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Dyanna was bouncing Aerion on her knee to keep him occupied as her maid braided her hair when her husband burst into their bedchamber.
Aerion had been born half his brother’s size, but seemingly with lungs twice as large. Daeron was a quiet boy, solemn —if a babe could be called such— or, lethargic as Grand Maester had less than kindly put it. A year later came Aerion, red-faced and furious with the world from his first breath.
His toys lay scattered at Dyanna’s feet in such a state of disarray that one might believe a real dragon had trampled them. He had ripped off the limbs of his cloth puppets. Jonquil was missing an arm, she noted with a grimace, but poor Florian had fared even worse than his beloved with a foot, a hand and half his face ravaged. The dragon had survived the rampage… for now. She made swooshing noises as Aerion danced it around their heads. His nurses lived in terror of him, and truth be told even Dyanna was running thin on patience.
One would never guess it from the way he acted around his father. In Maekar’s arms, their secondborn was as adorable as any babe, all smiles and boyish laughter. If he shouted, it was only to squeal with delight whenever Maekar scooped him up and tossed him into the air, heedless of the way her chest tightened with apprehension. Even now, the boy noticed him before she did. His tiny face, still flushed from his tantrum, broke into a wide, gummy grin. Tossing the dragon aside unceremoniously, he held out his chubby arms to his father.
Her husband crossed the room in four long strides, giving their son’s head an affectionate pat and her a kiss on the temple. He had not bothered to knock, startling her ladies. One quickly gathered Daeron whose head lolled in sleep, a dribble of saliva escaping his lips. “Leave us,” Maekar ordered, his command promptly obeyed.
The unexpected intrusion didn't stir a protest from Dyanna. These days, she saw him so rarely that often the only sign of him stumbling into their bed at night was the lingering warmth on his pillow come morning. Sometimes, in the hazy space between sleep and waking, she would sense the mattress dip, beneath his weight, his arms pulling her close. The thought sent a pang through her chest. Soon, even these small comforts would be denied her. He would be marching to war, leading the army he was marshaling for his father beyond the city walls.
“Where were you headed?” Maekar asked, a wry twist to his lips as he took in her attire. She had chosen her plainest dress for the occasion and a woolen cloak of deep green. No jewelry adorned her, save for the hairnet her maid was to fit on her head before he had interrupted them. Word in court was that with the war looming around the corner and skirmishes erupting all across the country, food was already beginning to triple in price in the slums of King’s Landing. She didn’t need to be told that displaying gems and gold before the starving, fearful populace would be ill-advised. Fearful, and with little love for their rulers.
“Baelor’s.” Without anything better to do, she went to the sept often these days to feel of use. Maekar had attempted once to lay out their battle plans to her, on the rare occasion that he had made it back to the castle within supper time, but she had cut him short, claiming that she did not wish to talk of troops and elevated positions when she had him to herself after so long. In truth, she did not want him to point out where he would be stationed in the midst of the carnage when all her mind supply was the image of him laying dead beneath the ridge they so coveted.
So she was no good with battle plans, nor the drilling of troops. It was no unheard of Dornish women to be trained in the martial arts alongside their male brethren, but there was no allure in the clangor of battle for her.
Though never the most devout of women, Dyanna found herself clinging to prayers. for prayers were all that remained to her. The castle sept was closer at hand, but there was something that gave her comfort about the vastness of the Sept of Baelor and how small and insignificant she felt beneath its seven-faced dome of myriad colors soaring endlessly upward. Even the incense, though burned in quantities tenfold that of the castle sept, did not overwhelm, and the High Septon, always kind, had proclaimed himself a friend to her prince on more than one occasion.
His troubled expression surprised her. Maekar was a hard man, certainly, but his smiles, when they came, were reserved for her. Scooping Aerion into his arms, he said grimly, "No time for that. Which of your maids do you trust beyond doubt?"
The question struck her like a blow to the chest, stealing her breath away. Her gaze darted to their son, squirming in his father’s hold. Nothing good could come out of this, not with times as uncertain as they were.
“Alanna,” she answered him truthfully. “My father’s castellan’s daughter, she’s been with me since my girlhood at Starfall. But why do you ask, Maekar? What troubles you so?” Alanna was more a friend than a servant, a cherished playmate from her childhood. The two of them, along with her sister, had been inseparable growing up. A three-headed terror in the halls of the castle. But her sister was their father’s heir, and her place was at Starfall. While Dyanna, sent to King’s Landing to serve as lady-in-waiting to the late Queen Myriah, had Alanna accompany her on the journey.
The memory of their first glimpse of King’s Landing flooded back to her, vivid as the day it happened. Sprawled before her, the city was unlike anything she had ever seen. A chaotic maze of mismatched buildings and winding streets teemed with crowds, the air was filled with a cacophony of noises. Vendors cried out boasts as their carts clattered over cobblestones, and from buildings marked by red lanterns, whores shouted out shameless obscenities. The rhythmic clang of the watchmen's spears punctuated the constant murmur of countless conversations. The sheer scale of it all almost overwhelmed them both. Dorne had no cities, only the Shadow City beneath Sunspear's shade—a pale imitation compared to this. King's Landing, in its bustling immensity, could easily contain a dozen such settlements.
For all the impression it left on her, she could never love this place, not truly. Even after all these years, the city's gaze felt like a thousand daggers pricking her skin. Every cobblestone seemed to whisper of past betrayals, every shadowed alley a potential ambush. Now more than ever.
The other ladies had told her that in her youth, when King Daeron had still been Prince Daeron, Queen Myriah had been determined to win the love of the city… to little avail. She could visit as many orphanages as she desired and scatter a whole sack of coins in the streets when her procession climbed Aegon’s Hill, but the fact remained. She was Dornish, and every face that stared back at her as she passed them by had buried a son or a father, a husband or a brother in the deserts from which she hailed, three decades past when the Young Dragon had brought his host to Dorne.
By the time Dyanna joined the Queen’s retinue, she had long given up on such endeavors. In those days, Myriah seldom left the Red Keep, surrounding herself with her own countrymen. Her unpopularity had only grown when King Daeron gave Princess Daenerys to bride to her brother, though the rumor went that her heart was given to their bastard half-brother. Soon enough, Giselle Blackmont told her, the tale was in every mouth. And there was truth to it, if she could be believed.
Now Daemon was marching on them all to reclaim his bride, his kingdom, his castle, his city. The thought made her shudder.
The severity of the nod Maekar gave her was somewhat undercut by Aerion grabbing at his father’s nose and tugging. “Call her in once I depart. The two of you will need to make short work of packing, I am afraid. But maybe that is for the best. If the need should arise for you to cross the Sea, chests laden with goods would only draw unwanted attention. Gold will serve you better, and I am sure your sister will provide you and the boys with all the comforts you require. You must be on the ship by midnight. There is no time to waste.”
His hand reached down to cup her cheek as he spoke. Hands, calloused and rough, like iron tempered by countless battles. She remembered their first encounter, years ago now, when she had first caught a glimpse of him in the training yard, straining against Baelor’s effortless grace, his brow slick with sweat. It seemed like swordplay came naturally to her good-brother as everything else did, while Maekar was left to claw his way to proficiency. She loved him for his relentless determination though, and how he worked equally hard not to let resentment at his brother fester in his heart. “The ship?” she echoed, the word heavy with unspoken fear.
