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Maekara broke her fast alone and in silence, as she had done so for almost three months now.
Ever since their return to King's Landing.
Ever since her audience with her father upon arrival, when he advised her presence would be tolerated only until Baelor was able to resume his duties as Hand of the King. That upon the moment Baelor was well, she would be sent to Summerhall (Her things had already been packed from the Tower of the Hand and placed into her old bedchambers upon their return).
The King had spoken, brutally, at length of finding a means to annul the marriage between Baelor and herself, four children born of the union be damned. Her sin of almost killing the heir to the Kingdom, her husband, the father of her children, her own brother, more than justified her father’s threat.
She had remained silent and bore the brunt of her father’s fury, for it was no worse than the rage that burns within her, the all-consuming self-loathing.
She continued her duties of attending Small Council meetings, but where she had once been honoured and respected as Baelor’s wife and princess of the realm in her own right, she was now met with cold judgment and calculated stares of those who believed she would try and kill her husband, her brother, for her own advancement.
It was almost laughable if she had the energy for humour.
Her own advancement?
She was the fourth child of the King, and a daughter; her two oldest boys were a drunkard and an arrogant brat in exile, neither of whom had ever been considered as contenders for the throne. They were barely considered heirs within the House of Dayne!
Her four younger children, born from her union with Baelor? Before Aemon had even drawn breath, her father had done everything in his power to ensure any child she bore to Baelor would be treated the same as any royal grandchild born to the fourth child of a King.
For Aemon to be seated upon the throne, many great tragedies would need to befall her older brothers and their children.
Her own advancement… a truly laughable notion.
“Sister?”
She looked away from her barely touched meal, from the papers she had been reading for the morning council meeting, and forced herself to smile as Rhaegel entered her chamber.
Though the smile slipped as she saw how dark his eyes were, the awkward pull to his mouth, hands wringing in front of him.
“Good morning, Rhaegel.”
“He is asking for you.”
Maekara felt her chest tighten.
Every visit since her return, since the moment Baelor had woken, Rhaegel had said the same thing.
“He is asking for you.”
She did not know why she had expected this visit to be any different, except that it was so much earlier in the day.
“He does not understand why you do not come to him.” Rhaegel continued as he collapsed into the chair opposite her and started toying with an apple.
“As it has been explained, the Maester wish for him to have peace and quiet, with minimal visitors.”
“You are his sister and his wife.”
And almost his killer, she thought as bile rose in her throat.
She pushed herself up from the table, only to grip the edge as a wave of light-headedness washed over her.
One hand moved on instinct to cup the swell between her hips.
“A new babe would bring much joy.” Rhaegel continued, his tone slipping slightly from distress to pure joy
A new babe.
As if the world needed another child of Maekara.
“Are you waiting for the child to quicken? Is that why you have not yet gone to Brother?”
I have not gone to Brother because our Father has decreed it so. And…
Even if Father had not, Maekara wasn’t… she couldn’t… how could she face him after her blow almost killed him? How can she face him when he chose a fucking hedge knight over her own son, his nephew?
“Rhaegel, it…”
“Excuse me, your Graces.” The two royal siblings turned towards the doorway of Maekara Solar, where one of her ladies maids stood.
“Speak, Elia.”
“The King’s has a message for you, Princess.”
Maekara swallowed.
A message from Father, so early in the morning? That was as bad an omen as Rhaegel beginning his pestering of her to visit Baelor as she broke her fast.
“Thank you, Elia. Send them in.”
Her Father’s herald bowed to the royal siblings the moment he entered, his face cut from stone and betraying nothing.
“Princess Maekara, the King has sent instructions for you to begin making your preparations to return to Summerhall today. Prince Baelor has been deemed well enough to begin resuming his royal duties this morn, and your presence upon the Council is no longer required nor welcome.”
It burned.
To be so easily and coldly dismissed as if she was nothing more than a Flea Bottom whore.
How many years had she fought and bled for her father’s throne?
She had done all that was asked of her as a daughter, had stepped into the role of a second son because Aerys and Rhaegel were ill-equipped to stand by the side of the King and his beloved heir.
