Chapter Text
If you asked Prince Maekar now what he thought of Lady Elaira, he would tell you to go to the seven hells.
If you had asked the seventeen-year-old Maekar the same question, he would have mumbled that she was the most beautiful girl in the Seven Kingdoms. Dry as the sands of Dorne, perhaps—but he would still have described the floral scent of her long dark brown hair, the deep blue of her playful eyes beneath graceful arches of brow, and the faint smile that never left her lips.
Lady Elaira Shawney was, without question, beautiful. But there were plenty of beautiful girls in the Seven Kingdoms. What set her apart was her liveliness. Elaira could win over anyone, and Maekar learned that firsthand in 184 AC, when she slipped into the seat beside him.
After word spread that King Daeron II was seeking a bride for his firstborn, twenty-two-year-old Baelor, King's Landing filled with ladies from all across the Seven Kingdoms. The Red Keep hosted feast after feast—tonight was one of them.
The young noblewomen had flocked around the high table where Baelor sat, so Maekar—already nursing a headache from their constant chatter—moved to a table along the wall shortly after the feast began. There were no other princes present besides himself and Baelor: Aerys was in the library—no doubt in the company of Brynden Rivers, Maekar thought disapprovingly—and Rhaegel had been confined to his chambers after one of his morning fits of madness.
That was when a girl in a blue gown took the seat beside him.
He pulled himself from his thoughts about his brothers long enough to say dryly,
"You've mistaken the brother, my lady. The heir to the Iron Throne is seated over there. Though I understand—it's difficult to spot him beneath all the butterflies clinging to the high table."
Maekar was the fourth son, and therefore of little interest to lords—given his nonexistent chance of inheriting the throne—or to ladies. His brooding temperament and pockmarked face did little to help. If women approached him at all, it was usually to pry for information about Baelor or to ask him to pass along some token.
The girl in blue blinked her impossibly blue eyes, then—under Maekar's wary stare—laughed. It was such a clear, ringing sound that he shifted in his seat. What had he said that was amusing? Or was she mocking him, as so many women did? Before he could bristle, she smiled and said,
"Butterflies. What an interesting comparison. I can't decide whether you're gallant—or merely rude."
"What?" Maekar frowned.
"Butterflies," she repeated, tilting her head, still smiling. "Do you know who else they're called that?"
"Whores," Maekar realized at last, heat rising up his neck—this time from embarrassment. "You twist my words! That's not what I meant."
How could such impropriety even occur to a noble lady?
"And besides, I know perfectly well you're not Prince Baelor," she went on calmly. "The two of you are impossible to confuse. One brother resembles the sun, the other the moon. You have beautiful eyes, Prince Maekar."
You have beautiful eyes. Maekar had heard Baelor—who truly was the embodiment of gallantry—say that to girls whose only notable feature was precisely that. They might have large ears or crooked teeth, but one could always compliment the eyes. Compare them to gemstones, perhaps.
Blue as sapphires, Maekar found himself thinking of the girl before him—and immediately grew annoyed with himself. She would never look at you the way girls look at Baelor. She's only being polite.
"I might be Prince Aerys," he said pointedly. "He has Valyrian features as well."
Now she would glance at the pockmarks on his face—marks Aerys did not bear—and he could rise and leave without seeming like a coward unable to withstand female attention.
"You might," she agreed lightly. Her eyes shone with wit and amusement. "But I see no book in your hands—only a sword at your belt. And as far as I know, the only knighted princes are Ser Baelor and Ser Maekar."
She knows I'm a knight. Had she seen me at a tourney? Cheered for me? Or for my opponent?
"Well, we've established who I am," he said, sharper than he intended. "Perhaps you'll introduce yourself."
"Indeed—where are my manners?" she smiled, rising into a curtsy before he could stop her. He had only wanted her name, not to criticize her decorum. Now she would think him a snob. "Lady Elaira Shawney, at your service, Prince Maekar."
Her head bowed, eyes lifted through her lashes—Maekar looked away, unable to endure the sight, and cleared his throat.
"And Lord Shawney is your—"
"Father," Lady Elaira supplied pleasantly, gathering her skirts as she sat beside him again. "Or do you believe only a married lady could be uninterested in your brother? In that case, you think very highly of him."
"I didn't say that," Maekar protested—though he had, in fact, considered it.