“A merchant’s cog,” Maekar admitted, his voice tight with frustration. “Not exactly a fitting vessel for a prince's wife,” he added, a hint of bitterness lacing his words. “It wasn’t my first choice, sneaking you away like a thief in the night. If I had my way, one of the galleys of the royal fleet would have escorted you, but Baelor insisted that it would be for the best if we kept your departure quiet. They will have anticipated for me to send you and the boys away, but there is no need to announce it with fanfare. Well, he has the right of it, I suppose.”
“Starfall? ” Her hands fisted in her skirts. “You're sending us away? But... but what about you?” Oh, it would be so sweet to see her home again. A sharp longing, fierce and insistent, surged through her at the thought. She pictured the familiar cliffs rising above the azure waters of the Summer Sea, the soft, white sand of the beach beneath her feet, and the salt spray of the rushing waters where Torrentine spilled into the Summer Sea.
Dyanna hadn’t been back since the missives arrived from King’s Landing, extending an invitation from the Queen. Her mother and her sister and their many cousins had made the journey to King’s Landing for her wedding, then her mother had come again to attend to her in Daeron’s birth. But the shores of Torrentine were beginning to grow into a dim, distant memory in her mind. Bringing the children to the Bay was out of the question. The Blackwater Rush ran too swiftly even at the height of summer, and its currents were notoriously treacherous. But she could take the boys down to the beach at Starfall, teach them how to swim. Perhaps it would even soothe Aerion's fiery temper for a time.
Ordinarily, such news would have sent her leaping into his arms, clinging to his thick neck. Perhaps feeling a fleeting dismay at the parting, quickly eclipsed by the comforting knowledge of its brevity and eased by the promise of a sweet reunion.
Tears welled in her eyes, she turned her face away, unable to meet his gaze as the weight of his words settled upon her. His hand, calloused yet gentle, brushed against her cheek, a silent plea for understanding “If the battle is lost, Daemon will sweep into the city unopposed. The Usurper will not rest easy on my sire’s throne while any child of his blood yet lives. Make no mistake, my lady, they will tear our sons from your breast and hurl them from the battlements.”
Aghast, Dyanna stared at Aerion nestled in his father’s arms, blissfully unaware of the grim nature of their talk. So young but so fierce, her little warrior. A rebel he might be, but she found it hard to believe Daemon Blackfyre would do harm to a boy still shy of his second name day. He was a knight, the youngest there had ever been, and he had children of his own, boys no older than her own Daeron.
As if he read her thoughts on her face, Maekar shook his head slowly, a weariness etched into the lines around his mouth. “Daemon may hold out at first, but Bittersteel and Ser Quentyn will prevail in the end as they always have. They will see our sons as weeds to be plucked, a threat to their own blossoming ambitions. But to Daemon, they will insist that my father’s line must be ended for the sake of his own children, if nothing else. You cannot remain here.”
“King’s Landing has never fallen.” It was a weak defense, she knew even as it left her mouth. No army had ever battered at the gates of the city and broken them down, true enough, but those gates had been readily opened to those who would claim the city more times than she had cared to count. If Daemon Blackfyre came calling, the common folk would answer.
Doubtless to the chagrin of Queen Myriah, the people loved him. Dyanna could recall how thunderous the applause ringed as he knocked his opponents from their saddles one after the other in the tourney held to celebrate her wedding. Maekar had not entered the lists, it would be unfitting for a groom, his father counseled him. Perhaps that had been for the best. Jousting was no strange sight to her, but her heart jumped in her chest when she heard the deafening crack of Daemon’s lance splintering against his foe’s shield. He never wavered in his seat, nor did he ever fail to strike home. The commons were rapturous at his victories, and the ladies of the court fluttered their fans and giggled every time he galloped past them in the stands, flashing his handsome smile.
In truth, she had not known her husband’s half-uncle well. He was never less than courteous to her in the brief times they crossed paths. His wedding gift to them was a handsome chalice that rested somewhere in their parlor. I ought to take that down . Once she had shared a dance with him at some feast, she dimly recalled. Maekar was not much of a dancer, but he didn’t see any reason why she should deny herself on his account. Daemon told her a half-forgotten story involving his willful mother and a boar, and he kissed her knuckles when the song came to an end. He was beautiful as only one of the dragon’s blood could be. Some said he resembled the Conqueror of old.
In Maegor’s Holdfast, in the hall that led to the royal apartments hung a portrait of the Conqueror and his sisters. They had brought death and destruction upon her house, and many others in Dorne besides. Even so, in her early years in the city, Dyanna had not been able to keep herself from stealing glances at it. There was something almost morbid about the way she was compelled to look and marvel. She thought that Daemon looked little like the man in the portrait with his neatly trimmed beard and iron-gaze, but there was no denying that he had more of the Dragon in him than any of her good-brothers, or even Maekar, though her husband had the right coloring.
The agitation radiating from Maekar was palpable. His violet eyes, usually bright and piercing, now narrowed to slits. If Daemon had the looks of a dragon, Maekar had its short temper. “Why do you resist? Not even Starfall shall prove a safe haven for you, should the city fall. If the news reaches you that the battle was lost, you must not tarry. Take a ship and sail to Essos. I do not trust the perfumed cheesemongers of the Free Cities. Some might have quarreled with Tyrosh in the past, but those merchant princes and magisters know nothing of honor. Each one would turn you over to the Archon for the right price. You must find passage further east, past the Jade Gates, perhaps. I do not know what counsel Baelor gave Jena, you might cross paths with her. You might not. It might be better that you do not.”
“How long will it be before the news reaches me?” She asked, anguished. “How long shall I haunt the halls of my sister’s castle, hoping for a word from you in vain when you are…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Maekar would put himself where the fighting was thickest, she didn’t need to study their battle formation to know that. He would not settle for the glory going to his brother, much less Brynden Rivers.
“It can't be helped, Dyanna. A day, five days... what difference does it make?” Maekar said, not unkindly. “Dead shall remain dead.”
“Send the boys with Alanna,” she pleaded, intervening his hand in hers in mute appeal. “It will be a moon’s turn before you march, if not two. Give me this much if you would send me into exile. I won't flee like a coward while you fight for your father's throne!”
Exile , the word tasted bitter on her tongue. What did she know about the Free Cities, let alone beyond? Strange lands with strange tongues and stranger people. She wondered if somewhere across the Bay Daemon Blackfyre was counseling his wife the same. But then he would have no need. Rohanne of Tyrosh would flee to her homeland if things went ill for them. Some decades ago, Dyanna would have done the same, but the Young Dragon had proved that Dorne was not unconquerable, and the Young Dragon was Daemon’s uncle, his mother’s favorite brother.
Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Even Aerion was not unaffected by the tension in the room. Dyanna saw his bottom lip tremble and knew he was about to burst into tears. It could only be hoped that he would land Maekar’s thick skull a punch or two with his little flailing fists. “It must happen tonight, and I will not trust our sons to a peasant girl, however high your regard for her may be. I went to great lengths to keep this hidden from Bloodraven, and if I trust him little, I trust Princess Elena less. Her allegiances are conflicted, you know as well as I. They might not openly oppose your departure, but who is to say you would not be accosted on the way?”
