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Chapter Text

King’s Landing is a very busy city, Maegara has found out. Only some twenty years since its first house was built and the once struggling village had already grown larger than White Harbor and Gulltown. She had no doubt that it would soon surpass Oldtown and Lannisport, becoming the shining beacon of the continent. It makes sense, of course. The capital could not be smaller than the cities of their vassals.

As her litter passes through the city, Maegara has to admit to herself that, though it wasn’t as beautiful as Dragonstone, one could say it had its beauty. There were manses, fish markets, houses built atop each other, septs, arbours, granaries, brick storehouses, timbered inns, merchant stalls, taverns, graveyards and brothels. Atop Aegon’s High Hill stood the pink foundations of the castle her father was having built, a castle the smallfolk were already beginning to call the Red Keep.

But her destination was not her brother’s future seat. Instead, she was led to the Hill of Rhaenys on the north side of the city, where the Sept of Remembrance stood. This was a very special day, for she would be married to her brother, finally fulfilling her destiny of becoming the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Today was the most important day of her life, her wedding day.

Despite what many might think, Maegara doesn’t need to look at herself to know that she is no bashful maiden. Despite being still a year from becoming a woman grown, she looks tall and proud in her bridal raiment, sitting on her litter. Her hair has been brushed until it shines like beaten silver, and braided up, falling in rings around her round face. She can feel the pins securing the tresses in place, threatening to poke holes in her scalp, and the pearls that have been brushed into her hair.

As do all other brides wishing to maintain their maidenly reputation, she wears white. The gown of ivory silk has been embroidered with silver as bright as Maegara’s hair, the bridal cloak of pure white to rival Ser Addison’s. Father insisted that it would not do to remind the people even further of the incestuous match by removing one Targaryen cloak only to wrap another around Maegara’s shoulders, though she could not care less what the people think. 

Even the delicate silver jewellery and amethysts sparkling across her neck and wrists shine with the sunlight hitting it through the veiled windows, amethysts dotting her hair and complimenting her seven-pointed star necklace. All of it meant to elevate Maegara in the eyes of the people, to make her a bride as pure as the Maiden herself.

Her gown is only the start of a new series of outfits for the new Princess of Dragonstone. Father insisted on a trousseau fit for a Queen, and Maegara knows her bridal dress is only one of so many more commissioned for her new life at court. The importance of her public image has been lectured to her time and again by her parents, especially now that half of the country seems to be against them. It took nearly a year for her to understand, but she did. She is ready for the crown.

Maegara watches as her father’s men bring her to the Sept of Remembrance, observing the smallfolk who have gathered to catch a look at the Princess and watching the warriors lining the streets of King’s Landing. It has been a fortnight since their arrival, or so Tabitha Rosby claims. Her father tried to stop their entrance, but clearly, enough managed to evade the guards at the gates to line her way. 

They wear inlaid silver armours and rainbow cloaks, their silver great helm with crystal crests and star-shaped crystals in the pommels of their longswords. She doesn’t need to look at their sigils to know who they are. The Swords of Oldtown, the Warrior’s Sons, come to witness the sinful wedding of their Prince and Princess. In the year since the announcement of her wedding, the Warrior’s Sons and the Poor Fellows, also known as the Stars of Lannisport, have crossed the country to arrive in King’s Landing. Over a thousand militants await a verdict in the outskirts of the city. She could hear them, shouting and rioting outside of the walls, making their displeasure known. 

But these Warriors do nothing. They only watch and that sends a shiver down her spine, her eyes catching one or two as they look at her. They line the way to the Hill of Rhaenys, observing every guest that came to her wedding, every servant to serve them. She wonders what they plan to do with such a piece of information, what they plan to do at all. The City Watch stands with them, but on the King’s side, holding back the leering smallfolk, who scream things as Maegara’s litter passes by.

“Brother-fucker!” they shout, “Abomination!”

Maegara sighs and settles back on the cushioned back of the litter, wishing she was at Dragonstone once again. Perhaps it was not too late to hold the wedding on the island, where half of the smallfolk were dragonseeds and worshipped the Targaryens like gods.

Their journey to the Sept is slow and packed, filled with the smell of King's Landing. Maegara continues to observe through the veiled window as the guards bring her to her destiny, where Aenys and everyone else await her. She catches the eye of a Warrior's Son or two and she wants to jeer at them, scream that there is nothing they can do to stop this. She is going to marry her brother before the gods, bear his children and bring House Targaryen to glory.

Though they stare at her with anger in their eyes, they try nothing. Perhaps because Balerion and Vhagar roar at a distance and Quicksilver flies in circles over the Sept of Remembrance. They know that no matter what they do, the Targaryens have dragons and even the sons of the Warrior can burn. She gleens at that, knowing that she is safe.

The litter comes to a stop before the Sept of Remembrance and Maegara sighs as she looks up at the building. It was an impressive structure with high and thick seven towers, a seven-walled central building made of a pale grey stone. The windows were high and thin, decorated with stained glass depicting the seven gods, catching the light. Maegara feels a smile creep across her lips at the sight of the images of the Seven. She had heard the whispers at Dragonstone but now she knows they must be true, for the Father Above has been rendered in a stunning likeness to her grandfather Aerion, so too has the Mother taken her likeness from Valaena Velaryon. The Warrior is the image of Aegon in his youth, the Smith must be Orys Baratheon, with his dark hair and eyes. And the Maiden is obviously Rhaenys, carved from pale glass and the brilliant beauty of youth. Maegara does notice with some pause that her mother has not been so honoured. The Crone is ancient and withered and ugly, and the Stranger’s face is hooded and vacant.

She doesn’t say anything as she steps out of the litter, helped by a servant. Only she continues watching the sept as her train is removed from the litter, walking up the stone stairs. She ignores the roaring crowd, who is of no bother to her. 

It was more of a citadel than a holy sept, as it had been designed by her father, who was no brother of the faith. Before the entrance, stands a marbled statue of a beautiful woman, a harp in one hand and a whip in the other, her aunt Rhaenys. Maegara sees guards moving around the towers, bows in hand as they observe the leering crowds, protecting those inside. 

Father spared no expense, she thinks as the double doors open for her and the entire Sept stands up to watch her. 

She is calm as she steps forward, alone. With her father as king and her mother a despised wife, she will walk herself down the aisle, with Alys and Tabitha behind her to carry her train. Maegara observes those who have come to the wedding, the livery of Lords Baratheon and Lannister making themselves known in the crowd. She sees two girls who look like Alys near a tall man with auburn hair and blue eyes, a man who wears a dark red jerkin and blue pants, a silver fish pinned to his scarlet cloak. Could that be Prentys Tully, heir to Riverrun and a close friend of her brother? She couldn’t tell.

The new Lord Lannister, Lyman, has deigned the wedding important enough to attend. Maegara recalls hearing about his grandfather and predecessor refusing to attend court unless summoned or grovel at Aegon’s feet for a position of prominence. Loreon the Last was a petty man and still sore at having lost his crown at the Field of Fire. Lyman is of age with Aenys, and a buxom brunette girl stands at his side, her chin tilted up haughtily. A Tarbeck, if the pale blue and ivory colouring of her gown is any indication. Maegara wonders how the Redwyne harridan feels of her son’s ascension, a few years too late for her to claim a regency, passed over entirely as Lady of Casterly Rock.

And she sees her cousin Davos Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End, a head taller than everyone around him. Maegara wonders why her uncle, who is her favourite relative beyond Mother and Aenys, did not bother to leave his seat for her wedding.

Davos, at the very least, seems like an enthusiastic guest, offering Maegara a smile when their eyes meet for a fleeting moment. His smile is brilliant and his messy black beard and curls have been tamed through some manner of sorcery. His gold and black livery prove a beacon, displaying for all that he is the only soul in attendance on behalf of House Baratheon, attended by some courtiers from various Stormlands houses. Maegara tries to note which have come with him for future note, for surely the others who have chosen not to at the High Septon’s request may prove volatile in the future. Selmy, Swift, Estermont, Tarth. Less than she hoped for, but enough to reassure her.

Her mother and father are at the front, near her brother. King Aegon wears his crown over his hair, which is neatly brushed, and a black doublet with red accents, the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered over his heart. Blackfyre hangs from his hip and his hand is on the pommel of the sword, just in case. It is her mother who catches her eye, however. The Queen wears a gown of dark purple and black, embroidered with silver to catch the light as she moves, with heavy sleeves and full skirts. Her hair has been braided into a bun, a silver circlet placed on her head and silver earrings hang from her lobes. She glows like a fairy, or a goddess, standing proudly at her daughter’s wedding, the result of all of her plans and machinations.

Despite being the most important person in the room for her, she looks at her brother last, mostly because of the long distance between the doors and the altar. Aenys stands before the septon with his back as straight as a lance and his chin held high. When his lilac eyes meet Maegara’s own, he smiles and it seems as though everyone else in the room has vanished. She has missed him so much.

Aenys has hardly changed since Maegara saw him. His hair still falls in its lazy silver-golden curls and his eyes are gentle and sentimental even as he tries to look serious for their wedding day. No expense has been spared on his clothing either. His doublet and jerkin are of the finest make, his black leather boots seeming to have never touched any grime. And across his shoulders is a black silk cloak with a massive three-headed dragon embroidered with a scarlet thread. A cloak that will soon be on Maegara’s shoulders.

He steps forward when she comes close, offering her a hand, and she smiles at him. Maegara swallows the desire to blow a kiss at him, knowing it would not be proper. Aenys helps her up the altar, where they stand between the windows bearing the Father and the Mother. He doesn’t let go of her hand even when the septon starts the service. The septon chosen for the ceremony hardly seems older than Aenys and Maegara. She thinks his name is Murmison or something. He could be a fresh-faced septon, newly ordained by the Faith and perhaps oblivious to the repercussions he might face for marrying brother to sister.

Aenys seems familiar with him if his sidelong glances and smiles with the man are any indication. Maegara has heard that her brother keeps the company of maesters and septons as well as the companions their father has brought to court for him. It doesn’t matter, though.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” says Septon Murmison and Aenys smiles at her, exchanging her maiden cloak for a Targaryen one. His hands linger on her arms for a bit, warmth radiating off his skin. She shivers with his touch, her entire body shaking.

He leans forward, his lips touching the shell of her ear. “You look beautiful,” he whispers.

When he steps away, she catches his eye, smiling at him. The look he sends her is filthy .

The septon then proclaims, “My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” He indicates for them to join hands and they do, Maegara’s atop Aenys’. Septon Murmison ties a white ribbon around their joined wrists, “Let it be known that Maegara and Aenys of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” The septon then announces, “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

He unties the ribbon and no one says anything for what feels like an eternity, time freezing as they wait for the continuation of the ceremony. Maegara looks at Aenys through the corner of her eye and she sees that he is looking forward, so serious, with a slight smile on his face.

The septon commands, “Look upon each other and say the words.”

Maegara turns to her brother and says, at the same time as he does, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

He smiles at her, looking so handsome under the coloured light reflected from the glass, “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Aenys turns to the crowd, silent before the incestuous wedding, and proclaims, “With this kiss, I pledge my love!” He takes hold of her face and pulls her close, pressing their lips together.

