King's Landing
98 AC (Eleventh Moon—Day 28)
Gael IV
"Daemon has been watching us…"
It was late into the morning, dawn's light spilled two hourglass turns already, her husband had vowed a device to mark time precise, yet that promise faded more than half a decade past. She minded not his forgetfulness, it painted him true and mortal.
Yet to her words.
It was late into the morning, though she lay in their shared bed, sprawled and spent from her beloved's lust. Her legs parted wide, skin agleam with sweat, breasts heaving to the sides of her chest, her womanhood cherry red, punished and brimmed full with her twin's potent seed.
As their custom of late, they'd woken and he'd gone to the yard, bleeding his vigor there. She'd come to watch, and once more their love flared fierce, so he'd borne her to their chambers and claimed his due. This marked their second joining since dawn, for he loathed to greet the day without burying deep in her.
Gael had long yielded her days to a span of swelling bellies and births, their ways fated such a path. She was not upset at the prospect, craving to gift her beloved husband an army of children to cherish and hold.
That was his dream, wasn't it?
"Does he now?" Maelys's tone came soft, untouched by weariness, though he glistened as she did, his form a vision carved from dreams.
He knelt near her head, manhood poised by her lips that she might clean it and soothe its lingering fires. Ever a glorious sight, even in repose. Gael cherished tending it so, rather than letting it come to calm after it had taken her wits to dream.
That fancy they saved for nights alone.
His hand slid through her hair, eyes of faded purple locked on her face with a passion that burned with no flicker.
Ladies envied what she held, this love and lust and obsession her brother lavished on her.
She was glad for it. Gael still whispered thanks to the Seven for her blissful life, even as she knew their sheer lust would damn them to eternal torment in the seven hells.
Such a conundrum.
"What certainty do you have of him as voyeur, I am curious?" He asked with a brow arched, once more wielding a queer word.
Gael knew his oddities well enough to grasp the meaning. She let her amusement bubble out in a giggle, propping herself up.
"Rumours from the whorehouses speak of women suggesting positions that achieve relief in quick span." Her cheeks warmed, for she misliked vulgar words. "When described, they mirror what only you and I have done, my beloved."
Only he knew such sinfulness of pleasure. Only his beautiful mind was possessed of such creativity. What her mother had taught her were dull things, acts and positions of tradition and duty.
Her husband knew pleasure and fantasy. He knew love, and expressed it in each act.
Maelys glanced aside, smiling faintly but evidently. He was amused, plainly.
"Well, perversion runs thick about, my love," he argued, a cough masking his chuckle. "Mayhap that is where such debauched innovations hail?"
She glared, cheeks puffing. He must know their lovemaking was spied on by one with no right. Her body was her twin's alone, and it stung her heart that another might feast on it bare and lustful.
Aye, Daemon was kin, but he was still not deserving. None were, save for him.
Seeing her teeter near tears, he shed his tease and drew her into an embrace.
"You need not grieve so, my dearest heart. And though he peeks, I am sure he saw little of worth." Maelys told her. "I am careful with our passion. Its activity may be blunt, but you have my word, little is glimpsed."
That soothed her heart some, though heat chased up her face. She truly strove to muffle her moans, though nothing worked. And worse, she could not bid her husband ease his meticulous care, it would shatter him.
She loathed this keep that forced thoughts of denying her beloved joy and relief. She lingered to him, and allowed her heart ease.
"Do you want of me to break his face?" He asked, and there was an echo of promise in his words
Gael was warmed by that heroism in him. The mere truth that betrayed that he would stop at no cost to secure her happiness was something she hoped all women enjoyed.
She shook her head, giggling a bit. "You needn't be so harsh on him if his spectating was limited."
He was still allowed his curiosities… and his obvious lust for her. It was a shame that Daemon had no fated soul to bring him joy.
"Ever too soft, my heart. Though I love you more for that beautiful soul."
She smiled again, Maelys was such an unfair romantic.
"We must curse the kinslayer to eternal torture for building such a holdfast." That was her anger. What need for spying points in every corner of a place meant for kin?
Did Maegor think his blood would plot him? And if so, who, since he drove them all off in madness and ruthlessness.
"We will have fewer worries once we move and bid forever farewell to King's Landing residency." Maelys told her, easing softly from the hug. "Our lands shape up enviable and swift."
That gladdened her.
"Tell me of Havenhall, Maelys. Will our child be birthed there." She wanted that most, for her children, all of them, to know no stench of human refuse.