Dyanna’s throat tightened, each breath a shallow gasp. She understood that there was nothing she could say that would sway him. Maekar was stubborn as an auroch when he wanted to be, and he had deemed this way the best way to keep them safe, the only way. If she wished to stay, come nightfall she would need to lock him out of their chambers. Even then she couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t break down the door and carry her to that cog over his shoulder, kicking and screaming and cursing him.
He would be angry with her too, terribly angry. He might not forgive her for weeks on end. He might ride out to war without so much as a glance back at her however much it tore at his heart.
Aerion began shrieking even as she blinked rapidly, fighting a losing battle against the sting of tears threatening to spill from her eyes.. She saw Maekar’s face twist in a blurry haze and heard him call out to the bloody maids to take the boy.
A heartbeat later, she felt the warmth of his hands, strong and steady, as they settled on her shoulders, halting their frantic trembling. He did not try to speak. Words were not his strength, never had been. Instead, he sank down onto the bed beside her, hesitantly at first, as if unsure of his welcome. She let out a shuddering sob and leaned into his touch, settling the issue.
“Dyanna,” Maekar murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands moved from her shoulder to her hair, his fingers brushing against the intricate braids that her maid had so carefully crafted what felt like a lifetime ago. He paused for a moment, as if asking permission, then began to gently untangle the first braid.
The touch of his rough fingers against her scalp sent a shiver down Dyanna’s spine. It was a wonder, how a man so hardened as him could be so gentle when he wished, that the same hands that wielded his monstrous mace she barely had the strength to lift could hold her so tenderly. She closed her eyes, drawing a shaky breath as he unwound her thick black curls in the slow, methodical way he did most things, his touch lingering on her hair as if he were trying to memorize its texture.
No man incurred in her as much hatred as Daemon Blackfyre did then. The vilest of creatures, the base black worm that he was. Would that he died in his sleep, this very night, and wrought an end to this nightmare she had floundered into.
“I cannot bear it,” she turned and sobbed into Maekar’s arms, clutching his shoulders so hard that it ought to have hurt. “I am not… I...”
“You must,” Maekar insisted. “You must have the strength, my love, and the courage and whatever else it may take. It is a hard charge I lay upon you, yet no harder than one you can bear. You are braver than you give yourself credit for.” He pulled back from her for a moment, casting his gaze downward. “If I should fall-”
“No! Don't say it!” She gripped his forearm, desperate. “Don't even think it!” His fall plagued her sleep each night she laid down on their too-large canopy bed. She did not wish for him to add fodder to the fire.
Maekar continued as though she had not spoken. His voice was still harsh, but there was a slight softening in his gaze. “If I should fall in battle,” he fell silent for a moment, seeming to have a hard time finding the right words, “do not think unkindly of me…”
A bitter smile appeared on his lips and melted away what little anger remained in her. “But it will not come to that, I promise you. I will ride out myself to Starfall once the battle is concluded. We can stay awhile if you wish. I know it has been on your mind to visit.”
He should not go around making promises beyond his power, she knew. It was an affront to the gods, but how could she rebuke him for it?
Even if she had intended to, any and all thoughts deserted her when he reached out and kissed her. Her mouth yielded readily to his tongue as he pushed her to the featherbed mattress, her hair fanned around her head. Her arms reached out to envelop him, to draw him closer and closer until they were truly one flesh, one heart and one soul as the High Septon had proclaimed. One of his hands hiked her skirt up, fingers gripping the flesh of her thigh, making her moan obscenely. “Quickly. Please, Maekar,” Dyanna whispered fervently between kisses. Despair tethered on engulfing her, pulling her under like a riptide. She tasted salt on her lips, but before the could spill, Maekar’s touch, firm yet reassuring, anchored her back to the present
His lips descended below to her neck, the beard he had started to grow out these past moons scratched the tender skin raw, but it mattered little. She gasped as the sound of fabric tearing filled the room, and Maekar flung her ruined smallclothes to a far corner. He must have unlaced himself, but she could not have said when. They both shuddered as he entered her, filling her to a brim as she dug her nails on the crests of his shoulders. Her husband’s lovemaking was swift and forceful like the rest of him, leaving behind a sweet ache between her legs in his wake. Even if it was otherwise though, she doubted either of them could have the strength to draw it out with how torturously long it had been. And will be, she thought, clinging to him desperately when he spilled within her, crying out her name.
He rolled to his side afterwards and pulled her against his chest, holding her tightly as her body shook with the force of her sobs. She wept, and wept until it felt as though she had been rung dry of tears, then some more. Only when she was settled did he make to rise. “No!” Her hands shot out frantically to grab him by the front of his doublet. “Must you leave? Let us have this day, if it is to be the last.”
His gaze was soft when it landed on her, but Dyanna saw rejection in their depths at first glance. “I cannot,” Maekar admitted grimly, his thumb stroking the side of her face. “I am expected at the council in the afternoon. It would raise suspicion if I did not attend.”
He left her with a final kiss on her brow. Dyanna took a moment to compose herself, sitting on the edge of her bed as the doors creaked close. Her fingers traced the embroidery on the heavy quilt. Dragons sprouted silver flame against a dusky purple sky twinkling with stars. The craftsmanship was so fine that it would have given a pause to even Myrish weavers whose work was renowned. It had been one of the Queen’s last gifts to them before the racking cough that had troubled her for the better part of the year finally carried her off. Precious as it was, she would need to leave it behind alongside all the other luxuries of the castle. It makes no difference, she tried to tell herself. Should the city fall, they would break down her doors and set fire to this quilt or carry it off with the rest of her and Maekar’s worldly possessions.
With a weary sigh, she rose and went to the basin in the corner of the room. She wet a clean strip of linen and cleaned herself between the legs, wondering what she would do if his seed did take hold. The last thing they needed was a babe at her belly, but perhaps after the war… When she was done, she called out Alanna’s name. The girl’s eyes grew wide and fearful as she listened to Dyanna’s instructions, but she managed a tremulous smile in the end. “It will be good to see Starfall again, my lady.”
Dyanna nodded her assent, her fingernails digging crescent moons in her palms. Between the two of them, they dragged a sturdy cedar chest to the middle of the room and emptied it of its contents. Afterwards. Dyanna sent the girl to the nursery to see to the children’s clothing, then she went to her own wardrobe.
It was as though she were taking a peek down a memory lane. Her hands caressed lovingly the light blue dress she’d had made for the tourney King Daeron had thrown in the honor of the birth of grandson Valarr. It was fringed with baby pearls that chimed softly when she moved. Maekar had won a great victory in the melee that day, she recalled. but the lists belonged to the little princeling’s father. She spied the gown she’d worn to the harvest feast last autumn, a deep plum with flowers threaded on its corsetry in golden thread, and the flashy red one she’d worn the day she’d plighted her troth to her husband as their fathers looked on approvingly.
