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rubycruzin4abruzin · 3 months ago

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Forbidden Crown - VII

Summary: You and Kit prepare for your escape, everything seems to fall apart at your engagement party, and your mother reveals a shocking truth…

Pairing: kit tanthalos x princess!reader

Contains: kissing, angst, reader prepares a murder, some boob touching, non-explicit mention of vomiting, medieval partying, drinking, drunk behavior

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hope this one knocks your socks off

“Strike once. Through the heart.” Kit instructed, handing you a sword before stepping back.

You stood over the training dummy lying on the stone floor of the armory, the tip of your sword hesitating over its straw chest. The dummy was made to mimic a human form, and while its thatched figure was less than realistic, the very idea that it could one day be Kit filled you with a deep sense of dread. “I… I c-cannot…”

She frowned, crossing her arms. “You promised me…”

“Suppose I don’t intend to keep my promise?”

“Then we can’t go.”

Your face crumpled in defeat as your shoulders slumped, the sword dropping to your side. Kit softened her stance, placing a hand on your shaking shoulder. “Don’t… don’t think of it as me, alright? Because it won’t be. It’ll be… a walking infection, with an ashen face and lifeless eyes. Nothing but an ensorcelled servant to the Wyrm.”

She repositioned the sword in your hands, helping you hold it properly before stepping back again. “Protect yourself, Princess.”

You took a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut before plunging the sword straight through the dummy’s heart. Straw flew up at the impact, drifting around you and making you sneeze. You dropped the sword with a loud clatter, body trembling as you stumbled back into the armory wall. Tears began to spill down your cheeks, and Kit was quick to comfort you.

“It’s alright,” she wrapped her arms around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head. “You did perfectly.”

You spoke between ragged breaths. “I don’t… ever… want to have… to do that… again…”

Kit’s thumb wiped your tear-stained face. “Perhaps you won’t have to,” she said, though her words rang hollow, and deep down you sensed she didn’t believe them either.

The fortnight that followed was filled with planning, mapping, and gathering for your escape. Kit regularly pilfered smaller weapons from the armory, stashing them at the bottom of storage chests, beneath her bed, or anywhere she knew a chambermaid would overlook. You were tasked with securing food—a much more difficult endeavor, as stealing from the kitchen without arousing suspicion from the staff proved quite challenging.

It was Kit who had the brilliant idea to procure the help of the kitchen maid. However, the one she called ‘Muffin Girl’ held you both in little favor—Kit due to her relentless teasing, and you for more… obvious reasons. The only one she did seem to favor was her paramour, Airk, so it wasn’t long before he was enlisted as an oblivious pawn in your scheme.

“Remind me why I’m sneaking you extra provisions?” Airk inquired one evening, delivering a basket of bread and fruit preserves to your chamber.

You accepted graciously. “I’d simply like to… fill out my bridal gown a bit more,” you lied.

Airk’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “You mean to say you eat all of this? Each night? By yourself?”

You shrugged innocently. “Kit intends to fill hers out as well.”

He remained puzzled, but a quick mutter about ‘a secret matter of womanhood’ had him bidding you goodnight and taking his leave. It wasn’t a lie, per se—you and Kit were both women with a secret, after all.

As the days passed, your diligent efforts began to bear fruit and your journey was well underway. Of course, your meticulous scheming was not without consequence. Sex became nonexistent, as you both were so preoccupied with getting your affairs in order that it was the furthest thing from your mind. That's not to say either of you wouldn’t benefit from some physical release—coordinating an escape could be vexing—but there was a time and place for everything, and you two would have ample opportunity for such matters once you reached Nockmaar.

Eventually, all packing, planning, and preparations were complete, and right in the hour of necessity, as your parents had arranged an engagement party just two nights before the weddings.

You stood in your chamber, gazing at your reflection in the mirror, clad in the golden ball gown your mother insisted upon. It was a fine dress—you would surely be the envy of every maiden at the party—but it had been awhile since you’d worn a gown of such opulence, and truthfully, it was not to your taste. Your everyday dresses were simpler—looser, allowing a wider range of movement—and never so ostentatious.

“Gold,” your mother had emphasized when she presented the gown earlier that day. “It signifies wealth, luxury, nobility.”

It was difficult to fathom why your mother had been so insistent upon a color denoting status. Azarenth might have been a smaller realm than Tir Asleen, or even Galladoorn, but it was a kingdom nonetheless, and you a princess. Perhaps your mother was overcompensating, simply seeking to appear at equal stature with the other kingdoms.

Suddenly, the sound of a doorknob turning jolted you from your reverie. You smoothed your dress one last time before leaving the mirror to find your mother in the doorway, donning a rust-red gown.

You should have known; your mother wouldn’t knock, nor have any regard for your privacy.

“The guests will be arriving shortly, you’re needed in the ballroom,” she proclaimed.

String music from the consort echoed through the lofty ceilings of Tir Asleen’s grand ballroom. Long tables encircled the dancing area, with place markers clearly labeled for each guest. You were stationed at the front of the hall, joining your parents, the Tanthalos’, and the Hastur’s in greeting the guests as they arrived.

“Thank you for coming. “A pleasure to meet you.” “It’s an honor,” each phrase rolled from your lips, spoken with the practiced formality of routine. Despite your efforts, your wooden smile couldn’t reach your eyes, and a glance at Kit showed she wore a similar mask of indifference.

Kit had worn a dress. You shouldn’t have been surprised; it wasn’t as if Sorsha would have allowed her daughter to wear breeches to one of the most important events of the year. But you had never seen Kit in a dress before, at least not that you could remember, and it certainly was a sight to behold. The fabric hugged her figure in a manner foreign to her usual tunics, and its v-shaped neckline dipped low enough to reveal a bit of cleavage—a stark reminder of the recent lack of intimacy. A metal asymmetrical corset enveloped her waist, complementing the silver motif that adorned the rich green fabric.

Green. The color associated with Galldoorn, and also known to symbolize fertility. You could vomit.

Once the concourse was seated, the feast began. At the high table, you watched as servants poured wine and served roasted meats to the guests. Among them was the one Kit had dubbed ‘Muffin Girl,’ her long blonde hair secured with a linen coif. She kept her head bowed among the other cupbearers—ashamed to be working at her forbidden lover’s engagement party—but occasionally cast furtive glances at the high table, her gaze lingering on Airk.

“Muffin Girl has her sights set upon your betrothed,” Kit whispered from beside you. “Are you prepared to duel for his hand?”

You snorted, quickly concealing your amusement behind your goblet. “Have you spoken to your intended yet?”

“I have,” she replied, her lips curling in amusement. “I even curtsied. Like a real lady. And he sort of… grunted… and shuffled his feet. Like a real… winner.”

“So he’s a mouse,” you said, turning to look at Graydon, who sat with his father at the other end of the table. The way he choked on his wine, sputtering it down the front of his doublet, spoke volumes; much like your father, he was a royal only by blood. Otherwise, he was a meek, reticent man—undoubtedly lacking the ability to keep up with a headstrong woman such as Kit.

As you and Kit exchanged giggles and gossip throughout the meal, Sorsha rose, tapping her silverware against her goblet and commanding the room's attention. “For many moons,” she began. “Tir Asleen has maintained civility with both Azarenth and Galladoorn. Three kingdoms, joined together, but ruling separately… until now.”

Kit slipped her hand under the table and rested it upon your upper thigh. You shivered at the unexpected contact, quickly ensuring no one saw before returning your attention to Sorsha.

“In two days time,” she continued. “My son and daughter shall wed the Princess of Azarenth and the Prince of Galladoorn, respectively. At last, our three kingdoms shall be united—strengthening us and ensuring a harmonious future.” She raised her goblet. “To the brides and grooms; may they rule wisely, and justly, and foster unity and strength within our kingdoms!”

The crowd raised their glasses, clinking them together amongst cries of “To the realm” and “Hear, hear!” You turned towards Kit, studying her expression for any sign of guilt at forsaking her kingdom, but her lips were curled in a celebratory smile as she tapped her glass against yours.

You stood to the side like a hawk perched in the rafters, watching as Graydon awkwardly led Kit around the dance floor. He was a dreadful dancer, unable to meet Kit’s eye as he watched his own feet stumble over here. As humorous as the display was, your gaze focused solely on the hand he rested at Kit’s waist. You shouldn’t have been jealous, you had no reason to be; Kit barely tolerated this poor-excuse for a prince. Yet, the way he was able to hold her close, to take her hand in public without hesitation, ignited a burning envy within you.