His kiss is sweet and gentle and she loses herself in it, stepping forward to kiss him better. Suddenly, Aenys steps back and polite clapping arises from the room. Maegara blushes at the idea of having crossed a line in front of everyone and she looks at the guests of her wedding. It only hits her then that she has done it, that she married her brother and will be the queen once he ascends.

She is married.

Aenys and her walk to the double doors, hands together, as the King and Queen follow them behind. It is the first, and only, time they lead a procession before their Royal Graces and she beams with the honour of it all. Her brother holds her hand tightly and when she looks at him, she finds that he is looking at her.

"I can't believe we have done this," he says.

"Me neither," Maegara responds, "This is the happiest day of my life."

He touches his chest, bringing her hand to his lips for a kiss, "And of mine."

She is pulled away from him suddenly, hands grabbing at her shoulders and arms. Maegara is shoved into a small room on the corner of the sept, the door hastily closed and before she can even say anything, four maids are atop her, removing the white monstrosity her father calls a wedding dress. They remove the pins from her hair, letting the tresses fall freely on her shoulders. Before she can say anything, they hastily make a new braid, though this one they do not pin up, letting it tumble down her back.

Once she is naked, they help her put on a pair of dark riding breeches and black doublet, with the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on her left breast. Maegara sighs in pleasure with the comfort of the simple clothes as she slips her feet inside riding boots. It has been a very long time since she was last allowed to wear something so comfortable.

When she is done, she steps out of the room, meeting her proud brother and mother, with her serious father off to the side. Aenys has removed his jerkin and cloak, looking handsome in his riding garb. His hair still falls on his shoulder in ringlets, too soft and gentle to be tied back.

“I’m ready,” she says, taking his hand in her own again.

It was not a silly mistake that made him wear his new riding boots to their wedding or an accident that Quicksilver was so close to the sept, his roars resonating throughout the ceremony. It was destiny.

They step out of the sept, still holding hands, and the commons turn to look at them, no longer jeering. Their guests stay inside as the Watch pushes back against the silent crowd, shoving a Warrior’s Son or two who dared to get too close. Maegara smiles, feeling vindicated as Quicksilver does another lap over their heads, before landing heavily on the ground before them.

Her brother’s dragon was a beautiful creature, born from one of the eggs Meraxes laid before her death. His scales were swirling silver and blue, the softest of colours, and his eyes were the colour of pale grey. He had a strong and long jaw, sharp black teeth and claws, and a long neck. His horns were the colour of graphite, darker than the rest of his body. Vhagar and Balerion did not have his beauty, as Quicksilver had been bred for a life of pleasure, while they were made for war.

On his back, there is a special brown saddle made just for them in the year since their betrothal was announced. Aenys is the first to step forward, accepting the whip handed over by a servant, and he climbs up on his dragon as easily as he would do anything else. Riding was second nature to him. She watches as he fastens the harnesses around his legs and waist, fingers moving ably.

The flight had been her mother’s insistence, a relic of an old Valyrian tradition of a couple flying together after their wedding, completely alone on the wild sky. Father and the court were scandalized when they were told, especially since her parents had not done anything of the sort, but Aenys thought it was a good idea and insisted on it being made part of the ceremony. Normally, Maegara would be atop her own dragon, but since she had not claimed any mount of her own yet, her brother would have to share. She doubts he minds it, though, since being on the same dragon would afford them a degree of closeness they wouldn’t have on separate rides.

She blinks when someone calls her name and she sees her brother looking at her, expectantly. It is her turn and Maegara walks to them, shaking slightly. It will be her first time riding a dragon and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous. It was something she was born to do and yet... Aenys helps her climb up, holding her hand tightly, and she throws a leg over Quicksilver’s back, settling behind her brother. Not before long, she too is secure in her saddle.

"Ready?" he asks her, turning his head slightly to look at her.

"Ready," Maegara answers.

“Hiyah!” her brother shouts, cracking the whip, “Sōvegon!”

Quicksilver lets out a roar, his own screams only matched by Vhagar and Balerion at a distance, and those nearest to them take a step back, frightened by his power. Yes, Maegara thinks, This is how it should be. Fear us. Fear me!

The dragon opens his wings and her heart jumps to her throat when he moves forward, taking flight. She wraps her arms around Aenys’ waist, not letting go, and a weaker part of her forces her to close her eyes, shutting them tightly. Despite everything, she is too scared to see as Quicksilver flaps his wings, going higher and higher until the people are little more than ants on the ground, faces turned up in amazement.

Her brother lets out a shout of excitement, one hand moving to touch hers on his waist, and he says, “Are you seeing this?” She can feel the wind on her hair and the sun on her eyes, blood rushing to her head. As she breathes in, she can smell her brother. He smells of a Lyseni perfume and apples. Maegara doesn’t answer him and he laughs, head tilting backwards, “Open your eyes, Meg. Look!”

How does he know she has them closed? It is the question that makes her look and she sees as they fly over King’s Landing, circling over the city once and twice. She can see how her father’s capital is almost square-shaped, and how the high walls surrounding it are no thicker than her thumb at this distance. She sees the foundations of the Red Keep and the Iron Throne inside of it, little more than a grey smudge.

Suddenly, she is laughing, because this is amazing. Her heart is pounding in her chest, her fingers are shaking and she can’t stop laughing. Aenys laughs too and before long, he guides Quicksilver northwards, telling the beast where to fly with commands in High Valyrian. His voice is full of confidence and strength, nothing she has ever seen on him before, and she tightens her arms around him, wanting to feel him fully.

Not an hour passes before the city is left behind, castles no more than shades of grey ignored by the pair of siblings and Maegara presses her lips to his ear, “Let us find somewhere private,” and she can feel him shiver when she speaks, looking at her through the corner of his eye.

She spots the perfect field from the sky. Stokeworth lands, if the fields of wheat nearby are any indication, and green as far as the eye could go. A field not in use by the local peasants, rested for a few turns of the seasons to keep the soil fertile. 

“There!” she screams, pointing at it, and Aenys barks out a command in their ancestors’ language. Quicksilver rushes to obey his master and turns his snout down, landing softly atop a small hill. She sees that a lack of agriculture has allowed tall blades of thin verdant grass to grow thickly, nearly to their waist. The land is open and free for miles and surely no one will notice them, for Quicksilver is still young and not terribly large like the Dread or Vhagar. They can do whatever they want, scream however loud they please, and no one will bother them.

Her brother dismounts first, more practised with the act than she is and Maegara is still fumbling with her harnesses when his hand touches her thigh, fingers brushing hers. “Allow me, sister,” he says, his voice husky, and she smiles.

He is so handsome, she thinks, And he is mine.

“Do as you will,” she responds and he unbuckles the first chain, stroking her leg as he moves. Her skin burns where he touches her, her body longing for his touch, and she sighs, biting her lower lip. His eyes meet hers, dark and full of lust and she remembers his letter, his first letter to Dragonstone, where he said that their wedding night would be most vigorous. Would he keep his promise?, she wonders.

Maegara turns to her other side, quickly undoing the harness on her left leg as he works on her right. She can’t wait. Her heart is racing, her palms are sweaty and she can't wait. She wants him, she needs him. He is hers and only a coupling can set in stone what was made in fire and blood.

Aenys puts his hands on her waist, softly stroking her belly with this thumb and he pulls her off of Quicksilver, settling her on the ground before him. In the year they were apart, she has grown to be just his height and they stare at each other as Quicksilver takes flight again and the sun hits their bodies. Wind flaps against them, rushing on her ears and ruining their careful hairstyles.

To her, Aenys is the most handsome man alive, the most perfect. There is no one who can compare to him in gentleness and kindness, no one who could ever treat her as rightly as he does. He is her perfect match, her perfect husband. How could her father ever think to marry her to Ser Daemon when her brother is right there? How could he do something like that to her?

He touches her cheek, pulling a curl of silver hair to the back of her ear. Maegara shivers with his fingers against her face, looking at him. “You’re so beautiful,” he says.

That is enough for them. Maegara steps forward at the same time he does and they press their mouths together, kissing. She takes hold of his face, pulling him to her, and he wraps his arms around her waist, closing the space between them. Their kiss is nothing like it was before. Their other kisses were childish, quick, inexperienced, an experiment of children who knew nothing about the world. This time, it is grown, lustful, slow and drawn out. She sighs against his mouth, hands flying to his hair, and she can't believe that they have done it. They are married, bound together for eternity, about to make a son.

Her stomach is knotting inside of her as she kisses him, pulling at his doublet and undoing the buttons and Aenys moves his hands to her pants, helping her discard them. Cold air brushes against her naked thighs as she removes his doublet and inner shirt, revealing his glorious chest. 

His muscles are not as defined as those of the other squires or knights in Dragonstone, but it doesn’t make him less perfect. Her hands stroke every inch of him, from his pink nipples to the thatch of silver hair that leads from his navel to his groin. Maegara moves her fingers to the knots of his breeches as he kicks off his boots, hands flying to her bottom. She did not wear any smallclothes to the flight and he touches her, pulling her against him, letting her feel how much he longs for her.

“Maegara,” he whispers, “Maegara, you are beautiful.”

“Aenys,” she responds, “Aenys.”

She takes off her doublet and shirt, standing naked before him. She doesn’t feel shy to be undressed, proud of her own beauty. She knows some people consider her fat, with thick thighs and large breasts, and that others think she may look too rough or manly to be beautiful, but Maegara knows her own worth. And besides, Aenys thinks she is beautiful and his is the only opinion that matters to her.

He kisses her again, lips moving from her lips to her chin, jaw, neck and chest. Maegara sighs when he kisses her breasts, curling her fingers into his hair as he takes a nipple into his mouth, tongue lapping at her. He raises his eyes to look at her, gauging her reactions, and she pulls him up, pressing her lips against his once more. 

Her brother slides his hands from her bottom, pulling at one of her legs, trying to make her as close to him as possible. Warmth pools between her legs when he touches her and she rubs her thighs together, hunger growing in her stomach. She needs him. “Aenys, I need you.”

“I’m here,” he says, kissing her, “Right here.”

Aenys bears her down on the ground before them, covering her body with his, and she kisses him, holding his head tightly against her. He tastes like wine and mint leaves, with a hint of apples underneath. He kisses her as his hands move to her knees, opening her legs, and he settles himself above her. She can feel his hard member pressing against her and it makes her sigh, parting her legs even more so she can feel him more fully.

The tall and green grass hides them from view and she can feel tiny stones poking against her back, dirt rubbing at her skin, but she doesn't care. She is with Aenys. Everything is right with the world.

Maegara opens her eyes when she feels a hand at her opening, a finger gently touching her clit. Her stomach tightens, desire flowing through her veins like blood. Her instinct is to put her hand down there too, to stop him or help him, but before she can do anything, Aenys notices her surprise. He kisses her ear, whispering, "Does this feel good?"

Hunger pools in her stomach as he touches her, trying to make her feel good. She wants to scream that there is no need for this, no need to prepare her, but suddenly he slides a finger inside her and it's so delicious that she doesn't say anything, only turning her head for another kiss.

He kisses her deeply, his finger stroking her clit slowly, and she moans, dipping her hands between them so she can find his member.