Married at fifteen to a stranger of her parents’ choosing - Arthur Dayne… he had been a good man, a good husband. She had wept and sworn vengeance when his head was taken by the Blackfyre bastard.
Birthed two healthy sons – at least they had appeared healthy and hale at birth… they had been such happy babes – before her twentieth year.
Had gone into battle at Baelor’s side, led the vanguard despite all doubts.
Baelor hadn’t.
Baelor had never doubted her.
For all he had been furious to discover her amongst their soldiers, he had not sent her home in disgrace. He had trusted her, trusted her abilities, put her in charge of the vanguard despite great protest. In return, she had not let him down. She had stood strong, the anvil to his hammer.
She had accomplished much in her father’s and family’s name.
However, Father had never forgiven her for marrying Baelor, blamed her for seducing his heir after Jena's untimely death. Viewed her marriage as a betrayal that ruined his plans to forge new alliances by marrying off his widowed children. When he discovered Maekara’s attachment to Baelor, he was forced to find matches for Aerys and Rhaegel instead. Maekara regretted this, considering her older brothers: one more interested in books than people, married to a forgotten wife whose lack of intimacy haunted her footsteps, and the other so sweet and gentle yet often near madness. At least, Rhaegel's marriage was happy; he adored his children, though more playmate than father. He loved them dearly.
From her side, Rhaegel lets out a pitiful noise, his hand lightly reaching across the table to grasp her wrist as if he believed his presence would be enough to stop her from leaving.
Maekara swallowed the burn in her throat.
“Has the King said anything of when I might return?” She wants to ask of Baelor, because Rhaegel, for all his frequent visits between his two siblings, cannot tell her much about their brother's condition.
“The King…” Her father’s herald actually hesitates, his gaze briefly dropping to the visible swell of her belly, before catching himself and turning back into the epitome of decorum. “The King advised that a discussion will be held, at his pleasure and at such a time, your unborn child is old enough to be presented to court.”
The burn grows.
So anywhere within two years then. And that was not to say Father didn’t simply have knights sent to Summerhall and take the babe, leaving her behind to rot. Her father was very good at taking her babes away from her. Though maybe it was for the best, as clearly there was something wrong with her line that was not apparent in Baelor's boys with Jena or Rhaegel's own three.
“The King has given leave for Princess Daella and Princess Rhae to return to Summerhall with you.”
Her heart leapt for just a moment.
Her girls…
Only… to take them with her would mean them having to leave their father. Cruelty beyond measure. Her precious girls loved their father, and he them. She had caused so much hurt already, she refused to add to the festering wound in hopes of easing her own selfish loneliness.
Daeron was at Summerhall – though maybe she should write to Dyanna, and negotiate the renewal of his previous failed fostering at Starfall. He had been young when he had been returned to hers and Baelor’s care, the drinking and nightmares believed to be due to homesickness or an early sign of mental ailment similar to that of his uncles, rather than anything truly sinister. Now, though… the drinking was worse than ever, but without Baelor's steadying presence, Daeron would surely become even more adrift. Dyanna had always handled her nephew well, the only one who truly had outside of Baelor, she would surely help set the boy on the right path where Maekara had clearly failed.
And maybe being away from Maekara… maybe it would do her firstborn good.
It was her hope for Aerion…
And for Aemon
For Egg…
“The girls will remain here.” She spoke around shards of glass, “I will not have their education interrupted, and they are companions to my brother’s children.” She forced a smile at Rhaegel, who was watching the exchange with an expression of deep hurt.
“Very good, Princess. Your father has already requested carriages to be arranged for yourself and your belongings and…”
“I will ride, thank you.” She said flatly.
“Maekara…”
“I have ridden during all my pregnancies; this one will be no different.”
If this babe can survive its mother fighting in a Trial of Seven, a few days of riding will do it no harm.
“If that is all,” Maekara said, speaking over Rhaegel's quiet starts of protests, “I have much to do.”
Her father’s herald bowed to her and then to Rhaegel before departing.
“Maekara… I do not wish for you to leave.”
“But it is Father’s wish, Rhaegel. And I must obey.” Her brother’s soft eyes begin to water, and she moves easily to his side. “Do not weep, Rhaegel. I am leaving, yes, but you and the children are most welcome to visit me.”
