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Chapter Text

When Samwell Blackwood first meets Rhaenyra Targaryen, he is ten and three. His body feels too small and large at the same time. He wears clothes that make his skin itch. A month before, he just shared his first kiss with Gwenys, the daughter of the Master at arms. She always smelled like pinewood, and every time he saw her his knees became weak.

After moons of talking and holding hands, they had met up in the woods to share a kiss under the soft singing of the crows. The kiss once innocent changed when Samwell made a clumsy attempt at fondling her breasts, something he had heard his cousins say that girls enjoy, even more than poetry. Gwenys, a devout girl who had kissed as an act of rebellion before joining the faith, had immediately run away from him while he tried to apologize.

Gwenys left for a motherhouse a week later. Her mother proudly told everyone about her vocation to the faith, and her sisters squared over her belongings. The only thing of her that was left untouched in Raventree Hall was a pale blue ribbon, left in his chambers a goodbye. There was no other word from her. 

Samwell kept it hidden under his pillow and then cried for the following three nights.

He tries to keep his sadness to himself, for this is no time for it. The princess is looking for a consort, and he is part of the cattle to be presented to her.  

His father ruffles his hair and tells him he can tame the dragon. His mother smiles at him, and tells him about ladies from other houses from the Riverlands who are very pretty, according to her. Alysanne just gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, with all the seriousness a babe can have.

There is no true pressure, he knows. This is just an excuse so the King can say that he does not ignore the minor houses, and his father can drink on the coin of another. The truth is that everyone knows the princess will take Laenor Velaryon for a husband, there are whispers the second contender is her two-year-old brother, Prince Aegon. 

Samwell turns green at the thought of wedding his sister, but the Targaryen are known for their queer customs.

In the trident along with the other Riverland and Northern houses, House Blackwood presents their submission to Prince Consort with Samwell. The Brackens snicker and Amos Bracken whistles mockingly as he stands before the princess. 

Everything itches. He wants to cry again. He wants to punch Amos Bracken. He wants to defy the gods and steal a novice. He wishes not to become another Fool Frey.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, future Queen of Westeros stands before him. Her dragon casts a shadow from the skies, and Samwell Blackwood just wants to get over this.

"Oh good, a child." Is the first thing she says to him.

A beauty garbed in brilliant red, with beautiful deep purple eyes and silver hair that seems to be kissed by the moon itself. She smiles, no true smile, at him from her makeshift throne, while the surrounding court joke at his expense. He thinks this is a nightmare come true.

A councilman tries to sway his favor by recalling the princess his house deeds and honor. His house, Raventree Hall. The pride of his father, the sanctuary of his mother, and the paradise of Alysanne. He tries to remember them. He stands here for them, not for a princess, for them. 

What can you promise to someone who has everything? What difference can he make from the hundred men that have already been presented to her? The wealth of the Blackwoods is nothing compared to other houses, and she already has the biggest army at her disposal. He can be false and promise her love, but he would rather not say anything than stand for falsehoods.

His mind goes to little Alysanne. Gentle and happy Alysanne, who sings in the halls, and chases the chickens in the courtyard. They spent their days swimming in the lakes, carefree and happy. One day his little sister would grow to be a woman, to be wedded to a man. What kind of man would he want her to have as a husband? What has his father given his mother during their time together?

A tranquil life, a devoted husband, a man that would be her sword and shield.

"If chosen as your match, Princess. Your days shall be easy and your nights safe under my protection." He wishes he could make this vow to a girl with a face filled with freckles instead. 

"Protection? She has a dragon, you dumb cunt." Amos Brackens bellows for all to hear.

The princess hides a smile, and the court laughs. As Rhaenyra stands so she can leave this farce, Samwell Blackwood turns away. He just wants to leave this place, hide in his tent to smell the remnants of Gwenys in the ribbon and try not to cry.

"Craven," Amos says, taunting him again, and he snaps.

Fuckin Brackens.

He remembers Gwenys who left without saying a word. His cousins, bigger and stronger than he is, push him down in training. His mother says to him that not all men are meant to be fighters. His father gives him the easiest prey on the hunt just so that he can bring something back.

They loved him, in one way or another. They love him. He knows, and for they love him so, flaws and all, that he will not let himself be shamed by a Bracken.

Samwell, too tall and lanky, but at the same time too small, sheathes his sword at Amos Brackes. Eager, hungry, just wanting to take out all out in something.

He quickly realizes what he has done, and tries not to lose his breath. His uncle once had said that if he was to encounter a bear in the woods, to make himself taller, bellow from his inwards. If he shows his fear, everything is over, he is dead.

Amos does not hesitate either. He sheathes his swords, and the dance begins. He can hear Lord Tully ordering them to put down their swords, but Samwell can not stop now. They are watching him, they think him a craven, a weakling. They are right, he is one. That is why Gwenys left, and the princess laughed at him, but he won't let Amos Bracken make a mockery, of him, of his house, in front of everyone. If he is to die, then at least he should die fighting the bear and spilling Bracken's blood. 

When he realizes what he has done, he stands numbly with a smudge of blood across his face, and Amos Brackens lies on the ground bleeding from the stomach. He can hear screams of outrage, and a brawl already forming.

Sickeningly, as he stares at a bleeding Amos, Samwell feels a weight being lifted off his shoulders. Heavy breath, and with his blood pumping, his brown eyes find again the purple of the Princess. Their eyes lock for a second, which feels like an eternity to him before she turns away.

In the skies, her dragon lets out a high whistle. Samwell wonders if she can smell the blood pouring out into the grass.

Sadly, to the rue of the Blackwoods, Amos does not die. He is only left with a nasty scar across his stomach and bedrest of two moons. Lord Tully admonishes his father and has him pay a heavy fine to House Bracken for almost killing their heir.

When they return to Raventree Hall, his father holds a feast for him, and his cousins carry him over their shoulders. Samwell takes more ale than he is ever been allowed in his life. Many maids take turns dancing with him, eager to listen to how he cut down a Bracken. He throws up in the woods and wakes with a throbbing head with his mother screaming at him. She bans him from his books for a month.

After a while, the pain in his heart feels slightly easier to carry. The leaves in Raventree change to yellow. Alysanne grows more teeth. The crow that sits by his windows sings a different song. The Blackwoods receive the delegation of Darry. Samwell accompanies a sweet Amanda Darry through a walk in the gardens, neither of them interested in the other. He writes another letter to Gwenys, but he never receives a raven back.

A letter from King's Landing comes on a cool evening. The maester reads it five times to ensure his eyes are not deceiving him, he also makes his apprentice read the letter back to him, then another two servants who are skilled in their letters.

His father organizes another feast, more grand, and with even more ale than the last one. His mother fusses over his clothes, and orders for a new wardrobe with clothes befitting for a prince consort, and a new change in his daily lessons. Alysanne asks him for a crown of flowers, she wants him to make her a princess as well. 

Everyone congratulates him with a pat on the back or unwanted advice on how to tame willful women. His cousins show him more regard than ever. Samwell dreams with Gwenys, less and less. 

"The King's brother has married the daughter of the Sea Snake." His mother says over the fire brewing in the chamber

"What does that concern us? Should we have sent a gift?" His father replies with a smirk that seems fixated on his face ever since Samwell can remember.

"The rogue prince married to a young girl just a moon after his wife passed, and then his niece betrothed to our son so shortly seems quite something." Talia Blackwood, once Umber, with eyes similar to the sea in the night gazes towards her son, who shrinks before it. His mother's intense gaze has always been a source of fear in Raventree Hall.