The goblet in your hand was nearly empty, and the song had just begun. Visiting the wine table for a refill sounded tempting, but your gaze refused to stray from Kit. You told yourself you were protecting her, simply ensuring Graydon’s fingers refrained from wandering, though you knew it was senseless; Kit could take care of herself, and she would if she deemed it necessary.

Brief visions of Kit drawing her sword at the mere twitch of Graydon’s thumb crossed your mind, and you couldn’t suppress the snort that escaped.

Your amusement caught Kit’s attention, and she turned from Graydon momentarily to face you. Her eyes softened with pity; Kit had been your companion for fifteen years, and as much as you tried to hide it, she could recognize how bothered you were watching her dance with Graydon.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed. Her face shone with concern before crumpling into another wince as her partner stepped on her toes once again.

“In need of company, Princess?”

You spun around to find Airk facing you, his lips curled in a sympathetic smile. Airk had always been handsome—a trait perhaps the reason he was so popular with the ladies—and tonight was no exception. His usually loose brown curls had been slicked back, highlighting his sharp features and piercing green eyes. A doublet the color of coffee beans decorated his torso—understated, much less ornate than Graydon’s grandiose gettup, but Airk didn’t need magnificence. Unlike Graydon, who would likely disappear into the walls of the castle if it weren’t for his crown and jewels, Airk stood forth without assistance. He was simply… Airk, prince of Tir Asleen—all the young women pined for his affections, and you were the one to marry him.

Perhaps if things were different, if you were different, you would be the happiest maiden in all the land.

”You appear lonesome,” Airk spoke again. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were completely disinterested in this entire ordeal.”

You smirked, taking the last sip from your goblet. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re referring to, there's nowhere I’d rather be.”

He chuckled, offering his hand. “Care to dance?”

You accepted his invitation, grateful for the distraction, and let him lead you to the floor. Kit caught your eye as you made your way, her face scanning yours for any sign of trivial revenge, but your warm smile reassured her and she turned back to her partner.

Airk kept his hand in yours, but moved his other to sit at your waist, while yours rested on his shoulder. Neither of you were very interested in dancing properly, so you simply swayed to the tune of the consort’s playing. As you enjoyed the silent comfort of Airk’s company, you caught sight of your mother across the room, standing with your father and Queen Sorsha. You began to realize why she had insisted you wear such a fanciful gown; the brick-red of her own garment seemed dull in comparison to Sorsha’s deep crimson one. If it wasn’t for the splendor of your golden attire, Azarenth would appear poor in comparison.

While you pondered the monotony of your mother’s attire, Airk suddenly moved closer, mere inches from your face. Your breath hitched, shoulders tensed. He wasn’t, no, he wouldn’t…

He smirked. “Surely you didn’t think I was going to kiss you, did you?” He whispered in your ear with a chuckle. “I know where I stand.”

You sighed, relieved. He wouldn’t. “Of course.”

“I was simply going to ask if our parents were watching,” he whispered again.

You peered over his shoulder, locking eyes with your mother. She wore a beam of approval you hadn’t seen since you inadvertently agreed to marry Airk as a child. It pained you, somewhat, that smile. From her viewpoint, her daughter was dancing intimately with her betrothed while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. It was all she’d ever wanted. And it was a lie.

“At last, I’m the daughter she’s always wanted.” You muttered solemnly. Airk’s mouth formed a straight line of sympathy, squeezing your hand in an attempt at comfort. “You should see their faces.”

Airk spun you around so he could see for himself, and as he did you met eyes with the blond servant tagged as ‘Muffin Girl,’ clearing tables with the rest of the staff. Her glare wasn’t as cold or threatening as it usually was towards you; instead she just appeared… sad, defeated even. You couldn’t help but feel pity towards her; you knew how it felt to watch your lover dance with another, to be promised to another.

”They do seem quite pleased,” he commented.

“Unlike your mistress,” you spun him back around, shrinking under the weight of her unbearable stares.

He glanced over at her, a momentarily flickering of longing in his eyes before turning back to you. “Is your paramour present this evening?” He asked, scanning the hall. “Wherever he may be?”

You forced a smile, fighting back the urge to correct his pronoun misuse. “Closer than you might think.”

Before Airk had the chance for further inquiries, the music ceased, signaling the end of the dance. You broke away from each other, joining in polite applause with the rest of the partygoers. He bowed, bidding you adieu before exiting the floor—perhaps in search of closure from his forbidden lover.

The dancing area was nearly empty when the consort began to play a new song—still slow, but far less somber than before. Sounds of a vielle’s plucked strings filled your ears, giving the emerging melody an almost romantic air. Your eyes met Kit’s—who had also been abandoned by her partner on the far side of the room—and you exchanged glances full of unattainable longing.

In the center of the floor stood two women, close companions from a nearby village, caressing each other with cheeks rosy from the flush of wine, their laughter louder than the music as they swayed. They drew little notice, these ladies, dancing together in their tipsy states; they appeared as merely two friends, carousing as their husbands were elsewhere.

Husbands. Surely they had arrived with their respective spouses. No one would question a married woman dancing chaste with her female companion.

Your gaze returned to Kit, and an unspoken understanding passed between you. Slowly, you moved towards each other, each step forward echoing within you like a heartbeat. Your breath caught as you finally stood face to face, skin mere inches apart, the closest you had been, had been allowed to be, all night. She didn’t speak. She had no need. Her hands moved to sit at your waist, while your arms floated up and draped around her neck.

In every story, all the romance novels you’ve read, this was the moment when the world around you was meant to melt away, only leaving you and Kit together in its sanctum. But as hard as you tried, as much as you longed to lose yourself in the arms of your beloved, you were acutely aware of your surroundings. Whispers from the concourse seemed to drown out the music, filling you with a pertinent dread. It was one thing for the two commoners to dance together at a party, but you and Kit were royals—yet to be wed—and your closeness perhaps breached propriety more than the women you sought to emulate.

“Are you well?” Kit whispered, sensing your trepidation.

All you could do was nod, mind still absent. The arms you had wrapped around her neck trembled as you buried your face in her shoulder, desperate to block out the world.

Kit chuckled. “I’m not complaining, but you needn’t hold me so tightly, Princess. You have no reason to be so envious of Prince Graydon.”

You pulled back, mouth agape, but giggled upon catching the glint of mischief in Kit’s eye. “I most certainly am not.”

“You most certainly were,” she countered. “Enough so you engaged in dancing with my brother to enact your revenge.”

“I was simply dancing with my betrothed,” you retorted with a grin. “Just as you were.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “I saw you, watching me from afar. Envy practically radiated off your body, green as my array this evening.”

“You forget yourself, Tanthalos,” you laughed, smacking her shoulder.

And in that moment—the moment where Kit held you close, her nose scrunching and eyes sparkling as she laughed with you, where you had momentarily forgotten your environs and allowed yourself to be silly with the person you loved, the one who loved you—that was the moment the world around you finally seemed to melt away, leaving only you and Kit together in this melodic bubble. Even so, you could feel your mother’s eyes boring into you from across the room, but for once, you could cast all cares and worries of her judgment aside. She had gotten what she wanted; you had danced with Airk. It was your turn to indulge.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Kit said, drawing you from your thoughts.

You gave her a small smile. “You have nothing to make up for.”

“I do,” she argued. “And I will.” Her thumb stroked the plush of your sides as she leaned in closer to whisper. “And if it weren’t obvious, you are a much better dance partner than Graydon could ever be. I haven’t checked yet, but I’m sure my poor toes are as bruised as they feel.”

You winced in sympathy, but then chuckled along with her until the song came to an end. Applause filled the hall once more, you and Kit joining in after breaking away from each other. With an exchange of curtsy’s, and a final squeeze of your hand, Kit turned and exited the dance floor, vanishing within the crowd like the last note of the consort’s melody.

As the night wore on, bottles of wine seemed to disappear from the tables, replaced only by the staggering and raucous laughter from the party guests. Servants bustled about, clearing empty bottles and mopping spills, while the retinue danced to lively music.

You were no exception to the tipsy merrymakers, the apples of your cheeks tinted pink from the mixture of claret and revelry. Strands of hair had strayed from your once-neat pinup, clinging to your forehead and the sides of your face through beads of sweat. You took another sip from your goblet as you swayed out of sync, comforted by your boozy blur and the warmth in your belly.

