Chapter Text
The sun had fully retreated behind the jagged peaks of the Red Mountains, plunging the deep valleys into creeping shadow and casting the pale limestone corridors of Summerhall in somber twilight. A biting draft, carrying the sharp scent of mountain rain that had begun as the sun dipped below the peaks, swept through the high arches of the castle, mingling with the earthy smoke of the hearths as the early evening drizzle settled in.
Prince Valarr stood by the open balcony doors of his chamber, the early evening drizzle whipping through the opening and tugging at his heavy fur cloak. The sky above had already transitioned from orange to indigo. He stared out into the gathering dark, feeling like a phantom haunting his own life.
The handsome, dark-haired youth who had ridden into Ashford with an easy, kingly grace was gone. In his place stood a gaunt, hollow-eyed young man carrying the weight of the Iron Throne upon his shoulders. Tomorrow, the black-draped carriage holding his father’s ashes would leave the safety of Summerhall, and he would march down the Kingsroad without the man who had raised him and guided his every step.
A measured knock sounded against the door, pulling Valarr from the abyss of his thoughts.
"Enter," Valarr called out, his voice muffled and hollow in the freezing chamber.
The door pushed open, its iron hinges groaning softly. Mistress Lucilla stepped into the dim room. She carried a wide silver tray balanced perfectly between her hands. Upon it rested a trencher and a heel of crusty bread, and a tall silver flagon.
Valarr turned his head, watching her move through the gloom. As she approached, his mind drifted unbidden to his own mother, Lady Jena Dondarrion. She was a woman of the Stormlands, possessing a lithe, willowy figure and fiery red hair. She was exceptionally noble and ladylike, her frequent smiles offering an immediate warmth even at first impression. Scented with costly perfumes and draped in fine silks, his mother had been born to high halls and moved through them with delicate grace. She brought light into a room simply by existing within it.
In stark opposition stood Mistress Lucilla. She was tall and solidly built, her frame shaped likely, Valarr assumed, by years of grueling manual labor rather than idle embroidery. There was no frailty in her posture. Her dark brown hair was coiled tightly in a heavy silver net encrusted with rubies. At first glance, her face held the exact same strict severity as his uncle Maekar. Yet, as she crossed the room to set the heavy tray upon the table, she walked and carried herself like a highborn lady.
It completely baffled Valarr. She possessed no noble blood, she was a common widow, yet she could command a space effectively. Since Ashford he had seen her standing among seasoned men-at-arms, stewards, and nobility, yet she had held her own without a flicker of intimidation.
As Valarr watched her move through the shadows, he realized exactly why the stark contrast between this widow and his own mother mattered so deeply in this dark hour. Valarr found he did not desire delicate comfort. His grief was a heavy burden, far too rough for fine silks and courtly manners.
During the march through the Red Mountains, Valarr's own squire had whispered wide-eyed tales of the new Mistress. The boy had sworn that this very woman had hauled his cousins out of their wheelhouse following a violent brawl, silencing Aerion's vicious threats and Daeron's groans with an unflinching reprimand. She carried no royal pretenses and expected no polite flattery. Knowing she could manage his hopeless cousins, a desperate curiosity formed within him that maybe she could withstand the weight of his true thoughts.
"I have brought your supper, your grace," Lucilla announced.
She set the silver tray down with a dull metallic clink. "The air is sharp tonight. You should close the doors before the damp settles in."
Valarr stared out into the gathering dark for a long moment before finally pulling the heavy doors shut, cutting off the howl of the wind. He crossed the room with heavy steps, his dark eyes resting upon the steaming trencher of stew with a flicker of curiosity.
"Thank you, Mistress Lucilla," he murmured, lowering himself into the high-backed wooden chair. He wrapped his long, pale fingers around the silver cup as she poured the hot mulled wine, letting the heat of the metal seep into his skin. He took a slow sip, his throat moving tightly as the drink went down, chasing away the worst of the mountain chill.
Lucilla moved to the hearth, picking up a heavy iron poker to stir the dying embers. She added two thick logs of seasoned pine to the grate, coaxing the flames back to life. A warm, golden light flared up, banishing the deepest shadows from the corners of the chamber and filling the air with the sharp, fragrant scent of pine smoke.
"The kitchens will keep a fire burning through the night," Lucilla noted smoothly, setting the poker aside and dusting her hands on her apron. "If you find yourself waking hungry before dawn, you need only ring the bell. A page will bring up cold meats and fresh bread."
Valarr looked up from his wine. His dark, bloodshot eyes studied her in the amber firelight. He took in the impeccable cut of her tailored midnight-black gown and the heavy silver dragon brooch gleaming fiercely at her chest. Perhaps she could extend her counsel to him as he is a dragon himself.
"It is no small feat to run my uncle’s household. He is a difficult man to sway, yet he gives you a great deal of deference. Even my cousins, who are rarely easy to manage, seem to settle when you are around."
Lucilla folded her hands at her waist, maintaining her professional composure, though her dark eyes softened at the young prince's weary observation.
"They are a family exhausted by their own fires, your grace," Lucilla answered, her tone plain and honest. "They need someone to clear the air and set things right who will not expect excessive rewards in return. Well, I do expect fair wages."
Valarr offered a faint, humorless smile, staring down at the thick venison stew. "A rare trait in the Seven Kingdoms. Most who approach the dragon seek to steal a scale."
He picked up his spoon, stirring the thick stew without bringing any to his mouth. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the unspoken realities of the morning to come.
"We ride out in the morning," Valarr whispered, "and march down the Kingsroad to stand before my grandfather the King to make me heir to the Iron Throne. I do not know what to feel…"
"About...?" she asked, her voice quiet.
Valarr stared into the fire, his jaw tight. "About my uncle."
His hand trembled slightly and then dropped the utensil into the trencher, leaning back into his chair as he rubbed a hand over his exhausted face.
"I know he did not mean to strike the blow," he confessed, the agonizing truth tearing its way out of his throat. His voice broke, thick with unshed tears. "I know the chaos of the Trial blur the sight of even the finest knights. I know my uncle loved my father. I know all of it in my head."
The young prince looked up at her, his dark eyes shining with unconcealed torment.
"But my heart cannot find the peace in it," the new heir to the Iron Throne choked out. "When I look at him, all I see is the mace. I see the crushed steel of my father’s helm. I am finding it incredibly hard to accept what happened, Mistress. I am finding it nearly impossible to forgive."
She stepped closer to the table, taking the empty chair opposite the grieving prince. She sat down, bridging the gap between a servant and a future king.
"Forgiveness is not a door you walk through once, your grace," Lucilla said gently, her voice a soothing balm in the freezing room. "It is a very long, dark hallway. You do not have to forgive him tomorrow. You do not even have to forgive him next year. You are allowed to be angry and to grieve the father who was stolen from you."
Valarr let out a shaky, jagged breath, his shoulders dropping as the immense pressure to be the perfect, understanding heir yielded to her validation.
"Your uncle knows exactly what he has done," Lucilla continued. "Prince Maekar is not a man who hides from his sins. He carries the ghost of your father every single waking second. The guilt is eating him alive from the inside. He rides with you tomorrow not for politics, but for penance. He will see you safely home at the Red Keep and endure the whispers, the stares, and the judgment of the court because he believes he deserves every ounce of their hatred."
Valarr stared at the flickering hearth, a lone tear escaping to track down his pale cheek. "He is the Anvil. He can bear the strikes."
