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[samwpmarleau]

[14/20] ASOIAF power couples → Maekar I Targaryen x Dyanna Dayne

The last of King Daeron’s sons was the second to wed, to Lady Dyanna Dayne, niece of the famed Ser Ulrick, the Sword of the Morning. This came as a surprise to most, as the groom was just sixteen, his bride scarcely a year older — and Dornish besides. King Daeron offered little in the way of explanation, but young maidens at court insisted it was the dour prince and gregarious Dyanna themselves who requested the match, for they were rarely seen far apart. Whatever the cause, so it was that in 190 AC, the two were married.

A warrior of note, Maekar’s greatest distinction came during the First Blackfyre Rebellion at the Battle of the Redgrass Field. The battle was a bloody affair that saw many to their deaths, including Daemon Blackfyre himself and his two eldest sons, and only came to an end when Baelor Breakspear appeared with a host of stormlords and Dornishmen, falling on the rebel rear, while the young Prince Maekar rallied what remained of Lord Arryn’s van and made an implacable anvil against which the rebels were hammered and destroyed.

For his valor, Prince Maekar was awarded the seat of Summerhall. By Lady Dyanna’s hand, Summerhall remained true to its name, less a fortress than a palace filled with music, art, and gardens. During their seventeen years of marriage, Dyanna bore Maekar four sons and two daughters before succumbing to a short and sudden illness some years after the birth of Princess Rhae. Several ladies were henceforth put forward as suitors, for the prince was yet young, but he accepted none. Already a stern man, it is said that what smiles he had died with Dyanna, and that he grew sterner still after the mishap that claimed the life of his brother, Prince Baelor.

Maekar later gained further renown on the battlefield with his leadership in the Third Blackfyre Rebellion, alongside the courage of his youngest son, Aegon. Rising to the throne in 221 AC, Maekar proved to be an energetic king whose twelve-year reign was one of relative peace. He ultimately fell in battle at the age of nine-and-fifty while leading his army against the rebellious Lord Peake on the Dornish Marches.

[samwpmarleau]

War is...well, war is war.

Eight months he’s been on this campaign, yet it still hasn’t gotten easier. His whole life he’d been ostensibly training for battle, but no one had expected outright war, and no amount of practice could compare to the reality. No amount of training was adequate preparation for being splattered with gore from both friends and foes, the bitter bite of a blade, or the feeling of utter failure at the loss of life. He is their leader. He and he alone is the one to blame for each felled man.

Baelor would have the right words to say to him, but Baelor is on a campaign of his own, trying to make Marcher and Dornishman alike set aside their differences to fight a common enemy. Maekar does not envy him that task. They have written to one another on occasion, but only to exchange information, never concerns.

Those, he shares with Dyanna. Not all of them, mind—he knows she is worried enough as it is. In truth, her letters are all that keep him grounded, more often than not. He knows his men trust him, trust his tactics, but they hold no affection for him. He is their general and little else.

Dyanna had moved to King’s Landing shortly after his departure; their castle was too lonely, she’d said, their bed too empty. He misses the boys more than he can bear, as well. Daeron had been not quite five when he’d left, had only understood a mite of why his father had to say goodbye. Aerion, barely past his second name day, hadn’t understood at all, had just cried inconsolably as Maekar mounted his horse and put Summerhall at his back.

Dyanna tells him of their exploits, how Daeron has taken to play-acting Maekar’s triumphs and how Aerion had once overheard his grandfather curse and from then on delighted in repeating it. He can envision all of it happening as if he were there, which is at the same time welcome and painful.

He is tired. He hadn’t thought that at two-and-twenty that would be a possibility, but lately, all he feels is exhaustion. In two moons’ time they would reach the crownlands and face his bastard half-uncle’s army. He hasn’t heard from Baelor in months, enough to leave a pit of unease in his gut. Maekar’s company has emerged victorious from their battles so far, but he cannot do the same against the wall of troops Daemon will be fielding. Not without the swell of Baelor’s ranks.

The unease persists, despite his best efforts, but never does it consume him, for one reason alone: not surviving this war is simply not an option. He could take a wound that would leave him staring the Stranger in the eye, his blood soaking the grass in red, but it wouldn’t matter.

The gods themselves couldn’t keep him from his wife and children—Daemon Blackfyre doesn’t stand a chance.