Chapter Text
The Bending of the Anvil
Chapter Fifteen
Maekar looked peaceful, leaning against the Godstree in silence, Aemon sitting in his lap reciting High Valyrian. She watched his handsome face as he corrected Aemon’s pronunciation quietly and nodded along when he spoke right. She had not a clue what the boy was saying, but Maekar flattened his son's wispy hair and let his eyes close as he leaned back up against the tree.
“It’s your move,” Daeron says blandly. And when she looks at the boy, his brow is raised.
She ignored the stirring of embarrassment in her belly and looked at the board, before raising a brow. “Do you want to rethink that move?”
“That would be cheating,” Maekar says, his violet eyes sliding down to meet hers, brow raised in the same way his son had just looked at her.
“Well what is she supposed to do, if he moves the pieces all wrong?” Aerion asks, leaning over the board from behind her. She turns and looks at Maekar with a smug smile.
Daeron sighed loudly and then moved the piece back, studying the board again.
Rhae and Aegon both snored loudly on the blanket on the other side of her and Daella was staring off into space, blinking rapidly over and over again by herself. “Sweetling,” she says, “Come sit with me.”
“I don’t need a nap. I’m five.” Daella’s brows furrowed indignantly like her fathers did.
Aerion snorted rudely and Maekar sighed, shifting forward as to speak, but Myranda rolled her eyes.
“Well who is going to tell Daeron how to move his pieces if you don’t sit with me?” She asks sweetly. Daella frowns at her--as if trying to garner if she was playing a trick. She did not come to sit beside her until Aerion sat, and then Daella looked at the board. “Daella how do Dragons move?”
“Straight forwards, backwards, or sideways in threes,” she recites, before dropping her weight on her elder brother Aerion, brother who grunted but pulled her onto his lap.
“Didn’t I do that?” Daeron asks.
“You moved it diagonally across the lines,” Aerion says. “Only catapults and trebuchets can do that.”
“Ugh,” he says, in a way that reminded her so much of Maekar she let out a laugh she smothered with her hands.
“Stop being lazy,” his father says as he smothers a yawn.
For an hour they had each other in those hidden halls, and then collected themselves and then the children for quiet peace away from court. He was tired of the politics he had said. “I want to play with them,” Aemon says. Maekar took the book from his lap and snapped it shut and helped him up. She watched them and a smile tugged at her lips. He was looking at her, and motioned for her to join him just as lazily as his son laid about.
Daeron rolled his eyes again but it was in fondness she thinks, and pulled Aemon to his side. “You and me against Aerion and Daella?”
“We’re going to beat you,” Daella said while Aeiron reset the pieces.
“No you’re not,” Aemon says confidently, slapping away Daeron’s hands as he reaches for a piece. “You cannot move a heavy horse first, you have to move the first line.”
“Rude,” Daeron says heatlessly.
She joined him at his side, and he pulled her into his side tightly. “Do you need a nap, My Lord?” She murmured against his chin, his beard caressing her skin softly. He groaned dramatically, stretching like a cat and his voice carrying throughout the Godswood. She nosed his neck like he liked doing to her and then he settled pleasantly at her side. His hand stroked at her arm softly and she hoped this day would never end.
“Yes,” he says quietly, inhaling deeply. “Though I doubt they will get through this game without trying to strangle one another.” He says dryly. “Or waking the babes.”
“Wait--you just moved it diagonally.” Daeron says to Aerion.
“No, I moved in in an L,” the boy says haughtily.
She giggled. “They’re little versions of you,” Maekar scoffed, tilting to look down at them with a frown. She inhaled the smell of his skin, less citrusy and more jasmine. She bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling. He lazed around like a cat--but was reminded of their conversation weeks ago, of Vermithor the Bronze Fury and the Lady Dragon he spent his days lazing about with. She certainly felt the desire to do the same with Maekar. She let her leg rise and settle above his, his chest rumbling almost like a cat.
“You’re mad.” She shook her head.
“I’m not.”