Kit had faded from view long ago—not that you were particularly concerned. The gathering was quite large; she could have easily merged with the throng. Although it was unlikely, given that Kit—much like her brother—was difficult to lose in a crowd, it was still a possibility. Moreover, it seemed Graydon had little taste for festivity, choosing instead to hover in the shadows or remain close to his father, as if he were a lost youth amidst a horde of strangers.

As long as Graydon didn’t wish to be seen, Kit had no need to be seen.

The night was certainly alive with the company in high spirits, but for all the sport it provided, you were beginning to grow weary. Finishing your drink, you sought solace near a window at the far end of the hall, partially concealed by heavy velvet drapes. You leaned back, catching your breath while allowing the cool glass to temper your heated skin.

As you began to relax, your breath evening out, a disembodied hand emerged from behind the curtains, seizing your arm and pulling you out of sight. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, but another hand quickly covered your mouth, stifling your cries of protest. The dense curtains eclipsed any light, and fear coursed through your veins as the shadowy figure loomed over you, overpowering your struggles…

“Shh… shh… My lady, it’s me.”

The familiarity of the whispered voice immediately calmed your nerves. You blinked, allowing your eyes to adjust to the darkness until Kit’s sweet face came into view.

“Kit, what are you…”

“I promised I’d make it up t’ you, didn’t I?”

Even in the dim light, the flush of her cheeks was evident. Her hair, once elegantly arranged, now hung about her head in a tangled mess. Each word she spoke reeked of fruit and spirits, her sentences punctuated by giggles and hiccups. Kit was thoroughly inebriated, perhaps even more so than you.

“Yes, but, I…”

Before you could finish, her mouth was on yours. She kissed you sloppily, her hands lazily gripping at your waist to pull you closer. Her lips, the heat of her breath tasted flammable, almost, yet still so intoxicating. You wanted so badly to give into her, to melt under her burning flame, but you pulled away.

“Kit…” you breathed. “Not here…”

“Why?” She groaned. “S’ been so long.”

Your eyes flickered down to her chest once again, gulping at the sight of her bare décolletage. She had a point—a dangerously tempting point—but her invitation posed too great a risk.

“If someone from the party were to find us…”

She dismissed your concern with a wave of her hand. “They’re all b’scotted. Utterly foxed. ‘S fine.”

“Kit,” you giggled. “You’re quite muddled yourself.”

“You’re one t’ speak,” she snorted. Her hands tangled in your hair, destroying what was left of your pinup as she stumbled. You had to laugh, despite yourself; although your soused stupor was much more relaxed than Kit’s, it was far from negligible.

“Alright,” you held onto her hands. “Perhaps we should retire for bed.”

“Fin’ly…”

“Kit,” you blocked her advance, despite every inch of your body screaming to give in. She groaned again, and you sighed, struggling against thoughts of what those groans might sound like under different circumstances…

No. “Surely they’ll notice our absence.”

“Graydon ‘s busy in the corner,” she slurred. “Airk ‘s gone ‘s well. We won't be missed.”

You frowned, knowing just how right she was; with your suitors missing, no one would be searching for the two of you. Beyond that, every moment spent with her in this pocket of darkness only made you want her more—to feel her on you, her mouth against your skin, her hands roaming your body. It truly had been too long, and the sight of her in that bedeviled dress did nothing to soothe your desires.

Almost as if she could sense your thoughts, as if she had planned on interrupting them, Kit pressed her lips to yours once more. This time, you didn’t resist and allowed yourself to burn under the heat of her body. You could never tire of her taste, her touch, her feeling; you could get drunk off her alone, even without the vine’s blood plaguing her breath.

The world seemed to spin faster with your oxygen now compromised, but Kit remained your anchor. You reached for her shoulders to steady yourself, but your hands inadvertently fell at her breasts. A soft whimper escaped her throat, almost inaudible over the roar of the party, but still resonant in your ears. Your fingers slid down her skin, dipping lower, lower, until they grazed the edge of that plunging neckline that had tortured you all night. She only spurred you forward, seizing your hips and pressing them against hers as your touch ventured beyond the fabric of her dress, fingertips exploring the delicate flesh that lay beneath it.

God, she was soft. How was she always so soft?

Her breath quickened, the hot air tickling the skin around your mouth. You took it as an incentive to lose yourself further and further in the arms of your lover, drowning in her warm embrace and the taste of Falernian wine that still lingered on her tongue. She was all-consuming, and the way she gripped at your sides told you she felt the same way about you.

You were both so absorbed in each other, so immersed in the private world you had created, that neither of you noticed the blinding scourge of light that intruded upon it.

Followed by a shrill scream.

That you did notice.

Pulling back, you ignored Kit’s whines of protest and squinted at the disruptive brightness. There, in front of you, was none other than Muffin Girl, clutching the velvet drapes and wearing a look of terror. Behind her stood an equally-stunned Airk, and you swore, for but a fleeting moment before they separated, their hands were intertwined.

You were frozen in place; her scream had alerted the party’s multitude. All eyes fell unto you as the music ceased, the hall became as still as the private chapel during prayers. Your gaze surveyed the room, taking in the varied facial expressions of your party guests—shocked, horrified, disgusted, perhaps even some lascivious interest from a few less-than-respectable individuals. Sorsha’s visage was different, however—still aghast, but not directed towards you, rather slightly lower, and that’s when you felt Kit tugging at your wrists.

Realization hit you like the strike of a battering ram; you had yet to remove your hold on Kit’s breast. Queen Sorsha of Tir Asleen, your hostess, your future mother-in-law, had just happened upon you with your hand down her daughter’s dress.

Immediately, you stepped back and let your hands fall to your sides, yours and Kit’s faces flushed and fear-stricken as you desperately tried to smooth yourselves out. But when you looked up for the final time, catching sight of your own mother’s face, you knew then and there you had reached far beyond the point of no return. You expected her to yell, to scream as Muffin Girl had, or to react with the fury of a siege engine, but she did not. She merely composed herself, turned on her heel, and walked briskly out of the hall. Your father trailed after her, and you knew you were expected to follow as well.

The rest of the party wasn’t far behind. Never before in Tir Asleen had a gathering disbanded so quickly.

Your mother didn’t bother to escort you to your guest chamber, nor even to her own. The first private place outside the ballroom happened to be the solar, so that’s where you ended up. You hadn’t been in the solar before, but it left much to be desired; tall wooden walls matched the floor, nearly barren save for a lone table in the center with benches on either side.

It was ironic, almost, that they called this room the “solar;” it was practically as frigid as your mothers demeanor.

She paced about, waiting for your father to shut the door behind you before dropping her pretense. “Do you loathe me?” She asked, taking you by surprise. “Do you? I can’t fathom what I’ve done. My own daughter, to hold such malice…”

“Mother…”

“I chose a fine young man for you to wed,” she interrupted. “I even granted you fifteen years to grow accustomed to him. I thought it would be cruel, then, to force my daughter into marriage with a stranger, but I now see that would have been best.”

“Mother…”

“After all I’ve done for you, after everything your father and I have done for you,” she turned towards him, seeking his support, but he merely shrunk under her piercing gaze. “Is this how you repay us? Such grievous betrayal…”

A storm of conflicting emotions roiled within you—anger, guilt, fear—but none of them were for your mother. “It is not about you!” You shouted, catching her off guard. She did nothing but stare back; mouth agape; never before had you raised your voice to her. “It was never about you.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, as if she was choking on her next words, before her eyes narrowed. “I never held her in good favor, I’ve always been wary of her influence on you.”

“Pardon?”

“That wretched friend of yours, she has corrupted you. Brought you to the ways of this unnatural lifestyle…”

“It was not her doing,” you snapped. “And we are not friends!”

“How are you not ashamed to speak such words?” She exclaimed, her face twisted with a frenzied fury you were unfamiliar with. “How are you not as abashed as I am? My daughter. Princess of Azarenth. Consorting with her betrothed’s sister, and at her own engagement party no less!”

You hung your head, not ashamed of your love for Kit, but at having been discovered. She noticed your change in bearing and sighed, casting her eyes to your father as she wrestled with her thoughts. “Perhaps… perhaps Airk could still agree to marry you. You were quite wine-sodded tonight, yes? As was Kit? If we offered that as an excuse, and an apology, of course…”

“I do not intend to wed Airk, Mother,” you confessed, your gaze still lowered.

That made her freeze. A tense silence hung in the air before your father’s voice broke it, his tone cautious and uncertain. “Princess… do you mean to say… you intend to wed Kit?”

“Of course not,” you replied; though the idea was compelling, you knew it wasn’t feasible. “I do not intend to stay here at all. And neither does Kit.”