"Targaryens are lusty creatures, hot blood and all that, especially if their lovers look exactly like them" Japes his father. 

"The queen is with child again, a boy most likely." She does not seem to talk to either of them. He thinks that his mother even seems to be talking to the fire.

Samwell notices them, eyes dark like theirs following their movements. His father laughs and drinks more, though the tension does not leave his shoulders. His mother touches her jade necklace, and almost grips it as if she were to tear it apart from her throat. 

They have a happy life together, bonded since they were children. His father had said that a crow had led him to his mother, and they had not been apart since that day. 

Samwell wonders if he even will get a third of their happiness in his marriage.

A year and a half passes before he sees the princess again. Raven Tree Hall only gets a two-week notice, before the princess and her league descend upon them. His mother runs around trying to keep everything tidy while still searching for her own time to pray in front of the Weirwood tree. His father fretts about the amount of booze and guards to keep a watch on. Alysanne just weeps at the thought of the dragon getting his claws on her new favorite goat.

He just hides in the smallest places that can still guard them from everything and everyone. For the first time, no one comes looking for him and simply lets him be.

The princess descends into a plain field. Glorious and otherworldly as always, Samwell can feel the longing from the men around him for her. He does not share their sentiment, for he feels no different than the crushed grass underneath her dragon. 

"Is the prospect of being wedded to me such a burden to you?" Rhaenyra says baring her teeth at him in a no-true smile. "May I remind you, that you came to me asking for my hand."

"Aye, Princess." He did, it would have been an insult not to, but she knows that she just seems to be trying to make him uncomfortable. "Why?"

"You will have to be more specific about what you are asking about." She replies as if he is dull.

"Why me?" Samwell now knows what her expression dumbfounded looks like, yet she quickly recovers into her regal mask. "You could have chosen Laenor Velaryon, A Lannister, Tully, and so many others, yet you choose me, why?"

"You believe yourself to be such a poor choice?" 

"I believe a content marriage, should have honesty" And truly he does, honesty is one of the most important things a husband should have, his mother says. If he wants to have this, at least some enjoyment in their marriage, honesty it's a start. "a little bit at the beginning, at least."

The princess looks conflicted for a second, her eyes dance and then settle in the Weirwood before them. "You are young."

There is it. "It gives you time." He says.  

She does not reply to him, just walks to caress the white wood splintered. The crows sing louder around them. While his life in the Riverlands has been comfortable and happy, he wonders if it would be a harsher and slower existence with the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on his shoulders, if he marries her, he is gonna have an answer to that question.  

"Princess." He calls her attention, as commanding as he can. "I love a septa. I don't know the manners in the court of your father. I have yet to kill my first stag on my own. My talent relies more on the longbow than the sword."

They stare at each other for a moment, and once again the Princess laughs at him, a true laugh, a very not ladylike snort coming out of her. 

He continues. "I am young, but there is time, if you so wished it, for me to grow and learn the manners, polish my swordmaking, kill my first stag. I do not lie when I say that your nights and days shall be easy and safe under my protection. I am no Tully nor Lannister, but I will promise to grow each day to be a suitable man to you, as long as the passage of time allows me to keep living." 

"You are a romantic." She blurts out. "Yet, you wax such a statement at the same time you tell me you love another one."

"A septa." He clarifies, "Honesty, Princess. I would like to be honest, if not as your future husband, then as the future Lord Blackwood who one day will serve you."

"Do you believe a year's notice is enough for you to kill a stag?" 

He does not. "I will try my best, and I will give the pelt to our firstborn child."

"I believe there is time for that, then." She concedes. "I would like to get to know the hall better." 

Samwell gently takes her arm to lead her out of the garden. They have a moon to get to know each other better and see if the match will be fruitful. For now, he will take her around the Raventree Hall, show her the lake, and maybe she will come to enjoy the singing of the crows, just as much as he does. 

Time, he wonders. How long will their paths cross? 

Chapter Text

Samwell had heard depictions of the capital, the most populous place in the seven Kingdoms with people from all over the realm, even from the Free cities. They say that the smallfolk were notified at the start of the day by the rumbling of dragons, and sometimes you could feel the earth shaking beneath you when one of the largest took flight. While he treasured the Blackwood Vale deeply, seeing the grandness of King´s landing left him speechless.

They are welcomed at the gates by a small army of gold cloaks who paraded the Blackwood retinue along the streets for King´s landing. They are a small party, taking into account the Tullys that they had encountered on the road, and it was just the servants they had seen ridden ahead to make the proper accommodations.

“Don't turn your face away, boy. This will be your people one day,” his father said to him, quickly noticing his shift in focus.

Samwell usually rode behind his father, uncles, and even his cousins. Now, he was leading them. He tried not to lay his head low in front of the people who stared wide open at the man who was going to marry the heir to the throne. 

His mother had carefully prepared everything for his presentation to the people. A tunic of mostly black, adorned with vibrant red thread, held together with golden claps The red cape that falls over his shoulders is adorned with stitching of crows flying entwined. His mother had been glad that he did not have to trade their house colors for another, and he could wear black and red proudly. 

His father, more than willing to spare more coins for his wedding had gifted a new stallion. A red thing, huge and seemingly built for war. 

“You will look like a conqueror when you enter the city, and you are one. You have tamed the dragon,“ He had said, and Samwell could not disagree more.

As much as he held his gaze straight and impassive, he could not help but feel like a man walking towards his death, sweat coated his brow and he was eager for something or someone the delay his meeting with her.

As they keep getting up to the hill of the Red Keep, the buildings and the people get finer. They throw flowers and congratulations as if he were one of the seven come again, and not some minor lord.

“Make way for our future prince.”

“Seven Blessings to the Princess.”

“A favor from the lord.”

His body feels heavy to carry, as if he were a spirit possessing someone’s else corpse. The motions go too fast, and it makes his head spin. Before he knows it the iron throne lays before him. The thing has claimed too many lives to count, a monument to the Targaryen rule and yet, he does not spare more than a glance at it when he sees Rhaenyra standing beside it. 

Samwell has spent only two moons without seeing her, but it feels like a lifetime. He stares unabashedly at her, and to the pain in his heart, she does not acknowledge him directly. He wishes to blame her, but he can not. It’s his fault for this estrangement, he seems to have a talent for causing mess with women.

The king speaks, and the nobles clap for the wedding that is to be celebrated. The pomp is over, and the rest of their party is shoved into the guest chambers, ready to make preparations for his permanent stay in the palace. A small party is to be held in the gardens, only comprising of the most important nobles, his sires, the King, the Queen, and her.

Seeing her obvious desire to ignore him, Samwell makes a point to not ogle at her so openly, instead at a tapestry. The sight of the woman fornicating with a dragon makes his head spin so fast that he almost tramples a servant carrying a trait of refreshments. 

“Rhaenyra mentioned you were tall, but you seemed to exceed my expectations,” King Viserys ignored the lack of manners in him.

“My wife has giant blood, your grace” his father proudly remarks and while his mother does not smile, her cheeks blush.

“What a blessing, my boy, sadly, will be a short man.”

“He is only four, husband.” The queen replies curtly. Samwell knew she was a former lady of Rhaenyra, but he had not expected her to be so young.

