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Chapter Text

There was always something interesting happening within the walls of the Red Keep, but very rarely did Gael have the opportunity to witness it first hand. Most often she heard through either her mother or the few ladies that the queen kept close. Gael hated how smothered her life was, feeling like she was choking. She had only started in the last few years to really understand how odd it was that she never got to leave the keep, never got to spend a full day without her mother demanding her presence, nor had Gael understood that sharing your mother’s bed at the age of fifteen was not normal until now.

It was the pitying looks from some of the ladies when the queen wasn’t looking that had Gael realising something wasn’t right. It was not understanding the way people discussed the world beyond the Red Keep, thinking that it couldn’t be as terrible as they said it was. It was also the gut churning sensation of wrongness as when her father ran a hand through her hair, his hand lingering on her shoulder, knowing that something wasn’t right. They were innocent enough touches, but Gael always felt strange when they occurred. And if her mother was there when the happened, she was quick to usher Gael away and to the security of the queen’s bedchambers.

Gael learnt not to be alone with her father as she grew up.

And with growing up, Gael craved to learn more. To understand. The Maester tutoring her had given up when she continued to struggle to read when she was ten, stating she was ‘simple-minded’ and ‘hopeless’. That led to mockery from her family, and her mother cooing words of reassurance that Gael didn’t need to read, just needed to stay ‘nice and safe’ beside her. When she was younger, that comforted Gael, but now as she reached five and ten, the young princess wished she wasn’t so stupid.

The stupidity Gael constantly chastised herself for reached beyond books and writing. It went to people as well. It was hard for Gael to understand when someone was lying to her, hard to know when someone was being mean unless they were outright with the insults. She wished people said what they meant, finding court life scaring and difficult to maneuver even without the false smiles and schemes. Though Gael had learnt over time how to tell if someone was dangerous, because she may be stupid, she wasn’t completely naive to not know that there were unkind people in the world. She may not figure out their motives, but just knowing they met her some harm was enough to put her on guard and find someone safe to run.

Because even with her desperate desire to go beyond the Red Keep, to sate her curiosity, it made Gael still fall back into the shadow of her mother, knowing it was easier than dealing with the nobles that filled the keep. Even her siblings offered her no comfort, dismissive of her along with any nieces and nephews that were closer to her age. She used to play with Daemon and Viserys, but they were older and had no time for her now. Aemma was now preoccupied as a wife and dealing with the grief that came with her miscarriages, and Gael had no wish to make it worse with her own ignorance when it came to childbirth. Rhaeys was more often on Dragonstone, so that was the last of anyone Gael could be close to, with her other sisters uncaring, dead, or across the Narrow Sea.

Sometimes she got letters from Viserra, from where she left King’s Landing and married Lord Manderly. Struggling to read them, and knowing that mother had no desire to hear about Viserra, Gael had debated asking someone else for help when she first began to receive the letters, but feared that private words were written on the parchment, and instead squinted and tried her best to decipher her older sister’s deliberately neat writing.

From what Gael could tell, her sister was happy. It contradicted what the court would whisper about, what her mother tsked about. They all derisively spoke on Viserra being barren, not carrying any of Lord Manderly’s children despite having been married to him for eight years. Gael couldn’t understand not having a child after being married for so long herself, having started to want her own family, wanted to be in love and taken away from the Red Keep. But if her sister was happy, then Gael had to be happy for her. Gael was starting to learn, with many other things as she got older, that no one in her family was really happy. At least one of them could be.

But all of this accumulated to Gael being very much on the outskirts of the politics of court life, so being able to witness an event first hand was a momentous occasion for the youngest princess. Her mother had given her the allowance of wandering in the keep, not feeling well and not wishing her frail daughter to get sick herself. Gael, pretending that she was more upset than she actually was over parting with her mother, had giddily dressed in a more luxurious dress than the plain ones her mother insisted on her wearing, and eagerly made her way to where her father was presiding over petitions.

Smoothing down her soft pink dress, Gael made herself comfortable on one of the seats in the gallery, looking down and watching, enraptured, at all the different people that milled about below. Some were dressed far differently than courtly fashion, and Gael was entranced by the sway of the fabric and furs, the detailed embroidery depicting their houses. Memorising houses was at least something her stupid mind could do, images of their sigils sticking better than letters could. She saw houses from the Riverlands, as well as a few from the North, which was a rare sight indeed.

One member of the Northern party, where they stood to the side and waiting their turn to petition her father, stuck out due to the quality and individuality of his clothes. Whilst his men wore their armour, surcoats, and dark gambesons, cloaked in fur that was not necessary for the south’s weather, this lord set himself apart from his men subtly. He too wore armour, though no surcoats, letting the blood red and salmon pink of his doublet tell everyone exactly who he was underneath dark boiled leather. The red embroidery that mimicked lines of muscle and veins of skin peeled back told the court that a Bolton was in their midst.

Gael knew only history and facts of the Bolton family, mainly because Daemon had wanted to give her nightmares when he read the tomes to her as children. They flayed their enemies, wore the skins as cloaks. Fearsome Red Kings before bending the knee to the Winter Kings, the Starks. Looking at the Lord Bolton, though young, Gael could see right away he was an intimidating man, brows set in a slight furrow of a glare, hands neatly folded behind his back as pale eyes scanned the room. A sword sat on his hip as well as a dagger, not hidden but discreet underneath his dark cloak that bore the flayed man of his house.

The princess loved pink, thought the colour soft and gentle. But the lord made it menacing, reminding Gael of her broken flesh when she scrapped her knees. Though the lord did not wear flayed skin, he made sure to imitate it. Gael had never seen such a fearsome man before. Even her father did not come across so foreboding on appearance alone, letting his station and power terrify people into submission before him. To Gael, staring down at Lord Bolton now, she felt a shiver go down her spine. He may not have the power of a king, but the young man was a threat to anyone and everyone he met, even when he was not doing anything to cause harm. That was what it seemed like to Gael.

And to Gael, who was never allowed near anything that could be dangerous, she found him fascinating.

The Lord Bolton was there to discuss trade deals, representing Lord Stark, as the Warden of the North was unable to come himself with his wife close to birthing their first child. Gael observed as her father agreed to a far more private meeting for the deal and dismissed Lord Bolton. As the Northerner turned to leave the throne room with his party, his pale eyes flicked up to meet her gaze, as if sensing her stare.

Her breath became trapped in her throat, unable to look away. He was handsome with dark hair that reached below his jawline, half pulled back though some locks had wormed their way loose. Everything about him was sharp, from his nose, to his chin, to his eyes. A walking blade.

But as soon as their eyes had locked, the man had broken it, continuing his path out of the throne room. The crowds parted quickly and easily for the Northern party as if they carried the plague. Already, Gael was picking up on the whispers up in the gallery from the nobles nearby. The murmured words such as ‘barbaric’ and ‘uncultured’. Gael could not agree less. The rough harshness of their appearance made them all feel more real than anything that walked the corridors of the Red Keep. They were honest in the way they presented themselves, unafraid of how the South thought of them. Gael wished to have such confidence.

She left the throne room not long after that, the other petitions becoming boring. Instead, she decided to take a turn through the gardens, not wishing to return to her mother’s side sooner than she had to. Perhaps, after the walk, Gael could go to her loom. She was in the middle of weaving a tapestry for her mother which depicted Silverwing. Her mother did not fly much anymore, though she seemed to gaze out towards the Dragonpit often with a forlorn and wanting expression, as if she could hear the call of her dragon. Gael had asked her what it was like to fly once, to which her mother had only breathed out one word: freedom.

Gael wondered on that often too, what freedom was like. It must be very different from sharing a bed with a paranoid and aging mother. It must be exciting. The very thought though terrified Gael at times, the unknown of such excitement making her shrink into herself. But just as she flinched from the idea, the princess knew she craved it just that same. However, such freedom would not occur. Not for Gael. It was unlikely she would marry anytime soon, and could only hope that she would. And that it would be to a kind man. An honest man. Someone good.

As she mused on such thoughts, Gael paused to admire a thorny bush of roses. Her favourite flowers were peonies, though she enjoyed honeysuckles too. She enjoyed their delicate scent, but roses were definitely her current third favourite flower. She had made a mental list over the years and was diligent in keeping track of when their ranks changed depending on her mood and preferences as she grew older. Reaching out, the princess traced her finger over the soft white rose before carefully picking it. After many attempts, Gael had learnt how to do so without being pricked on the thorns, was well as how to remove said thorns. Once the short stem was free of such dangers, she tucked the flower into her braided crown in a fit of whimsy.