"It should be so," he shared with lips edging wide, "as we'd be gone before Daemon's wedding comes to pass. The workers have toiled fierce, and I reckon primary residence possible in the second moon of the new year. The freed Valyrians will bring skills of fancy, thus beauty will spill into homes and communities."
She'd heard of the freed slaves' near arrival when Maelys claimed the Sealord's missive. Peeking at it, she'd found the numbers had swelled, with whispers spreading that the Targaryens were to forge a new Valyria.
Gael fumed at that notion, for she wanted no shadow of that cursed empire over her principality. Her husband might be a godless heathen, but she was not. Their lands would bask in the Seven's mercy and wisdom, free of evil or strife, welcoming all.
She'd wrung that vow from him, bled him dry for it.
"A keep raised in mere moons?" she asked, feigned concern creasing her brow. "I pray no storm strikes, lest we're buried beneath."
"I must make you a jester's outfit, you'd make an amusing one," Maelys rolled his eyes, lowering himself, his head pillowing soft on her lap. She hoped he'd not doze, for they yet needed to bathe, break fast, and ready themselves for the Velaryons.
Corlys still drew breath, alas, his pelvis unbroken. Rhaenys disappointed her sorely, more so since Gael set her beloved husband's back aching a touch.
Granted, that came from him bearing her weight, running wild in childish frolic. Or so he claimed. She reckoned it punishment from the Seven.
He pressed on after his flat jest. "We'll have an estate for a decade or so, while the castle rises." He smiled then. "It will be a greater wonder the world's never glimpsed, not even the Tyrells' white castle will compare."
She tapped his nose lightly.
"It's called Highgarden, my handsome husband, and it's beautiful." Gael had glimpsed the keep, a sight indeed, purity and summer shaped into shelter. She dared claim no castle neared its grace.
She glanced at her beloved. He was moody now, with cheeks puffed like a sullen child's. Why was he so prone to such whims?
"I'll wager our keep will be unrivalled, a castle of unquestionable splendor inside as out," a promise laced his words as ever. He gazed at her, face softening handsome. "You'll have the Maiden and Mother eyeing you envious once you dwell within those walls, their heavenly halls seeming mere huts beside."
Gael's cheeks warmed.
Again with gods envying her. In her heart, she reckoned the Maiden long jealous, for she had a husband so loving and tender. Of course, he'd claim her beauty stirred the goddess's ire, but Gael knew fairer maids aplenty, Viserra chief among them.
Though her husband would brook no argument, claiming that she was a treasure beyond compare. Yet Maelys was fiercely blinded by love, and his passionate proclamations lacked true objectivity.
And speaking of her favored sister, she was lamenting anew. She felt her husband loved her not truly. Loras, lust swallowed though he was, denied her comfort still. Viserra confessed the neglect wounded her pride in form.
Gael reckoned Maelys's withheld gaze did the deepest damage, yet she was saddened still by her sister's joyless love life.
That sadness made her entertain thoughts of further sin, kinds that even her husband might spurn. Yet Viserra deserved some measure of joy.
She gazed at Maelys, who was waiting patient for her reply to the Seven's envy. He was so hopeless in his love for her that it swelled her heart to bursting. And yet she feared what might become of him if the Stranger claimed her prematurely.
Gael loved him fierce enough to wish him life beyond, a joyous span of ease and hope lived. Not following her swift into the dark.
And as she drank in his form, she deemed him ample, enough to share generous.
Yet she couldn't voice it, he'd blame the pregnancy's irrational sway, cite oaths and bonds. But he'd sworn naught else, only joy and love for her till the gods themselves turned foe.
As it stood, her sister's happiness would kindle her own, liven their missives, make them healthy and joyful to read. Certainly more than now.
Her cheeks reddened a touch. She'd taken to sharing with Viserra scraps of her and Maelys's passions. She could only guess what her favored sister did with those heated tales.
Shaking her head thus, ridding herself of those thoughts, she summoned a smile and recalled the thread of talk between her and her beloved.
"Then we might have to fight off the Dornish, for they ever seem to dislike all things of beauty." Word had it that raids stirred anew from the sand folk, aimed sharp at the Reach.
Maelys's face brightened, as if no minute had stretched between her words. "We might, though I believe all will seek to fell our beautiful keep." He chuckled low, then closed his eyes with a soft sigh. "Though jests aside, something should be done about the Dornish and their animosity toward the realms neighboring them."
"The Reacher lords still beseech Father for their destruction, I hear." It seemed their sole true craving.
"You hear much these days, fair sister." His lips quirked up at one corner. "Are your ladies truly such gossips?"