It is hard in her hand. Hard, but smooth, silky. She slides her hand up and down his shaft, struggling to help him make him feel as she does, but the angle isn’t right, and the feel of dry skin on skin bothers her. Maegara brings her hand to her mouth, licking her palm, and he groans, pressing down to kiss her again.

She takes his cock in her hand again and this is better, it feels better. She moves slowly, rubbing the head with her thumb, spreading his leaking seed. Aenys groans against her lips, thrusting on her hand, mouth going slack on hers. "Does this feel good?" she asks and he laughs.

"Yes," he says, lips on hers, "It feels very good."

She wants to continue her movements, but Aenys adds another finger in her, curling his digits inside of her and she moans, stretching her entire body. He rubs her clit softly and the feeling builds up inside of her, growing and growing until her back is as tense as a harp's chord, threatening to snap off. Maegara groans, letting her head fall to the side and he kisses her cheek, licking into her mouth.

Maegara can feel him observing her, watching her every move to see what makes her feel the best, and she could kiss him for it, if only she weren't so tense. It's as if she is waiting for something, climbing a mountain, reaching its peak…

Something breaks inside of her and she lets out a long moan, throwing an arm over her head, closing her eyes. Her entire body shakes as pleasure runs through her veins like blood, her toes curling. Aenys kisses her open mouth, his fingers continuing their assault on her, and she wants to shove him away because it's too much. This is too much.

But she doesn't get a chance to. Her entire body relaxes, her arms falling and legs resting as she comes down from her high. Maegara is out of breath, her cheeks flushed and she feels heat on her chest as if she has spent too much time close to the hearth. Aenys kisses the tip of her nose, removes his finger off her and says, "Good?"

He is smug about it. So smug. She could slap him for it.

Instead, she takes hold of his neck and pulls him close, letting his body fall over hers. "Perfect," she says.

Maegara kisses him again and his hands slide to her knees, pulling to his waist as he settles between her legs, her ankles crossed behind his back. She reaches down and takes hold of his member, aligning it with her entrance. "Ready?" he asks and she nods. 

Aenys enters her slowly, carefully. Deliciously.

She had been told there would be pain, she had been told there would be blood, and yet she feels nothing but pleasure as he moves inside of her, slowly fitting himself in her interior. He groans, closing his eyes and biting his lower lip, the feeling too much to handle. Maegara sighs and moans, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and Aenys kisses her again, lips soft against hers.

He moves slowly, thrusting as carefully as he can. Aenys holds his weight on his elbows, each on one side of her face. He leans down to kiss her and Maegara takes a deep breath, raising her hips to meet his thrusts.

Aenys is barely containing himself, she can see it, biting down on his lower lip to stop the moans from escaping his mouth. Maegara leans forward, pressing her lips to his ear, as she whispers, “Fuck, shit, cock.” 

He laughs, breathless, and nods, murmuring, “Fuck. Fuck, Maegara.”

His hips hit hers, rubbing at her in the most delicious way. Maegara kisses him, trying to get as much of him as she possibly can. He kisses her back, licking hotly into her mouth and Aenys slides his hands down her legs, taking hold of her ankles as he thrusts in and out, in and out.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice rising an octave, “I’m… I’m…”

“Do it,” she says, “Let go, Aenys.”

He closes his eyes, movement speeding up and suddenly he stops, grunting as he spills inside of her. A new warmth fills her up and she sighs, letting herself fall back on the ground. Maegara strokes Aenys’ back throughout it, whispering soothing words as he hits his peak. He sighs, breathless, and smiles, eyes still closed. She raises her hand and removes some of the hair that fell on his eyes, caressing his cheek as she does it.

Aenys removes himself from her and she shivers, suddenly feeling empty. He falls beside her, heaving, and they share a look, naked in the field. He is blushing, sweaty and completely unravelled. She has never seen him so dishevelled, so out of control and she starts laughing, because it is done. No one can tear them apart now.

Maegara presses her legs together, feeling her centre weak after such an assault, seed sliding down her thighs. She looks at her brother and finds that he is smiling, cheeks flushed.

“That was…” she starts, but there are no words to describe what they did, what happened between them.

Aenys nods, feeling the same, “Yes. I know.” He looks up and she imitates him, observing Quicksilver in the sky, flying in circles over them, “We have to go back. They will be waiting for us.”

“Do we?” Maegara asks, placing a hand on his chest, “Leave them to their feast. They won’t miss us. Let us stay here for a little while, let us make a son.”

Aenys smiles, “We have already made a son.”

“I want twins,” she responds, pouting, “Please, Aenys. I don’t want to go back so soon.”

She expects him to say yes, to say that they can stay and climb atop her again, ready to make another son, but he doesn’t. Instead, Aenys shakes his head and stands up, stretching his body. He is long and slim, taller than anyone expected him to be. She admires his form as he bends forward, picking up their discarded clothes from the ground.

“Come on,” he says, “We have to go.”

Maegara huffs as she stands up, accepting the pants and shirt he offered her. They dress in silence, pulling their breeches and putting on the doublet, knotting at the threads. When she is ready, she turns and finds Aenys waiting for her. He pulls her in for a kiss and she sighs, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“I know you don’t like humouring the lords,” he says, “But I promise to make it as easy as possible for you.”

“Thank you,” she says, “I appreciate that.”

He calls Quicksilver and the dragon lands before them, rising dirt and air on his impact. Aenys helps her climb on the mount, fastening the harnesses on her legs and waist. Being atop something so soon after their coupling is bothersome, but she tries not to let it mind her.

Their flight back to King’s Landing is silent, no words being needed to share between them and it is already dark when they arrive, landing in the courtyard before the manse her father had bought for them to use until the Red Keep was finished. The sprawling building is made of stone-and-timber and has its own garden, stable, and well. It has spiked stone walls, and an ornate bronze eye allows guards to look out through the gates. The garden has fruit trees and a stone bathing pond. They are welcomed by Ser Addison Hill and Ser Gregor Goode of the Kingsguard and Maegara wonders how long they have been waiting for them.

“I’ll see you soon,” Aenys says, already turning to follow Ser Gregor to his rooms. Maegara pulls him in for a last kiss before she too turns and walks to her own rooms, escorted by Ser Addison, her loyal sworn shield.

Her four maids are quickly on her when she arrives at the chambers, untying her hair and removing her riding habit. They say nothing at the dirt on her back and bottom, or the stones caught in her hair, but she sees the looks they share. The servants were not given any choice to accept or denounce her marriage, lest they wish to keep their jobs.

Maegara is dressed in a silver dress with blue accents, sapphires and pearls sewn into her bodice in the shape of the seven-pointed star. Her sleeves are thick and lined with blue velvet, pulled back to show the intricate design of the undersleeves. A brooch is pinned to her breast, with a miniature portrait of Aenys in it, and they give her a sapphire and pearl necklace, heavy on her chest. Her hair is brushed under a silver hood, adorned with more sapphires and pearls.

She is brought to the entrance to the salon, where the sounds of the music and the people talking echo through the corridors. There, she sees Aenys, standing before the closed doors, adjusting his clothing.

He looks very handsome, matching her in silver and blue. Her brother is wearing a cloth-of-silver doublet with blue satin sleeves and sapphire studs and striped black-and-blue breeches. His hair had been brushed till it shone like beaten silver and he was wearing sapphire earrings and more rings on his fingers than she could count.

Maegara takes his hand when he looks up at her, “It will be fine,” she tells him. They can hear the screaming smallfolk and the Warrior’s Son rioting outside of the walls.

“Yes,” he says, smiling, “I know.”

He nods at the guards standing before them and they open the door as the herald shouts, “Their Graces, Prince and Princess Aenys and Maegara of Dragonstone.”

The hall of Aegon’s manse is broad and long, decorated in a manner not so unlike Dragonstone. But rather than harsh black stone, the sculptures and walls are carefully carved of pink-veined white stone quarried from Tarth. Gilded sconces hold tallow candles scented with cinnamon and sweet almond oil, illuminating tapestries depicting Aegon’s Conquests and progresses across the Seven Kingdoms, along with various folktales and legends from all corners of the realm. Aegon’s high seat overlooks it all in an ivory imitation of the mounted throne from the Chamber of the Painted Table.

Those in attendance stand up when they appear, except her father and mother at the high table, and curtsy as they step inside, their arms linked. Maegara smiles at Alys and Tabitha, seated in places of honour with Lucinda Celtigar, and her ladies smile back, proudly bowing before their future queen. Alyssa and Daemon Velaryon have stayed in Driftmark, embarrassed at their great loss in the marriage game.

Aenys and her sit at the table before her parents, scandalously alone, and she sees from the corner of her eye as her father signs for the musicians to continue playing. Her brother holds her hand under the table, leaning into her to whisper in her ear, "You look beautiful."

“People will talk,” she says, leaning into him, “If you keep whispering in my ear.”

“Let them talk,” he answers, “This is my wedding feast and I am the Prince. I can do what I want.”

She giggles. This is a new side of him she rarely sees, a side born from their trysts in Dragonstone and his defiance of their father. Aenys kisses her cheek as a servant comes to fill their wine goblet before he straightens his back, settling back on his seat. She turns away from him and watches their wedding guests as they continue eating what must be just another course in the feast.

Maegara sees Tabitha Rosby take to the floor with Lord Selmy’s eldest son, pulling him by the hand. The heir to Harvest Hall and the eldest daughter of Lord Robby are a study in contrast. Tabitha is tall and slender and graceful with eyes so brown they are almost black. Lord Selmy’s son — Mychael, was it? — is even taller still, broad and awkward, his bright blue eyes sincere as he fumbles through the steps of the dance with Tabitha.

Tabitha wears a gown of deep emerald green, with her shoulders and the tops of her breasts brazenly exposed, cinching tightly at the waist before flaring out in a flowing skirt embroidered with blood-red roses. Her long dark hair is braided into a thick bun, held in place by a net of emeralds. Ser Mychael has on a wool doublet of light cream, with a cloak that bears the sigil of his house. He is smiling as he looks at her, and she is smiling too.

Maegara almost laughs at the image, for Ser Mychael’s eyes are utterly sweet as they gaze at Tabitha, seemingly oblivious of her dark lustful gaze as she leans into his strong chest and presses daring kisses to his jaw and neck when the eyes around them are looking elsewhere. They continue dancing as one music stops and another one starts, scandalously refraining from switching partners. It is daring and it amazes her.

A man approaches the high table, it is the same man she saw in the sept, with Alys Harroway’s sisters. Prentys Tully reaches them with his chin held high and blue eyes warm as they meet Aenys. He bows effortlessly, not an auburn curl out of place as he stands to his full height and brushes his dark blue doublet with his long pale freckled hands. 

“Congratulations to the lovely couple,” he says as he straightens up, “Seven blessings to you two, Your Graces.”

His smile is effortless and reminds Maegara of Aenys’ own. She can tell they are of a kindred spirit to each other from the familiarity of their voices. She has to stifle a laugh at the thought of how much the two have influenced each other, for she had heard on Dragonstone that Ser Prentys is among Aenys’ more recent companions, and the two had taken to each other in the weeks after Prentys was called to court in the aftermath of the announcement of Maegara and Aenys’ betrothal. She is thankful to know that Prentys is an ally to them, for his gaze betrays only loyalty to Aenys and no disgust for their marriage.

