༻♕༺

𝕬 𝖂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝕻𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 || 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆
𝟗ᵗʰ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 || 𝟏𝟐𝟑 𝐀𝐂

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝖂𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖞 𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖉 Keep, rays of sunlight beaming through the windows as chatter and birdsongs bounce off the brick walls, Princess Maelera, now ten summers, watches with a curiously raised brow as a flurry of wet nurses joined by the Crowned Princess' handmaidens hurriedly flutter past.

She chuckles to herself. The Princess' new babe, the Prince Lucerys–born just the year before–must be demanding attention, yet again.

The prince 'twere yet another brown of hair and eye boy with a Targaryen mother and a Velaryon father... supposedly.

Maela just scoffed when she were told this by Alicent the day of the babe's birth.

   Once 'twere perhaps a mistake, but a second...

   This early morrow, the ever maturing princess dons a long dress of violet Myrish silk with silver threading stitched to resemble a dragon's tail coiling around the form-fitting torso, and the draping sleeves flow down her arms. Her dagger 'tis sheathed on the silver belt around her waist, and, as always, Maela wears her trousers and heeled leather boots beneath.

Wondering down to the training yard within the red walls encircling the Red Keep where royal knights and princes train together, her silver rings twinkle beneath the sunlight as she treks down the switchback stairs built into the crenellated ramparts.

Amidst the organized chaos, her sharp Valyrian eyes find her sworn guardian, Ser Melvan, dueling with the Cargyll twins, Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk of the Kingsguard.

The ringing of clashing steel mingled with the dull clangs of blades against shields, and the idle chatter of the circulating nobility fills the crisp air as she makes her way towards the knights. Their armor reflects the pale gold light spilling over the training yard, creating little dots of dancing lights the cats 'twould love to chase.

   The encircling crowd parts like fish do for a shark midst the tumultuous sea for Maelera Bloodmoon, the young girl gifting them polite grins of gratitude in return.

   The young princess watches with bated breath, twisting and turning her rings, as her sworn shield duels the twins with such swift and lethal grace.

   One moment, Ser Melvan 'twere in one spot, then in the next, he is behind one of the twins, striking their armored limbs.

   This is a man whose fought in war, she thinks, a man worthy of his title: A royal Princess' sworn shield. One who could, and should, shield her back.

   And yet, as much as she's come to appreciate Ser Melvan's unyielding presence at her side these past three years, Maela does not wish to subject herself to a life where she need depend upon a man, any man, no matter whom, to protect her.

The thought never sat well with her.

"The pillar and the stones do not define strength in this world, my dear Maela. 'Tis the fire inside you that does. Us women are not weaker than men, but in this world, we must prove so thrice over." Her mother once told her as they dined together in old Runestone's garden.

People will always doubt her because of the lack of the pillar and the stones between her legs, but Maelera Bloodmoon intends to prove them all wrong. And her pursuit in this begins this day.

She looses her breath when Melvan strikes, a final swoop of steel and sheer fucking will that bests both of the twins fairly easily and swiftly with the pointy ends of his sword and dagger at their necks, poised to cut through their skin like silk.

Her silver rings clink as she joins the crowd in clapping for Melvan's victory, smiling. The knights bow their heads in respect to the Princess when they notice her presence amidst the crowd, before walking off to the numerous racks for weapons spread evenly throughout the yard.

Sweat dribbles down his sun-kissed skin like little crystalline beads, dampening his dark brunette locks, as Melvan tilts his head back to down an entire canteen of water that fills his slightly heaving chest with refreshing coolness.

With a long breath, Melvan returns the dull weapons he wielded to the rack and 'twere wrapping his belt around his waist, the scabbards of his true sword and dagger dangling from the leather, when his sworn princess followed after him.

Maela walks around the rack, standing opposite her knight, and leans the palms of her hands on the surface of the rickety table, "Train me."

Tying the last knot in the belt, Melvan looks at her with a brow tilted curiously, "Pardon me, my Princess?"

"Train me."

The Mistwood knight clears his throat, beginning to shake his head to deny her, but Maelera only lifts her eyes into a roll and steps around the table to stand beside him, tilting her head slightly to meet his cerulean eyes.

   "Girl or not, learning to defend oneself is essential. What if you cannot rush to my aid and I need to protect myself?"

   Melvan looks off to the side in contemplation as her words ring with truth, and Maela knows that he knows she is right.