“And the babe.”
“And the babe, yes.” She pressed a kiss to her brother’s dark hair, “Now I have much to do, dear brother, and you have children who must be wondering where you are.” She watched her brother’s eyes light up at the mention of his children. “Go to them now; they have surely not eaten all of the morning meal.”
“Alright, sister.” Rhaegel rises to his feet and knocks their foreheads together fondly. “I will care for the girls as if they are my own.”
“Thank you, Rhaegel.”
Her brother leaves, and for a moment, Maekara is alone in her solar, fighting down tears and the desire to scream, before her ladies-in-waiting are bustling around her chambers, packing what little needed to be packed in her room. With her belongings from the Tower of the Hand on her father’s orders, the moment he learnt of what had happened at Ashford, and had them placed back in her old bedchambers, Maekara had only pulled from trucks that which she needed, never bothering to unpack with the threat of Summerhall hanging like a blade over her head.
She is just finalising the last of the paperwork she had been working on for the Small Council, along with a letter to her wayward boy – Fuck your hedge knight. Return to the Red Keep NOW! – when there is a quiet knock upon her door.
She does not acknowledge it, not when it was likely servants coming to begin carrying her belongings to her awaiting carriage.
“I was beginning to fear Rhaegel was lying to me when he said you were uninjured from the Trial.”
The quill fell from her hand as her head snapped upwards to stare at Baelor, standing in the doorway of her chambers, leaning heavily upon a cane, but alive, alive, alive, staring at her with his beautiful mismatched eyes.
There was no anger, no hatred within them, just questions, relief and above all love.
He stepped further into the room, looking at her packed trunks with a satisfied nod.
“You are returning to the Tower then.” Not a question, a fact. And oh, it burned, the flames licking at her flesh.
“No,” Her voice comes out strangled, and Baelor’s eyes are immediately upon her, his beloved face stern as he silently waits for her to continue, “to Summerhall.”
He nods again
“Summerhall. I have missed Summerhall.” His smile was soft and fond. “I think I would be more than happy to spend a few peaceful months…”
“No…” it burns, it burns, it burns. “Just me. It’s… just me. I am to return to Summerhall. Alone. You are to remain here. At the King’s side.”
As it should be.
“Leave us.” The command is measured and calm, a command not to be ignored. Her ladies give her a single look, before they bow and murmur ‘your grace’ beneath their breaths as they take their leave, the door of Maekara’s solar closing softly behind them.
“Baelor!”
Baelor ignores her outrage as he approaches her desk slowly, the cane gripped in white knuckles, eyes burning with a fire that so few rarely saw, but when the fire was lit, all who witnessed it were keenly reminded of the dragon blood that flowed through his veins.
“Explain.”
“I already have. I am to return to Summerhall, and you are to remain here.”
“No one has discussed this with me.”
“Of course not, you’ve been recovering from a fucking head wound for over three moons!”
“And yet, when I am well enough to resume my duties, I am to discover by chance that my wife is leaving for Summerhall. My wife, who has been absent from my bedside since our return to the Red Keep. When on the road, I am told, she did not leave my side even once. That she barely ate or slept the entire journey.”
“We did not know if you were going to live or die! Here…” Her voice catches in her throat, the pain of being shut out, of being accused of attempted Kinslaying and being denied over and over again a chance to even look in on her husband.
Baelor’s face softens as he cups her cheek, his thumb wiping away tears Maekara had not realised were starting to fall.
“Maekara…”
There was a knock upon her solar door, and Maekara tugged her head away from Baelor’s warm, dry hand and wiped her eyes free of tears in irritation as she rounded her desk.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Princess, we are here for your luggage.”
“Enter.”
Several manservants paused in surprise to see their Prince standing in the Princess’s solar.
“We are…”
“Yes, yes, get on with it.” Maekara snapped, furious and bitter, glaring at everyone and no one, wishing she could just leave herself and put some much-needed distance between her and Baelor.
“You will be taking them to the Tower of the Hand.” Baelor’s voice is tight and not to be ignored.
