Chapter Text
The letter bears the three-headed dragon pressed deep into red wax.
It sits between you and your father on the long oaken table in Starpike’s solar, unbroken since it was delivered, as though the words inside have already delivered the news despite remaining unread.
You’re no fool. You’ve heard the rumours circling these past few months – a knight overheard praising Daemon Blackfyre too loudly in a Reach tavern, one of your cousins travelling too frequently to Tyrosh, a levy slow to answer the Crown’s call. Nothing treasonous, nothing evident, but enough.
Your father reaches forward in his seat and finally breaks the wax seal, reading in silence. The fire snaps in the hearth, wind pressing faintly against the narrow windows of Starpike’s stone tower, and you wait, pulse thrumming close to your skin as you shift your weight from foot to foot.
You watch his face instead of the parchment, the careful stillness settling over it, the minute tightening of his expression, and your heart sinks down to your stomach before he even opens his mouth.
“It is an honour,” he says at last, setting the letter on the table with a deep breath. “For you to be invited to stay at the Red Keep.”
You remain very still where you stand. “...Invited.” The word feels bitter in your mouth, obvious in its lie – it is not an invitation, it is a summons.
“King Daeron believes it would strengthen the bond between our house and the Crown.” Your father’s voice is steady – already practical, already disattached.
“And if I decline?” It leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
His eyes lift to yours then, and the expression you find there makes you want to cry.
You know the burden your father has carried since the rebellion – the grief of the loss, the humiliation of being forced to bend the knee, the careful rebuilding of your house’s reputation, the way every decision must now be weighed twice as heavily – but at this moment, he just looks like a tired old man.
“You will not decline.” He says quietly, and you understand that there is no room left for argument.
The wind rattles the shutters again, and you think of the banners that flew from these towers when you were a child – bright and defiant swaths of orange. You think of how quickly they were lowered in obedient surrender, how few of them were rehung in the aftermath.
You fight desperately to keep your temper at bay as the unfairness of the situation threatens to overwhelm you. “So I am to serve as… some sort of bargaining chip? Because the Targaryens suddenly no longer trust our word?”
“You are to serve as the Lady of House Peake, and as my daughter,” he corrects gently, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “As proof of our loyalty and good faith, a reminder that House Peake stands with the realm.”
The distinction feels thin. And if we do not? The question hangs unspoken. You look toward the window, toward the hills beyond within which the road to King’s Landing begins, dread settling low in your stomach.
“I will be a prisoner and nothing more,” you shake your head, clenching your jaw. “Do you not see? This is how they keep us under lock and key–”
Your name leaves your father’s lips in a harsh bark, and your mouth snaps shut. “You will be a Lady at the Red Keep. There is no higher honour for someone of your standing.”
You can tell from his voice that your father’s patience is waning, but it’s your life on the line, you who will be torn away from your home, followed by suspicion and whispers and held under constant scrutiny.
You focus very intently on the wood of the table, your nails biting into the flesh of your palm. “For how long?”
“As long as the King requests.”
There is no anger in your father’s tone, no cruelty, only necessity and resolve. You swallow, sagging as the fight drains from you. He rises then, coming around the table to stand before you, his hands settling firmly at your shoulders.
“You will be watched,” he says quietly. “Every word measured, every alliance noted. You must be careful.”
“I know.” Your voice is soft, defeated.
“You must not give them reason to doubt you. To doubt us.”
You want to scream, to hurl curses, to cry, to hurl the letter across the room and refuse to go. You meet his gaze instead, resolve settling heavy in your veins. “I will not.”
He studies you for a moment longer – not as the Lord of a house, not as a political strategist, but as a father sending his daughter into a court that once executed his kin. “They will see your strength.” He says reassuringly.
You are not reassured, but you still sigh, arching an eyebrow. “Would you not rather they see our loyalty?”
A smile almost overtakes the exhaustion on his face. Almost. “You will show them both.”
