Work Text:
King's Landing, 83 AC
i.
Many of the rooms in the Keep were truly filthy. The stone in the kitchen was coated in spices and in grease; cobwebs stretched from one wall to another and the wood in the windows had been scorched with fire. The ravenry and its surroundings were covered in the birds’ droppings that seemed to grow exponentially with each year. Mostly, the castle was just too big, with so many rooms and hallways it seemed that by the time you finished cleaning the last one, the first would need dusting again. Maegor had planned for heirs he did not possess, and so dozens of rooms fell out of use and into disorder.
Saera was, as far as she knew, the first person to occupy her chambers. She liked it that way - there were no important heirlooms or treasured mementos to preserve and protect, and she could decorate it how she chose. Now it was covered in fine tapestries of pink and purple, and she had a second wardrobe brought in so she could fit more dresses and robes. She even had a dragonriding costume made, just in case. On the wall was a shelf full of books, and in the corner sat a beautiful harp, gold inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that she had never quite learned to play. In the center of it all was Saera herself, spread out atop her velvet blankets, ignoring every possible source of entertainment in favor of staring up at the ceiling and cursing her own insolence.
Her insides growled, and she placed a hand on her belly to soothe it and muffle the noise. The gesture did nothing to sate her hunger. It had all been Baelon’s fault, really, for choosing tonight’s dinner as the perfect time to announce that Alyssa was once again with child. His smile had grown so wide, it looked as though his face would split in two, but Saera could only groan inwardly, for that meant another screaming child to contend with. As it stood, Daemon and Gael seemed apt to bring the walls down with their cries, and Saera did not know how much more she could stand. Then Father had called for a toast.
“Congratulations, my children,” he intoned, with his solemn smile. “Let us pray for a girl so that she might marry into a great house. Or perhaps she may be young Viserys’ bride,” he said, and the room chuckled at Viserys’ blush, for at six years of age, the very notion of girls turned the boy quite pink. Cups were raised, and everyone drank their fill. The wine was sweet, but Saera grimaced when it hit the back of her throat. She swallowed it all in one go, then poured herself another serving from the pitcher on the table.
“If you get your way, father, you’ll have a bride for each of the Seven Kingdoms, and Dorne besides,” she said, injecting all the sarcasm she could muster into her voice. Baelon let out a light chuckle, but the rest of the room fell silent. She felt Jaehaerys’ gaze on her before she looked up to see it.
“What do you mean by that, Saera?” He stroked his silver-golden beard, recently cropped closer to his face.
She put her down her knife and rested her chin in her folded hands. “I mean, that’s our purpose, isn’t it? To aid your rule and unite the realm? Jocelyn gives us the Stormlands, Maegelle keeps the Faith appeased in Oldtown, and I expect Viserra will go to the North and Gael will wed Casterly Rock as soon as she’s flowered. Or maybe it’ll be the other way around. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. You’ll only want Alyssa at home, anyway, since she’s got a dragon and an evidently fertile womb.” Now even Baelon had stopped smiling and had taken to twiddling his marriage band around his finger instead.
“I don’t want to go to the North,” Viserra whined. “It’s so cold, and so far away. And there are no knights, no tourneys or balls. Oh, mother, please do not make me go there.” The girl was two-and-ten and spent her days dreaming of finding a prince as beautiful as she was. A part of Saera admired her dedication. But most of the time, she found her little sister quite vapid, and she was tired of being her minder.
“You’re right, sister. I’d say it’s so cold up there, your tits will freeze right off. Or at least they would, if you had any tits to speak of.”
“Saera!” Alysanne said, affecting a horrified expression. Saera rolled her eyes. If Alyssa had said that, you would all laugh, she thought. But Alyssa was busying herself with looking down and clutching her belly, even though she wasn’t even close to showing yet. A brilliant mummer, she had become.
“Where will I go, Your Graces? Hm? Highgarden? To Riverrun, for a Tully trout? Or maybe you’ll need me in the Vale, now that Daella’s dead and gone.” Her mother gasped, and her father slammed his glass down on the table as he rose to his feet. When he spoke, it was in a king’s voice. A dragon’s.
