Chapter Text
To call Princess Baelinor Targaryen unlucky in love would be a vast understatement.
Two-and-twenty and already widowed thrice over, some men started to whisper of a curse.
Her first marriage was to stop a war.
To hear her parents tell of it, Volantis had been amassing her banners against them since the day she was born, one way or another. It had almost broken out in true battle, even — Volantis had allied with Tyrosh and Myr and took Bloodstone and three other islands immediately surrounding it from her kin, Prince Morion Martell. Her father had not wanted outright war in a reign still in its infancy, and — to Mother’s displeasure, she would openly proclaim — offered his daughter and sole heir’s hand in price for peace.
And thus, when she was five-and-ten, she took Vittoryn Paenymion to groom. He was three-and-twenty and the son of a Triarch who had been elected to replace Alazzaran Qhaedar, who her wicked kin Aerion had slain while he slept.
Vittoryn was a full head shorter than her, despite being nearly a whole decade older, and was pot-bellied, with tiny twigs for legs; he had wiry red hair and a brown beard that hid a weak chin. He kept this beard oiled with some astringent Eastern scent, and his mustachio was always studded with rings of gold and silver and bronze, even a few of prized Valyrian steel. His eyes were queerly pale, such a shade that put her in the mind of snot, or mayhaps a moonlit pool if she was feeling generous and poetic. He kept queer Eastern gods and never quite mastered the Common Tongue, though he had come to Westeros when they were officially betrothed when she was two and he eleven — when they married, he knew only mayhaps fifty words of the Common Tongue, including “yes” and “no” but not “please” or “thank you”, or at least Baelinor never heard such courtesy from his lips. But he was kind enough, in his own way. They laid together but the once, for he had no interest in bedding some “weeping child” beyond the necessity of duty — Baelinor hadn’t so much as snivelled on their wedding night, mind, and her mother had kept her well apprised of what would occur in the wedding bed, so she was not some shivering maid ignorant of the ways of men when she took him, but she would not contest his disinterest in the respect of the finer details.
She was five-and-ten when she took the Triarch’s son to groom, and she was still five-and-ten when he died, eight moons after their wedding day.
Pirates, she was later informed — he had travelled to Volantis as he often did, and from what she gathered, he had decided to stop in Dorne before sailing further north back to King’s Landing. But as he passed the waters surrounding the Stepstones, errant pirates who crawled over those godsforsaken rocks ever since the Volantene themselves had taken Bloodstone had boarded his ship, taken anything of value, and killed all on board save for her husband’s cupbearer, Erras Leygood, the eleven-year-old son of her father’s master of laws, so he might tell the tale of what had occurred.
Her first husband was unliked in the capital and thus unmourned — Baelinor, too, did not shed a tear for him as she retrieved the Valyrian steel rings from his beard, stunned that the pirates had left those ridiculous rings alone, then sent his body to Volantis for his kin to bury. She did not save them for any particular sentimentality, mind; she just thought it might be sweet to have something of the home her kin never knew, that forsaken ruin in the Smoking Sea that the Dreamer had delivered them from.
There were some rumblings of her marrying her first husband’s brother as replacement, for that single time they shared a bed had not resulted in a babe and thus no boy of the blood of the First Daughter would sit the Iron Throne when she and her father were dead. Vittoryn’s younger brother had a wife and three concubines, but an offer had been made to either make her his second bride, equal in stature to the first, or for all four women to be set aside, since no one of the royal blood had practised polygamy since the time of Maegor the Cruel, and it had been longer still since such a practice had been accepted.
But in the end, it was deemed that the marriage alliance between Volantis and the Iron Throne needs must be forgotten; it had been Volantis’ folly that led to their hopeful prince consort’s death, her father’s Small Council argued, for the Volantene had refused to give up dominion of Bloodstone even after a peace treaty had been signed between the King and the three Triarchs. They had left it ungoverned and wild, and let the pirates run ragged, whereas the Martells had strict control over the Stepstones they still held domain over. They were not at fault for Vittoryn’s end.
