𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 Princess Maella's thirteenth name day was bright and warm. The early sky was awash with cranberry, orange, cream; delicate milky clouds on a pink-yellow canvas.
"Mother and Father might get me a gift to celebrate," Maella mused. "I've expressed my desire for gold silks since the first moon of this year, so perhaps I'll get that. Or a necklace of Valyrian steel, with rubies the size of lemons. I would like that very much. Do you think they will?"
"How would I know?" Jace answered at once. He was seated beside her under the Weirwood tree, barefoot and sun-dazed. "I've heard nothing about gifts."
"Maybe you'll get both." Luke was the youngest of them: a sweet, chubby little boy who was nowhere close to manhood. "That would be lucky."
It would be lucky if I was an only child, Maella thought jokingly. She shifted restlessly on the grass. It was quite a curse to be born the oldest; it carried the expectation that you would be the first to face failure, and forced to become a role model for your siblings.
Maella was the eldest of two boys. Marked in her features was the dragon's blood: eyes of amethyst, cheeks of wine, and hair of the milkiest pearl. She was charming, gentle and shy and as glorious as every Targaryen who came before her. At ten, she became a rider, taking to the sky on the young dragon named Jadetooth. Admired and beloved by all, the court dubbed her "The Belle" for her whimsical beauty.
Jace and Luke did not share the same fortune.
They were the offspring of Laenor Velaryon, and this ought to have made them look the part, but they were plain-featured indeed. Whispers circulated them, with much ado made about their brown curls and button noses. Her mother, Rhaenyra, assured they were true-born—but Maella knew the truth of it. She loved them anyway.
. . . Even with the occasional instances of raised voices and arguing between them.
It was Maella who would separate the boys and fix their clothes afterward. She had remarkable needlework skills. Maella embroidered a towel once, and Alicent said it looked like it was made by the best seamstress in King's Landing. The joy Maella felt at that moment was so profound that she could have died without a single grievance.
"You're getting old, you know," Jace teased. The sun shone brightly upon him, its golden mouth kissing his hair. It looked like he was wearing a crown; Maella wanted to pluck it off his head. "Perhaps we should ask the maesters to make you a walking stick. Or your husband could just carry you around; you're going to have to marry soon anyway."
Maella frowned. Why dwell on such matters? she thought. Marriage? Gross.
There were more important things to focus on. Weaving lilacs into her hair, digging her toes into the grass, or basking in the warm breeze, which carried with it the scent of sweetbriar and jasmine flowers. Her name-day was still on the horizon, and Rhaenyra hadn't broached the subject of marriage yet.
"You know," Maella sighed, "I intent to lead a content and joyful life. Without a husband."
Jace blinked. His mouth fell open childishly, and then he slammed his jaw shut. "Mother will never let you do that."
Luke nodded while sitting cross-legged on a tree root. He seemed happy to just be involved. "And if we have to marry one day, then you do too!"
"I do not!" Maella argued.
It was a lie, of course.
If she was to be queen one day, that meant bearing as many offspring as the Gods allowed. The idea of it made Maella cringe; childbirth would do nothing except make her ankles swell and her breasts sore and, quite possibly, go bald.
Septa Neina once said that women can lose hair after having children. Maella decided she'd rather die than look like Otto Hightower.
Rumors said that raising a family can be joyful, fulfilling—but Maella didn't need to have a child to be fulfilled or to have a purpose. Satisfaction could be found in the simple joys. Today, she ate the sweetest cherry tart and impressed the Septa with her High Valyrian. That was enough purpose for her.
Maella dismissed Jace with a roll of her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed, a subtle wave of her hand emphasizing her words. "I have far more pressing matters demanding my attention."
"Like what?"
"Like annoying you." Maella elbowed Jace in the side, and he yelped. Luke snorted from the sidelines. "Anyway, I'd rather rule with a strong hand than be distracted by matters of the heart."
"You still have to marry," Jace insisted. He was squinting at her, and it gave him a cheeky look that went well with his gapped-tooth smile. "You're the heir."
"And you're a child. Eight, are you not? What do you know about all this bother?"
Jace opened his mouth to speak—perhaps to correct her on his age—and then Luke spoke. "It smells like fruit," he sniffed.
"I smell it too," Jace nodded. "What is that?"
Maella shrugged. "The peaches, mayhaps."
The two of them stared at her, waiting.
Maella did not readily share her secrets, but her brothers had a knack for coaxing them out of her. She rose from the tree, revealing a few peaches that had been hiding under the fabric of her skirts. "I swiped them from breakfast," she confessed, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Carried them in my dress."
They all laughed, and the air filled up with the smell of peeled fruit.
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The moon shown brightly that night, hanging heavy in the velvety dark sky. Maella was stargazing from her bedroom window when Ser Criston Cole arrived. She knew what he was there for, as he had come for the same reason every few days—to escort her to the Queen.