“We thank you, Ser Prentys,” her brother says, hand to his chest, “What a pleasure to see you here at our wedding.”

“Nothing could keep me from it,” says Ser Prentys, “It is the celebration of the century. The wedding of the heir to the most beautiful woman of all Seven Kingdoms.” He nods at her and she smiles.

“Please, Ser Prentys,” she says, “Your compliments will make me vain.”

“I only say the truth,” he responds.

Maegara likes him. “Well, then, I have nothing to say but thank you, and for my request for you to meet with the lovely Alys Harroway, who is longing for a dance in her seat.”

Ser Prentys bows again, “It will be my pleasure. I have heard nothing but good things about Alys Harroway, though I must admit the speakers may have been biased, since they were her sisters.”

They laugh, high and effortless, and Ser Prentys takes his leave. She observes him as he walks down the hall to Alys’ seat and bows before her, taking her to dance to the new starting music. Her friend smiles brightly as she stands up, smoothing down invisible wrinkles in her pink dress. Alys turns her face to Maegara and mouths the world thank you before being led away to dance.

“Sister, you deserve my congratulations, for you are quite the matchmaker,” says Aenys in her ear.

“I am no matchmaker,” she responds, “I only give people what they deserve and Alys deserves the very best of the Riverlands.”

He nods, “I trust your word on the subject.”

She watches as Alys is pulled into a spin, her giggles high and flighty, and her eyes search for Tabitha and Ser Mychael, though they are nowhere to be found. Where could they have gone? The table of her ladies is empty, save for Lucinda Celtigar, and the raven head of her friend is gone from the hall.

But Tabitha and Ser Mychael disappear from her mind when Aenys kisses her cheek, nosing her face gently. “Stop that,” she tells him, “People will talk.”

“We were gone for three hours on that ride, sweet sister,” he says, “People are already talking.”

Maegara has to admit that he is right. Their lateness was surely noticed, and she can’t trust her handmaidens to keep quiet about the dirt on her body, dirt on places that were clothed as far as everyone knew. She takes one last glance at their guests before she turns her entire body to him, taking his hand under the table.

“It is a grandiose feast,” she says, not knowing how to convey her feelings, “But…”

“It’s taking too long,” he responds, squeezing her hand, “Perhaps I can convince our father to end it earlier and start the bedding ceremony.”

“No.” She shakes her head, though all she wants to say is yes, “If we do that, people will definitely talk.”

He nods before he leans in and presses his mouth against hers. It is a short kiss, lasting only for a second, and it’s gone before she can even respond to it, but it’s sweet all the same, warming her up from the inside.

She is turned away from him from the sound of someone standing up and calling for everyone’s attention. It is her cousin, Davos Baratheon, who struggles slightly to remain afoot, too drunk already. He raises his horn of ale and says, “A toast to the lovely couple! May their union inspire a thousand songs!” He wavers, red-faced and jolly, “And their flight today… Oh, what a ride! To riding!” He pulls Lucinda Celtigar into a hug and her lady looks mortified, face as pale as a ghost.

Maegara smiles as everyone looks at her, the smile tight and strained on her face. She turns to her brother, who is much of the same. “Oh, but I do love our cousin Davos,” she says in a monotone voice, “If only he were less… happy with our union.”

“He’s just drunk,” Aenys says, “Don’t mind him.”

She rolls her eyes, “How can I not mind him? He’s making a fool of himself and our marriage.”

Aenys sighs and flags down a servant, pointing at Davos with his finger. The servant, a burly man, nods and walks to their cousin, whispering in his ear something and helping him leave the hall. She relaxes when he’s gone, knowing that he leaves with his shame, and sighs.

The rest of the feast passes in a blur. Maegara, who is not fond of dancing, remains seated at her table, Aenys by her side, and they receive the congratulations of those who dared to come close to them. She eats a little and drinks much less, but the night is not helped by the screams of the smallfolk outside of the manse, calling for their heads. She ignores them as best as she can.

Soon enough, her father orders the musicians to stop and the calls for the bedding begin. If she had to be honest, Maegara would say that she thought they would skip over this entire thing, as the wedding between brother and sister was not something many were comfortable with.

And yet, drunk men surround her quickly and they pull at her beautiful dress, making comments about her breasts and thighs. She gives as good as she gets, biting the hand of one who dared to try and pull her nipple, as well as cursing them to the seven hells as they lead her to her room. Let no man say that Maegara Targaryen came to her wedding bed as a blushing maiden.

But still, she is deposited inside a private chamber wearing just her smallclothes, with Aenys being pushed in soon after, with just his torn breeches to cover his decency. Maegara tries to smile at him but she is out of breath and Aenys walks past her, leading himself to the window.

She sits on the featherbed and removes her smallclothes. This will be no different than their tumble in the field. Perhaps it will be even better, with pillows to accommodate her aching back and head.

Maegara turns to her brother and sees that he is still on the window, observing the rioting and screaming commons. He is half-engulfed in shadows, the few candles in the room are not enough to illuminate his entire body and the moonlight makes his hair gleam like diamonds. “Aenys,” she says, tired, “Come to bed.”

He doesn’t seem to listen to her. “They are very angry,” he says, “I thought they would accept our union eventually, but they don’t seem to. They seem to hate us.”

“Their opinions don’t matter,” she says, her voice rising an octave, “Come to bed, Aenys.”

He shakes his head and she wants to scream at him, pull him to bed and ride him until he forgets all about them. Why does he care about the smallfolk? They are small, they don’t matter. They have no power and no volition, born to be ruled, not to rule. For goodness’ sake, they have dragons. If Father wants, he could burn them all to ashes, and no one would be able to do anything. Let them riot, Maegara says. Let them destroy themselves. It will not affect the Targaryens or their wedding.

But she doesn’t say anything, because something in her twists. She looks at her brother, at her kind and loving brother, and sighs.

“Aenys,” she says, gently. It is her softness that makes him turn to look at her, and she smiles, reaching forward with her hand, “Come to bed.”

He walks to her slowly, legs moving forward on their own volition, and he sits beside her, turned to look at her. Maegara smiles and touches his cheek as gently as she can, stroking at his face with her thumb. He touches her hair and her jaw, leaning forward to kiss her chin.

“Nothing else matters,” she says to him, “Just us.”

“Nothing else matters,” Aenys repeats and he kisses her.

He licks into her mouth, tongue touching hers, and she takes hold of his face, kissing him back. As he leans forward, she leans back, falling down on the bed. He covers her body with his, settling between her legs, and Maegara sighs as she feels his cock hardening, pressing against her.

“Oh, Maegara,” he whispers, “Maegara.”

She crosses her legs at his back, ankles locked and pulls him towards her, wanting to feel him fully. He groans at that, rubbing his member gently on her folds, and she sighs. “Aenys,” she says, lips pressed to his, “Aenys.”

Her brother enters her slowly, holding onto her back, and his hips start to move as he thrusts in and out. It hurts more than it did at the field, perhaps because this time she is not as well prepared, but she ignores the pain, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Does this feel good?” he asks between thrusts, out of breath.

“Yes,” Maegara says, “It feels very good.”

He kisses her cheek, his pelvis hitting hers as he moves. Maegara lets her head fall on the pillow behind her, closing her eyes as the feelings swim inside her. She can hear the screaming commons outside of the manse’s walls and the roar of their dragons, shaking the earth to its core, alongside Aenys’ moans in their tight and dark bedroom.

It makes her feel majestic.

It is three months after her wedding when the first signs appear. When her blood does not come for three moons, when she cannot go one morning without nibbling on ginger and costly arrowroot, when her breasts swell and grow tender to the touch, when she can scarcely look at venison without retching all of her stomach’s content. At first, she thinks there is a new illness coming to court, not letting herself hope without a reason, especially when Tabitha Rosby seems to be showing the same symptoms, but soon Maegara accepts the truth. 

It happens when her lady disappears one day, telling one person she would be returning to her father’s court in Rosby while, at the same time, telling another that she would be visiting relatives in Stokeworth. For a fortnight, no one knows where she is, until she suddenly appears in Harvest Hall one day, hastily married to Ser Mychael Selmy. It is a scandal if there ever was one and no one dares to say out loud what truly happened, but Maegara knows.

“She is with child,” she tells Aenys one night, when they are both naked in bed, his finger lazily drawing circles on her shoulder, “That’s why she had to get married so fast. Because she does not want her babe to be born a bastard.”

Aenys nods. He is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his skin glowing under the candlelight. It makes her want to kiss him and ride him again.

“I can’t blame her,” he says, shrugging, “Had Father not accepted our union, we too might have married in secret.”

Maegara nods. She isn't angry with Tabitha, or fearful that her scandal might reflect back on her. Instead, she pities her friend, knowing that this sort of gossip would follow her, and her babe, until she dies. She doesn't care that the child was conceived out of wedlock. Why would she care? She is a princess, wife of the heir to the throne. She has more important things to do in her life.

And it took Tabitha running away to get married to make her realize it.

She looks at Aenys, laying naked on his side, and she smiles. He smiles back, confused as a puppy and leans forward to kiss her, perhaps thinking she intended to lay with him once more. Maegara stops him though, taking his hands in her own.

He doesn't say anything as she shifts in bed, laying firmly on her back. Maegara brings his hand to her stomach and lays them under her navel, firmly. Because she is larger than other girls her age, the tiny growth is invisible to all eyes but her own, but Aenys can't deny the roundness of her belly and the firm bundle of life under her skin.

It still takes him a moment to understand. "Really?" he asks, sitting up.

Maegara nods, laughing. "Yes," she says, "We made a son on the field, my love. A son for House Targaryen."

He laughs and kisses her, pulling her up for an embrace. Maegara laughs, unable to not hug him tightly, and kisses him back.

"No, no," Aenys says, breaking their kiss, "I can't hurt the babe."

"You won't hurt the babe," she laughs, laying back down.

Aenys is smiling broadly, beaming at her, as lays beside her, placing a hand on her stomach. He kisses the spot above her navel, where her skin is the softest, and smiles, whispering against her belly, "Hello, my little prince. This is your father. Can you hear me?"

It's still too soon to know anything, and the child hasn't even quickened yet, but Maegara still smiles, stroking Aenys' hair. Let him speak to her belly if this is what he wants. She doesn't care. She has done her duty to him and to her house and they will have a son in the cradle within the year.

"I think he can," she tells him, curling his hair around her fingers, "Talk to him."

"Oh, my sweet prince," Aenys says to her belly, "I can't wait to meet you."

They announce her pregnancy a fortnight later, after Maegara has sent a raven to Harvest Hall, telling her friend of the news secretly and inviting her to return to her duties in King's Landing. She also tells Tabitha to bring her husband with her, knowing that Aenys would enjoy befriending Ser Mychael.

To say that the court rejoiced at their news is to be polite and very optimistic. The courtiers lied to her face often, praising her marriage and blessing her, but Maegara could see the courtesies were thin and forced, and their smiles never did reach their eyes. Some were still not pleased with the incestuous marriage of the prince and princess and this son was nothing but an abomination in their eyes, instead of a blessing. Besides her ladies, the only ones who truly seemed happy at the news are her parents.