Instead, two years after she knew the taste of widowhood for the first time, Baelinor wed the young and dashing heir to Highgarden, Ser Ganelon Tyrell. Eight-and-ten and golden, he had been any maiden’s fantasy when he enwrapped her in his groomscloak of green and gold in the Great Sept on a shining summer’s day — he was quick and strong, with tanned skin, dark curly hair, and laughing hazel eyes. King’s Landing loved him at once, leagues more than they loved her queer eastern first husband and his queer eastern ways. He was as good a lance as his storied sire Leo Longthorn, surer in his saddle than a centaur.
The people called him Fair Ganelon and the Young Thorn, and they cheered so fiercely when they emerged hand-in-hand from the sept on their wedding day that Baelinor half-mistook the applause as an earthquake; they feasted for three days and four nights, interspersed with tourneys and mummer’s shows and fetes.
Ganelon did not have the same reservations when it came to sharing a bed as her first husband did. Then again, she was no longer a child, weeping or otherwise, but a woman grown, only thirteen moons his junior. He was attentive enough that her ladies giggled about it behind their hands, insisting that a little prince was sure to be imminent.
But a year of marriage waxed and waned, and then another, with no signs of any babe, prince or otherwise. She wondered distantly if she was like her mother, who’d endured six pregnancies through the years with only two living children, both daughters, to show for it. But she was young yet, her ladies and courtiers alike assured her, and her husband was in the prime of his life, twenty and strong. And her father, the King, was still a young man, not yet forty. There was plenty of time to produce an heir.
But the gods had different plans.
Ser Ganelon Tyrell died in the waning moons of the two-hundred-and-twenty-ninth year after Aegon’s Conquest. His end was a hunting accident — thrown from the saddle when some little animal darting out from the underbrush in the Kingswood startled his horse; never mind how good a rider he was. It was quick, his hunting companions told her in what she was sure was meant to be a comfort to her. He died laughing, and Fair Ganelon so did love to laugh.
The city mourned their lost prince dearly — women wept in the streets and rent their clothing, men shook their heads and muttered over cups of hippocras how fair their children would have been, how splendid a prince consort, even king consort some said, the Young Thorn would have made.
Baelinor did not feel the loss quite so keenly.
They had been married just over two years when he died. He had been a good husband, by all accounts — he did not order her about, or strike her, or force himself upon her in their bed. He understood that she came before him in all matters as the Princess of Dragonstone and did not seem to chafe under the knowledge that his wife would one day rule him as a lesser man might. He was a decent man, and a leal companion; he really would have made an excellent consort.
But she did not love him.
Mayhaps it was a flight of fancy to desire some level of affection between her and a spouse deeper than that of friendship. But she had her parents’ marriage as an example to compare all others against, and everyone knew how fiercely King Valarr loved his Queen, even after nearly thirty years of marriage.
So she only wept enough to make it seem like she was not some heartless wretch as she stood vigil over Ganelon’s bier, and again when he was carted out in a great procession out of the city to be returned to Highgarden. She let herself be draped in mourning blacks and hid under heavy veils so no one could see her dry cheeks, and bore the court’s apologies and condolences with a gritted jaw.
Her third marriage came quicker than her second marriage had, for she was left to her widowhood for only sixteen moons.
The third time she stood in the Great Sept of her namesake and uttered her wedding vows was to the young lord of Heart’s Home. Lord Lyonce Corbray was three years her elder, and she wed him on the last day of the two-hundred-and-thirtieth year after Aegon’s Conquest. He was a cousin of her mother through the Arryns, and mayhaps the Queen secretly hoped that would prove a success if Baelinor wed a cousin as she had.
But it was not to be, for her third marriage was the shortest of them all: she wed Lord Corbrary on the thirty-first day of the twelfth moon of the year. By the seventh day of the first moon of the next, he was dead.
No one had any sufficient answers for the exact manner of his death. He was young and robust; he led an active life, had been trim and strong. It was not like he was elderly or fat, or that he had been wasting away with some illness for moons before the Stranger had taken him. He’d simply retired early the night before, complaining of a headache. The manservant who’d come in the morning to dress him found him cold and still. One maester consulted said it was his heart; another said it was his brain, citing the headache.
