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Chapter Text

It’s a sunny day in King’s Landing. The sky is clear, the Blackwater calm and the windows and door to her chamber’s balcony are thrown wide open. The delicate white curtains dance in the fresh cool sea air brought in by the breeze and Gael basks in the morning sun. She stretches before turning away from the windows with a content sigh, back to her room where a crib stands by the side of her bed.

Smiling gently she gazes down at her little boy, alive and well, and looking back at her with an oh-so bright smile of his own. So often she had nightmares when she was still pregnant. Of her baby being born dead like Aemma’s. How often she had cried tears of relief when she had felt him kick, proving that he was alive. Such dark thoughts are a thing of the distant past now. He is alive and well; the picture of health, according to the Maester.

Joyful indigo eyes - almost blue rather than purple, in the right light - look back at her and with a bubbling giggle her son reaches out to grasp at the strands of the silver-white hair that fall past her shoulders; the same hair that adorns his own little head. He doesn’t yank, doesn’t try to chew on it, just holds it in his tiny hands as he beams up at her like. He does that quite often, just holding on to her. Small fingers closed around a strand of her hair, the fabric of her dress or one of her fingers, entirely unwilling to let go. 

‘Is he afraid that I will leave him? That he will be taken away?’ she wonders. ‘Is that why he keeps holding onto me?’ 

The thought troubles her so much that she has to pick him up and cradle him against her chest, her cheek smoothing over the soft tuft of his hair. It is for her own peace of mind rather than his but he never complains when she holds him. She will never leave him, nor would she let him be taken away from her. Her father had tried and she had defied him. 

She had defied the King . 

It was the first time she had raised her voice - yelled and screamed until she had been hoarse. It was the first time she had stood her ground in the face of a fury unlike any she had ever witnessed from her father. It had been terrifying and she had been shaking, her heart still hammering in her chest even hours later but the thought of having her son taken away from her had been so much worse. Her threat had been desperate but there was little else she could leverage than her own life. It was all she had. She would have gone through with it too, she knew that for certain. And whether her mother believed her or not, the very possibility had drained all color from her face and Gael had known she’d do everything in her power to ensure that Aeron would stay with her.

But Alysanne too is displeased with her, Gael knows that. She sees the way her mother looks at her son. With sadness and disdain, like it is her boy’s fault that he exists. But her love for her daughter has turned out to be stronger than her dislike for her bastard grandson. Or perhaps it is the fear of losing the one daughter that remains to her. Gael does not know. What matters is that they do not try to take her baby away from her anymore. Her mother has assured her of it yet Gael does not let him out of her sight.

She is confined to her chambers now and barred from attending court or walking the Red Keep unless to see the King or Queen; and never together with her son. She had thought her father would have given up in trying to hide her shameful behavior when she had refused to giver her son up; had screamed and yelled to the high heavens really. Perhaps he hopes people will simply forget about it eventually.

Gael does not mind the isolation though, she never enjoyed court - it has always been too overwhelming. There was so much to look out for, be mindful of; too many voices, too many people. Looking at her, waiting for her to make one wrong step to tear her apart. They are probably already tearing their mouths apart right now. No, she gladly spends her time with her baby instead. In the comfort of her own chambers where no one judges her; where they are safe from the judgmental looks and whispers. And soon they might be leaving King’s Landing anyway. 

Mother says they are trying to find her a husband - one that will take her and Aeron. But she also says how difficult it is. A Targaryen princess Gael may be, but no one is fighting over a spoiled bride. She only listened with half a ear to her mother’s beratings, she’s grown tired of them and has heard them many times already. Instead she wondered where they will send her. All the way to the North, like Viserra? Or to the Vale like Daella? Please do not let it be the North , Gael prays. The cold does not become her and it is such a long way from home. Even on Silverwing it would take her mother at least a week to visit her - if father even allowed it. But he had forbidden her from having any contact with Saera and Alysanne still keeps an eye on and writes to her even if she never replies.

Surely her mother will make the same effort to stay in contact with her no matter where the King sends her.

It takes a while for the subject of Gael’s marriage to come up again. She has almost forgotten about it again.

When the servant brings the message of the King’s summons she is sitting on the carpet covered floor of her chambers. Toys and pillows are strewn about and just a few feet away Aeron is happily wiggling around on the soft padding and reaching for the toy Evelyn is dangling over him. She does not want to leave him - not now, not ever - but nevertheless she gets up. Her father does not take kindly to waiting after all and as he has repeatedly told her, she and her bastard are testing his patience enough as it is. Better not risk more of his ire.

She still remembers her father’s rage of the day they found out that she was with child vividly. It had scared her then, how loud his voice was and the things he had called her. The memory of it still haunts her; it is always in the back of her mind when she stands before him now and a mere furrowing of his brow, clenching of his jaw - any sign of his anger boiling over - has her dread another outburst. She fears him, this stoic, cold man she calls father.

He has never been particularly warm and fatherly with Gael. Perhaps she had been born so late in her parents’ marriage that he had already bestowed all his warmth and love on his other children. Perhaps there simply hadn’t been any left by the time she had been born. Or, maybe there had never been any in him to begin with.

Her mother, though, had always loved and adored her; as she had all her children. Alysanne had kept her close and protected and Gael had felt terrible for being the cause of her mother’s grief when her condition had come to light. She had thought that she would be happy about another grandchild - happy for her daughter - instead the Queen had only wept and when her pregnancy had become more and more apparent, her mother had barely been able to look at her. It had been Evelyn and Aemma who had comforted her. Drying her tears and holding her hand when she was scared. 

But now that Aeron is born the Queen’s attitude has changed; to an extent at least. Without the constant reminder of her daughter’s dishonor, some of her mother’s warmth has returned to their relationship. But only to theirs. There is no warmth when Alysanne interacts with Aeron. She ignores him when she can, offers thin smiles that even Gael can tell are not sincere when she cannot. It is so very different to how she interacts with Aemma’s little girl, who she dotes upon with warm smiles and laughs.

Aemma has been like a sister to her. With no actual sister around her age, her niece was the closted to a sibling Gael had growing up. They had been inseparable during their youth - after she had come to King’s Landing to be fostered with her grandparents upon her father’s death. She had been there during Gael’s labour - just like Gael had been there during hers - holding her hand and gently dabbing away the sweat on her brow, speaking soothingly, comforting her. She had been the only one to come visiting her during her confinement to her chambers and Gael had assumed - hoped - that she would at least have her sister afterwards.

Their babies were only two years apart in age, just like she and Aemma were. They would grow up playing together, as siblings just like their mothers had. Instead it had been forbidden. The Queen had firmly explained that there would be no kinship fostered between Aemma’s daughter and Gael’s son. Something that Aemma had acquiesced all too easily. He was a bastard, she had reminded her softly, a stain on herself and her family.

“It'll be alright”, Aemma had said with a sad, gentle smile, “the King will find you a match and your true born sons and daughters will be as brothers and sisters to Rhaenyra and my and Viserys’ future children.”

She had not understood when Gael had insisted on keeping Aeron. She had tried to soothe her anguish of having him be taken away, had assured her that he would have a good life as a septon, as Gael had cried and shaken and fought in her embrace. The strain of bastardry would never leave him, but at least he could have a fulfilled life in Old Town. Far away from them . The impact of Gael’s hand on her cheek had boomed through the hall like a cannon shot and the red imprint had adorned her niece’s face for much of the remaining day. Gael hadn’t even realised what she had done until later, too caught up in her frenzied effort to keep her baby with her.

Viserys had been very cross with her for ‘assaulting’ his lady wife and when he had come to confront her, Gael had slapped him too for the awful things he had said about her and her son. He was jealous she had realised; that she had a son and he didn’t. His and Aemma’s had died in the crib, sickly and weak, while Aeron was healthy and strong. She had told him as much. Revelling for a moment, in how his face turned red as a beet and how he stormed off without another word.

She regrets how she has acted. Her niece had not deserved her anger, not then and not now. She had only tried to help. Instead Gale had driven her away. Aemma has not visited her since that day and the few times they have crossed paths she has avoided her gaze and spoken no more than courtesy required. It is only herself and Aeron now, Gael thinks as she makes her way through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. Perhaps that can be enough.

The King is expecting her in the Small Council’s chamber and her skin crawls at the thought of having to stand before her father’s advisors and bear their judgment. It is worse than being at court, at least there she can escape the many eyes. Her steps falter for a moment and she fights the urge to just turn around and hide away from everything with her baby. But she knows she cannot, she must weather this storm and any that are to come; for Aeron.

However the room is blessedly empty when she enters and a small sigh of relief escapes her. With her hands folded demurely in front of her she comes to stand at the other end of the large table, right opposite of her father. The Queen sits to his left, clad in a flowing blue dress and the golden circlet matching the King’s crown sitting on her white streaked hair.