King Aegon is pleased with the idea of his grandson, the continuation of his line and legacy. The end of House Targaryen had been a threat made by Aenys to force him to accept their marriage and her child surely made it all seem worth it in his eyes. He sends for a midwife to attend to her at all times and doubles her guard, having some of her mother’s trusted dragonseeds be brought from Dragonstone to serve her.

And her mother. Proud Queen Visenya seems ecstatic with her coming grandchild, or as ecstatic as she will allow her emotions to be. After the announcement, she comes to Maegara’s rooms, a servant behind her carrying a large chest. Her mother smiles at her and walks to her, touching a hand to her belly.

“This is grand, Maegara,” says the Queen, looking at her flat stomach, “The child of our hopes and dreams.” Her eyes seem to glint in the sunlight, purple and devious, “He is a dragon, I can feel it. His warmth radiates to my hand.”

Maegara smiles. I have a dragon in me, she thinks, victorious. “I can feel it burning in my throat,” she confides, “He is temperamental but strong. He will live.”

Her mother nods. “Yes, he will live, and he will be our own. We will train him to be a great king, Maegara.”

“And he will be called Aegon,” she says to her mother, “Aegon, Second of his Name. I saw it in a vision.”

Her mother smiles. The year they had spent together in Dragonstone was one full of learning. Ser Marq Massey did not allow her to spend her days in the courtyard with the other squires, and Septa Laena was too meek to make Maegara do anything she did not want to do, and so she spent her days with her mother, learning the careful art of magic and sorcery. There is still much she has to learn, but the first lesson has been to accept her visions as the truth. Not everyone was blessed with an inner eye and Maegara should count herself lucky.

Still, though she has yet to have a seeing without the glass candles to assist her, she is sure that it is only a matter of time.

The Queen indicates for the servant to place the chest on the table before them. It was made of wood, but had the appearance of something old, and aged, covered in dust and salt from the sea air. Instead of the Targaryen three-headed dragon, there was a symbol of two dragons in flight on the lock, circling each other. Maegara watches as her mother picks a key from a necklace she was wearing under her dress and picks the lock, opening the chest.

Inside, there is a series of bottles of different sizes, full of liquids of different colours and viscosities. Her mother hums as she examines them, picking one no larger than her thumb, filled with a red liquid. Maegara can see that there is something inside the liquid, a tiny branch, or a twig, with small berries that appear to be a shade darker than the fluid surrounding them.

“Here,” her mother says, handing her the vial, "Drink it up."

"What is this?" Maegara asks and her mother arches a brow.

"Lyseni wine," she says, "And dragonberries from our gardens, among other things." Mother smiles when she hesitates, "It will help with the heartburn."

Maegara doesn't want to drink something she doesn't know, especially when it has something to do with her son, but her mother's look is intense, telling her to drink up. She trusts her mother, doesn't she? Why would Mother give her anything that might harm the babe, her grandchild? She sighs and opens the vial, putting it to her lips. Her head tilts backwards and a thick liquid fills her mouth, sliding down her throat. It tastes sweet, almost too sweet, and she gags, wanting to throw up.

She presses a hand to her neck. Her throat feels tight and knotted, and the words die in her mouth, unable to pass through. Maegara brings a hand to her lips, and sighs, trying to calm herself. She thinks the babe might have moved, had he been big enough, and kicked her, but it probably is just her troubled stomach.

"You must drink it every day," her mother says as she chooses another one of her potions, "I will be sure to make more for you. I don't want my grandson's fire growing too large for comfort."

Maegara sits down, placing her two hands on her belly. With the passing moments, she feels better, and the constant burning at the back of her throat has subsided. "You have to teach me how to brew them," she says, "So I can make them for myself."

"Yes, of course." Her mother nods, turning to look at her. The Queen smiles. She is happy, happier than Maegara has ever seen her, and jealousy bubbles in her stomach to know that it is the babe that makes her so jolly, not herself.

Her mother makes her drink other concoctions, always saying something about the regularity in which she has to drink them until the babe is born or the things they would do to her body. A green liquid that burned down her throat to keep the child strong, more wine with blueberries and ginger root to help with her sickness and something chewable that tasted like spicy watered-down ale to dull the growing pain of her babe.

In the end, her mother kneels before her, a box she had never seen before in her hands. “What is it?” Maegara asks.

“Talismans,” she answers, “To ward off the evil eye and protect you.”

Maegara takes the box. It is enveloped by black velvet, soft on her hands, and she opens it slowly, carefully. Inside, there is a ring and necklace, silver in colour. The ring was melded in the form of a dragon biting its own tail, with rubies for its eyes, wings open as if it would soon take flight. The necklace, on the other hand, had a pendant in the shape of a fourteen-pointed flame burst, covered in rubies and topazes. They are beautiful, but they seem to glow rather strangely, catching a light that did not come from anywhere.

The ring is too large for her ring finger, and so she slips it on her thumb. It’s curiously warm, ruby eyes glinting. Maegara shivers as she feels sensational flames going down her spine, circling her belly and her heart. When her mother helps her put on the necklace, she sees that it is warm as well, and her stomach tumbles wildly, before suddenly calming down. Mother gives her a pointed look but doesn’t say anything.

“Never take them off,” the Queen says, “No matter how much it burns. They will protect you.”

Maegara nods. The threat of the Faith hangs in the air still, constant and volatile. The Faith’s disapproval simmers like poison, yet no action is taken by the Faith Militant or the Poor Fellows. The High Septon’s sermons are laced with veiled calumnies against incest, but he makes no outright denunciations of the Targaryens or Maegara’s child. The moon turns and turns and the realm seems on the edge of a precipice, with what lies ahead completely uncertain.

Tabitha arrives when they are both five moons along, her belly protruding from her small frame, making her look far more advanced than she really is. Ser Mychael is beside her, proud in his standing, holding her arm fiercely. The court follows Maegara with their eyes as she comes to greet her friend, Tabitha still stepping out of the wheelhouse.

They embrace as well as they can with their swollen stomachs, laughing about it as if it's an old joke. Ser Mychael steps away, ordering the servants who carry their luggage, and Maegara links her arm with Tabitha's.

"I should be very angry with you, you know," Maegara says as they enter the royal manse.

Tabitha frowns, "Your Grace?"

"You married without my permission, Lady Tabitha," she answers, hand on her stomach, "As my lady, you ought to have sought my consent before you consorted with Mychael Selmy." 

"Oh, Your Grace," splutters Tabitha, face as white as chalk, "Please accept my humble apologies… Myke and I only meant to…"

Maegara smiles wickedly. "And as your friend, you ought to have told me about your interest in Myke . By the gods, I had to find it out from Aenys!" She shakes her head, "At last, I'll have to forgive you, or else I would be forced to make the acquaintance of Lucinda Celtigar and who would want that?"

There is of course Alyssa Velaryon as well, as her lady is recently returned from Driftmark, but Maegara would never seek her out of her own volition. She might have won and gotten Aenys all for herself, but she would never forget that Alyssa sought to marry above her station. Alyssa Velaryon is nothing more than an ignored companion, alone and friendless at court. It’s what she deserves

"Thank the gods I have you two," Maegara tells Alys and Tabitha when they are alone someday, stitching new clothes for the babe, "I fear I'd be terribly bored without my friends to keep me company."

Alys smiles, beaming. She is happy because she received a letter from her father, saying that Ser Prentys himself approached the man, with an offer for her hand. The wedding would have to wait until she was six and ten, of course, but just the idea of an approaching betrothal made her flush with pleasure, as if she was already married and called Lady Tully. It both annoys and endears Maegara.

"Come, Alys," she tells the girl, pulling her by the hand, "Feel him moving." The babe is awake inside her, arms stretching to her ribs, tickling her from the inside. She can feel his little feet against her loins, kicking at her organs.

Alys leans forward and presses a hand to her belly, smiling. The babe kicks at her palm, seeking her warmth, and she giggles.

"He's got a strong kick," she says, "A little knight already."

Maegara laughs, placing her hand atop Alys. Her fingers are warm, curling over the curve of her belly, and she is smiling still. She is large, her feet are swollen and her breasts have grown to double their previous size. The child grows with each passing day, growing stronger and stronger. There is still time before he comes, but Maegara can already feel him moving impatiently, kicking at his constraints, unable to wait until she is due.

I have a dragon within me , she thinks, I can feel his fires licking my womb.  

Tabitha calls Alys to her, and the girl goes, reaching forward to press her hand against her belly. They laugh as they feel Tabitha’s babe kicking and Maegara smiles, pulling at a golden thread. She is making a shirt for the babe, with a light blue fabric and golden lining. Though blue is not a Targaryen colour, she thought black was too dark for such a young child and everything couldn’t be red, after all.

“I have been thinking,” Maegara says, embroidering swirls and curves on the sleeves, “Perhaps we should do a pilgrimage to the Maidenpool.”

“Really, Princess?” Tabitha asks, “Whyever for?”

She shrugs, “I would like for us to say our thanks to the gods for such a blessing, and ask for healthy sons and for an easy birth.” 

Alys smiles. She is wearing a dark blue dress, with a golden curved hood, and her ears hang with the weight of her earrings, “My mother is from House Mooton,” she says, “It will be nice to see my aunts and uncles.”

“Yes,” says Tabitha, “And perhaps swim in the waters of Jonquil’s Pool? I heard they have healing properties.”

Maegara nods. Maybe this pilgrimage is what it takes to settle the realm, to show all pious lords that House Targaryen follows the Seven, and is willing to do anything to pacify the kingdoms. She doesn’t think it will make the Faith like her, but some of the pious lords and smallfolk might just be pacified, and if the High Septon thunders and screams against her family, it’s better for the lords and smallfolk to love them. To look at them for guidance, instead of the septons.

Yes, it's a good plan.

Lord Mooton is a robust man with a chest like a barrel of Arbor gold. His face is broad and warm, his small blue eyes undeniably pleased to host Maegara and her retinue.

"Princess," he says, arms open as she climbs out of the wheelhouse, "What an honour to have you here at my home."

Maegara had come with a small escort, just over a hundred guards and her ladies. Aenys had wished to come too, either to provide support or to ensure himself of her safety on the road, but their father and her mother prevented him, as she had to do her pilgrimage alone, and no man was allowed inside the walls of the Maidenpool. The Queen had asked for her guard to be doubled, as it was feared she might be attacked by members of the Faith Militant, but her father had stopped that, considering no faithful man would attack a pregnant woman on pilgrimage.

Her mother might have demanded to go with her, and even bring Vhagar alone, had Father not insisted on sending her to deal with a brigand of thieves on the outskirts of the Kingswood. “What reason is there to worry?” said the King, waving his hand around as if the matter was not important to him,  “We send her to Maidenpool with a company of seasoned knights and men-at-arms, Lord Mooton is uncle to her treasured companion, and the journey there will only take a sennight, as will the journey back.”

To take her mind off the matter, her mother decided to plan her journey by herself and the wheelhouse commissioned to be built took two turns of the moon to be completed, the finest work of some thirty carpenters and blacksmiths. A double-decked monstrosity of gilded and lacquered wood, with Targaryen banners flapping along its sides. Inside is every comfort needed for an expectant princess and her lady attendants. Cushions stuffed to bursting with feathers to cushion every finely carved chair, tables and benches to dine at, beds weighed down with furs and quilted blankets, as well as dozens of tapestries to insulate the interior. Maegara and her ladies would travel in luxury, Visenya insisted to the Master of Coin when he balked at the cost. The Queen would have only the best for her daughter and unborn grandchild.