No silks and samites, however much they might mean to her, she didn’t need Maekar’s instruction to know as much. Instead she pulled out riding leathers and gowns of wool and cotton. The Dornish nights were as cold as the mornings were sweltering, she would have need of both. The delicate slippers on her feet would never do. In their place, she picked out two pairs of her sturdiest boots. One to wear on the way, and another as a spare. Stockings, smallclothes and undershirts. She piled them all next to the chest to be folded and placed within.
The dagger sat at the back of her closet, behind all the dresses. She had almost forgotten it. Baelor’s wedding gift, she remembered quite clearly now. Maekar had received his gifts in the morning when the men of her house broke their fasts with the royal family. Hers had come after the ceremony, each one more lavish than the other. The King and the Queen had bestowed on her a silver circlet studded with star-cut sapphires. Prince Maron had led a splendid Dornish steed inside the great hall to the crowd’s great astonishment. Aerys had given her a rare tome on Valyrian glyphs, Rhaegel an ornamented golden collar that was no doubt the Queen’s choosing, and Baelor had given her this dagger.
Its hilt was covered with supple leather that almost molded itself to her grasp. Gilded scrollwork ran down both sides. Its sheath was silver encrusted with amethyst and opal and tourmaline. Sometimes ladies bore such knives to feasts to cut their meat, Dyanna had worn hers several times. They were decorative things for the most part, but her good-brother hadn’t been lax on the craftsmanship. It was no Valyrian Steel, but the blade still held a sharp edge. No one would mistake it for a common knife, but Dyanna grabbed it anyway and tucked it down her bosom. Even the cold touch of metal against her skin made her feel a little lighter of step.
At the very bottom of the chest she placed her choice of jewels. If it came down to it, she could sell them for good coin. To be on the safe side of things, she buried them beneath a small hill of her carefully folded clothes. This crew of this merchant cog of Maekar’s might get the notion a prince’s wife would not notice one or two bracelets missing from her drawer, and Dyanna had no intention of being robbed.
It wasn’t particularly hard work, but it had been long since she packed her own things. The menial task kept her mind off from wandering. Alanna returned with her arms full of the boys’ clothing and knelt beside her to lend her a hand. “Aerion’s restless,” her maid told her wearily. “He has woken up Daeron too, or might be that Daeron has had one of those bad dreams again. He was crying and babbling when I left.”
My babies , Dyanna thought. Did they sense her unease? Aerion was too young to comprehend their words, and yet… She sighed. “They might tire themselves out, if we are lucky. It would be better if they were-”
Asleep , she’d meant to say, but a rap on the door cut her short. A guardsman in black-and-red Targaryen livery creaked it open a notch. “Lady Shiera is without, my lady,” he told her. He looked down at his shuffling feet as he spoke. If her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her, there was a flush spreading on the man’s cheeks. “Shall I… Shall I admit her in?”
Such was the effect the youngest of the Old King’s great bastards had on men, and some women too, if gossip was to be believed. Dyanna rarely saw Lady Shiera without a dozen friends and admirers flocking her skirts like ducklings. Young knights and retainers who hoped to curry her favor, bards who wrote glib verses for her beauty and entertained her with their frolics, even some lordlings whose fathers would no doubt be horror-struck at the sight of their precious sons making fools of themselves for the whims of some bastard girl.
But Shiera Seastar was not just any bastard girl. When Dyanna first arrived at King’s Landing, she had been a child still, no older than nine. Even then, she had perfected the art of snaring people’s hearts. If one look at the sweet orphaned girl with her wide mismatched eyes didn’t suffice, the sound of her easy-laughter, light and tinkling like wind chimes, charmed even the coldest men in court. As she had grown, her beauty had grown with her. At eight-and-ten, men still looked at her, and it wasn’t easy for them to look away, and these days Shiera’s laughs often came at the expense of them.
Her hands froze inside the chest. She felt the soft fabric of Daeron’s tunic slip through her fingers. There was no enmity between her and the King’s half-sister. If anything, they were cordial whenever their paths crossed, though Dyanna seldom took the girl on her invitations to join her and her band of moony-eyed admirers for a cup of wine. She was the wife to a prince and not deaf to the rumors that went about those who took part in Shiera Seastar’s revelries.
Somehow, she didn’t believe this visit to be a coincidence.
Shiera enjoyed her games, she knew. The latest piece of gossip in the court was that she had sent two young squires galloping down the Eel Alley in a drunken stupor, promising a kiss to the victor. One of the boys had been thrown down his saddle when his horse stumbled and broke his neck in the fall. The other never received his kiss as Shiera declared the race moot. Dejected, the boy dragged his feet back to the castle, and soon the tale was in every mouth.
The most perilous game she played would be coming to a heel when the King’s army met Daemon Blackfyre’s in the field. Everyone had heard of how both her half-brothers vyed for her hand, and everyone knew that between the two, Brynden Rivers stood higher in her favor while Aegor had gone over to the foe.
Unlike Shiera, no man in court was likely to stare at her half-brother long whether from fear of attracting his attention or revulsion at his appearance or a mixture of both. It didn’t help that the office he held was last employed during Rhaenyra Targaryen’s short-lived reign by a Lyseni courtesan who men called the White Worm. But even before he was named the King’s Master of Whisperers, Brynden Rivers had been a man of a sinister reputation. The gods marked him, the ladies whispered amongst themselves. It is writ on his face and neck in that hideous splotch of crimson.
Dyanna didn’t pay heed to such mindless talk. A birthmark was just that, a birthmark, an unfortunate one in Lord Brynden’s case. If he went around hooded and cloaked during the day, it was only to avoid the glare of the sun. His eyes didn’t see any deeper and further than most men’s despite their coloring. But even she couldn’t deny that she always felt uneasy in the man’s presence, no less because there was no love lost between him and her husband. The gods couldn’t have created two men that were less alike, she would often find herself thinking as she listened to Maekar’s heated rants about his half-uncle’s craven ways over supper. Her husband was a man who believed in straight paths and blunt truths and honor, it chafed at him to resort to schemes and deceits Bloodraven dealt in.
Schemes and deceits. He wasn’t always with Shiera. That would be quite impossible even for him. But wherever she went, he was likely to be close behind. Maekar’s words came back to her. Went to great lengths to keep this hidden from Bloodraven. Oh, you sweet fool.
“My lady?” At the guard’s hesitant prompting, Dyanna realized she had been lost in thought for too long.
“Give her my apologies,” she instructed the man, her voice strained. “Tell her that I have been afflicted with a headache all morning.”
He gave her a simple nod, but before he could turn and take his leave, the doors swung open, revealing Shiera standing in the doorway.
She didn’t wait to receive a welcome, gliding into the room with an effortless grace like one of the many cats that prowled the Red Keep. Dyanna stiffened, her hand instinctively moving to the lid of the chest and jutting it closed. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Alanna staring at her with confusion, and shook her head.
Whatever else may be said of her visit, Shiera was a vision in ivory silk clinging tantalizingly around her waist as she walked. When she turned her head to dismiss the guard, Dyanna saw her great mane of silver-gold hair was pinned up by a gilded peacock spreading his jade and topaz tail. A gift, no doubt. She seldom had the need to commission her own adornments. “I am terribly sorry to hear that, sweet Dyanna,” she purred, her voice a silken caress.