“Your father has found you a match”, she reveals and Gael feels anxiety gnawing at her stomach as she waits for her parents to elaborate. “It has not been easy”, Alysanne pointedly reminds her again, “to find someone willing to accept a bride who bore a bastard.”

“I hope you recognise the effort made on your behalf and that you are appropriately grateful, daughter”, the King’s cold tone makes Gael shiver and bow her head in acknowledgement. “And that you will spare your family more dishonor with your behavior.”

“Of course, kepa”, she nods quickly, voice just above a whisper. “May I ask who-”

“Rolland Langward has accepted to take you”, Jaehaerys explains, not even waiting for her to finish her question. “And the bastard”, he adds with a sneer. Even only this small acknowledgement of her son’s existence has anger flashing in her father’s eyes. “You will wed Lord Langward in a month’s time.”

Gael wrecks her head for any information she remembers of House Langward from her lessons. It is not much. She had never been able to remember much of the things taught to her for long but she does remember that the Langward’s seat, Blackwater Bastion, as the name implies, lies on the shores of the Blackwater Bay in the Crownlands. Which means, she will not be far from home, from her mother. 

“Thank you, father. I am most grateful for your efforts”, she almost falls over her words, so caught up in her thoughts and quickly she dips into a courtesy, lilac skirts pooling around her. Her father had always liked deference and her ready display does ease the crease of his ever present frown.

“You may leave.”

She finally meets her intended only a day before her wedding. Evelyn informed her of his arrival, red faced from hurrying to tell her after overhearing some servants. Excitedly she has started to braid and twist Gael’s silver hair into her preferred style and helped her get dressed to be ready when her father inevitably calls for her. Evelyn fusses over her jewelry, holding necklaces to her as she considers the most pleasing for her princess’ first meeting with her soon-to-be husband. Gael lets her. She enjoys Evelyn’s care. It is never overbearing or condescending and after Aemma, the Buckwell daughter is the closest thing she has to a friend. 

None of the ladies that had come to King’s Landing as companions over the years have stayed long. They usually got bored quite quickly and flittered on to more exciting things. Gael never minded terribly; their company had been exhausting and made her skin itch. They were just too much. Except Evelyn. And when the other girls had moved on, the Buckwell girl had stayed - at Gael’s request.

“It never hurts to make a good first impression”, she tuts when Gael questions just why she needs to dress up. After all, Lord Langward had already agreed to marry her. “And if he comes to like you - maybe even love you - where’s the harm in that?”

“I don’t need him to love me”, Gael replies. There’s a funny feeling in her stomach that she pushes down. “He has already done everything I need of him.” He has agreed to let her keep her son.

Evelyn only sighs and shakes her head, fond and exasperated at the same time. Instead of replying she picks the three rings she knows Gael favors - a gold band with scale details and a dark purple amethyst, one made of thick twisted gold rope, and another in-set with a polished piece of lavender quartz - and slides them onto her fingers.

“I’m just saying, him liking you will not be to your - or Aeron’s - detriment”, she insists as she takes Gael’s hands in her own. “Trust me.”

She does, which is why she doesn’t argue. Not that she wants to. Being liked, or loved, by her husband certainly doesn’t sound terrible.

The long expected knock on the door ends the conversation.

“The king wishes for you to join him in his solar, Princess.”

Evelyn accompanies her all the way to her destination, a quiet comfort. At the door to her father’s chambers she leaves her to wait along with the two men who must be Lord Langward’s companions. Gael knocks gently, waiting for her father’s voice before entering. Already she feels the familiar nerves of being in his presence creep up her spine and her fingers start to fidget despite herself as the door swings open without much fanfare. With one last deep breath she enters.

“Your Grace”, she greets quietly, dipping into a deep courtesy. “You wished to see me?”

As expected, Lord Langward is already there, standing in front of the desk her father is sitting behind. He turns when she enters, eying her for a short moment as the King curtly introduces them. She courtesies again.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lord.”

The King doesn’t say anything and his focus - blessedly - shifts back to her future husband.

Rolland Langward is not that much older than her, she reckons as she glances at him. His expression is serious, posture straight as he is focused on the King. She uses the chance to study him. His hair is dark, almost-black brown, kept short and brushed back neatly, away from his face. He is handsome, she supposes, with a strong jaw and pleasing blue eyes, framed by dark lashes and low, furrowed brows. 

There is a melancholy in them that intrigues her.

Gael thinks back about what Evelyn had told about the recent history of his House. His uncles, dead before he was born, had supported Maegor during his short reign and after their death, Rolland’s father had become Lord of Blackwater Bastion. A third son with no training, he had nearly run his house to the ground before his death.

And now his son is marrying a Princess, she muses absentmindedly. 

“The wedding will take place in the keep’s sept tomorrow morning. Afterwards you will depart for Blackwater Bastion.”

Gael blinks surprised, pulled from her thoughts, and before she can stop herself she asks: “The same day?”

Instantly her father’s cold glare darkens and she shrinks into herself, a quiet apology falling from her lips as her thoughts begin to race. Things are moving so quickly - too quickly. Yes, her maids and servants have already started packing up her things, but she had expected to have at least a few days to say her goodbyes. Daemon hadn’t left until a month after his wedding to Lady Rhea.

Her head is spinning and suddenly her nerves and worries - previously naively and blissfully ignored, pushed away, and buried - are rearing their ugly head. It is overwhelming. Yet one thought rises above it all: Father will not appreciate me making a scene . She has already roused his anger with her thoughtless question, she cannot stoke it further. Desperately trying to get a hold of herself she breathes deeply - in, count to ten, and out - and hides her suddenly clammy and shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. But the thoughts just won’t stop. She will be away from her family - from her mother and the comfort of her home. Surrounded by strangers who have more reasons to dislike than like her. Her father might not even care if she is mistreated and gods, what if something was to happen to her baby boy?

It cannot be more than 10 minutes before Gael is excused, yet it feels like an eternity. Whatever her father has been saying has been lost to the raging storm of her spiralling thoughts but it cannot have been too important anyway; he never deigns to share important things with her. She almost trips over her own feet, barely remembering a shallow and quick courtesy, before she rushes for the door.

Evelyn is still waiting outside and as soon as she steps into the hallway her angry gaze snaps from Lord Langward’s companion to her.

“I think I require some fresh air”, Gael manages to sound surprisingly put together. Barely any sign of the panic that is brewing within her. But Evelyn knows.

“Of course, Princess”, she nods quickly, then throws a venomous glare that Gael is not in the right mind to question, at the two men. “If you’ll excuse me, good sers”, she very nearly snarls, not waiting for any kind of response before she abruptly turns to leave.

“I want to go back to my chambers”, Gael tells her as soon as they are out of earshot and her voice catches dangerously in her throat as it is getting harder and harder to breathe through her steadily rising panic.

“Deep breaths, princess”, Evelyn tells her, as she takes the lead, guiding their steps through the winding hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast. The Buckwell’s decided stride and cold glare is enough to dissuade anyone from approaching them and they round into the hallways of the royal apartments without drawing anyone’s attention to the Princess’ continuously unraveling state. It is not much further now, just a couple more turns and -

There is a sharp intake of breath and Gael’s panicked gaze shoots up to find her niece staring at them with wide eyes. Aemma looks caught completely unaware. Her little daughter is toddling beside her, waving a little wooden toy dragon Gael had gifted her all over and undoubtedly having distracted her mother from their hurried steps.

“Muña!” 

Little Rhaenyra’s excited exclamation is accompanied by a jab of her toy in their general direction and it is not helping the inner turmoil raging inside Gael’s chest. When she had been confined to her chamber during her pregnancy, Aemma hadn’t been allowed to bring Rhaenyra along. She had told her that the little girl missed her, so used to her constant presence before. Looking at her beautiful, beaming little face she realises that she’s not going to see her little niece again for a long time; maybe never.

An involuntary sob wrecks through her at the thought and just like that Aemma seems to break from her stupor. With a quick smile she presses a kiss to Rhaenyra’s little cheek, promising her to catch up before sending her and her nursemaid back the way they have come before grabbing her skirts and dashing over to them. Gael latches onto her as soon as her arm wraps around her and together Evelyn and Aemma lead the rest of the way through the hallways to her chambers. 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Gael all but breaks down. With deep, body-shaking sobs she collapses into Aemma’s arms, gripping onto her like a lifeline as all the worries that had come crashing down pour out of her. Together Aemma and Evelyn maneuver them to the settee; a much more comfortable thing to cry on than the hard stone floor. 

“I cannot do this. I cannot. Please don’t make me”, she cries between sobs as she curls into her niece’s side.

“Hush”, Aemma soothes, gently rocking them to and fro. “It will be alright, I promise.”

They stay like that, swaying and quietly offering comfort, until Gael’s sobs have turned into sniffles and her breathing has evened.