"He does," Lucilla agreed softly. "And he also bears the weight of his sons’ malice and weakness. They are a complicated lot, your cousins. But I am hoping they are not entirely lost."
Valarr scoffed softly, wiping the moisture from his face. "Aerion is a monster."
"Aerion is a vain, cruel boy who has never had to face the consequences of his own actions," Lucilla corrected realistically, refusing to paint the Bright Prince with any false nobility. "He enjoys inflicting pain because he mistakes fear for respect. He is predictable in his malice. But predictability makes him manageable. He requires iron-clad rules and swift consequences, something he will hopefully learn during his exile."
Lucilla poured a fresh measure of hot wine into Valarr's cup, pushing the silver vessel closer to his hand.
"And Daeron?" Valarr asked, a hint of genuine curiosity piercing through his sorrow. "He spent his entire life running from his own shadow, drowning his fears in drink. Word is that during the trial he was unable to manage his own mount and took a pathetic tumble of a cowardly drunkard."
Lucilla folded her hands upon her lap, her posture unyielding. "It was not a pathetic tumble, your grace," she corrected him smoothly, refusing to let the assumption stand. "It was a kept promise."
Valarr’s dark brow furrowed. He set his silver cup down upon the table, his attention fully captured by her certainty. "A promise?"
"The night before the trial, Prince Daeron sought out the hedge knight," Lucilla explained, her voice carrying pride for his cousin. "He went to Ser Duncan to confess his lies and offer an apology. He knew he lacked the martial skill to survive, but he also knew he could not refuse his father's command to ride. So, he promised Ser Duncan he would ride out the first charge and take a purposeful fall in the mud. He chose to let the horse trample him rather than raise his sword to defend his lie."
Valarr went perfectly still. He pictured Daeron lying in the churned earth, bleeding from his slashed cheek and suffering a shattered foot, refusing to rise while the violence raged around him.
"He allowed the entire realm to mock him as a coward so he would not have to strike an innocent man," Valarr murmured, unable to believe what he was hearing.
"Daeron is far braver than he believes himself to be," Lucilla answered, a fond note entering her voice. "He walked onto that tourney field expecting to die, as he saw in his dreams. He kept his word to the hedge knight anyway. Daeron struggles with his demons, but his heart can be honest."
Valarr's dark brow furrowed further in the amber firelight. "If his heart is honest, why does he permit the entire realm to name him a craven?" Valarr asked. "Why accept the mockery when he could simply claim the noble act he committed?"
"Because, your grace, your cousin cares very little for the honor the court holds so dear," Lucilla replied, offering a faint smile. "He places no value on the expectations of being a prince, though he remains quite fond of the soft featherbeds and fine Arbor vintages the title provides. He would rather the lords whisper about his cowardice than force himself to perform the role of a perfect knight. He is a deeply flawed young man."
She paused, her eyes softening, "But a man willing to suffer a shattered bone to protect a stranger is a man worth the effort to guide."
Valarr picked up the silver cup, taking another slow sip of the spiced wine. The heavy tightness in his chest eased slightly after hearing the Mistress’s words. She offered no pleasant lies about his kin, giving him only the truth of flawed men surviving the aftermath of their own mistakes.
"You see them clearly, Mistress Lucilla," Valarr noted quietly, studying her across the table. "My uncle chose his Mistress of the Household well. Summerhall is fortunate."
Valarr watched her receive the high praise. He expected the customary deflection of a humble servant, yet she offered no hint of false modesty. It was a rare thing to witness a common-born woman stand so firmly in her own worth before a royal prince.
"I thank you for your words, your grace," she replied confidently. "It is a heavy task to manage a household such as this, but I am well prepared for it."
She gestured toward the trencher resting upon the table. "Now, please eat your stew before the mountain chill steals the rest of the heat from the bowl. You depart in the morning, and you will need your strength."
Valarr finally picked up his spoon, taking a hearty bite of the venison and barley. The rich, savory stew warmed his stomach, chasing away the cold and filling him with much-needed sustenance.
"Thank you, Cilla," Valarr said quietly, his voice finally steady. "For the meal. And for the truth."
"You are very welcome, your grace," Lucilla replied.
She rose and bowed, her exit as quiet as her arrival. Valarr did not look up as she left, listening to her footsteps fade into the corridor. He sat alone in the dim room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.
The anger was still there, but it had muted into a dull ache. Having her tell him it was acceptable to simply be angry, to mourn without apology, had strangely steadied him. He had the truth now, and for tonight, that was enough.
To Ser Duncan the Tall, the library of Summerhall felt far more intimidating than any tourney ground. The room smelled of old vellum, dry leather bindings, and the sharp, dusty tang of dried ink. There was something reverent about the space designed for quiet and dignified pursuits like reading and learning.
Rather than returning to his assigned quarters with the other knights at the Shield Hall, Duncan had sought out this room to find a proper surface for his task. He sat hunched at the far edge of a long, polished desk, his massive frame dwarfing the delicate, carved wooden chair beneath him.
Resting flat on the smooth wood before him was the thick, leather-bound notebook Mistress Lucilla had given him. He stared down at the open pages beneath the flickering amber light of a heavy iron candelabra, his thick brow furrowed in a deep, miserable scowl.
He could comprehend the charcoal drawings. The Mistress’s hand had carefully drawn the jagged edges of healing roots and the warning silhouettes of poisonous flora. But the script written beneath those drawings was a mystery. He traced a calloused finger under a line of text, staring at the shapes until his eyes watered. They looked like lines of marching ants. It was an agonizing realization. If Egg fell ill on the road, all the fine grey steel in the world would not save the boy's life if Duncan could not decipher the remedies.
He let out a heavy, defeated sigh, closing his eyes in shame and allowing the silence to calm him.
"It is yarrow".
Duncan jumped so violently his shoulders struck the high back of the wooden chair with a sharp thwack. He opened his eyes, his heart hammering against his ribs, and looked down.
Standing quietly beside his elbow, completely unnoticed until she had spoken, was Princess Daella.
To Duncan, she was a fragile, highborn child made of spun glass. He instantly panicked, terrified he had committed some grave offense just by breathing the same air.
"P-pardon, Princess?" Duncan stammered in a hushed whisper, attempting to scramble to his feet to offer a proper bow.
Daella placed a small hand on the edge of the leather book, a silent gesture that checked his attempt to rise. She was so small, and her sudden appearance in the drafty silence of the library caught him completely off guard. He couldn't fathom what had brought her away from the castle's bustle to this lonely corner, but watching her quiet, earnest expression, the panic in his chest began to ebb, replaced by a stillness as he realized she was not frightened of him at all
"The drawing," Daella said softly, her voice like a tiny silver bell in the quiet room. She pointed a delicate finger to the sketch of the clustered flowers. "It is yarrow. It stops bleeding when it is ground into a paste." She tilted her head, her bright eyes blinking up at him. "You cannot read the words, Ser Duncan?"
Duncan froze. He felt the tips of his ears burn a dark, humiliated crimson. He stared at the polished desk, thoroughly ashamed to admit his ignorance to a trueborn princess of the realm.
"No, Princess," he rumbled, his voice thick with embarrassment. "I never had the learning for it. There were no maesters where I grew up, and I never knew a teacher with the patience for someone like me. But Egg... I need to know these herbs to keep him safe on the road. Looking at the pictures is not enough".