   "I know it is improper," she nearly spits the word in disdain, 'twere anything but, "but my ancestor Visenya wielded the Valyrian sword Dark Sister. She didn't care for the rules because she knew they were wrong, and neither do I. Train me, Ser."

   Ser Melvan Shield-Breaker is silent for a long moment, and she sees him weighing the options of this discussion in his eyes. The consequences, for the both of them, should they be caught. She holds her breath when he meets her eyes again, bowing his head in silent acceptance.

   A Warrior Princess, he decided. Not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to come rescue her from the dragon. No. Maelera is the dragon.

   "Very well, my Princess."

   She smiles.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝕷ater that very same day, whilst the sun slips beneath the horizon of Blackwater Bay, Maela found herself in the Queen's solar to join Alicent and her children for supper, as always.

   Sunlight pours through the windows, casting the Targaryens and the Hightower Queen in an ethereal golden glow. The princess sits between the princes, Aegon and Aemond, at the round table with Alicent between Helaena and Daeron, the babe now two summers of age.

   Gentle laughter, like the ringing chimes of bells on a warm day, resonates across the sunset-drenched room, echoing down the hall and filling the hearts of those whom hear it with warmth.

Maelera giggles at what Aegon'd just told them, plucking a lemon cake from the silver platter and humming at its delectable sweetness.

"And however did you defeat the Lord of Straw after such an offense?" She lightly teases with a smirk.

"With a blow to the head, of course." Aegon beams with pride, remembering the moment just some hours ago, puffing out his chest. His family just giggles with heart at his all-too-familiar antics.

And after they have settled down, the mother asks, "How were your lessons today, my children?"

Sweet Hel's beautiful face radiates with her smile as she says in her soft, and dreamy voice, "I saw a blue butterfly the day before yesterday in the gardens and embroidered it today. Some believe the blue butterflies symbolize peace and tranquility, while others say they mean transformation in one's life is approaching. The sword to break the shield," she mutters the last to herself.

"I'm sure it was wonderful, sweetling." Alicent smiles so gently. "I always hear the Septa praising your work profusely after your lessons. You simply must make us all something some day." Helaena's smile brightens at the prospect, nodding eagerly, already thinking about what she could sew for her family.

Handkerchiefs and dresses, cloaks or doublets. Oh, she couldn't wait to begin.

Whilst the princess became lost within her mind once again, Aegon boasts about his swordsmanship, earning a playful roll of eyes from Maela. "Ser Cole says that I improve by the day. He even says I'll be able to spar against him by the year's end!"

His mother only chuckles softly, "You'll be a fearsome knight yet, Aegon." Then her eyes shift to Maela, "And what about you, my darling?"

A grin blooms across Maela's lips, "I finally recited all of the houses in the Reach today. The maester says that I'm to learn about the North next."

The vast North, by far the largest kingdom in Westeros, so large it could allegedly contain the other six combined within its borders. She weren't so elated about the notion of learning all about the kingdom's history and houses, but 'tis her duty as princess to know her kingdoms.

   Under the tutelage of Alicent Hightower, Maelera came to learn her duty to the realm 'tis one she could never shirk. A duty to bear with pride, and thus, Maelera does.

Learning the histories of every kingdoms' lands and families, attending small council meetings to learn the ways of politics–even though she still despises the art of courtly complaining–amongst other duties she never knew before in Runestone.

   But she has adjusted to the sudden changes in her royal life, and adjusted well. She has not withered in the brutal face of this game of thrones, no, Maelera Bloodmoon thrives.

"I'm sure you will excel in your studies, as always, Maela," Alicent grins so sweetly. Maela mirrors it.

The mother's tender eyes fall upon her second son, soon to be seven come the next month, "And you, sweet boy? How is your Valyrian coming along?"

   "Maester Mellos taught me "𝐠𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞", which means beautiful and "𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐲𝐬" which is fire," young Aemond beams with a jubilant smile. He giggles when Maela taps the tip of his nose with her pinkie, winking.

   "You'll be speaking full sentences soon, 𝐛𝐲𝐤𝐚 𝐦𝐞̄𝐫𝐞." She grins. ( little one )

   Across from them, smiling so fondly to herself, the Queen watches Maelera with her children–the laughs tumbling from their smiling lips, the rays of radiant joy glimmering within their purple eyes–and she finds nothing imperfect with the sight before her.