Dyanna met her mismatched gaze, trying to discern the truth behind the carefully crafted words of concern. "I promise I shan’t be long," she continued, her smile widening, a hint of playful mockery dancing in her eyes.
Slowly, Dyanna rose from her knees, smoothing down her skirts, acutely aware of Shiera's gaze upon her. It was said that bastards grew up faster than other children. Shiera had grown up faster than most bastards. There was little those eyes missed. "Thank you, dear," she managed, forcing a lightness into her voice that she did not feel. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
“I felt as though you might have need of me.” She crossed the room, her steps hardly making a sound, then she took Dyanna’s hands in her soft, small ones. Up close, she caught a whiff of her citrusy perfume with a hint of bitter spice beneath. “These are trying times, each of us needs friends about.”
She resisted the urge to snatch her hands back. Look, she told herself. What game is she playing now? To what end? But if Shiera’s face betrayed some thoughts within, she was blind to them. “You’re very kind.”
“I see you are almost done with packing.”
That put an end to her hesitations quick enough. Dyanna pulled back as though she had been bitten. She drew herself up, unwilling to be intimidated by a bastard girl. “I think you should leave, Lady Shiera. I wish to rest.”
Shiera laughed. The singers called her laughter infectious . If so, Dyanna found herself immune to its effects just now. “I told you, I am here to help. Maekar was foolish to think he could keep this hidden… but more fools of him and you both to think I would try to thwart your plans. I brought you this.” She reached down into the bosom of her gown and pulled out a small leather pouch.
It was an open secret within the court that Shiera dabbled in her late mother's arts. During her lifetime, Serenei of Lys had been openly reviled as a witch, accused of ensnaring the Old King with her spells and potions. Dyanna, however, doubted Aegon IV had ever needed persuasion, magical or otherwise, to bed a woman as beautiful as Sweet Serenei was said to have been. Even if she’d truly been a witch, whatever arcane powers she possessed had failed her when she died in childbirth, bringing Shiera into the world. King Daeron's court was more discreet; whispers replaced open accusations. But concerning the goings-on behind Lady Shiera's closed doors, everyone harbored suspicions.
She grew rigid as Shiera pressed the pouch into her palm. Its contents molded to her grip, something powdery she guessed. She could not begin to guess its purpose, but the girl was quick to illuminate her. “Dye,” she said cheerfully. “For the little one’s hair. What was it you named him?… Aerion! Your older boy is plainly colored, but that silver spray on Aerion’s head will give your ruse away easily enough. This is from Tyrosh. It is their custom to dye their hair, though they have a preference for more flashy colors than this common brown.”
Wordless, she stared down where their hands were still adjoined. It never crossed my mind. The thought made her face burn with shame. She had been much too concerned with tunics and laces for the boys, not the color of their hair. “Why?” she asked cautiously. “Why help me?”
“Is it so hard to believe that I would not wish you to fall into the hands of my brothers?” A rueful smile flitted on Shiera’s painted lips. Gone, quick as it had come. “You wound me, Dyanna. Do you take us all for Jon Waters?” She let out a giggle. “Brynden has heard he calls himself Longwaters now, to remove the taint of bastardy from his noble person.”
Ser Jon was the eldest of Princess Elaena’s children, born to Lord Alyn Oakenfist, the late lord admiral for whom many songs had been written. Baelor had called Jon the lesser son of a greater father once, she recalled dimly, and so it was. His twin and his half-siblings, Plumm and Penrose alike, remained in King’s Landing, loyal to King Daeron over their cousin if only in name, but Jon Waters had slipped out of the castle and struck out for Driftmark when the news that Daemon Blackfyre was rallying his banners reached them. His twin Lady Jeyne had been making herself scarce in the court since then, but Princess Elaena, a thin stick of a woman with pale lilac eyes that unnerved Dyanna, appeared unperturbed by her son’s treachery.
The Velaryons were for the Black Dragon. A sore blow to the King. It was true that their fleet was no longer as vast and formidable as it had once been. Nonetheless Driftmark lay a stone’s throw away from Dragonstone and the mouth of the Gullet. Should he dare, Lord Velaryon could besiege the ancestral seat of the Targaryens and cut King’s Landing off from the Blackwater Rush. If starvation was a looming threat now, it would become a death sentence for the commons then.
He didn’t dare though, not as yet anyway. Daemon Blackfyre had Velaryon blood from his mother’s side, and word was that he vowed to restore the house to its former glory once he took the Iron Throne. Once the Velaryons had been the richest house in the Realm, their coffers were said to be inexhaustible, but most of their wealth was lost or squandered away. Once they had been second only to House Targaryen in glory, but their fall from grace proved hard and swift after Lord Alyn had vanished at the Sea, exiled and disgraced. Once they had provided the Crown with brides and taken them in return, but King Daeron had wedded his sons to Marcher and Dornish lords to secure his peace, Lord Velaryon’s nubile daughters pointedly overlooked for all their Valyrian blood. They stood to gain everything, should Daemon prevail, as did Ser Jon. It was not hard to see what had inspired his treachery.
His own father had been born a bastard, and baseborn besides, the lowest of the low. But he was legitimized by royal decree and came to inherit Driftmark when the rest of the Velaryons perished one after the other during the Dance. Lord Alyn had risen high in the world and writ his name in legend as he did. Even in Dorne, they sang of the Great Captain and his daring deeds and his salacious affairs and his fabled voyages though he had sacked Planky Town and set it to torch afterwards. Plainly, Ser Jon meant to walk the same path, and if aged Lord Velaryon had a choice of things to say of his half-brother’s ambitions, he kept his thoughts to himself for the nonce.
When Jon Waters’ betrayal became known, the High Septon had given a long sermon on the treacherous nature of bastards. Such children are born of sin and deceit and are looked down upon by gods and godly men alike . He shook with vehemence as he spoke, sunlight glinting off the jewels of his magnificent seven-sided crown. Shiera was in that crowd, Dyanna had noted, as well as Lord Brynden, and it seemed at least one of them had taken those words to heart.
“I do not take you for anyone, Shiera,” Dyanna said, letting a coolness seep into her tone. “Why should you care?”
“I am cursed with a gentle heart.” Shiere proclaimed, her who was even doubtful to have a heart. “And Aegor is not. No more than all those other lords who flocked to our valiant brother’s banner for one reason or the other. Oh, some of them might balk at the suggestion, but none will come to the defense of those little ones of yours when it comes down to it. And betwixt all that chaos and confusion, who is to say who it was that did the deed? No, this is one of your husband’s brighter notions, and that is saying much for Maekar isn’t quite the brightest, if you’ll forgive my saying.”
What she meant was that her husband lacked the sly cunning that passed for intelligence in court, as did she. Dyanna let it slide. She had gone too far to get hung up on petty insults. “You would aid us in our escape, yet remain behind yourself?” Was that her price? She couldn’t be sure. If Shiera desired safe passage out of King’s Landing, surely she could have found some other means. She didn’t lack for friends in both high and low places.
“Why would I run? I haven’t given Daemon any reason to do me harm.”
“He might think differently if it came out that you helped spirit my sons away.”
"He might,” she concurred, “if someone were to tell him. I trust that you will keep this a secret between us.”
“And Bittersteel? Would he do you harm?”