Rhaenyra had not spoken much of the Queen, but by the rumors he had heard and the comments she had made in passing, they were once close friends now their relationship can only be described as distant, at best. Samwell can understand, just the thought of one of his friends even glancing at his mother makes him displeased.

His father and the king quickly grow into a jolly mood, japing about old tales while the King's council trails behind him. It does not surprise him, Rhaenyra had remarked once that his father was so like her own. The imposing figure that is his mother takes her place behind the queen who looks dwarfed against her, something he notices for the slightly panicked look on her face.

“Samwell,” his stomach falls at the sound of her voice. He knew she was approaching due to her raspberry scent growing stronger, yet he hoped she would not address him, so openly while in her anger.

“Princess, I’m glad to see you well.”

“You are? You seem like a dead man walking. Tell me, its the sight of your dirty boots more pleasing than me?”

He slowly raises his head to meet the princess's face. Her silver hair is tied to frame her face, which is decorated with a bit of black kohl around her eyes. Samwell is dazzled by the way it makes her cold eyes shine. 

Memories of that night quickly flash in his mind. Rhaenyra's face is wroth with anger. Swollen red lips. The flash of betrayal in her purple eyes. The feeling of his fingers on her waist. The sight of her drenched in the rain, being covered in the safety of the weirwood tree, and the double take he did to make sure she was not a creature of the forest, strange and alluring waiting to guide him to his death.

“They are not.”

The uncomfortable silence that they have once seemed to overcome, has now taken hold of them again.

Brash and impulsive, Rhaenyra merely calls out “coward,” proceeding to storm out of the garden.

Inquiring glances fall upon him, and his sires while disappointed do not seem surprised. They had noticed his sudden change of mood on the last moons. He had become cagey, snapping at his cousins more frequently and even sometimes refusing to indulge in Alysanne's plays.

In Raventree, his father would take his shoulder, and demand an explanation, but in the King's court, things are not so straightforward. They seem to try to dissipate the tension with tight smiles and ordering the servants to bring more wine. Samwell reluctantly joins their charade.

“You know, we have stocked in salmon for the celebration.” The king says to him sitting down on the couch. He can see the exhaustion painted on his brow despite his smile.

“That’s good, your grace.”

“Rhaenyra ensured of it, she said you were fond of the fish.”

He fidgets, embarrassed. Samwell knows she will never forget about it. They were having night supper in the hall, and the cook had decided to cook salmon with garlic and thyme. When they put the plate in front of him, he could not help but take a big sniff followed by a blessing to the gods. He had gulped half of it, before noticing that the princess was too busy laughing even to touch her plate.

He can feel his cheeks growing red at the mention. “Aye, your grace, I will give my thanks to the princess.”

“She does not speak much of you, you know, only when she is prodded by me. It’s strange. Rhaenyra has never been quiet. Ever since she was a babe, she has been outspoken, unafraid to show her displease,” The king continues, a sad smile adorning his face. “The late queen would sometimes be exhausted at the end of the day just by dealing with her and her storms.”

“She has her temper, inherited from my father. Yet, when it comes to the thing she pleases the most, she seems to be as quiet as a mouse.” The implication makes his head shoot up. Samwell knows the fool face he must be making, cheeks red and mouth agape.

“Your grace-“

“My daughter is wroth, the gods know why, but I know that is not by her choice of husband or the wedding to come. I hope that you mend this rift between you soon.”

“Thank you, your grace” He means it. A different King would send him packing back to the Riverlands.

He should be occupied trying to fix his estrangement with the princess, yet he finds himself in the guest chamber assigned to him, surrounded by his cousins, dirty and one even injured. Samwell knew they would get up to trouble in Kings Landing, but he never thought it would come this fast.

“Surely you can talk to the king to punish him,” eagerly demands Edmund.

“He fights without honor, only anger,” Pipes up Roland.

“A savage. He is a treacherous Dornish,” Says Emmon followed by a spit to the ground.

“He is not Dornish. He is from the Stormlands. You twat,” replies Edmund.

The two of them quickly get into each other faces with Roland in the middle trying to break it off. Samwell gets a little closer in order to swing a fist to calm them down if he needs to.

“Explain.” He demands to Theo, who is adjusting himself in a more comfortable position on the bed, after having his arm cast on a sling.

“We were japing at the courtyard. Just laughing while crossing swords, the maids were watching and they are pretty things here,” his cousin drawls pleased with himself.

“Have you learned nothing after Father tore off your ear over your bastard?” Snaps Samwell.

Theo's eyes glare at him, warning him about saying anything more about little Rob, who was left behind in the Riverlands. “Sorry,” he says and nods for him to continue.

“Cole saw us messing around and wanted us to keep it down. It’s a place of training, how can we keep it down? We were getting our sweat off after being stuck in the road for such a long time.”

“He called us green boys who knew nothing” pipes Edmund while holding down Emmon.

“I told him, we may not know how to act in the King's courtyard, but at least we do know honor and loyalty” Theo continues, his voice cracking with anger.

He can feel a little chill running down his spine. Fear grips in heart and he turns away so his cousins cannot see the look of dread on his face “Why would you say that to him?”

Emmon twists free out of Edmund. He has that smile on his face that he gets every time hears a rumor. “We all have heard the stories.”

“Rumors.” Clarifies Roland

“They said the Princess and her Kinsguard were too familiar. You remember as well as I.” He had forgotten Theo had gone with him to the Trident. “How he snickered or sneered at every suitor that came along as if he was a jealous lover. Now, he stares down at her and is beside the green Queen. The traitorous cunts who seek to steal-“

“Careful,” he clamps his hand in Theo’s mouth shutting him up, “We are not at RavenTree.”

They stay silent looking at the walls, trying to gather any noise. All of them were raised as hunters, and to be a hunter they need to understand how a prey thinks. Silent, quiet, not being noticed, all of it to avoid a certain death. This is not their home, and they are prey.

“He took insult to it,” murmurs Roland. “He was not satisfied until Theo was twisting in the ground screaming after he broke his arm. The bastard did not even have the decency to call for help, he left him there like a dog.”

Theo grimaces at the description, no doubt his proud cousin has been put to shame, and the lashing will only get worse when his lord father finds out.

“I will not speak to the king, “Declares Samwell,” Cole is a Kingsguard, the highest honor one can take. You just call him a traitor, and while he can be, some can say you call the king a fool for his choice of men. Tongues get twisted around here.”

For much Samwell wants to reel his cousin in and go against Cole, all united, it will be a stupid act. If they do, they will cause more talk, talk that will trickle down and harm Rhaenyra. He won’t let that happen, not even when he does not know where they stand together.

His cousins eyed him as if he were a coward, “Let me get through the wedding. Cole can wait. For now, stay out of trouble.” He clarifies.

“Does this mean we are not gonna go to the throne room to see if Maegor's ghost haunts it?” Edmund asks and receives three fists to his body as a response.

He only escaped the lashing of his father by mere grace. His mother quickly shooed him away while his cousins were being berated. Samwell had no interest in staying by any chance, he had to go to get something to be back into Rhaenyra's good graces. He just did not expect to have company while he explored kings landing in search of a token of affection.

“Ladies are akin to be wearing more green. I'm sure this silk scarf will have you win the favor of your love.”

“Green is not something she likes, right?” he asks Erryk, his new companion who shakes his head in denial.

(He was stopped by guards who asked him about his destination. Sawmell had grown puzzled by this inquiry, he was never questioned at Raventree Hall, and he always had the freedom to leave and come at his will. When he was informed that he had to wait until someone could accompany him, he simply laughed.