You leave at dawn a day later, no tears, no public display. An escort awaits you bearing banners of red dragons on black fabric, enveloping you before you’ve even had the chance to say your proper goodbyes.
The gates of Starpike creak open, and you ride through them without looking back, though you feel weight pressing against your spine as though the stone castle itself is reluctant to let you go. You do not know when you will see it again.
The Red Keep is larger than you remember. When you were younger and the world had not yet narrowed to whispers and careful words, you imagined it as something glittering – spires of red stone and dragon banners snapping proudly in the wind.
Now it just feels like a fortress. The corridors twist endlessly, their walls thick and cold, the narrow windows letting in only thin shafts of pale light from the afternoon sky – not that different from your own home, but still so unfamiliar.
Inside, everything gleams – armor burnished, stone scrubbed clean, courtiers dressed in silk and careful smiles. You feel the shift as you pass, the way conversations halt, the way eyes linger just a moment too long, recognizing your house colours, the sigil stitched at your breast.
Your footsteps echo softly against the stone as you follow the knight ahead of you. He does not speak. The guards you passed in the courtyard did not speak either, only watched you as you passed, their gazes scrutinising and cold.
You keep your hands folded before you as you walk, fingers laced tightly enough that the knuckles pale.
Your father’s words echo stubbornly in your mind. They will see your strength. You only hope they will not see it as impetuous.
The door ahead opens at the knight’s knock, and he gestures you forward with a respectful incline of his head. “You may enter, my lady.”
You swallow, take a deep breath, and step inside.
The solar is warmer than the corridor outside, the hearth burning low despite the mildness of the day. Sunlight spills through tall windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, the water far below a dull silver beneath the clouds.
Standing beside the table near the window is not King Daeron, but you recognise him nonetheless.
Prince Baelor Targaryen does not look particularly like the other Targaryens you have encountered or heard tales of – his hair is short and dark, almost black in the dim light of the room, his skin touched faintly by the sun in a way that makes tales of the silver-haired Targaryens seem ghostlike by comparison.
He is broad-shouldered, solid in the way of a man accustomed to armor and horses rather than court silks, though today he wears neither – only a plain black doublet with the three-headed dragon worked subtly over the breast in deep red.
He turns as you enter, his eyes settling on you with quiet attention, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of one brown eye, one blue.
You remember yourself and drop into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Peake.” His voice is warm, though not overly so, the sort of tone that fills a room easily without needing to rise in volume. When you straighten again, he is already stepping forward. “You have had a long journey. I hope the road treated you kindly.”
It is a polite thing to say, but you cannot quite bring yourself to smile. “The road was… uneventful, your Grace.”
A pause lingers between you. Baelor studies you for a moment – not rudely, but carefully, the way a man might look over a new piece on a cyvasse board, considering how it might best serve him.
At last he gestures toward the chairs near the hearth. “Please. Sit.”
You obey, folding yourself into the seat with measured composure. Baelor takes his seat behind the desk, and for a moment, he simply rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, hands loosely clasped.
“I imagine this was not a journey you were expecting to make.” He says, the words spoken plainly, without accusation or false softness, and you lower your gaze to your hands.
“I… was not, your Grace.”
Baelor nods once, as if that answer was expected. “I will speak plainly,” he starts, and you appreciate that, at least. “The realm has had little peace since the rebellion. Too much blood shed. Wounded pride that takes longer to heal than many men like to admit. My father seeks to restore stability. Unity.”
Your throat tightens. Images flash unbidden through your mind – smoke rising beyond Starpike’s walls, ravens flying from tower to tower, your cousins riding out beneath banners of red fabric bearing black dragons.
You blink, clearing the memories away. “And my presence here is… to further that aim.”
“It has the power to.” The words are deliberate, and he considers you for a moment before continuing. “There are… whispers, as there are always whispers. I would rather silence them with closeness than with force.” There it is. Not a threat, not quite, but a warning.