Alys giggles brightly as Lord Mooton picks her up with ease and kisses her on the cheek, his drooping auburn moustache no doubt tickling her fair skin. It’s a wonder the man is related to her, for how different they are in looks. Maegara thinks it would be fair to compare the man to a walrus from White Harbor, but he is Alys’ dear uncle and has no reported disgust with her marriage, and so she graciously accepts his hospitality.

He settles her down, kissing her cheek once more, and asks her about herself and her life as if nothing could possibly interest him more. Maegara feels almost jealous of her friend, as well as a little disturbed by the behaviour. She can’t imagine her own uncle doing something like that. 

She tries to remember the last time she saw Orys Baratheon. Maegara was just a young girl of six years, and he patted her head like she was a dog, asking if she wanted to hear his stories about the Wars of Conquest. He had won her instantly with that and, besides her mother and Aenys, her uncle was the favourite member of her family.

“It is a pleasure to have you and your ladies here, Your Grace,” says Lord Mooton, looking at Maegara once more, “I hope you will find our humble accommodations up to your standards.”

They are led to their rooms, Maegara accompanied by Ser Addison and Ser Robin Darklyn from the Kingsguard. There, she is presented to a group of handmaidens, preparing a warm bath for her to relax in after their long journey. Though the wheelhouse was as comfortable as possible, Maegara’s neck is as stiff as iron, bothering her intensely. They remove her blue dress and she sighs as the weight lifts off her body, liberating her chest and her belly.

“No,” she tells one of them with red hair when she tries to take off her dragon ring, “I will keep this one.”

The water is steaming as she enters it, just the way she likes it, and she sighs as the heat envelops her body. One maid tilts a bottle of honeyed soap into the bath, the scent rising softly in the air and the others set to work with their tasks. One pulls up a stool and gently lifts Maegara’s feet, working her swollen ankles with firm capable hands in a way that renders her utterly relaxed. Another takes a gilded brush and runs it through her hair, only stopping to pick at any tangles from the complicated braids Alys arranged for Maegara this morning. A maid in a sunflower yellow dress sits off to one side, a gilded wood harp in her hands as she gently plucks the silvery strings and starts to sing, “My lady love does me wrong, for I have loved you all along. The maiden in scarlet is fairest of all, from daughters of lords both great and small.”

Maegara can feel the knots on her back disappearing as they work, scrubbing her body of any dirt and all of the unpleasantries of their trip. She sinks into the water until only her enlarged belly and her breasts are showing, her nipples large and darkened with the progressing pregnancy. She is so relaxed that she starts to doze off, warmed by the waters and awakened only by the slight pulling of her hair.

Afterwards, they dress her in a soft dress of cream silk, with tight and fashionable sleeves. Maegara feels inclined to take an afternoon nap, something she has become rather fond of in the past few moons, but a knock to the door stops her from even coming close to the bed.

It is Tabitha Rosby, with a shy smile and a protruding belly. She too is washed and dressed, wearing a lovely green dress in the flowy fashion of the Riverlands, perhaps something borrowed from Lady Mooton? Maegara cannot determine, though it has to be said that the cultures of the Riverlands and Crownlands were sisters, with their close proximity.

“I thought I might attend to you,” her lady says when Maegara waves for her to sit down, herself laying atop a chesterfield, “The babe will not let me sleep.”

“You should chastise him,” Maegara says, yawning. She places her two hands over her navel, “This one keeps me awake at night with his kicking, while he sleeps in the day. I fear how he will be when he is born.”

Tabitha smiles, “My mother said babes are often different from their time in the womb. If you have a wild unborn, you will have a quiet newborn, or vice-versa.” Pregnancy has given her good health and her cheeks are flushed, her entire face a lovely shade of pink, “Soon, we will have our children in our arms. Won’t that be fun?”

Maegara tilts her head, “I suppose so.” She sighs, “Though, my mother says I need to feed my babe myself, as she did to me, and my aunt did to my brother. She says only a dragon’s milk can make a dragon strong.” She shakes her head, “She doesn’t seem to understand that I am not a cow. Feeding my own child? That’s for the commons to do.”

Tabitha tilts her head, her face one of thoughtful contemplation. “My mother fed me at her own breast, as she has done for all my siblings. She says that it binds a mother and child closer together. To be fed by a wetnurse will mean the babe depends on a woman other than you. I think I will feed my babe myself, if I am allowed. My goodmother seems of a traditional bend, however, and is cross with me for seducing her son.” 

Maegara presses her lips together. “Lady Selmy may hang, for all I care. I saw it with my own eyes. You did not seduce Ser Mychael and when your child is born, I will thank the gods for bringing him with good health, three moons before his time.”

Tabitha smiles coyly at that, her hand gently caressing her belly. “Stranger things have happened, Your Grace. My family is not known for their robust health, but perhaps I am an exception? My dear Myke is certainly of hardy stock. It would only be natural for his son to be similarly robust.”

"Of course, he will be."

Maegara leans forward, shifting in the cushioned seat, trying to sit up.

“But tell me, Lady Tabitha, have you got any whispers for me?” she asks, her voice dropping an octave.

Tabitha nods and leans in as well, “Lord Mooton’s septon has been dismissed, though I have yet to find out why. A local septon from the town of Maidenpool has been called to bless our feast tonight. He offered me his congratulations when I saw him on my way to our room.”

“Could the septon have been dismissed because of our arrival?” Maegara asks, “Maybe he disapproved of a woman carrying her brother’s child.”

“That was my guess too, Princess,” says Tabitha, “Lord Mooton has promised his protection, though, so you should not worry about errant septons. He is of no concern to Your Grace.”

Maegara nods, feeling slightly relieved. They spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing and talking, eating the buttercakes sent by Lady Mooton. When the sun sets and the moon comes out from between the clouds, Tabitha returns to her rooms to change, and the four maids of earlier return, helping her out of the cream dress and into a new one.

She is dressed in a light blue gown made in the gamurra fashion of the Riverlands, tight and constrict on her breasts, but liberating against her swollen belly. They brush her hair until it shines like beaten silver, letting it cascade down her back under a jeweled hair net. Maegara wears no jewellery beyond it and her ring and necklace, feeling like simplicity will win her more hearts than ostentation. 

Her guards accompany her to the Great Hall of Maidenpool and the servants that come on her way step aside, bowing before and murmuring “Your Grace” as she passes. Some smile at her, pleased to have a princess within their walls, and she can hear Aenys’ voice in her head. “Just a smile or a kind word can win you a thousand hearts,” he told her whenever she would complain about attending court. She tries to do as he asked of her and smiles at the passing servants, watching them beam under her gaze.

It is hard to smile and be kind, especially in her state, but this pilgrimage is not just for her holy duties. It is also to win hearts to the Targaryen cause and she will do that, no matter what.

She meets with her ladies outside of the Great Hall. Tabitha and Lucinda are conversing, while Alys stands to the side, observing one of the tapestries of Lord Mooton. Lucinda wears a lovely dress of light brown, with details in gold, while Tabitha chose a green one in the voluminous style of the Westerlands, a hood atop her raven head. Alys, on the other hand, is wearing pink, her hair bound in a plait that falls over her shoulder.

“Ladies,” she says as she approaches them, “Don’t we look fine?”

They curtsy before her, Tabitha struggling because of her belly, and Maegara nods at the guards who stand before the doors. She can hear the music and the guests of Lord Mooton talking as the doors open, and they step inside, Maegara ahead as always.

“Her Grace, Princess Maegara of Dragonstone and her ladies, Tabitha of Rosby, Alys of Harrenhal and Lucinda of Claw Isle,” announces the herald as they enter, all of those inside standing up to see the royal attendant. She sees heads craning to take a look at her belly, necks stretching before her.

Lord Mooton comes to meet her halfway. “Princess,” he says, bowing, “I must say that you look splendid tonight.”

“Thank you, Lord Mooton,” Maegara answers, pleased, “I hope we are not late?”

He shakes his head, “A Princess is never late, my lady. The others are simply early.”

She smiles at him. He enjoys complimenting others, she can see, and it does not bother her at all. 

Maegara sits at the high table, an honoured guest whose arrival warrants the finest feast Lord Mooton can afford. Lord Mooton, his wife, and their four sons are all outfitted in their finest silks and samites in the white and scarlet and gold of their family’s coat-of-arms. The high table is covered with food. Pork pies and venison pies with golden crusts, each stamped with the meat that they contain. Ducks freshly caught this morning, roasted in butter and garlic. Flaky salmon drizzled with the juice of lemons all the way from Dorne. Sweetgrass salad served with sliced apples and walnuts, and finally, several honey cakes glazed in sugar.

She eats slowly, not wanting to upset her troubled stomach, and the babe kicks inside her, happy. The feast goes smoothly, with a local septon blessing the food and the attendants both. Songs are played for her delight, with The Maiden in Scarlet making no less than five appearances throughout the night, and Maegara enjoys her evening from her seat, hands over her belly as Alys and Lucinda dance with the vassals of their host.

Maegara is escorted back to her room at nearly midnight and Alys goes with her, serving as her bedmaid for the night. They sleep together, Maegara surrounded by the pillows sent by Lady Mooton who had six children of her own and knows the pains of carrying a babe well. Her son does not bother her at all, though he had once been prone to keeping her awake till the Hour of the Wolf. It is almost strange to her, if only she weren’t so tired to question his obedience.

The next day, they attend the sept for the entire morning and afternoon. Maegara and her ladies are seated directly before the altars, kneeling before the septon of the village, while Lord Mooton and his family are in the pews, so far away their prayers could not even be heard by the marbled statues of the gods. There, Maegara asks for a healthy son and an easy birth, lighting a candle to the Mother.

Afterwards, she rides through the town of Maidenpool on an open litter, waving to the smallfolk as they come out of their shops and houses, screaming her name. Maegara feels safe, she feels victorious, knowing that she could return to King’s Landing and tell her father and Aenys that her pilgrimage had been a success, that she had turned the people of the Riverlands over to their side. Or, at least, the people of Maidenpool.

On the third day, she and her ladies decide to visit Jonquil's famous pool. Ser Addison and Ser Robin stand guard at the entrance of the bathhouse, as no man is allowed inside, while Maegara laughs at something Alys said as they enter, something she would not be able to recall later. They are wearing simple robes, clothing that could be discarded easily, and their hair tumbles free down their backs.

The bathhouse is blessedly empty when they enter and so Maegara feels no shame in disrobing, standing naked before her ladies. “Lucinda,” she says as the others remove their clothing, “Will you sing us something? You have such a lovely voice.”

Her belly feels so large, now that she is naked, and her necklace falls between her large breasts, burning against her skin

Lucinda is kneeling before her discarded robe, folding it neatly, and she raises her pale head, “What would my Princess like to hear?”

“Six Maids in a Pool,” says Maegara and the girl nods, starting to sing.

Six maids in a pool

They're of noble blood

One Fool, but great, on the shore

He'd seen that flower full of love.

Maegara steps forward, hands on her belly, and watches as Tabitha enters the pool, sighing contentedly.