“My prince, you are a stranger to the streets and the malice of King´s Landing. It’s best for your safety.” The guard had said.

Samwell thought that he must look a fool. He was not a lord, even less a prince, not for now, there was still a fortnight to the wedding. His head started to throb at the late realization that from now he would be now as a prince. A prince, that could not leave to have a moment of solitude in the inn with a plate of soup and a large book for company. The guards ignored his plight and presented him with a man who could only be a few years his elder.

“My prince, Ser Erryk at your service.”

“Good morrow ser. Could you please change? Plain clothes, if you will. They will charge me more if they see me with a Kingsguard”)

In his wildest dreams, would he ever imagine himself strolling in the capital in the company of the Kingsguard? Samwell has to stop himself multiple times from staring too directly at Ser Erryk. He is still young, but carries an air of wisdom and honor, unlike some of his sworn brothers. Yet, as much as he is in awe, he can not help but get enerved, every time he sees Ser Erryk take a tight grip on the sword, it makes this once casual stroll something darker.

They have already been to at least five different shops, and as much as he likes to, he does not find anything appropriate to gift to the princess. He would not be in this problem if he had just been braver to confront her when he had the chance, but for now, he has to grovel. He should grovel.

“Is the princess fond of the stars?”

“Do you think she needs more riding gloves? The last time I saw hers they worn out.”

“Perhaps, she will be happy if I get her lemon pies.”

For much that he seems to be impatient with his inquiry, Ser Erryk maintains a noble stand and answers his questions as much as he can, but it’s not that helpful, for the Kingsguard is not that close to the princess.

“We could maybe ask for Ser Cole to help us, ” At that response, Samwell breaks the bow he has been holding.

The sudden show of anger startles the salesman and Ser Erryk. For much he wishes to hold his composure, Samwell knows the rage shows plain on his face.

“Please don’t bring up Cole, ser Erryk.”

The Kingsguard eyes in suspicious, as he pays the merchant for the broken bow. He will not answer his silent question, he does not think he can answer anything regarding that man at this moment, without going to plant his boot on his face like he deserves.

“Who is that?” Ser Erryk asks the merchant.

He points to a painted tapestry of a blonde girl surrounded by creatures of the forest. The girl in the picture must not be older than two and then and has a shy smile on her face. She wears a gown of blue and silver while holding a small dove on her face. She looks innocent and sweet like the princess in the stories Gwenys used to read.

“That is a tapestry of the late Queen Aemma. The Good Queen Alysanne distributed various copies amongst King´s Landing noblest families, so the people could get to know the face of her granddaughter on the eve of her wedding to the then prince Viserys.”

As he holds the tapestry closer, He smiles at the woman he never met. Rhaenyra speaks only traces of her mother, but Samwell feels the love she holds for her in every word that she utters. This is it. No more looking.

“I'll take it.”

He is poor. Most of his coin has gone to the tapestry wrapped in blue and gold paper. Samwell knows he should not have looked so eager in the face of the merchant. He wonders how should he convince his father to spare him some coin his way, that is a new problem to face. He just hopes it is worth, it that if reconciliation will not come, he can at least hope for the twinkle in her purple eyes.

He wanders through the Red Keep, trying to keep up with the guard guidance to the princess garden where he knows she is reunited with the ladies of the kingdom, including his mother. He hopes she at least spares him a moment alone from the watchful eyes.

The ladies stop their chittering once the guard announces him. Queer looks fall upon him, their smiles taunting him about him seeking out Rhaenyra in the middle of a meeting. 

The princess herself, eyes him with contempt, no doubt still angry at him, but Samwell does not fault her. He gives her a wide smile, no doubt awkward, and pleading eyes hoping to soften her up.

“I believe my son and the princess have matters to discuss. We should give them some room.” His mother announces, her imposing tone making the ladies get up their seats quickly.

Samwell is perplexed at her ability to have such a command of this group of ladies in such a short amount of time, for it only takes a nod from the princess to follow his mother out of the garden. Not too far away for that would be improper, but just enough for their ears to strain to follow up their conversation.

His mother's eyes send a message “Behave and don’t make a mess.”

“Princess.”

“Lord Blackwood,” she drawls and he twitches.

His mouth feels dry, and the speech he had conjured suddenly disappears from his mind. He scrambles to come up with something, yet before he can, he kneels before her.

“I’m sorry for behaving improperly since my arrival. You are my future lady wife and ruler, I let my fear command me, and faltered in my duties towards you.”

“Duties? Is that what a future marriage is to you?” Her mocking tone drips with bitterness.

“My marriage to you is my greatest desire,” He speaks fervently, some will even say desperately, “I speak of duties because duties require that I honor you, and the last time we saw each other I acted on my lowest impulses.”

His breath feels hot, and his cheeks are burning. He knows he does not look so different from the fool Frey who had declared his love for her.

“Do you regret it then?” She does not meet his gaze instead choosing to spin the rings around her fingers

Does he regret it? Samwell ponders, he does not regret the hunt they did together, searching for a fleeing stag. He does not regret taking the ale she had offered him after noticing his nerves at being alone without a chaperone for the first time. He had felt like the bravest knight in the kingdoms as he slew the great stag with just a single arrow to the head.

Rhaenyra had kissed him on the cheek as a reward, and he dared to kiss her on the lips drunk in gory.

Their lips met in a chaste kiss that soon gave to more carnal desires. The ale served for that. He does not regret pinning her against the weird wood tree. Rhaenyra had always seemed so grand to him, yet she weighed nothing as he lifted her, her legs coiling themselves as roots in his waist.

He probably committed too many sins, and even sacrilege against the old goods when his hand stained from the tree sap found his way into her laces. Her cheeks rosy with the heat of the counter, and her lips bright red from rough kisses, he almost came in his trousers at the sight of her.

He found heaven and damnation that night.

Honesty, he must give her honesty, “If I were a more honorable man, perhaps, but I’m not. I do regret how on the terms we left things off.”

“Honor, something that can be twisted so easily, a low excuse for our actions. Tell me what an honorable man would say about my lack of maidenhood.” The anger that flashes through her eyes makes Samwell wonder if she sees the ghost of someone else on his face.

(His hands had briefly hesitated on her laces. His mind went into the circumstance he was going to take the maidenhood of his future bride. Rhaenyra had let a puff of a laugh come out her lips probably guessing his thoughts.

“I’m not a maiden” she had whispered to him, and he froze.

Everything had shifted, he could not hide the shock of jealousy going to his body. His face probably twisting into something ugly, by the expression on her face. He remembered the words of his mother about her uncle, two betrothals happening so quickly.

“I’m going to kill your uncle.”

Pushing him off of her, “My uncle did not bed me, I did not take for you to trust those vile rumors.”

“Ser Criston then?” Samwell knew she was not lying, and he knew he had the right answer over the way her body had gone still. He had noticed the same thing that Theo did in the Trident. )

It was the shooting of an arrow in the dark. He had suspected something had happened, the one overzealous sworn guard had suddenly never returned to her side, and now was guarding the Queen. Rhaenyra never spoke of him, and he never asked, looking back Samwell concluded he was too afraid of the answer.

They did not speak words that night. Only anger and poison. He wondered if she loved him if their future marriage was just an excuse so she could carry on with her once Sworn guard quietly. Rhaenyra had been incensed at being accused of treachery. At some point, when their throats were raw the guards located them deep in the forest, and in the next morning, with a leap of Syrax Rhaenyra was gone.