“You believe my father’s loyalties have shifted?” You ask despite yourself, brows tugging together as you try to understand what changed, what brought you here, why now.
Baelor hums softly, head tilting as if weighing the words before he lets them fall. When he speaks again, his tone is measured – patient, but deliberate, each phrase placed carefully where it must land. “The King believes now is the time to ensure that old alliances are given the chance to become new ones.”
His gaze lifts back to you, steady and searching, though there is nothing openly accusing in it. “The war ended some years ago,” he continues, fingers loosely folded atop the desk. “But wars do not truly end when the swords are sheathed. They linger in the memories and stories men tell when the candles burn low.”
He pauses, watching to see how you react.
“There are many houses who fought for my cousin in the rebellion,” he says at last, the word cousin used plainly rather than with bitterness. “Some did so from ambition, some from grievance, others from loyalty to men they believed in… I do not pretend that every man who followed the black dragon did so out of treachery.”
The statement lands quietly, but it is a generous one, more generous than you expected from the heir to the Iron Throne. He leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with that same thoughtful attention. “But the realm remembers banners, and who carried them.”
Your fingers tighten subtly in your lap.
“And so, my father believes,” Baelor says, voice still calm. “That it is wiser to bind such houses close to the throne rather than leave them standing at its edge.” His gaze flicks briefly to the sigil at your breast before returning to your face. “Hostages make enemies. Guests make allies.”
The corner of his mouth shifts – not quite a smile, but something gentler than the political calculation of the words might suggest. “You are here as the latter, Lady Peake. My family does not intend you harm, nor isolation. You will move freely in these halls, and you will be treated with respect. I would prefer it remain that way.”
Another pause settles, heavier this time, before he adds, more quietly, “But that, I think, will depend as much on you as it does on us.” The statement is not harsh, not even particularly stern, but you recognise it unmistakably as a test.
You already knew everything he said, but hearing it all so plainly spoken by the Hand of the King makes something in your stomach turn. Still, you are relieved by the honesty, the clarity with which it has all been laid out before you.
“I understand, your Grace. I would prefer that as well.” You nod, the gentlest of smiles turning your lips.
His tone remains gentle, but there is steel somewhere beneath it. “I hope that your time here may allow such mending to begin.”
Silence falls again, the only sound a gull crying somewhere over the water outside. Baelor rises slowly from his chair, pacing toward the window. “You will find the Red Keep complicated,” he says. “There are many voices here. Many opinions.”
You cannot help the small breath of humor that escapes you. “I have noticed.”
That earns you a quiet chuckle, the sound knocking something loose in your chest, letting you ease into your chair slightly. “Yes,” he says. “I imagine you have.”
For a moment he studies you again thoughtfully. “You need not fear speaking plainly to me, Lady Peake,” he adds after a moment. “I value honesty more than courtesy.”
You meet his gaze again. “That may be… inadvisable, your Grace.”
Baelor’s smile deepens just slightly. “Perhaps,” he says, before his expression grows thoughtful again. “But I suspect you have already learned that court can be far more dangerous when no one speaks the truth at all.”
He inclines his head toward the door. “You will be assigned chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast. I saw to it that they overlook the gardens.”
You blink, taken aback by the gesture, but before you can think too much about it the door creaks open behind you.
You turn in your seat, and immediately blanch in the face, recognising King Daeron at once. The resemblance between father and son is clear, though the King carries himself very differently – where Baelor’s presence filled the room with steady calm, Daeron’s seems to tighten the air itself.
His gaze lands on you immediately, and you drop into a deep curtsey, nearly tripping over your own skirts in your haste. “Your Grace.”
He looks you over quickly, his eyes pausing briefly on the three castles sewn into your bodice before returning to your face. “So,” he says, voice brisk, already sounding faintly impatient. “You’re Lord Peake’s girl.”
