༻♕༺

𝕬 𝕱𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝕱𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 || 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆
𝟒ᵗʰ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 || 𝟏𝟐𝟔 𝐀𝐂

༻ •𖢻• ༺

     𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖝𝖍𝖎𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖓𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞 rings in her ears as Princess Maelera trots up the stairs to the domed Royal Stand and rushes toward her seat beside Helaena, plopping down onto it with a huff. Helaena just giggles.

   She 'twere rather late to the tourney honoring the last day Prince Daeron, now five summers, would spend in King's Landing before he left for Oldtown to serve as Lord Ormund Hightower's cupbearer and squire.

   It'd been a chaotic week of tourneys and feasts and balls for the young prince, whom relished in all the attention he received.

   Maelera 'twould miss the little nuisance.

   "May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!" The King concludes his speech, and the crowd erupts with deafening applause.

   Maela joins the cheering, clapping her ringed hands, when the fanfare blows and all the tourney knights come trotting into the Tourney Grounds, circling the railing that 'twill separate opponent from opponent when the jousts begin.

   So many colours were before her, hundreds of House banners flapping defiantly in the wind, armours either for flattery or practicality catching the pale gold light and shimmering, and regal mares and stallions 'twere donned in gleaming steel that mirrors their riders' own.

   Tourneys could often be a bore, Maela does admit, but the colours and the sheer wildness of the crowd always amused her.

   These fancy nobility could become utter savages when men galloped at one another with sticks.

   The first pair of regal knights for the day of the final rounds that 'twill bring forth the champion of the tourney and the winner of ten-thousand gold dragons line up at either end of the jousting lane once the other knights trot out of the Grounds to the rows of tents within its shadow.

   The announcer emerges from the door beneath the Royal Stand, the red and black feathers crowned atop his hat tousling in the breeze. "Ser Preytan of House Crakehall against Ser Jeffary of House Estren," he bellows over the excitement.

   Once the stout man disappears through the door, the men kick their horses into a gallop and rush toward one another, pummels of dust left in their wake as the crowd cheers. Ser Jeffary 'tis dismounted, falling to the ground with a harsh thud. And the nobility cry out in glee for Ser Preytan's victory.

   Several knights come and go when Hel speaks up, fiddling with the pendant dangling from the necklace she wears, "I hear Lord Boremund's heir still hasn't learned his letters at five-and-thirty."

   Maela nods, "Ser Borros, "dumb as thunder," his father's attendants call him." The young girls share an amused grin, then Maela bursts with gentle laughter, and so does Helaena.

   "Ser Desmond of House Lydden against Ser Gurnar of House Myatt." The announcer shouts so all hear. And as the knights joust, running three loops until Ser Gurnar dismounts Ser Desmond, Maela and Hel continue to discuss the gossip of noble court.

   "The son of Lord Edam Hawick is supposedly having an affair with Lady Laoren Fenn."

   Maela quirks a brow, "Isn't Kollion married to some Lady of House Rowan?" Helaena nods, "He is. I hear he's even sired a bastard in Lady Laoren's womb."

   The brunette -and-silver haired beauty scoffs, "That's completely barbaric." Sweet Hel only giggles.

   The announcer returns yet again to state the names of the awaiting pair of knights, "Ser Davios of House Dondarrion against Ser Julan of House Thorne."

Ser Davios trots over to the Royal Stands upon his white stallion, its coat shimmering beneath the golden sunlight. Lifting his helm, he reveals a handsome head of brunette curls and mossy green irises, with a faint smattering of freckles dotting his cheeks.

The knight greets the royals with a quick grin, "I would humbly ask for the favor of Princess Helaena Targaryen."

   Helaena grabs ahold of her favor where it lay upon Maela's own on the cushion between them–'tis a circlet of Dusk Roses and green leaves with a single strand of lavender. Though, instead of standing, she looks to Maelera for silent guidance.

   With a gentle tilt to her lips, Maela stands with Hel and walks to the rail with her friend, who 'twere more like the sister she never had than anything else to Maelera Bloodmoon.