“Oh, Princess, it is so warm!” she says, dipping under to wet her entire hair, “You’ll love it!”

"She'll be in my garden" - he'd sworn

Her name was Jonquil, pure child

Tough father had made a deal:

By ugly, full of money lord

That beauty will have to be killed, oh

She places her feet in the first step, feeling the warm water circle and swirl around her swollen ankles, and her ring burns, ruby eyes glowing.

Oh oh, glorious Florian-

He was the first who had opened her thighs

Oh oh, glorious Florian,

Run from thousands of lies

To the happiest day of their lives

The water is to her knees now and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, leaning forward to touch the clean surface with her hands.

He was a knight of famous name,

The owner of Furious sword

But now he's fool with motley shield

Because of cutting word.

Despite of misery and fate,

Pride's what he feels for real

He'll care about vows he gave

With blade of Valyrian steel, oh

“Oh,” Lucinda Celtigar says and her tone is so shocked, so sudden that Maegara turns to look at her, stopping in her stooped position, ready to dive into the waters. Her lady is seated on the border of the pool, legs already in the water, head turned to her, with her blonde hair falling freely on her shoulders.

Blood seeps from the gash on her throat and she falls backwards as a septa steps out from behind her, a bloody knife in her old and wrinkly hand. Tabitha screams, hands going to her mouth and Maegara cannot move, the babe kicking wildly in her belly. She sees as another septa runs to her, blade ready to strike, and Alys Harroway steps between them, pushing her away.

“Princess,” her friend shouts, “Run!"

The septa raises her arm and moves quickly, slashing at the arm and at Alys’ handsome face. Blood spurts from the wound and Alys falls back, a long and thin cut crossing her face. 

“No!” a woman screams and suddenly, she realizes it was her, as her throat closes and her feet stay planted to the marbled floor. 

Another septa moves in her direction, a dagger in her hand, and Maegara jumps on the pool, her body moving on its own accord in an effort to protect itself. Her ears fill with water for a second and the screams are muddled and far away.

Tabitha was right, she realizes. The water is indeed blessedly warm.

She rises again a second later, needing to breathe, and she sees Ser Robin and Ser Addison run inside the bathhouse, swords in hand. The Darkrobin goes after the septa that cut Lucinda’s throat, shoving his blade in her belly without hesitation. Maegara doesn’t see what the Bastard of Cornfield does to the septa that tried to kill her, but she sees as her body falls on the pool, blood seeping from a hole in her chest, water splashing. Tabitha screams again; it doesn’t seem she has ever stopped screaming.

“Save the Princess!” Ser Robin shouts as he runs after the third septa and Ser Addison enters the water, armour and clothes still on.

“Princess,” he says, eyes on her eyes, “Are you harmed?”

She shakes her head and the babe kicks her ribs, afraid. Ser Addison touches her arm, pulling her and Maegara strokes her belly and she looks at Tabitha, who is crying and at Lucinda.

Lucinda.

She moves without even thinking, getting out of the water in quick steps. Ser Addison follows her, armour clanking wetly and he doesn’t say anything as she kneels beside Lucinda and takes her still-warm body in her arms.

Her eyes are as open as her throat, wide in its death, and Maegara can see her worried reflection on Lucinda’s blue eyes. She realizes then that her companion is… was… a very beautiful girl. Talented, even, with a good voice, who sought to do nothing, but please her and she ignored her. How cruel she was to mock her, how mean. It was not the work of a princess, but of a demon from the Seven Hells. They should call her Maegara the Demon. Or Maegara the Cruel. Why did she ignore Lucinda? Why couldn’t she have been a better friend?

Why did they have to kill her?

Ser Addison wraps his cloak around her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Princess…” he starts, “We must go. We must get you to safety, to a maester.”

Maegara lays Lucinda on the ground again and closes the girl’s eyes. “May the Seven welcome you with open arms,” she whispers in her ear, dropping a kiss on her forehead. Her hands are red and bloody.

“Princess,” Ser Addison says again and Maegara sees Mooton guards stream inside, drawn by the screams. One man approaches the trembling Tabitha and offers her his cloak, while another takes Alys in his arms. He runs out, screaming for a maester, “I must insist for you to come with me.”

“Of course,” she says, a hand to her forehead and another on her belly. Maegara feels cold, very cold. The water was not warm at all, “Of course.” She stands up, wrapping the cloak tightly around her, but she can’t take a step without her knees trembling, unable to support her weight, and she falls forward, throwing her hands out to protect her belly. Ser Addison takes hold of her arms before she falls, however, and brings her to his chest. Maegara turns to him, shaking, “Ser?” she asks in a wavering voice.

He picks her up without hesitation, a hand on her back and another on the inside of her knee, supporting her as if she weighs nothing. “I’ve got you, Princess,” he says, softly, “I’ve got you.”

The maester of Maidenpool is a most talented healer and he saves Alys’ life, applying poultices and herbs to her wound. Three days later, she is well enough to receive visitors and smiles sadly when Maegara comes to spend the afternoon with her, half of her face covered in bandages. She will be scarred for life, but she will live. The same cannot be said for Lucinda Celtigar.

Her body is handed over to the Silent Sisters and they prepare her well, leaving her for two days in the sept at Maidenpool, allowing faithful and mourners to come and stand vigil over her if anyone wishes to. Maegara visits her twice each day before the Silent Sisters take her again, preparing her bones to be sent to Claw Isle, where her parents and siblings await her. She had two younger sisters and one brother, being the eldest of four, and Maegara had never thought to ask her about it.

Ser Addison is with her at all times and whenever he can’t, he is replaced by Ser Robin. Maegara is never alone, not even when she has to use the privy, and it does not bother her at all, as it might had she been younger. She knows, even without them telling her, that the septas intended to kill her alone and that her ladies were attacked simply because they stood in the way. It makes Lucinda’s death even more tragic. Had she been alone, she would not have been harmed.

The knights of the Kingsguard don’t tell her what happened to the third septa, the one that was captured by Ser Robin and kept alive for questioning, but Tabitha shakes as she explains the woman was tortured into revealing their plan. She and her conspirators thought the sacred waters of Jonquil’s Pool would become polluted if she were to enter, an abomination of incest carrying the child of her brother, and were determined to stop her by any means necessary. Six other septas are implicated in their plans, too craven to carry knives of their own, but still full of hatred, and another nine are hanged by Lord Mooton as well, who did not care who was innocent or guilty. Maegara is too full of grief to mind it.

On the night of the attack, a rider sets out for King’s Landing, to tell the monarchs and her husband of what happened. Three days later, three dragons appear in the sky over the town, her worried family coming to get her.

Aenys runs to embrace her when he sees her, kissing her head and lips. “Oh, I was so worried,” he says, arms tight around her frame, “Oh.” He looks at her, hands cupping her cheeks, and kisses her again, “Oh, my sweet wife.  Are you well? Are you scared? I have heard what happened to Lady Lucinda. We must honour her bravery and loyalty when we return to King’s Landing. She was a true companion to you.”  

Her mother steps forward as well and hugs her, sighing against her ear. “Thank the gods you were unharmed.” She shakes her head and looks at something behind her, at the King who keeps himself away, “I told you something like this might happen. She should never have left King’s Landing.”

“It was her idea,” her father says, “What should I have done, tie her to her bed? You taught her to be defiant. The gods know she would have gone off on her own had I said no, and then we might be the ones in mourning, instead of the Celtigars.”

“Let us not play the blaming game,” Maegara murmurs, looking at her fighting parents, “It is no one’s fault, but the septas. They were the ones who attacked us.”

“This Faith…” Her mother steps away, shaking her head.

Someone starts crying to the side of them and Maegara turns, seeing the slight frame of Tabitha Rosby waddle forward. She has a hand to her stomach and tears stream down her cheeks as a man runs to her, wrapping his large burly arms around her. Ser Mychael Selmy had come too. His face is sullen and serious as he holds his hand to her stomach, the expression so strange and foreign a look that Maegara has never seen from him. 

“Come,” her father says, pulling Visenya by the arm, “Let us go somewhere private.”

“To my rooms,” Maegara answers, already turning to lead them.

When they arrive, she sits on the bed, toeing off her shoes. She is so tired. The babe and the events at the pool have exhausted her, pulling at her bones, leeching off her energy. Aenys comes to sit by her side and he takes her hand, kissing her knuckles as he strokes her fingers. He seems to be doing that more for him than for her. She smiles at him, tired.

“I have no doubt in my mind that the High Septon is behind this,” her mother says, walking around the room in quick strides, “You announced to all Seven Kingdom that this… pilgrimage ” she speaks the word in disgust, “would be taking place. He might have sent them a message to kill her.”

“How?” her father asks, sitting down on the chair before the writing table. He looks old and tired, like he has aged so many years in just a moon’s turn. “The maester of the castle reports no such message and a rider from Oldtown would not have arrived yet.”

“There are other means to get a word from across the kingdom,” her mother says, “Are you not worried about her? Our daughter was attacked. She might have been killed! Do you even care?”

“Of course I’m worried about her,” the King answers, “Would I be here if I did not care?”

Her mother doesn’t answer. Maegara leans her head on Aenys’ shoulder and she wants to cry, she wants to scream, she wants to burn Maidenpool down for Lucinda and Alys and Tabitha and for herself. The babe moves in her as if he agrees.

“The High Septon was not behind this,” her father says, “This would be an act of war. He is too smart and craven for it.”

“I’d say he is not craven enough,” the Queen replies, “He curses our family, preaches against incest and its products. His words have caused this, even if he did not send the assassins. We should fly to Oldtown and make do on our promise to burn the Starry Sept to the ground.”

“Please, stop fighting,” Maegara says and they look at her for just a second before turning again to each other, “This isn’t about you.”

“We should take a stance against the Faith,” says Mother, “Force them to respond to their disrespect and to take responsibility for what happened.”

“Would you have me start a war with the Faith? The wealthiest landowners of all Seven Kingdoms?” asks Father, “How would this protect Maegara? How would this protect our family?”

“And what will our family do if we let the Faith rule itself without consequences? What will happen when Maegara and Aenys’ daughter is assaulted by those zealots? I told you at the Conquest that we could not let the Faith grow too powerful and now look at what has happened! We must set an example now and remind them the dragon bows to no one! That the strictures of the Faith do not rule the blood of Valyria.”

The King pauses, seemingly unprepared for such a question. He gnaws at his lip, brow furrowed as he comes to a counter-argument.

“Is this what you want? Another war?” he asks, “Peace with the Faith is our only option. I seek to survive, not to avenge.”

“We will have peace, aye,” her mother says, “After we have Fire and Blood.”

Her father steps forward as if to counteract, but Aenys stands up, “Enough from the both of you!” he roars, his eyes flashing with anger, “The two of you have been bickering since we left King’s Landing and neither of you thinks to look at Maegara and think of how she feels! She has lost her friend, she has been robbed of her sense of security! Her life was threatened! The both of you should be working together to ensure this does not happen again! Where are the King and Queen who brought Westeros to heel? Where is the father I know and the mother she knows?” 

They look at him in shock, not expecting something like that from him, and Maegara smiles. Her mother turns to look at her and her eyes are wide as if staring at her for the first time. Understanding crashes over her and she sighs, rubbing her hands on her breeches. The Queen walks to her and kneels before Maegara, taking her hands in her own.