Lady Elaira glanced toward the high table, and her smile turned distant. Maekar didn't like that.
"I could try my luck," she said. "But what would be the point? Prince Baelor would forget my name by morning—considering how many ladies are here, perhaps the moment he hears it."
"I won't forget," Maekar said—unexpectedly for both of them. Then he realized he would have said anything to bring back that mischievous light in her eyes. And he truly would not forget. He simply couldn't—not after she had managed to unsettle him several times in a single evening.
Lady Elaira studied him in surprise for a moment. Then her expression softened. She clearly wanted to say something that would fluster him further, but held back. Instead, she smiled—that same playful smile—and said,
"I've heard there's a godswood in the Red Keep, with a heart tree. Shall we slip away from the feast, and you can show it to me?"
And how could Maekar possibly refuse?
***
There truly was a godswood in the southwestern part of the Red Keep—it took them half an hour to reach it. And now, walking beneath the trees with Lady Elaira, Maekar realized he had never actually set foot here before. He had only ever seen it from the tower windows.
"You must come here often," she said, as if reading his thoughts.
She walked ahead of him with her hands clasped behind her back, and Maekar couldn't help admiring her long dark brown hair. The upper half was fastened at the back of her head with an elegant silver comb; the rest spilled in soft waves over her bare shoulders, falling nearly to her hips.
"No. It's my first time. I usually spend my hours in the western yard, training with the other knights."
"And why am I not surprised?" she teased, then added more thoughtfully, "Still, it's a lovely place. Quiet. Peaceful."
The warm night air carried the scent of greenery and damp earth. Cicadas sang in the bushes. Elaira stopped before the heart tree—a pale, twisted thing with its carved, bleeding face—and laid her hand against its white bark. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails neatly trimmed—nothing like Maekar's. His hands were rough from reins, sword hilts, and mace handles; his nails had broken and grown back more than once.
"Do you worship the Old Gods?" Maekar asked, tucking his hands behind his back.
"No. In truth, I don't believe in any gods." She turned to him and smiled at the disbelief on his face. "I take it you don't share that view. I've heard the Targaryens once followed the Old Gods of Valyria."
"I don't know what was done before, but now we follow the Seven," he replied, frowning as he thought of Aerys, who seemed to put more faith in dusty tales and Brynden Rivers' whispers than in anything else.
"Then I envy you," she said softly. "It must be comforting to believe someone is watching over you. That everything has meaning. That suffering is not just suffering, but a trial sent by the gods—and that in the end you'll be rewarded."
"It's never too late to turn to the Faith."
"Are you worried I'll fall into the seven hells when I die?" Elaira laughed quietly.
"There's nothing amusing about that," Maekar said, frowning more deeply.
Her expression softened when she saw how serious he was.
"Shall I say a prayer now? To calm your nerves. Or we could pray together," she offered gently, extending her graceful hand—bare of rings or bracelets.
"But this isn't a sept," Maekar protested, though his feet were already carrying him toward the heart tree.
"If the gods truly exist, they'll hear us here as well." He stopped beside her, staring uncertainly at her upturned palm. "In the Faith of the Seven, people hold hands during prayer. Or did you not know that, my prince?" she said with a smile.
"Of course I know," he muttered, trying not to reveal how much he liked the sound of "my prince" in her melodic voice. "I told you—I follow the Seven. It's just…" He hesitated. He was a man, she a woman. Was this proper? And what if his touch repulsed her?
Then Elaira took his hand herself. His calloused fingers closed around hers automatically, like gripping a sword. He had expected her skin to be cold, but it was warm—though not as warm as his—and soft as silk. Maekar opened his mouth, only to realize he had been holding his breath. But no words came. Elaira was already praying, eyes closed. After a moment's pause, he closed his own eyes. No prayer came to mind. All he could think about was the warmth of her hand in his. Eventually, he grew accustomed to the feeling, calmed, and began to pray.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the red leaves of the heart tree. Perhaps the gods had heard them. But which gods?
***
Lady Elaira Shawney had no interest in tonight's feast—or in its hero, Prince Baelor. She admired him, as every lady present did, but unlike them, she understood her chances. The Shawneys were a minor house in the Riverlands. What were they beside the royal family?
