Chapter Text
The moment her husband had declared himself King, she knew this could only end one way; his death.
It was the only fate that could keep the rest of her family safe
She had accepted it, prayed for it even, as blasphemous as that was for a wife to do.
But seeing the reality of it now, looking down upon his corpse's white face, his body riddled with arrows, a massive wound to the side of his head where his helm had been caved in on the right side, his two eldest boys by Rohanna lying on either side of him.
The unexpected heartache sat heavily beside her relief, tears stinging at the back of her eyes.
The signet ring on her left hand burned.
“Mourning your husband, niece?” Bloodraven's tone was calculating, half his face covered in a bloody bandage as he came to stand by the bodies of his older half-brother and nephews.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Bloodraven shrugged, but caught hold of her arm when she tried to stalk away.
“Your brother has sent for you to come to his tent. You are to be looked over by his Maester as you have refused all others.”
“I’m fine.”
Bloodraven's smile is cool.
“Your brother anticipated you might say as much and wished for you to be advised that this is not a request.”
“Fuck me.”
She turns away from the bodies, the lump in her throat bitter and covered in spikes.
She ignores the hard stares, the hisses of “Blackfyre Queen”, as she moves through camp towards her brother’s tent.
It was no worse than when she first arrived months ago, dressed in Blackfyre armour and having freshly deserted the Blackfyre army. She hoped that, after months of fighting alongside Baelor, of being shown his trust, Daemon’s death would finally allow her to be recognised for who she truly was – the loyal daughter of King Daeron II, not Blackfyre’s whore.
She grinds her teeth.
She fought alongside them only a matter of hours ago! Held the vanguard with them! How easily the fuckers forgot! They had taken no issue with her two days ago, but now…
Fuck ‘em!
“They’ll be singing you praises soon enough, Princess, when Daemon’s long burnt and you are back by your father’s side. Their memories are short, and their attention span shorter still.” Bloodraven's words would have been almost kind if not for how utterly bored he looked.
She only huffs in response and shoves her way into Baelor’s tent.
Instantly, she was hit with a wave of relief at the sight of her brother, leaning on his war table with several advisors surrounding him.
She had only caught a glimpse of him at the end of the battle, his armour splattered with blood and mud; it had been hard to tell at the distance they were whether he was injured or not, but now, clean and dressed in a sturdy black doublet embroidered with their family crest and dark breeches, he looked hale and healthy except for a clearly recently set nose.
“Your sister, your grace.” Bloodraven announced from the entrance of the tent as if Maekara could not speak for herself.
She shot him an annoyed look over her shoulder, which only had the bastard rolling his eyes in response.
“Thank you, Brynden.” She looked back at Baelor as he quickly began dismissing his advisors, who bowed before moving past her without the barest of glances.
“Blackfyre whore.”
Bloodraven’s hand upon her wrist is like iron, crushingly tight.
“Ser Harrold,” Baelor’s tone remained calm and steady, his expression neutral, betraying nothing, “my sister played a significant role in our victory today and warrants your highest respect. Since you have proven yourself unable to meet the bare minimum of deference, you may now step down from your duties and return to your estates, knowing that your efforts today will go unrecognised.”
Ser Harrold’s face flushed brightly, and for a moment, he seemed ready to protest before reconsidering. Bowing low, he muttered a ‘Your grace’ before making a hasty exit from Baelor’s tent.
“I’ve heard you’ve been refusing to see a Maester for your injuries,” Baelor said once they were alone, except for Maester Yormwell, who stood off to the side, inspecting his medicine box.
“Because I am fine!”
“Aegor was hunting you down like a dog during the battle, sister.”
“He hardly landed a hit on me.”
“‘Hardly landed’ still indicates that you were struck.”
“Barely.”
“Humour me… please.”
“Fuck me.” Maekara rolled her eyes
“I will not have our victory marred by you bleeding out overnight. Hardly the most inspiring ending to the ballads celebrating our triumph."
“It would certainly keep on theme with our family history, no?” Maekara retorted, wincing as, between them, they started to remove her armour from her bruised body.
Her stomach churned with discomfort as each piece was removed from her. She would have the armour melted down, every piece, until nothing remained of the set Daemon had commissioned for her.
She was almost dizzy when the last piece was removed, and she pointedly ignored the glare from Baelor’s pretty two-toned eyes, his violet eye almost as dark as his singular brown as he scowled at her right shoulder.
“Barely, she says.” Baelor’s tone was like steel before he sighed and carefully guided her behind the privacy screen that had been set up on her side of his tent. “You will have your work cut out for you, Yormwell.”