Smiling to herself as she gently cupped the head of the flower for a second, Gael continued on her walk. Passing a bed of lavender after some minutes, the princess stopped once more, delicately running her fingers over the tiny flowers to pick up the scent, inhaling her fingertips. Humming to herself, Gael turned to a gardening servant nearby, gaining their attention. “Would you cut a bundle and deliver it to my bedchamber, please?” And pressed a stag into his hand, much to the man’s surprise. Gael liked to mirror her mother’s charities and kindness to the small folk in her own little ways, because she could not do anything larger.

The servant bowed, fervently thanking her and quickly went about completing the task. After expressing her own gratitude, Gael continued her walk. A willow tree with a stone bench under its hanging branches attracted her attention next and decided to take a pause in her walk there; a favoured spot of hers. It was a shame she had not brought her embroidery or lute, fingers twitching at the idleness, but there were plenty of birds to watch, so Gael occupied her mind in that direction.

As she sat down, the princess felt an odd lump in her dress pockets and after digging into them, she found a small satchel of seeds. Laughing lightly to herself at the coincidence, she began to sprinkle the seeds around her, waiting for small songs birds to approach for a chance at getting something to eat. After awhile of patience, Gael was rewarded with a fat little robin fluttering over to peck at the ground. Then, as if a dam had been broken, she soon had many sweet little birds of varying breeds around her feet.

Giggling softly to not scare them away, she gathered a small pinch of seeds into her hand and soon a blue bird was perched on her fingers. She fed the birds often, an interaction that was simple and honest in the way the court never was. Gael knew exactly what the birds wanted, and she knew the right way to act in order to get them to approach her. It gave her some peace of mind to do something right as she fed the little creatures’ bellies.

There was then a crunch of footsteps across the cobbled stone path, and when Gael glanced up, her breath was once more stolen from her for a second time that day. The Lord Bolton was paused on the pathway across from her bench, peering through the willow branches, observing her.

Swallowing thickly as her heart sped up, faintly intimidated, Gael waited to see if he would approach her or continue on. Some lords have done so in the past, but many did not stay long. Either because they grew bored or her mother found out. Her mother did not like when Gael talked to people who were not her ladies or their family. Which was odd, because most of Gael’s family scared her.

Lord Bolton stayed where he was for a long pause, contemplating what he would do until he made the decision to approach her. Gael wondered if she should have had guards with her, or a Septa, as a chaperon. Mother hated when she was alone, but Gael did nothing to call for someone instead watching – with a hint of sadness – as the birds made themselves scarce when the lord stepped through their feeding ground. And her face must have shown that, because he hesitated in his next step before side stepping to come around to her right. It did bring a few of the birds back, and Gael couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on her lips, sending it his way, “Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded once. “May I share your seat, princess?”

His voice was soft, unexpected for the menacing presence that surrounded him. Gael had expected it to be a deep growl or something vaguely snake-like when she first saw him in the throne room due to his house’s history and reputation. Instead, it was carefully enunciated words, no breath wasted, no over the top flattery. She liked it.

Still smiling, Gael nodded. Lord Bolton sat on the very end of the bench, leaving space for at least another person and the show of propriety and consideration had her deciding he was far more polite than some of the other lords she had interacted with in the past.

Up close, Gael could see just how young he was compared to some of the lords within the Red Keep. He must be no more than five years older than herself. A very young lord to take up the title. Gael tried her best to jog her memory on what must have happened within house Bolton to give him that title, but couldn’t recall. Gael privately mourned over the fact that not many people mentioned the North in court, feeling like she was missing information as she continued to feed her birds. And as she was certainly NOT the heir to the throne, there was no need for Gael to be so thoroughly educated on the state of the Houses of Westeros.

What was interesting was that despite the Lord Bolton cutting a very foreboding figure, he was an unobtrusive presence as he shared the bench with her. The silence was comfortable, and when she chanced a glance his way out of the corner of her eye, Gael noticed that his eyes were closed. He appeared to be just enjoying the quiet nature, much like herself.

A few birds were on her lap now, pecking at the seeds she sprinkled there, and a giggle escaped her unbidden as one beak managed to lightly pierce her skirts and it tickled the skin underneath. There was the sound of shifting from the man, and Gael sent him an apologetic look for having disrupted his peace. “I hope I am not bothering you, my lord.”

A dark brow rose on the other wise blank face, “I am the one to disturb you, princess.”

Considering that, Gael hummed in acknowledgment, “I suppose so. Is there a reason you wished to sit with me, Lord Bolton?”

Pale eyes bored into her soul it felt like as he took a long while to respond. Then, he gave a short nod and dipped into his pocket to reveal a letter. “I am a friend of Lord Manderly and visited him before sailing here. Your sister requested I deliver this to you.”

Glee took over Gael as she accepted the letter and hastily broke the wax seal. As always, the words were carefully written to make the content easier for Gael to understand. No rushed scrawls or swooping elegant lines, and the gratitude for her sister always doubled every time. Humming to herself, Gael squinted and slowly read it. She had to sound out a few words, finger trailing along, especially the bigger ones when the letters swam and moved, difficult for her mind to capture.

“Would you like me to read it for you, princess?” Lord Bolton quietly asked, and Gael jumped, having completely forgotten the man in her excitement, and flushed.

Clutching the letter, Gael shook her head, “I would hate to bother you, my lord.” It was embarrassing that he had to witness her simple-mindedness already, there was no way she would survive the mortification of him pityingly reading the letter for her.

“If it bothered me, I would not have asked.” Lord Bolton’s words were frank, lacking mockery too, and Gael blinked in shock. There was no simpering, nor words of platitude either. It was refreshing and relieving.

Ducking her head down, Gael tried once more to read the words, and as they started to dance once more, she shyly handed him the letter, “Then I thank you for your offer, my lord.”

Taking the letter, Gael listened to his quiet voice read out Viserra’s recount of her past month. He had a nice voice. Apparently a large whale had been beached on the outskirts of White Harbour, and her sister got a carved bone comb from it, presented to her by Lord Manderly. Gael couldn’t help the soft wistful sigh at the thought of receiving such a gift from her husband.

When the letter was over, Gael gave Lord Bolton another smile, this one a touch embarrassed as she took back the parchment, “You’ve saved me the struggle of reading this, my lord. You have my gratitude.”

He gave a nonchalant shrug, “It was no trouble. Princess Viserra had mentioned you find reading difficult.” Her flush became one of humiliation at his words, and Gale turned her eyes to the ground fixing them on a seed a pair of birds were squabbling over. With shaking hands she scattered some more down so they wouldn’t have to fight, wanting to distract herself from her own stupidity.

“One of Lord Manderly’s grandsons is the same.” Lord Bolton then stated. Gael hesitantly peered over at him as he went on to explain, “It is not that uncommon for some people to struggle with words.” He then turned to face her head on to plainly say, “You are not simple-minded, princess.” The words were reassuring though they lacked any form of sympathy. And with her so taken off guard by them, Gael could only watch, astonished, as the man stood up, bowed deeply before walking off. Once more, he minded the birds feeding ground, taking a slightly longer way around the animals to leave. Breathless, Gael pressed a hand to her cheek to feel its heat and found herself staying where she was for a long while, as it truly took her some time to come around to accepting his words.

Simple-minded was a descriptor that followed Gael for most of her life, to the point it was a fact rather than an insult. Not even her mother had curbed such talk, seeming to agree to it herself. It was shocking to hear someone say that she wasn’t. It was certainly a first. Even Viserra never said that she wasn’t, though the older sister never said she was either. With a fluttering feeling in her tummy, Gael wandered back to her mother’ bedchambers in a daze, mind locked onto the interaction for the rest of the day.

The Lord Bolton was likely to stay for awhile as he and Gael’s father figured out the trade deal, the princess overhearing from a few of the more gossipy ladies of her mother’s court. During that time, Gael spent far more of her free hours in the garden, coming across the lord more often than not. It was almost like he sought her out, and Gael had never had a suitor before. Not that the lord was one – he had made no such overtures to demonstrate otherwise – but to Gael it was like he was in some ways, and she found herself enjoying that thought even as she kept it to herself. He always kept a respectable distance between them, hands tucked behind his back and never making any physical contact with her. It was such gallant behaviour that she was beginning to think that the rumours of barbaric northernmen was all nonsense.