“Okay--but you ended up in the same spot I would have if I moved it the way I wanted too.” Daeron says to Aerion.
“No he didn’t,” Daella says with a frown. “One, two, three,” she counts aloud, “And one and two.” Her little pudgy finger points to the final spot the Light Horse ended.
Daeron stared down at the board. “I was off by one spot.” He says dryly.
“No,” Aemon says with a loud sigh. “You weren’t because Dragons can’t move like that.”
She bit her lips as Maekar stared on with furrowed brows.
“That’s fucking stupid.” Daeron says flatly.
“Or maybe you’re stupid.” Aerion says with a shrug.
She gasped, turning her face into his neck to smother her laughter, and Maekar grunted. “Don’t call your brother stupid,” he says blandly. His children ignore him but he grips her more firmly, trying to worm her more fully into his lap discretely.
“Who do you think is going to win?” She asks quietly.
“Aemon,” he says dryly. “Only because Aerion and Daella will get caught up in trying to be right. It’s why Daeron picked him as his partner.” She blinked and tilted her head and watched as the siblings bickered back and forth--Aerion and Daella with more intensity than the quiet Aemon and flippant Daeron.
She turned her gaze to the napping babes, the ones who had fought their way onto her lap and then she had rocked to sleep as discreetly as she could, their red eyebrows and grouchy attitudes familiar to her. Both of them were still so small despite their large attitudes and were fond of being held still. They were tired after weeks at court, running after cousins and children they were excited to play with. While they were four now, they were still the size of most two year olds and had come early according to Maekar, so they crashed every few days in the middle of the day for an hour or two. She quite liked the feeling of them on her in a different way than she liked Maekar on her. They were not hers--she knew that. And she grieved for their dead mother, though she tried not to think long of the woman who had bore this family in the same way she avoided thinking of her mother. Not out of mislike, but out of unresolved grief she still could not face.
“Do you want more?” She dares ask. He looked down at her and she swallowed her shyness to look back up at him.
“More daughters,” he says quietly. “My sons give me far more lip.” He paused though, looking down thoughtfully. “Though, Aemon doesn’t give me lip.”
Her mouth twitched. “Well,” she says, turning her gaze to the children. “My sister says that marrying a Royce means daughters.”
He pressed a gentle kiss against her hair. “Good,” he rumbles out. “Sweet ones, that have your hair.”
She snorted. “A red haired Targaryen,” she says. He hummed, dragging her more onto him, almost fully onto his lap at this point. “The court will have a conniption if they find us like this,” she breathes. He rolled his eyes.
“They should be glad I don’t take you as my wife here and now in this wood,” he monotones, inhaling the scent of her hair. “They are your Gods, are they not?” The trees shifted in the wind and she smiled, letting her hands splay across his strong chest.
She felt more than just satisfied--physically and mentally. She felt at peace.
How strange a feeling--how addicting it was.
“What is wrong with red hair?” He asks more suddenly. She wrinkled her nose and he pulled her back to look upon her face.
“I was teased for it,” she says with a shrug. His brows nearly disappear into his hairline and the pox marks deepen as his mouth sets in a disbelieving line. “I was.” Delena especially hated it. She said it clashed with every color she wore and was far too unseemly for a lady to have. As if she could change the hair that grew from her own head.
“You’re joking, are you not?” He asks seriously. When she shakes her head, he sits straight up and frowns as she slips out of his grasp. “By who?”
Her cheeks flush. “Well--thats why they call me a Witch.”
“Your red hair?” He says distastefully, teeth baring. “They say you are a witch who has enchanted me because of your red fucking hair?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “No--they say I am a Witch who has enchanted the great Anvil because I look like my grandmother, Alayne Belmore, and the Lords and Ladies of the Vale believed she was a Witch.” When he stares at her unblinking, she tilts her head. “My mother’s mother, but she wasn’t a Witch, she was a Greenseer.”
His brow raised again, mouth pursing. “Was she?” He asks, disbelieving.