“I will be alone there”, she whispers. “Even if it was their Lord’s decision to marry me, what reason do they have not to dislike us? I am bringing my bastard into their home. What if something happens to me? What if something happens to him ?” 

“You will not be alone”, Aemma reminds her. Gently she urges Gael to look at her, grabbing her hands and intertwining their fingers. “You will have Evelyn, remember?” She tilts her head towards the Buckwell girl. “Her tongue is as sharp as any sword and the people of Blackwater will learn that the easy or the hard way.” That at last gets a weak and wobbly smile from Gael and she pulls one of her hands away from Aemma’s to grasp that of Evelyn.

“We are only a few days’ journey away from your family, princess”, Evelyn reassures her. “If there is any danger we will simply take Aeron and be gone before your husband even knows it.”

“And we will write letters. Every day if necessary”, Aemma goes on with a growing smile and a teasing tone. “I will drag Viserys to visit you every other month and you will be so sick of us that you will wish they had sent you north after all.”

“Never”, Gael laughs weakly, pulling Aemma closer by her hand and resting her head on her shoulder. Finally her tears have dried and her breathing evens out. The smile on her face is small but true and she gives their hands, still clasped tightly in hers, a squeeze. She doesn’t let go just yet; doesn’t wish to leave the comfort of their company. It feels too much like how it used to be. She wants to keep that feeling for just a bit longer.

“If there is the slightest issue or you are mistreated you will tell me,” Aemma picks up the topic again, this time more serious and with steel in her voice. “Whatever the King’s feelings are, you are still a Princess of House Targaryen. Neither he nor the Queen will accept you being treated like anything else.”

Somehow she doubts her father would care much if she was, but the Queen would fly Silverwing to Blackwater Bastion and have the head of those who dared to mistreat her. Alysanne still wrote to Saera after all; Saera who, as Gael had overheard, now owned a pleasure house in Volantis. If her mother still has love in her heart for wayward Saera, she surely has some for Gael as well.

“Aemma?”

“Yes?”

Carefully Gael lays her hand on Aemma’s cheek. The one she had struck not long ago.

“I’m sorry for hurting you. You were only trying to comfort me and I was- I should never have slapped you. You did not deserve that.” Gael almost starts crying again.

“I understand”, Aemma assures her. “And I forgive you.”

“Come, Princess”, Evelyn eventually speaks and gives Gael’s hand a gentle tug, “your mother is expecting you for the last fitting of your wedding dress. Let us get you presentable again.”

The day of her wedding, Gael is awake before the break of dawn. Aeron has been sleeping soundly, but she has had no such luck. While no longer threatening to incapacitate her, her nerves from the previous day have kept her awake deep into the night and woken her in the early morning hours with unpleasant dreams. She is glad that she does not remember them in detail, but the vague terror they have left behind is enough to make her restless and unable to fall back asleep. Instead she has taken to pacing around her chambers. She has come to terms with leaving so quickly. It still scares her, but it no longer makes her want to curl up and cry. Aemma’s reassurances and their reconciliation has given her the strength she needed to see this through. How glad she is that they won’t have to part on bad terms.

Her niece had been her first and for a long time only friend until Evelyn came along. So much of Gael’s life has been spent in her mother’s shadow, it had been quite lonely before Aemma joined them upon her father’s death. After all, the Queen did not usually surround her with people of Gael's age and after Viserra’s death Alysanne kept her closer than ever. Sleeping in her bed had not been a common occurrence before - it had happened only twice: once after a terrible nightmare and another during a storm so strong that it had rattled the windows of the Red Keep - but after Viserra’s accident, Gael slept almost every night in her mother’s bed, oftentimes waking up to the Queen’s arms wrapped snugly around her and tears trailing down her cheeks.

She understands her mother better now. After all, how often after Aeron’s birth has she woken from a nightmare of losing him and calmed herself by watching him sleep, by ensuring that he is safe. How many nightmares of losing Gael must Alysanne have suffered after losing so many of her daughters? She doesn't even want to imagine. And now her mother would lose her anyway.

It would be a lie to say that she does not resent her even a little bit though. The smothering attention, the constant decisions made for her, no matter how small, had made her feel like nothing more than an accessory. Maybe that was why Gael had allowed herself to be whisked away that night. She had known it was improper, dangerous even, but it had also felt so thrilling, to be free and make a decision for herself and she had been willing to accept whatever consequences it would have. Even now she cannot bring herself to regret it. If she had the choice between this or continuing her life as it was before, she’d choose Aeron every time. It is scary and new but at least she feels like her own person.

The sun has been steadily climbing the horizon and as she gazes down at her baby, the room is doused in the warm light of dawn. Aeron has taken completely after her with his coloring. He looks like a true Targaryen Prince, she smiles fondly. When he is older, will he start to resemble who fathered him? Either way, nothing will change that he is her son and nobody else’s. She will raise him to be good and kind. She will make sure that he is loved and will have a good life, even if the stain of bastardry will never leave him. And being a bastard doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have a future. After all, Orys Baratheon had been a bastard and now his descendents rule the Stormlands.

Aeron might never become a Lord Paramount or carry the Targaryen name, but he can still become a knight. Maybe he will join the Kingsguard, or be given a place at court. He can still find love and be a father. Maybe Baelon, when he is king, can find him some land to rule and a castle to raise his family in. Yes, she decides as she gently traces a finger along his chubby little cheek, his future will be bright; she will make sure of it.

There is a knock on the door when the sun has fully risen and the sky has turned a pale blue. Holly, her maid, blinks in surprise when she sees her up and about already, sitting in a chair beside her baby’s crib.

“Is it your nerves?” she asks with a concerned tone as she places fresh logs in the fireplace of Gael’s room. “Should I send for some tea?”

“Yes, please”, Gael nods eagerly from her seat. “Thank you, Holly.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

Evelyn arrives shortly after. The Buckwell is already dressed for the day despite the early hour and ushers her towards the changing screen. She helps Gael out of her nightgown and into a light chemise before draping her dressing robe back over her shoulders and leading her vanity. There she starts to undo the braid in her hair. All in uncharacteristic silence.

“Holly said you’ve been up before she arrived”, she eventually starts, concerned eyes meeting hers in the mirror as she is brushing out Gael’s hair. “Have you slept at all?”

“A little bit”, Gael appeases her. “My dreams have not been kind to me, I fear.”

Evelyn purses her lips unhappily. There’s nothing she can do about bad dreams and it irks her. It also irks her that she isn’t allowed to attend the wedding later. Only the immediate royal family would be privy to the ceremony by order of the King. 

Jaehaerys is still intent on keeping this entire matter as much of a secret as possible. And he is being fairly successful at it, Evelyn has to admit. There are very few outside of the royal family that know the truth. At court it is still widely believed that Gael has been suffering a summer fever and is still not up to full health. Just how long this guise will continue to work, Evelyn isn’t sure. Questions surely will start to arise once it becomes known that the last of the King’s daughters has been married in complete secrecy.

But that is for the King to worry about. Her Princess would be - hopefully happily - married by then and far away from all of it.

Holly arrives with the promised tea then. The floral blend fills the air and immediately Gael feels some of her nerves melt away. She readily takes the offered cup and nibs at it while Evelyn parts her hair with careful fingers, preparing it for the style they had agreed upon at the fitting. It feels nice, almost just like any other day.

“How was your morning?” Gael asks eventually and Evelyn heaves a dramatic sigh.

“My uncle has found a match for my youngest cousin”, she explains as she works. “Some Lordling in the Riverlands, I think. At least she gets someone with land, not just a title, like my sister. I am rather glad he and my father are so committed to getting back into the King’s good graces or they might get it in their heads to find me a new match.”

“Would you not want to marry?” Gael asks curiously.

“Some day perhaps”, Evelyn shrugs. “But right now I am quite content as your lady.”

“And you will always have a place by my side. Even if you never marry at all”, she smiles, reaching for her friend’s hand over her shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze.

Aemma arrives not long after, along with three maids and Gael’s wedding dress. It is a beautiful thing, she marvels. The silver-white silk brocade is soft to the touch and what must be hundreds of pearls dot the bodice and skirt and on the chest a dragon of silver thread curls along the gold-trimmed neckline. It looks like Silverwing, Gael thinks as she gently traces the embroidery. She hadn’t even noticed it during the fitting yesterday.

“Your mother did it herself”, Aemma reveals and, oh does that bring tears to Gael’s eyes.

As if sensing her turmoil there is a quiet wail from where Aeron has been sleeping soundly, but before Gael can react Aemma is already by his side. There is a soft, but sad, smile on her face as she gazes down at her baby boy and Gael prays that soon she will have a little son of her own to dote upon like she does with Rhaenyra. It would certainly appease the King. Since he had named Baelon his heir, Jaehaerys has been terribly focused on Viserys and Aemma having a son. She cannot imagine the pressure her niece is under and just how much losing their babe must have affected her. 