Her mask slipped then. Only for a moment or so, it was enough for Dyanna to catch sight. The radiant smile that always twirled on her lips as though the whole world was a joke that she alone was privy to dimmed, her eyes grew cold and distant, the emerald and the sapphire alike. “Aegor desires me,” Shiera answered, diplomatically. “Don’t trouble yourself with my woes, sweet Dyanna. Seems to me you yourself have woes aplenty.”
There was no refuting that. Dyanna’s fingers curled around the pouch she’d given her. “I am in your debt.”
“Oh. I’m sure you’ll find a suitable way to repay me in time.” Shiera looped a silvery curl around her forefinger. “You’ll want to call in that handsome young boy at your door and have him carry this chest to the ship ahead of you. You can scarcely leave the castle through the front gates.”
So it was. Dyanna saw the girl off, and afterwards she and Alanna packed what little clothes that remained lying around then and called in the guards to take the chest. As she watched them hobble the heavy package between the two of them, it occurred to her that the hardest part of it all was beginning just now. Waiting. That was the worst of it. Waiting .
Her chambers rested on the topmost floor of Maegor’s Holdfast, above the city walls. She had an ample view of the Bay. When she opened her windows, the breeze carried the salty tang of the sea, a welcome respite from the usual stench of the city below. In quieter times, Dyanna would spend hours gazing out at the expanse of water or retreating to her favorite nook with a book. Alanna, ever dutiful, did draw back the heavy velvet draperies and presented her with a volume from her collection, but today the words swam before Dyanna's eyes. She read the same passage from Maester Elysar's treatise three times in a row, yet couldn’t have said what he spoke of if someone held a blade to her throat.
The setting sun lit the Blackwater in a swirling blaze of red, white and orange, its shimmering reflection broken by the faint silhouettes of distant ships. She found herself wondering which one of them was the cog that would bear her and her sons to Starfall. Her husband did not return, so she was left to sup alone as she had grown accustomed to Her tummy was tied in a knot though, and the thought of trying to keep down the rich feast laid out on the table – roasted pig stuffed with onions and plums – as the ship pitched and rolled into the Bay in a few hours brought a wave of nausea. With a weary gesture, she dismissed the platter and requested something lighter. The serving girls returned with a selection of dates, figs, olives, and cheese. The figs, plump and sweet, were a taste of Dorne. She settled back into her nook, nibbling on the fruit and taking small sips of Arbor Gold, hoping to quell the unease that gnawed at her. It wasn’t particularly Dornish of her to prefer the Redwyne piss , as her uncle called it, to the bitter vintages of her homeland, but she couldn’t bring herself to care just about now.
Somewhere across the Bay lay Dragonstone, Baelor’s seat now, as it had been for all the heirs to the throne before him dating back a century. There he kept his wife and their infant son out of peril that might soon fall upon King’s Landing. Had the parting come so hard to Jena Dondarrion as it did to her? She had never been particularly close with any of her good-sisters, especially Lady Jena who preferred the comforts of Dragonstone to the Red Keep in her confinement and beyond. Now she wished she had bridged that gap. She was a soft spoken woman, level-headed, clever. She might know the right thing to do.
It was selfish of her, she knew. How many thousands of women would send their husbands off to this war same as her? Princes were harder to kill than the common foot soldier, no doubt, and their wives didn’t have sisters with high-walled castles and cogs and galleys at their disposal, ready to ferry them away from danger. Whichever side came out victorious in the end, King’s Landing would be a city of widows and orphans for many years to come. Did it make any difference if she joined their ranks?
A century ago or so Queen Alyssa had gone into exile with her two children after a wasting sickness had claimed her husband’s life and Maegor her son’s throne, only for her to return to Westeros and raise her son to the throne when the Usurper was weakened and without allies. But Dyanna was no Alyssa Velaryon. Could Jena possibly possess such resilience?
Maekar had quipped once that she knew his histories better than him. Once they had been betrothed, she had given herself to studying the blood-soaked tomes that chronicled her husband’s royal family’s deeds and deaths so as not to appear ignorant. Such things hadn’t been taught in Dorne in great detail until King Daeron wedded them into his kingdom when Dyanna was half a girl in her father’s castle. She had known of the Dragon’s Wroth when Aegon and his sister-wife Visenya had fallen upon Dorne in black fury, and she had known of the fool of a Tyrell whom King Daeron had left behind in Sunspear to secure his conquered lands, but Queen Alyssa had been nothing to her but a name mentioned in half-passing.
The same went for her great-grandson who men had in his day called the Rogue Prince. His true name was Daemon though, the man for whom Defiant Daena had belligerently named her bastard son. Had she some foresight, Dyanna wondered, or was it some cruel twist of fate that the son shared the grandfather’s nature? Daemon Targaryen never wore the crown though, and his attempts to place it on his wife’s head had ended in death and disaster for himself and his Princess Rhaenyra alike. She tried to find some solace in that.
The hours crept by slow as a snail. From her window, she stared out into the night’s sky with a thousand stars blazing like silvery fairy lights. She might not have been familiar with the histories of her husband’s house as a child, but every Dayne knew to read the charts of the heavens as well as any astronomer reared by the Citadel. The stars were fainter here in King’s landing where the light of the torches and nightlights and braziers below drowned out their far-distant shine above, but Dyanna could still pick out some of her oldest friends: the Moon-Maid, shy as ever, the Ice-Dragon, stalwart friend of the sailors, and the greatest of them all, the Sword of the Morning. Their star, the one the first Dayne had followed out into the West thousands and thousands of years past. He had been the first of the Swords of the Morning, and since then her house had produced a score of the finest warriors to have ever lived. Other houses might pass their ancestral blades from father to son, but a Dayne only ever earned the right to wield Dawn if he proved himself worthy of the honor. Her uncle Ulrick was the latest one to join their ranks. It would have been sweet to see his scraggly old face once more, but she knew he would not be in Starfall. Prince Maron had called his banners in defense of his kin and King, and thousands of Dornishmen gathered in the Marches, ready to sweep down at command.
Be brave, she told herself. You’re sailing home . With that, she dismissed her maids once more and told Alanna to bring the boys. It was the hour of the bat, and she had best be ready to depart when Maekar came for them.
For a change, they found Aerion asleep, having spent himself fussing and crying all morning, and Daeron awake. Her eldest son looked at her with wide, watery eyes as Alanna led him in by the hand and babbled something frightful about ravens and stallions with wings. “Just a dream,” she assured the boy, brushing his hair back. She had felt a twinge of disappointment when the white-gold fuzz he had been born with darkened into this dull blond straw-color, but now the sight filled her with relief. “The King’s stallions have not taken wing from the stalls, and the Grand Maester tends to his ravens in the rookery. And we’re going on an adventure.”
“Mama, I hate adventures,” Daeron declared, pursing his lips. He remained sullen as Dyanna dressed him snugly in a green tunic that bore neither the three-headed dragon of her husband nor her own falling star and sword, but he didn’t put up a fight as Aerion would have had he been awake.