During their walks, most were spent in quiet contentment. He would patiently stop when she paused to admire a flower or plant, and he did not scoff when she bent down to praise a small growing sprout. That alone added to her slowly building appreciation for the man. In addition, his presence deterred any other lords who had darker or more selfish intentions with wanting her attention.

Gael understood immediately that Lord Bolton was a man who enjoyed silence, observing the world around them with deep contemplation. Or judgment, going by some of his facial expressions when they passed by people. Once, Gael had asked what he was thinking about, and his short answer was, ‘They dress terribly in this city’, and it made her burst into shocked laughter. That got a slight crack in his blank expression, corner of his lip twitching as his pale eyes seemed to spark with momentary amusement at her delight. From there, she would ask his opinion of the people they passed, where he would offer a dry comment on their taste of dress. If he had no negative thoughts he would just murmur ‘presentable’ or ‘unoffensive to the eyes’.

Gael thought his wit to be one not many would share in taste, but she thought him funny.

As the days passed, Gael soon was asking a few questions here and there, making sure to leave space of quiet to not overwhelm or annoy the lord.

“What is the North truly like?” Gael asked during what would be the seventh stroll through the gardens. She had never done this much exercise in her life, and though breathless at times, the princess wanted to persevere for the sake of enjoying the Lord’s company. “Many say it’s barren and dull. But I don’t believe that at all. Not when my sister describes it so beautifully in her letters.”

“In comparison to the South, I would agree that there is a certain dullness to the North.” The lord replied, looking forward as he went on to say, “If the summers are harsh, the winters are cruel. Survival is the singular focus of every northerner, we do not have time or energy for frivolity. The North is beautiful in the way a predator is: dangerous and wild but still to be admired.” He then paused in his step to turn her way.

Gael halted as well, head tilted to the side out of curiosity. For a short moment, the Lord observed her before stating, “You would do well in the North.”

A startled laugh escaped her. Pressing a hand to her mouth to muffle it, Gael shook her head as she pointed out with a wry amusement, “I’m quite frail, my lord. I’m sure I wouldn’t last long in your home.”

He rose a singular brow as all he said in response was a pointed, “Even flowers grow in the North.”

It was a statement that circled her mind when they parted, laying in her mother’s bed that night. She stared up at the canopy above and tried to understand how this man, one she had not known all her life, seemed to not find her lacking in the ways many others have. What did he see in Gael that no one else had? Turning her head to the side to look at her slumbering mother, Gael felt this sudden burning hatred that choked her, powerful and unexpected as it rose high in her chest.

She loved her mother, but it was starting to become hard to continue to do so as she grew up. All her life Gael had been coddled, sequestered away from her own family, deemed too weak and stupid to be around others, despite never having been given the chance to prove otherwise. Gael had been told who she was since the moment she was born, and it had taken so long to learn what parts of her were cultivated by her own hand, and which were chosen for her. She needed to make a new mental list.

That night Gael did not get much rest, the shadows under her eyes adding a ghostly pallor to her already pale complexion. To which her mother of course fretted over. Gael had to use all the placating and reassurance she had learnt over the years to stop the woman from smothering her. However, that only allowed Gael to have an hour’s peace in her own bedchambers, unable to find a way down to the gardens to meet Lord Bolton. During that hour, Gael had took stock of her new list, curled up in a dressing gown on a window seat, staring out at the sea beyond her cage.

The list had two columns. One that said what was her, and the other of what wasn’t. What wasn’t her included such things as: hates the wind (her mother had declared that for her when she was seven and shivered once during a storm because she hadn’t worn a shawl), dislikes cheese (her mother did not like cheese, so Gael must not either), bugs unnerve her (they don’t), and that horses were terrifying to her (Gael found them sweet creatures when she snuck away to pet them, never being allowed to ride them). At the bottom of that list, now a little more awake, Gael had tentatively added: Stupid and frail. Lord Bolton’s words continued to ring as clear as a bell in her head.

On the other list, of what what was her, Gael had traits such as: weaving and embroidery (with so much time on her hands, she needed hobbies to stop herself from going mad), expert lute player (deemed so by her eldest brother Aemon when he had visited their mother and she was playing the instrument. Gael couldn’t help but proudly agree with him), enjoys the garden (the only taste of freedom within the walls of the Red Keep), good with sums (numbers made more sense than letters in her mind), and loves her sister Viserra (mother called her sister grasping and greedy, but Gael disagreed. Her sister just wanted to be noticed and loved, and Gael would do all that she could to show Viserra that she was).

There were many things in each column, growing by the second that Gael wished she could write well in order to get it all out of her head. But she was good at memorising things, and this list, like all the rest, would not be forgotten because it was important. Gael needed to know who she truly was beyond what her family had decided for her. At least then she would have some peace of mind even if no one else knew.

When Gael was finally able to escape her mother, it had been two days of smothering. It was as if she could breathe again once she was back in the gardens, almost gasping with how light the air was compared to the stifling heat of her mother’s chambers. Desperate to escape, the princess had thrown on the easiest and quickest dress to wear, nothing that the court would deem good enough for a princess, but the soft blue cotton dress was comfortable and perfect for the outside. Gael had made sure to bring her sewing basket for something to do as well, determined to stay in the gardens for as long as possible. Heading to her spot under the willow tree, Gael was taken by surprise at the person already occupying the spot.

Lord Bolton glanced up from where he was feeding her birds, and there was a flicker of some indescribable emotion when he saw her. Standing up as Gael approached, the man offered a bow, “Princess.”

A brilliant smile took over her face, the first one in days, as she chirped back, “Lord Bolton.” Gael couldn’t help the fondness infused in her voice as she skirted around the birds to join him on the bench. There was a small book placed next to where he was sitting, likely reading as enjoyed the nature. Settling down on one end, Gael began, “My apologies for not seeing you these last few days. My mother required me.”

Sitting back down, Lord Bolton continued to examine her form as he replied softly, “The keep spoke of you being sick.” Frowning, Gael thought that over, before rolling her eyes. She did not do such things often – many did not like to see the youngest and softest of the princesses showing her annoyance – but Lord Bolton appreciated honesty like herself, so she would not insult him by holding back her true reactions.

“I did not get much sleep so my mother declared I was ailing and needed to see the maester.”

“What kept you up?”

“I was making a list.” Gael answered as she dug into her basket, pulling out the baby blanket she was embroidering. Aemma was pregnant again, and Gael hoped for her sake it was both a boy and not stillborn or sickly. Growing up, she had enjoyed playing with Viserys, but since he married Aemma, bedding her so young, Gael grew uncomfortable around him and could not describe why. It was the same sort of discomfort that she got when around her father.

“What was the contents of the list, if I may know?” Lord Bolton asked next, and Gael glanced up, slightly confused on his interest.

He wasn’t dismissive when she talked, but he had not in the past asked for more information beyond what she gave. However, Gael was not unhappy with his new interest in her, and explained, “I make lists in my head. This new list was about…” She then faltered, wondering suddenly on how much she should say. It could be deemed embarrassing to tell someone that for most of her life, her personality was constructed for her, and that it was only recently that she had begun trying to determine what was truly her. It demonstrated the backbone Gael was missing, and this man was someone she wanted to call a friend, and did not wish to further prove how much she lacked.

However, the lord only watched her patiently, waiting and expression void of judgment. Most of the time his face held a deficiency of emotions, but Gael had began to learn certain tells. Right now, Gael had his full and unwavering attention. There was no faint crinkle in his nose and eyes, an expression that told her he was privately judging someone.

Tucking a strand of hair of lose behind her ear, Gael took a deep breath and continued on. Lord Bolton listened attentively as she described her list and her reason for making it, as well as mentioning a few points on each column. It was easier to look at her work than meet his gaze, still somewhat fearful of seeing derision or mockery written across his face. When finished, she took a few deep breaths, realising just how emotionally taxing it was to go so deep into her mental state to someone for once.

“I am honored you have trusted me with this.” Lord Bolton spoke up after a long period of silence. Gael glanced up at him. He was gazing past the tree branches and into the garden beyond. In the sunlight, the man’s profile was illuminated, his complexion like sun shining on snow. A wintery beast, her mind supplied. Gael had grown used to the dangerous presence he held, and wondered if that was due to her being a Targaryen, holding the blood of the dragon within her. Her family and ancestors bonded with and rode dragons. She may not have one, nor has she ever had the chance to hatch an egg let alone fly with a family member, but Gael could sense in her heart that she would be as equally fearless on dragon back as she was sitting beside this menacing man.