   The sister those twins of her father's could never become, not with the Narrow Sea between them.

   Gazing upon the princesses with a handsome grin, Ser Davios extends his lance, and Helaena places her favor upon it. The girls watch it tumble down the long stick bejeweled with expensive gems mirroring the colors of his noble house–purple and black.

   "I wish you good fortune, Ser," Helaena shyly grins.

   "Thank you, Princess."

   The knight trots away to begin the joust and the girls return to their shared cushioned bench.

   Within two rounds, Ser Davios dismounts Ser Julan. The princesses clap for the Dondarrion knight, whom lifts the visor of his helm and bows his head at them with a smirk upon his lips.

   The minutes begin to turn into hours as many and more noble knights come and go. In the hour the sun began to tilt into the west, the final round 'tis upon them and the knights trot into the grounds.

   The crowd 'tis more eager than before, their cries of fervent resounding across the grounds, anticipating the end of this sinnight-long tourney and the rise of the champion.

   "Ser Bander of House Caswell against Ser Callor of House Frey."

   The banners of Caswell and Frey, flowing in the breeze, glimmer in the setting sunlight as their knights share a nod of respect before kicking their royal steeds into trots. Ser Bander, though, veers his mare toward the Royal Stands.

   He lifts his visor, his conceited gaze falling to the girl deemed the most beautiful in the world. "I ask for the favor of the Realm's Jewel."

   Unimpressed, Maela lifts a brow, but nonetheless, lifts her favor into her grasp–a circlet made of a black stem full of thorns with Moonblooms and Dragon's Breath.

   The red flowers that grow in the godswood in the shadow of the heart tree, her favorite flower.

   Gripping the rail, Maela tosses her favor onto the awaiting lance, watching it roll down with plum eyes sharp as Valyrian-steel. "Good fortune, Ser." She hardly even grinned.

   Undeterred, Ser Bander–a man twice her age–winks a blue-speckled eye up at her.

   Maelera rolls her dragon eyes with a scoff she conceals beneath her breath before returning to her and sweet Hel's bench, eagerly awaiting the moment the arrogant knight 'tis dismounted.

   A smirk curls the edges of her lips when Ser Bander 'tis indeed dismounted by the Frey knight, eagerly clapping her ringed hands. Helaena giggles.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝖂hilst the last rays of the sinking sun drips through the windows and bathes the young girls in its golden glow, the Realm's Jewel styles the Queen's daughter's silver-gold hair as Helaena sits upon the cushioned stool at her vanity.

   The princesses 'twere already donning beautiful gowns for the last feast, in an hour's time, in honor of the young Prince Daeron.

   Maelera wore a dress of violet silk that fell to her ankles with draping sleeves that reveal her shoulders and collarbones–the ivory of her exposed skin sparkles with shimmering rhinestone dust–pale gold threading resembling a dragon slithers around the form-fitting waist, spiting golden fire from it's maw.

   As always, the young girl wears her leather trousers and heeled boots beneath. Silver rings, including Alicent's, bejewel her fingers, and dangling from her neck, her mother's, as well as, Helaena's necklaces catch the last sunlight.

Maela's long locks 'twere styled into a pair of silver braids along the sides of her head, meeting together in the back in a silver circlet, whilst the brunette 'twere left to flow freely in its gentle waves. Embedded into the intricate braids were "golden beryl" fragments, a term for the golden Heliodor gem, mirroring the dragon around her waist.

Sweet Hel 'twere donning a rose pink dress with white -and-plum swishes and swirls, flowing down to her feet where she bore leather sandals over silken white socks. Around her neck 'tis a golden necklace with a seven-pointed star pendant–a gift from her religious mother to match the Queen's own.

"I'll miss little Daeron." Maela breaks the serene silence, weaving the final braid in Helaena's silky hair. "As will I," the younger princess concurs dolefully, fiddling with her necklace.