This was the latest Maella had been summoned, though she expected it nonetheless. She had taken special care with her face and clothes for tonight. Maella had swiped a bit of rouge to both cheeks, and chose her favorite silks. It had taken thirty minutes to plait her hair into a single braid; each strand had been delicately anointed with oil, and she combed until her scalp tingled with rawness. It proved to be a worthwhile venture, for her hair shone like spun moonlight, bright against her baby blue dress.
"Good evening, Princess," Ser Criston said. "Her Grace awaits. Shall we go?"
Maella closed the shutters and turned away from the window. "Of course."
Her encounters with the Queen were becoming a regular occurrence.
It all started when Alicent approached her last week, expressing that it would be beneficial for Maella to have a confidante to discuss her duties and seek counsel. "Help guide you toward a wise path," Alicent had said, her eyes doe-like and her expression tinged with hope. Over the days, their impromptu tea sessions in the late evenings had become a ritual. In these moments, Alicent delved into teachings about the Faith, and taught Maella how to act with decency and honor.
Regrettably, these meetings remained a secret affair.
Maella was well aware that her mother would disapprove of her spending too much time with Alicent. Although unable to pinpoint the exact cause of their strained relationship, Maella was no fool; she could discern the underlying tension and animosity between them.
Ser Criston swung the door open, and Maella allowed him to escort her out of her chamber. If she had to have one of the guards accompanying her, she favored it being him. While he used to be cold towards her, the meetings with Alicent seemed to have thawed his demeanor. He became more polite, and even engaged in civil conversation.
Outside Maella's door stood guards, men adorned in white cloaks and silver helms. She forced a gentle smile and bid them a good evening as she walked by. This marked the first instance Maella had been permitted outside her chamber since her visit to the Septa a couple of hours ago. "You must delve into your history books, my dear," Septa Neina had admonished. "Take your studies more seriously. Your knowledge of the past will guide you through the shadows of the present."
Droll lies, Maella had thought. The past can only haunt.
"Is Her Grace in good spirits tonight?" Maella asked Ser Criston as they descended the steps side-by-side.
"I fear not, Princess," Ser Criston answered. He lowered his voice. "There has been . . . trouble in the court as of late. Her Grace has been worn thin." He fell into silence when Maella shot him a questioning look. Criston typically refrained from discussing Alicent's state of mind, knowing it was unwise to divulge the Queen's vulnerabilities. Maella sensed he wouldn't provide any more insights; the man regarded her as too young to grasp the intricacies of courtly affairs.
Upon reaching Queen Alicent's chambers, Maella entered to find Alicent seated at the head of a small table. On it was a teapot, two cups, a platter of lemon cakes frosted in sugar, and a basket of fruit. A fire roared in the hearth, soothing and warm.
Alicent appeared as impeccably composed as always: auburn hair swept down her back in loose waves, and her silk nightdress was an emerald green with gold trim—a deliberate choice. Anyone who cast even a fleeting glance at the Queen would know she embraced her Hightower lineage in every single way.
"You look very beautiful and splendid this night, Your Grace," Maella told her. Alicent had once said that the perfect princess always remembered her courtesies, and she was determined to be just that.
Alicent's stern face softened as her eyes laid upon Maella. A stranger would miss the quiet upturn of her lips into a smile. Maella did not. "Princess," she said, "It is nice to see you. I'm sorry that I have sent for you so late. Matters have been very tense, and finding a moment has been a challenge. I trust you've had a nice day?"
"Yes," Maella answered. She eased herself into the open chair across from Alicent and toed off her shoes. A cluster of nearby candles threw glints of gold into the Queen's hair, and she could not help but stare.
They shared a look, and then Alicent graced her with a slight, close-mouthed smile—one that softened her face and brought wrinkles to the corners of both eyes. It filled Maella with warmth. It may not be a lasting sentiment beyond the confines of these walls, but it was sufficient enough to melt her heart.
Truthfully, she liked Queen Alicent. She was different to anyone else the princess ever knew: dedicated and obedient and endlessly interested in what Maella had to say.
"Well, Princess," Alicent cleared her throat, adjusting the cuffs of her gown's sleeves with nimble fingers. "I'm curious to know what you recall about The Seven from our previous conversation."
"I've studied it all, just like you've said."
"Would you like to start?"
"If it so pleases you, Your Grace."
Alicent smiled. She reached for an orange in the fruit basket and began to skillfully peel it, splitting each section into halves before offering one to her. If Maella could preserve it forever, she would.
Instead, she savored each bite and began to recite.
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Her duty, Maella learned, was to be taken very seriously.
The Septa granted her permission to peruse the history books in her chambers, a prospect that delighted her. However, the sheer volume of reading and the countless passages to commit to memory were pushing her to the brink of frustration. Hours were consumed on her bed, flipping through pages filled with tales of Aegon the Conqueror, Visenya, and a myriad of other names she didn't care to know.
There was always someone stopping by for a chat. While it wasn't always a welcomed interruption, she never turned anyone away. After hours of the monotony of reading, the sound of another person's voice brought a welcome change.