Alanna helped to lace her into her own gown when the children were dressed properly and laid to bed. Her own fingers had grown clumsy and stiff as a wooden log, and the crisscrosses proved too great a challenge. She had chosen black wool to melt into the shadows of the night. There was a curfew over the city, erected on Bloodraven’s counsel, Maekar had told her. It helped to restore some semblance of order to the streets, but the people did not love King Daeron any better for it. So they would ride through the empty alleys, but curious eyes would be peering out the shutters at the sound of hooves all the same.
Her dress was slashed with an unfortunately bright shade of red. Over it she fastened a heavy cloak and pulled up her hood. That was how her husband found her, but he was not alone.
Brynden Rivers was a youth of one-and-twenty, slim and slender as the bow he favored. Dyanna had watched him many a time in the yard, putting the finest of King Daeron’s marksmen to shame. He never entered his name to the lists, nor partook in melees, but he was the uncontested winner of the boots each and every time. For all his skill with the bow though, on his hip hung the gilded hilt of the sword Dark Sister, the ruby that adorned her pommel shining in the torchlight. Her good-father had made a gift of it to his half-brother when he named him to his council. A pointed gift, for those with eyes to see. Brynden Rivers no doubt did so. He had two eyes, both of them blood-red. His skin was pale as milk, and his hair bone-white. He had drawn up the hood of his cloak, much the same as her, but beneath the shifting shadows she could see the edges of the birthmark that marred the right side of his face.
The gifting of the sword was a sore spot in her husband’s heart, she knew. Dark Sister was not the sword of the Kings as Blackfyre was, but it had been fashioned for the warrior Queen Visenya and since her time the sword had been passed down to the greatest knights House Targaryen had produced. The last man to wield it in battle was no one lesser than the far-famed Dragonknight. Maekar hoped to take up the mantle, he’d confided in her, but King Daeron had bestowed his uncle’s (or father’s) sword to a bastard brother over a trueborn son.
The both of them stood before her now, and Dyanna could not have been more astonished had it been Queen Visenya and Aemon the Dragonknight who strode into her chambers, arm in arm. Maekar’s face betrayed his uncomfortableness. A deep furrow etched itself between his brows, his jaw set in a grim line. He stood stiffly, as far from his half-uncle as the room allowed, his hands clenched as if ready to strike. Lord Brynden, however, seemed unfazed by her husband’s apparent hostility. With a graceful bow, he greeted her in a low, almost conspiratorial tone, as though they had chanced to meet in the halls of the castle. “Lady Dyanna.”
“My lord,” she returned the courtesy. It was only proper. He might have been born on the wrong side of the sheets, but he was a King’s son, and a member of the Small Council besides. “Pray, forgive me, I did not know you would be accompanying my husband.”
“Neither did I,” Maekar said gruffly. He didn’t deign to glance at Bloodraven as he spoke. Then Dyanna understood that her husband had been caught in the same trap as her when Shiera appeared on her doorstep. But to what end?
“I would be a poor servant to His Grace if I did not.” Bloodraven smiled a thin smile. Unlike his sister, it didn’t improve his looks. Unlike his sister also was his demeanor. He never acted as impertinently as Shiera, but Dyanna wasn’t that big a fool that she would believe him to be a humble servant. “Shall we, my good ladies? The hour draws late.”
Dyanna gave a nod. She scooped Aerion in her arms, still blissfully asleep. Maekar grabbed Daeron who shrunk from his father’s touch, but did not cry out. He rested his head on his father’s shoulder and gazed accusingly at her.
Lord Brynden led their group and Alanna trailed at the tail. She glanced back at her rooms wistfully one last time before her maid drawed the doors shut, and they followed the King’s Master of Whisperers out into the halls of Maegor's Holdfast. He led them down the serpentine steps and across the drawbridge. The King did order the drawbridge raised at night, but she wasn’t surprised to find it lowered. A white knight stood at the far end, she saw, but he didn’t even so much as glance at them as they passed, and Dyanna didn’t look down at the dry moat below and the iron spikes that lined it.
Down they went, then down and down, right and left and then down some more. They passed through a roof garden and cellars, cut across a sunken, abandoned courtyard into a hall where empty suits of armor stood a forlorn vigil, swords clasped in their hands. Soon Dyanna had lost all sense of direction. “Maegor’s passages,” she heard Alanna whisper. “There’s ghosts there, they say. Angry spirits.”
As did Lord Rivers. He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “No ghosts, or I have not encountered any as of yet. Only rats and old bones.” From somewhere inside his cloak, he produced a huge metal link jingling with keys, matted with rust and worn from years of use. It took him only a minute or so to sort through them to find the one to unlock the iron barred gate that stood in their way. Before he ushered them into the dark tunnel, he grabbed a torch from the scones on the wall.
“Maegor killed the builders to every man,” she recalled with distaste. “So only the blood of the dragon would know the secrets of the caste.” That did little to dissuade her poor friend’s fears.
“He failed, I would say.” Maekar commented with no little bite in his tone, but it only ever elicited another laugh from his half-uncle.
They emerged into a crumbling hovel shrouded in the shadow of the city walls. Dust-covered cobwebs draped the corners of the room like ghostly shrouds, and the remnants of broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, gnawed by time and vermin. The trap door leading back to the tunnel was concealed beneath a massive boulder that must have broken off from one of the walls.
Once they neared under it, Bloodraven had passed the sputtering torch to Maekar, its flickering flame casting grotesque shadows that danced across the uneven earthen walls of the passageway. Unfazed, Lord Brynden rapped sharply on the stone, three times, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. From above came the muffled sounds of footsteps and gruff curses as men struggled to move the heavy stone out of the way.
As they waited, the air in the cramped space grew thick and suffocating. It hung heavy with the smell of damp earth and decay, a musty odor of rot that clung to Dyanna's clothes and filled her nostrils. Were her eyes playing tricks on her, or did the torchlight seem to dim with each passing moment, the shadows deepening around them like a hungry beast? What if it went out completely? The thought sent a shiver down her spine. They would join Alanna’s angry spirits who had ventured into Maegor’s passages, but not out, lost in the darkness.
Just when the fear threatened to consume her, a rush of blessedly cool, fresh air washed over them. The boulder had been moved, revealing a glimpse of the sky above, moonlight filtering through the collapsed thatch roof. Dyanna drew in a deep breath, savoring the air, even with its faint undercurrent of King’s Landing’s usual rank stench -especially this far below Aegon’s Hill. It was the scent of freedom, of escape.
Bloodraven went first, pulling himself lithely out of the hole in one smooth motion. Maekar, ever gallant, gestured for her and Alanna to precede him, but Dyanna hesitated. Glancing upwards, she saw the shadowed figures of men waiting to help them out. Even in the dim light of the moon, she could tell they weren't the City Watch. They wore cloaks, yes, but the fabric lacked the distinctive shimmer of cloth-of-gold, replaced by a smokey shade of gray that spoke of a different kind of authority. These were Raven's Teeth, she realized, Lord Brynden's personal guard.
A wave of unease washed over her. She passed the slumbering Aerion to Alanna. The boy stirred, his tiny face scrunching up in a frown, making her wince, but some gods must have been watching over them for he did not wake. Accepting the hand Bloodraven extended, she was surprised to realize he was stronger than he appeared. His fingers were long and cold, clammy against her own, and a shiver ran down her spine as he effortlessly helped her up. The moment she was free, she recoiled from his touch, her skin tingling where he had gripped her. She found herself wondering how Shiera’s supple soft skin tolerated his touch.