Daella’s soft features melted into a look of understanding. She reached her small hand toward her hip, slipping her fingers through the fitchet of her gown to retrieve a small stub of charcoal from her hidden pouch. Without asking for permission, the princess pulled up a heavy wooden stool and sat directly beside the towering hedge knight at the desk. She reached over and carefully flipped to the empty, blank parchment pages at the very back of Lucilla’s herbal book, resting it flat on the table.
"Then you must learn the letters," Daella murmured, her voice carrying a patient, gentle cadence. She pressed the charcoal to the parchment and drew a single, bold, sweeping shape. "This is a 'D'."
Duncan leaned closer, his massive head hovering near her small shoulder, entirely captivated as he stared at the dark mark glistening in the candlelight.
"It makes a hard sound. D- d-," Daella explained, her small hand tracing the curve of the letter. "It stands for Duncan. D- D- Duncan. But it also stands for Daella".
She continued to write two lines of letters, recognizing similar shapes that can be found in both lines. "This is your name," she said, drawing three lines, one under each cluster of letters as she said, "Duncan. The. Tall."
She looked at him to see if he was absorbing the information and kept on, "And this is my name," as she drew two lines under two clusters of letters, "Daella Targaryen." She then drew a circle to a letter that looked like a cross on both of their names. "Look, Ser Duncan. This is is another letter that our names both share. T- T- Tall. T- T- Targaryen."
Duncan blinked. A brilliant spark of understanding lit up his eyes as his mind finally connected the abstract shape on the page to the familiar sound of their names. He stared at the letter, a profound sense of awe washing over him. It wasn't magic. It was just a mark, and it belonged to him.
"Duncan and Daella," he repeated in a low, reverent whisper.
Daella smiled. It was a small encouraging expression that chased the remaining shadows of embarrassment completely from the knight's battered face. She pressed the willow stub down again, writing a name similar to hers at the beginning but different towards the end.
"Even better," she said, pointing to the new shape. "This one looks like my name in the first part, but it is actually Daeron’s name."
Then, as if she had another bright idea, she smiled and turned back to the pages and drew a circle on two adjacent letters in her and Daeron’s names.
"My other brothers all share this sound as well," pointing to the two letters and proceeding to write three names with the same two beginning letters with different ends. "Aerion, Aemon, and Aegon."
For the next hour, as the beeswax candles burned low on the desk and the castle buzzed with activity, the hedge knight from Flea Bottom and the shy princess of Summerhall sat together. Daella patiently wrote out the alphabet on the blank pages, sounding out the shapes one by one until the harsh, jagged lines began to make sense to his unpracticed eyes and ears. She made sure to draw a picture beside the names so he could remember that the name beside a tree was his, the one with the mace was Prince Maekar’s, a flagon for Daeron, and an egg for Aegon.
As she set the charcoal stub down, a look of childlike wonder returned to her face. She looked up at him, marveling at how gently he treated the fragile parchment.
"You need to practice this with Egg, Ser Duncan," Daella praised him softly. "But you seem to have a good memory. If you had no maesters, who taught you your speech and your manners before you became a knight?"
Duncan rubbed the back of his neck, a small, sheepish smile softening his rugged features. "The streets, mostly, Princess. Down in the gutters of Flea Bottom, you learn quick, or you go hungry. But there was a woman... she ran a little pot-shop in the maze of the alleys. Her name was Nora".
"Nora?" Daella repeated, resting her chin on her hands.
"Aye," Dunk nodded, his eyes growing distant as the memory of the sweltering, crowded alleys of King's Landing filled his mind. "She was a fierce thing. Had a wooden spoon she’d crack across your knuckles if you tried to steal a loaf from her counter. But when cold winds came howling off the Blackwater, she’d always leave the back door of her shop unlocked. She’d scrape the bottom of her kettles and hand out bowls of brown stew to the boys who had nothing. She wiped our noses, yelled at us to stay out of the street gangs, and patched up our scraped knees".
Daella’s eyes widened with quiet fascination. "She sounds very kind. Did you call her Lady Nora?"
Dunk let out a short, genuine chuckle that vibrated in his chest. "Lady? No, Princess. No one in Flea Bottom is a lady. We all called her Ma Nora. Or just... Ma". He cleared his throat, feeling a sudden wave of nostalgic warmth. "That’s how some lowborn folk call their mothers or the women who look after them. Just 'Ma'. It was a title earned, I suppose."
"Ma," Daella whispered, testing the rustic word softly on her tongue. It sounded strange coming from the mouth of a Targaryen princess, but as she said it, her features melted into a warm, contemplative expression.
"It sounds very sweet," Daella mused, looking down at the charcoal letters they had drawn. "Much softer than Mother. Mother always sounds so... grand."
"Aye," Duncan murmured, "I suppose it does".
"Aha! I knew you were hiding!"
A sharp, familiar voice broke the quiet sanctuary of the library, disrupting the moment.
Duncan jolted, his knee knocking against the desk. Daella gave a small, startled gasp.
Standing just inside the doorway was Egg.
The boy was fully dressed for supper in a tunic of fine dark wool, though his boots remained untied and his collar was crooked.
"Egg!" Daella hissed, her cheeks turning a bright pink. "You should not be wandering! We are... Ser Duncan is learning his letters!"
Egg marched up to the table, ignoring his sister's reprimand. His sharp eyes darted over the open book, taking in the clumsy charcoal Ds and the sharp Ts. He looked up at Duncan with a mischievous glint in his eye, but as he spoke, his expression softened into something uncharacteristically thoughtful.
"I heard your story," Egg noted, leaning his hip casually against the heavy timber desk. "About the woman with the wooden spoon in Flea Bottom. Where is Ma Nora now?"
Duncan cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep crimson once again. "She's been dead a long time, Egg. And you shouldn't be eavesdropping. It is unseemly for a squire to skulk in the shadows."
"I wasn't skulking," Egg defended himself, tossing his chin up.
As the siblings began to talk between themselves about the impending supper, Duncan looked down at the book resting on the polished wood. The jagged charcoal M for Maekar, the bold D for Daella, and the simple blocks that were beginning to build a world he could finally begin to understand. He reached out and carefully tucked the leather-bound notebook of healing herbs safely into his belt, knowing he now possessed the key to reading it as long as he and Egg can practice on the road.
A massive log of seasoned oak crackled fiercely in the wide hearth, casting a vibrant, dancing amber glow that caught the polished silver resting upon the long table. Rich, savory aromas drifted through the room, a mouth-watering blend of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread, sweetened by the sharp, spicy tang of mulled wine.
Lucilla stood near the heavy oak sideboard, her hands folded neatly over her heavy red velvet gown. She was actively directing three young kitchen maids, indicating where the heavy pewter platters and silver cups should be placed along the dark wood.
The chamber featured two distinct entrances. One heavy timber door opened out into the main corridors of the keep, while a second, narrower door led directly into the private royal apartments.
Around the long timber table, the Targaryen children had already gathered. Prince Daeron sat to the right of the head chair, his foot elevated carefully upon a padded velvet stool, a cup of watered wine resting loosely in his pale hand. Opposite him sat Prince Aerion, dressed in a pristine tunic of deep crimson silk, his bruised face set in a quiet, brooding frown as he stared into the hearth. Beside Aerion sat Princess Daella, her hands folded timidly in her lap, and next to her was Prince Aegon, his bald head shining in the lamplight as he impatiently tapped a silver spoon against his thumb. Across from the young boy, occupying the far end of the board near the foot of the table, was Princess Rhae. Leaving the heavy wooden chairs between herself and Daeron empty, the seven-year-old was kneeling on her seat to peer over the tall silver candelabras.