So she sat at her table, making no effort to approach him. Seeing this, the girls beside her—who had initially regarded her coolly, as a rival for the crown prince's attention—began to thaw. Now Elaira listened as they praised Baelor, mostly his appearance. His soft dark curls. His mismatched eyes. His handsome tan. There was not a single feature they hadn't examined and dissected.
"I saw him at the tourney last year," one sighed dreamily. "He's as strong as he is beautiful."
"A true knight," another breathed.
"The sort minstrels sing about," said Jena Dondarrion, red-haired like her brother Manfred, whom Elaira had spotted earlier in the company of the Baratheon heir. Jena was the highest-born lady at their table. Perhaps she truly stood a chance of becoming queen.
"Prince Maekar is a knight as well," Elaira remarked, picking at her raspberry pie, whose filling looked disturbingly like blood. When would this feast end? "And he earned his spurs at fourteen. Prince Baelor did at sixteen." She had overheard her father's guards discussing it.
"And what of it?" Lady Jena scoffed. "He's still weaker than his brother."
"And uglier," another added, and the others giggled. "They say Valyrians are divine in beauty, but Prince Maekar's silver hair and violet eyes make him look like a ghost."
"And those pockmarks—"
"He looks older than Prince Baelor. Is he really only seventeen?"
"And broader in the shoulders," Elaira said calmly, setting down her fork. She looked at them just as calmly. "Everyone has strengths and flaws. It's unkind to focus only on the latter."
She knew too well what it meant to be the subject of gossip. Today, they mocked Prince Maekar. Tomorrow, once she left, they would dissect her. There was plenty to discuss. The court had given her a nickname once—Siren Shawney.
Jena narrowed her eyes.
"If you hold Prince Maekar in such high regard, perhaps you should go and speak with him. I'm sure he'd welcome any company—even yours."
Once, such treatment would have stung. Now Elaira's skin was as thick as that of an ironborn.
"Perhaps I will," she replied lightly. "Better to spend an evening with a dragon than with snakes."
She gave the stunned girls her sweetest smile, rose gracefully, and crossed the hall to Prince Maekar's table.
His first words had been sharp and dismissive—but when he compared the noble ladies to butterflies, she couldn't help laughing. The word had another meaning, far less flattering, and she watched the color climb his neck as he realized it.
"You're twisting my words! That's not what I meant!" he protested, and Elaira found his flustered indignation unexpectedly charming. Despite the rumors, he was more awkward than harsh. Sharpness is easily mistaken for rudeness, awkwardness for arrogance, she thought. She had swum in the murky waters of court long enough to read people well, and experience told her there was no one more honest in that hall than Prince Maekar.
She complimented his eyes—violet like the flowers growing in pots on her balcony, or like the plums she loved on hot days—but he dismissed it as idle flattery. Perhaps she had said it casually, but she had meant it. Still, she let it go, teasing him a little longer before admitting:
"I could try my luck. But what would be the point? Prince Baelor would forget my name by morning—perhaps the moment he hears it."
"I won't forget," Prince Maekar said, with such certainty that she stared at him in surprise. His violet eyes were clear as water. He wasn't flattering her. He meant it.
And she believed him.
He truly wouldn't forget her name—not tomorrow, not the day after. Perhaps someday, but not soon.
Her expression softened. He really was seventeen, despite the silver-gold hair and the pockmarks that made him seem older. A pity. If he had been just a few years older, she might have sunk her claws into him and never let go. She was twenty-one, four years his senior.
Later, he showed her the godswood and the heart tree she had long wanted to see. There were a few in the Riverlands, but she had never stood before one. She touched the carved face in its trunk; it truly did seem alive. Her fingers traced the red sap streaking down the bark. Beautiful, in a strange way. Elaira Shawney did not believe in gods, but that did not prevent her from admiring the mystery of heart trees—or the beauty of a sept's interior.
They prayed together, hand in hand. There was something soothing in it. Perhaps that was why people went to the sept—to find comfort in one another. Prince Maekar's palm was calloused but large and warm, and she found herself squeezing it tighter.
Their harmony was shattered with a shout. Judging by the way Maekar's jaw tightened, he recognized the voice.
"I'm sorry—I need to take my brother back to his chambers," he muttered grimly, dropping her hand.