With a small smile Gael watches as Aemma gently rocks the crib, speaking quietly to him in High Valyrian until Aeron seems to have settled down again. Then she reaches down to brush a stray curl of silver-white hair from his brow before she returns her attention to Gael.

“I have a gift for you.” 

She takes a small carved box from one of the maids. It is lined with dark blue velvet when she opens it and from it Aemma pulls a set of earrings. They’re small and delicate and each inset with a pearl. Gael immediately recognises them: they’re Aemma’s favorites. A gift from her father to her mother and kept safe for her after Daella’s death. “I want you to have them.” Gael hesitates.

“Are you sure?"

“I know you are not far”, Aemma explains, “but I want you to have something of mine. That way I am always with you.”

“I will treasure them”, Gael promises. “Would you mind if I wear them today?”

“Not at all.” Aemma’s smile is bright as the sun. “Come, let’s get you ready!”

Together she and Evelyn help her get dressed. It is not a particularly complicated dress but the lacing in the back requires at least one other pair of hands - one Evelyn readily provides while Aemma ensures everything sits properly. 

“It is so unfair that your wedding is held in such secrecy”, she frowns as she fusses with the bodice. “You are Princess of House Targaryen; you deserve more than that.”

“I never thought about having any wedding”, Gael muses. 

“Your lack of betrothal or marriage certainly made for a lot of speculation at court”, Evelyn throws in from behind her as she ties the lacing up.

“I think it was because the Queen has lost so many of her daughters already”, Aemma says. “She didn’t wish for you to share their fate. I cannot imagine losing as many children as she has.”

“I just wish she had done the same for you”, Gael sighs.

Aemma had been so young when she had given birth to Rhaenyra two years ago. Five and ten and flowered; a woman by all accounts but it had still struck Gael as wrong, seeing her small niece pregnant. While Rhaenyra and her brother’s births had been lengthy but ultimately not dangerous, they had still been terrifying. And Gael knows Aemma tends to brush it off now but she still remembers the look of utter fear in her eyes during her first labor, her tears and screams.

Her niece’s hands still for a moment before they resume their work on her dress’ sleeve.

“I am content”, she promises. “Viserys is a good husband. I couldn’t have asked for a better match.”

“As long as you are happy”, Gael allows. “But I want you to know, that just like you promised me your aid should I ever need it, you have mine. You are like a sister to me and I love you.” Taking Aemma’s hands in hers she gives them a squeeze and places a kiss on her nieces cheek. “Whatever power I can leverage as Lady or Princess is at your disposal.”

There’s a sheen to Aemma’s eyes and her chin wobbles a little bit. Blinking furiously she tries to compose herself, returning the squeeze of hands. When she speaks her ‘thank you’ is barely above a whisper.

The wedding is small and quick, truly a far cry from the elaborate and lengthy celebration of Viserys and Aemma’s wedding, or even Daemon’s to Rhea Royce two years ago. There is no grand feast with music and dancing, no ceremony in front of the gathered court, only a handful of people inside the keep’s sept. The King and Queen stand by one side, observing quietly along with Baelon, Viserys and Aemma; on the other, the two men of Lord Langward’s retinue stand witness for the groom. 

She really doesn’t mind that it is not as grand as that of her niece and nephews’, she only wishes they could have held the ceremony in the Godswood. She has always liked it there, listening to the distant sound of crashing waves and the song of birds. It is only the Septon’s voice here. It echoes through the largely empty sept, dispersing into nothingness like wisps of smoke below the high, vaulted ceiling. 

His prayers drone on as her black and red maiden cloak is removed and replaced by the star-dotted, black and burgundy one of House Langward. The weight grounds her, easing some of her nerves and with a deep breath, she turns to face her soon-to-be husband. Her hands still shake a little when she reaches out to take his, but if he notices he doesn’ show it. His hold is surprisingly gentle, light enough that Gael could pull her hands free if she wanted.

They say their vows then, pledging their love, while the Septon ties the ribbon around the joined hands. It is strange speaking of love when they barely know each other. She had believed it to be a pre-requirement for marriage but by now she knows that love is not as necessary for a lot of things as she had previously assumed; children included. Love seems to be such a rare thing that it feels greedy to hope that perhaps she and Rolland might come to love each other despite everything. If not love then she’ll settle for not loathing each other.

The kiss that follows their vows is quick and chaste, nothing more than a press of lips to lips and over before she knows it. A rather unspectacular conclusion for such a clandestine ceremony in the heart of the Red Keep.

“Before the Seven and the gathered witnesses, I hereby name you husband and wife”, the Septon declares. “You are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

After the ceremony is concluded Gael is immediately ushered back to her chambers. She doesn’t even have the chance to speak a single word to her new husband before she is pulled away and ordered to get changed. Then again, she has no actual plan what to say to him so perhaps it is a good thing. They’d have enough time to speak and get to know each other after arriving at Blackwater Bastion, she reasons.

Aemma, holding tightly onto her hand, walks with her. She has been quiet at the Sept, in the presence of the King. Only when they are securely out of his earshot does she speak:

“How are you feeling?”

Gael thinks for a moment. She’s feeling a number of ways, all tangled up with little hope of sorting them out.

“I don’t know.” She prods at the tangled mess. “Hopeful? Lord Langward seems kind.”

“He does”, Aemma agrees. “And he is not bad looking”, she adds, whispering conspiratorially. Her unexpected comment and cheeky tone teases a giggle from Gael and suddenly breathing is a little easier. The walls that had been slowly closing in again, draw back and she gives Aemma’s hand a squeeze.

When they arrive in her chambers, they find them empty. Well, not truly empty, but empty of Gael’s belongings. Her personal effects have all been packed up and already been sent ahead to Blackwater Bastion in the previous days, or are waiting in the same carriage that will take her, Aeron, and Evelyn there. It all seems bare and strangely inhospitable all of a sudden. This is no longer her home.

The only familiar things are the faces that expect her there. 

Evelyn is walking back and forth, across the length of the room with Aeron in her arms. His little face is pinched and slightly red. It seems he has been fussy while she was away. With a soft smile Gael walks over to the pair and immediately his expression lightens up. 

“We must get ready”, she says. She presses a gentle kiss to the side of her son’s face. “They will be ready to leave soon.”

Evelyn only nods, carefully handing Aeron over to the maid and together with Aemma she helps Gael out of her wedding dress. They do not work as quickly as they could, but she has no mind to call them out on it. Quite on the contrary. She may no longer be terrified of the future but that doesn’t mean she is in any rush to leave her old life, home and family behind.

But eventually there’s nothing they can do to drag things out further. At least not without drawing the ire of the king.

“This is it.” Aemma’s voice almost catches and she quickly clears her throat.

“We should go”, Gael says after a moment. “The carriage must be waiting.”

“Would that it just burst into flames”, Aemma whispers. 

Evelyn huffs a quiet laugh as she takes Aeron from the maid and hefts him into her arms with practised ease. She will take him to the carriage while it is at the stables via the servants’ entrance - where no one of importance will see him. It annoys Gael that her father still insists on this secrecy but of course he would not risk the Crown’s best kept secret to be revealed at the 11th hour.

At least they are allowed to travel together, she thinks, and once they have arrived at Blackwater Bastion, she will not have to hide him anymore.

“I have something for you”, Aemma says then. It is directed at Aeron and curiously Gael watches as her niece darts to the table by the door. She returns with a small wooden toy dragon clutched in her hands, similar to Rhaenyra’s. Immediately Aeron reaches out for it, little fingers curling around it with unbridled excitement and curiosity. 

“Goodbye, little one. You will be good for your mother, won’t you?” 

With soft fingers she traces his cheeks and then softly boops his nose, sending him into a fit of giggles. She watches him for a moment with a soft smile before she straightens and turns her attention to the woman holding him.

“I will miss you and your sharp tongue, Evelyn. I am glad for the time we have had together”, she smiles sadly and the Buckwell ducks her head. While she had been Gael’s lady, she and Aemma had become close by proximity. “Look out for them for me, yes?” 

Despite having her arms full, Evelyn makes an effort to grasp Aemma’s hand. 

“You have my word, my Lady.” Then she takes a deep breath as if to steel herself but when she turns to Gael the sheen of tears in her eyes is still there. “We will be waiting for you in the carriage.” 

Gael nods, giving Aeron another quick peck on the cheek before Evelyn carries him out of the room. 

They don’t stay much longer after that. As soon as Aemma has helped her don her cloak, Gael takes her niece’s hand and tugs her towards the door, out of the home she now feels so unwelcomed in. They meander through the corridors and hallways leading down to the courtyard in silence, linked hands swaying between them.

Through the large doors they step into the courtyard and the warm midday sun. It is less busy than usual but not completely deserted. From the top of the stairs Gael can see her mother waiting there. Along with Baelon and Viserys and her brows rise up in surprise. She has not expected either to come to bid her farewell. Her brother either ignores or does not notice her surprised confusion. He smiles warmly at Aemma, who gives her hand a quick squeeze before letting go to stand beside the Queen.