“Your-your Grace?” The servants shifted uneasily, “We… our instructions are to take the Princess’s luggage to the carriage bound for…”
“Indeed, and I am giving you new instructions to take her luggage to the Tower.”
“The King…”
“Yes, the King! Fucking ignore him,” Maekara snapped, waving a hand at Baelor to silence him, “and follow the orders you have been given by the King. Now.”
“No, not now,” Baelor said, moving to her side (tap, tap, tap goes the fucking cane upon wooden floors), “if you are going to fight me on this wife, then none of your belongings will be leaving this room. You may leave.” He nodded his dismissal to the servants.
The traitors leave even faster than her ladies-in-waiting had.
Baelor locked the door behind them.
“So… Father’s orders.” Not a question, a statement, and Baelor looked most displeased.
She turned away from him, turned back to her desk, trying to ignore the pinch in her lower back and nausea brewing in her belly. No good. She kneaded the heel of her hand into the ache.
“Maekara.”
“What? What would you have me say? Yes, this is by Father’s fucking orders!”
“He has no right to send you away.”
“He has every fucking right when his fucking daughter lands the wound that almost killed his heir! Fuck Baelor, do you even understand how close you…” she can’t look at him, can’t bear it, she is sick to her guts thinking of how… how close he had… how close she had come to have…
She gripped the edge of her desk, breathing hard, kneading desperately at the pinched nerves in her lower back and desperate to swallow down the bile in her throat.
She can’t stop the whimper that escapes her when Baelor’s is by her side again, one hand returning to cup her cheek, while the other grazes the swell of her belly.
“A fucking hedge knight, Baelor.” She hisses at him.
“Hmmm,” Baelor pressed a kiss to her temple, “you fought while carrying our child, beloved.”
“Do not… do not put this back on me.” She snaps, trying to squirm away from him, “I had no idea! The Maester say conception was likely within days of the fucking shit show.”
“Hmmm.” He cups her belly between his hands, smiling that rare, quiet smile that he wore during her previous pregnancies and when the children had still been small babes.
She loved that fucking smile. And she hated that he wore it now, when she would soon be without it for who knew how long.
When she could have been without it forever if…
The agony of what could have been, and by her own hand, hits her anew, like a blow from her own mace, and she staggers back and away from her husband, who looks equal parts understanding and hurt by her action.
“I forgive you, beloved. We were in combat, and you were trying to get to your boy. There is no blame.”
A strangled sob fights past clenched teeth.
“Me. Do you understand, Baelor? Me! My fucking mace, my fucking strike that very nearly killed you! You can not…”
He stepped once more into her space, catching the fingers of her right hand in his and raised her fingers to his lips.
“My wife is very strong.” He kissed each fingertip lovingly as if he did not hold the hand of his almost killer.
“Maekara, look at me.” She scowled through burning eyes as Baelor other hand, once more cupped her cheek and forced her to look at him.
“There is no blame. I forgive you.”
She opened her mouth to protest, to yell and scream and call him a fool and beg for forgiveness and curse him for the whole fucking situation because of his ridiculous notions of chivalry and duty, but the words die in her throat when Baelor’s arms are around her, pulling her into his solid chest and kissing her as if she is precious and worthy of his affections.
He doesn’t stop kissing her when he moves them from her solar into her bedroom, empty of her possessions save for the bed still made up with linen.
She tries to protest as Baelor’s clever fingers – there is a faint tremor to them now – make swift work of the ties of her gown and pins holding her crown braid in place. Tries again to protest against his murmur encouragement to help remove him of his own clothing.
Out of instinct or habit, despite her weak protests, they are soon both naked and falling upon her bed, Baelor above her, kissing her throat, her breasts, moving down her body like a man starved.
“Hello, little dragon.” Maekara fights down a sob, her fist pressed against her mouth as Baelor places kisses upon the swell of her belly.
“Strong wife,” Baelor whispers, as he makes room between her legs, braced on his elbows above her, foreheads touching, “so strong. To go into battle, carrying one child while fighting to protect another. A true dragon of the blood, my love.”