“Yes,” she says firmly. He opened his mouth and then closed it, his expression much more than just skeptical. “You don’t have to believe me for it to be true, My lord. Melody thinks one of the ladies at court overheard a Knight of the Vale when we arrived, and that the rumor sprang from there.”
His brows shifted again, this time to amusement.
“Brother,” a voice calls out, and they both look up at the rather bemused looking Prince Baelor.
His body tenses instantly, and she is almost thankful he had let go of her only a few moments earlier. She is sure his head would have blown off his shoulders if he had caught them lounging together, with her laying so improperly on top of him.
“Brother,” Maekar says in likeness, as if daring his elder brother to say something. For a moment--she is reminded of Egg and Aerion when they fought over small things.
“Uncle,” Daeron calls out suddenly. “Why is Cyvasse so fucking stupid?”
She strangles a laugh in her throat, turning to look at Maekar. “And you have the gall to say they are not like you?”
He scowled at her and Baelor let out a startled laugh.
“Well,” his elder brother says after a moment. “At least I know that if I am looking for one of you--I shall find the other.” He cleared his throat before joining Daeron and Aemon, his back to them. She looked up at Maekar, whose expression relaxed. “Let us start with the basics, yes?” He asks his eldest nephew, who groans almost as loud as his father had not so long ago.
“Well?” Her sister asks, sinking into her side of the bed while they stay in King’s Landing. Myranda resolutely ignores Melody, her eyes pinned to the canopy above her, cheeks flushed. “I know he stole you away, and then when you both returned you were--”
“Don’t say it,” she whined suddenly. “Red?”
Her sister laughed, a fast, almost hysterical sound. “He certainly looked pleased.” She bit her bottom lip, cheeks flushing. Her sister squealed and Myranda rolled over and buried her face in the bed.
“Did the Anvil take you?” Her sister asked softly, and when Myranda peaked to look at her in the light of the mooncast in the room, she was leaning on her palm, smiling fondly at her. “He is smitten, you know? I see the way he looks at you.”
She inhaled deeply and stretched like a cat on her bed, before turning her face to lay flat on her interlocked hands.
“He said he needed me,” she says softly. “He still won’t tell me what happened--but--”
“He needed your comfort?” Melody says with a smirk. “And did you give him comfort?” She asks boldly.
“No,” Myranda says with a fond smile. “I think I gave him the opposite: though he seemed to enjoy it.”
Her sister gasped, reaching for a pillow and hitting her with it. “You harlot,” she says with a giggle.
“He tasted me,” she says softly, eyes daring to look into her sister’s eyes. Melody is frozen, blinking before she collapses against the bed.
“Really?” She asks, and Myranda is reminded of their childhood, sharing beds and telling tales when they were meant to be sleeping.
“Yes,” she says breathlessly. “He wanted too before--but he got carried away before with touching.”
Melody was blinking at her over and over again, before she slid over close. “What was it like?” She asks, giving Melody the distinct implication that her husband had never--
“It was madness,” she breathed out. “Torture and rapture all twisted into one. I could not decide whether I wanted him to stop or never stop,” she flushed again and bit her bottom lip. “He enjoyed it just as much as I did. It was…very strange at first. Like he was waiting for me to tell him no but I was too embarrassed to say so. And because I wanted him a lot more than I didn’t want him too.”
“It sounds wonderful,” her sister says.
“It was,” she sighed against the bed and frowned.
“What?” Her sister asks.
She clenched her hands into a fist and laid her chin upon it. “How badly does it hurt?” She asks her sister shyly. “Aunt Becca said it is not awful but--” Melody’s hand comes to her back and rubs in circles. “How is it meant to fit?” Her sisters hand pauses, and she dissolves into giggles. Myranda purses her lips and looks away.
“Well,” Melody says, stealing herself. “Is he big?”
Her cheeks flush and she thinks of his cock--how pink, swollen, and hard it had felt despite the soft, smooth skin. And wet too--he had leaked and leaked at the tip long before she had taken him in her mouth, the inside of his small clothes damp. He had tasted like skin, smelt like him: but headier. “I could not fit all of him in my mouth.”