   Maela looks like she belongs here–as if this is where she's always belonged, right here in this moment, with them, at their side, all along.

   The Queen's good heart flutters with warmth at the realization, never once has she regretted bringing dear Maela underneath her wing three years ago...nor will she ever.

   And so, Alicent embraces the serenity of this tender moment, of which the gods grant her so few, with her darling children as the outside world sinks into slumber beyond the windows.

   To them, though, within these walls, far from the reaches of court, they aren't members of the Royal Family, they are just a mother and her children.

   Nothing more. Nothing less.

   Late that night, whilst silence falls heavy over the world and the moon beams magnificently, spilling into Maela's chambers and bathing the room in an ethereal silvery glow, the old tapestry behind the bed 'tis suddenly pushed aside.

   'Twere none whom sought ill upon the princess, 'tis instead a young prince whom enters through the concealed door.

   Bare feet patter softly against the cold stone as he rounds the bed, lifting the fluttering curtains to climb onto the feathery mattress. The rustle of sheets stirs Maelera from her slumber, lashes fluttering as her plum eyes tiredly blink open.

   At the sight of little Aem burrowing himself beneath the blanket, a soft grin tilts her lips.

   Though, the tenderness seeping into her heart at his unexpected presence mingles with concern when she notices the slight tremble in his limbs, the timidity swirling midst his wet eyes.

Her grin sinks into a frown.

"A nightmare, 𝐳𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢̄𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐬?" She whispers in the serene stillness of the blackest hour of the night, worry bending her dark brows. ( little dragon )

   Aemond's only response 'tis a timid nod.

"Come here, 𝐛𝐲𝐤𝐚 𝐦𝐞̄𝐫𝐞," she beckons.

The young prince wastes not the breath of a moment to cross the distance between them, curling up like a little kitten against Maela's chest as her arms engulf him in an, always so warm, embrace.

Coming to her after a nightmare 'twere a habit Aemond'd yet to, nor would ever, grow out of since the stormy night a terror plagued him and he rushed to her chambers for safety. And Maela never once minded it, nor would she.

For she slept better with little Aem beside her–her little dragon.

Whilst humming an old Valyrian hymn beneath her breath as the crisp breeze whistles along, Maelera rubs circles on his back with one hand as the other combs through his pearlescent hair soothingly.

"What was it about, sweet thing?" She queried. Aem lifted his head from her bosom, a crease of worry in his brow. She kisses it away, and he begins in a trembling whisper, "I was in the streets of the city, and it was raining."

"Were you scared of a flood?" Aemond shakes his head, and his voice grows even quieter, "The rain was red, a-and it melted the skin of the people it touched. They were all screaming. Th-Then came the snow. Black snow."

Blood and ash, Maela concludes to herself. "That must have been frightening."

"That wasn't the end of the nightmare."

"No?"

The little one's dark purple eyes glisten and his breath quivers beneath the horrors his young mind conjured this night, "Something big swallowed the sun and the sky went dark. It was so dark I couldn't see anything. But then..."

She flattens her palm on his cheek, the pad of her thumb stroking his cheekbone, "Then?"

"It spat the sun back out... at me," he cries. With her heart in pieces, Maela tenderly wipes away Aemond's crystalline tears, soothing sweet nothings to him in their mother tongue until the boy settles.

Planting a gentle kiss to his crown of silver, Maelera Bloodmoon whispers her promise to the young prince, "You needn't fear any of that, 𝐳𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢̄𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐬. I will protect you, always. I'll never let anything happen to you, Aemond Targaryen, you know this?"

Although his eyes still shone with fear, trust swirls within those indigo depths. Aemond nods, "Mhm." He surges forward to kiss the tip of her nose, and Maela giggles in surprise, "One day, Maela, I will claim a dragon and protect you, too."

At his words, his sweet words spoken with such determination, her heart swells. By the gods she has since forgotten, did she never want to imagine a life where she is not where she belongs–with them.

Alicent, Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron. Her family.

Smiling so brightly, Maela tugs Aemond into an embrace, one he happily falls into, kissing his head as she cradles him so tenderly against her chest. "I know you will, 𝐳𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢̄𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐬. And it will be one of the fiercest and mightiest dragons of our age."

He giggles in glee, "More than Balerion?"

She grins, "Perhaps, 𝐛𝐲𝐤𝐚 𝐦𝐞̄𝐫𝐞. A godess of war, yours will be."