Other, more superstitious folk began to whisper. It was a bad omen for him to die so suddenly, so mysteriously, seven days after their marriage. Seven was a holy number — were the gods voicing their displeasure over the match? Over something else regarding their sovereigns and heir?
People began to look at her differently, smallfolk and courtiers alike. Where they once smiled at her, embraced her — Mother insisted she be loved, for she would have a difficult enough time ascending to the throne already, and insisted she do things to endear herself to the people both big and small — now they looked at her with fear, with suspicion. Though she heard no such rumours directly, she was sure some people laid the blame for Lord Corbray’s death at her feet; she was sure there were whispers of poison, or dark spells, or both. She was sure scandalous tales were being crafted in the pot shops and brothels of King’s Landing of how she bathed in the blood of virgins and dissected rats and practised sorcery like Visenya before her; like the Seastar, who’d had such whispers plague her since she flowered.
Bloodraven’s paramour frightened her just as much as the man himself did, who served as her father’s master of whispers. More so, mayhaps. The Seastar was one-and-fifty, but she did not show her age; she still looked as youthful and beautiful as a freshly-flowered maiden, still lithe and graceful. On the morning of her third husband’s funeral, the Seastar called on her in her chambers in the Maidenvault and said in a crisp, serene voice:
“They have branded you a witch, cousin, magicks or no. Worse still, some have branded you a poisoner; a murderess. They think of you as some spider or snake who kills men after you bed them.”
“If I was, I would at least be smart about it and wait until they gave me an heir.”
“Regardless — men will fear you wherever you go, now. They are simple creatures, men, no smarter than pigs. They are afraid of what they do not understand, and the thing they understand the least is a woman who they think is powerful.”
“I will be the Queen,” Baelinor replied. “What is more powerful than that?”
The Seastar smiled like she’d said something the height of wit.
“And do you think they loved Rhaenyra the Cruel? Do you think they embraced her? Fear is a weapon, cousin. Wield it.”
“Mummy always says that love is better than fear when it comes to ruling.”
“Your mother is many things, Princess, but she does not know the trials awaiting a queen regnant,” Shiera Seastar gave a sympathetic smile. “Love may not be a luxury you can afford.”
The morning she turned two-and-twenty, she sat in her bed and wondered how many other women had known three husbands by her age.
She supposed that not many women would know three husbands over the entire course of their lives, let alone in the span of seven years. She thought that even two husbands was a rarity for most, especially in times of peace, when a man was more likely to outlive his wife, so easily lost in the childbed.
A knock on the door drew her from her thoughts.
“I’m awake,” She called, “Come, Alba.”
The door opened, but it was not her lady's maid that waited without, but her mother.
“Linnet,” Queen Elaerea smiled fondly as she approached her bed, “Happy nameday.”
Her mother wore a gown of pale pink, conservatively cut. Her golden curls were pulled back from her face in a severe coif, but she was not wearing her crown. Two-and-forty, she was still as beautiful as she was in the old portraits the King kept around their private chambers. She did grimace a little as she lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress; her back had troubled her ever since she’d laboured with her last babe. Even after six pregnancies, she was still trim and graceful.
(Then again, Baelinor supposed with a pang of sadness that she’d had little chance to be totally altered by the changes a pregnancy wrought upon a woman’s body — she’d only carried three of her six pregnancies to term. There was Baelinor, of course, and then her sister Rhaelle, who’d come six years after, who had been a great surprise. Then the next two ended well before their time, and the last… Baelinor did not like to think of poor little Daenar, who had only known five moons of life.)
“Here,” her mother continued, holding out a small box. Within, Baelinor found a pair of silver earrings, fashioned in the shape of dragons. Their eyes were gleaming, milky opals.
“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“Your father thought gold and rubies would be better suited, but I think silver goes so well with your complexion.” Mother tweaked her chin lightly before sitting back. Baelinor picked one up and rubbed her thumb over the delicate wing. She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“Today — am I to expect a cattle show of a feast?”
