Chapter Text
Everyone knew that the gods delighted in unlikely pairings and that they bound souls together so that each might become the other's solace. The life of Amaryllis Penrose was proof of that.
It was said that the Lady Aelinor Penrose, wife to Aerys Targaryen, used to pray daily at the Great Sept of Baelor, beseeching the Mother Above to bless her with a child, and the gods must have pitied her, because eventually a motherless child was indeed placed in her arms, even as a brother was taken from her life. Thus, Amaryllis became a living answer to a prayer paid for in blood, both a blessing and remembrance.
Amaryllis grew up half-wild with ink-stained fingers, more at home among parchment and whispered gossip than embroidery hoops, and she possessed a sincere love of writing, though sincerity rarely prevented her from embellishment. Truth, in her hands, was a flexible thing, improved upon for drama or softened for sympathy, and this habit earned her equal measures of laughter and reprimand. But the fact of the matter remained that stories were magic. They made people smile when the world gave them little reason to, they could ease sorrow, impart lessons, kindle courage, and offer hope where none seemed possible, and in stories, one could be anything at all. Amaryllis wanted to be the one to provide that sort of magic, weaving words as deftly as artisans wove tapestries, and leaving her spectators momentarily breathless.
As a child, her tales were clumsy and fantastical, spoken aloud to anyone willing to listen, and among her favourite audiences was the eldest son of Prince Maekar. Prince Daeron Targaryen was too melancholy a boy for his age, and his shoulders were burdened by an invisible weight that no one else seemed to understand, but not being able to banish the sorrow didn't mean she couldn't at least help him carry it.
Because friends, Amaryllis believed, did just that. They held one another's hands across dark journeys and treacherous crossings. They shared bread and secrets, traded books and jokes, and walked the gardens together at dusk. When they laughed, it was only with one another, not at one another, and only over trivial things such as hair and peculiar habits. Friends told the truth because they wanted the best for one another, defended each other in absence, and in presence, they offered companionship without demand.
That was their unspoken manifesto, as earnest as it was enduring, and her greatest rewards thereafter were the occasional smiles she coaxed from the morose prince when she spun her most outlandish tales.
By the time Amaryllis came of age, she had refined her love of stories into something she deemed more useful, and what had once been childish entertainment became a mutinous enterprise. Her anonymously authored pamphlets circulated the court every so often, appearing discreetly at banquets, tourneys, and lethargic afternoon gatherings among the young ladies of the Red Keep. They were passed along, hidden in all manner of places, from the inside of sleeves to folded in prayer books, and their contents included an eclectic mix of peculiar gossip and clever jests repurposed for the audience.
But it was the advice column that ensured its notoriety, where young women wrote of sour courtships, too bold suitors, and private resentments, seeking advice on how to refuse matches without dishonouring their families and confessing to desires that would have been otherwise deemed too scandalous for discussion.
In time, the pamphlet ceased to be a mere diversion and became an outlet for the whispers festering behind locked doors. Even when fear sealed lips, Amaryllis did not falter, naming and shaming all those who deserved it, including cruel lords and dishonourable knights. She did it because no one else would dare, and in a court where retribution often followed truth, she granted a voice to those who had none.
There were, of course, those who disapproved. The named men grumbled at the audacity of anonymous commentary, and mothers worried that their daughters would be emboldened by advice too candid for comfort, but no one could identify the author, and perhaps more crucially, Queen Myriah Martell herself was rumoured to take particular delight in each new edition. Her amusement was an unspoken protection, allowing Amaryllis to continue serving as an unseen confidante to the women of King's Landing.
In addition to the pamphlets, Amaryllis's friendship with Prince Daeron was another favourite subject of courtly amusement. As they grew, the young prince remained woefully withdrawn and too often lost to drink, but she, too, persisted in urging him into conversation and mischief alike. The contrast was so stark it bordered on absurdity, and thus it came as a genuine shock when the prince announced his betrothal to her. Prince Maekar himself was said to have stared in astonishment before offering fervent thanks to every god who might have had a hand in the miracle of his son being matched at last, and to a lady of notable wit and lineage at that.
However, what the court did not know was that the betrothal was a fiction as carefully crafted as any of Amaryllis's stories. A mutual invention agreed upon by prince and lady alike, designed to repel overeager suitors and their scheming guardians, granting them both the freedom to live as they pleased, unburdened by expectation. After all, who better to play at love than one's dearest friend?