The narrow door leading from the royal apartments groaned open.
Prince Maekar stepped into the dining room. He wore a dark, unadorned tunic of heavy wool. His heavy boots thudded against the floorboards as he approached the head of the table.
His eyes swept the room, taking an immediate inventory of the occupants. He stopped, his thick silver brows pulling together in a sharp, questioning frown. He looked at the empty spaces along the polished timber board, noting that only six places had been set with silver and trenchers.
"Why are Ronnel and Edric not here yet?" the prince asked, his rough voice carrying easily over the crackle of the hearth. He gestured toward the missing place settings. "The table is bare. Are we missing serving ware?"
Lucilla stepped forward from the sideboard, offering a smooth, respectful inclination of her head.
"The squires are waiting just outside the main corridor, my prince," Lucilla answered, her tone carrying its usual calm cadence. "I prepared the table for the royal family. I assumed you wished to take your supper in private with your children."
Prince Maekar looked at her, his severe expression softening into a mild, exhausted exasperation.
"They eat with us," he commanded plainly. He gestured toward the three hovering kitchen maids. "Fetch them inside. And have the maids set another plate at the board. You will sit and eat with us, Lucilla."
"As you command, my prince," Lucilla murmured.
She turned to the nearest kitchen maid, giving a swift nod toward the main corridor door. The maid hurried over, pulling the heavy timber open. Edric and Red Ronnel immediately stepped into the warmth of the dining chamber, both boys dressed in their crisp black-and-red squire tunics. They bowed deeply to the prince before moving toward the table.
As the maids scrambled to arrange three new silver plates and cups upon the wood, a sudden, fierce dispute erupted over the seating arrangement.
"Sit here!" Princess Rhae demanded loudly. She patted the empty chair at the foot of the table opposite Prince Maekar’s with a small, insistent hand, her eyes locking onto the Mistress of the Household. "I want Cilla to sit next to me!"
Daeron leveled a mock-serious look at his sister, shifting against chair. "Don't be greedy, Rhae," he teased, a playful glint in his eyes. "She needs to sit beside me. I am still injured, and she must be close enough as I may require her care."
Rhae crossed her small arms over her dark dress, her face twisting into a fierce, dramatic pout. "Your foot is resting on a pillow! It is perfectly fine! I asked first, and I want her here!"
"You are a menace to peace," Daeron groaned, rubbing his temple.
Lucilla intervened with a knowing smile, catching Daeron’s gaze as she moved toward the princess.
"I suspect your leg will hold for the duration of supper, Daeron," she said lightly.
Lucilla pulled out the heavy timber chair at the foot of the table opposite the prince and took her seat. She offered the pouting seven-year-old a warm, encouraging smile. Rhae’s fierce scowl vanished instantly, replaced by a brilliant, victorious grin as she proudly claimed her prize and gave Lucilla a hug. Daeron simply rolled his eyes and reached for his cup, while Aerion let out a dry, disdainful scoff from across the table.
With the squires and the Mistress finally seated, Maekar took his place at the head of the table.
The three kitchen maids moved efficiently. They set massive iron platters of hot, steaming food down the center of the board. There were whole roasted fowls dripping with savory juices, thick cuts of salted pork, and a heavy cast-iron pot of thick beef stew. Trenchers were piled high with boiled carrots, parsnips, and turnips, accompanied by loaves of dark, crusty bread.
For a time, the only sounds in the chamber were the clatter of silver against wood. When the worst of their hunger had been satisfied and the trenchers were half-empty, Prince Maekar set his knife down. He reached for his silver cup, taking a slow sip of dark wine, before resting his large hands flat upon the timber board.
"Listen to me, all of you," Maekar called out, his voice commanding the attention of everyone in the room.
The clatter of silverware ceased. Every eye turned toward the head of the table.
"I ride for King's Landing in the morning," Maekar stated. The unavoidable reality of his impending duty hung over the warm room. "I will escort your cousin Valarr and Uncle Baelor’s remains back to the Red Keep, and I will deliver my accounting before my lord father the King."
A somber mood settled over his children. Daeron looked down at his plate, the memory of the trial casting a dark shadow over his pale face, while Aerion’s jaw tightened defensively.
Maekar turned his piercing gaze directly onto his eldest son.
"Daeron," Maekar continued, "will stand as the Lord of Summerhall. He will hold my seat and govern this castle and its holdings."
Daeron swallowed hard. The cynical deflection he usually wore completely faded. He sat up straighter in his chair and met his father’s look with sincerity. "I will do my best, Father. You have my word."
"See that you do," Maekar grunted. He then swept his gaze across the rest of the table, fixing Aerion, Egg, and the girls with a severe glare. "You will all behave for your brother. And you will behave for Mistress Lucilla. If I return from the capital to find that any of you have caused her grief or disrupted the peace of this household, you will answer directly to me."
"We will be good, Father," Daella said softly, shrinking slightly under his intense scrutiny.
"Excellent," Maekar said, offering his daughter a faint, reassuring nod.
He then shifted his attention down the table, his eyes locking onto his youngest son. Aegon was busy tearing a piece of crusty bread, doing his utmost to look entirely innocent.
"Aegon will not be remaining at Summerhall," Maekar declared loudly.
Aerion’s head snapped up in sheer surprise. Daeron blinked disinterestedly.
"I have finalized the arrangements," Maekar continued smoothly, "Aegon is to be sent to Dorne. He will ward with your mother's kin at Starfall. Ser Duncan the Tall will escort him."
Aegon shoved a massive piece of bread into his mouth, chewing vigorously to hide the massive, thrilled grin threatening to split his face.He played his part perfectly, nodding obediently at his father.
Aerion scoffed, stabbing a roasted parsnip with his knife. "Sending a prince of the blood to the edge of the world with a giant beggar. A brilliant diplomatic maneuver."
"Hold your tongue, Aerion," Maekar warned, his voice dropping into a dangerous, warning rumble.
Aerion shut his mouth, though his eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
Maekar turned his attention away from his sons, his gaze shifting across the table to the two squires sitting quietly beside their respective princes.
"There is another matter," Maekar announced. His eyes found the dark-haired boy sitting faithfully beside Daeron. "Edric is no longer simply a squire in service to Daeron. As of this evening, he is formally taken as my ward. He will train in the yard, and he will take his lessons in the Maester’s solar alongside Ronnel, Aerion, and Daeron."
The dining chamber went completely still.
Red Ronnel’s jaw dropped, his grey eyes widening as he stared at the boy sitting near him. To be elevated from a stable hand to a royal ward was a staggering, unthinkable leap in station.
Before the heavy weight of the pronouncement could fully settle, the silence shattered.
Prince Aegon let out a loud, triumphant cheer, drumming his hands merrily against the polished timber board. Princess Rhae instantly joined the uproar, bouncing high upon her wooden chair with a bright, ringing squeal of approval. Daeron broke into a wide, genuine grin, raising his silver cup of watered wine high into the air to toast his squire.
Swept up in the sudden wave of joyous celebration, Red Ronnel reached over and clapped a firm hand onto Edric’s shoulder, giving the dark-haired boy a hearty, vigorous shake of congratulations.
"My prince," Edric finally managed to choke out, scrambling to stand up from his chair. He dropped into a deep, shaking bow, his voice thick with disbelief. "I am profoundly honored. I swear I will prove worthy of your trust."
"You already have, boy," Maekar answered plainly, gesturing for him to sit back down. "See that you continue."
As Edric sank back into his chair, still thoroughly stunned, Princess Rhae let out a loud, frustrated huff.