“Saera, apologize to your mother and your sisters right now or I’m sending you to bed with no supper. Mark my words.”
She finished her goblet and set it down with equal vigor, letting her chair scrape across the floor as she pushed away from the table to stand. “Then I bid you goodnight,” she said, curtsying for good measure, though when her head dipped toward the floor, all the blood in her body seemed to rush upwards, and dark spots danced across her vision. Straightening her posture, she walked out of the dining room, and most definitely did not look back, not to her brother’s soothing words to his wife, nor to her mother’s wracked sobs.
It was only when she reached her rooms that she realized she had nothing in her stomach, not a bite of the candied ham or a slice of the strawberry pie to tide her over until breakfast arrived the next morning. They had been well advised not to keep food in their rooms for fear of attracting rats, so there was no hope, not unless she could conjure up a cake in her hands just through sheer power of will. That was how she found herself flat on her back, trying to go to sleep to make the morning come faster, but as usual, she had no luck.
The gods had a cruel sense of humor, they must have, for placing her - she who under any other circumstances would have been without peer - in her family. Not her parents’ most favored eldest or precious young ones, she found herself lost in the middle. She was not as pious as Maegelle, nor as studious as Vaegon. Viserra was prettier, everyone said so, and Daella had been sweeter, never without friends even though she’d been afraid of her own shadow.
She thought of her friends at court, the ones with whom she shared her secrets and more. They were the fortunate ones, really. Roy was already a lord and the head of his household; Jonah and Braxton stood to inherit large castles and pretty wives. Perianne and Alys were the scions of minor houses, yet would doubtless make advantageous matches through their associations with the royal family. Saera had been born in the highest tower on top of the tallest hill in the city. She had nowhere to go but down.
The cracks in the plaster of her ceiling formed sprawling networks of shapes and lines; in the right corner, the image of a waterfall, on the left, concentric circles like someone had smashed a hole through it. In the center was a cluster of zig-zags, that, when she squinted, rather resembled her father’s roads, his great achievement which featured in every speech and every song made for the King. Stinger had joked to her one time that every time he planned out a route, he took the queen to bed, and that was why he had so many children.
You must have been for the Goldroad, he’d said, playing with the bangles on her wrists, running his hands up and down her arms, then up onto her breasts, pushing and prodding at the soft skin.
She’d swatted his hand away. Admit I was for the kingsroad, or I’ll tell my father what you said, and he’ll have your tongue.
He’d smirked. Well, we couldn’t have that, now, could we? And then he’d kissed his way down her neck, down her breasts and her belly, and then lower still, proving his tongue was much better off licking between her legs on than the floor of her father’s throne room.
Saera grew hot at the memory, and slid her hands underneath her skirts, thinking some pleasure might distract her from her hunger. However, her efforts proved futile, as it seemed that with her basic needs unmet, she could not even summon enough arousal to coat her folds, and she gave up. She did not need a sore cunt as well as an upset stomach. She stripped to her smallclothes and got under her covers, wishing the pain away.
ii.
Hours passed, but every time Saera arrived at the precipice of sleep, her side would cramp or her head would ache and snatch her back to the world of the waking. When at last she could bear it no longer, she put on her robe and risked opening her door ajar to see which guard was posted outside and if she might have a chance of sneaking past him. All of them hated her for dyeing their white cloaks pink a few years back, and none were likely to take pity on her, but there were one or two she believed she could outrun. Her legs were longer, and she was not weighed down by armor and honor as they were.
Peering her head outside, she was surprised to see that the hall was empty of any guards. She made up her mind to leave as fast as she could before they could return from their break. She pushed open her door and ran down the closest stairs. Having forgone her shoes, some grime and dirt collected on her soles, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her sole focus was on getting to the kitchens as quickly as possible. The door at the bottom of the tower brought her to another hallway, and at the end of that were the stairs that led to the servants’ quarters and then to the throne room, behind which there would be food, enough of it to make up for a hundred nights without supper. She could taste it already - the savory roast goose and sweet berry tarts. She could feel the juices of the sugary fruits running down the sides of her mouth. She imagined washing it all down with a cup of strongwine, far better than what they’d had at dinner. No, she’d steal an entire flagon, show up to breakfast the next morning blissfully drunk, and her family’s judgment could roll off her like water. She was halfway down the hall now. So close.