Her mourning period had been over for two moons. She dreaded the thought of facing the marriage market again, but it would need to be done. If one of her husbands had given her a son, or even a daughter, it would be different. But they hadn’t, and so…
Her mother looked down at her hands and sighed.
“We did… Pay special mind to the guest list, aye. You might find the numbers… Unfairly considered toward young, handsome lordlings and knights,” She offered a chagrined little smile. Mother’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes; they never had in her recollection. The Queen was of a mournful, nervous disposition, more inclined to tears than laughter. But Baelinor loved her fiercely all the same. “Of course, we do not expect anything to… Leo’s death is still so fresh. There are no expectations on you today, Linnet. Only that you enjoy your nameday.”
Baelinor looked down at her bedspread as her mother clucked her tongue, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear.
“I’m so sorry, sweetling,” She offered weakly. Baelinor had quickly come to know that not many people knew what to say to someone who’d had to face widowhood so young, let alone so many times over. Every I’m sorry for your loss and he’s in a better place and I can’t imagine what you’re going through levied at her seemed hollow and uncomfortable, empty platitudes because people thought they were supposed to say such things to her. “If I could take this expectation away from you, I would in a heartbeat. But…”
“But we needs must do our duty, Mother. I know.”
The Queen gave another sad smile and touched her cheek.
“Your grandmother arrived late last night,” She said, drawing to her feet again, “We’ll break our fasts with her in my chambers.”
Baelinor was not close to her grandmother. The King had all but sent her from court when she was but a few years old — she’d gathered that his relationship with his goodmother had always been tense. Lady Arryn had returned to court briefly at the Queen’s behest after Prince Rhaegel’s death, but then Baelinor’s great-grandsire had died, bringing her into her ladyship. She visited court occasionally, usually on her and her sister’s namedays, but she was distant and stern, offering few compliments to her daughter and granddaughters and many critiques.
She wanted to whine and complain — she knew Rhaelle would — but she just nodded and slid from between the covers as her mother left her to dress.
In the wake of her mother’s departure, Baelinor considered the contents of her wardrobe. It would not be unseemly to stray from black. Her mourning period was over, after all. But it would also make a statement — she had not yet worn anything but black, and if she did now, she may as well paint a big target on her back and announce that it was open season for a fourth husband.
Would anyone want to invoke such ill luck upon themselves, she wondered? Her third marriage had been plotted out by her mother, grandmother, and great-aunt. She doubted Lord Corbray would ever have looked her way had his liege lady, his mother, and the Queen not turned his head — all the good that did him.
In the end, she chose a deep blue gown so dark it would appear black unless she stood in direct sunlight. She rang for a maid then, who helped her into the gown, then did her hair as she always styled it — most of it left loose to curl down her back in loose waves, though she always braided some back to curl around her ears like rams’ horns, or pinned into pointed horns at the top of her head. She chose the ram’s horns today, which were decorated with pins of opal and moonstone and the tiara that Father insisted she always wear as his heir, a slim band of unadorned red gold that lay across her brow.
Once she was bedecked in finery sufficient enough for the heir to the Iron Throne, Baelinor left the Maidenvault to go to her mother’s chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast. She’d dwelled in the Maidenvault since before she could remember, when her father was first crowned while the Great Spring Sickness still rampaged through the city. Her quarters in the Maidenvault were always meant to be temporary, but by the time the Sickness had fled their shores late in the year of two-hundred-and-ten, she was more than a year old and had apparently kicked up such a fit when they tried to move her into Maegor’s Holdfast that her parents had let the issue lie. Baelinor much preferred the Maidenvault to Maegor’s Holdfast, even now — her apartments were light and airy and spacious, and there was more than enough space to accommodate all of her ladies, as well as Rhaelle, who had been moved into the Maidenvault when she was old enough to leave the nursery, and her companions. Granted, she didn’t much think she would enjoy it as well if she found herself in a situation similar to her namesake’s sisters, but the main doors into the palace were never locked, and the guards posted around would never dream of keeping her from going where she pleased, when she pleased.