“Safe travels, sister”, he then tells her. “I know this may all seem daunting but you will be alright.”

His embrace is short and awkward and after an encouraging hand to her shoulder, Baelon excuses himself and disappears back into the keep. She stands there for a moment, looking after him, before her nephew comes up to her.

Viserys farewell, if possible, is even more awkward than his father’s. He stands terribly rigid, in a way that cannot be comfortable, Gael thinks. Perhaps he has not forgiven her yet for her past accusation. She does not want to part with her family on bad terms though - at least not without an attempt to make things right.

“For what it is worth, Viserys, I want to apologise.” At her words his pinched expression softens and Gael takes it as a good sign. “You did not deserve my ire. My actions and words were cruel and uncalled for and I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“I- “, he is obviously surprised, eyes darting to Aemma for a second before he takes a deep breath. “I understand you were not in your right mind at the time. You need not apologise but I appreciate it nonetheless.” It brings a smile to Gael’s face and Viserys gives her a small one in return. “I hope you have a safe journey and find happiness in your new home.”

“Thank you, Viserys.”

Then, finally, Gael steps up to her mother. The Queen has been patient, waiting until last as she stands with Aemma while Baelon and Viserys say their however short goodbyes. There are tears shining in Alysanne’s eyes and unbidden, Gael feels them well up in her own. Before she can stop herself she throws her arms around her mother.

“Oh, my sweet girl”, it is a mix between a sigh and a sob that escapes her mother as she wraps her arms around her.

“Thank you for everything, muña. I am sorry I caused you such grief.” Her voice is muffled against her mother’s shoulder. The dark blue velvet is soft against her skin and she breathes in deep, desperately trying to commit the calming scent of her mother’s perfume and the feeling of her arms around her to memory.

“You are one of the few joys I have in this world.” Gently Alysanne pulls back and cradles her face in her hands. “It pains me to let you go.”

“I will write to you.” The promise is made with a watery smile and with her thumb Alysanne brushes away the tears Gael had valiantly tried to suppress. 

“And I to you. Stay safe, jorrāeliarzy, and know that I will always love you.” 

“I love you too, muña.”

Her mother then places a kiss on each of her cheeks and then her forehead before reluctantly letting go. 

As soon as Alysanne fully releases her, Aemma is upon her. Arms thrown wide she embraces her in a crushing hug that Gael returns without a second thought. They cling to each other there in the courtyard, likely the last time in a long while they will have the chance.

“I wish you could stay”, Aemma whispers. “You and Aeron. He would have made a fine brother for Rhaenyra, I know it.” Gael presses her eyes shut, hiding her face in the crook of Aemma’s neck like Aemma does in hers. “I will miss you terribly.”

“I will miss you too. And Rhaenyra.”

It feels like a dragon is sitting on her chest and another surely must be clawing at her windpipe with how raw it feels. But she refuses to let the sobs that tear at her throat out. She must be strong now.

The carriage arrives then and they have to release one another. Still Aemma only lets go of her hand once the door is opened, the steps pulled out, and everyone is waiting only for her to climb in. To join Evelyn and Aeron, who is perched on her lab, babbling and waving his toy dragon around. It brings a small smile to her face and after one last look at her mother and the niece that might as well be her sister, she climbs up the steps into the carriage.

The door closes behind her and moments later they begin to move. Out of the Red Keep’s courtyard, and the city gates.

Chapter Text

A week ago they set out from Blackwater Bastion, traveling north towards Maidenpool and then west until they met the King's Road at Darry, then turned south. By the eighth day of travel, the air has lost its salt tang, replaced by the scent of grass and river wind and Rolland finds himself in better spirits than he would have guessed at the start of their journey.

The little hamlet of Harrenton they pass through has turned into a bustling camp of banners and tents, its only inn - and every inn from here to Darry - overflowing. The fields have been turned into pasture for horses and the road beyond is crowded with carts and riders all headed the same way; Harrenhal, whose towers loom above them as they approach the giant castle, reaching into the sky like massive blackened and broken fingers. He has heard stories of how big Harrenhal is but until seeing it for himself he had not realised just how large that truly was. It is an ominous sight, even from a distance. A testament to one man’s violent ambition and the sheer destructive power of the Targaryens’ mounts.

It is in one of these ruined towers they will stay in and he is not looking forward to it. He would have been perfectly comfortable finding lodging in Harrenton - even packed as the former hamlet is, he still finds it preferable. Even more preferable would have been to avoid this affair altogether. He’s not interested in the messy politics of the royal family and would have rather remained at Blackwater Bastion and focused on his own problems and not the entire realm’s. But it is his duty and while he might complain about it, he will not shirk it.

Behind him the wheelhouse rattles along the cobbled road leading up towards the castle’s gigantic curtain walls. There is a flash of silver as Gael leans towards the window to catch a look at the massive structure. His lady wife has been about as enthusiastic about this gathering as he - at least until she learned that the King would not attend. After that she had been far more amenable to the journey, much to Rolland’s chagrin, and looked forward to spending time with her niece again.

He knows she has missed her terribly, judging by the amount of letters exchanged between them. He doesn’t know what they still find to write about other than perhaps their meals. But he will not begrudge her time with her family. In the two years since she moved to Blackwater Bastion, they had only seen each other twice: when her niece had a miscarriage and at the late Queen Alysanne’s funeral. Both far from joyous occasions. Perhaps spending some time together will lift both of their spirits.

They reach the gatehouse without much fanfare and the guards barely pay them attention as they pass through the large gates and into the bustling outer ward of Harrenhal. It is a ridiculously large space, wide and sprawling with enough room to fit the entirety of Blackwater Bastion’s keep inside; and despite the myriad of colorful tents and pavilions and masses of people that occupy it, it still feels strangely empty. Here the five towers rise even more menacingly above them and the air is thick with the smell of animals, smoke and sweat.

Rolland dismounts, handing the reins over to a fast approaching stableboy. Their arrival does not garner any attention beyond a curious glance from passers-by. There must be so many people coming and going that one minor Lord from the Crownlands likely seems inconsequential compared to the Lords of the Great Houses that are in attendance. While Torin oversees the housing and care of their mounts, Rolland moves toward the carriage and when the door of the wheelhouse creaks open and Gael pokes her head out he is already there to offer her a hand. 

"Thank you, Rolland." She takes it with a shy smile, carefully climbing down the steps. 

Her curious gaze sweeps around the vast and bustling courtyard for a moment, eyes jumping from tent to pavilion to the people milling about and Rolland spots a flash of apprehension in her eyes. But then she turns, holding out her arms to receive her son from her maid with her with a bright smile that is mirrored on the boy’s face.

He has talked with Gael at length about the subject of Aeron's claim and was very pleased to learn that she is entirely uninterested in pressing it - laughably non-existent as it is for a bastard. In fact she had looked so bewildered at the mere thought that he had felt foolish for bringing it up. She is quite sensible in her own way - a bit naive and easily distracted at times perhaps - and it is a relief that his lady wife will not be dragging him into more political drama if she can help it. From the stories he has heard about her sisters, he supposes he got lucky.

A young man in the red-and-black garb of the royal household comes rushing across the yard then. Red-faced and wide-eyed, he bows hastily.

"My Lord, Princess. Your chambers have been prepared in the King’s Pyre tower. Please follow me.” 

The servant leads them across the outer ward, underneath a looming archway between two towers that spits them into the middle yard and onto a path of cracked flagstones that winds between weeds and overgrown plant beds. Ferns spout en mass, shielded from the sun by the massive bulk of all five towers , and ivy is crawling up almost every vertical surface. 

Hundreds of lords and their retinues mill around the space and Rolland cannot shake the image of ants, crawling around the forest floor at the feet of ancient trees from his head at the sight. Everything looks so incredibly small against this monstrous structure. There is just something strange and unsettling about the scale of the entire castle. The way voices echo and get swallowed and stretched by the ruins. He tries not to dwell on it.

The antechamber of the King’s Pyre tower is vast - almost cavernous - and most of all, dark. Braziers and torches struggle to light the place, leaving many corners and the far reaches of the high vaulted ceiling in deep shadows. A grand spiraling staircase rises up in the center of the tower like a hollowed out backbone, providing some additional light with the daylight falling in through the open roof. Though down at the foot of the stairs, barely anything reaches anymore. 

Carefully they ascend, mindful of the worn and often chipped steps. It gets brighter, but also colder. A sliver of blue sky flashes above their heads and Rolland can hear the wind howling, echoing down and reverberating against the stone like the cries of a wounded animal.

Finally a door opens into a dimly lit hallway. It curves around the stairwell on both sides and small pane less windows allow some of the daylight to fall in and illuminate the space along with the many braziers that line the stone walls. Large dark double doors run up and down the hallway. The servant leads them past three of the doors, to stop at a pair that sits closer together than the previous ones.