“Do not worry,” her mother says, “We will avenge Lucinda. Her blood will not have been spilled in vain. The Faith has gone too far, and they will be punished.”

"I agree that the Faith has gone too far," Maegara says, standing up, “And they should be punished. I want justice for Lucinda, or the gods know I shall go mad. But I am tired. I just want to have my son in peace and safety. I want to regain my strengths before I act.”

“And that is the great question, isn’t it?” her father says, looking out the window, “Had nothing happened, you would have returned to King’s Landing already, healthy and safe, to await your lying-in. The maesters say an expectant mother cannot travel in the last moon’s turn and it is a sennight before we cross that threshold. Now, what do we do? Our travel would take at least a fortnight, with the guards and our slow pace to keep you safe.” Maegara looks at Aenys as everything clicks into place, “Do we risk bringing you to King’s Landing, when other faithful may attack you on the road or do we wait here until the babe is born?”

“Can’t we fly with her there?” Aenys asks, a hand on the small of her back.

Her mother shakes her head, “At this late stage? I wouldn’t risk it.” She looks at her husband, respect and worry stamped on her face, “I say we wait here. You can return to King’s Landing and prepare to set things right with the Faith as well as continue your rule, while Aenys and I will stay with Maegara. When the babe comes, we can put him on a sling, and fly to the capital.”

Her father looks at her, “I’m not leaving my daughter behind.”

“So we stay here,” Aenys says, “Would Lord Mooton mind hosting us for nearly two moons?”

“Are you joking?” Maegara asks, “He would be honoured. Who else could say they had a King born under their roof?”

Lord Mooton is indeed honoured to continue hosting them, especially as he learns that Tabitha and Ser Mychael too have decided to stay until their own babe is born. He preens and sighs, muttering about the tragedy of the events, while declaring that his household was at their service. The maester of Maidenpool, a middle-aged man called Olyvar, visits Maegara twice a day, prescribing her concoctions to drink. Her mother frowns at that, taking Vhagar for a ride and returning the next day with her own potions for her daughter.

A sennight later, Septa Laena comes on her own mule, bringing with her Melessa, the midwife her father had found for her. The women attend to her at all times, bringing everything she asks on a moment’s notice. Septa Laena herself seems fond of praying near Maegara, holding her Seven-Pointed Star close to her heart. Had this been different circumstances, Maegara might have shined with the spoiling, but everything tastes like ashes in her mouth. As she eats berries and drinks watered down, she thinks about Lucinda Celtigar, who would never have a child of her own. 

Tabitha gets out of her shell slowly over the passing days. At first, she seems to calm down only near Maegara, or her husband, but she grows close to the midwife Lady Mooton finds for her and smiles at the attempts Aenys makes to befriend her.

But her condition only improves one warm morning when, after half a day laboring in pain and struggles, a lovely little girl is born, with Tabitha’s soft black locks and Mychael’s deep brown eyes. Tabitha and Ser Mychael are utterly enamored with her, as is half of the castle. Ser Mychael is even more protective than before, a stalwart guard against all threats to his wife and daughter.

When Maegara comes to visit her friend, her own belly hanging low, she asks after the girl’s name, as there will soon be an anointing ceremony to welcome her into the Faith of the Seven.

“Lucinda,” Tabitha says with conviction, smiling as she looks at her sleeping babe, “She will be Lucinda. May she have the life her namesake could not.”

Maegara smiles and excuses herself, giving Lucinda Selmy one last look. May she have the life her namesake could not.

Three days later, she is sleeping at night, with Aenys having decided to spend the night in her bed, hands splayed on her belly. Maegara is dreaming of a blue dragon with silver markings flying around her and a child giggling, chasing it. With each step, the child says, “Fire! Dream! Fire! Dream!” Meaningless words that cause her only confusion when she wakes up, half in pain. She understands immediately what is happening.

The babe is coming.

It takes another whole day of walking around, groaning, moaning, not sleeping and Aenys massaging her back for her waters to break and active labor to kick in.

She is brought over to the birthing chamber of Maidenpool, a small and darkened room, with a large white bed and a stool with a large hole on the seat. There were furs draped across the floor and all around her hung tapestries of pleasant sportive pastimes, and small mindless animals, things that would not scare the coming child. 

Melessa steps behind her, pulling at the threads of her dress, as Maegara groans, pressing her hands to her waist. The pain was coming and going, never leaving her entirely. It seemed she had barely any time to relax before she was hit with another wave. It will all be over soon, she tells herself, and you will have your son in your arms. Your perfect child. It will all be over soon.

She repeats the mantra on her head as they brush her hair, braiding it away from her face and her mother steps inside, ready to command the room. The Queen touches her arm and feels her temperature, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. She mutters something in High Valyrian about Westerosi people and barbaric practices, but she says nothing, only barking out orders for the attending maids to obey.

“Maegara, giving birth is the most natural thing a woman can do,” she says when Maegara is ready, giving her her arm to lean on, “I did it, my mother did it and you can do it.”

“I can do it,” Maegara says. Another wave of pain hits her and she grits her teeth, sitting down on the bed, “Where is the maester?” She looks around her, “Where is Aenys?”

“The maester is coming and Aenys is outside. He cannot come in,” her mother says, giving her a look, “The only man allowed within these walls is the maester. This is a place for women. Aenys will do nothing but disturb us at our work. You don’t need him.”

The babe kicks her, high in her ribs, and she grunts, trying to lay down on the bed. Melessa helps her raise her legs, but as soon as she is still, Maegara knows the position isn’t right. The head of the babe moves to the small of her back, and her pains only seem to grow, concentrating on her womb. His weight falls on top of her chest, constricting her lungs. She can’t breath and she struggles to sit up again as another contraction hits her.

Her thighs are wet, her waters still leaking out and she feels disgusting. Maegara is sweating, her entire body struggling as her labor slowly progresses. It will all be over soon. It will all be over soon. It will all be over soon. She feels a sudden urge to push. “Where is that damned maester?”

“He is coming,” her mother assures her, “Try and get comfortable. Be calm, Maegara.”

“I am not calm,” she says through gritted teeth, “I am about to give birth and the maester hasn’t arrived yet. Where is he? I need him.”

“He is coming, Your Grace,” says Melessa, pressing a towel to her forehead in an attempt to clean her sweat, “You must wait for him.”

Maegara stands up, unable to handle being sat, and steps forward, intending to walk around the room until the maester arrives, but she stops as her womb tightens painfully inside of her and a sudden urge to push overtakes her body. “He’s coming!” she tells her mother, arms reaching forward in a blind search for support.

“Go find that damned maester,” her mother says to someone, holding her, “Come, Maegara. Let’s get you to bed.”

They help her lie down again, but the position is still not right and she sits up again. Her belly is too large for her to be comfortable, to breath and she regrets everything. She regrets marrying Aenys, she regrets getting caught with child, she regrets everything. Where is that maester?

An instinct to turn hits her and she shifts, placing her palms on the bed. Maegara moves until she is on her hands and knees, head hanging low and suddenly, the weight of her chest disappears and she takes a deep breath, the first deep breath in many moons. She closes her eyes and she breaths. In and out, in and out, in and out.

And then, as another wave of pain begins to come, she starts pushing.

“Maester Olyvar is not here yet!" a woman complains as another murmurs, “Shouldn’t she be lying down?”

Maegara ignores them. She closes her eyes and she continues to push, blood rushing to her head, sweat accumulating on her neck and upper lip. No sound passes from her lips as she holds her breath, struggling to hold her weight and push at the same time. She feels a hand on the small of her back and someone pulling her hair out of the way, as another lifts up her skirt, revealing her bum to everyone inside. Somehow, she doesn’t care, only focused on getting this damned baby out of her.

As the head crowns, she feels her cunt burning, stretching and it hurts more than she thinks it was possible. She reaches forward with her arms, grabbing one of the white ribbons attached to the bedposts and pulls with the same strength she pushes, grunting. The pulling things helps, grounding her, and Maegara stops to breathe.

“You can do this, Maegara,” her mother says, “You don’t need this maester. You don’t need anyone else. You can do this.”

She pushes for what feels like an hour, or maybe just a minute, and then something heavy and slimy slides out of her, fluids gushing and all of her pain stops immediately. A cry rings out in the room, high and piercing, healthy, and she drops all of her weight, falling on the bed. She has done it. The babe is here. Maegara smiles, relieved. She is sweaty, bloody and bruised, but she has done it. She has given House Targaryen the son it needs.

"A marvelous creature," she hears her mother say, voice tight with happiness, "Perfect in every sense of the word."

Her eyes search for Melessa and she finds her standing near her feet, a red and squalling babe in her arms. Maegara can see tiny pink feet kicking, and one small hand waving, followed by a red and spindly arm. Her son is crying, screaming as he uses his little lungs for the first time. Another midwife comes to Melessa and she helps her wrap the child in a soft white fabric, as her mother looks on proudly.

“Give him to me,” Maegara says, turning on her back, “I want to hold him.”

Six eyes turn to look at her and the midwives hesitate. After a long time, her mother says, “Congratulations, Maegara. You have given birth to a healthy and beautiful daughter.”

For a second, she thinks she has misheard her mother, but Melessa leans forward and carefully places the babe next to her. When Maegara undoes the wrappings around it, she sees that she has not misheard anything. It is a girl. Small and thin, with a tiny nose and swollen closed eyes. A little she-mouse. Her face turns as she cries, seeking the warmth of the woman who birthed her, little fingers stretching. 

No , she wants to say, Take her away, but the babe continues to cry and milk leaks out of her breasts. She knows what she is supposed to do, though she does not want to. 

Her mother leans forward and undoes the threads of her shift, releasing her swollen breasts, choosing for her. The Queen helps Maegara hold the child, forcing her arms to wrap around her and bring her to her breast, looking at her with pointed eyes. The babe latches on quickly, suckling with a strength Maegara didn’t know she had. Although she is small, she is healthy, and Maegara doesn’t think anyone with an honest bone in them could call her beautiful. There is something in her. She looks like Aenys, but has none of his good qualities, none of his softness. She is all angles, thin arms and pointed ears.

Her tiny eyes open and she sees they are lilac, a shade darker than Aenys'. Her head is covered in a thick cap of silver-gold hair, dirty with fluids and blood. As Maegara stares at her child, she cannot muster any love for her, or care. She is unfeeling.

“Tell the Prince he may come in,” her mother says to an attendant and the woman nods, opening the door.

Aenys steps inside with wide eyes, and she looks at him as he looks at her, studies his expression. He walks to her carefully, sitting by her side with wide eyes and an even wider smile. He is happy as he looks at their babe, so very happy. This is what she should be feeling and yet, she is not. Her brother leans forward and presses a quick kiss to her lips, before turning to their child, too scared to even move.

“A girl,” says Mother, “A beautiful and healthy girl.”

Aenys nods, in awe. He touches their daughter’s hand with his index finger and lets out a breath when those tiny fingers close around it, holding onto him tightly. Shaking, he leans forward and presses a kiss to her silver-gold hair. 

“Let’s call her Rhaena,” he says, his smile fit to burst, “After my mother.”

“Rhaena,” Maegara repeats, nodding, “Rhaena Targaryen.”

It almost feels right.