As she climbed the serpentine steps, her sworn sword fell in behind her. Ser Alyn Connington was the Lord Commander of her father’s Kingsguard. Nothing but the best for his heir, he’d said when assigning Ser Connington to her protection, though the Lord Commander usually protected the King himself.
“Will you wish me a happy nameday, ser?”
“Happy nameday, Princess.”
“It hardly counts if I have to tell you,” Baelinor glanced over her shoulder at the white knight with a playful roll of her eyes. “Surprise me when you celebrate me.”
Ser Connington shook his head fondly; he’d been her sworn sword for three years and was well used to her by then. Men often japed that half the maidens in the realm wept when he was named a Kingsguard — he was, admittedly, very handsome. Three-and-thirty, he had a shock of that red hair members of his House were so well-known for, though most of it had gone prematurely grey; it was that, plus the queer shade of his eyes, a very pale shade of green, for which men called him the Pale Griffin.
He had been one-and-twenty when he was sworn into the Kingsguard, the youngest man to receive that distinction aside from some Darklyn or another who’d died within an hour of receiving his white cloak, so Baelinor didn’t half count that fellow. Father had bestowed the white cloak upon him for recognition of his service during Haegon Blackfyre’s folly. Ser Connington had further distinguished himself four years ago when Father named him his Lord Commander at nine-and-twenty, the youngest to ever attain such a position.
“What is your gift for me?” She went on as they arrived at Maegor’s. Ser Connington laughed.
“I thought you sought a surprise, Your Grace.”
“Knowing you, you got me naught at all, inconsiderate as you are,” Baelinor sighed and waited for him to open the door for her. “I suppose I must content myself knowing you guard me.”
“Aye, your life and continued safety should be gift enough.”
Ser Connington was one of the only people she knew who did not look at her like a thing to be pitied, which she was thankful for. He did not make mention of her husbands or how sorry he was for their losses, even though he had trained and played dice with the Young Thorn, even unhorsed him in a tourney once before he’d become Lord Commander. He just looked at her like what she was: his charge, a princess, the heir to the throne.
When she reached her mother’s chambers, two Arryn men-at-arms were already posted at the door, pointing to her grandmother’s presence within. Mother would still be in the Maidenvault; it always took Rhaelle the better part of an hour to rouse herself, let alone get dressed and coiffed to her contentment, meaning that she would be at Lady Arryn’s mercy for the nonce.
“Do you feel like protecting me now, Ser?” She asked as the two falcon knights bowed to her. Her sworn sword chuckled.
“I needs must have words with the King before his day starts for truth,” he said, touching the griffin brooch that held his white cloak in place, which usually meant he had Lord Commander Business to discuss. “You’ll be fine until the Queen and your sister arrive. How troublesome can a woman of eight-and-fifty be?”
But Ser Connington did not know her grandmother, who proved that little old women could be very troublesome, indeed.
Lady Alys Arryn was quite openly snooping through her mother’s desk when she entered her chambers.
“You won’t find much of interest, Gran,” She said by way of greeting as she strode in, “Mummy hates all that boring naff about ruling. The most you’ll find is — “
“Plans for luncheons and hunts, aye,” Her grandmother scoffed and closed the desk drawer, “I always tell her to take more of an active role in your father’s business, but… What can a mother do?” The Lady Paramount of the Vale straightened up and ambled over to pat her on the cheek, “Hullo. How are you doing?”
Baelinor had not seen her grandmother since Lord Corbray’s funeral — the brief visit that had started with her third wedding.
“I endure,” She said diplomatically, which she found was easier for the lords and ladies who asked similar questions to stomach than I don’t care that I’m thrice-widowed, and will probably be quarce- or quince-widowed by the time the gods are done with me. Her grandmother clucked her tongue and patted her cheek again, then went over to the solar table.
Though nearing sixty, her grandmother was still the picture of health — all that mountain air, her father was wont to say, and not very happily — and moved better than many women half her age. Her hair, once a golden, honey blonde like her mother's and sister’s, had long gone to a bright, snowy white, but she still cut a regal, stately figure in the black she’d worn for fifteen years since Grandsire’s death, lined but not wizened by age.