There is no warmth in the words, but still, you keep your head bowed in deference. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Baelor inclines his head. “Lady Peake arrived only a few moments ago.”
“I see that.” The King’s attention remains on you for another moment, weighing, measuring. Then he flicks a hand in a curt gesture toward the door, his gaze already turned toward his son. “You may go.”
The dismissal is immediate enough that it takes you a heartbeat to react, but when it does, you bow your head once more. “Of course, your Grace.”
Neither man stops you as you turn and practically flee into the quiet corridor beyond, the door closing softly behind you – but it does not latch completely.
You have only taken a few steps when the King’s voice carries through the wood, causing your footsteps to falter. “I see you have already been too gentle with her.”
A pause, before Baelor answers, calm as ever. “Courtesy costs us little.”
“They rode beneath the black dragon,” Daeron replies sharply, the name of Daemon Blackfyre left unspoken but unmistakable all the same. “Do not forget why the girl is here.”
“She is a guest.”
“She is an example.”
You do not wait to hear more, wary of the Kingsguard watching you, instead turning towards the servant sent to escort you to your new chambers. You stride down the corridor with your spine straight and your hands folded carefully before you, the echo of the King’s words following you through the halls.
Baelor had been almost shockingly kind, but kindness, you realise now, does not mean you are welcome here.
The attendant finally stops before a pair of heavy oak doors carved with twisting dragons, their wings stretching across the panels in intricate detail. The iron hinges are black as soot, shaped like claws curling around the wood.
“Your chambers, my lady.” He says, bowing as the doors swing inward.
For a moment you do not move, breath caught in your throat.
The room inside is large – far larger than the chamber you left behind at Starpike, its high ceiling supported by dark wooden beams, the walls dressed in rich hangings of crimson and black. A hearth burns low along one wall, the faint scent of smoke and cedar lingering in the warm air.
Most notably, however, are the dragons that surround you.
They coil through the embroidery of the tapestries, their heads carved along the mantle, their wings etched into the legs of the table near the window. Even the tall bed dominating the far end of the chamber rises with bedposts carved in the shape of three-headed dragons rising into the sky, beneath a canopy worked with the sigil in thread that gleams faintly when the light catches it.
You step inside slowly. It is beautiful, and you unmistakably do not belong here.
“Do you like it, my lady?” The voice pulls your attention suddenly, withdrawing your outstretched fingers from the dragon curling along the bedpost.
Two young women stand near the wardrobe, both dressed neatly in the dark red and black livery of the royal household, one with soft blonde curls, the other with dark hair and darker features. They drop quick curtseys when you turn toward them, their expressions polite but curious.
“We are to attend you,” the tall blonde one says. “I am Ellyn. This is Mara.”
Mara inclines her head with a shy smile, and you study them for a long moment before nodding once. “I… have attendants now.” You say, almost to yourself.
Ellyn’s expression brightens with a curious smile at the wonder in your voice, while Mara moves quietly to place a small chest beside the wardrobe. “The rest of your belongings will be brought shortly, my lady,” she says. “If there is anything else you require–”
Your attention drifts toward the door again, just now noticing the two Goldcloaks posted in the corridor outside. They straighten the moment they see you peering out, and your brow lifts.
When you turn back toward the maidens, your mouth has curved faintly at one corner as you gesture toward the hall. “Is the extra security meant to keep me in… Or everyone else out?”
The two girls exchange a quick glance, eyes wide. “Oh– No, my lady,” Ellyn says hurriedly. “They are not for you.”
At your confused expression, they exchange another glance, expressions twisted. Mara hesitates before answering, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “Prince Valarr’s chambers are down the corridor.”
You blink once, the words settling slowly. You had heard the name, of course. Prince Valarr Targaryen, eldest son of Prince Baelor, second in line to the Iron Throne, and apparently the man who will sleep only a few doors away from you.