More so than he might believe. She snickered at the memories of how her talks with them always unfolded, ever swirling around scandals and rumors and whatever the Warden of the West schemed of late; Lord Lannister had taken to scorning his wife, with two women already swelling from his seed.
Gael felt a pang for that man's victims.
"The gossip makes the court more enjoyable, I believe." She caught her husband blatantly leering at her breasts. Had he not taken his fill? Was he to rival their babe it was born? "I also hear Leyton's brother has started a venture of some sort with Ser Maynard. Very lucrative."
"An interesting development," Maelys said with a frown. "Though I'm loath to let things just be as they are. Our father has removed most of the former members who toiled under the position of master of coin, and those two were the unlucky few."
She ran her hand through his hair, chewing over his words, chasing the desire beneath them.
"You need them out of the city." And by them, she meant Otto, who seemed to be gathering a rather impressive knot of nobles around himself. Gael supposed there was power in being brother to the wealthiest lord in the Reach.
If anything, that was proof the Hightower wielded a more adept hand at intrigue than his sibling.
"That would be preferable," Maelys admitted.
He was evidently being more restrained with his machinations than usual. Their father's actions had turned him deliberate and hesitant.
"Must we do something with him?" she voiced with a smile. Gael held power now, aye, and more the means to sway Otto through his wife.
Maelys stood, smiling as he stretched his back. No cracks sounded from those bones
"No, let him be. I've come to the conclusion that it's better to prepare for the worst." He said it easy, then scooped her up in what he called a princess carry, effortless as lifting a feather. Gael could not stifle the squeal spilling from her lips. "Now come, I wish to show you the wonder that is showering."
She flushed deep, knowing he craved to bury himself inside her once more. She even felt his angered manhood tapping insistent against her rump.
"Do you ever grow sated with me, my love?" she asked, caressing his cheek. The feel of his fresh shave was wonderful.
"I'm merely going to show you the shower, woman. Do you truly see me a beast of sin?"
More than he knew, but then, she loved his obsession.
"You ever say that, and I ever end up unable to walk elegant until midday." She leveled a playful glare, one he tried to ignore, though his red flush betrayed him. "Just… make sure that I receive the Velaryons with all due elegance."
It was still just morning after all, and she truly loathed lying to people about her awkward strides, more so since the reason for them was well known…
She flushed.
…Maelys was such a horrible husband sometimes.
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Her beloved husband had proven true and honorable—faithful to his solemn vow, he had been gentle, though they had still missed the breaking of fast.
Yet she smiled with full warmth of heart. So too did he, though unlike her, his vigor had been utterly spent. How bestial was he, that it required such exertions to drain him so? And how unyielding was she, to sate him wholly and leave him dried?
A flush kindled upon her cheeks. She was naught but a dutiful wife, and as she and her twin were bound by fate to one another, it was only just that she match his unnatural fire.
Yet Maelys's weariness was plain to see. A hearty repast would restore him to his wonted self.
Gael resolved to bid him join her for the midday meal amidst her ladies. And mayhaps Rhaenys as well, should she not hasten overmuch to court. Verily, she was like to do so, with envoys swarming thick as morning mists this moon—bearing tributes and tallies of taxes.
Still, she hoped otherwise, for she had much and more to confide in her niece.
"…I do hope he doesn't come with his full fleet in tow," Daemon murmured aside, where the knot of kin in black and red stood gathered. He fumbled with his raiment, plainly discomfited in such finery. "More than five ships at anchor would sorely hinder the lading and unlading of wares."
She felt the impulse to roll her eyes, yet schooled as she was in courtesy, she bore herself with all due propriety.
Once more had Daemon been entrusted with duties, this time to oversee the careful sorting of grains, spices, wines, meats, and various delicacies—gifts and tributes gathered for the grand tourney a moon from now.
Gael wagered it would barely last a week before the Rogue Prince joined in pilfering the stores, though she held no grudge. Whispers spread that the vaults were overflowing, and Sweetport Sound had long run out of space for charity.
Havenhall was gathering food in abundance too, with deliveries arriving well beyond what the tallies could account for. She planned to speak with her father to share some with the barbaric folk of the North, for though the lords' coffers were fuller now, their humble subjects saw little of that wealth.
In truth, the plight of the smallfolk weighed heavily on her heart. Havenhall would never allow such injustices under her watch. She vowed to make that principle into law, honoring her mother's memory by championing the forgotten struggles of the overlooked.