As maids brought by tea to tide them over until the Queen and Rhaelle made their appearance, Lady Alys sat back in her seat and studied her critically.
“Have you considered what I said to you at poor Leo’s wake?”
Baelinor thought back on that dreary day — people had said a great many things to her while they watched his casket loaded onto the ship that would bring Lord Corbray back to Heart’s Home to be buried. It took a moment for her to remember her grandmother’s advice, but she remembered. There is always young Symond, her grandmother had said of the new Lord Corbray, her unmourned husband’s little brother. Baelinor had wrinkled her nose at the notion — young Symond was eight years her junior, and was betrothed to a Mooton to boot, though she was sure her grandmother could prevail upon him to set the poor girl aside for a prize as weighty as becoming the future Prince Consort.
“I am barely out of mourning,” She said awkwardly, stirring some cream into her tea. Her grandmother looked at her, utterly disbelieving the notion that she had ever shed tears for a man she’d been married to for a sennight; that she knew for a tenday. But before she could make further remark, they could hear Rhaelle’s high, pleading voice:
“But what of Duncan? He is not so much younger than me.”
The door opened, and Lady Alys rose to her feet as Mother herded her sister into the room. Sixteen and radiant, Rhaelle stopped long enough only to wrinkle her nose at their grandmother — she had inherited Father’s dislike of her, though she had never heard of the words ‘subtlety’ or ‘courtesy’, and thus never bothered to cloak that dislike in distant courtly manners as he did — and kiss Baelinor on the cheek before she dropped into a vacant chair.
Her sister was an exact twin of their mother, right down to the same bright, brilliant indigo eyes. Her smile came easier and more frequently, but that was the only difference between mother and daughter. Occasionally, Baelinor had it in her to be jealous of Rhaelle, who looked like she’d stepped right out of the pages of a faerie story as an ideal princess, thin and blonde and beautiful. She was sure Rhaelle was jealous of her and all that she stood to inherit, but… Such was the way of sisters, she supposed.
“Duncan is eleven,” Her mother replied, stepping aside so the servants could bring in their breakfast, “And more interested in dragonflies than he is in girls at this age. You’re too young to worry about such things yourself.”
Her younger sister had been obsessed with the notion of marriage since she’d flowered — her older sister’s tribulations with the whole affair of marriage had not tempered that haste.
“Linnet was my age when she married the Volantene.”
“A lot of good that did me,” Baelinor replied, but Rhaelle ignored her to go on:
“And you were three-and-ten when you married Daddy.”
“It would have saved us both a good deal of heartache if we’d waited a little while longer,” The Queen replied calmly, her gaze roving to bore into her mother. Lady Alys did not even blink as she helped herself to some bacon.
The four of them gave themselves over to breakfast and lighter topics — what they would wear to the feast that night, who they hoped would prevail in the jousts on the morrow. Rhaelle still managed to bring up the topic of suitors all the same:
“Mayhaps I will bestow my favour upon whoever wins the day. I’m sure they’ll crown you their queen of love and beauty, but I would enjoy a fair knight as a husband, I think.”
“You’ve read too many faerie stories,” Baelinor shot back primly. She’d had a fair knight as a husband, and while he was not cruel, it was not some great, sweeping romance either.
“It would be improper to court,” Lady Alys said suddenly, “It is your sister’s nameday, and… Well, she must make a marriage before you do. It is of higher importance for her — she needs must bring about the future King.”
Rhaelle scowled at their grandmother as the door opened again — as if the mention of Kings had summoned him, their father was there, trudging in over the threshold.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” King Valarr said. He had his crown on, but he went over to the sideboard to take it off at once — though it was a slender, delicate thing, it weighed heavy on him. He rolled his neck as he set the crown down on a pillow left there for that purpose, then turned to the women seated at the table. Mother rose to greet him, and he slid a hand around her waist, murmuring his greetings as he kissed her. Baelinor pulled a face, as she always did — forty years old, more than two decades married, and they still behaved like children madly in love.