Your parents' faces twisted in confusion, and your pulse quickened as the weight of your words settled over them. As you stared back at them silently, defiantly, their expressions slowly shifted to terror, despair, and… fear?

“Darling…” your mother hesitated, her eyes wide with panic. She displayed a vulnerability you had never seen before in your usually imperturbable mother, and it filled you with unease. “You must stay and marry Prince Airk. We need our alliance with Tir Asleen!”

“Why?” You demanded. “There are many kingdoms with which we could ally, some where I wouldn’t need to marry at all! What could Tir Asleen provide that is such a necessity?”

As your mother stammered, desperate to find the right words, she turned to your father for help, but alas, he tucked his head like a turtle retreating back into its shell. She sighed. “Princess… Azarenth is penniless.”

“Pardon?” You exclaimed, shocked. “Penniless?”

She nodded. “As a poet without a patron. Fifteen years ago, Queen Sorsha agreed to offer financial aid in return for your engagement to her heir.”

You looked to your father for any sign of jest, but his eyes softened only with pity. “Without your betrothal, our union will be severed, and our people will surely starve.”

The world seemed to crash down upon you as everything suddenly made sense—your parents’ insistence on abiding with Airk, how they always seemed to sycophantize with him and Sorsha, the size of Azarenth and how it lacked resources compared to Tir Asleen, how you always seemed to visit the twins and rarely the other way around, your mother’s dress, and how she was so importunate about your appearance, insisting that you look as wealthy as possible.

Your head swam, feeling as if the floor were slipping from underneath you. You pushed past your parents and collapsed onto one of the wooden benches. “Impoverished…” you whispered to yourself, contemplating where your priorities truly lay—your loyalty to your people, or your loyalty to Kit…

It didn’t take long for the Tir Asleen ballroom to clear, but if inquired, Sorsha would swear she spent years of her life stationed near the doorway, cheeks afire as she bid farewell to each scattering guest. The King of Galladoorn barely paid her any mind as he stormed off to his guest chamber, Graydon in tow, both visages aglow for varying reasons.

While his mother busied herself with mending the falloutl, Airk moved his sister to a nearby table, handing her a goblet of water to dilute the alcohol in her stomach. Kit groaned as she sipped from the goblet. Her head pounded; even while seated the room still seemed to spin. She lazily tugged at her corset, its constriction suddenly becoming too much for her to bear.

Airk sighed, reaching back to relieve his twin of the restricting garment. “I must say, I’m intrigued to see how you plan to explain this,” he whispered as he gently undid the laces. “I haven’t seen Mother so enraged since she caught me reading the lewd literature as a lad.”

Though the corset was loosened, Kit still felt her stomach clench as she glanced at her mother. Sorsha’s calmness, though eerie, was intensified by her flushed face, as crimson as her gown. As soon as the last guest departed and Sorsha closed the ballroom doors, the atmosphere shifted to one of unease. Airk noticed immediately, and busied himself with clearing tables, determined to stay out of his mother’s line of fire. Kit gulped as her mother approached, the dread forcing her mind out of its drunken haze.

“I’m not sure why I’m surprised,” Sorsha began, her expression stoic. “Twenty-one years I’ve endured your antics. I once thought it was mere childish theatrics, that you’d surely mature beyond it, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Kit also remained expressionless as she continued to sip from her goblet. She was used to being scolded, berated by her mother, to the point that it had lost its sting long ago.

Sorsha, however, was far from finished. “I just never imagined my own daughter would go as far as to make a mockery of her own kingdom, and for what? To thwart a betrothal? To evade your royal responsibilities?”

Her voice grew louder with each sentence. Kit groaned, clutching the side of her still-throbbing skull.

Sorsha knelt to her daughter’s level until Kit could feel her breath warming her face. “Goblet’s ache? You should give thanks to the gods above for your intoxication tonight,” she continued. “Without wine’s influence, the inquisition would surely have your head after your misdeed this evening!”

Kit’s earlier dread settled like a pit in her stomach at her mother’s words. Sorsha was right; in her lustful, wine-soaked stupor, she had risked not only a scandal, but possibly your lives as well.

Nausea bubbled inside her; she clutched her stomach, desperately fighting back the bile that threatened to rise. Airk quickly noticed his sister’s disposition, and rushed over after grabbing a maid’s bucket off a nearby table.

Sorsha scoffed at her son’s compassion, watching in disbelief as he held Kit’s head over the bucket. “Honestly Kit, did you ever stop to consider how your brother might feel about all this? If I were him, I’d leave you to wallow in your own excretion.”

Upon being mentioned, Airk’s head lifted to look at his mother. As betrayed as he knew he should have felt, as shocked as he was to learn his intended’s paramour turn out to be his own sister, he couldn’t deny, he had been keeping his own secrets. And if Kit’s was so harshly exposed against her will, perhaps alluding to his own could alleviate her burden. “I care little, mother…”

His words grabbed Sorsha’s attention, drawing it away from Kit momentarily. “How can you not?”

“I don't love the princess,” he admitted. “And she doesn't love me.”

Sorsha merely waved off his confession as if she were flicking away dust. “Marriage isn’t about love, Airk! Few engagements begin with love, you learn to love!”

“I have been in the princess’s company for fifteen years,” he argued, beginning to raise his voice before using her own choices against her. “I have not grown to love her, and you and father’s union was not arranged!”

“I married a reckless man because I was ‘in love’ with him, and look where that got me! I ruled a kingdom alone while raising two children, and he’s dead in a ditch somewhere in Nockmaar!”

“That’s where I shall be, too,” Kit interjected.

The raspy sound of her voice took Airk and Sorsha by surprise. They slowly turned to face her. “Kit…” Sorsha began. “What do you mean, that’s where you shall be?”

Kit glanced up from her bucket, her eyes red and watery. “Nockmaar,” she gurgled. “The princess… we’re not staying…”

Both Airk and Sorsha’s jaws dropped in horror at Kit’s remark. Airk was the first to speak. “Kit, you’re not serious…”

“Nockmaar?!” Sorsha cried. “B-but your father… and the Wyrm…”

“Safer than here…” Kit muttered, dropping her face back towards the bucket.

It was Sorsha’s turn for her head to spin; visions of the dire fates that might befall her daughter danced in her head—nightmarish scenarios her mother had long foreseen. She could practically taste her own heartbeat; she knew her daughter better than most, and recognized her obstinacy derived from her father. When Kit had her mind set on something, there was no stopping her, regardless of the peril; Kit would willingly risk everything—even her own life—if it meant being with her beloved.

Without another word, Sorsha turned on her heel and exited the ballroom, leaving her twins behind as the doors shut behind her.

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fanficapologist · 5 months ago

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Eighty-Six

The next few weeks at Dragonstone passed swiftly as there was much to do. After seemingly coming to a stall once the dragonseeds had left to take Tumbleton, reinforcements finally arrived. The castle bustled with activity, the sound of preparations and strategy discussions echoing through the halls.

A new Small Council had formed at Dragonstone since the previous council was overthrown in the Capital. With the arrival of Lord Commander Criston Cole and Unwin Peake from Harrenhal, along with the unexpected presence of Lord Larys Strong, deliberations began on how the Greens would retake King's Landing. The war room was frequently occupied, maps and parchments scattered across the table as heated discussions ensued. Yet, despite the fervent brainstorming, the ideas suggested so far proved unsuccessful, each plan encountering insurmountable obstacles.

Aemond, anticipating the need for sound medical and scholarly advice, had written to the Citadel, requesting a Maester to join them at Dragonstone. The Citadel responded affirmatively, agreeing to send a number of candidates from which the royal couple could choose who would serve as the Grand Maester on the newly formed Small Council.

However, it became evident that the selected Maester would not arrive in time for Maera’s birth, which was now predicted to be a mere fortnight away. When she first found out she was pregnant, Maester Orwyle had examined her carefully, his face lined with concern and concentration. “The very end of the eighth moon,” he predicted with a note of finality.

In the meantime, Maera remained resolute, continuing her duties despite the increasing burden of her pregnancy. Her steps were slower, her movements more deliberate, but her spirit remained unyielding. She attended council meetings alongside Aemond, her presence a silent reminder of the stakes involved and the future they fought for.

With the arrival of the boats from both Harrenhal and King's Landing, Maera found her belongings slowly filtering their way through Dragonstone and ending up back in her possession. Each day brought new parcels and crates, some familiar and comforting, others a stark reminder of the upheaval they had endured.