“Saera.”
Fuck. She’d been caught, and not by a serving wench or one of her father’s loyal dogs, but by the man himself, who stood in his doorway, holding a lit candle. How could she have forgotten - the King’s chambers sat right above his throne.
“The hour is quite late. You should be abed.” Try as Saera might, she could not read his face. The lines by his mouth remained motionless, as if even they could not decide whether he spent more time laughing or frowning.
“I tried, Your Grace. But sleep would not find me. Only hunger and thirst.” She raised her eyebrows in a plaintive expression. “I meant to go to the kitchens and find myself something to eat. Some bread, perhaps.” Maybe he would grant her that wish. It paled in comparison to the feast in her mind, but it was better than the pangs she had felt all night.
“You should have thought of that before you said those things at dinner,” he said. He looked down at her. Few could do so. Saera had grown, quick and early, and was almost of a height with her brothers. Under his eye, her resolve crumbled, and remorse bloomed in her chest.
“I’m so sorry, father. Truly, I am.” She folded her arms and clutched her robe closer to her chest. It was still winter, and a chill ran through the Keep. Without a fireplace to sit by, Saera felt her skin prickling, goosebumps rising. “I was only jealous of all the attention Baelon and Alyssa were getting.” It was better, with Jaehaerys, to be honest, for he had grown up around schemers - Queen Visenya and Rogar Baratheon chief among them - and deeply misliked anyone who sought to deceive him. And she was telling it true, for envy could be found deep within her. It was a fact she admitted only to the altar of the Father when duty called her to the sept, but she was sure her own lord father knew it as well. Even he was not free from sin, and there was so much of himself in her, down to the exact shade of violet in their eyes.
Something in him seemed to soften at her plea. “I will admit, I cannot sleep either,” he said, pushing open his door. “Come in, my girl.” So many daughters he possessed, yet Saera was sure she was the only one he ever called my girl.
“Sit with me,” he said, and she followed him to his desk, taking the smaller chair that sat beside her father’s great oak seat. “Open that top drawer,” he said, nodding at the desk. Saera tugged on the small bronze knob, carved in the likeness of her father’s dragon.
She gasped. Inside the drawer sat a plate of lemon cakes, glazed with syrup and powdered with sugar. “For me?” she asked, and her father smiled. Immediately, her hand shot out and she picked up the largest piece and brought it to her mouth. She took a ferocious bite, not even giving herself time to enjoy the taste.
“Careful, careful. You’ll choke.” He handed her a goblet of water and she swallowed it down. After a few minutes, the cakes were nothing but crumbs on the plate. Saera was licking the last of the icing from her fingers when something dawned on her.
“You - you always said we couldn’t keep food in our rooms, or else the rats would come!”
“Oh, did I?” her father said. “Well, it worked, didn’t it? You were always hungry for dinner.”
Indignance filled her chest. “You lied,” she said, pouting.
“I do believe the gods will forgive me for my sin,” he replied.
With the lemon cakes settling in her stomach and the aches finally leaving her head, Saera could not bring herself to be truly angry. Her eyes darted to the contents of the desk, where dozens of papers sat in neat piles. “What is all this?” she asked. “Anything important?”
“A raven came today,” he said, and gestured toward the envelope on the desk, which bore the broken seal of the Prince of Dragonstone.
“Aemon?” Her eldest brother had moved to the island a few years ago, coming back every so often to attend to his duties as Master of Laws. Saera used to wait at her window, listening for Caraxes’ high-pitched screech, as every time he returned, he would bring her some gift - the prettiest seashell from the beaches, a loose scale from a dragon egg. Now he had his own daughter to dote upon, and Saera had grown out of her childish habits.
“He was simply the messenger. The letter comes from its previous occupant, my sister.”