He had twitched for days, the weight of their last meeting heavy on his soul. He had sent a raven wishing for a safe arrival to the red keep. Distant and formal. The princess had not replied, and they had not spoken since. He had cried alone at night, fearing for letter breaking off his betrothal. 

If she had not bled on their wedding night, he would not have questioned. Ladies lose their maiden’s blood all the time on horses, it would have been easy to dismiss it with the princess being an adept rider of Syrax. Yet, she had spoken the truth to him, in a bad time, but the truth nevertheless.

“I do care for your lack of maidenhood.” He admits shamefully having his head low. “but, I care little about purity, and I will never think you a lesser woman cause of it. You are so many things, Rhaenyra. Brave, strong, passionate, and intelligent. Your lack of maidenhood does not counter the Queen that one day you will be and the woman that you are.”

What a sight he makes. Red-faced with tears gathering in his eyes. “He was your confident and then your lover. I want to slay Criston Cole. I want to shatter his Morningstar and see the innards of his brains splashed in the courtyard. I want to his banish him off the books, and of every corner of this earth. He had something that I crave deeply and I despise him for it.“

He can feel the iron taste of blood in his mouth. Perhaps this is why Targaryen marry each other, a non-Valyrian probably succumbs to madness after storing their fire in his heart.

“It is this poisonous jealousy that has kept me away from you, and like a coward, I succumbed to it. I fear that I can not live up to the likes of him in your life and that pains me.”

He was a fool Frey, how could he not? A snorting idiot in front of the cold gaze of her. He was pathetic.

“You will never be Criston Cole.” She remarks, and a jolt of pain passes through him. “He asked me to run away with him. Give up the crown and sell oranges. I reject him, of course, for above all, things, I am the crown. He did not like that, “I won’t be your whore” he said. Then, he went to the Queen and stayed at her side. It seems the holy mother has forgiven the besmirch he placed on the white cloak.”

Her hand caresses his hair, gently she grips it so his dark eyes face her. Samwell can feel himself shaking before her, an urge to take her or flee overcomes him.

“Honor is important to Ser Criston. Honor that he molded to his desires. In the search for honor, he left my side and went to those who sought to see me displaced from my place as heir. I don’t want an honorable husband, I want a husband who seeks to aid me in these treacherous paths. Who cares not for honor, but for loyalty to me. My sword in the morning and my heart in the night.”

“Can you be that husband for me?” She whispers to him. He swears he can feel the heat of fire in his ears.

Samwell knows he is too far gone. He will never lock back. “Yes, Rhaenyra. If you will still have me, I will.”

“Fool,” She says, her mouth slowly closing onto his.

The weight that he has been carrying finally lifts. The taste of her mouth washed away all of his worries. Sweet berries that Samwell knows are the holiest of tastes. He is no longer just a man, but a creature that has found the heavens in the lips of a goddess.

A kick to his ribs finally snaps him out of his trance, separating his lips from his princess.

“Leave.” His mother commands him, a gaggle of blushing and scandalized ladies behind her.

“I have not given the princess her gift.” He replies meekly looking to Rhaenyra, who ignores him hiding her face behind her fan.

“Leave” his mother repeats.

He fears his mother repeating herself, so he hastens. He quickly deposits the tapestry in front of Rhaenyra and kisses the ring on her finger as a goodbye. As soon as he exits, the ladies scream like chickens in a fit of laughter, and nosy questions. 

Once in the privacy of his chambers, he quickly takes his breeches off. He strokes his manhood off, as his mind wanders into the loviliest of images. Rhaenyra decked in a gown of black and red sitting on the Iron throne. The crown of the conqueror upon her brow, as Blackyfre lays on her opening legs, legs opening up for him, just as he delivers the severed head of Criston Cole for her, the proof of his devotion.

Samwell can't wait for his marriage to come.

Chapter Text

Samwell

The arrow pierces straight through the Apple on top of Ronald's head and the crowd around him cheers.

“You could have taken out his eye,” Rhaenyra remarks at his side.

“If I wanted to pierce my cousin’s eye, I would have done it a long time ago,” Samwell replies, the ale of the evening already making him bolder than ever. “Besides, what is a better way to show off the lovely weirwood longbow that has been gifted by my lady wife?”

Rhaenyra throws a sly smile at him, and his heart beats faster than ever. Excitement or fear? Perhaps it’s both. He craves her, and soon, he will lie with her as husband and wife. It all sounds so serious. He is a husband now, no longer a boy running around afraid of even holding hands.

They are wedded.

When he had imagined his wedding day, the bride was Gwenys. They would have wedded beneath the hearth tree in Raventree Hall, where he would cloak her with the symbol of his house. Their families and some lords would attend, and they would lie as man and wife in his chamber.

There is a stark difference between his dreams to the reality he is living. He had no rites beneath the heart tree. On his wedding day, he had made his vows in front of a septon and the masses, while smelling the faint sulfur emanating from the dragons. He repeated vows foreign to his devotion and wore a cloak bearing a three-headed dragon wrapped around a weirdwood.

Old gods, New gods, Valyrian gods.

And while his wedding would have been the cause of celebration as a lord's son and heir. He is now wedded to the crown princess and such a celebration is deserving of every house in the continents crossing seas and mountains to attend.

Lords and ladies had thrown their big smiles at him, made grand congratulations, and large speeches of unity. The most bold had already tried to set up future meetings disguised as invitations to meet their households.

Of course, they do. I’m a prince now.

It’s overwhelming. The ale is not strong enough.

“My boy, are you okay?” His mother asks.

His sweet mother gifts him a soft smile but her eyes pierce into him searching for his sudden change in mood.

“The boy is more than fine. His fits have just come down to him as always,” His father waves away.

“I was just as nervous on my wedding day. I had just known Aemma for a month before and every time we met it was under Queen Alysanne's gaze.” He could see the King wear a sad smile before downing his cup of wine. Was it already his seventh drink? The Queen just shifts deeper into his seat beside him.

Seated at the high table their families are displaying black and red in a show of unity of the houses. Rhaenyra and he are decked in pearly white and gold to stand out, but the Queen also follows them in her bright green. His mother had whispered to him that she had refused to wear anything else and even gotten in a row with the King over it.

“One day she will cry at the sight of that wretched green,” She had hissed to his father.

The slight tension on the high table is dissipated by the change in tune by the musicians.

“Let's us dance, good daughter,” His father says extending a hand to Rhaenyra. “I assure you my feet are as light as my son's.”

The king made up quickly to the dance floor with his mother, which made a comedic scene with the height difference. He squirmed under his seat when he realized what propriety would dictate of him now.

“Your grace, do you wish to dance?” He hesitantly asked and while the Queen only regaled a frosty look she took his hand.

He tried to steer clear of conversation by gazing out at the guests mingling around in the throne room. The Velaryons had not shown up excusing themselves with the birth of their grandchildren by their daughter Laena and Prince Daemon, whose absence had honestly been a relief to him. Samwell had had enough with that pounce of Cole.

Their son Laenor, a handsome man who had only acted brotherly towards Rhaenyra, had shown up in the name of the family along with his friend Joffrey Lonmouth. The two had been drinking away the feast with his cousin Edmund who had made a kindred spirit with them.