She was sure that Lord Unwin Peake had grabbed what he could from her rooms in the Riverlands after he received the summons. The items were neatly packed, a testament to Unwin's efficiency. But it was Lord Larys who had brought her belongings from the Red Keep, and Maera still did not trust him. The thought of him personally going through her property made her shudder. He was a creep, and his unsettling presence always seemed to lurk just at the edge of her awareness.

As she unpacked her things, Maera experienced some sadness that not all of her possessions had found their way back to her. She knew this was a time of war, and the Lords had probably only grabbed what they deemed as essentials. Still, it pained her to think of the personal items lost in the chaos, relics of her past now scattered or gone forever.

Among the returned belongings, her black and gold dresses emerged, rich fabrics glinting in the torchlight. Her jewels, too, were there, glittering with the promise of better days. Books she had collected over the years, their pages worn from frequent reading, were stacked carefully in a corner. Some of her weapons had also arrived, including her old hunting bow and a spear sent from Dermot years ago.

Despite the arrival of her possessions, Maera found she couldn't use most of them so late in her pregnancy. The journey on Ēbrion to Dragonstone had weakened her previous injuries, forcing her to take a break from riding on dragonback. The thought of mounting a dragon now was unbearable; her body ached in ways she had never imagined, and the weight of her unborn child made every movement a laborious effort.

There was no way she could use her bow, her swords, or her spear. She was too exhausted just from walking up the stairs, let alone sparring outside. The very idea of engaging in combat or even practicing her skills felt like a distant memory, a part of her life that seemed almost unattainable in her current state. Her once agile body was now cumbersome, each step a reminder of her physical limitations.

The only thing she could do was write letters to her allies. She spent hours at her desk, scribbling replies diligently, aware of the importance of maintaining these connections. Many letters needed to be written, but the task quickly grew tiresome. The monotony of correspondence weighed heavily on her, draining her spirit. There seemed to be no time for fun or joy.

Is this what being a Princess was supposed to be? she wondered, frustration bubbling beneath her composed exterior. Even her giving birth, something she had once envisioned as a deeply personal and private experience, was now a matter of national importance. Her womb was no longer just hers; it was a vessel for the future of the realm, scrutinized and monitored by those who saw her child as a pawn in their political game.

Maera sighed, setting her quill down for a moment, her hand aching from the relentless writing. She looked around at the familiar trappings of her past life—dresses, jewels, books, weapons—all now out of reach, relics of a time when she felt in control of her destiny. The once comforting presence of these items now only served to highlight her current helplessness.

She rubbed her swollen belly, feeling the baby kick beneath her hand. There was a glimmer of hope in that tiny movement, a reminder that despite everything, life continued to grow within her. It was a small solace, but enough to keep her going through the long, tedious days.

The tender moment was interrupted when Maera’s chamber doors opened. Aemond entered, his straight silver hair swaying as he walked, cutting a striking figure in his own clothes. The green tunic he wore reminded Maera of her father’s eyes, her own eyes. She wondered if their child would have her eyes too.

There was still tension between the couple, both walking on a knife’s edge when interacting with each other. They remained separate most days, apart from the few short hours they would spend eating a meal together. Depending on the atmosphere, sometimes the meals were filled with idle chatter, and other times, deathly harsh silence.

Maera rose from her seat, one hand on her stomach and the other on the back of her chair, pushing herself to stand. The pressure on her back and stomach, as well as her injured leg and arm, was intense, but she managed. Once stood up straight, she sighed in relief and bid her husband a respectful nod.

“Is there anything you need, my Prince?” she asked, confusion in her voice.

Before Aemond could answer, a flurry of stewards entered, carrying wooden chests, which only heightened Maera’s confusion. She glanced at Aemond, searching for an explanation in his stern features. His violet eye, usually sharp and calculating, softened slightly as he looked at her.

“I’m not sure how long we’ll be here. At the very least, we won’t leave till you’re recovered from birth,” Aemond said before gesturing to the chests now being placed around the room. “I thought I would bring you some things to pass the time.”

The Princess blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. She watched as the stewards opened the chests, revealing a plethora of art supplies. The vibrant colors in the paint pots and variety of materials were overwhelming.

There were thick, rich reds and blues, delicate pastels, earthy tones, and metallic hues that shimmered in the light. Brushes of all sizes and shapes were meticulously organized, from fine-tipped for detailed work to broad, flat ones for sweeping strokes. Sponges of varying textures and shapes promised endless possibilities for creative expression. The parchments and canvases were of the highest quality, their pristine surfaces waiting to be transformed by Maera’s touch.

Aemond stood back, observing her reaction. His usual sternness was softened by a hint of anticipation, as if hoping this gesture might bridge the widening gap between them.

“This… this is thoughtful,” she said, her voice catching slightly as she ran her fingers over the tops of the paint pots. “Thank you.”

The one-eyed Prince nodded, his expression still serious but with a hint of relief in his eye. “I thought you might find some solace in it. You painted frequently at home.”

Maera smiled faintly, the tension between them easing just a fraction. She could see a glimmer of hope in his eye, a momentary easing of the tension that had plagued their relationship.

Aemond looked down, his long silver hair cascading over his shoulders as he avoided her gaze. After a moment, he suggested, “Perhaps you would join me for dinner this evening as well?”

Maera paused, uncertain. His gesture was thoughtful, yes, and it did clear the air slightly. But there was still a long way to go. “I require my rest this evening,” she replied politely, her voice tinged with hesitation.

Her husband nodded, his stern face masking the disappointment that flickered in his eye. He looked away, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly. With a sigh, Maera then suggested, “But maybe we could break our fast together in the morning.”

Aemond’s expression softened slightly, and he agreed with a small smile. He reached for her hand, his touch gentle yet firm, and placed a small kiss upon it. The warmth of his lips sent a rush of unexpected emotion through Maera, causing her face to blush.

The Prince lingered for a moment more, his thumb caressing the sapphire and gold ring he had given her. The gesture was intimate, filled with unspoken words and unexpressed feelings. He then turned on his heel and left, his presence lingering in the room even after he had gone. Maera couldn’t deny the butterflies she felt at the thought of breaking their fast together, a fleeting smile forming on her lips.

The days grew longer, and for Maera, time seemed to stretch interminably. For the majority of her marriage, she had been pregnant, a state of being that was all too familiar for noble ladies of her status. It was common for them to be with child almost every year, a cruel arrangement that seemed to trap them in a cycle of childbirth until they could no longer bear it.

Preparations for Maera’s impending labor continued in earnest. The midwives were put on high alert, their presence a constant reminder of the imminent arrival. The chambers were meticulously readied with the necessary supplies, an array of linens, herbs, and tools placed strategically for the moment of need. Aemond, though often occupied with his duties, enquired about her well-being daily, either directly or indirectly through the castle staff. His concern was a small comfort in the midst of her growing discomfort.

The months had completely transformed Maera, both emotionally and physically. The trauma of war had left indelible marks on her spirit, and the rapid changes in her body were no less overwhelming. Her curvaceous figure had morphed into something unrecognizable, her body adapting to the demands of the growing life within her. Maera’s hips had widened, her breasts were harder than rocks, her muscles ached tremendously, and after all of her suffering, she had still not given birth.

The babe, now nine days late, seemed determined to take its time. Maera, exhausted and increasingly agitated, found herself in a constant state of anticipation.

The midwives assured her repeatedly that all was well. The babe within her kicked and wriggled energetically, a sign of its robust health. It was in the right position for birth, they said, and everything was progressing as it should. And yet, the birth did not come. Maera’s frustration grew with each passing day, her patience wearing thin as she awaited the moment that would finally bring an end to this prolonged ordeal.

Her concern grew as each day passed without the presence of a Maester. She remembered that Maesters were typically present at births when complications arose, so their absence must have been a positive sign from the Gods, indicating that her labor would be swift and uncomplicated, with no need for medical intervention. But if all was to be well, why was the baby still not here?!

The midwives had suggested confinement to minimize stress and give Maera a chance to take in the sight of her newly furnished chamber. The room was now adorned with a cradle, baby clothes, and soft rugs, intended to create a comforting environment and potentially jumpstart her labor. However, to Maera, the room seemed to taunt her, rubbing it in her face that the child had not yet come. The thought of staring at the same four walls endlessly filled her with dread, knowing she would go insane if she remained confined.

Desperate for a distraction and some semblance of control, Maera sought refuge in Dragonstone's library. She pulled out a number of books and scrolls, searching through ancient texts and medical treatises in a futile attempt to find something, anything, that might relieve her suffering and allow the babe to come.