Maella was surprised by Queen Alicent though, who visited quite often during her studies. Maella wasn't sure what the woman saw in her, but it was something—it had to be something —for Alicent to greet her with such a soft smile every time.
It felt peculiar: Maella typically displayed more shyness, especially around non-family members. Yet, with Alicent, it was effortless. There existed a sincerity that Maella didn't believe she possessed. When a thought crossed her mind, she simply expressed it. No intermediary involved. Maella was sure it was going to turn out to be a problem. A problem she might enjoy.
Studying was not.
To avoid reading, Maella reached a point where she would regularly take naps. She found solace then, if only temporarily, from the relentless pursuit of knowledge.
Her mother would intrude on these secret sleeping sessions.
"You will have trouble falling asleep tonight, I wager," Rhaenyra remarked one afternoon, entering Maella's chambers and making a beeline for the curtains. She pulled them apart, and sunlight flooded the room—chilly, crisp, and tasting of spring. King's Landing boasted a cloudless sky, intensifying the daylight to a blinding radiance.
Maella groaned, trying to burrow deeper into her pillow.
"I'm a princess. I should be allowed to sleep whenever I want," she groaned.
"Maella," Rhaenyra teased, settling on the edge of the bed. She gathered some of Maella's neglected books, placing them thoughtfully on the nightstand. "This discipline is quite unbecoming."
Maella felt embarrassment creep up the back of her neck. She ducked her head and mumbled to herself, but it only made Rhaenyra's smile broaden, which made her shame flare.
It was the third day this week that Rhaenyra had woken her up this way. Maella appreciated it, annoying as it was. Amidst Jace, Luke, and courtly matters, finding moments for one-on-one time with her mother was rare. The woman was not like anyone else in the castle: bold, with pretty smiles, a razor-edged wit, and a confidence in her steps. Every room seemed to sharpen into focus with Rhaenyra around. It was like the sunlight bent around her, eager to reflect her shadow.
Every smile, every remark, every clink of the rings on Rhaenyra's fingers as she fiddled with her hands brought Maella closer to the conclusion that she loved every aspect of her mother. If it were up to Maella, they would always be mother and daughter in another life, another world, and universe, whichever it may be.
"You know, Mother, I've been thinking," Maella said. She sat up to find her gown was disheveled, and her hair, if not for the braided bun, would have been a tangled mess. Her hands worked to smooth down any frizz. "You probably did the same thing when I was your age. You didn't like studying, did you?"
Rhaenyra smirked. She looked at Maella then, wistful. "Studying certainly wasn't my favorite pastime, I'll admit."
"The royal aversion to textbooks could be a family trait, then?"
"That it could. I used to find every excuse to escape my lessons. Your grandsire, the king, was convinced I had a talent for creative excuses."
Maella could not hide her interest. "Creative excuses? Do share one with your favorite daughter."
"My only daughter," Rhaenyra corrected lovingly. She fell silent a moment, contemplating whether it was wise to confess, before leaning in conspiratorially. "Once, I claimed Syrax was in desperate need of a royal bath, and I simply had to attend to the matter immediately. It bought me a good hour of freedom—until my father remembered that dragons didn't bathe, and I had no means to do so."
Maella laughed. She felt the loving press of Rhaenyra's palm against her cheek; it warmed her, gold.
A touch of mischief kept life interesting.
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"I don't look like Laenor," Jace said. Maella frowned from beside him.
It was April, a time where the world would grow warm and sunny and smell of strawberry. They were standing on the balcony outside of the sunroom, overlooking the gardens of King's Landing. Maella glanced over at her little brother; sadness made him fold inward, like a wilting flower, and so he seemed far younger than ten.
Her words were careful. "Why do you say that?"
Jace shrugged. He tried to look nonchalant, but Maella knew better than that. She could sense the unshed tears in his eyes, and caught the trembling of his lower lip. "I'm a bastard."
Maella knew. She knew, and she loved him.
"It should be accursed by the gods," Maella reminded him, "to hate yourself so. It does not matter where you come from." A pointless thing to say, as it was from a sister to a brother, but still. Still.
Jace did not answer.
Maella's eyes flickered down below, where Rhaenyra Targaryen walked amongst the gardens—white hair, purple eyes chaotic as dragonfire. Maella's face, ten years from now.
A true Targaryen face.
"I'm a mistake," Jace lamented.
Maella did not kiss his forehead, pat his cheek, or ruffle the brown curls that should have been white—those were gestures their mother would offer later. She didn't want Jace to feel pitied. No, she couldn't bring herself to do that.
Instead, Maella gently rested her hand on his shoulder. "We are more than just our names, Jace," she said gently. "No harm will befall us simply from you being born."
Oh, how the realm would wish that was true.
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hey guys!!! the first few chapters will be from the past—starting when maella is thirteen—all the way to present time. you'll know maella better that way, and it will give insight into her and alicent's relationship, including her family!!
what do you think? please leave comments or tell me your favorite parts (i need motivation LOL)