Lord Bolton did not scare her. Gael wondered if that would upset him or pleased him if he knew. What must it be like, to go through life viewed as something terrifying. Something to fear. No one had ever feared Gael before, and she herself would be shocked if someone did. She knew she was not very frightening, even with being royalty and having a large amount of power due to her station alone. Everyone in her family – beside Viserra and perhaps Aemma – deemed her weak, so everyone outside of her family saw her weak as well. It was aggravating.

“Thank you for not mocking me.” Gael finally replied to the man’s words, genuinely grateful.

He looked her way, sincerity in his cold, pale eyes that would be hidden to most. “There is nothing to mock.”

A tiny, bashful smile flitted across her lips as she ducked her head down, focusing back on her sewing. The lord turned to his book, and that was how they spent the next hour.

Just over two weeks into the lord’s stay, and there was a family dinner. Aemon, her favourite brother though they did not interact much with the age difference, had returned from Tarth with much fanfare. He had been helping fight against Myrish Pirates on and off for three years, and the family were excited for his return. As her older siblings, nephews, and niece greeted him with exuberance, Gael stayed where she was sat, uncertain if he would even care to see her.

It was odd, living in the Red Keep with her family. Because even with them being there, Gael was still kept in relative solitude from them, rarely did they get the interest to visit her. Aemma and her were close when they were younger, barely a few years apart, but with her niece constantly either pregnant or recovering from labour, Gael couldn’t see her often. Her mother didn’t like her being around Aemma either, as if terrified that through just being in the girl’s presence Gael would get pregnant herself.

But beyond short moments, Gael was separate from her family. She hated how much of an outsider she felt, and wondered what Viserra would have done if she was here. Gael was certain her older sister would have greeted her with a bright smile and a big hug, the same way Aemon did with his daughter. Forcing herself to not fidget as everyone took their seats, Gael focused on the soup being served as she listened to the chatter around her.

Aemon was regaling Baelon and his sons with stories against the pirates when Rhaenys leant over from where she was sat next to her, Corlys on her other side, “What is this I hear about walks in the garden with a northern lord?” She luckily said it soft enough that no one else heard, though Gael still flushed somewhat in response.

“He is just a walking companion,” Gael murmured, a touch defensive and not wishing the lord to get in trouble. She had heard plenty about what had occurred to Saerra’s lovers and did not want that to happen to Lord Bolton. He was ever so kind to her. “He has been very gallant and polite.”

Rhaenys eyed her, a hint of amusement on her lips as she next said, “One would think he was courting you.”

Her cheeks heated up further as Gael shook her head, “He has not made any moves to court me. As I said, we are just walking companions.” The princess firmly insisted, “He enjoys the quiet of the gardens.”

“Enjoys you as well.” Rhaenys slyly added, and Gael squeaked at the implication, shooting furtive glances around the table to make sure no one else heard that. Once more, being overlooked by her family was in her favour as the conversations around them continued on, oblivious to what the two young women were discussing. The dinner went on without anyone else bringing up Lord Bolton thankfully, and soon mother made her departure, Gael of course leaving with her.

As they walked the dark halls of the keep, Gael voiced after some deep contemplation, “When will I marry, mother?” She had wondered this for awhile. Most of her sisters had been married off at around the same age Gael was, so it made sense that she should too soon.

The woman gave her a comforting pat on her hand however as she assured Gael, “You won’t for a long time, my dear. It’s safest if you stay with me.” The words did not bring any sort of reassurance, only horrified misery as Gael could only listen to her mother say, “You’re the only daughter I have left, I need you by my side. Besides, sweetling, you are far too frail to even consider marrying off, no man would want a weak wife. The birthing bed is just a death sentence for you.”

“But you demand for Viserra to have children.” Gael couldn’t help but point out, “And you allowed Aemma to be bedded so young, and continuously as well. Look how sickly she is with this pregnancy, maybe you could say something to Viserys-”

“Oh, enough child!” Her mother cried out, exasperated and growing irate by Gael’s words, “What does that all matter, childbirth is a fate all wives must suffer-”

“But you won’t allow that to happen to me.” Gael did not particularly wish to ‘suffer’ giving birth, but there was a certain hypocrisy in her mother’s words that annoyed the young princess.

“Which is why you will not marry.” The mother determined, wrinkled face grave, “I won’t have it. And that is final.”

A fire licked up in Gael’s chest as she glared at the ground, letting her mother continue to lead them back to her bedchambers. She hated the Red Keep. She hated her mother so much in that moment, and she hated how everyone viewed her as weak. That hatred continued on into the next day when she found herself stalking through the gardens, needing to release her pent up anger. If she was a man, Gael was certain to be hacking at some straw dummies with a sword. But seeing as she was a ‘frail woman’, she could only stew in her rage.

It was where Lord Bolton found her once more, stalking through a small hedge maze as Gael muttered irritably under her breath. He stood at a distance, head cocked to the side and waiting. She locked onto his form and marched up to him. Hands on her hips, the young princess demanded, “Would you marry me?”

Pale eyes widened. The young man took a clear step back from her as he asked cautiously, “Might I know what brought this on, princess?”

Huffing, Gael crossed her arms, “Mother has deemed me too weak to marry off.” She spat, “Has very much decided for me that the birthing room would kill me, and that I must spend the rest of my days by her side.”

“Ah,” He breathed out. An odd noise, seeing as the lord did not waste words or breath when it was not necessary. Perhaps she had caught him off guard, and he was struggling to maintain his usual composure. Guilty, Gael felt her anger snuff out and mumbled, “I’m sorry to bother you, my lord.”

“You are upset.” The man factually pointed out, “There is nothing wrong with that.”

“I just-” Gael began, burying her face into her hands as she forced back a sob, “I just want to leave this place.” She whispered, miserable. The silence that settled around them was different from the usual, something heavy and tense, and Gael felt another rush of guilt over making the man uncomfortable with her problems. Taking a heavy breath to keep her tears at bay, Gael dropped her hands and went into a deep curtsy, “Apologies, my lord-”

A hand cupped her elbow, and stunned, Gael allowed herself to be drawn back up, staring wide eyed up at Lord Bolton. There was a softening of his sharpness as he touched her for the first time. His gloves and her dress sleeve were still there in between the contact, but it made her heart stutter nonetheless. Enraptured by his sudden closeness, Gael could find no words to speak, unable to tear her eyes from his.

Pale eyes watching her, Lord Bolton gently spoke, “I do not like people. I barely tolerate those that work under me. I prefer animals, and I am not a good man.” Gael wanted to refute that last part, but held her tongue, sensing there was more to come. Releasing her elbow but not stepping back, the man continued on grimly, “House Bolton is known for birthing monsters into the world, and I am not an exception. I would not make a good husband as I am certain to be cold and distant to my wife, something that I do not believe you deserve. There can be other solutions to helping you out of the Red Keep that is not marrying me, princess.”

“And if I can decide for myself what I deserve?” Gael asked back with a spark of defiance, tilting her chin up as she met his stare head on. There was a tremor under her skin, nerves prickling and heart pounding. Lord Bolton was terrifying, but he was a fear that she could easily conquer if given the opportunity. Already, Gael found him a good walking companion, as she stated to Rhaenys. She was certain that Lord Bolton was a monster to be preferred over anything her father could do to her.

A sharpness flickered through his eyes as he seemed to gaze into her soul. Lord Bolton was still as a statue, contemplating her words. Then, he let out a hard exhale through the nose, eyes closing in what looked to be defeat. “Your sister requested I help find a way to get you out of King’s Landing, when we met.”

That took Gael by surprise. “She did?”

“I do not like to lie, as I feel it is a waste of time and that sometimes the truth is far crueler than a lie could be. And I am not a good man, as I already have said. But I will tell you the truth now, not to harm, but to inform you. Your sister likely wished for me to marry you and take you North. I approached you in order to see if you were tolerable enough for me to complete such a task.”