"Your belongings will be brought up to you”, the servant tells them, "and your household directed to the rooms allocated to them.” Then with a bow he hurries off again.

Rolland makes quick work of settling in and Torin arrives soon after, reporting that their household has been set up on the same floor in equally oversized but more ill-proportioned and considerably draftier and darker rooms. Apparently the other chambers along the hallway are not occupied, mostly due to subpar conditions. Rolland takes it all in quietly, shivering at a sudden chill.

"I'll make sure there is enough wood for the fire places", Torin says. It seems Rolland is not the only victim of sudden chilly drafts.

He doesn't waste much time after his guard captain has left and is soon knocking on the huge double doors of his wife's rooms. Gael's voice sounds muffled through the thick wood when she bids him to enter and with a creak that echoes ominously through the quiet the doors swing open, revealing chambers that look almost exactly like his own.

He steps into a vast sitting room, easily twice the size of his chambers back at Blackwater. So large it feels more like a small hall rather than personal chambers. The ceiling is high and vaulted and there’s two large fireplaces necessary to warm the space. Washed out, moth-eaten tapestries cover the walls - to block out drafts rather than for decoration, though in his own they fail miserably at both - and three colossal, high-arched windows look out towards the Gods’ Eye. To the right a large arched doorway leads to the room’s adjoined bedchamber, likely equipped with the same four-post bed and dark velvet canopy as his and a third fireplace close by. 

Gael stands in the middle of the large room, looking ever so slightly lost as she glances around the space.

"Everything is so large. It’s like this castle was made for giants rather than humans”, she echoes Torin’s earlier sentiment. Though he had said it less with an air of wonder and more with one of discomfort. "Are you going down to join the council already?”

Rolland nods. The actual council will not begin until tomorrow despite Lords having arrived over the past months already. And still more are expected to arrive, even if it is only to witness the announcement of the council's vote in just under a fortnight.

"I want to see how things are", he explains. After spending most of their day on the road, he will not be getting into any discussions yet - he doesn't have the energy for that - but it cannot hurt to see what direction the metaphorical wind is blowing. He knows there are strong opinions all around. "You will be spending the rest of the day with your niece, I assume?"

"Yes, Aemma says Rhaenyra will be happy to have a playmate", she explains with an excited little smile. "I have missed her terribly. It will be so nice to spent time with her again, like we used to. A pity Evelyn stayed with her family." Rolland tries to school his face at the mention of the Buckwell woman. He has nothing against her personally - she is a fine companion for his wife and pleasant enough with him - but she does not get along with the captain of his guard and any argument the two get into eventually leads to Torin complaining to him about it. "I must urge her to catch up quickly."

He elects not to comment on it. If Lady Evelyn does decide to join them after all, he will have to make sure to keep her and Torin as far away from one another as possible. Which, with a castle this size, might at least be easier than at Blackwater Bastion.

"I will see you tonight then."

"Of course", Gael nods, though most of her attention has shifted to Aeron. The boy is running laps around the room, stopping every now and then to explore every nook and cranny he can find and excitedly yelling for his mother. ‘Muña, look’ seem to be his favorite words and Gael dutifully comes to examine every exciting new thing Aeron unearths with gentle enthusiasm and the patience befitting a saint.

Rolland watches them for a moment, then turns to leave.

It should not have surprised him just how big the Great Hall of Harrenhal is, given the scale of the rest of the castle. It has been aptly named the Hall of a Hundred Hearths and he cannot argue with the rumors that claim it to be the largest chamber ever built by mortal hands. It is truly gigantic. The ceiling soars out of sight, lost in the haze of the smoke rising from the hearths that line the entire length of the hall and the walls vanish into the shadows cast by massive chandeliers hanging from thick black chains.

It must be hundreds of people that have assembled here - lords, banner men, knights, and their ladies - crowding between the massive pillars and in the two galleries above the hall even though the actual council has not yet begun.

There are no discussions yet - at least not officially - but there is a notable tension in the air. The issue at hand has garnered a lot of attention, even of those that have previously shown little interest in the political going-ons of the kingdoms. A party from Dorne is in attendance he learns. The daughter of the Prince has come as an observer on her father's behest, along with a number of dornish lords and apparently there are also several Lords from the Iron Islands. That certainly explains the hostility he's observed among many of the Reacher, River-, and Westerlander Lords.

So far there have been only dirty looks and whispered insults that get swallowed by the constant ever-present murmuring of hundreds of conversations before they can reach anyone's ear but Rolland would not be surprised if violence breaks out at some point.

Too many here are ready - perhaps even eager - for a fight. Swords often settle matters swifter than words after all, according to some.

There have been rumors that Lord Corlys has readied the Velaryon fleet to defend his wife and son's right to the throne. Just like Daemon Targaryen has allegedly assembled an army of sworn-swords and men-at-arms in return to defend that of his brother. As much as Rolland has loathed to leave Blackwater Bastion to attend this Council, he supposes it is better than the realm descending into civil war. Now that would certainly be unpleasant.

"Langward!"

He turns at the call of his name to find a group of men waving him over. He is familiar with two of them. Bryen Rosby, is around his age, and since the death of his father just last year, the new Lord of Rosby. Olyvar Manning, meanwhile is younger than him by a few years and the kind of man Rolland does not enjoy the company of. The man speaks before he thinks and is way to eager to badmouth even those one would consider his friends.

Despite it all he lets himself be roped into a conversation and gets introduced the other three men: Lords Byrch, Bywater, and Cressey. All of them minor Lords from the Crownlands like himself.

"Are you going to press your son's claim?" Byrch asks and Rolland is momentarily confused. Until Rosby jumps in.

"They boy is a bastard", he explains quickly. "Even if they wanted to press it, no one would even think to acknowledge it."

"He has not been legitimized?" Cressey asks confused, giving Rolland a side-eye he doesn't know how to interpret.

"No, the princess does not intent to press her bastard's claim", he clarifies pointedly before this conversation can become anymore ridiculous. He has little interest in continuing it as it is already. And even less so seeing the glint in Manning's eyes.

"Her bastard, is it?" he chuckles. "I’ve heard he has your eyes.” His attention is firmly on his companions as he speaks, eager for the reaction of amused agreement he expects. Rolland does not take the bait. If any of them bothered to look at Aeron - actually look not rely on hearsay -  they would know that the boy has the Targaryen look through and through. Even if many people see the dark indigo as dark blue and apparently take it as a sign of Rolland being his father.

As annoying as it is, he knows there is no changing their minds. People are with their opinions like a dog with a bone: unwilling to let go and prone to react poorly when forced. Let them think Aeron is his, it’s not like people actually care about it beyond it being fresh gossip. Once the rumor has made its rounds, it will be forgotten as soon as the next whisper comes along.

Seeing as he won't get the reaction he has hoped for, Ser Olyvar drops the subject rather easily, eagerly pouncing on the next.

"Princess Saera has sent three of her sons", he tells them. "Bastards all of them. One apparently by a volantene Triarch."

"Does she really expect any of their claims to be even considered? She must be mad."

"I do not think she seriously expects one of them to be chosen as heir", Rosby says. "More likely it is a ploy to rile her father up one last time."

Rolland nods along, barely listening as the conversation goes on, until he finds an excuse to step away and continue his stalking around the hall.

It is the early evening and he is on his way back to the King's Pyre when a servant finds him and informs him that he and Gael have been invited to dine with Prince Viserys and his wife. He is not surprised, though he had hoped to have a quiet evening to himself after their journey. Alas, it seems he will have brave company other than his own tonight.

He meets Gael as she comes down the staircase from the levels above just as he arrives from below.

Aeron hangs like dead weight in her arms, his little cheek smushed against his mother's shoulder as he blinks sleepily. Apparently he has tired himself out playing the Prince Viserys' daughter. The Princess is one and half years older than him but Aeron was determined to keep up. Now he is almost knocked out.

"Did the servant find you?" she the asks. "Aemma and Viserys invited us to have dinner with them tonight." Without waiting for him to answer she goes on. "I'll just put Aeron to bed and clean up a little." With that she rushes off, disappearing into her chambers with Holly trailing behind her. Rolland only blinks, shakes his head and returns to his own rooms to put on something more appropriate for a royal dinner.

"How is your niece?" He asks as Gael leads him up the spiral stairs towards the upper floors where the royal family is hosted.

"Aemma is well. Healthy, but tired", she tells him and Rolland immediately notes the concern that swings along in her voice. "She is with child again."

His lips press into a thin uneasy line. He can understand the pressure to have a son and heir; every Lord can. And especially now that Viserys is one of the most prominent candidates for the throne. But it has barely been a year since Lady Aemma's miscarriage. To press her so soon after having lost a babe? It feels cruel.

He swallows the thought. It is not his place to judge. Instead he gives a small hum, half acknowledgement, half avoidance. Then offers:

"I'm sure she will be fine."