Alanna held out Aerion for her to take, then scrambled up after them, her eyes wide with apprehension. Once she was out, she leaned back and took Daeron from Maekar, her eldest son gazing up at her maid with a sleepy confusion. They stepped back, giving her husband space to pull himself up, muscles tense, eyes scanning their surroundings with suspicion.
As soon as he was on his feet, his gaze locked onto his half-uncle. Shame and fury burned on his face, making him appear even more imposing than usual. Without a word, Maekar crossed the distance between them. Dyanna took a step back, clutching Aerion tight to her chest, but Bloodraven didn’t see him coming until it was too late.
It almost happened too quickly for her eyes to follow. A meaty hand shot out, seizing Bloodraven by the throat and slamming him back against the half-crumbled wall. The impact rattled loose stones, sending a gust of dust and debris raining down around them. His half-uncle might have the best of him when it came to knowledge of secret passageways out of the Red Keep, but she knew few men could match her husband in raw strength, and Lord Rivers was not one.
A strangled gasp escaped him. His pale skin, usually tinged with an unhealthy pallor, flushed an alarming shade of red, matching the blood-red of his eyes widening in surprise. His feet scrambled for purchase on the uneven ground, kicking out feebly, more out of reflex than any real hope of escape.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Fear, cold and sharp as a dagger's point, pierced through her composure. The Raven's Teeth reacted almost instantly, their hands darting to the dirks sheathed at their belts. But even as they moved to intervene, Bloodraven, his voice strained to a whimpery rasp, squeezed out a single word: "Hold." They seemed unsure of what to do with themselves as the grip on their commander’s throat tightened.
"I've tolerated your schemes and your whispers," Maekar growled, his voice raw with barely suppressed rage. “But if you think to play me false in this, I warn you, worm-”
Bloodraven’s red eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, even as he struggled to speak. "Such suspicion," he choked out. "I delivered on my promise."
"Let him go, Maekar," Dyanna's voice, though quiet, cut through the tension. She stepped forward cautiously. "He has helped us. We wouldn't be here without him."
For half a heartbeat, she feared Maekar would choke the life out of the man, her words be damned. Then he pulled back, shaking his hand as though he meant to slake off dirt that clung to his fingers. Bloodraven’s own hand shot up to his throat, rubbing the ringlet of blossoming bruises her husband had left in his wake as he leaned against the crumbling wall and gasped for air. “That was not wise. Your wife has more wits than you, cousin.”
“I have had enough of your and your sister’s barbs and games, Lord Rivers,” Dyanna said wearily. “Don’t cast me as your accomplice.”
His eyes fell on her, searching. It almost made her take another step back, feeling naked and vulnerable pinned under that haunting gaze. But Bloodraven let up, seemingly content with whatever he saw on her face. He pulled himself upright with a shrug and gestured to the door. “Let us.”
For once, they were all in agreement. It was a short ride to the docks from where they emerged beneath the earth. Dyanna rode double with Maekar on a timid brown palfrey. Its hooves clicked against the cobblestones, a sharp, lonely sound in the stillness of the city. Though their hoods were drawn low, concealing their faces, She couldn't shake the feeling of unseen eyes upon them. There was a prickling sensation at the base of her skull, goosebumps rising on her flesh. The cold of the night air, she told herself, but was it?
As they descended a narrow, winding street, Dyanna noticed a faint rustling sound, like dry leaves skittering across the pavement. She strained to see through the gloom, but the shadows held their secrets to themselves. Maekar shifted behind her, his hand tightening on the reins. "What is it?" he murmured, his voice low and tense.
"Nothing," Dyanna lied, forcing a calm she didn't feel into her voice. "Just the wind." She huddled closer to him, burying her face in the rough wool of his cloak. Beneath her cheek, she could hear the steady thumping of his heart and the heat of his skin through layers of fabric, enveloping her, driving away the chill that had gripped her own. He was always warm to touch, this husband of hers. She would desperately miss the feel of it on cold, lonely nights in her cabin.
Anxious as she was, they didn’t encounter a soul save for the gold cloaks that patrolled the docks, and those waved them through quickly enough when they recognized Lord Brynden at the head of their small party. King’s Landing was the Realm’s principal harbor, stripping Oldtown of yet another honor it had held before Aegon and his sisters landed on this thin strip of land almost two centuries ago. Dyanna did not often have the need to venture out to this part of the city, but she had done so enough times to feel shaken by the eerie silence that hung over the waterfront. In the absence of the usual throngs, the only sounds in the air were the gentle lapping of water against the pilings and here and there creaks of a ship's hull. A handful of torches flickered along the wharves or moved to and fro at the hands of the men of the Watch, their dim light dwarfed by the vast darkness around them.
Their merchant’s cog proved easy enough to find among the rows of ships. It was the only one with men abroad. Hundreds of vessels sailed in and out of King’s Landing's port on the daily. No one would find this great tub conspicuous when it raised its plain white sails and departed the city with the morning tide. Lord Velaryon’s war galleys prowling the Gullet would have no unduly interest in one trading vessel among dozens. Dyanna saw the sense in Baelor’s plan at once.
One of the Raven’s Teeth helped Alanna dismount, made cumbersome by Daeron in her arms. Dyanna was content to allow Maekar to wrap his hands around her waist and lift her down as though she weighed no more than a child. He didn’t let go once her feet steadied themselves on the ground, but pulled her into an embrace, almost crushing Aerion between them. She felt him bury his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent, and raised her free hand to run her fingers through his close-cropped hair. There was a pressing ache behind her eyes. She did not wish to cry before Lord Rivers and these strange men, but she might have as well wished for a dragon to swallow Daemon Blackfyre whole this very night and put an end to her plight.
Thankfully, most of her had drained out of her this morning. A few paltry drops trickled down the sides of her face, and Maekar kissed them away. “Be brave for our sons,” he whispered to her. “I will join you as soon as I can.”
Dyanna gave a tremulous nod, her lungs constricting within her chest. She thought of the thousand things she wished to say, things she feared she would never have the chance to say should he… Should he… “Come back to me,” she settled on, so she would not have to think otherwise. Their parting kiss was too long to be called chaste by any means, but too short by her account.
When they had to part, she gestured to Alanna to bring a half-drowsy Daeron for Maekar to say his farewells. He scooped the boy into his arms and kissed the crown of his head, then Aerion’s. “Look after your mother,” he charged their eldest, though Dyanna doubted he understood a word of it.
Bloodraven had dismounted himself and was halfway up the gangway, having what appeared to be some very strict words with a man of middling age and height, dressed in a Dornish half-cape that was a touch too fine for a common sailor. The captain, then. Maekar joined their conversation, all the fondness melting out of his gaze when he moved away from them. She shifted Aerion to her other arm and reached out to take Alanna’s hand in hers while they waited, and as they descended, heard her husband mutter out grudging thanks to Lord Rivers through clenched teeth.
Afterwards, she could not say she remembered much anything of that night clearly. Someone held out a hand to help her cross the gangway. Dyanna took it and stepped onto the ship.