“Fuck me.” She growled, embarrassed at his praise, chest tight and heaving, grief and guilt and shame holding fast despite Bealor's hot and heavy body pressing her into the bedding
“I shall,” Baelor promised as he pressed a kiss against her mouth. “I shall fuck you until you cannot remember your own name. But I will have you hear me, truly, when I say to you that you are not to blame for what happened. I will say it as often as you need to hear, but I need you to take my words to heart.”
She glares up at him, bucking her hips and tries not to gasp at the drag of his cock head against her folds.
Baelor eyes closed, a soft groan of relief before he was rolling his hips in return.
“Fuck me, Baelor.”
He kisses her softly as he takes his cock in hand, positioning himself at her entrance before gently, slowly pushing inside.
By the time he is fully sheathed, she is crying again, face buried into his neck as trembling fingers reach up through his dark curls and cup the spot her mace had made contact.
She could feel the just-healed wound.
She could feel…
Baelor's hand was there, taking hers, pulling it away from his head, intertwining their fingers together as he pushed in deeper.
Their lovemaking was slow, gentle and extremely thorough. If she were not already with child, she surely would have been after the hours spent with Baelor’s cock buried deep within her. He seemed loath to withdraw from her heat, and her legs wrapped tightly around his waist so as to keep him close.
“I have missed you dearly these past moons, my love,” Baelor whispered into her ear as they lay in the quiet warmth of her thoroughly rumbled bed, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist – one hand protectively resting upon the swell of her belly – as he held her close to his chest.
There are no words for how much she missed him, so instead she twists enough to press a long kiss to his willing mouth.
The kiss breaks when they hear the sounds of knocking upon Maekara’s chamber doors, and the faint calls for them, muffled by the heavy wood.
She starts to rise, only for her to be pulled back against Baelor. She turned back to him, surprised.
It was unlike her husband to shirk from his duties.
“I have only just risen from my deathbed, or so I am told, I think I deserve a few uninterrupted hours of peace with my wife.”
“Father will be most displeased.” For many reasons. It was likely he had heard by now that Baelor had come to her chambers, and since Baelor had not left them, their father would come to the predictable conclusion of what they were doing.
Their father had never been subtle about hiding his disgust for their marriage or that they consummated it regularly.
“I will handle father.” Baelor's tone is cool, measured as he presses a kiss to the back of her silver head.
That will be a conversation Maekara will gladly miss.
They can not stay abed forever, so after noon, they reluctantly leave the comfort of Maekara’s bed and step out of her chambers together to face the awaiting world beyond.
As was expected, Daeron was deeply unhappy with the pair of them, but as was so often the case, by the end of their private audience, Baelor had charmed their father.
Baelor was simply too dear to Daeron, and the threat of Baelor leaving for Summerhall with Maekara had been enough for their father to agree to Maekara’s return to Baelor’s side.
“Thank you Father.” Baelor had said as their audience came to a close, back straight, eyes clear, voice steady, ever the image of the perfect prince, perfect heir. The only tarnish to the image was the cane grasped with white knuckles.
Their father had given him a tired look that spoke volumes of how deeply unhappy he was about a great many things: the Trial of Seven, the long-lasting consequences of Ashford, the fact that his youngest grandson was gods only knew where, their marriage. But he had dismissed them with good day before sending them on their way.
If it had been up to Maekara she would have had Baelor retiring to bed to rest, for though he hid it well, fatigue showed in every measured step, and the tightness around his eyes a clear indication he was suffering a headache.
“I wish to see our girls. Their visits were few and far between, and I have missed them.”
Their girls were beyond delighted when both mother and father found them in the gardens with their uncle and cousins. Dropping the teacups they had been holding, the two girls had barrelled to their father’s side, demanding affection and reassurances that their papa was recovering well, that he was alright now. Once the girls had settled, Rhaegel three stepped forward, eager to speak with their favourite uncle.
“Sister?” Maekara turned to Rhaegel who had come to stand at her side as they watched Baelor lovingly listen to the excited chatter of his girls, his nieces and nephew.
“I am staying Rhaegel.”
“As you should. You and Baelor are not meant to be apart.”
“No,” Maekara agreed as she stared at her husband, at their daughters, as she cradled her belly, “no, we are not.”