So young, so un-knowing, Aemond 'twould not understand the true meaning of Maelera's words for many years, but indeed, a godess of war 'twill await him where sea meets rock. . .

"Now, sleep, sweet thing. The nightmares will not reach you so long as I'm with you."

With joy in his heart, Aemond closes his eyes and sinks into a restful slumber within Maela's arms. Her lips bloom with bliss whilst gazing at the little boy in her arms, his steady breaths serving as a lullaby as, slowly but surely, Maela's breathing mirrors the rhythm.

In the quiet of the princess' chambers, in the warmth of their shared embrace, the younglings find solace and peace in one anothers' arms as the night takes away their woes.

༻ •𖢻• ༺

𝕾quinting into the early sunlight, Maela treks through the cobblestone paths winding throughout the Royal Gardens until she finds Ser Melvan, awaiting her beneath the lemon tree she oft reads beneath during warmer days.

The knight bows his head in respect when his cerulean irises notice her arrival, "Princess."

"Good morrow, Ser. So, where shall we begin?" He chuckles at her eagerness, gesturing for his charge to follow him, and thus Maelera does.

The knight leads his princess across worn gravel pathways and through thorny hedges into a secluded section of the gardens–encircled by overgrown bushes–not many venture near.

"'Tis not likely the nobles, nor their little spies, will discover us here, Princess, which makes it the perfect spot for training."

Suddenly, within a blink, Melven tosses a wooden sword at her. It falls to her feet.

Maela blinks.

With his hands clasped behind his back, Melvan shrugs with a smirk, "Tomorrow, you will catch it."

Grinning, Maela picks up the sword. She tests it's weight within her grasp. 'Twere certainly heavier than her bow, but with her muscles having been trained to draw back bowstrings and hold it for long amounts of time, Maela's arms do not tremble at the weight.

Her knight grins in approval.

Beginning to slowly circle around Maelera, whose plum eyes trace his every move, no matter how small–now expecting the unexpected from her knight–Ser Melvan tells her, "To battle with a sword in hand, you must know it is more than hacking and hammering with fancy flourishes." Melvan halts behind her, tapping her ankles with the tip of his own wooden sword. She looks up at him, her dark brow lifted with curiosity. Melvan resumes his walk around her along with his words, "It is all about the footwork, Princess, having a keen eye to see your enemies' strengths and weaknesses and how to use both against them, and balance with the weapon in your hand," he finishes, balancing his sword upon one wrist, the weapon remaining perfectly still.

Maelera's amethyst irises glimmer with awe, parted lips quirking with an eager smile.

Whilst all the other girls her age 'twere learning to sew handkerchiefs and memorize the prettiest of court poems, Maelera Bloodmoon 'twere here, learning to wield swords and discover weaknesses.

For like her ancestors before her, she answers to neither gods nor men. Like her dragon, the only one whom rules Maelera Targaryen 'tis herself.

With a fancy flourish over his wrist, the knight grasps his sword once again, smirking at his young princess with a wink. She giggles, rolling her eyes in amusement.

The knight, then, tells the princess he 'twere not a bulky nor the tallest man, but he 'tis clever and swift, like the owl he bears on his chest plate, and swoops in for the killing dive the second he sees even the slimmest of opportunities.

"You, my Princess," Melvan continues, "are not bulky nor tall, either, but you are clever and can poke a man full of holes if you're quick enough."

Looking at the sword in her grasp, Maela nods. She could certainly be quick.

"In the fortnight, I will have a proper training sword crafted for you to match your weight and balance, but for now, we use the wooden swords."

Melvan, then, angles his lean body into a fighting stance, one arm held behind his back whilst the other brandishes his sword before him. "Now, let's begin."

And for several hours whilst the sun rose towards its highest perch midst the azure sky, Maelera falls and 'tis whacked by Melvan's sword countless times, but the warrior princess does not give up and by the end–her cheeks stained with dirt, her elbows and knees surely bruised and bleeding–she manages to hit him with the wooden sword in hand, smiling proudly as her chest heaves with tired pants.

Ser Melvan mirrors her pride, smirking at her. "Again."

__________༻♕༺___________

Finally, another chapter is here, 😝. I feel like its been forever, 😩. But only four are left for part i, 🤩!Maegon & Maeond are my endgame, 🤧. And maybe there was some subtle foreshadowing somewhere in there, 👀...