Chapter Text
Ashford is said to have fresh cherries all summer long, and she means to see it for herself. So she dresses simply and asks Ser Donnel to accompany her to the market. Since he cannot go without his Kingsguard armor, she tells him to keep his distance to give her some measure of privacy.
The air is cleaner in the Reach, and she lets herself fill her lungs with the morning breeze—far from the stench of King’s Landing, which she was forced to grow used to. Not even the incense she keeps burning in her chambers can mask the city’s foul smell.
Merchants offer their wares with enthusiasm, and she samples everything from peach cordial to sugar sweets that melt on her tongue. She buys both, though they will likely end up in the hands of the castle servants as a gift for their work.
She knows her place in the royal family. Prince Baelor is always reminding her with a look she has learned to recognize from afar, ready to step in with well-meaning words. She must help polish away the tarnish on her husband’s name with her natural kindness. And if the Gods should bless her, give him a son he can be proud of.
She is admiring a seamstress’s neat work when a boy runs past her side. In the crowd, the child bumps into her by accident, and the little pouch of coins slips from her hands to fall to the ground. Some roll beneath the woman’s stall, and she watches with suspicion, fearing it might be part of a trick to rob her.
“Oh. I’m sorry, my Lady.”
She knows that voice, and looks down at the bald boy before her, who has quickly dropped to his knees to help. She freezes, thinking she might be hallucinating—but when the thin, small lad stands up and lifts his face with an outstretched hand, her eyes widen as if she has seen a ghost.
“Aegon!” She leans down to embrace him tightly, pressing him to her chest as if he were her own son. The boy is still at first, then shyly returns the gesture.
“Gods! Your father thought you were dead.” She pulls back to look at him, holding his cheeks to check for wounds. Finding none, she can only let out a sigh of relief. He looks well and healthy, even if his clothes are unfit for a Targaryen prince: a mud-stained cloak over a dirty tunic.
“Are you all right? Are you with Daeron? I’ll call Ser Donnel!”
“No! My Lady, please don’t.” Egg catches hold of her dress sleeve to stop her before she can turn to search for the knight, whom she has lost in the crowd.
“My dear, what happened? What became of your hair?” she asks in a quiet voice, running her fingertips over the sudden baldness on his head.
Once the boy finishes his rushed, puppy-eyed tale, she can only furrow her brow with worry. Not for her stepson, who is clearly safe, but at the thought of facing Maekar’s wrath with more than harsh words if he learns what he would surely call betrayal. She is used to his cutting tongue, and though he has never laid a hand on her, she always feels a slap might come at the smallest misstep.
“I cannot do that, Aegon. Your father is searching for you.”
“Please, my Lady! I’ll find him after the tourney. I promise you.”
She hesitates, picturing the worst for the boy in a tourney field: tampled by a horse or run through by a lance shattering on impact.
“You say you’re with Ser Arlan of Pennytree’s squire?” She remembers where she heard that name, from the tall and silly man they met after arriving. She had found him charming, but her husband had hated him.
“Do you know Ser Arlan of Pennytree?” Egg’s blue eyes shine like bright stars at the mention of a man he could never have known in life. She has never seen him so happy.
“No. But Prince Baelor does. He says he jousted against him in a tourney where they broke four lances.”
“Seven.”
“Your uncle said only four. That man corrected him too.”
“Duncan. Ser Duncan the Tall. He’s a good knight and he keeps me safe. I promise you, stepmother. Only until the tourney ends, then I’ll present myself at the castle to leave with you all.” The boy pleads, and she knows she cannot refuse him. Not him.
Daeron is always too drunk to notice she exists, Aerion scorns her before everyone, she has never met Aemon, and Aegon is the only one who never treated her like a plague.
“Are you eating properly?” She asks in a rush, spotting the Kingsguard in the distance craning his neck to find her in the crowd. Dressed in a plain brown gown, she blends well with the locals, giving no hint of her station as a prince’s wife.
“I am. Salt beef and eggs, but it’s fine.”
“Do you know where your brother is?”
