Chapter Text
The bedchamber was still and quiet. Princess Lorana stared into the flames in the hearth. The warmth soothed both her body and soul, each injured in its own way. Her face was expressionless, more corpse than living woman, gaze still as if she was sleeping with eyes open. Her complexion was pale except for a few scratches and small bruises on her face, hands, and many more in places only she and her husband saw.
It was late. All of Summerhall slept. She wished – she begged the Seven – that she too could lie down and rest, cry herself to sleep alone for once. Before a miracle could be granted to her, the door to the bedchamber opened and her shoulders flinched involuntarily at the sound.
In her heart, the creak of old wood was the sound of an executioner’s axe biting into flesh.
„My Prince,“ she regarded Aerion, whom she never called by his first name or by more fitting title of husband.
„You are to stand up when I enter the room. Have you forgotten?“ Strange, she thought, one who regards himself a dragon, yet his words freeze my spine.
„I forget myself, forgive me, My Prince,“ her voice was monotone, rid of emotion, rid of anything that would provoke him. Yet her very presence in his life provoked him.
„Undress. Let’s get this over with.“ His command was not sharp, it was not loud. He uttered the words as a commander who knew no one would dare oppose him.
„You do not like our time together, My Prince?“ she asked, whilst unlacing her dress. She knew better than to delay, her fingers working fast, although not as nimble as they used to – the broken bones didn’t really heal properly.
„I do not like anything related to you, let alone fucking you. You are a waste of seed and a waste of breath,“ he spat out angrily, kicking off his boots. He was gorgeous, ethereally beautiful. His beauty excited her when they first met. She wanted a kind husband, but the beauty was a bonus – she was elated about the marriage back then. Now she couldn’t recall how that felt. She couldn’t recall how anything apart from pain felt.
“We don’t have to do this now then. I can birth you an heir later. You are not the first in line to the throne after all… my Prince,” she smiled. Surprise flickered on her husband’s face.
“What did you just say, bitch?”
Please kill me tonight.
She woke to sound of Maester’s voice and the disappointing realization that she was still alive. She didn’t feel her body, couldn’t move her fingers, only able to slightly open her eyes to see the sun was shining on her face from a tall stained glass window.
“Milk of the Poppy, now, she’s waking up.” And more poppy milk they gave her. As she was falling back into drug-induced slumber, she heard Aerion’s voice from somewhere far away. “There is no need to let my father know, he has much more important things to worry about than her.”
When she came to the next time, it was night again. Gaining consciousness was a fight, everything in her pulling her back into the depths of dreams and nightmares. But she fought and managed to open her eyes. The chamber was lit only by a few candles and reeked of blood and alcohol. She was aching everywhere. As sensation returned, the pain followed. It would’ve dragged her under were it not for sounds of struggle from somewhere far away.
“You have dishonoured your house, you have broken the vow you took when marrying her! You have defiled everything you were entrusted with!” Angry words in angry voice she knew well, but couldn’t place.
“You will go to your chambers and you will wait for me. We are not done talking.”
Then footsteps – close, far she didn’t know. Quick footsteps.
Before the pain pulled her back under the surface of unconsciousness, she noticed a figure sitting in front of the stained glass, their shape lost in the shadow cast by the window.
Instead of the burning agony, she felt a milder pain when the world of living called upon her next. First she felt her throat, wrapped in bandages, too tight to breathe comfortably, too loose to finish her once and for all. The rest of her body ached as if she were covered in one enormous bruise. It might be, she thought, not remembering how it ended. The last thing she recalled was Aerion’s hands around her throat, pressing her with bruising force against their marriage bed.
“Why didn’t you write to me? Why didn’t you tell someone?” a familiar voice pulled her out of the half-dream she was floating in.
“I told you he beats me, months ago. ‘My son told me you disrespect him and he disciplined you accordingly’. That’s what you said, your grace. Remember?” her voice was rough. After a few words spoken she realized it was due to a wound, a burning cut stretching across her throat, from beneath one ear toward the other.