She was entirely uninterested in squires and wards. She reached up with both hands, aggressively tugging at the short, severely cropped locks of her silver-gold hair.
"Father!" Rhae complained loudly, drawing the entire room's attention. "Do Daella and I have to keep our hair cut so short? We look like shorn sheep! The septas always cut it straight across our ears and brows, and it is terribly ugly!"
Beside Aegon, Princess Daella nodded vigorously, her timid voice finding a sudden spark of courage. "It is very boyish, Father," Daella agreed softly, her hands reaching up to touch her own closely cropped silver hair. She turned her eyes toward the Mistress of the Household, gazing with pure admiration at the thick, elegant coils of dark brown hair secured at the nape of her neck. "We want beautiful, long hair. We want to wear heavy silver hairnets with jewels, just like Mistress Lucilla."
Maekar let out a slow, weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at his daughters, his features softening into a helpless, paternal exhaustion. He had allowed the septas to manage the girls for years, entirely ignorant of their preferences.
"If you wish to let it grow, you may let it grow," Maekar conceded gently. "Mistress Lucilla will see to it."
"Truly?" Rhae cheered, bouncing in her seat.
"Yes, Rhae," Lucilla promised, offering the girls a warm smile. "We will let it grow long, and I will teach you how to take care of your hair properly."
Daella beamed, her shy face lighting up with genuine joy. She looked back toward her father, her small hands folding neatly on the edge of the table.
"Will you see Uncle Rhaegel and Aunt Alys at the Red Keep, Father?" Daella asked softly, her tone carrying a wistful, innocent affection. "Please tell them we miss them. Aunt Alys always smelled of sweet flowers."
A heavy, complicated shadow passed over Maekar’s face. The mention of his erratic, unpredictable older brother and his gentle wife brought the looming dread of the capital rushing back into the warm room.
"I will see them, Daella," he promised, his voice tight. " And I will deliver your regards."
Daeron, noting the sudden, grim tension seizing his father's shoulders, leaned back in his chair. A dry, wicked smirk touched his lips as he decided to offer a rare moment of solidarity to lighten the mood.
"Yes, Father," Daeron drawled, his tone dripping with theatrical, mocking sincerity. "Give our profound regards to Uncle Rhaegel. And do not forget to share your boundless joy when you sit in council with Lord Brynden Rivers."
Aerion, catching the joke instantly, let out a short, biting chuckle. The Bright Prince leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a rare, shared malice against the Master of Whisperers.
"Indeed," Aerion smirked, swirling the dark wine in his silver cup. "I am absolutely certain Lord Bloodraven is counting the very seconds until he can gaze upon your joyous face again, Father. The two of you have always shared such a warm, brotherly embrace."
Maekar shot a dark, withering glare down the length of the table. The legendary animosity between the Prince of Summerhall and the Master of Whisperers was a well-known, bitter reality.
"If either of you possessed a single ounce of sense, you would not jest about Lord Rivers," Maekar grunted. He picked up his wine cup, a reluctant, grudging amusement pulling at the corner of his silver-trimmed beard. "The man has a thousand eyes, and I have no desire to spend my time in the capital listening to his cryptic riddles that he is poisoning your Uncle Aerys with."
Daeron laughed, a genuine sound that echoed cheerfully off the stone walls. Aerion offered a rare, genuine smirk in return, the two brothers briefly united in teasing their father. Lucilla watched the exchange, her eyes shining with quiet satisfaction.
Then, the heavy timber doors leading to the main corridor swung wide open.
Lispet, the head cook of Summerhall, marched into the private dining chamber. She was flanked by the three kitchen maids, but Lispet carried the crowning glory of the feast herself.
"Make way! Make way!" Lispet announced proudly, her face flushed red with the heat of the ovens.
She set a massive, gleaming silver platter directly into the center of the table. Resting upon it was a colossal Honeyed Almond Cake. The golden-brown crust glistened brilliantly with a thick, caramelized glaze, completely surrounded by a towering, magnificent mountain of spun sugar and sweet cream that looked exactly like a frozen, sparkling cloud.
Aerion’s eyes widened, his bruised features completely relaxing. He looked at the massive cake, and then his gaze shifted toward Lucilla, offering her a nod of gratitude.
Rhae gasped, nearly vibrating out of her chair. "Spun sugar!" she shrieked, reaching her small hands out toward the platter.
"Patience, Rhae," Lucilla laughed, gently catching the girl's wrists before she could demolish the dessert. "Lispet will cut it for everyone."
As the head cook began to slice the magnificent cake, dividing the sweet cream and spun sugar among the eager princes, princesses, and squires, the room filled with the noise of clinking silver and cheerful voices. Maekar sat at the head of the table, his lips against his knuckles as his right elbow rested on the wood, watching his children eat. He looked across the table, his eyes finding Lucilla amidst the lively, noisy fray. She met his gaze, offering him a soft smile.
The journey to the capital would begin in the morning, along with the difficult business waiting at court. But as he sat by the fire, listening to his children, those concerns felt distant. For tonight, he was content to simply sit with his family.
The smaller door of the dining room that led to the royal family wing clicked shut as the last of the children and the squires filed out. The kitchen maids moved quickly to clear the remnants of supper. Prince Maekar was seated, watching the servants work in silence, while Lucilla remained opposite him near the foot of the table. There was no movement from either of them until the maids withdrew and the iron latch secured the room.
The exhausting toll of the long day finally caught up to Lucilla. Hidden beneath the heavy hem of her heavy red velvet gown, she slipped her soft-soled shoes from her aching heels. With a soft, weary exhale, she lifted her bare feet and rested them atop the seat of the chair directly beside her, the very seat Rhae had just vacated.
From the far end of the table, Maekar stood. He picked up the heavy flagon of spiced Hippocras and a single silver cup they had come to share. His boots thudded in a slow, steady rhythm against the stone floor as he traversed the length of the room.
Approaching her side, he set the flagon and the silver vessel down upon the scarred oak table with a dull metallic clink. Without a single word of preamble, his large hands reached out and lifted her bare ankles. He lowered his massive frame into Rhae's empty chair, easing her feet down until they rested securely across his lap.
Neither of them flinched or stiffened at the contact. There was no sudden flush of modesty or courtly shame between them. They were simply two tired people finding a quiet sanctuary in each other. The prince reached for the flagon of dark wine. He poured a measure into his silver cup, took a slow sip, and pushed the vessel across the table toward her.
Lucilla accepted the shared cup, her fingers curling around the warm metal. A wry, teasing smile touched the corners of her mouth in the amber firelight.
"I must ask, my prince," Lucilla began, her tone light but pointed. "What were you thinking, allowing the septas to shear your daughters like sheep? Rhae was not wrong to complain about it."
Maekar let out a slow, exhausted breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I had far weightier matters to manage over the past four years than silver curls and hair ribbons. The septas said short hair was practical."
"It is a tragedy, is what it is," Lucilla chuckled softly, taking a sip of the wine. "I didn’t want to say anything this morning when we arrived, but now that I’ve heard it from the girls themselves… It is a mercy you are leaving them in my care."
Her smile faded as his impending departure crept back into the room. She set the silver cup down on the table.
"I brought Prince Valarr his supper earlier this evening," Lucilla murmured quietly.
Maekar went perfectly still, his eyes locking onto hers.
"He is drowning in his grief, my prince," she continued, her voice steady and gentle. "He confessed to me that his heart cannot find peace with what happened in the meadow."