After poring over several books, Maera finally stumbled upon sections related to pregnancy and childbirth. Over the course of a few days, she attempted numerous strategies to initiate her labor. She found recipes for spicy teas and drank them, but nothing happened. Determined, she took vigorous walks around the castle, pushing through the pain in her leg and the exhaustion that accompanied her efforts. Yet, there was still no sign of the baby’s arrival.

One morning, Maera awoke to a sudden pain, her abdomen squeezing and releasing for a few seconds. Her heart leapt with hope. Finally, some movement. However, as she turned in her bed, the pain subsided. Perplexed and cautiously optimistic, Maera summoned the midwives.

Upon examining her, the midwives declared the pains to be ‘false contractions.’ While they reassured her that this was a good sign, indicating that her body was preparing for labor, it did not mean the labor was beginning. Maera huffed in frustration, feeling the weight of disappointment. It was back to the drawing board.

Determined not to give up, she resumed her search for solutions, combing through more texts and experimenting with different methods, all while the anticipation and tension grew within her. Each moment felt like an eternity as she yearned for the arrival of her child, hoping that soon, her efforts would finally bear fruit.

After another evening of tireless reading in hopes of finding a miracle cure for her ailments, Maera finally stumbled upon something promising. The practice was outdated and certainly frowned upon by the Faith, but she had already done things the Gods would not approve of. She resolved to ask for forgiveness later.

The text she found described a method first documented in Old Valyria during the time of Aenar Targaryen, her ancestor who relocated his House to Dragonstone. If it had worked for her ancestors, surely it must work for her, she concluded. The excitement and desperation mingled within her, pushing her to try this ancient practice.

Maera made her way back to her chambers and summoned the midwives once again. They strongly advised against it, citing that she should allow nature to take its course as the Gods intended. Maera rolled her eyes at their caution. Surely the Mother and Maiden would understand her plight?

Ignoring their protests, she ordered the maids to dress her in a black sheer nightdress that accentuated every single curve of her body. Her hair fell loose into curls, a beautiful mix of brown and silver. She dabbed some perfume onto her neck and wrists, the scent of jasmine and vanilla filling the air, before leaving her room.

“I was not expecting you here this evening.”

The stone walls of the room were adorned with tapestries depicting the fiery history of House Targaryen, their dragons soaring majestically over battlefields and burning cities. Heavy wooden furniture, intricately carved with dragon motifs, filled the room, and the hearth was always alight, casting a warm glow over the dark stone and keeping the chill at bay.

Now that Aemond had unpacked his belongings, the room began to reflect his character. His polished armor and weapons were meticulously arranged on stands and racks, each piece gleaming and well-cared for. Books on history, warfare, and Valyrian lore were stacked neatly on shelves, alongside maps and scrolls detailing strategies that could be used in the ongoing war. A dark green tapestry bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung prominently on one wall, a symbol of his allegiance and ambition.

When Aemond entered his chambers, he furrowed his brow, seeing the shadow of a stranger perched upon his bed. His hand instinctively went to his sword, but as he drew closer, he was met with the sight of his wife in her sheer black nightgown. His violet eye quickly widened, taking in the sight of her fully, his gaze raking up her body.

Maera attempted to appear desirable, though she felt nothing of the sort. Her heart pounded with nerves, and her body ached from the weight of her pregnancy and the exhaustion of her efforts. She resolved that this was merely a transaction to get what she needed and would attempt to play her part convincingly.

The Princess took a deep breath and met his gaze, her voice soft but steady. “Me neither,” she replied, her tone attempting to be sultry despite her inner turmoil.

Aemond's eye swept over Maera's form one last time, lingering on the curves accentuated by her sheer nightgown. Then, without a word, he moved to sit on the chair next to the dresser, beginning to unbuckle his boots. Maera sighed, realizing she needed to be more direct.

"I require your assistance," she stated, trying to keep her voice steady.

Aemond's eye flicked up as he removed his boots, repeating her words as if trying to make sense of them. "My assistance?"

Maera nodded and gestured to her swollen stomach. "I'm exhausted," she explained, her frustration evident. "And if I hear one more midwife telling me to relax for the sake of the baby, I will burn this castle down."

Aemond breathed out a laugh, the sound unexpected but welcome. He then began to unbuckle his dark green doublet, agonizingly slowly, and Maera could not tear her gaze away. When he removed it, leaving him in just his cotton shirt and trousers, he looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “So what do you need from me?”

She gulped, attempting not to be overcome by desire for her husband. Despite her anger and the gulf between them, the sight of him stirred emotions she could not easily suppress. "For you to perform your duty," she said, trying to maintain her composure.

Aemond tilted his head, confusion evident in his eye. Maera clenched her jaw, frustration and longing mixing in her voice as she clarified, "The marital act, Aemond.”

The Prince smirked, a glint of amusement in his eye. "It's already evident that I have performed my duty," he replied, gesturing to her rounded abdomen.

Maera dug her nails into her palm, the sharpness of her frustration growing as she tried to explain herself. "I read in a Valyrian tome that the act can bring forth labor towards the end of pregnancy," she reiterated, her voice carrying a mixture of urgency and irritation.

Aemond nodded slowly, his violet eye studying her with a hint of amusement dancing beneath the surface. He raised his brow for a moment, as if pondering her words, before decisively removing his cotton shirt. The action revealed his lean, muscular form, marked with scars that told tales of battles fought and dangers faced. Despite her current state of mind, Maera couldn't deny that he was undeniably handsome, and the sight of him after their prolonged separation only served to intensify her desire.

Pulling his silver hair free from its confines, Aemond's locks cascaded over his broad shoulders, framing his sharp features with a striking contrast. He spoke in a low, measured voice, his words laden with a subtle challenge, "Well then, wife, all you need do is simply ask me.”

“…ask you?” She parroted, her mind racing to comprehend his meaning.

“Yes.” Aemond stepped closer, looming over her on the bed, his presence commanding and magnetic. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, and repeated in that same low tone, "Ask me."

Her breath quickened in response to the intensity of his gaze and the proximity of his body. A mixture of anger and longing churned within her as she felt his deliberate attempt to tease and provoke her. She clenched her jaw, fighting the inner turmoil of pride battling against desperate need.

Their eyes locked, and in that charged moment, Maera felt the room shrink around them, the air thick with unresolved tension. She struggled to maintain her composure, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Despite her determination to resist, a part of her yearned to surrender to the allure of his presence, to bridge the emotional chasm that had grown between them.

The Princess rose abruptly from the bed, her hands pressing firmly on Aemond's shoulders as she shoved him backwards. Her breath was quick, eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and defiance.

"Coming here was a mistake," she declared sharply, her voice tinged with anger. She turned away from him, walking briskly towards his dresser. Running her fingers through her curls, she decided to play Aemond's game of cat and mouse. "It's a pity Hugh Hammer has already left," she remarked coolly, her tone laced with provocation. "He would have jumped at the chance to bed me."

Maera heard him storming towards her, and she glanced into the mirror to see his looming figure behind her. Before she could react, his arm darted forward, grabbing her neck and yanking her backwards. She gasped as her back pressed against his bare torso, feeling the tension radiating off him.

“You would dare let someone touch you?”Aemond growled into her ear, his grip tightening slightly. His voice was edged with possessiveness and anger.

Meeting his intensity, Maera asked in return, her own voice steady despite the pressure on her neck, "And what would you do if I did?"

There was a charged silence between them, the air thick with tension and unspoken desires. Aemond's grip on her neck loosened slightly, his breath brushing against her skin as he leaned closer. “Slit their throat and let the blood spray and drip down your beautiful face,” he murmured, the brutality of his words causing her stomach to do flips.

Maera's expression hardened as she spun out of his grasp, facing him chest to chest. Her eyes locked onto his with defiance and frustration, yet beneath the surface, a flicker of something more complex lingered.

"You're insufferable," Maera declared sharply, her voice a blend of exasperation and an underlying current of something deeper, something primal that stirred within her.

Before Aemond could respond, she made her move. Leaning forward, Maera closed the distance between them in one swift motion. She crushed her lips against his with a fierce hunger, the kiss a tumultuous blend of passion and frustration. Her hands moved to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into his bare muscles.

Her lips moved against his with a fervor born of months of tension and misunderstanding. She tasted the familiar essence of him, a mix of warmth and something distinctly Aemond. His response was immediate, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her closer into him, melding their bodies together in a desperate embrace.