It hurt to hear, Gael would not lie. It hurt to think that he did not spend time with her out of his own volition but because of her sister’s schemes. However, she preferred the truth, already having spent her life being coddled and spoken down to, lied to through smiling lips. Lord Bolton did not smile now, nor did he appear regretful over hurting her feelings. He was a harsh man, Gael knew that right away from just his house name alone. But a kind man does not need to be a good one. And he was kind with his blunt honesty, and so she swallowed down her hurt and replied with a shaking voice, “I am quite ignorant to the world beyond these walls. Even within the Red Keep, much of the darker aspects of the world is kept away from me, though I know they exist. But I’m a good listener, and I know that the world is cruel, that people are cruel. I know that a husband isn’t always a good one, and that a wife is property. So I will ask you this, Lord Bolton,” She took a deep breath to steal her nerves before asking firmly, “Would you harm me, should we marry? Would you raise a hand to me if I upset you? Would you forth babe after babe onto me until you got the children you wanted? Would I be trading one prison for the next, if I married you?”

“No.” Was Lord Bolton’s response. It was not spoken hastily, nor was there a hesitation. There was a pause as he took in her words before declaring his response with that same soft but chilling tone he always had. And Gael believed him.

Giving a curt nod, the princess declared, “Then you have permission to court me, as well as find a way to get my father to agree to our union. I warn you now, it is unlikely to be an easy feat.”

And a curl of the lips, an amused smirk that she had never seen before on his lips, changed his entire face. Lord Bolton went from a menacing lord to a cheeky young man in a split second as he murmured, “Do not worry, princess. Plans have been made and set in motion. You’ll get your freedom, I can guarantee you that.”

Hope burst in her chest. Gael felt a smile grow to match his smirk as she replied back, “I suppose you must call me Gael.”

“Then I am Diarmuid to you, Gael.” Voice so soft, it caressed her name and Gael felt herself falling.

Chapter Text

Called to stand before her father in the throne room, Gael stifled the urge to grasp her dress skirt and wrinkle the fabric. Instead, she followed Diarmuid’s example and tucked her hands behind her back, that way she could hide the way she wrung them anxiously. After the lord had been given her permission to court her, he had gone to her father to ask his not a day later. It was bold, but Gael did not expect less from the man.

But they were not the only ones to be summoned by the aging king. Mother was already there when Gael arrived last, standing to the left of the throne steps, Aemon to the right. Her brother looked discomforted, hand resting loosely on his sheathed sword, as if expecting a fight to break out. And before the royal monarchs and heir, stood Lord Bolton with the stance of a man not at all bothered by the king before him. They all turned her way when she entered the hall, and only her brother and Diarmuid offered her any sense of security.

Sharing a glance with Diarmuid, the pale eyes were calm, unafraid. So Gael knew she needed to be as well. Taking a deep breath in, the young princess curtsied low before her father, murmuring a soft greeting as manners dictated.

“So,” The man began from atop his throne, “You want to marry my daughter.” A statement that held a chilling undertone. Diarmuid gave a bow in return, answering easily without any stuttering or hesiation, “Yes, your grace.”

“What could the North want with my frailest of daughters?” The king asked, touch of derision that made Gael grit her teeth.

“Your last union with the North has not borne children. Lord Stark is not pleased.” Was the Bolton’s frank response, and Gael held back a wince at the reminder of Viserra’s odd marriage with the Lord Manderly. And the darkening look that overcame both of her parents’ faces made her want to duck and hide.

Hands clenching on the armrests of the throne, the king coldly responded, “And the North now makes demands.”

The Lord Bolton did not flinch from the chill of her father’s tone, staring unblinkingly back as he replied in the same flat voice, “Despite the North’s fealty, the largest kingdom under your rule has never been truly brought into the fold.” Diarmuid had no fear. Gael had only seen her eldest of brothers do the same, and even then they were still cautious with their wording. Her hopefully future husband did not tremble at the thought of death nor painful consequences and it set her heart racing out of both admiration and terror. Blessed Mother, let her father be merciful.

“And I should marry my daughter off to a servant of a servant?” Her father scoffed. The insult made Gael take a silent inhale in, eyes darting between the old man on the throne and her statue of a possible betrothed.

Pale eyes narrowed a fraction. Only Gael could notice, being as close to the young man as she was. He was insulted by her father’s words. Gael wanted to speak up to ease the tension, but held her tongue instead. “I would like to remind your grace that you are not the only royal blood of Westeros. Nor are you of a long reigning dynasty.”

The air from the room was sucked out, temperature dropping to freezing. Everyone stared at Lord Bolton, the guards gaping, Aemon’s brows raised in shock, and even her parents were stunned. However, the king regained his senses to glare down at Diarmuid, thundering, “Kings you may have all been, but you hold no crowns now. Watch your tongue boy, or you’ll lose it.”

“Then should it not be a good match that not only is your daughter marrying ancient royal blood, but that I will guarantee the union will result in children, thus tying the North to the throne.”

“The Boltons are still not Starks.” Her father scoffed derisively. Diarmuid tilted his head in concession to his observation, “No. But the Starks will have children. Children to marry to ours. It would also satisfy the Lord Stark of the trading deal.”

There was a long drawn period of silence, and Gael held back a flinch when her father’s eyes dragged her way. “And you wish to marry this man, Gael?” The sound of her name from his lips felt wrong. There was a curl to his tone, as if mocking her very existence. It made the low burning fire in her gut flare. She wanted to shout at him. Hurl insults to make up for all the casual cruelty her family had shown her all these years. But no, Gael had to be wise with her words, especially if she wanted to get her way and get out of the Red Keep.

Gael demurred, “I have been under your grace’s care for longer than some of the other women in our family. I must do my duty as princess to serve the throne. Lord Bolton has been generous enough to ask for my hand, an opportunity I feel will only benefit you, father.”

A rasping chuckle came from her father. The man leant forward in his throne to stare her down with eyes that glinted in amusement, “A wilting flower you may be, but you’re not as dull as I thought.”

The young princess ducked her head to feign bashfulness, hiding the frown that tried to dip her lips. “You are too kind, your grace.”

“Am I not your father, Gael?”

It was spoken lightly, as if he was doting upon her, but it made something within Gael freeze over. Her mind raced to find an acceptable answer that would not insult his power but also not dismiss him either. She was not made for these situations, Gael internally wept.

“You are, father.” Gael replied, and pulled on the imploring expression she had learnt to use on her mother in order to spend time by herself and not be so smothered. Eyes widening to show sincerity, the princess implored, “I had only wished to demonstrate my continuous respect for you and your power. I am only your youngest child, I do not hold much beyond what you give me.” It galled to remind her father how weak Gael was in comparison to him, but it needed to be done because the flattery and submission worked.

A tension to the corner of his eyes lessened as he nodded, “Very well then. You will be married to Lord Bolton.”

“Jaehaerys, you can’t!” Her mother quickly protested as Gael’s heart soared in triumph amidst her mother’s distraught, and with the plain upset on her face, her father seemed more inclined to support the marriage than he was before, if only to bring his wife some pain. Gael hated him. “She’s just a child!”

‘So was Aemma. So was Viserra too, by that logic.’ Gael thought darkly, doing her best to not narrow her eyes at her parents. How much she hated the hypocrisy of this family.

Her father brushed her mother off, going on to decide in that moment that the wedding would be in half a year’s time, so as not to overshadow Aemma’s upcoming labour. It gave Diarmuid enough time to return to the Dreadfort to prepare for Gael then come back again for the ceremony. Gael wished the time was shorter, wanting to be far from the Red Keep as soon as possible. However, concessions had to be made, and plenty of nobility would need to be invited.

Aemon approached Gael and Diarmuid as Alysanne continued to rail against this union, and gently ushered them out of the throne room with a grimace. As the doors shut behind them and their arguing parents, her brother shot Diarmuid an unreadable look before placing a gentle hand on Gael’s shoulder. Unlike when father did such a gesture, Aemon brought no discomfort, and the young princess leant into the touch as her brother spoke, “Mother will likely take awhile to come around to this decision. Perhaps it would be best you stayed in your own bedchambers?”

Though Gael wished to agree, she shook her head, “No matter how much I wish to, perhaps me staying with mother until the wedding would help ease her into the idea. You know she hasn’t been the same since Daella and Saera.”

Grimacing once more at the mention of their sisters, Aemon conceded and stepped back. He looked to Diarmuid once more to gravely say, “I do not know you, my lord, but my sister will be in your care soon. Do well in keeping her safe and happy, and we will not have a problem.”

The lord blinked slow like a lazy cat before responding in that soft voice of his, “It would not make much sense, marrying someone I would not want to care for.”

Aemon stared at Diarmuid long enough for Gael to worry her brother was going to start a fight, but then a smile cracked through his grim expression as he gave a short nod. “Good. Perhaps you two could sup with my daughter and I tonight. I would like to get to know my future good-brother.”