“Last I saw him, he was at the inn on the edge of town.”
“Go now, Egg. Ser Donnel is coming this way.” She whispers the order like a conspirator, pressing a handful of coins into his hands.
Her stepson melts away into the market’s bustle. She wonders if she made the right choice, or a terrible mistake, but it is too late for regret.
She spots him from the box in the first tourney, perched on the hedge knight’s shoulders, cheering loudly with every strike. She smiles the whole time, never taking her eyes off him, not even when she feels Maekar’s sideways glance, trying to see what has caught her attention in the stands. She stands to applaud when Valarr advances to the next round, and the young prince makes her a courteous gesture as he lifts his helm. Her husband snorts irritably, but her brother-in-law smiles warmly.
Prince Baelor would not allow them to sleep in separate rooms as is their custom. He says it would spark gossip about their marriage, and they have no choice but to obey the Hand’s wishes.
She needs no servants at night, so she dismisses them after they help her untie her dress laces. She sits on the edge of the bed and begins brushing her long brown hair. Her former betrothed had loved it, said it was beautiful. Maekar has never said anything of the sort. She knows he thinks her plain at heart.
“Why did you applaud for Valarr?”
She startles when she did not hear him enter, and stops the brush mid-stroke. She does not look at him, though she knows he is watching from the door, where he has just tossed his cloak to a servant before dismissing her with a curt wave.
“Because he is a Targaryen prince.”
“Would you have applauded for Daeron?”
She doubts her eldest stepson could have won the joust, but nods anyway.
“Of course, my Prince.”
She lies down first, pulling the blankets up to her chest and lying still against the pillows. The great Lords’ pavilions are in full swing, and she would have loved to attend one of the celebrations, but she cannot go without her husband.
She closes her eyes and pretends to sleep, steadying her breathing so he will not know she is acting. She hears him undress, blow out the candles, and lie down beside her. Cold silence wraps around them, and she wonders what Prince Baelor talks about with his wife at night. If he tells her of his day, his hopes, if he cares for her, if they hold each other as they soothe one another to sleep.
She was meant for great love. The youngest of many sisters, her hand was promised to her childhood best friend, who was named a sworn knight in service to her house only a few moons before a fever took him to an early grave.
A year later, when her mourning ended, her father sent her to the capital as rumors spread that Prince Maekar was being pressed by the king to take a second wife. Feasts and balls were held, and she attended with little hope. Her house was small, her family neither powerful nor rich, and there were dozens of women more beautiful than she.
But he chose her. When she asked why, hours before they spoke their vows in the Great Sept, he told her she was the quietest of all his options. And she understood what her future husband wanted from her: silence.
She must have fallen asleep for real, because when she next wakes to the feel of his fingers on her shoulder, she is turned away from him, facing the wall. She does not move, blinking slowly, sure it is part of a dream, but soon feels the bed shift as he presses himself against her body.
He cares nothing for whores or serving girls, deeming them unworthy of his royal blood. The first time he lay with her on their wedding night, in the haze of pleasure after taking her virginity, he whispered his dead wife’s name in her ear: Dyanna. She had wept, and it had displeased him, so he finished the deed with his own hand. They never spoke of it again.
She feels him hard against her back, rubbing against her shift beneath the blankets. He is a broad man, and she is small of stature, so they fit together perfectly. His large, calloused hand moves from her stomach to her breast, pausing there to feel the beat of her heart. He is a clever man, and does this to know if she is awake.
“I cannot sleep." He says in a rough voice near her ear, holding her neck gently but firmly, making his need clear. She feels his beard scrape against her nape.
She knows what this means. It is the only reason he seeks her out. She turns slowly in the strong arms that hold her fast, and her hand finds its way beneath the blankets to his cock. She brushes against his hip bone by accident, and he holds his breath in anticipation.
She finds it stiff against his belly and begins to stroke him. She has experience in this now, and in taking him in her mouth, for he refuses to put a child in her.