“Happy nameday, Linnet,” Father told her when they had separated, coming over and kissing her on the temple, then rounding the table to greet Rhaelle in the same way.
“How was the Council?” Baelinor asked as he nodded curtly to his goodmother and took his seat beside the Queen. She was about as interested in the day-to-day of ruling as her mother was, but she tried to make an effort — she would inherit his crown, after all, and she knew he had great expectations on her.
“The same as it always is — as enjoyable as a room full of old men griping at me and each other for an hour can be. I’m glad to be rid of them for the nonce, and with my best girls.”
The Small Hall was packed with bodies, and true to her mother’s apologetic confession, she could count that there were six young men for each young lady present, not to mention old widowers who mayhaps thought they would have common ground, and unavailable men who were there to represent brothers, sons, or friends who could not for one reason or another make it there themselves.
Baelinor picked at her supper and tried not to be too aware of the eyes on her. She was used to people staring at her, from smallfolk to Lord Paramounts. The energy in the room seemed heightened, and the men present definitely took note of the colour she wore — she’d changed into a dark purple gown for the feast, similarly dark in shade to the gown she’d worn in the morning, but most importantly not black, though she half suspected that she could have been decked in the heavy crepe and veils of a woman fresh in mourning and the hopefuls of the realm would still be ogling her like a prize stag to bag on a hunt.
She picked at her serving of stuffed swan and watched the peacocks swagger about below the dais, comparing themselves up against one another as they waited for the dancing to start so they might pounce. The men of the realm had a death wish, she decided. That was the only explanation for it. They were content enough to whisper and snicker and speculate about curses when her back was turned, but the moment she was presented on a platter for husband number four, they were all much too eager to clamber over each other for the change to expose themselves as the next victim of that curse, all for a taste at royalty.
Her head was pounding — the Hall was too hot, the music too loud... The whole night was too much. She liked to socialize, usually — she liked to be the centre of attention. But tonight... And she would have to do it all again at the tourney that her father was putting on in her honour, which would span over the next five days, and then again during the evenings during the feasts.
Baelinor pushed back from the table, turning to her parents.
“I need some air,” She announced, cutting into their tender, whispered conversation. Father looked up, his brow creasing in concern.
“Is aught amiss?” He asked, but Mother laid her hand on his arm. She looked up at her with abject pity and, worse, understanding.
“Take Ser Connington with you. And don’t tarry — the cake will come soon.”
Baelinor nodded her thanks as she stood. Her sworn sword fell into step behind her as she headed for the doors, doing a fine job of fielding off the bolder hopefuls who stepped forward as she stepped into the markedly cooler corridor.
“Will you have a conniption if I go out into the gardens at this hour, Ser?”
“The moon is full,” Ser Connington replied, “And I suspect if there are any knaves in the vicinity, they would be found in that ballroom. Stay close at hand, though.”
“Don’t I always?”
There was something uniquely beautiful about the gardens at night. Her mother spent too much time and coin maintaining the various gardens of the Red Keep for them to be anything but beautiful, no matter the time of day, but there was something about this particular garden, overlooking the godswood, that came alive at night.
The cool night air was fragrant, and the myriad of bright white and purple blossoms seemed to glow in the silver light of the full moon. Somewhere above her head, a nightjar was chortling its trilling song, and fireflies flitted through the flowers like wandering stars. In short, it was a far cry from the stuffy, overloud ballroom.
Baelinor came to one of the stone benches dotted along the garden path and sat down with a sigh. She smoothed her hands over her knees and peered up at the night sky. Her uncle had taught them all to her, from the King’s Crown to the Sword of the Morning. Thinking of her mother’s siblings brought on a pang of sadness, though, so she pushed her uncle from her mind and looked up at Ser Connington.
“I think it must be some sort of universal law to feel morose on one’s nameday,” She said with a slight, bitter smile. “I don’t think I have ever gone through a full nameday without shedding at least one tear.”