   "I do not understand why Alicent ever agreed to sending him away. We Targaryens need to stand strong and united, not thousands of miles apart."

   "The blue flame burns above the wine of honey, vigilance in steel naming the daring." The Dreamer mutters beneath her breath, lavender-eyed gaze so faraway. 

   With a soft grin, Maela flattens her palm on Hel's shoulder, whom lifts her hand to rest it atop her gentle cousin's, neither needing to speak any words.

   The young girls suffered through these prophesies, one through the form of dreams, the other through visions before her waking eyes.

   'Tis a thing that only ever served to strengthen their bond through the years since the morning they met.

   Finishing the braid, Maelera beams with pride at her work. "There," she smiles.

   Helaena looks at her silver weaved with gold locks and smiles at the sight she's met with. Maela'd braided the thick strands of her hair into a crown around her head, the rest flowing freely in those stubborn Hightower curls, and woven within the crown 'twere amethyst fragments, glinting underneath the light, along with little purple flowers.

   "𝐆𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞. 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐯𝐨𝐬𝐞." ( it's beautiful. thank you )

   A smile blooms on Maela's lips at the joy on her friend's face. She thinks joy suites Helaena well, and wants to see nothing else ever gracing her angelic features, only delight.

   A series of knocks echoes from the door, interrupting the moment, yet the girls know whom 'tis before they even enter. "Come, Princes."

   And indeed, Aegon and Aemond walk into the bed chamber, dressed in their finest silks of emerald green with shimmering molten-gold embroideries.

"My, you both look exceptionally handsome," Maela smirks.

"And you both look positively delightful," Aegon mirrors it, winking a gold-speckled eye at her. 

   Whilst Maela giggled and spun in a circle to show off her beautiful gown, the skirt flowing gracefully around her legs, none heard Helaena's muttered words, "The dragons of sun and death, joined beneath the seven stars with vows sworn in blood."

   With a chuckle, Aegon held out his arm, "Shall we get going before Mother sends a search party?"

   The girls giggle, then approach the boys to weave their arms together–Helaena takes her brother's arm, whilst Maelera laces her own through Aemond's.

   And together, the siblings and cousin traverse through the winding corridors and down several flights of stairwells to the Great Hall, with Ser Melvan and Ser Steffon trailing in the younglings' shadows.

   The great oak-and-bronze doors looming overhead like the awaiting jaws of a dragon groan on their metal hinges when the pair of Targaryen household guards stood outside push them open once they see the princes and princesses approaching.

   The entire hall falls still and silent upon the sight of silver and green shimmering in the candle- and-torch light, and Ser Melvan announces the young ones, his voice dripping with pride,

   "The children of Queen Alicent Hightower; Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, Rider of the Golden, and Prince Aemond of House Targaryen. Princess Helaena of House Targaryen, and Princess Maelera Bloodmoon of Houses Targaryen and Royce, Rider of the Black Dread."

   Side by side, as they are meant to be, they descend the stairs and glide across the crimson carpet stretched across the distance between the doors and the Iron Throne, between the trestle tables. And all thousand of the nobility rise from their seats to respectfully bow their heads to the regal princes and princesses.

   The younglings ascend unto the royal platform erected in the shadow of the Iron Throne, taking their seats nearest the Green Queen, whom greets her darlings with a smile of pride.

   The King 'twere seated in the center of the ebony table, directly ahead of his daunting throne, with his wife and heir on either side of him. Occupying the pair of seats between Princess Rhaenyra and Laenor were their sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys. Little Daeron 'tis sat between his parents, whilst down Alicent's left 'tis Aegon, Helaena, Maelera, then Aemond.

   Viserys rises from his seat once all 'twere settled, his goblet of Arbor wine raised high, "This week we have celebrated the life of Prince Daeron. Tonight, we gather to gift him a grand farewell. For tomorrow, he leaves for Oldtown for the honor of becoming Lord Ormund Hightower's squire. I know the Prince will flourish and grow into a fine young man under Lord Hightower's tutelage. Bards, play your tunes! My Lords and Ladies, eat your fill and dance to your hearts content!"