At least Edmund had decided to steer clear of trouble as he had said. Where was Theo? He could see Emmon and Ronald snicker loudly with some of their kin and by the direction of their looks, it was clear the subject of their japes was Criston Cole whose helm did not shield his dark expression.

At the sight of Cole, his eyes turn to the woman who had been the most ardent defender, the Queen. Samwell struggles to understand her desire to guard Cole, mayhaps out of revenge on Rhaenyra. Desire perhaps? The king was an old man while Cole was attractive to the ladies, yet Samwell could not see the Queen as having something as scandalous as an affair given how devoted to her faith she was.

Her eyes flicker toward him and a defiant look sets “Is there anything troubling you? Ser”

“A few times I have attended large affairs like this, and neither one of them can be considered as grand as today. I imagine only the wedding could compare to the King,” He says subtly avoiding the question.

The statement is wrong for the way the Queen twitches at it “The Crown hasn’t spared a single coin for this. The princess's wants are a matter of the utmost urgency.”

It drips with bitterness and sarcasm. Rhaenyra was a spoiled princess, but how could she not be? She was the King's heir, and only daughter for a long time before the other children came along. Samwell had enjoyed such luxuries as well.

The crown princess desires and the realms provide, and he is one of those desires. His eyes searched for her across the dance room.

She is a vision for all to see. The white of her dress made her glow like a forest creature underneath the candle lights, but it’s not her beauty that only enchants him, but it’s her happiness. Rhaenyra is smiling and laughing at something his father is telling her, she is not a blushing or a miserable bride, but looks like as she is as free as the wind.

She is not afraid and neither should he. His chest swells with pride

“You are fond of her,” The Queens point out, her eyes reproaching as if it was not proper.

“She is my lady wife, how can I not be fond of her?”

Pity surges on the queen's face. “You seem naive, and for that, I will tell you, don’t give your heart so easily to her. “

He can’t respond to her for the song ends and she quickly leaves his side to join the high table. The thought of chasing after her vanishes from his mind as he finally spots Theo.

“What’s that?” He grips his cousin's arms a strongly as he can.

Theo just smiles like a cat that got the canary. With his injured arm, he clutches the piece of torn white cloak as a prize “What? I tripped on it and it ripped. You know for a man of such a high honor this got torn apart very easily.”

Samwell searches in the moving and large crowd of people ready to find Cole shooting daggers at them. He does not, not with the Queen or the other guards. He is nowhere to be seen, and the fact of it sends a light chill down his spine.

“I pleaded for you to leave him be,” he spits out.

“My dear cousin” he takes his free hand and joins their forehead together. Just like they were children before committing a travesty together. “You are a prince now, there will be no harm come to you, and neither to me. Let him bark all he can for at the end of the day, he is just a steward son, and you are the blood of the first men.”

Theo kisses him on his forehead. His cousin delights in himself, as if Samwell were still a child he could boss around for being young. Someone to take in his faults. The heir to the house will never be punished as harshly as a mere cousin heir to nothing.

He is wedded. He is a man now, not a boy for him do reckless actions in the name of his older cousin.

His anger takes hold. Samwell gives him a shove so harsh that it almost throws him to the floor. Theo barely catches himself by holding onto a table. He looks at him betrayed as if he had not done anything wrong to deserve such an action. It spites him even more.

“You are a nuisance.” Samwell snaps at him leaving him down

He downs the full glass of wine that was sitting nearby. The fire wine went down easily at first, but then it started to burn at the back of his throat as it was meant to. The distaste shows on his face, and some guests can’t help but laugh at him.

Gods, there goes another piece of pride.

He spots Rhaenyra who stands idly with Elinda Massey who insists on fixing her hair every time is a little bit disbelieving. A smile finally comes to him to see her so annoyed, to be true, Samwell prefers it a little loose over the tight braids updo that she has been sporting all day.

“I would like to see my work is perfect, princess,” Elinda remarks as Rhaenyra wriggles

“There’s no use. The bedding will come soon and everything will fall apart.”

“Already?” He asks as he approaches them.

He strains his ears and indeed, the music has shifted. From the once joyful tunes, the beat has changed into something faster and deeper, most of the melodies are carried on by the large drums whose sounds he feels deep into his chest. The people are even becoming freer with their bodies to the sound of the music.

The atmosphere is building up to a grand finale. Samwell feels the room temperature is too hot, constricting his breath.

“Are you nervous?” Rhaenyra goads him and she shoos away Elinda.

“I do not know anything” he confesses. “My father wanted me to lie with a whore, before coming here. Uh, he wanted me to lie with a whore so I would learn the ways of the body.”

She does not reply, so he continues.

“I did not.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Rhaenyra admits, a slight bemused look on her face. “You have a habit of making the most odd statements.”

“What I meant to say it’s that I’m so not experienced in the manners of lying with a lady, and I wish to make this experience as enjoyable to you as I can.”

Slight hesitation on his step he gets closer to her, looking into her purple eyes trying to gather as much bravado as he can. As he stands before her, he swears her body is radiating heat like Syrax does. Samwell trembles as his hand gathers hers in a hold.

“I don’t know, Rhaenyra, but you do, so I humble myself before you and ask you to teach me. Teach me how to lie with you. Teach me how to pleasure you.”

Her eyes bore into his, and her nails slightly scratched the inside of his palm. Under the light of the fire, her eyes seem to sparkle more than ever. Raspberry-flavored lips tinted with wine meet his in a sweet kiss that finishes too soon.

“I have only lain with one man and it was once.” She whispers as they separate.

“I thought those damned tapestries had given you more expertise.” She snorts in that unladylike way of hers.

“What I mean, it’s that we can learn more, together.”

“Together.” He says to her, in his mind, it sounds like another vow.

One more dance and to the bedding they go, but as he takes Rhaenyra's arms to guide her onto the dance floor, a shove comes to his side.

“Watch it-“

A harder push he can not predict, causes him to lose his balance and his head cracks against the table causing everything around him to go black.

The first thing he notices is the coldness of the stone floor and as his eyes flutter he can only see that he has fallen under the table. Samwell wonders if he has drunk too much, but as his hand reaches for his temple he is surprised to find his fingers wet with blood.

Something has happened.

He can now hear the defeated screams of people around him, but there is no Rhaenyra as he gains his vision around him, all around there are only blurry people of colors and shapes.

Where is Rhaenyra? She was just beside him.

What’s happening?

He takes a moment to regain himself, stumbling around the madness. He grips a column as he feels himself almost slipping. The wine pitcher nearby must have been thrown in the chaos, Samwell realizes as he gazes into the red liquid soaking his boots.

His vision comes more clearly as he takes in the scene in front of him. A mass of what seems to be freshly beaten meat, bright red with the insides exposed and bits of white. It’s blood and bones. Sweat runs cold form of his body. The only thing he had seen resembled it when the horses in the stable had smashed a fox to the death.

It’s human, he can see by the eye hanging by a thread to the side of the battered head of what was once a head with a face. The body while beaten is intact, a tunic of black and red. Black leather shoes. A sling lies near in one of the arms.

Theo.

The sound that comes out of him nearly splits open his throat.

Alicent

She always thought he was a knight who could have only come from a tale. Sitting underneath the weirdwood tree, a place once fond to her heart, the moon glows softly on his tanned skin, his handsome face uncovered to the world. He looks so ethereal that for a moment she wishes not to interrupt him.

The bloody hands and the dagger he is holding against his heart break the fantasy.