The words feel empty but Gael smiles anyway, small but grateful.

A servant is expecting them at the next landing, leading the rest of the way to the private dining room prepared for the evening. With how huge everything is, the room is as absurdly large as all the other chambers of the tower. The cavernous scale of Harrenhal simply cannot be escaped.

"Lord Langward", Prince Viserys greets him as Gael and Aemma immediately rush towards one another as if they hadn't just spent hours together. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine, your Grace", he says with a bow.

Their talk is mostly idle as they all take their seats and soon the food starts to be brought in. Just how Gael and her niece still manage to finds topics to talk about despite having hours together beforehand he will never understand.

Over trenchers of dark bread, served with honeyed butter and smoked river trout they talk about Gael settling in at Blackwater Bastion. How much she enjoys the fresh sea air and the quiet. She describes it almost like a haven instead of a castle that has only recently been pulled from the brink of disrepair and there is a dangerous little flash of pride that sparks in his chest.

As they reminisce about the late Queen Alysanne and how the court has changed since her death, pies of venison and mushrooms, heavily spiced with pepper, are brought in.

"I think the King still mourns", Aemma says sadly. "They did not part on the best terms."

"They had many quarrels over the years", Viserys agrees, cutting into his pie, "but this was the worst, I think. No one ever told me what it was about. Did grandmother mention anything before she left for Dragonstone?"

Rolland curiously notes Aemma’s eyes flicker briefly toward Gael, meeting her gaze across the table - a hint of something unsaid passing between them - before she shakes her head. “No,” she says, “I’m afraid not.”

For a few moments, the table falls quiet save for the clink of silver and the crack of pastry crusts. Viserys nods absently, seemingly deep in thought, his gaze fixed somewhere past the window. Aemma quickly fills the silence before it can settle.

“Lord Waynewood has approached me today,” she says, half-amused half something else. "Along with some other Vale Lords. They said they'd be more than happy to have their daughter serve as companions for me."

It seems they have already decided who will be named Jaehaerys' heir. Rolland is not surprised by the open show of favor. Aemma has Arryn blood after all; of course its Lord would support a Queen from the Vale. And not miss a chance to curry favor with her.

"Seven help us", Viserys sighs with wry amusement and takes a swig from his cup. "The council hasn't even begun and already they are scheming as if a decision has been made."

It draws a round of light laughter from around the table and quickly the talk turns to easier, less loaded topics. Harrenton’s bustling streets, the endless stream of lords arriving each day, the poor state of the roads after so many wheels and hooves have churned them to dust and of course Harrenhal itself.

When the candles have almost completely burned down and night has fallen outside the high arched windows, they all agree that it is time to retire for the night. Gael and Aemma are very reluctant to part and Viserys has to remind them that they will be spending the better part of the next two weeks together before they finally can depart. The spiral staircase is dark, lit only by flickering torches and Gael practically clings to his arm as they descent the uneven steps. At her door of her chambers, she bids him a quiet 'good night' and then disappears behind the heavy dark wood. The sound of the closing door echoes through the equally dark corridor.

His chambers look even more ominous during the night than they have during the day. The two fireplaces glare like a pair burning eyes from the far side of the room and the flickering long shadows cast by the braziers and candelabras leave him a little bit paranoid. Fortunately the bedroom is a bit better. The canopy of the four-post bed does manage to distract his mind from the vastness around him and the fireplace is smaller too, offering a gentle, comforting glow. It still takes him longer than usual to finally fall asleep despite his exhaustion and when he does it is fitful and restless.

He startles awake when the darkness of the night is only just lifting and the sun nothing more than a low light on the edge of the horizon. A shiver runs down his spine. The fireplace has gone out some time during the night and with a sigh he stands and begins to pile fresh logs inside the hearth. They ignite far more easily than he expected and he remains sitting in front of it for a bit, staring into the flames as he waits for the fire to warm him.

The cracking and popping of the burning wood is the only sound. It is deadly silent in his chambers otherwise and a fresh shiver has his skin break out in goosebumps. For some reason he cannot shake the feeling of being watched and in a desperate effort to distract from the strangeness, his thoughts latch onto the remnants of his dream.

Hazily he remembers dreaming of his mother and suddenly his throat feels too tight to breath.

He is a terrible son for thinking of her so rarely, he knows that. But there's too too much sadness attached to what memories he still has of her so he often chooses to instead push everything away instead. It's one of his worse traits, one he unfortunately shares with his father, and one that results in a lot of self-loathing. But it seems tonight he cannot reign his thoughts in and slowly, against his will they drift.

There was another time when he sat in front of a burning hearth in an old castle that was falling into disrepair. One that also felt too large, though at the time it was not because of the castle's size but rather Rolland's own and the slowly dwindling number of their household. He remembers poking at the burning logs with a iron stoker and stacking new ones on top with small and careful hands while his mother sat close by, wrapped in a wool shawl, and humming a gentle melody as she mended one of his doublets. It had been the day before he had left to for Duskendale and he had wanted to spend it with her, even if it was just sitting together and talking while she did her needlework.

A small, sad smile pulls at his lips at the memory. He barely remembers her face anymore, but he does remember her voice and the comfort he took in it. And when he stands and returns to bed he finds himself humming a familiar melody.

The next time he wakes, daylight is streaming in through the cracks in the heavy curtains and someone is knocking on his door. It cannot have been more than a few hours of sleep he managed to get and it has done little to ease his weariness.

"My Lord?" Holly's voice sounds from the other room. "The Princess inquires if you'd like to join her for breakfast?"

He groans. What he'd like to do is turn his face into the pillow and sleep. Instead he sighs and says: "Tell her, I'll join her shortly."

"Of course, my Lord."

Getting dressed takes him a bit longer than usual. His limbs feel heavy and his fingers stiff as he pulls on the dark red doublet and fastens the small silver clasps but the weight of the brocade is comfortably grounding. Still he cannot help fidget, pushing the signet ring around his ring finger with his thumb as he makes his way out of his chambers and towards that of his wife.

Gael is busy feeding Aeron spoon-fulls of porridge when Rolland enters and from her bright greeting he surmises that his Lady wife had a much more pleasant night than him.

"Good morning."

His reply is considerably less bright and happy and Gael pauses mid-movement to shoot him a concerned look as he sits down at the table opposite her and inspects the assortment of food. But her attention is quickly drawn back to her son when his little hand moves to grab the spoon hanging just in his reach. Quietly Rolland fills his plate with bread, two of the small bacon- and onion-filled pies, and some cold venison roast and begins to eat.

He finds himself watching the boy as he does.

Aeron has been growing like a weed. He is full of energy, always running around Blackwater beaming at everyone he passes. It is almost impossible to avoid the snare of the boy's bright smile. Blackwater Bastion's Maester had been the first to fall to his charms. Wylis is a kind-hearted man and had been the most open to Rolland's plan to turn his house's fortune around. It had not come as a surprise when the man had taken a shine to the Princess' boy. Even Torin, opposed to taking in the bastard as he initially was, has warmed up to him.

Aeron's cheerful nature is untouched by the circumstances of his birth and Rolland wishes him that it will remain like that as long as possible. Children should be happy and carefree. Not weighted down by burdens too heavy for their little shoulders.

"Are you well, Rolland?" He must have drifted off because when he blinks Aeron is gone and his wife is looking at him with a frown.

"My night has not been very restful, I'm afraid", he explains and Gael's lips part with a little 'oh'.

"Is it too cold? I can sent for more blankets; or perhaps some furs?"

"It's not that", he assures her. "Just… dreams. It will sort itself out."

She does not look entirely convinced but doesn't pry of prod further and they continue to eat in silence; a comfortable silence. It is one of the first things he has come to genuinely like about Gael: she doesn't feel the need to fill the quiet nor takes a lull in conversation as offense. She is perfectly content with quiet company.

He is just finishing up his last pie when there is a knock on the door and a maid pokes her head through.

"My Lord, Princess. It is time."

The assembly is gathering in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, beneath scorched and blackened stones. Great and small Lords fill the benches and knights, retainers and other household men crowd the aisles between. He and Gael are seated at the very front, to the side of the dais, with the rest of the royal family. The claimants are not expected to partake in the discussions and he knows Gael does not plan to, neither do Viserys and Rhaenys, but they are all expected to be present for the opening; and the announcement of the final count in two weeks' time.

Rolland shifts uncomfortably in his seat on the padded bench. A strange weight is pressing down on him; not just on him though. A discrete glance across the gathered nobles reveals many tense and serious faces. They are all too aware of the importance of this council and the decision that will be made here.

When the septon finally steps forward, all whispers and murmured conversations die away until only the dull creaking and ring of settling sword belts remain. The silence before he speaks feels endless, a delicate thread ready to snap.