“I would expect nothing less from her grace.” Her brother’s Maester replied as he came around the screen.
“Piss off.” She aimed a tired kick at her brother’s legs.
“I will leave you to Yormwell's care, sister. Do try not to be difficult.”
She opened her mouth to protest, to snarl and spit venom at her infuriating brother, only for all thoughts to leave her as his warm, dry lips came to press against her cheek. “Be good.”
“Fuck you.” It was weak, pitiful even, and Baelor left the tent with a bark of laughter.
“Do not curse your brother,” Yormwell chided with a fond smile as he settled her down upon a stool by her cot.
As always, Yormwell worked quickly and efficiently, assessing her injuries – and fine, maybe there were more than she had initially thought, and were more… tender now she was out of her armour and no longer running on adrenaline – before cleaning and bandaging the worst.
“You were fortunate to have armour as well-crafted as yours. Anything less…” she ceased listening, unable to continue. She could not bear to hear that the armour Daemon had specially made for her was what saved her life when he lay dead at the edge of Baelor’s camp.
“There now. I have taken care of the worst, but you will need to rest. No swinging swords or maces until your ribs and collarbone heal properly. And I do not wish to hear that you have pulled your stitches by doing something foolish. Or petty.”
She shoots the Maester a disgruntled look as she pulled a fresh tunic over her aching body.
“I am not petty.”
“Oh, no? Mayhaps I am confusing you with another princess who chose not to tell anyone she was in labour because she was irate with her late husband and proceeded to give birth all on her own. We were most fortunate that her brother discovered her when he did."
“I was fine!” Maekara grumbled, twisting the signet ring on her finger, “as was Daeron.”
“You both, so easily, might not have been, Princess. You must learn to take care.”
Maekara scowled at her feet.
Take care, as she hadn’t been walking with a knife to her throat since she was a girl of nine and forced into marriage to Daemon by her tyrannical grandfather.
Yormwell sighed and gently squeezed her uninjured forearm.
“I will leave you now, but if you find the pain too great, you are to summon me, yes? You cannot rely on your big brother forever.”
She grumbled a grudging acknowledgement before the Maester took his leave.
For a moment, she sat in the silence of Baelor’s tent before it all became too much, and she could not breathe for the weight of it all.
Pushing herself to her feet, grabbing her surcoat and her cloak, her sword strapped to her waist, she escaped the oppressive silence of Baelor’s tent and went in search of her brother.
She found him where she had left her husband – the pyre for him and his twins had been constructed, and all three had been laid upon it, awaiting their final rites.
Bloodraven saw her approach and spoke quietly to Baelor, who, when he turned to face her after a moment, his expression was impassive and unreadable.
“You are meant to be resting, sister.” Baelor’s voice is distant, the height of politeness, and she finds she hates him for it.
“Were you going to light their pyre without my knowledge?”
“I was uncertain if you would wish to be present. I had no desire to cause you further distress.”
“You could have asked.” She retorted hotly. Throughout her one and twenty years, decisions were made for her without her knowledge or consent, often imposed on her before she even knew they existed.
Her brother had the decency to look rueful.
“I apologise. My intent was not to cause you hurt, nor insult. He was your husband, and it is your right to stand by his pyre; the choice to do otherwise should not have been made without speaking with you.”
It was unusual to be apologised to, when so few had ever done so throughout her life – always Baelor. It was always him. Apologising for things beyond his control. Apologising for things that were. – and it makes her throat tighten even more, words caught inside her chest.
The pyre is lit, and she crosses her arms across her chest so tightly that the pain from her bruised ribs, her right shoulder, almost feels good.
“I do not regret our uncle’s death,” she inclines her head towards Baelor as he speaks, distant and reserved, she feels like they are no better than strangers, “he made his choice when he declared himself king and sort to depose our father. But I do regret,” his voice has taken on a strange cadence, and from the corner of her eye she can see his hand clenched into a tight fist at his side, “very deeply, any grief his death is causing you.”
Grief?
Grief?!
Was he mad?
She supposes her tears do make her appear as the grief-stricken widow, so she shouldn't blame him too greatly for assuming as much. Yet, in reality, her tears were from relief. The ordeal was over. She was finally safe and could return home.
“The bastard’s dead, and I am glad for it.” She says, hating how strangled her voice sounds even to her own ears.
She wrestles the Blackfyre signet ring from her finger and throws it into the fire at Daemon’s feet.
She would never again wear anything from Blackfyre.
She would never again be Blackfyre’s queen.