Maekar flinched, the harsh lines of his face tightening as if he had just been struck. He looked down at the empty space on the table.
"I told him the truth," Lucilla said, refusing to let him drown in his own guilt. "I told him that you carry the ghost of his father every single waking second, and that the guilt is eating you from the inside. I made sure he understood that you ride to the capital tomorrow not for politics, but for penance."
"Did it offer him any comfort?" Maekar asked, his voice dropping into a raw, hollow scrape.
"It offered him clarity," she answered. "Are you still dreading the sight of Queen Myriah?"
Maekar swallowed hard, his broad shoulders slumping against the high back of his wooden chair. He closed his eyes and began to stroke Lucilla’s feet, the rhythm of it calming him. "Yes," he admitted bitterly. "Facing the council is a matter of state, but facing her will be a trial I do not know how to survive."
"You will endure it, because you must," Lucilla stated firmly. "And what of the King's Hand? What did your sons mean when they jested about Lord Rivers?"
A dark, fierce scowl instantly eclipsed the sorrow on Maekar's face. His eyes remained closed and he began to knead the soles of Lucilla’s left foot. "Lord Bloodraven," he spat, his voice vibrating with localized fury. "The man has a thousand eyes and one, and he poisons my brother Aerys's mind with cryptic riddles. He is a creature of spies and shadows, and I have no patience for his whispered schemes. I don't want to talk about him anymore."
Maekar leaned his head back against the top of the wooden chair, finally allowing his eyes to close. The fury bled out of his expression, replaced by a deep, hollow weariness. He didn't pull his hands away. Instead, his thumbs began to press into the arch of Lucilla’s foot.
Lucilla sank deeper into her chair, her head lolling back slightly as she let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. A soft, involuntary groan escaped her throat at the pressure, her body finally uncoiling in the quiet. They sat like that for a long, heavy stretch. There were no words, just the rhythmic heat of the fire and the steady, grounding movement of his hands on her skin.
"We will be apart for a fortnight," Lucilla noted, the quiet reality of the separation settling over the table. "perhaps longer."
"It will pass," Maekar said, his tone uncompromising.
"Will it?" Lucilla mused softly. She leaned back in her chair, tracing the rim of the silver cup. "When a starving person is handed a crust of bread, they often mistake it for a feast."
Maekar’s silver brows drew together. "Speak plainly, Lucilla."
"I mean that we are both exhausted and lonely," she reasoned, her dark eyes entirely honest in the firelight. "When you are surrounded by the hostile intrigue of the capital, and I am buried in the ledgers of Summerhall, the distance may serve us well. It will grant us the quiet to think about what we truly want, and whether this... connection... is real, or simply the comfort of finally having someone to share the dark with."
"I know what I want," Maekar stated flatly, refusing her logic entirely.
"I am not asking you to doubt," she replied, offering a faint, melancholic smile. "I am only asking for the grace of time."
Maekar pushed his heavy wooden chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. He carefully dropped Lucilla’s feet to the floor and stood up..
"Come with me to my chambers," Maekar commanded softly.
Lucilla stiffened, her eyes widening in immediate, scandalized shock. "My prince, the household is just settling into its beds. The corridors are watched. If we are seen together in the royal apartments..."
"I will not force you to do anything against your wishes, Lucilla," he promised. "But there is something I must show you before I ride for King’s Landing. Something that may help you decide."
She hesitated for a long moment, weighing the sincerity in his eyes against her own boundaries. Finally, she nodded, rising from her chair and following him through the narrow, private door that connected the dining room directly to the royal wing.
They walked in silence until they reached his apartments. The prince bypassed the huge four-poster bed, leading her straight into the adjoining bathroom.
Stepping past the empty sunken tub, Maekar walked to the far wall and pressed his large hand against what appeared to be a solid, unbroken block of pale limestone masonry. With a heavy scrape of hidden iron hinges, the stone yielded, pivoting inward to reveal a narrow, pitch-black corridor built directly into the immense thickness of the castle walls.
Lucilla’s breath caught in her throat. Maekar picked up a tallow candle from a nearby sconce and stepped into the passage, gesturing for her to follow. The air inside was dry, smelling of old dust, ancient mortar, and stagnant silence. They walked for a while before reaching another concealed doorway. Maekar pushed it open, pulling aside a heavy woven tapestry.
They stepped out into a dimly lit dressing room. Lucilla looked around, instantly recognizing the carved oak wardrobe and her own travel satchels sitting neatly in the corner.
"My apartments," she whispered in profound disbelief, turning to look at the tapestry that hid the stone passage.
"The suite you now occupy was originally constructed for the master of the guard, or the sworn shields tasked with protecting the royal nursery," Maekar explained, his voice a low hum in the quiet room. "This passage allows immediate, unseen access between the commander’s quarters and the children’s wing in the event of a siege or a betrayal. No one in this castle knows of its existence save for me, Ser Jeremy as the captain of the guard, and Daeron, because the heir must know the secrets of his own fortress."
He paused, stepping closer to her in the dim light. "Though Daeron does not have a key to the iron locks."
Maekar looked down at her, the flickering candlelight catching the bruised, exhausted lines of his face.
"I placed you in this room because you govern my home, and you are the shield my children need," he murmured, his eyes locking onto hers. "But this corridor remains. When I return from the capital, if you find that the cold of a widow's life is no longer a burden you wish to carry, you need only walk through the stone."
He gave a slow, respectful incline of his head, retreating a half-step into the gloom of the passage. "Good night, Lucilla."
"Good night, my prince," she replied softly.
Leaving him in the dark corridor, she slipped past the heavy woven tapestry and stepped fully into her own bedchamber. The room was steeped in the deep quiet of the late hour, smelling faintly of the crushed lavender she kept in her trunks and the fragrant pine smoke drifting from the dying hearth.
She crossed the room to the thick timber door that opened out into the main castle hall. With a firm, decisive push, she slid the heavy iron deadbolt into its housing. The loud metallic clack echoed off the stone walls, securing her sanctuary and ensuring no wandering servant or guard could interrupt her rest.
A long, weary exhale escaped her lips. The crushing weight of the long day finally settled into her bones. She walked toward the washstand, her fingers reaching up to unfasten the heavy silver dragon brooch from the breast of her black wool gown. Next she freed her hair from her heavy silver caul. She set the hairpiece down upon the wood with a dull clink and began combing her hair with her fingers. The tips of her fingers giving relief to her scalp.
A faint rustle of fabric broke the silence.
Lucilla paused, her fingers lingering on her hair. She turned her head toward the dressing room.
The heavy tapestry had been pushed aside. Maekar stood just inside the threshold of her chamber. The amber glow of the hearth fire caught the silver threads in his beard and the broad, line of his shoulders. He had not walked back through the stone tunnel to his own bed.
She did not startle. Instead, her posture relaxed, and a warm, playful spark flared in her dark eyes. She let her hands fall from her hair and turned fully to face him in the firelight.
"You are still here," Lucilla noted, her voice dropping into a smooth, teasing hum as she closed the short distance between them. She tilted her head, studying his heavy, expectant silence. "Are you waiting for something?"
Maekar did not move. His eyes tracked her every step, offering no royal command and no defense for his lingering presence.
She stopped mere inches from his chest, tilting her chin upward to look into his shadowed face.
"Perhaps this?" she whispered.