Mayhap it was this very passion that drew women to her in crowds, for she promised to make them more than mere pawns on the cyvasse board of power.
She drew close to her husband, ensuring their bond was clear through their linked arms. They stood apart from the main Targaryen family, dressed in blue and silver of their own dragon lineage and house colors.
The Targaryens of Havenhall—the house of winter's chill and harvest's plenty... she still sought a more natural and captivating phrase.
They positioned themselves a short distance from the royal group, the better to highlight their individuality and independence.
Gael wore a gown that clung to her form like a skin second to her first, its soft beige folds giving way to a bold panel of midnight blue that swept through the skirts.
The fitted bodice was embroidered with silver and blue vines trailing down into layered, cascading panels; sheer sleeves flared out, while sculpted fabric flowers at the shoulders softened the structure. Metallic-thread motifs on the blue fabric caught the light, giving the silhouette a quiet, regal shimmer.
Around her neck hung a lavish necklace, layered in gold and adorned with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires that sparkled like the sea in daylight. A simple tiara crowned her head, its center a diamond-like gem in deep blue. On her feet were pale blue heeled slippers, delicately fitting her small feet.
They might not be comfortable for long, but she had never felt more beautiful or taller—now standing head-to-chin with her beloved, so he could kiss her passionately without her needing to tiptoe.
As for her beloved husband, he looked like a dream brought to life, dressed in a flat blue doublet trimmed with silver—rows of gleaming buttons and tiny dragons mapped across his broad chest.
A wide belt with an ornate buckle cinched his waist, and a simple sword hung at his side. A long cape, edged in soft gray fur, draped from his shoulders and trailed behind him, while tall black leather boots grounded his look in authority.
The harbor's soft light carved subtle shadows that emphasized his mesmerizing beauty and commanding presence. Oh, he looked so heroically dashing, especially with his long hair swept aside from one ear.
The pair of them cast a shadow over all present, outshining the assembly like the winter twins they were. Gael now truly felt and understood what Maelys had meant by wielding power through attires. Aye, this was to be their way henceforth, and she had already woven her appeal into the hearts of their lands' folk and her own ladies.
"Aren't they taking too long?" she asked her husband, glancing at him. "I'd hate to stand here any longer; the sea stench is making me nauseous."
She also didn't want her fruity perfume overtaken by the brine. She had many to greet with measured smiles, and she'd rather her scent not be taken as an added slight.
Worry flickered across her husband's face. He was ever quick to fret whenever it touched on her pregnancy. A pity there was little he could do to ease the burdens of such a state.
"I'm not opposed to our departing this place and its tedious courtesies," he whispered to her. Gael had to stifle a laugh at that. Maelys was ever so predictable.
"I worry how many lords and ladies you've slighted over the years," she said, shaking her head with a smile. To her recollection, he had never abruptly pulled away from her to tend to or receive an unexpected guest.
He kissed the side of her head, once more placing his affections for her above propriety. Gael could only feign annoyance at his actions, for she truly loved his attention. In her heart, she believed his nearness was felt by the babe growing in her womb, and once it was born, it would crave its father's nearness just as dearly.
Such was her fond fantasy, at least.
Soon, the hulls of the Velaryon fleet came into view—four ships in all, including the famed Sea Snake of Lord Velaryon. It seemed grandeur had not deserted the seafaring lord, who wished all to behold his triumphant return to the court at King's Landing.
All around straightened their postures, ensuring their appearances lacked nothing. Gael did the same—back straight, chin lifted, chest out, her gaze calm yet weighty, or so she hoped.
It was the core family of Driftmark that arrived. Rhaenys stood aboard, not astride her dragon, clad in the colors of the royal house. Her two children flanked her, dressed richly and striking, their silver hair and violet eyes proclaiming them Targaryen through and through. Seeing them thus, with so much silver gleaming, stirred memories of old days when more than half her siblings yet drew breath.
"…Baelon has asked me what we should do with Saera once our father passes," she murmured to her husband. The ships anchored, and the gangplank was lowered. "I feel it would be cruel to leave her in exile."
Crueler still, she had children—a daughter and a son. Gael's own niece and nephew.
"I doubt she'd ever be brought back here, especially by anyone but Father," Maelys replied. "She was bound for Volantis, but recent troubles in that city have made her wary."
She sensed there was more he left unsaid. It could wait for later; now, she must welcome the Velaryons as one of the two royal bloods in Westeros.
Wearing a warm smile and letting her kindness shine through, she observed the proper courtesies, her heart gladdened by the evident regard she and her husband received from Rhaenys and her kin.
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