“Mother sent you a letter? From Dragonstone? But she’s right here,” Saera said, confused. “She’s just upstairs.” In prior years, it would have been odd to find her mother sleeping outside of her husband’s chambers. But since Gael had been born, she knew her parents had spent precious few nights together.
Her father shook his head. “Not Alysanne. Rhaena.”
Rhaena. The name seemed almost a curse in their household for how little it was spoken. All Saera knew of her was that she had been one of Maegor’s Black Brides, had ridden Dreamfyre, and had lived in Harrenhal before her death, some ten years back. Her parents had flown to the riverlands for her funeral, and they had done so alone, having forbidden each of their children from even asking about it.
“You never talk about her,” Saera said.
Her father’s mouth turned upwards, but in his eyes lay a deep heartache and a long past. “What would you like to know?” he asked.
Saera found herself at a loss for words - she knew so little of her lost aunt, she did not even know what to ask. “Was she beautiful?” she settled on, lamely. To her surprise, her father laughed, and a dimple appeared under the hairs of his beard.
“She was, very much so. Prettier than your mother, to tell the truth, though you will not repeat that. Beautiful, with a gift for music, and for making you feel as though she and you were the only two people in any room - for better or for worse.” Her father remained seated at his desk, but he seemed far off in another world, or another time. "She was charming, though at times she lacked a certain…tact. More than once, she led our stepfather to his wit’s end. Put your mother and me on the brink of ours, too.”
“What happened to her?”
“Life was cruel to Rhaena. She had so much love inside her, for us, for our mother and father, for her daughters, for all her friends and even for strangers. For some reason, the gods saw fit to punish her for that.” There were countless stories her father could tell, dozens of ghosts he could invoke, but for once, Saera did not want to rub salt in the wound. She sat and listened. “Your mother has had no shortage of trials. But Rhaena…I would not wish the suffering she endured on my greatest enemy. Yet, through it all, she remained my fierce older sister, whom I loved so dearly. She was the bravest person I have ever known. And when she left - when she died - a part of me burned away with her. That is why I do not talk about her.”
A smattering of small rocks hit against the window, crackling in counterpoint with the fire in the hearth. No, they weren’t rocks, but hail, those tiny crystals of snow and ice that cut into skin like glass before melting into nothing. Saera looked up at her father, who was slowly returning to himself. “I wish I could have known her,” she said.
“Oh, my girl, you need only to look at yourself. You are more and more like her with each passing day.”
“I always thought I was most like you.” It was what her mother said, when she refused to back down from an argument, what her friends and siblings said when she gave out her orders and bossed them around. Like her father, if he lacked his wisdom, one of her septas had told her before running back to Oldtown like all the others. Saera had snorted. If he lacked his cock, more like.
Her father seemed surprised. “Do you want to be like me, Saera?”
Yes. No. Never, not in a million years. Of course, I want your power, your kingdoms, your dragon. I don’t know. Yes, yes, always. “What was in the letter?”
Her father thankfully ignored the change of topic. “It was years old. Aemon said Jocelyn found it under a dresser in her room.” He removed the letter from the envelope and pointed toward the top corner, where it had been dated the fourth day of the tenth moon of 54 AC, and addressed to both Jaehaerys and Alysanne. “Funnily enough, it concerns an even older artifact - she enclosed some scrolls belonging to your great-grandmother, Queen Rhaenys. She must have left them there before the Conquest.”
“Why did she never send it?”
A pained look crossed her father’s face again. “That year was difficult for her. I’m sure she had many other things on her mind. First, there was Androw, and then Aerea…” He trailed off.
Saera placed her hand on her father’s and squeezed. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say.” Winesink gossips would give her more details. She would ask around on her next night out in the city. “What’s in the scrolls?”
“That is what I was discovering when I heard footsteps outside my door,” he said, bringing a blush to Saera’s cheeks. He held up the letter and scrolls. They threatened to crumple in her father’s strong hand, but the vellum held firm. She fingered the delicate and ink-stained parchment. “Would you like to come up here and read them to me?” He patted his thigh, and she got up from her chair and took her place on his lap. It was so familiar to her, the feeling of his rich garments on her skin, the smell of the lavender oil he used to keep his braid smooth and free from flyaways.