Her sister choked on air and sat up on her bottom in the bed. “You--oh my Gods.” Her sister's cheeks were flushed as pink as hers and she looked almost proud. “That’s why you gave him misery?” She asks, her voice high. “No wonder he enjoyed it! He came back to the gardens looking as if he’d been fucked six ways to Sunday, oh my God Myranda! I have never seen the Prince so at ease!” Myranda buries her face in the bed and her sister shakes her.
“You’re too loud!” Myranda says, cheeks flushed, “You will wake the others.”
“I should! Aunt Becca at least and tell her that our little red-headed Lady managed to bring the Prince to his knees at the swirl of her to--”
“He tasted me first,” she says, cheeks flushed, “and then again after.”
Melody was stunned, and settled beside her again, voice low. “He is never going to let you out of his bed, Myranda.”
“Will it hurt?” She asks again, cheeks flushed.
Melody opens her mouth and then lays on her belly next to her, shoulder to shoulder with her. “How big is he?”
“I’ve never seen another man like that before,” she says quietly. “Gyles kissed me a few times, but never more than a moment.”
Her sister glowered at the mention of him, but she put her hands out. “Is he this large?” She asks, referring to the distance between her hands. She shook her head and her sister shifted her hands, just a bit. With a sigh, she put her hands out and indicated his size.
Melody stares, wide eyed and then blinks once, twice, thrice--
“Melody,” she hissed.
“He really is a Dragon.” Her sister says, brows furrowing. “I--Nestor is not unpleasant to lie with, though it took him time to think of me once he would stick his cock in me. But we were four and ten--” Myranda frowned.
“You were five and ten when you wed,” she muttered. Melody smiles sheepishly. She felt her face go slack with realization.
“After the twins it took some time to heal--he never asked to lie with me or anything, but I needed nineteen stitches.” Myranda grimaced. “The stitches hurt far more to remove than losing my maiden head but Nestor is…smaller than that.”
Her nose wrinkled and she laid her head flat on her hands again, looking at her sister.
“I remember wanting more,” her sister tells her honestly. “But we were in the Godswoods and afraid to be caught. He finished twice before he managed to put it in me.”
Myranda giggled and Melody grinned.
“What did he say when you took him?” Melody asked. Myranda smirked.
“After he got over the shock, he asked what the fuck I was doing.” Melody buries her face in the bed to smother the bark of laughter she lets out. “And then he pulled me back to him when I told him I wanted him.” Melody rocked her body against hers in glee, grinning. “His voice makes me want to do awful things.”
Melody turned and smirked at her. “Wait until you finally bed him. After the girls, it took me months to finally want Nestor again. But when I did?” She shook her head smirking fondly at the memory. “I practically broke him. I took to riding him so I could continue even after he finished and until he was ready to start again.” Myranda’s brows rose sharply. “He would mewl like a newborn babe and fondle at me for hours while I rode him,” she sounded proud, jaw raised and a pleased smile across her pretty face.
“How are you not with child again?” She asks sharply.
Melody shrugs. “I do not let him spill in me, and if I do, I avoid the second week after my blood,” she says calmly. “And the longer you feed them at your breast, the longer the Maesters say you remain infertile. Nestor’s mother says that isn’t always true though.” Then her sister frowns in displeasure. “The girls are four though: I suppose it is only a matter of time, if we could get them out of our bed. Now he takes me half the time in the sitting room of our apartments while the girls sleep in our bed and the other half in the half hour before he goes to the yard and before the girls wake.” She rolled her eyes and then frowned for a moment. “Oh--after he lays his seed in you, do not sleep without relieving yourself unless you want to risk itching something fierce the next day. And clean your skin with water.”
She frowned. “Itch?” Her sister nodded with a frown.
“Trust me,” she says firmly, “the extra five minutes of sleep is not worth it.”
Myranda lets her head settle on her hands again and let out a soft breath.
“One more week, sister,” she teased, “and you can have your Dragon.”