She rose onto her toes, reaching up to rest her palms gently against the rough wool of his tunic. Maekar bowed his head, meeting her halfway as she leaned in. She pressed her lips to his. It was nothing like the frantic, ravenous collision they had shared in the steaming copper tub at the mountain inn. There was no starving desperation, no bruising urgency to steal a moment in the dark.
It was a tender, impossibly slow kiss. Her mouth moved against his with a soft, lingering warmth, offering a quiet, steady promise in the silent room. Maekar let out a faint, shuddering breath, the tension completely draining from his body. His large hands came up to rest lightly upon her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer as he surrendered entirely to the gentle, unhurried peace she offered.
They lingered in the warm, lavender-scented quiet of her dressing room, the soft crackle of the dying hearth fire filling the space between them. Eventually, Maekar pulled back just a fraction. He rested his forehead against hers, taking a slow, grounding breath that swelled his broad chest.
"I ride at dawn," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a rough, reluctant edge in the dim room.
"I know," she answered softly, her hands falling gently from the rough wool of his tunic. "See you in a fortnight, my prince."
He pressed a final, lingering kiss to her brow, a gesture of profound affection, before he stepped backward. Moving away from the heat of the fire, he returned to the heavy woven tapestry that concealed the secret passage. He picked up the sconce from a nearby iron stand, shielding the fragile flame with his large, calloused hand.
She watched him pull the thick fabric aside and step into the pitch-black maw of the hidden corridor. She followed him until the tapestry to watch him walk away. The lone candle cast a weak, flickering halo around his massive shoulders, throwing tall, dancing shadows against the ancient, dry limestone walls.
He walked with heavy, measured steps, retreating deeper into the narrow tunnel. She watched the small, solitary point of golden light drift further and further down the dark passage until the gloom swallowed it completely.
As the final trace of his candlelight vanished, she let the heavy tapestry fall back into place with a soft rustle, sealing the stone passage and leaving her to the quiet peace of her own hearth.
Lucilla was laying comfortably on her bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the secret corridor. After a while, a hesitant knock sounded against the thick door leading to the anteroom.
She got up and crossed the room, pulling the iron bolt back with a sharp metallic clack, and swung the door open.
Standing in the dim anteroom was her maid, Betha, holding a sputtering tallow candle. The flickering yellow light cast long shadows against the stone walls. Tucked just behind the maid’s skirts hovered two small figures, shivering in their woolen nightgowns.
"Forgive the intrusion, Mistress," Betha whispered, her voice low to avoid waking Nan in the adjacent chamber. "They slipped out of the nursery. They said they could not sleep and asked for you."
Lucilla’s posture softened instantly. She stepped back, opening the door wider to the heat of her own hearth.
"Come in, girls," Lucilla said gently. She offered a grateful nod to her maid. "Thank you, Betha. You may return to your bed."
Betha bowed her head and withdrew, leaving the two princesses to step tentatively into the bedchamber. Without their heavy, structured dresses, Daella and Rhae looked incredibly small and fragile. Daella, gripped her younger sister's hand tightly.
Lucilla guided them toward the massive four-poster bed. The heavy crimson velvet curtains were pulled back, revealing the thick, inviting goose-down mattress. As she sat on the edge of the bed to help them up, the amber glow from the dying hearth fire caught her unpinned hair. Released from its silver net, the thick, dark brown waves cascaded freely over her shoulders and down her back.
Rhae stopped climbing, her eyes going entirely round. She reached out a small hand, her fingertips brushing the dark, heavy strands with pure wonder.
"It is so long," Rhae whispered, staring at the waves. "It looks like a dark river."
Daella reached up to touch her own severely cropped silver hair, a wistful sorrow touching her delicate features. "Will ours truly grow that long, Cilla?"
"It will," Lucilla promised, keeping her voice a low, soothing hum in the quiet room. "If we brush it a hundred strokes every night, it will grow past your waists. We will toss the septas' shears right into a lake or a waterfall."
Rhae smiled faintly at the rebellion, finally scrambling up onto the high mattress and burying herself under the heavy coverlet. But the usual fiery energy was completely missing from the little one, who looked worried.
"Father rides away again," Rhae noted, her voice muffled by the thick wool. "He is taking Uncle Baelor to our lord grandsire the King."
Daella climbed in beside her sister, pulling the crimson blanket all the way up to her chin. Her eyes were wide and fearful in the firelight. "He was so sad at supper. What if he does not come back to us? Will they call him kinslayer?"
Lucilla’s heart ached for the motherless girls. She climbed into the featherbed beside them, pulling the heavy blankets over all three of them. She wrapped one arm around Daella and pulled Rhae close to her other side, anchoring the shivering children against her own warmth.
"Your father is the Anvil," Lucilla murmured softly, staring at the glowing embers in the grate. "He is forged of strong steel, and he loves you very much. He will ride to the capital, he will speak to the King, and then he will ride straight back to Summerhall. He promised me he would not stay a day longer than he must, and your father is a man who keeps his word."
The girls absorbed the certainty of her voice. Daella rested her cheek against Lucilla's shoulder, her silver eyes finally drifting shut. Rhae tangled her small fingers into the long, dark waves of Lucilla's hair, letting out a long, heavy sigh of surrender. Within minutes, the princesses were fast asleep.
The dawn air at Summerhall was crisp and bitingly cold, thick with a mountain mist that clung stubbornly to the pale limestone walls of the courtyard. The energy of the castle's awakening had finally coalesced into the somber preparations for the long journey to the capital.
In the center of the expansive bailey, the heavy black funeral carriage bearing Prince Baelor's ashes stood ready, its massive iron-rimmed wheels resting heavily upon the damp cobblestones. Maekar stood beside his massive coal-black warhorse, fully armored in stark, unadorned steel plate and a dark traveling cloak, bracing his mind for the insufferable courtly pageantry and political vipers awaiting him at the Red Keep.
On the opposite side of the yard, Ser Duncan the Tall was tightening the cinch on his warhorse, his new grey steel armor gleaming in the mist. Beside him, Aegon was dutifully packing his saddlebags onto an old swaybacked stor, his shaved head exposed to the biting cold as he worked determinedly.
Before turning to his elder children, Maekar crossed the damp cobblestones toward the giant knight and his squire.
He studied the hedge knight first, taking a final measure of the man. He noted the size of the warrior, his earnest, battered face, and the quiet vigilance he maintained over the boy.
"Ser Duncan," Maekar rumbled.
Duncan stopped his work and straightened his massive shoulders, offering a stiff bow. "My prince."
"The southern road is treacherous," Maekar warned. "You have my son's life in your hands. I expect him to learn the harsh truths of the realm, but I also expect him to survive them. Keep your steel sharp and your watch vigilant."
"I will guard him with my life, my prince," Duncan vowed, his voice thick with genuine conviction. "On my honor."
Maekar gave a single, tight nod, accepting the oath. He then shifted his heavy gaze to his youngest son.
Aegon paused his packing, his small hands clutching the leather straps of his saddlebags. The boy was trying desperately to maintain a princely facade, but his lower lip trembled just a fraction in the freezing draft.
"Aegon," Maekar called to him.
"Father," the boy replied, his voice a tight whisper.
"Listen to your knight. Do as you are told without complaint, and remember who our friends are." Maekar paused. He reached out, resting his large, calloused hand firmly upon his son's small shoulder.
Aegon’s eyes went wide, shining with unshed tears at his father’s rare display of affection. He reached up, his small fingers briefly pressing against his father's heavy leather glove. "I will, Father. Safe roads."
With his youngest son's departure settled, Maekar withdrew his hand and turned his heavy boots toward the lower steps of the keep.