“Ser Criston.” She calls his attention.

Alicent had not seen what had happened, she had been too far away. It happened too fast, the screams and the brawl. The king had called for order and his people had ignored him. She had looked for him to aid her, guard her from the unknown danger, yet when she had finally seen him, he had left without looking back at her.

But now here he stands about to commit an act so hateful to the gods without even realizing what it will mean to him, to her. He is her protector.

“Please” she pleads to him. Don’t do this, don’t leave me.

“Your grace,” Criston hesitates “I have committed a great sin”

What has happened to her white cloathed knight? He was always even so grand to her, even since she had seen him defeat Prince Daemon. An honorable man who stood for justice and truth, who had come to lay down his sins at her feet and pray for salvation that Rhaenyra had taken away from him.

(The urge to lurch comes to her every time Alicent remembers what she had done to him, so intimately, without even thinking of her. Rhaenyra went to Daemon, and Criston, but not her. Never her)

She slowly walks up to him. He does not rise, instead, he remains kneeling in front of her. So gently, she caresses his face and makes him look at her. The intensity of his gaze almost causes her to flinch.

“I know your heart is pure, ser Criston. Whatever has happened can be fixed. I will aid you.” I will rescue you, like no one rescued me.

His hands hold her, so gently. She can almost ignore the blood staining her. “Your grace- I.”

“There you are, we thought we had lost you.” A hollowed mocking tone rings out.

The man comes out of the shadows so suddenly, Alicent jumps back, and Criston pulls up to shield her, his sudden urge of madness forgotten. She recognizes from being the man of the trick with the apple on the head, a cousin of the Blackwood boy.

She cannot see his face clearly, but the moonlight shines on the sword he is holding tightly at his side. “Your grace, step away from the murderer.”

“Ser Criston is a white cloak, the highest honor bestowed by the King. He is not a murderer.” She commands shaking, but the tension of Ser Criston behind her made her glance up at him.

Did you see what happened? A voice in her head whispers. He couldn’t, he couldn’t.

Another man emerged from the shadows beside him, donning black and red. Another Blackwood with a sword. Alicent shivers with fear and reaches out to hold Ser Criston. There are no other guards nearby, they are all holding the nervous crowd.

“We were offered bread and salt. The treaty has been broken by the blood spilled tonight.” The new man's voice quivered, yet he held his gaze down.

“The King will decide on that.” Viserys, Viserys will listen to her. He is soft-hearted, and he will understand that whatever Ser Criston had one is in the name of decency and the vow he has made. “You are not to play the stranger.”

An arrow lands in the dirt on the back of her. Alicent screams, and Ser Criston picks up his sword to swing it at her defense.

The Blackwood boy, Rhaenyra's new toy is behind them, how long has he been there? Yet, Alicent is taken out of breath at the bow he wields at them, an arrow ready to shoot and end their lives.

His whole body shakes yet his grip is relentless. His pearly white doublet is stained with blood, whose blood is this? Alicent figures it’s not a mere servant of the Blackwoods for the tears keep flooding out of Rhaenyra's groom.

A small whimpers comes out of him. “We don’t answer to the new gods, but the old. They demand retribution, blood for blood” He bellows at the end.

She had believed him sweet in an endearing way like a puppy with a broken leg. Alicent remembers how he was so tall, yet made himself small in the presence of the royal court. Then, she had pitied the way he trailed after Rhaenyra, a fool he was. She had no doubt, Rhaenyra had chosen so she could have someone to manipulate and dispose of at her will, just like she had done to her.

Now she can see him clearly, he is a brute, just like Prince Daemon is. But a weak brute to follow Rhaenyra's commands, she should kill Ser Criston isn’t? Keep the secret hidden. Keep her wanton ways shielded from the court.

Alicent's eyes can not help but stay on his bloody hands. Blood no one asked for. What has happened?

Criston can easily break down the green boys in front of them holding the swords so clumsily, but he holds no shield an arrow could harm him before he could find cover. Quickly, Alicent gets up and takes cover in front of him. Let her be his shield. The wrath of the kingdom will fall upon them, if they do so to harm her.

“Lay down your wretched weapon,” She demands of the boy. “At last, prove yourself honorable and duel him with steel.”

He hesitates for a moment, his harsh grip loosening at the bow, but just when she feels relief, Ser Criston tenses up behind her and swings his sword.

One of the men lunges forward while the other screams at him. Ser Criston shoves her backwards so quickly, she falls to the ground, the earth soft with the night rain staining her dress. The man clashes swords while the other two shout, but Ser Criston is a quick and more mature warrior, while the other is just a boy come of age. The sword her knight readily slashes his knee and he falls to the ground in agony.

“Stop!,” She shouts but Ser Criston does not listen.

He moves forward, his sword covered in blood raised against the boy who holds his hands up in defeat. The other boy moves in defense, but before he can strike, an arrow is quickly shot from behind.

It feels for a moment as if they are frozen in time.

Ser Criston pace is stopped and he holds so still under the moonlight that Alicent believes he has been bewitched, yet when he finally turns to look at her, all she can see is the arrow piercing his neck. Her heart is in her throat and no sound comes from her.

The Blackwood boy moves forward another arrow ready to shoot. “There will be no songs for you.”

Ser Criston mouths something, yet when his mouth opens there comes only dark and thick blood. The Blackwood boy moves quickly and more arrows struck him down. Heart, stomach, head.

Her shield tumbles before falling in front of her.

He had sworn himself to her, to always stand before her against those who wish to harm her. For a moment, Alicent can almost see him standing at the last moment to swing a sword at her command. Yet, Criston Cole does not get up, not even twitching, and his blood just stains the green grass around him.

The boys do not cheer at the murder they had so wished for. Instead, the boy holds the injured close, and together they strain themselves in urgency to try to salvage the wound. None of them turns towards her, as if Alicent were just another cold and unmoving statue in the garden.

Behind her, Samwell Blackwood prays to the weirdwood tree through tears.

Rhaenyra

Once Rhaenyra had blossomed, she had discovered the desire to touch, to feel another person so intimately. She had spent some time gazing upon the tapestries that hung around the keep. A man with a woman. Woman with woman. Two men and a dragon. Woman with a dragon. Such more there was, the more vivid the pictures painted both pleasure and pain.

Her mother with blush on her cheeks had scolded her for looking and had shielded her away as much as she could. Soon she was made aware that only she would be able to know such pleasures when her marriage bed came.

And the pictures started surging on her head before she fell asleep. She imagined herself along with someone else, sometimes it would be Daemon with his dark gaze, or Alicent with her soft hands. There was sometimes a handsome knight or a voluptuous lady from court.

She was eager for when the time came. Eager -and even a bit frightened- she dared with Criston. Yet, soon Rhaenyra realized that while hunger could be strong and ravenous, the selection of the food still mattered. That choice soon came to bite her in the arse.

So, she added another requirement to her choice of husband. A Prince of the realm would only have to choose a comely lady of good pedigree who was skilled enough in the manners of the court. Rhaenyra would have to choose a man of good standing who would not only respect her but would have the humility of stepping down for the rest of his life for she would not be only his wife but his queen.

The number of cattle had been cut down a lot.

In truth, she had not seen Samwell and just knew. She had been curious at first, at the gangly boy without any presence who in a moment had dared to cut down a man with a pathetic excuse of a sword, and then dared to look at her in the eye without flinching.