“I knew he was harsh. I did not know he was this cruel.” Halfway through the sentence, the prince’s face betrayed that not even he believed the words. How many bodies will it take before you see him for what he is? She wanted to ask him.
“He was deliberate in leaving bruises and wounds only in places I couldn’t show you,” she turned her head with a sigh and wince to look prince Maekar in his violet eyes that were staring into her soul, searching for answers she never had. “How deep is the cut?”
“Deep enough that you would bleed out without help, not too deep to prevent you from laughing when they found you.”
“Your son has an irresistible sense of humour,” she grinned.
“Why didn’t you write to your parents?” he leaned forward in the chair, as if he could get his answers from staring at her closely.
“Why? What would they do? Talk to my husband? Convince him to become a kind and gentle man? Change him?”
“You are of a powerful house, they would’ve pressed for annulment of the marriage. The matter would be brought before the Faith.”
“I would rather die.”
Maekar stared at her. “Die?”
“Your son broke my bones and scarred my skin. If the marriage was annulled, I would be only a burden to my house. No one would marry me.”
“You would die to not burden your house?”
“I would die and I would live. I would – and I did – live through the hell your son created, for my house.”
The solar at Summerhall was quiet but for the wind whispering against the tall windows. The night had grown cold, and the hearth had burned low. Prince Maekar stood beside a table, hands resting upon the dark wood. His knuckles were white with strain.
The door opened and Aerion stepped inside as if summoned for some minor annoyance rather than a reckoning. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Father,” Aerion said lightly. “You wished to see me.”
Maekar did not answer immediately. When he turned, the torchlight caught the hard lines of his face. His violet eyes were darker than the night outside.
“You slit your wife’s throat.“
Aerion blinked once. Then he laughed.
“She breathes still, does she not?”
The sound of the laugh seemed to fill the room. Maekar’s jaw tightened.
“She lives because three maesters worked half the night to keep the blood inside her body.“
Aerion shrugged and poured himself wine from the flagon on the table.
“She should be grateful for their diligence.”
The cup shattered.
Maekar had not remembered seizing it, only the crash as it struck the wall beside Aerion’s head. Red wine ran down the stone like blood. Aerion’s smile faded a fraction, though his eyes still gleamed with amusement.
“You nearly murdered her.”
Aerion took a slow sip of wine.
“You speak as though that were some grave offense.”
For a moment Maekar said nothing. The silence stretched long enough for the wind outside to howl through the towers of Summerhall.
“At your wedding,” Maekar said at last, “you swore before the Seven to protect her. To honor her. To keep her safe.”
Aerion set the cup down.
“And what if the girl is unworthy of such courtesies?”
Maekar crossed the room in three strides and struck him. The blow sent Aerion stumbling against the table. The wine cup rolled across the floor.
Aerion slowly touched his lip. When he drew his fingers away they were streaked with blood. He began to laugh again.
“You strike your own son for a Tyrell girl?”
“She is a princess of this realm,” Maekar said, his voice low and dangerous.
“She is nothing,” Aerion sneered. “A brood mare who cannot even perform the simplest duty expected of her.”
Maekar’s hand closed around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. His gaze searched his son’s face, as if looking for anything worth saving. Anything that might redeem the boy he once was.
He released the weapon and stepped back.
“You have shamed my house. You have broken your vows. You have raised your hand against a woman placed under your protection. Were you not my son, I would have you flogged through the yard.” He stepped closer again, towering over his son.
Aerion’s eyes burned now, the arrogance hardening into something colder.
“You forget yourself, father. I am a dragon.”
“No,” Maekar said, voice quiet and somber.
“You are a disgrace.”
For the first time that night, Aerion did not answer.
“Leave,” Maekar commanded.
Aerion stared at him a moment longer, then turned sharply and strode toward the door. It slammed behind him as the solar fell silent again. Maekar stood alone beside the dying fire.