"My Lords", the High Septon begins. "We have gathered here, under the eyes of the Seven, to deal with an important matter. One that will shape the fate of the realm." His voice echoes in the cavernous hall as he calls the assembly to order. "The question of King Jaehaerys' successor has caused much division and to resolve this strife, His Grace the King , in his wisdom, has called upon the realm itself - upon you, its lords - to give counsel."

Each claim will be named, he goes on to explain, each voice heard, and in the end, a decision will be made that he prays will preserve the peace of his Grace's long reign. Then, one by one, the fourteen claimants are listed.

The hall stirs with each name that is read out. Four claims are announced in the same breath as the refusals to press them. Vaegon Targaryen cites his vows as a Maester as reason, while Gael gives none for her own or the decision made on Aeron's behalf, nor does Saera Targaryen seem to have given one for hers. Though Rolland has heard rumors that she is rather comfortable with the life she has made for herself as the proprietor of a pleasure house in Volantis.

Out of the ten remaining claimants only three are really worth discussing in Rolland's opinion. The others are highly unlikely to be seriously considered. In fact, three other claims - all of them commoners that claim to be bastards of some Targaryen prince or king - are revealed liars and disregarded before the discussion even begins.

"By the Father’s justice, we are must weigh each claim with fairness. By the Mother’s mercy, we must keep peace among ourselves. By the Warrior’s strength, we must guard against discord that would tear us apart. By the Smith’s hand, let us mend what is broken. By the Crone’s wisdom, may we see the path that leads the realm to peace. By the Maid’s innocence, keep true to our vows. And let the Stranger remind us that all men, high and low, must one day answer for their deeds.

"May the Seven guide your hearts, for the choice you make shall echo for a thousand years.”

With that, the High Septon steps back from the edge of the dais and a Maester takes his place, opening the floor for anyone who wishes to speak to the gathered Lords.

It is no surprise when Lord Boremund Baratheon stands first, glaring down the silk and brocade clad Lord of Casterly Rock. The Lord of the Stormlands is easily twice as broad as the Lannister and as unmovable and defiant as Storm's End itself as he takes position on the dais.

"Princess Rhaenys is the daughter of the King's first born son", he reminds the council. His thundering voice carries easily through the hall and, Rolland is certain, audible even all the way at the back of the hall. "By andal law a daughter comes before a brother." His face twists with anger then. "It has been insult enough when Prince Baelon was named heir upon Prince Aemon's death; a mistake that must be corrected now and the proper line of inheritance restored."

Lord Boremund's speech draws cheers and low murmurs of agreement throughout the gathered Lords - most of which unsurprisingly from Houses in or around the Blackwater Bay - though just as many look unconvinced or outright shake their heads in disagreement. Rhaenys remains Lord Boremund's niece, an obvious bias many are all too aware of. Of course he would argue in her favor.

Lord Tymond Lannister says as much when he takes the stage after the Lord of the Stormlands. He of course claims to be without familial bias and speaks of stability and precedent and proximity. A woman might rule as a Lady in her own right, but the Crown is a different thing altogether, he says. One that requires careful consideration. And does the King's own decision not carry weight as well? King Jaehaerys reign has brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms and if he has decided that the crown should pass through Prince Baelon and his line, who are they to argue against it?

There are nods of agreement from many attendees. Among the most prominent: Yorbert Royce. It is unsurprising that Jeyne Arryn's regent would favor Viserys' claim. His own daughter is married to Prince Daemon and having an Arryn queen would certainly be in he Vale's interest.

But there are also those that do not agree with the Lannister's arguments. Lord Stark's face for example seems positively sour. A surprisingly strong opinion for a Lord whose House has been content not to concern themselves all that much with southern politics. Then again, Rolland cannot imagine any family being happy about the King giving a considerable amount of the lands away to the Night's Watch.

It is only due to the Maesters and Septons' careful moderation that the hall does not descent into chaos in the following discussion. Every time tempers flare and shouts rise from the crowd, the Septon’s raised hand and stern word has them fall silent again. It is truly a sight to see the realm’s most powerful men like boys before their tutors, as they are being forced to wait their turn to speak.

Soon the air grows thick with sweat, smoke, and expectation, and the sound of the realm arguing with itself. And underneath all, the scratching of a hundred quills as Maesters record every claim, every speech, every protest hurled in the animated discussion.

At noon, an intermission is called and Rolland seizes the chance to stretch his legs. He has been sitting for hours and his knees and back are starting to protest. Gael uses the chance to excuse herself without drawing too much attention and Aemma follows suit - both eager to get back to their children - but Viserys remains and quickly gets drawn into conversation with Lord Tymond, one of the most outspoken supporters of his claim.

Before anyone can think to include him as well, Rolland stealthily disappears within the surrounding crowd, seeking out the banners he had spied earlier. They must have arrived yesterday evening, or else he would noticed them during his stake-out. He eventually finds them in the courtyard between the towers.

"Rolland", Malcolm is the first to notice him and greets him with a quick embrace before pulling him into their group. "Mother", his cousin calls out, "look who has decided to grace us with his presence."

Lady Cecile Darke looks much the same as in Rolland's memory. Her hair is hidden away under a white silk wimple and her sharp grey eyes soften when they land on him. With a warm smile she opens her arm.

"Dear boy", she greets him. "How good it is to see you. How have you been?"

"I've been well", he assures her. "It is good to see you as well, Lady Cecile." It earns him a light glare.

"Always so formal", she tuts as she pads his cheek. "Yet we had to learn of your marriage through rumors."

Rolland cannot help the wry smile. Malcolm had warned him that his mother seems to have taken his sudden marriage, without any wedding celebration, let alone an invitation, personally. Especially when it was to a princess.

"And I have apologised for that."

Not nearly enough, his aunt's look conveys but she doesn't say anything else about it so Rolland seizes the chance to change the subject.

"How is Lord Clifford?" In Malcolm's last letter he had mentioned that his father was not doing well but Rolland had hoped that it is a passing thing. If he is unable to attend the council it might be worse than he had thought.

"His health has been declining though he stubbornly refuses to admit it", Lady Cecile sighs, voice dipping into exasperation that immediately soothes Rolland's worst fears. "Except when he can use it as a pretense to avoid social gatherings." He cannot blame his uncle, it is a rather convenient excuse. "A good thing his son has more sense than him."

Her words elicit a few sensible chuckles from their group and just like that whatever conversation was going on before Rolland joined them gets picked up again, flowing around him with comfortable familiarity. There are enough friendly faces among the Darkes and their companions that he finds his footing in the group easily and when the council reconvenes, Rolland does not return to his seat by the dais; instead he chooses to sit with the Darkes.

Malcolm offers quiet commentary on anyone rising to speak - existing alliances via marriage or friendship that might be informing their decisions and new alliances and connections they likely are trying to make - and Rolland realizes that he might have hidden away at Blackwater Bastion a little too long if half of what his cousin is telling him is news to him.

He has always prided himself on not being like his father; on taking his duties seriously and keeping informed on the state of the kingdoms. Perhaps he has been focused inwardly for too long. Perhaps it is time to turn his focus outward again. Blackwater Bastion does not need his undivided attention anymore. The worst has been dealt with and he trusts Ulric and Tristan to look after the keep while he sees to his other duties - even if they are about as pleasant as walking on nails.

Eventually the first day's session is called to an end. Night is beginning to fall and empty stomachs do not make for good company or civil discussion. The High Septon releases them with another short speech, one that sounds more like a sermon, and slowly the attendees file out of the great hall. Some heading for their respective accommodations in and around the castle, others dallying about in groups to continue previous conversations and discussions.

No vote is taken yet. The claims have merely been laid before the realm, and the first arguments have been heard. It will take more than one day of discussion to put this matter to rest. And while there have been many arguments, there have also been some agreements. Unanimously the claims of Princess Saera's three bastards have been thoroughly dismissed along with that of some Lord he has already forgotten the name of again. Though a distant cousin to the Crown through one of Gaemon Targaryen's daughters, the nine generations he and his family are removed from the main line have him easily disregarded in favor of the much closer relations.

To the anger of both the Baratheons and Velaryons, Rhaenys' claim has been as good as dismissed as well. It has not been stated outright, but too many lords had scoffed at the notion of the crown passing to a woman. Yes, a woman might be able to rule as a Lady in her own right if necessary, but as a Queen? Unthinkable. Her son's claim on the other hand seems more likely to be supported by those still on the fence and Rolland expects that instead of arguing for Rhaenys, focus will shift to push young Laenor's claim in the coming two weeks.

The opposition is strong however, even with Laenor as the Velaryon's figurehead. Many still take issue with Laenor's claim coming from his mother and prefer the closer proximity Viserys has and his claim through his father even if it flies in the face of established inheritance rule. It is a dangerous path they are treading. There are only so many exceptions that can be made before it is questioned why the rule exists at all.

But whatever decision the council makes in the end, it will have to be accepted; for better or for worse. Along with the precedent it sets.