“Fuck, you’re so good…” He groans, sensitive as she takes a drop of precum from the tip of his penis and uses it to massage him better. It is hot and veiny, and she can feel it throb beneath her palm. It has been a long time since he called her to his bed.
She wishes to bring him pleasure this way alone, but she knows he wants more when he slides his hand down to the inside of her closed thighs, searching for her cunt. Her shift rides up her back as he plays with the wetness between her legs, sliding two thick fingers inside her until she gasps against his chest.
Maekar forces her to turn over again, and she lets him do as he will, like a doll. He presses her against the pillows, lifts one of her legs toward her chest to keep her open, and pushes inside slowly.
“Gods damn it. You’re always so tight.” He murmurs as she lets out a whimper of pain at the sudden intrusion. He is big, long and thick. She does not know if that is good or bad, but he seems proud of his cock as he fills her completely, though she thinks such vanity is a man’s thing. She has nothing to compare it to, he is the only one in her life.
The wooden canopy bed creaks and bumps against the wall of the adjoining room—Prince Baelor’s. She feels her cheeks burn at the thought he might be listening, but it seems that is what her husband wants, for he drives into her with the force of a bull. He makes her kneel on the bed, both arms pulled back behind her and held fast in one of his enormous hands.
“My brother wants me to put a child in you. Let’s hope this one turns out better than the others.” He grips the headboard with his other hand to drive himself deeper.
“I saw you looking at that knight.” He accuses bitterly, and she, who has been biting her lower lip to hold back her moans, frowns in confusion.
“What?”
“At that fool Baelor let into the lists.” His rough voice is furious, and he shoves her harder against the pillows than she would like. He takes her hips in both hands to lift them higher, and she clings to the sheets with a cry as he pulls out and thrusts back in brutally.
She is not used to this. She is used to his impatience when she pleases him with her mouth, saliva running down her chin, fighting off gagging with eyes glassy from tears. She always wondered if Dyanna was treated with such roughness, though she never had the courage to ask.
“I chose you over all the rest so you’d obey me, not stare at other men.” He pulls her shift up higher and slaps her hard on the ass, making her sob. She no longer cares if the heir to the throne can hear them.
“I… I wasn’t looking at him.”
And it was true! She had been looking at Egg, but she cannot tell him that.
He stops with a deep sigh when he hears her tearful voice. He pulls out slowly, and unlike other times, now he turns her over gently, settling between her open legs and caressing her thighs as if trying to soothe a nervous mare.
She does not have the courage to look at him, turning her face to the side, but Maekar takes her chin to make her meet his gaze. Once she overheard him telling his brother she was not as beautiful as Dyanna had been. She cried all night for it.
“You’re so young.” He murmurs with his brow furrowed as he runs his fingers along her jawline.
She had been a little younger than Daeron when they married. Aerion had cruelly mocked that his father had found himself another daughter to raise. And she knows Maekar chose her because, being so young, he could mold her to his liking. As he has done.
He guides his cock toward her cunt, but before pushing inside, he taps that hidden spot above her curls, sending sensations through her body that make her close her eyes. She clings to his arms on instinct the next time he enters her, and he kisses her. His mouth tastes of the wine they drank at dinner, and his beard tickles beneath her nose.
He never kisses or touches her outside the bed, and she, starved for love, returns the gesture with intensity. She has always thought him handsome, a true Targaryen prince with his silver hair and that look of disdain only a dragon could possess.
“You’re very beautiful.” He says as, once he finds a rhythm that pleases him, he kneads one of her firm breasts through her shift. She knows he is lying, for he only flatters her when he is fucking her, as if with these practiced words he can make her feel more like a wife than a whore.
He has a foul mouth and swears without stop as he draws closer to his release. His fingers touch that small nub above her cunt, rubbing without pause until she cries out, arching her back and squirming in his arms without realizing it, forcing him to press his hips harder against hers to hold her still. He is a strong man, and subduing her comes easily to him.
He comes with a fierce grunt, and she feels his seed spill inside her, thrusting a few more times as if unwilling to waste a single drop.
She prays silently that the gods will bless her with a child. A good child.