It was a gently spoken order so Diarmuid gave a bow in agreement, “I would be honored, my prince.”

Gael glanced between the pair, worrying her fingers again as she felt hope lift her heart. Her father was getting on in his years, which meant that soon Aemon would be king. To Gael, though they needed Jaehaery’s permission, it was Aemon’s approval that mattered more to her. She did not get to see her eldest brother often, but sometimes Gael envied Rhaenys for getting to have such a loving father.

With the betrothal announced before court, the keep was flooded with gossip and whispers, and Gael was suddenly under more speculation than ever before. It had her keeping to her mother’s bedchambers to hide from the attention, especially after Diarmuid departed.

When she saw her betrothed off, Aemon there as well to represent the king. The dinner they had shared three days before had done much in dimming any animosity her brother may have had for the lord, and the two clasped arms as the crown prince offered genuinely, “Safe travels, Lord Bolton. I would be greatly disappointed if all this work of trade deals and alliances falls through because you got thrown overboard.”

It made Diarmuid’s lip twitch at one corner, “I hold no control over the sea.”

“Die then.” Aemon japed, grinning and that elicited an actual breath of laughter from her betrothed, much to Gael’s shock and delight. She was smiling wide when Diarmuid turned to her. With pale eyes solely focused on her now, Gael felt her stomach fill with butterflies as she curtsied to him, “I hope our time apart goes by swiftly.”

Her cheeks flush when Diarmuid holds out a gloved hand, Gael happily placing her own gently onto it so that he may bend over and brush his lips against her knuckles. They were surprisingly warm. When his piercing gaze met hers from under dark lashes, Diarmuid murmured, “You are not alone in that sentiment, Gael.”

If Gael hadn’t already been hot in the cheeks, she certainly was now with how her name sound, curling on his tongue. “Diarmuid.” She breathed in return as he stepped back, releasing her hand. Her knuckles were scalding from the feather-light touch of his lips, a contrast to the cool and worn leather that left a phantom imprint on her skin. Gael dropped her hand to curl her fingers up into her palm to keep the sensation there.

With one last lingering look, the lord mounted his steed, offered a nod to both her and Aemon, before wheeling the horse around to lead his party out of the Red Keep courtyard. Heart bereft and leaving with Diarmuid, Gael let out a sad sigh, standing there until he was out of sight.

Beside her, Aemon chuckled, making her jump. Sending her a fond look, the man said, “I’m happy for you, Gael. I may not have picked him for a husband for you, but I think he will be good for you.”

A pleased flush on her face, Gael grabbed his hand and went up on to her toes to peck a kiss to his cheek. Beaming up at him, the princess chirped, “Me too.”

Aemma lost the child.

Gael sat by her bedside in determined vigil hours after the miscarriage, her niece nearly catatonic from where she was curled up on her side, back to the door. Viserys was behaving like he had been the one to suffer the loss, deep in his cups within Baelon’s rooms. The princess had no desire, however, to comfort her nephew, hating how he was far more upset by the miscarriage than the pain his wife was going through. Aemma was two years younger than Gael! She was a child herself.

Mother had offered some words and touches of comfort to the bereft Aemma, but soon left, with an expression filled with old grief. No doubt also thinking of her own pain, instead of focusing on poor Aemma.

But not Gael. She may not have gone through such tragedy personally, but she would not leave her niece alone. So she very firmly found herself for the following days within Aemma’s rooms, singing softly to the girl at times, or just holding her as she cried. She had demanded from Aemon that he keep Viserys away from the girl that first day. Her brother had blinked in surprise at the sharpness in Gael’s voice, having never heard her speak so coldly, but had solemnly agreed.

“Too young,” Aemon had murmured to her after complying with Gael, “I told mother she was too young, even after Viserys waited two years. She’s just a child.” And his voice had cracked on that last word. As a father to a daughter himself, he was likely picturing Rhaenys at that age.

A part of Gael felt a flare of vindication, seeing the guilt in her brother’s face. Men of this family tend not to care for the girls of it, and she was darkly pleased to note that he was deeply affected by this tragedy. But the larger part of her, the one that tried to be kind, especially to her favourite brother, had pressed a comforting hand to his arm.

“The best you can do now, brother, is to keep Viserys from Aemma’s bed. She needs to heal, she already had been born frail and now her body needs to recover.”

“Viserys does not even need an heir,” Aemon had sighed harshly, running a hand through his hair. “Baelon has been coming to me about how oddly insistent the boy has been about having a son. I don’t even understand why.”

Pursing her lips, Gael had glanced to the closed door of Aemma’s chambers, desperate to get back to her niece. She did not have time for men and their worries of heirs. Not now. So, Gael had curtly replied, “Then find out why, and put a stop to it.”

That had been her last demand of her brother before she sequestered herself away into Aemma’s chambers. The baby blanket she had been making was currently stuffed in the bottom of a trunk in her own chambers, not to be touched until after Aemma could give birth to a healthy child. Hopefully, that was not for a very long time. Instead, Gael spent her time reciting stories she memorised to Aemma, beginning to work on her wedding dress.

Mother had many ideas of what Gael was going to wear, but the princess had no desire for her mother to control such an important dress. Instead, she had managed to get her mother focusing on the Maiden’s Cloak, citing that it needed some mending. Though mother had given her a sharp look, spotting the weak manipulation, the woman had agreed to do so. Especially after Gael gave her permission to plan everything else about the wedding. Gael did not care if she was married in the middle of the Flea Bottom, as long as she was leaving the Red Keep.

“I hope he is kind to you.”

Aemma’s rasping voice, four days into Gael’s dogged vigil over her health, had startled the princess out of her planning. She had been inspecting swatches of fabrics that the royal seamstress had provided for her, idling over clippings of velvet and silk.

Setting it all aside immediately, Gael turned her sole attention to Aemma, “Who, sweet niece?”

Sniffling, the pale girl darted red-rimmed eyes her ways as she clarified softly, “Your husband. I hope he is kind to you.”

A cold chill ran down her spine, warring with the flare of rage in her chest. Grasping the girl’s hand, Gael laid down next to Aemma as she informed her, “Aemon will speak with Baelon. I demanded that Viserys leave you alone, and I pray he does so for a very long time, Aemma.”

Aemma curled further into herself. “And if he doesn’t?”

Odd how rage had only been a recent emotion she had become acquainted with, but was so easy to feel these days. “Then I will demand you come visit me in the North.” Gael declared firmly, uncaring if Diarmuid would be pleased or not. This was Aemma, someone she liked to think of as a little sister, someone she needed to watch over, even with her meager power. Reaching out to lightly tug the girl into her arms, Gael stroked her hair as she vowed, “I will protect you there. Say the word and I’ll have all the Bolton soldiers come to escort you.”

With a wet, choked laugh, Aemma buried her face into Gael’s chest and began to let out heaving sobs. Tears of sympathy pooled in the princess’ eyes as she held the girl through her anguish.

Viserra’s arrival was both an unexpected but joyous occasion. For Gael, at the very least. Her older sister came riding into the Red Keep with a small host of Manderly soldiers and knights. With her back straight, head held high, and silver hair loose and billowing in the wind, Gael could see Viserra as a queen.

But that was not her sister’s fate. Instead, she married a good man and the richest lord in the North. Gael could not be more happier for her sister. Aemon and Baelon, as well as his sons, were there to greet the returning princess, but none were the first that Viserra greeted.

Dismounting, Viserra called out, “Gael!” Smile wide as she raced over to the youngest princess, ignoring any formality that was demanded of their station to swoop her up into a tight embrace. Laughing brightly, Gael returned the hug, relieved to have her sister back once again.

When Viserra pulled back, her violet eyes were brighter than the last time Gael had seen them. She was also taller too. Cupping her cheeks, her older sister cooed, “Look how much you’ve grown!”

“I see where we stand in your affections.” Baelon japed from the side, and Viserra’s happy expression seemed to falter at the sight of the brother she had once desired to marry for power, back when they had thought Aemon might die in battle. Then, she gave him a smirk that to Gael knew was false as Viserra drawled, “Gael has always been my favourite, don’t be so surprised, brother.”

Aemon chuckled, stepping closer with his arms out stretched, and Viserra’s smirk became a genuine smile once more as she hugged the eldest Targaryen sibling, “I have missed you, Viserra.” The man murmured sincerely.