Prince Rhaegel Targaryen, of course. Rumor claimed something was wrong with his mind—that was why he was so rarely seen at court. And Prince Maekar had just admitted it openly. Instead of pointing that out, Elaira simply smiled. "Go."
Maekar strode toward the sound, then paused as though remembering something.
"Can you find your way back to the hall?" he asked, his silver-gold brows knit.
"I have an excellent memory," she assured him.
He gave her a skeptical look, but nodded and left.
"My brother still has much to learn."
Elaira's heart skipped. She turned sharply to see a young man stepping from beneath an archway. Prince Baelor was impossible to mistake. One eye was blue—slightly lighter than her own—the other brown. Steadying herself, she appreciated the irony. She had not approached him at the feast, and now he had come to her. Perhaps he had followed Maekar. Perhaps he had heard about Rhaegel. Either way, it spoke well of him as a brother.
"Prince Baelor." She curtsied. "I am Elaira of House Shawney."
The heir to the Iron Throne nodded warmly.
"Maekar should not have left you alone in the dark," he said, his voice—higher than Maekar's—carrying a gentle reproach. "Nor should he have brought you here without a companion—a septa, or someone else. An unmarried man and an unmarried woman should not be alone together."
His words amused her.
"So what ought he to have done—stayed with me or left?" she asked lightly. "Besides, you are a man as well, Prince Baelor, and we are alone at this very moment."
Perhaps she should not have spoken so boldly. He was the king’s firstborn, not the fourth. But if she held her tongue before anyone more powerful than she, she would spend the rest of her life in silence. House Shawney was that insignificant. She might as well take the veil and join the Silent Sisters.
Baelor blinked, then laughed.
"You have a point. Then allow me to escort you back to the hall—to your friends." He extended his hand—calloused, just like Maekar's. Elaira regarded it with a faint smile.
"I don't think that would be wise, my prince. People might misunderstand if they see us together—on the way back or once we arrive."
This time his surprise was genuine. He was clearly not accustomed to refusals, especially not from ladies. What girl would not wish to be the subject of gossip involving the crown prince? But soon surprise gave way to interest.
"You were not so concerned about rumors when you walked with my brother," he observed with a smile.
"What can I say?" Elaira chuckled. "It's difficult to resist his charm." It was meant playfully—but she realized there was some truth in it. Prince Maekar was quick-tempered and brooding, but there was something disarming in his awkwardness.
He is only a boy, she thought, unlike his brother Baelor. The crown prince was exactly as the girls at her table had described him—handsome, gentle, effortlessly charming. Even dressed simply—in a plain green doublet, white tunic, and dark trousers—he radiated nobility.
"In a few days, there will be a hunt in the Kingswood," Prince Baelor said, lingering in the godswood. "Maekar and I will attend, along with several courtiers. Would you care to join us?"
***
Prince Baelor did, in fact, escort her back to the hall. When they stopped before the great doors, he bent and pressed a weightless kiss to the back of her hand. His lips were soft and warm. The dark brown curls at the nape of his neck looked soft as well.
Then he left her there, not following her inside. The music had grown livelier. The wine-flushed heirs, among them a Baratheon and a Dondarrion, were dancing to the ladies' delighted laughter. After the feast ended, Elaira returned to the townhouse the Shawneys were renting in King's Landing. Her father was still awake.
"Well?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "Did you manage to catch the crown prince's attention?"
Elaira remembered the curiosity in his mismatched eyes, the gentle kiss on her hand—and lied. "No. There were too many ladies at the feast." Her father's jaw tightened, but before his temper could fully ignite, she added, "However, the crown prince invited me to the royal hunt in a few days."
Elaira was twenty-one. Most women her age were already betrothed or married, some with children. Elaira had no husband, no fiancé, not even a lover. It was not for lack of offers. Wealthy merchants, minor lords, second sons of greater houses—many had sought her hand. But the price had never been high enough for Lord Shawney. He was greedy enough now to set his sights on the crown prince, as though a pretty face alone were enough to secure a place in the royal family.
"Good. Make sure you take advantage of the opportunity. Sleep with him, if you must. I've heard the crown prince is an honorable man. One night together would be enough to bind him to you."
Nausea rose in Elaira's throat. That was what she was to her father—a commodity to be sold, a trap to be sprung.
"Now go and rest. You must look your best for the hunt."
"Yes, Father."