   The grand hall erupts with a cacophony of applause and joyous hollers, the bards beginning to play upbeat tunes from their stage, whilst servants carrying silver trays flutter about, attending to the nobility's wants and needs. 

   And Maela, having since blossomed into a woman with her bleed, could finally divulge in the wines of the world instead of cider or water, thus she sips at her goblet of spiced wine from the Arbor.

   Her favorite, she'd soon discovered.

   Though, she knows to limit her cups to only three.

   Dining upon the roasted breast of a duck, sugared star fruit, and lemon cakes, her plum-eyed gaze traces the sea of dancing nobility beneath–hundreds of lords twirling ladies dressed in all the colours of the world, elegantly, gracefully. 

   Amidst the swaying crowd, she notices the court fool, the dwarf Mushroom, entertaining the nobility and the few younglings by making a fool of himself–hence his title–telling jokes, and stumbling around like a drunkard.

   She huffs in amusement beneath her breath, the dwarf 'tis good for a laugh over an exaggerated tale, she 'twill admit to herself.

   She spares a glance down the table at young Daeron, the boy of honor, whom relishes in the attention. She just chuckles to herself.

   Becoming lost in the moment, the music, the smells, and the laughter, Maela blinks when she feels a tap on her shoulder. Looking up over her shoulder, she sees Aegon behind her, smirking with a hand extended awaitingly.

   A smile blooms on her lips, "My, my, the son of the Queen, asking me for a dance."

   Aegon snickers, "And will the Realm's Jewel accept this humble Prince's request?"

   Maelera pretends to ponder for a moment with a smirk curling the corners of her lips, before she dabs the sides of her mouth with her napkin, then, takes Aegon's hand as she stands.

   "She will."

   The Prince leads the Princess down the steps, into the sea of nobility, the starlight dripped into their long locks mingling with the crowd, yet 'tis still a beacon amidst the hall, catching the flickering torch- and-candlelight.

   Once deep within the crowd, Aegon turns to face Maelera, mirroring the dance all the other nobility perform around them with ease and grace.

   "Will you miss your brother?" Maela questions as her Prince twirls her beneath his arm, her dress rippling with every movement.

Aegon scoffs, but she stomps on his toes, smirking when he winces. ".. Yes," he grumbles. "It.. would've been fun to train with him, but I still have Aem to torment."

"You best be jesting with those latter words."

Those of the realm could say what they will about Maelera Bloodmoon, but none could ever deny the love she has for Prince Aemond Targaryen. She 'twere like the boy's mother-dragon.

Some of those whom reside within the keep called him "the Hatchling".

"Yes, I jest. Gods, you're terrifying when you want to be, Maela."

A smirk curls her lips, winking at him with one of those mesmerizing dragon eyes of hers–Aegon could loose himself in them for hours. "I do try."

He snickers, shaking his head.

The Princess' gown danced with her every fluid movement, swirling like molten amethyst, as the little golden fragments within her flowing locks twinkled beneath the flickering orange- and-yellow light.

But 'twas the smile upon her lips that captivated Aegon in this hour after dusk.

Her beauty 'tis unparalleled–none within this hall, within this wide world, could match Maelera Targaryen, for beauty nor for strength.

"You look very beautiful tonight, Maelera," the words flowed from his mouth before Aegon truly thought them, but he doesn't regret them.

The music speeds up, Maela steps away as one of her wrists comes up, resting the back of it against Aegon's. They begin to circle one another–like a pair of dragons dancing midst the clouds–locked eyes never straying from one another's, never wavering.

"You flatter me so, my Prince." Her dragon eyes roam over his handsome features–those lilac irises, the long silver-gold hair, his strong jaw and high cheekbones–she's never seen anything quite so delicately handsome.

She hums, tilting her head, "A Targaryen prince and a dragon rider. You're the desire of every young maiden, it 'twould seem."