Now, having seen the reaction to Baelon, Gael found herself scrutinising her sister as the young woman went about greeting their nephews next. Once again, there was a tightness to her smile even as her voice rang genuine. The youngest princess decided that she needed to get her sister alone, to figure out what had changed.

Obviously, her time in White Harbour and married to Lord Manderly had done much in calming down the wildness that Gael only vaguely recalled from their childhood. Before she was married off, Viserra only interacted with Gael in small moments when mother was not hovering and demanding her youngest daughter’s presence. And in those moments, Gael saw someone far different from what the rest of the world was presented: Viserra was a scared girl.

Scared like any girl in the world would be, especially one that got so much attention. Sure, Viserra leant into that, Gael recalling the way she would send coy glances to the squires and knights and young lords. But like how she greeted Baelon and his sons, there was a lacking of sincerity.

Viserra, after marrying Lord Manderly and leaving the Red Keep, had not sent Gael any letters. Not until nearly two years after her departure. In them, words of apologies, of hesitant affection, and subtle questions of concerns, sank in the ink. It took ages for Gael to dissect the swimming letters to understand the letters, but it filled the girl with warmth, knowing family that didn’t live in the Red Keep actually still thought of her, even when she wasn’t the trailing shadows of the brighter Targaryen siblings.

If Gael must describe herself and her siblings, she found them all to be either like the sun or the moon. They were bright, they were ever present and ever acknowledged. Herself, she found to be an invisible breeze, barely there and only noticed when felt against the skin. Gael was a ghost that haunted the Red Keep, and no one even had the decency to have killed her and held a funeral before hand.

What was the point of a living ghost?

Such melancholic thoughts dared to cloud her mind the rest of the day, but Viserra’s sunlight broke through the haze by demanding they have tea together in the gardens. With a hesitant smile, Gael had agreed, but only if Aemma joined them.

“Of course.” Viserra nodded, striding into the keep with her guards behind her. Leaving her sister to get settled – and greet their parents in the throne room with Aemon – Gael began to organise the set up of their gathering, requesting a table and three chairs to be brought to the willow tree. It was a private place, and the lack of bushes surrounding it made it difficult for people to eavesdrop without being in clear view of them. Plus, the fond memories of Diarmuid there made her happier.

Aemma only needed some cajoling to leave her room, coming onto the second week after her miscarriage. The girl had managed to carry the child until the seventh moon, longer than many had expected for someone so young. That meant the babe had been nearly fully formed upon expelling itself from her fragile body, a horrifying sight for poor Aemma.

It made Gael think of her own future pregnancies. How soon would it take for her to quicken with a child after the wedding? A thought made her flush only a little, as she laced an arm through Aemma’s, guiding the girl to the garden in silence. Gael would not call herself completely ignorant to how a child was created, but there was much that was unknown to her when it came to that part of a relationship with one’s husband. But all of that was overshadowed by the fear of losing the child, of dying in the birthing chamber. The women in her family did not seem to have much luck when it came to childbirth, and Gael prayed she would not be another victim to that curse.

When Viserra joined them, it was with her guards, who fanned themselves around in a distant perimeter, further providing them security from those wishing to listen in. There was also a sour expression on her sister’s face as she – in a surprising show of inelegance – dropped herself down in the remaining chair and declared, “I hate father.”

Thankfully, it was not spoke loudly, but Gael still shushed her, even when it drew a startled laugh from Aemma. Shooting the youngest of the trio a soft smile, Viserra continued on promptly, “Honestly, Gael, I think the only thing I can truly thank him for was marrying me to Theomore. Leaving the Red Keep was the greatest thing to happen to me.”

And Gael, who was looking forward to her own departure, reached out to grasp her hand, “I’m glad for you, sister.”

They shared a smile as Aemma murmured softly, “I miss the Eyrie.”

A pained expression settled over Viserra’s beautiful features, sure to be mirrored in Gael’s own, as the eldest of them quietly suggested, “Perhaps you could go visit. Seeing your family might help your recovery.”

However, both Gael and Aemma shook their heads. “Mother would not allow it,” The youngest Targaryen sibling confided, “She’s become far more...unstable, in these last few years. And with me leaving soon, I don’t think she would handle Aemma as well.”

“Not like she talks to me much anyway.” Aemma mumbled glumly, picking at her lemon cake.

Grimacing, Gael continued to Viserra, “I’ve managed to get Aemon to order Viserys from Aemma’s bed, and our nephew is not too happy about that. It would get far more worse if Aemma leaves to the Vale without him by her side.”

With a disgusted scoff, Viserra takes a large bite of her cake before replying around her mouthful, “Viserys is a pig. And so is Daemon. They walk around like they have cocks the size of horses.”

Gael choked on her tea as Aemma let out a bark of surprised laughter, before clapping a hand over her mouth. Wide eyed, the girl stared at Viserra like she spoke the word of the Seven themselves as Gael wheezed, “Viserra! You can’t say that!”

“And why not?” Viserra shot back, smug, “I’m not wrong. Truly, even with that short meeting, I know those two boys have more pride than common sense. Maybe I can suggest sending one off to the Wall…” She mused to herself, and Gael shook her head, exasperated.

“You’ve only changed a little, sister, as you’re still as willful as I recall.”

Pleased, Viserra shoved another bite of cake into her mouth, “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now,” She leant in eagerly, “What do you think of Lord Bolton?”

Face heating up rapidly, Gael ducked her gaze as she quietly offered, “He’s kind.”

“’Kind’!?” Her sister exclaimed, “In what world is a Bolton ‘kind’!?”

Shushing her – and giving her arm a small smack – Gael chided her, “Diarmuid-”

“He lets you use his name!?”

“-Showed perfect courtesy during his stay,” Forged on the younger sister over the top of Viserra’s dramatics, “And had been ever so kind to me. I am hopeful for our marriage.”

Even though she seemed quite confounded by Gael’s words, Viserra still leant back in her seat with an accepting nod. “I’ll admit, he’s certainly a polite man. Never rude, though he would need to speak more than a single sentence to do so.”

Recalling the short words of judgment of nobles and they horrendous choices of fashion during their works, Gael smirked over the rim of her cup at her sister, saying nothing in response. Viserra narrowed her eyes, “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing of consequence, dearest sister.”

Rolling her eyes, Viserra muttered something too soft under her breath that neither Gael nor Aemma caught, but from there the conversation flowed into wedding planning. Her sister did not seem impressed that she handed most of it over to mother, but was satisfied with Gael’s explanation that she managed to get total control over her dress in doing so.

“He’s a Bolton,” Viserra said, sipping her tea, “From what Theomore has said, that House is not interested in typical beauty.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well…” Viserra considered for a second, “I suppose there must be beauty in violence and gore. Very grotesque, if you as me, but this is from the House with a history of flaying enemies.”

“Our ancestors burnt people alive.” Gael pointed out, though she found herself starting to rethink her dress ideas. What would be attractive to a man who spoke in violence?

“Both Houses have a long history of blood.” Aemma quietly spoke up, having been silent for a long time. Gael did not expect the girl to speak much during this meeting, only wanting to provide some company and not leave the child alone. However, it was still always nice to hear her talk, and both sisters turned their attention to her immediately.

Fiddling with her desert fork, Aemma continued on to say, “Your wedding dress doesn’t need to be completely white. Right?”

A mischievous smile crept up onto Viserra’s lips as Gael and her locked gaze. The younger of the two was sure they were thinking the same thing as the eldest wondered with a hint of a drawl, “Think mother’s heart would stop beating if you turned up to your wedding covered in blood?”

Unable to stop her snickering, Gael earnestly replied, “I’m so happy to see you again, Viserra.”

Gael left the dyeing of fabric to the experts after giving them detailed instructions of what she wanted, instead focusing on the white bodice. Macabre would be the best word to describe the vision the three females had in mind, Aemma’s eyes having a little bit of light returning to them after being asked assist with the embroidery. It might also help that Viserra had joined in on the task of keeping Visery’s from the girl. What ever she might have said to their nephew left the young man paling face anytime Viserra was in the same vicinity as him, fleeing the room as soon as he could. The dark, pleased smirk on her sister’s face had Gael deciding to not question what she had done to him.

Aemon had also had a room near to his apartments – and where Rhaenys would stay when she wasn’t with Corlys on Driftmark – set up for Aemma so she did not have to share with her husband. The ensuing argument that cut through the family was horrendous, but father seemed to not even care about the divide, focusing his attention on the Seven Kingdoms. Or, at least, that was what Gael had thought until Aemon had quietly divulged to her one evening when they were having a private meal with Viserra and Aemma.