“Growing older has a habit of doing that, I find,” Ser Connington replied. He did not sit down beside her, but remained standing, shifting idly from one foot to the other as his eyes scanned the garden around them. His hand was not on his sword, but it was near enough that he could grab the hilt and draw his blade at a moment’s notice if need be. “You reflect on the past year; your whole life. You linger on your regrets and the ills done against you.”
She sighed and leaned back against the ornate back of the bench, and looked back up at the sky, tracing the Ice Dragon’s tail.
Baelinor opened her mouth to say something further, but before she could speak, she became aware of another sound, underneath the night birdsong — a rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk. It took a moment for her to place the sound, but when she realized it was the sound of arrows sinking into wood, she sat up. Father had allowed her to train in the basics of swordplay and archery; it was vital for any woman to know how to defend herself, he was wont to say, especially one as important as the heir to the Throne, and she knew that she must be daughter and son in one since she had no brothers. That rhythmic sinking thunk was familiar enough to her, but only in the appropriate settings. Certainly not in one of her mother’s flower gardens in the middle of the night.
Ser Connington must have noticed it, too, for his hand had gone properly to his sword. Baelinor rose, and he extended a hand out to hold her back.
“Stay here, Your Grace,” He murmured, but his command fell on deaf ears as she strode forward, following the sound.
The source of the disruption, it turned out, was a young man about her age. He was using an old oak as a target, sinking arrow after arrow into the trunk. He was tall, broad of shoulder, and dark of hair. He wore a brown doublet with a wide cloth-of-gold sash, though his back was to her, so she could not see his face or what sigil he bore upon his breast.
“That tree was planted in the days of the Dragonbane, ser,” She called. The man startled, jerking his bow to the side. The arrow he was in the midst of firing shot uselessly into the garden to fall somewhere into the soil. “My mother will be most upset when she sees the state of it.”
The man turned to her, wearing an expression of uncertain insolence, but it disappeared the moment his eyes settled upon her face. He lowered his arms and dropped into a low bow.
“Your Grace.”
She took him in. He had dark eyes and a long, stately nose. He was tanned but not dark, like he’d spent a fair amount of time in the sun as of late. She did not know this man — all of the men her parents had invited, she was aware of on at least some level: they had distinguished themselves in tourneys, for good or for ill, or had hung around court. If she did not know their faces, she at least knew their names.
Baelinor dropped her gaze to his breast, taking in the red stallion there. She thought of the Brackens of Stone Hedge, recalling her lessons on their current members. Lord Otho had only daughters. Three of the four were married with children of their own, but none would be old enough to be this man, who looked to be her age, nor would they bear the arms of their mother. She knew the Brute had brothers, but she was not aware of them enough to know of their children.
At her back, she heard the whisper of Ser Connington’s blade beginning to be drawn — he, too, realized that this man was a stranger, and had deemed him a threat.
“I thought archery was the sport of Blackwoods,” She said calmly. Ser Connington put his hand on her arm, trying to pull her back. She brushed him off. “Any self-respecting knight would say it is the work of cowards.” The work of cowards and women, the Red Keep’s master of arms was wont to say, to stand here and kill a man over there; if you’re to take a life, at least do the poor sap the honour of looking him in the eye as you do it.
“Bold of you think I am a self-respecting knight, Princess.”
“So you are not a knight?”
“Oh, I am. It was the other part that you were mistaken over.”
“Princess. Your father — the King — will be expecting you soon. Let us go.” Ser Connington’s voice was harder than she’d ever heard it. She knew his gruffness, and the reminder of who her father was was entirely for this strange Bracken’s benefit. She let him clasp her by the elbow and drag her back toward the Tower of the Hand.
“What is your name, ser?” She called as he did. If her septa was about, she might have hided her. A princess did not shout across a garden like some common fishwife. But her septa was not there. The man smiled, and she found it pleasing enough.
“Theodard Bracken, Your Grace — my friends call me Ned.”
Ser Connington tugged on her arm again, hard enough for her to wince. She laughed and turned fully, walking along instead of being dragged like some misbehaving kitten. When they reached the doors, she turned back around and inclined her head.
“It seems I must bid you goodnight, Ser Theodard.”