“The Lives and Customs of the Women of House Belaerys,” she read out from the top of the scroll. “I’ve never heard of this, father.”
“It’s an Old Valyrian history, transcribed into the common tongue. Go on, my girl.”
She tilted her head back, her cheekbone brushing against his jaw. “Father, you know I’m better with numbers - ”
He put his finger to her lips, silencing her protests. “I know you can do anything you set your mind to. Now, continue.”
She cleared her throat. “House Belaerys stood high among the forty families of Valyria, at its greatest strength possessing half a dozen castles and more than fifty dragons. Having amassed great wealth and power from their seat in Tyria, many of the house’s members - in particular its women - were inspired to continue their success elsewhere. As detailed in other books, Jaenara Belaerys, the eldest daughter of Lord Aeryn, mounted her dragon Terrax and headed south, toward the mysterious continent of Soth - Sothoryos,” she recited, stumbling over the unfamiliar name. She crossed one leg over the other, adjusting her position.
“Lady Jaenara roamed the vast jungle for nigh on three years, making landings on the peaks of mountains, taking shelter in the rare desert oasis. She took care to avoid the Brindled Men, who had successfully waged war against her people on Basilisk Point, winning the Valyrian outpost back to their own side. All of Tyria waited impatiently for her return, though none more so than her brother-husband, Lord Daemion. It was said that he employed a thousand scribes to write her letters, sending them on every outgoing ship in the hopes that just one might reach her. When she did, at last, make her way home, all words were forgotten, and sources said that the sounds of their lovemaking could be heard throughout the halls of their castle for months.” Her foot had fallen asleep, then, so she uncrossed her legs again, shaking out the pins and needles. She was getting hot, too, her soft robe suddenly feeling as though it was weighing her down.
“Saera, stop squirming,” Jaehaerys said.
“I’m sorry, father. I’m just trying to get comfortable. I’m so - I feel dizzy,” she said. “Perhaps all my hunger has not left me.”
“Why don’t you take this off, then,” he said, reaching around her ribcage to undo the tie that kept her dressing gown together. She raised herself to slip it off her shoulders, then sat back down, this time between her father’s legs. Even with most of her skin bared, she still felt encased in warmth. The sensation only increased when his thighs flexed, holding her close to him. “Keep reading.”
“Previous generations of Belaerys women had traveled across Essos, collecting finery at the markets in the Dothraki Sea before meeting with the merchants of Qarth, the Queen of Cities. A few went as far as Asshai, learning secrets of sorcery unknown to even the most learned mages of the Freehold. One such woman was Maella, a granddaughter of Lady Jaenara. She had inherited more than a little of her ancestor’s adventurous spirit, and had an affinity for magic, no matter what dark places it led her. She spent nearly a decade in the Shadow Lands, and by the end of her time there, whispers of her skills had spread over the continent.” Her father leaned down to rest his chin on her shoulder, his beard tickling the back of her neck. She leaned further into him, relaxation spreading throughout her body.
“Accounts of her activities once back in Valyria paint a picture of an astoundingly gifted woman, albeit one who pushed the limits of morality. She once raised one of the Fourteen Flames to the point of erupting, only to return the lava to the core of the mountain. With her spells, she was able to bind countless men to her will, and took no fewer than ten to act as her husband. It seems, however, that her appetites remained unsatisfied, as her seduction did not stop with the men she married. Her older half-brother was set to be the lord of their household, but his power was nothing in the face of hers, and after an audience with her, it was Maella who held the keys to the castle. When their father complained, it was said that she cast a glamour to appear as a courtesan, and seduced him into silence as well.”
Suddenly, she felt a familiar pressure against the small of her back. She pushed back against it, ever so slightly, and her father’s hands came to grip the soft flesh of her hips. “I told you to stop squirming, Saera,” he said, a faint growl in the layers of his voice. “Continue.”