Maera felt herself being pushed back to the bed, her husband’s hands venturing to her shoulders as he pushed sleeves of the nightgown down, the sheer material falling off of her body and pooling at her feet. Aemond’s hands immediately flew to her breasts, squeezing and massaging the rounded flesh, which brought her great relief. A soft moan escaped her lips as she surrendered herself to him, his touch fueling the yearning within her that she had desperately tried to deny.

Aemond pulled away for a moment, grabbing one of the pillows at the top of the bed before placing it behind her. He then dropped to his knees, his hand crawling along the length of her leg, the calloused fingertips dancing along her calf before meeting the soft rounded meat of her thigh. She instinctively widened her legs, inviting, if not begging him, to touch her, revealing her glistening cunt to him.

“Fuck, you have missed me,” he purred before swiping his tongue through her folds.

“Oh Gods,” Maera sighed as her husband lapped at her core like a man starved, his tongue delivering deliberate strokes to her clit, causing her to squirm. Each flick of his tongue and the firm pressure at her aching core intensified the desire pooling inside of her.

The Princess’s hands gripped the sheets tightly as she felt herself getting closer and closer to her peak. Aemond’s eye flicked up, grabbing onto one of her hands and placing it firmly onto the back of his head. All semblance of control left her body as she finally fully surrendered to him, whimpering as she gripped his silver tresses.

Maera allowed her hips to roll against her husband’s face, that oh-so familiar knot tightening in her stomach as he savoured the nectar of her arousal. Aemond’s hand squeezed her thigh harshly as his other moved down to let his fingers join his tongue. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head in pleasure as two fingers entered her, whilst he peppered kisses against her puffy clit.

His digits curled inside of her, brushing against that rough patch within. The Prince groaned as he heard her muffled voice moaning his name, the sound of her arousal echoing throughout the chambers. Mere seconds later she saw stars as she gasped for air, the tight coil snapping as pleasure completely washed over her. She held Aemond in place, her nails digging into his scalp as he continued licking and sucking her clit through her peak.

The one-eyed Prince did not give her time to catch her breath before flipping her onto her front, her swollen belly resting on the pillow he had previously put behind her. As Maera turned her head to see what he was doing, she felt is tongue run through her folds, lapping up her arousal before licking all the way to her puckered hole, causing her to gasp. Then without warning and the sound of rustling fabric, he entered her in one swift movement, filling her to the hilt before setting an erratic pace.

Her orgasm had left her sensitive and she swore she could feel every inch, every ridge, every vein even more intensely than she had ever done before. She bit her lip, determined to not let any more moans escape her. She had already given too much of herself away. This was supposed to be a transaction, a means to an end. And yet it felt so fucking good.

Maera gripped onto the sheets for dear life as her legs began to shake, his cock hitting that rough patch within her over and over again with each forceful thrust. She felt his hand slide up her neck and tangle into her brown and silver locks before pulling her upwards, her back now against his chest, his breath fanning against her face. When his other hand snaked down to stroke her bundle of nerves, Maera’s back arched instinctively, hand hand flying backwards to tangle once again in his hair.

The pressure began to build once again in her stomach, blinding hot pleasure wracking through her body like electricity. She turned her head to look at him and took in the beauty before her. Aemond, his face flushed, his jaw slack as he looked down, watching as his cock disappeared into her.

Without thinking, she pulled his face towards her, colliding her lips with his. Aemond’s tongue slipped past her parted lips, lapping the inside of her mouth as he tasted her. After a moment, he pried himself away, simply resting his forehead against hers, both of them gasping for air as they chased their peaks, their breaths mingling. The hand in her hair began to snake down her body, pausing momentarily on her breast, grabbing and kneading the flesh harshly, before descending further and resting on her swollen stomach.

It was intimate. Too intimate for what this was supposed to be. But Maera did not have time to dwell, her mind and body out of sync as her cunt fluttered around him, pulsating with a rhythm that was overwhelming, gripping and squeezing his cock like a vice. His release followed soon after, his hot white seed painting her walls, a feeling that she had missed, no matter how much she tried deny it.

After a moment, once their breathing had slowed, Aemond collapsed onto the bed beside her, and Maera turned to lay on her back, her hair fanning around her like a dark and silver halo. She was covered in a sheen of sweat, her face flushed from her two peaks, her body feeling practically boneless.

She felt amazing. Desired. Wanted. Loved? No, that was too much. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She felt his hand brush against hers hesitantly, as if he did not wish to scare her away. But she could not stand it, and abruptly sat up, her heart still pounding from the intensity of their coupling.

She reached down to the floor, her fingers brushing against the sheer fabric of her nightgown. With a swift, almost frantic motion, she pulled it over her head, the delicate material clinging to her still-flushed skin.

There was no time for tenderness or comfort. It was not possible. He had betrayed her, slain her kin, and almost gotten her killed through his sheer lack of action. Yet why did she only feel whole when she was with him? When she surrendered to his whim? When she accepted that her hate for him was also intertwined with her love for him?

As she stood, she let out a deep sigh, frustration gnawing at her. She was mad at herself for giving in to her desires, and even more so at Aemond for his infuriating ability to provoke her. She turned to leave, but her injured leg gave way slightly, causing her to stumble. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, her breath hitching in pain.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension. “Are you-?”

Maera whipped around to glare at him, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. She didn’t want his pity, not now, not ever. “I’m fine,” she snapped, her voice cold and sharp.

Without waiting for a response, she stormed out of his room, her movements brisk despite the pain in her leg. The corridors of Dragonstone seemed to stretch endlessly as she made her way back to her chambers, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Reaching her room, she closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she tried to steady her racing heart.

Maera woke alone in her chambers the next morning. The bed was cold and empty, a stark contrast to the heated passion of the previous night. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, a mix of frustration and regret gnawing at her. She had allowed herself to become so close to Aemond, and it had awakened feelings she thought she had long since repressed.

She swore she could still smell his scent on her—leather and dragon smoke, a heady mix that made her heart clench painfully. The memories of their encounter played vividly in her mind, his touch, his whispered words, the intensity of their shared desire.

She knew last night had been a mistake, a desperate plea for aid to an adversary. Aemond had done what she asked, but he didn’t have to be so smug about it. Or make her feel so good. It was supposed to be a transaction, nothing more. Yet, in his typical manner, he had twisted it into something deeper, something that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Such a devious son of a-

“Oooooofff.”

A sudden and intense pain seized her. It radiated from her lower back and surged through her lower stomach, shooting down the back of her thighs. She gasped, her hands instinctively gripping the sheets as her muscles tensed in response to the unexpected agony. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, willing the pain to pass.

When it finally subsided, Maera knew this was different from the false contractions she had experienced before. She immediately rang the bell to summon the midwives, her heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and determination.

The midwives arrived quickly, their faces a blend of concern and professionalism. One of them, a young woman with kind eyes, asked, "Are you sure it isn't another false contraction, Princess?"

Before Maera could respond, the pain struck again, more intense than before. She clutched the bedpost for support, her body doubling over as she tried to breathe through the agony. The midwives moved swiftly, two of them holding Maera’s hands, whispering words of comfort, while the oldest midwife, a seasoned woman with a calm demeanor, began her examination.

After a few moments, the older midwife looked up, her expression resolute. "Her labours have indeed begun," she confirmed. The other midwives nodded, their grips on Maera’s hands tightening in solidarity and support. The room buzzed with quiet urgency as they prepared for the task ahead.

A million thoughts raced through Maera's mind. Relief washed over her at the prospect of her pregnancy finally coming to an end, but it was swiftly followed by a wave of anxiety. Surviving the pregnancy had been one battle, but childbirth was an entirely different and more dangerous ordeal. The absence of a Maester to oversee the process only heightened her fears, amplifying the possibility of complications spiraling out of control.

Trying to steady her nerves, Maera addressed the midwives. "I know this stage of labor can last for days, especially with a first child," she said, her voice edged with determination. "I need you to assist me in dressing. I have a meeting to attend in the main hall."

One of the younger midwives, her face pale with concern, strongly advised against this plan. "Princess, you should begin confinement immediately to prepare for a safe delivery and ensure you get enough rest," she pleaded.

Maera, ever resolute, pushed back. "We are at war," she stated firmly, though willing to find common ground. "I will attend the meeting, and once it is over, I will begin my confinement. You can wait outside the chambers in case you are needed."