Your gaze drifts back toward the corridor where the guards stand waiting as if carved out of the very stone.
“Oh…” You murmur.
Ellyn either does not hear the shock in your voice or politely pretends she hasn’t. “The prince’s rooms have always been here,” she adds, busying herself by unpacking one of your chests. “It is one of the most secure parts of the keep.”
Secure. The Kingsguard just beyond your door. Your thoughts begin to churn again, restless and heavy all at once. This morning you were still at Starpike, fulfilling the role you were born into, but now you are here – summoned by a king, surveyed by a prince, installed in chambers heavy with dragon sigils and quiet expectations no one has yet spoken aloud.
You pace once across the room, then again, the carpet beneath your boots thick enough to muffle the sound, but the motion does little to quiet the restless energy building in your chest.
Mara watches you through her dark lashes uncertainly. “...Would you like us to prepare a bath, my lady?”
You shake your head sharply. “No.”
You stop near the open window, closing your eyes to feel the breeze drifting in from outside, listening to the distant sounds of the castle it carries – voices, footsteps, the dull rumble of carts moving through the lower wards.
And beneath it all something sharper – steel striking steel. Your eyes fly open as you turn back toward the girls. “Where are the training grounds?”
They blink. “The… training grounds?”
“Yes.”
Mara gestures vaguely toward one of the walls. “In the courtyard, my lady. Through the eastern tower and down the stone steps.”
You nod once. “Good.”
Ellyn’s eyes widen slightly. “You wish to go now?”
You are already moving toward the door. “Yes.”
“But your things–”
“They will still be here when I return.” You flash her a smile as you disappear from the room, leaving your two new attendants gaping after you.
You continue down the corridor, following the echo of clashing blades toward the stairwell as the dragon tapestries watch you go in silence.
The cavern of the Red Keep causes you to lose your way more than once, so when you feel the fresh breeze blowing the sounds of swords clashing down the corridor, you follow it keenly.
When you stumble upon the training yard, it is alive with the dull percussion of late afternoon training – the steady clang of practice swords, the barked corrections of knights, the thud of shields absorbing blows. The rhythm of it all is almost grounding, familiar to you in a way the corridors of the Red Keep are not.
You stand beneath the shade of a carved archway, watching, assessing, fervently trying not to think about the reality of your current situation that dawns more on you each moment, and for the first time all day, you are able to simply breathe, unwatched.
Of course, nothing lasts forever, and you feel the shift before you understand it – a subtle thrum in the air of the yard, men straightening unconsciously, attention drawn toward a single man moving through the crowd draped in an air of measured confidence.
The Crown Prince’s son carries his father’s features clearly, even from afar – the elegant features, the strong line of his jaw, the dark hair cut short, the only evidence of his Targaryen namesake the streak of silver woven through the dark strands, pale as forged steel as it catches the light.
Prince Valarr is not armored in ceremony, wearing simple garments, dark and fitted, a dragon clasp fastening his cloak at the shoulder. His gaze lands upon you, his expression unreadable as he finds you watching from beneath the arch, and before you have time to prepare to meet another Targaryen today, he is heading toward you.
“Lady Peake.” He greets, his voice smooth and formal as he inclines his head towards you. Up close, you’re surprised to notice how little he looks like the Targaryens of whom you’ve heard tales, faint freckles scattered across fair skin, one of his eyes a warm brown, the other a pale violet blue, mirroring those of his father.
You blink, remembering yourself, and dip into a rushed curtsey. “Your Grace.”
When you rise, you find him surveying you coolly, and you can feel the scrutiny plainly, though he hides his expression well. The court has surely spoken your name enough since your arrival was announced, and he is no doubt curious of what to make of you – as you are of him.
There is a moment of silence, not quite awkward, but definitely not comfortable, where he presses his lips together and you fidget with your hands.
“You have been received by my father?” He asks finally, ever the courteous, and you nod with a small smile.