She breathed out, trying to ignore the wetness between her legs, an automatic response to desire. “Glamours were Lady Maella’s particular specialty. With them, she could change her face, her voice, and her body, with the greatest ease. If a man preferred larger breasts - ” she gasped as the king’s hands made their way up to her chest, his fingers dipping under her smallclothes to tease her nipple to hardness. “If a man preferred larger breasts, she would simply speak it, and she would have them. She could even take on the guise of living persons. A ship’s captain might meet with a prince to sell him his wares, only to wake the next morning and see them all stolen. Men found themselves defenseless under her spells.” Her father moved closer yet, pressing his lips to her neck, his tongue collecting the sweat that had formed there. A moan escaped her lips, her arousal outweighing any other feeling at the moment. Saera reached her hand down to the laces of the short pants she preferred to sleep in, but in a flash, her father grabbed her wrist and stopped her movement.
“Not with your fingers. Use this,” he said, and lifted her up from her seat, then placed her back down so she straddled his thigh. He took her hands and placed them flat on either side of the table, with an unspoken instruction that they would remain there until he said otherwise. Some men said that her father was growing weaker as he aged. With her at his mercy, her sex pressing hard against the muscles of his leg, she could not agree. “And I never told you to stop reading.”
She was near the end of the first page of the scroll by now and tried to focus on finding where she left off. “Valyrian women were famous the world over for their - for their beauty and graces,” she said, rolling her hips, aching for more friction against the soft velvet of his trousers. “It is,” she breathed, “it is the opinion of this author that Lady Maella probably did not need magic to make herself more appealing. Still, she continued to study the black arts, filling her court with shadowbinders. She wanted to be a goddess, she said.” Large hands returned to her body, his right covering most of her chest, his left digging into her hip, controlling her movements. He pressed in harder, speeding her up. His thigh was soaked with her slick, turning the dark blue fabric an even deeper shade of midnight. She was close, she knew it. Just a bit more. She continued.
“Her ambitions toward divinity would be her downfall. To achieve her goal, she kidnapped her brother’s maiden daughter, and, accompanied by her mages, used her in a ritual sacrifice, the details of which shall not be put - put to paper.” Pleasure built in her core, slowly first, then quickly. Her body shook, but she held fast around him. She would not let him down. “When the ritual was complete, the lady emerged from the flames, a terrifying wonder, ten feet tall and speaking with a voice that shook the foundations of the castle. She - she claimed she was the goddess Meraxes, came again - ”
“Come, my girl,” her father corrected, and she did. With one last push against him, she was undone. Pleasure coursed through her, waves of shock hitting her again and again. He placed his hand on her mouth to keep her from screaming, and whispered in her ear, well done.
It seemed as though ages passed as she waited for her trembling to cease, her breathing to return to normal. When at last she felt strong enough, she planted her feet on the floor and slid off her father’s lap. He kept a glass above his desk, and in it, she appeared thoroughly debauched, her hair in a frizz around her head, her lips bitten down. Her neck was red with marks she had always tried so hard to avoid, for fear of her father noticing them. Now he was looking at them, at her, and she at him. He seemed younger than she’d ever seen him. His trousers remained tented, but he made no move to unlace them.
“That’s enough for tonight, I think,” Jaehaerys said, his voice slightly strained.
Saera fidgeted with the hem of her chemise. “Shall I come back and finish tomorrow, Your Grace?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “Make your apologies to your mother and sisters. Make them sincere. And join me after dinner,” he said. “Now go and find sleep. Don’t let the guards give you any trouble.”
“I never do, father,” she said, smiling. Moving swiftly, she departed his chambers and took the stairs two at a time back to her own room, her own bed. She wiped her feet on her rug and then slid into her sheets. They were cool to the touch, and she shivered. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have someone to warm me. A glimmer of sunlight appeared over the horizon. Saera shut her eyes.
iii.
The king picked up the pink silk robe from his floor and brought it to his nose. Lilies, geraniums, lavender. He groaned as he rose up. His back wasn’t as strong as it used to be.
An ache between his legs. That wasn’t the same as it used to be, either. He lay down and reached for his cock. Tomorrow, he had to take it back, had to fix things. His hand slid up and down. Tomorrow.
He pressed the robe to his face and breathed in the silk again. Tonight, no one would need to know.