The midwives exchanged uneasy glances but complied. They helped Maera into a dark black dress, sparing her the restrictions of a corset. The dress flowed around her, accommodating her swollen belly. As they laced up the back of the dress, Maera tried to focus on the task at hand, pushing aside the fear and pain. Every movement was a reminder of the life inside her, the child that would soon be born into a world of chaos and conflict. As the midwives finished, Maera took a deep breath, steadying herself for the journey ahead.

Maera walked down the corridor, flanked by guards, her midwives trailing a few paces behind. The grand hallways of Dragonstone seemed longer and more daunting than usual. As she moved, a sharp pain struck, radiating from her back and lower stomach, searing down to the backs of her thighs. She halted abruptly, her hand flying to the wall for support, her other clutching her swollen belly. The intensity of the pain forced her to grit her teeth, her breathing shallow and rapid as she fought to stay in control.

The corridor’s dim torchlight cast long shadows, flickering over her strained features. She tried to steady her breathing, focusing on the rhythm to regain control. The contractions were coming every ten minutes or so, a relentless reminder that time was running out. But she needed to attend the meeting.

One of the guards turned and approached her with concern etched on his face. "Princess, are you alright?" he asked gently.

As the pain subsided, Maera straightened, smoothing out her dress with trembling hands. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, pushing her hair back from her face. "Move on," she commanded, her voice firm despite the lingering ache. The guards nodded and resumed their pace, Maera following behind, albeit slower and with a noticeable limp.

The midwives whispered amongst themselves, their hushed tones barely audible but clearly filled with concern. She imagined they were analyzing her labor, tracking her progress with each step. Maera pushed their voices to the back of her mind. She needed to focus on the meeting ahead. The world outside the chamber was still at war, and she needed to be informed, prepared for the future that awaited her child.

She paused at the doors, taking a deep breath, hoping to keep her composure. The pain was a constant companion now, but she could not let it overwhelm her. Not here. Not now. She squared her shoulders, resolved to stay in control, and signaled for the guards to open the doors. The heavy wood creaked open, and she stepped inside, every step a testament to her strength and determination.

The grand hall was an imposing room, its high, vaulted ceilings echoing with the whispers of history. Tall, narrow windows lined the walls, casting thin beams of light that danced with the flickering of numerous torches and candles. The cold, dark stone of the walls was adorned with ancient Targaryen banners, their red and black hues deepening the hall’s sense of foreboding and power.

In the center of the room stood the stone table, carved with meticulous detail into a map of Westeros. Candles were lit beneath it, their flames illuminating the hidden contours of mountains, rivers, and cities etched into the table’s surface. The soft, warm light created an almost ethereal glow, making the map appear alive.

The council members were gathered around the table, their faces a mix of determination and unease. Aemond’s gaze flicked up as Maera limped towards them, his violet eye never leaving her. With a subtle gesture, he signaled a steward to bring a chair forward, ensuring Maera could sit beside him.

Lord Unwin Peake was the first to stand, his seasoned face breaking into a smile. Maera returned his greeting with a polite, though strained, smile, her teeth grinding as her womb contracted once more. The pain was a constant undercurrent, but she refused to let it show more than necessary. Lord Commander Criston Cole looked striking in his Kingsguard armor, the pristine white and gold of his cloak contrasting sharply with the dark stone of the hall. A golden chain around his neck signified his status as Hand of the King, the heavy emblem resting on his broad chest.

Lord Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, leaned casually on his firefly-embellished cane, his smile polite yet inherently sinister. He offered her a respectful nod, his voice soft as he commented, “Princess, I am surprised to see you in attendance.” Maera merely rolled her eyes, unwilling to engage with him, and continued her determined walk to the seat beside Aemond.

As the lords began to sit, Larys continued, “If memory serves correctly, you do not have a seat at this council.” His words hung in the air, a thinly veiled challenge. “And with your baby overdue-”

Aemond was quick to interrupt, his tone cold and firm. “Were it not for my wife, none of us would be standing here in the first place.” Maera reached her seat and Aemond rose, pushing the chair in behind her. He turned to the room, his voice commanding attention. “The Princess is a valuable asset and a dragon rider. If anyone has a problem with her attendance, they are dismissed.”

The room fell silent, the authority in Aemond’s voice leaving no room for dispute. Maera sat, her breathing steadying as she focused on the council’s proceedings. The illuminated map of Westeros beneath them seemed to pulse with the weight of their decisions. Despite the pain and the tension, she was determined to play her part.

News from King's Landing was shared with a solemn gravity, each piece of information adding weight to the room's already tense atmosphere. It was assumed that Ser Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships, had succumbed to the tortures in the dungeons. Maester Orwyle had attempted to escape but failed miserably, resulting in his return to the dark depths of his prison.

Reports indicated that the smallfolk had seemed to accept Rhaenyra's rule, but Maera silently concluded that their acceptance was likely born out of fear. It was hard to argue against the people and their dragons who now held the city with an iron grip. The gold cloaks, who maintained their loyalty to Prince Daemon, held the gates of the city firmly closed, preventing anyone from getting in or out. The troubling news of Helaena and Alicent being taken as hostages brought no new developments, leaving an ominous cloud over the council's proceedings.

As the updates were fed back to the room, Maera found it increasingly difficult to listen. The pains came in rapid succession, each one more intense than the last. She clutched the arms of her chair, her knuckles white from the effort. Her back felt as if it were on fire, and she ground her teeth to distract herself, sweat forming on her brow. Every word spoken around the table seemed distant, overshadowed by the agony coursing through her body. Her focus wavered, the room blurring at the edges as she struggled to maintain her composure.

Aemond's watchful eye had never left Maera, and his concern began to grow as he observed her increasingly pained expressions. Leaning slightly towards her, he asked quietly, "What is wrong?" Maera, still conflicted about their previous night together and determined not to show any weakness, shook her head, gritting out a terse "Nothing." Aemond, sensing the tension and knowing better than to press further, returned his attention to the meeting, though his gaze frequently flicked back to her.

Suddenly, the doors of the grand hall burst open, and Ser Alfred Broome, a guard who had previously served Rhaenyra, entered in a panic, his eyes wide and a scroll clutched tightly in his hand. The council members looked on furiously at the interruption, but the distress on Ser Alfred's face quickly turned their fury to concern.

The knight began to apologize for the intrusion, but Aemond cut him off, asking sharply, "What has happened?" Ser Alfred's eyes darted around the room, taking in the tense faces of each council member. Maera studied his gaze, sensing the gravity of the situation.

Ser Alfred stuttered, struggling to get the words out. "My Lords, a raven has arrived from Harrenhal." He paused, visibly shaken. "It is Prince Maelor."

Maera's heart sank, a cold dread washing over her. No. Surely not. Thena had gotten him out. He was on his way to Tarbeck Hall. The scroll in Ser Alfred's hand shook with his nerves as he continued, "He has been...he is..."

Aemond stormed out of his seat, his face a mask of fury and fear. He approached the knight in a few swift strides and snatched the parchment from his trembling hand. His eye went wide as he read it, the color draining from his face. The room fell silent, the tension thick as Aemond's reaction confirmed their worst fears. “Gods be good.”

The news of what was on the scroll quickly became apparent without the need for further words. The council members exchanged horrified glances, their faces paling. Prince Maelor, who would have become King, the last son of Aegon, was gone. Just like Aemond’s other nephew, Jaehaerys. The Blacks had succeeded; they had vanquished Aegon’s line.

Maera’s heart pounded in her chest as another, far more terrifying thought dawned on her. This did not mean the Greens were without a leader. Aegon and his sons were gone, but the late King Viserys had more than one son.

Did that make Aemond the…?

Did that make Maera the…?

“Arrrgggghhhh!” Maera lurched over, one hand gripping the edge of the stone table and the other clutching her swollen stomach. The pain that tore through her was unlike any she had felt before, a searing agony that radiated from her back to her lower abdomen and down the backs of her thighs. It was harsh, brutal, and all-consuming. She groaned, her face contorting with the effort to remain standing.

The suddenness of her movement drew the attention of everyone in the room. Conversations halted, and concerned murmurs filled the air. Maera’s vision blurred as she fought to steady her breathing, but the contractions were coming too quickly now, leaving her little time to recover between them.

She felt something warm and wet running down her leg. Panic surged through her veins. Gathering her skirts in a trembling hand, she glanced down to see blood flowing between her legs. A sharp cry of alarm escaped her lips. She looked up at Aemond, her eyes wide with terror, and saw his face mirrored her own fear.

“The babe is coming,” Maera declared, her voice quivering with fright and desperation.

Notes: *insert panicked Michael Scott meme here*

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