He smirks, so smugly, so handsomely. "Every?"

Maelera only mirrors his smirk with an expression that tells him nothing at all. "Not all, my Prince."

He snickers, not believing a word, though still, none but she 'twere the wiser to the flurry of dragon wings his charm awoke within her belly, fluttering madly, wildly, in her tingling belly.

The things this Prince does to her, 'tis both exhilarating, and quite daunting.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝕿he following morrow, 'tis the day young Prince Daeron leaves for Oldtown.

And poor Alicent hardly stopped crying enough to venture down to the entry yard where the wheelhouse awaits to carry her sweet son away from her loving embrace.

Maelera stands with her three cousins a short distance away whilst the King and Queen say farewell to their youngest child–only five summers, he 'twere–with Aegon and Helaena on either sides of her and Aemond in front of her, her hands resting on his sunken shoulders.

All four 'twere sorrowed to see little Daeron go, the rambunctious joy of their family.

A high-pitched screech tumbles through the crisp morning air and Maela tilts her neck to see Tessarion soaring overhead, Daeron's young she-dragon who 'twould be joining him to Oldtown.

Good, Maelera thought to herself, it were not right to separate a rider from their dragon, nor a dragon from their rider.

When the matter of Tessarion joining Daeron 'twere in debate, Maela were already thinking of a way to free the she-dragon and sneak her out of the pit if she weren't allowed to accompany him.

Fortunately, it never came to that.

The King may not have had a dragon of his own, but even Viserys knew not to separate dragon from rider... lest he wish to rule a city of ash and bone.

For there 'tis nothing a dragon wouldn't do for their rider.

When his parents step away, Daeron all but sprints over to his siblings, throwing his little arms around Aemond, already in tears.

"I don't want to go without you," he wails.

The cry breaks his siblings' hearts, and Aemond, wise beyond his age of ten, tugs his little brother away from the embrace, "We're bound by blood, Daer. You carry us with you wherever you go, just as we carry you. We'll never truly be apart."

Daeron sniffles, "I guess so, but.. it isn't the same."

Aemond sorrowfully grins at the little one, "I know, but we'll send messages by raven. It'll be fun. And you'll still visit for namedays."

Although never wanting to let go, Daeron accepts his older brother's words, then, hesitantly approaches his sister, knowing she does not like sudden touches.

But Helaena welcomes the embrace, knowing it'd be the last for many years to come.

When he moves over to Maela, she crouches down to wrap her arms around his little body, kissing his silver-gold hair. With a final squeeze, she pulls away and flattens her palms on his damp cheeks, thumbs stroking away his crystalline tears.

"Remember these words, 𝐛𝐲𝐤𝐚 𝐦𝐞̄𝐫𝐞. No matter what colour you bare, no matter what anyone else says, you are a dragon. And whenever you have need of us, all you must do is send a letter." ( little one )

With a pitiful sniffle, Daeron sadly nods, not truly understanding his cousin's words as a mere boy, but he 'twould never forget them.

Then, he embraces his eldest brother. Aegon pats his head, withholding tears with all his might. "Don't forget us, little brother."

"Never," Daeron Targaryen promises.

After the farewells, the little prince 'tis climbing into the wheelhouse with unending tears and riding away from the only home, the only family, he's known.

From his mother, from his siblings, from his cousin.

And Maelera knows that fear, that pain. She supposes she 'tis more connected to Daeron now than anyone else in this world.

The only family he 'twill have in unfamiliar Oldtown 'tis his dragon and the Hightowers he's never known but are of his blood nonetheless.

She softly sighs, heart aching as Alicent sobs into a white handkerchief, he will flourish just as she does, she knows it.

__________༻♕༺___________

I know its been forever, I'm so sorry, 🥺. But its here, and its angsty, 😎. And some Maegon, 😏, with a little Maela and Hel sisterly-love, 🤧.

Only two more to go until we get to the episodes, 🤗!!