Lucilla stood on the lower steps of the keep, flanked by the children who were remaining behind. Daeron leaned heavily on his wooden crutch, looking pale but remarkably steady, with Edric standing attentively at his shoulder. Aerion stood a few paces apart, his jaw tight, his bruised face looking pinched in the freezing draft as he favored his injured side, Red Ronnel flanking him standing at the ready. Princess Daella held her younger sister Rhae's hand tightly, both girls bundled in thick woolen cloaks their cheeks and noses red from the cold.
Maekar turned from his mount to begin his farewells.
He approached his children, his heavy boots sounding a rhythmic, final thud against the stones. He stopped before Aerion, his eyes locking onto his second son. "Heal," Maekar commanded flatly, offering no further lecture.
Aerion gave a stiff, prideful nod.
Maekar shifted his heavy gaze to Daeron.
"The castle is yours, Daeron," Maekar stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Keep it standing until I return."
Daeron offered a wry, exhausted smile. "I will do my utmost not to burn it down, Father."
Maekar placed a heavy, calloused hand on his eldest son's shoulder to acknowledge the quiet courage the young man had proven he possessed.
He then dropped to one knee on the freezing cobblestones before Daella and Rhae. Rhae instantly threw her small arms around his neck, burying her face in his beard, while Daella hugged him softly, whispering a timid prayer for his safe journey.
With the King's Landing party ready as Maekar saw Valarr mount his horse, he stood and watched Aegon say his goodbyes before taking the southern road.
The boy left his horse and marched toward the steps. He hugged Daella and endured a tearful, aggressive squeeze from Rhae, who demanded he bring her back a Dornish sand steed.
He stepped up to Daeron wholeaned on his crutch and reached out, affectionately patting Aegon's shaven head. "Try not to drive the giant mad, Egg," Daeron teased. "And remember to wash your ears, or Cilla will march all the way to Dorne to scrub them herself".
"I will," Aegon promised, a small, brave smile touching his face.
Maekar watched as Aegon bypassed his older brother without a single glance. Aerion kept his gaze fixed firmly upon the stone walls of the keep, completely ignoring the young squire passing his flank. Mutual hatred hung heavily between them, rendering any pretense of a farewell impossible, and neither boy made the slightest effort to acknowledge the other's existence. Having walked past his brother as if he were nothing but empty air, Aegon finally turned to Lucilla.
Maekar watched his youngest son approach the Mistress of the Household. He expected the boy to offer a formal bow, or perhaps a polite farewell. Instead, Maekar saw Aegon’s face crumble just a fraction. The boy stepped forward, closing the distance completely, and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in her dress.
Maekar watched Lucilla's breath catch. Without a second thought, she dropped to one knee on the freezing cobblestones, entirely ignoring the dirt staining her fine new gown, and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her cheek into his shoulder.
"You be brave, Egg," Maekar heard her say to the boy. "You be brave, and be good. Listen to Ser Duncan, and remember that you always have a home waiting for you here."
Aegon nodded against her shoulder, his small fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.
"Goodbye, Ma Cilla," Aegon murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
Maekar heard the name and watched Lucilla freeze, her dark eyes widening. He saw a smile break across her face as she smoothed her thumb gently over his son's cheek.
"Goodbye, sweet boy," she said. "Safe travels".
Maekar cleared the tight emotion from his own throat, steadying himself for his impending departure.
"Walk with me, Mistress," Maekar commanded.
Lucilla rose and offered a perfectly executed, respectful dip of her chin. "As you command, my prince".
They walked side-by-side away from the children and the immediate bustle of the squires, stopping near the flank of his black destrier. Ser Donnel of Duskendale and Ser Jeremy stood a respectful dozen paces away, their eyes meticulously fixed on the open gates.
"Work with Ser Jeremy, Ser Hallyne, Harmon and Maester Melaquin," Maekar murmured, his voice dropping into a raw, private register meant only for her ears. "I leave my household in your hands, Lucilla. I expect to find it exactly as I left it".
"You will, my prince," Lucilla answered smoothly, her dark eyes holding his.
Then, she reached into the deep pocket of her gown and withdrew a tightly folded piece of thick parchment. She held it out to him, her face devoid of expression.
"A final reference for your journey, my prince," she offered. "So you can familiarize yourself with the… lay of the land… while you are away."
Maekar accepted the parchment, his thick, leather-gloved fingers brushing hers. He instantly assumed it was a list of household tasks and expenses she wanted him to review on the Kingsroad.
As he unfolded the heavy parchment and revealed what was in it, Maekar’s brain completely ceased to function.
A highly detailed, explicitly lifelike charcoal sketch of his Mistress of the Household, albeit several years younger, but very much her, in a state of unapologetic undress. The charcoal shading left nothing to the imagination.
The Anvil of the Redgrass Field inhaled a breath so sharp and ragged he nearly choked on the freezing mountain air.
A sudden, fierce flush of dark heat surged up his neck and ears, completely engulfing his face and disappearing into the silver-trimmed edge of his beard. His heart hammered a frantic, deafening rhythm against his ribs. Suddenly panicked, Maekar snapped the parchment shut so fast the heavy paper cracked like a whip in the quiet yard. He instantly crushed the folded document flat against his heavily armored chest, his eyes wide.
His head swiveled with lightning speed. He glared fiercely over his broad shoulder at Ser Donnel, and then at Ser Jeremy, his eyes darting frantically to ensure neither the Kingsguard nor the captain had been looking over his shoulder. Ser Donnel blinked, taking an involuntary half-step backward, entirely bewildered as to why the prince was suddenly glaring at him like he had just committed high treason.
Satisfied that the knights had seen nothing, Maekar snapped his burning gaze back to Lucilla.
She had not moved but simply stood before him, her hands folded primly at her waist. But her dark eyes were dancing with mischief, and a faint, knowing smirk bloomed on her face.
"The details are accurate enough for your records, my prince," Lucilla informed him.
Maekar ground his teeth together. The contrast between his rigid exterior and the raging furnace currently burning inside him was agonizing. He desperately wanted to roar at her, or perhaps drag her right back into the keep, but the heavy, watchful eyes of the entire household pinned him to the spot.
He glared at her, his chest heaving as he carefully, reverently tucked the scandalous folded parchment deep into the inner pocket of his heavy doublet, pressing it directly over his heart, safely shielded beneath his plate armor.
"We will speak about this when I return," Maekar gritted out, wanting to know how such a piece of drawing came to be.
Lucilla offered a flawless, deeply respectful curtsy, entirely appropriate for a servant bidding farewell to her lord. "Safe travels, my prince".
Maekar turned on his heel, his heavy cloak billowing out with a swish as he seized the reins of his destrier. He swung himself up into the saddle furiously, the heavy steel of his armor clattering. He did not look back down at her. He knew if he looked at her again, he would not leave the courtyard at all.
Drawing himself up to his full, towering height in the stirrups, Maekar glared toward the open iron gates.
"Move out!" Maekar roared, his voice ringing like thunder across the bailey, carrying the frustration of facing a fortnight on the Kingsroad in unmitigated agony.
The heavy iron wheels of the funeral carriage groaned, the destriers cantered forward, and the Prince of Summerhall rode out into the morning mist. He desperately guarded the scandalous piece of parchment burning against his chest. As he marched toward the Iron Throne to face the judgment of the council and his parents, the folded paper pressed securely over his heart felt less like a wicked jest and more like a vital lifeline, a secret promise tethering him to the woman waiting for his return.