“I have, yes,” you answer, and then tack on. “He is a very gracious host.”
Valarr nods, seemingly pleased with your answer. After another beat of silence, he glances down the corridor, then back to you. “And my grandsire?”
You pause, calculating the best response for the brusque dismissal you’d received. “I– Yes, but only briefly.”
Another silence, and it really ought to be your turn to prompt conversation, but you’re too busy willing your palms to stop sweating and your heart to quiet down.
At last his gaze flicks down toward the yard, then returns to you. “You’ve come to watch the knights train?” He asks, raising a brow.
The faint lift at the corner of his mouth carries a suggestion you recognize immediately, of ladies fanning themselves and loitering around to watch the knights and princes sweat beneath the sun.
Your spine straightens almost imperceptibly, bristling at the insinuation.
“I came to see where I would be spending my mornings, your Grace.” You have to fight to smooth your tone despite the tightening in your chest, your hands folded in front of you to stop them from curling.
Valarr frowns slightly, searching your face for humour, but he doesn’t find any. “You jest, my lady,” he says after a moment. “Surely you will not be–“
“Training?” You supply politely. “I shall, my Prince. I was told it would be best to resume my daily habits from Starpike. For the sake of my… assimilation.”
“Your daily habits?” The amusement in his voice is clearer now.
The briefest image of you slapping the amused look off his face flashes at the back of your mind, and you take a deep breath to dispel it. “Yes.”
Valarr studies you for a long moment, then exhales a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh, and you run your tongue along the sharp edges of your teeth.
“I see,” he says slowly. “Though I do wonder whether the other occupants of the yard will know quite what to make of such habits.”
You tilt your head. “Surely a prince as accomplished in arms as yourself understands the value of keeping one’s skills sharp, your Grace.” You blink at him with deliberate innocence.
His eyes narrow instantly, nostrils flaring ever so slightly as you watch him wrangle his expression into a near perfect mask of impassivity. “Of course, but perhaps there are other activities more suited to your ladyship’s temperament. Might I suggest needlepoint? Promenades through the gardens?”
You feel heat rush to your face. For a moment you nearly let it pass – you are in the Red Keep, and he is the prince. Courtesy should win, but the yard below rings with the clash of steel, and your hands still remember the weight of a sword.
When you speak again, your voice remains polite, only the edge has sharpened.
“I did not realise the people of King's Landing had such… delicate sensibilities, my prince,” you say evenly. “I shall try not to disturb the balance of things.”
Valarr’s expression cools even further. “I assure you,” he replies, “The balance of the King’s Court is hardly disturbed by ladies waving wooden swords around.”
“Perhaps that’s why–” You nearly lost the throne, you’re about to say, and you shut your mouth fast, suddenly realising the idiotic and treasonous retort that was about to fly out. You pause for a moment, summoning another ending to your sentence that won't get you executed, and Valarr studies you, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Why your knights seem so very comfortable.” Still too insolent to be said to a prince, but better than flat out treason.
The silence that follows is sharp, the prince before you going very still, the muscle in his jaw jumping visibly as he clenches it – likely fighting back a harsher retort.
“I was told that given a little time the Lady Peake would remember her place in this court,” he tilts his head, levelling you with a look that makes your heart race and heat rush to your face. “It appears now that may have been optimistic.”
For several long seconds, neither of you speak, the voice in the back of your head telling you to shut up and mind your tone finally working properly.
Then, Prince Valarr inclines his head in a perfectly courtly gesture, expression tight and eyes slightly narrowed. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
He steps away before you can respond, striding toward the steps leading back up into the halls of the Keep. You watch him go, heart still thundering in your chest, the streak of white in his dark hair flashing once in the afternoon sun before he disappears.
Only when he is gone do you release the breath you have been holding, and decide – with perfect certainty – that you despise Prince Valarr Targaryen, and if the look he left you with is any indication, the feeling seems entirely mutual.