her skin again. First, only her fingertips ran over the back of his hands, mapping over his knuckles to his rings, before they slipped from the thumb towards the volar surface. There she traced the prominent lines, opening his hands further to hers with a gentle coax until she was able to lace their fingers together.
He did not say a word, only let her gently explore his hands. There was no need for words. His violet eyes stayed locked onto her face throughout it all, even though hers were held low, focused on his hands.
The silence was once not stifling. It was content, almost pleasant.
She could only dream of what their future would hold. Perhaps her life in the Capital, far from her home, would not be as colorless as she had imagined during their stroll through the Gardens. Perhaps he was able to smile and be joyous in his own way, one that she still had to become acquainted with.
Only days ago, she had dreamed of a flawless Princeling with a silver glow and mystical violet eyes. She had dreamed of a perfect, easy future, shielding her mind from the dangerous realities of a royal match.
Instead, the Gods had given her Maekar, a Prince who was scarred and wrapped in a grim armor of silence.
She realized her dreams had not died—they had merely shifted. The cold, gilded cage she had anticipated suddenly felt a little warmer. She found herself wondering once more about the children she would bear him.
Would they inherit his sharp, unyielding jaw? The soft shade of his violet eyes or the shape of his nose? What set him apart from all others?