Soon, she had come to know him. Samwell was caring, deeply protective of his family, and blunt with his words. He smiled at the small people and while beaten down by his cousin, he would just get up to go again. He never patronized Rhaenyra, nor tended to look greedily at Syrax, only annoyed when she had eaten one of his sister goats.

Her choice of husband was good, Rhaenyra realized. Samwell was good.

One day, the tapestries took the form of him. She did not realize when it happened. Perhaps it was a bit before they had tumbled around in the forest. The dark of his eyes held a deep awe towards her, as if she were the only person in the universe and he could not get enough.

Daemon had the eyes of a champion. Criston made her feel sinful. Samwell was warm on the coldest day.

Her choice of a husband had made her more comfortable with the idea of marriage, and she had even realized she had looked forward to the wedding, scrutinizing the banquet menu and the decorations. When she had shared her first official kiss with her now husband, she had been surprised at the heat inside of her that had wanted to get on with the wedding night.

She pads at the right side of her bed which lies cold and empty. Two bodies, at least twenty Injured, and a husband locked inside a room. Rhaenyra did not expect this to be her wedding night.

Her father has held her captive inside her chambers with Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon stationed outside, preventing her from leaving to get towards Samwell, who is presumably guarded by at least a dozen guards after being found next to Ser Criston's body. At least his father had the decency to leave him in his chambers instead of the cells like his cousins. He was still his son-in-law, until the morrow came at least.

The morrow would soon come and her father would lay judgment against Samwell for the crime of slaying a Kingsguard. Rhaenyra had not been allowed to even see him while Alicent wailed around calling him a vicious monster for all the court to hear.

Rhaenyra's dread settled deeply inside of her now making her turn in her bed, her mind rejecting the idea of rest.

The morrow would soon come and even if she had toured the seven kingdoms in search of a husband, had found him, a good husband, a good man. It could now be all taken from her, just as many other things had already been.

Rhaenyra for once had done her duty. If her father had wanted her to be a wife, a wife she would be.

Only a light robe and a candle accompany her while she trekked around the hidden path that her uncle had shown her. Rhaenyra had to hold her breath as rats passed by her bare feet and her ear touched a spiderweb while trying to hear something akin to Samwell's voice.

After at least an hour, her eyes gazing through cracks in the wall, she spots a tall figure lying near the window. Rhaenyra wastes no time in leaving the candle behind and pushing a loose tile that opens a small hole with enough space so she can crawl through.

“Samwell?” She calls out softly and he finally turns towards her.

Rhaenyra is taken back to see that he is still wearing his golden and white doublet, now stained with blood. Even his hands are still stained. His dark eyes are filled with sorrow and pain and, yet when they turn to her a small twinkle returns.

“What are you doing here?” Samwell asks walking towards her, yet stopping to keep his distance.

Rhaenyra does not pay his hesitation any attention. She takes his shaking hands into hers. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what just happened. I don’t know even what I’m supposed to do or what to do.” He trembles. He is large, yet at the moment he seems so small, like the first time they met.

“Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Samwell goes silent, and still. Rhaenyra takes a towel and water and without more words, starts taking off his clothes. She had pictured this scene before with him, how his eyes would dance and the blush that would fill his cheek. There are no songs or wandering hands, for this is only a somber occasion.

After he is almost clean again, Samwell speaks. “I don’t know where their blood begins and ends. I have thought about it, as if I could know my cousin even in his deeper form or that a wicked man's blood betrays his evil ways, yet at the end, they both bleed the same.”

There are no words she can say, just listen “What happened?”

“I was raging, I wanted revenge. When I saw him, for a moment I wished for him to say something, an excuse or an apology. Something to explain what had happened to Theo. He gave me nothing, and that hurt me the most, so I hurt him.” He said, in another man’s voice, a triumph would be heard, yet Samwell only holds woe.

He curls into himself, his body shaking with the force of his tears, and Rhaenyra can only offer the comfort of her touch gently stroking his back. She has found that sometimes words are meaningless in these cases, such are the memories of holding her mother's hands as she wept for another lost babe.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Rhaneyra whispers against his skin. He feels so cold.

“For giving you the shortest marriage in history. My faults have become yours. - I’m sorry to say that I did not think of you when everything went down. I failed you Rhaenyra, and we have not even spent a day wedded.”

“My father won’t annul our marriage.” She clarifies. “Not when we have consummated.”

Pressed against him, Rhaenyra can instantly feel him tense, and tries not to take the slight rejection personally.

“You would be ruined,” He states “Saddled with a husband who if any luck will spend the rest of her time locked in the wall.”

“I won’t let you Rhaenyra. House Blackwood will always stand behind you, even if I’m gone.” He promises her.

“I don’t care for house Blackwood. I care for you.” She affirms. “The people saw what happened, what Cole did was a crime, in all shapes and forms. You acted abruptly, but I would have done the same, if I could.”

And how many times did she not long for it? To have the power to rage like Samwell did. How many times did she not stand for Cole sneering as if she was below him, as if she was nothing? She stood enduringly for any sign of protest would be met with suspicion and accusations by Alicent and her people.

Samwell had gotten rid of a problem for her, a mistake, yes, it was rash, but she would never have to stand for the sight of that man again.

“Your father-”

“My father loves me.”

He does, with all of her faults and rifts that have gone between them. Three children, two with a cock, yet Rhaenyra stands as an heir of the seven kingdoms despite all of the protests against her name.

“If he thinks I have acted with my heart, he will forgive this transgression, and I will protect you.”

“With your heart?” Samwell whispers his hot breath against her.

Rhaenyra can feel her blood going to her cheeks, and an embarrassing blush is spreading. Her heart? Does this man hold a part of it? Her husband. She had made a good choice of a pool of suitors, an amiable choice. She expected kindness, companionship, friendship, but after all of the disappointments she did not expect to give herself that way.

Daemon, Alicent, and even Cole held a part of it. Family, friend, and knight. In their hands, Rhaenyra had put herself, yet they had let her down, casting her out when she had acted according to their wants. Their hearts were hardening against her.

What of Samwell? He may yield before her now, but what will happen in some time? She can still walk away now, put the morrow in the thread of the gods. Don’t let anyone know what has happened tonight in this room.

He won’t begrudge her for it, she knows. Looking deeply at his deep chocolate eyes that betray everything, Samwell will let her have her choice even if it means a worse ending for him.

He has all of his faith in her, foolishly and devotedly.

“I-“ She thinks everything and nothing, but her mind is made.

In the dark of the night, Rhaenyra's lips seek out her husband, hers. He is hers, and she is his. He tastes of wine and blood and, it is so easy for her to melt into him. Let it be known their union.

There is no intoxicating thrill of the time in the forest. It’s an intimate meeting. Despite the guards standing outside, Rhaenyra takes her time tracing the freckles that cover Samwell's body and memorizing the sounds that she can emit from her young husband.

The sun peeks through the shades and finds her lying naked on top of the furs looking at her husband, in words and body. Samwell had surrendered quickly to sleep after she had insisted, while Rhaenyra remained wide awake resting her head above his chest.

Oddly, she is not afraid, as she listens to the soft heartbeat of her husband. The little drumming makes her slightly elated, even when she hears the rising voices outside the room. Even when she feels the door getting pushed over.

When Ser Harrold Westerling barges into the room accompanied by at least 5 guards, Rhaenyra lazily takes a blanket to cover her and her husband's decency.

“Tell my father I will see him for morning supper.”