He had pulled her aside as Aemma distracted Viserra with a book she was reading. “Father is growing sicker.”

There was a grimness to his expression, but hardly any grief. A curious thing that Gael noted to herself as she replied softly but pointedly, “I did not even know he was ailing, brother.”

Aemon’s eyes darted to the side, towards the other two occupants, before back to Gael. Now, she could see grief in his eyes but the youngest sister had a suspicion that it was not for their father. “It has been kept under wraps, we did not wish to cause a stir. However, other topics of...importance, have come to light. The gods may look down upon those who find joy in the coming death of a family member, but I am relieved to know he does not have very long left.”

Gael could not find it in her to protest, just on precedence alone. She could still feel those phantom trails of a hand on her lower back, briefly caressing her neck. Barely there touches, but enough to send a shiver down her spine at recalling them. And as if reading all that in her expression, Aemon frowned deeply.

“You are not the only one, Gael, of your sisters to come under father’s particular attentions. Saera was one of his favourites. So was Daella, and Viserra. I-” He cut himself off, an anger self-directed that had Gael reaching out to grasp his hand tentatively. The fist unfurled to hold her as he let out a heavy breath. “I could not do much, but I can do something now. I promise,” His lavender eyes were fierce in their gaze as he vowed, “I will do all that I can to protect what is left of our family.”

There was a heaviness to his words, something ominous ringing in them. Gael thought about her ailing father, thought about how supportive Aemon had been with Viserra marrying Lord Manderly, the princess far from the Red Keep. She thought about how Aemon had spoken in favour of Diarmuid marrying her, and let herself smile gently.

“You’ve done more than most would expect of you, brother. Thank you.”

“I have plans,” He confessed, serious, “Laws to be over written or put into place. I refuse to have our family become any further tarnished by the mistakes of our parents.”

“I believe you.” Gael encouraged, squeezing his hand and flashing him a bright smile.

A letter had arrive for Gael, three moons after she was engaged, and half-way through the preparations of her wedding. With Viserra in King’s Landing, no one else could be sending her a letter. Except for Diarmuid.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, a smile already on her face as she broke the wax seal and eagerly began to read the letter. Like with Viserra’s, Diarmuid had made sure the letters were clearly written, though as always, they still tried to swim from the page.

Gael,

You know I am not a man of many words, which translates onto parchment as well, so I will keep this letter short.

I await our impending marriage with anticipation I’m not used to experiencing.

I have included a gift. Please wear it.

D ia rmuid.

It was the shortest letter Gael had ever received. She was certain she was swooning, especially after she opened up the envelope to find the gift he had mentioned. It was a long hair stick. A sun-bleached bone with a carved dragon etched deep into the surface. Cheeks hurting from how hard she was smiling, Gael quickly took out her braid and twisted her hair up with Diarmuid’s gift.

Though the white of the bone meant it was nearly hidden in the similar shade of her hair, Gael was still giddy from receiving such a beautiful present. She later on showed it off to Viserra as they were sharing a meal together, as well as the letter. Her sister was not as impressed with what Diarmuid had written.

“He’s not very romantic, is he?” Her face twisted up, unmoved by Diarmuid’s words. It made Gael shoot her a scowl, snatching the letter back.

“It’s actually very romantic,” She argued back with a huff, “He didn’t even need to write me a letter, but he did. It’s the effort that counts. Besides, didn’t you see what he wrote? I’m making him feel things he’s not used to feeling.”

Viserra made an ‘If you’re sure’ expression as she sipped her tea, obviously not believing the younger sister’s words. Gael glared as she pressed the letter to her chest, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not marrying him, then. Hm?”

Her sister broke into a teasing smile as she nudged Gael, “He’s an odd man, but I am happy for you, Gael. Truly.”

Pleased to have her sister’s approval, they turned to the topic of her dress. Viserra did not enjoy embroidery, not the way Gael did, but she still had a talent with a needle, and was kind enough to put that skill to use as they – Aemma included – worked on the very detailed designs across the whole dress. It was the combination of all their lessons from the diligent Septa of their youth that allowed the result of such a glorious creation for the day of her wedding to be completed in a timely manner.

The Northern party had arrived together, a solemn and grim mark upon the cheerful Southern lords. Grimness came naturally to them, and Gael would not have it any other way. They had arrived only but a week before the ceremony, which had sent mother into a tizzy, not happy with how ‘late’ they were according to her schedule.

Gael, however, had been there when the runner had arrived in the midst of their afternoon meal, informing them of the Northern delegation's ships docking, the young man panting as he told the family. Father had huffed as he stood up shakily – health truly beginning to escape the man over the past moons as Aemon had stated – demanding, “Have them sent to the throne room.”

Brimming with excitement, Gael barely waited for the man to hobble off out the door before she was running past him, ignoring the calls of her name in varying degrees of amusement or indignation. Racing through the halls, face already beginning to ache with how wide she was smiling, Gael was scooping up the skirts of her dress to take the stairs as fast as possible. When she reached the castle entrance, she basically jumped the last five steps onto the courtyard ground.

Panting, Gael hastily brushed away fly-aways from her face, tucking those pieces of hair as best as she could into her simple braid. Then, she decided to undo the braid entirely, running her fingers through it to neaten the wavy mess, before tugging out the hair pin from her dress pocket. She never went anywhere without it, even if it wasn’t needed in her hair. Now, she hastily twisted her hair up in to a half-top knot, the pin proudly on display. And as the sound of hooves began to thunder closer, Gael had enough time to fix her skirts of her pale blue dress and stand up straight, trying to project the air of a calm and demure princess.

That disappeared the second she spotted Diarmuid riding near the front of the party between the guards, her polite smile breaking into a grin once more. And maybe it was just her mind playing tricks, but Gael could have sworn she saw the lord’s lips tilt up themselves at the sight of her.

Dragging her gaze from her soon-to-be husband, Gael took in the different house sigils, and mentally noted the Stark Direwolf, Manderly Mermaid, the Bolton Flayed Man, the Ryswell Horse, the Hornwood Moose, and the Glover Mailed Fist. A large turn-out for her wedding, and Gael couldn’t stop how flushed she became, pleased.

Trying not the bounce on the balls of her feet as the horses came to a halt and stable hands rushing out to gather reins, Gael bit her lip to suppress her smile as she dipped into a curtsy, greeting the delegation, “Welcome to the Red Keep, my lords and ladies.”

When she straightened up, the Lord Stark approached her first, “Well met, Princess Gael.” He dipped into a low bow, the other Northern Lords and Ladies doing so as well. They all appeared to be eyeing her, Gael unable to pinpoint the emotions across their faces, and prayed they did not find her wanting.

When they straightened up, the princess informed them after taking a fortifying few breaths, “The King is expecting a more formal greeting within the throne room. I will have servants deliver your luggage to your rooms. If you would follow me, please?”

With curt nods and murmurs of agreement, Gael let her eyes flick once more over to Diarmuid before turning and leading them into the keep. Aemon met them on their way to father, her brother slipping easily into the perfect host as he began to talk with Lord Stark. In doing so, Gael fell back a few steps as Diarmuid quickened his, the pair now walking next to one another.

Flushing, Gael looked over at him, and felt her heart flutter. His pale eyes were as arresting as ever, dark hair in neat, short waves as he met her gaze. Once more, she saw that twitch of his lips, and she bit hers again, smothering the excited smile that wanted to break through. Lessons as a child demanded she showed more control and propriety, but Gael wanted to throw those teachings away. She was getting married! She was leaving the Red Keep, and she was going to finally make a life for herself away from her family.

“Hello, Diarmuid.” Gael finally spoke to him, voice quiet to not be overheard.

A leather covered hand brushed against the back of hers in greeting, “Gael.” He murmured with a light dip of his head. Heart leaping at the sound of his voice, at the way his lips moved with the call of her name, the princess’ face was burning by the time they reached the throne room door.

Pausing outside of it and stepping to the side to allow for the North’s party to enter, Diarmuid lingered for a moment, moving to stand in front of her. Eyes wide as she tilted her head back to stare up at him, Gael’s breath hitched when his gloved hand reached up to brush a stray hair from her face. Then, she observed his pale eyes lock on the hair pin he had given her.

There was a moment where Gael was certain that Diarmuid was genuinely caught off guard at the fact that she was actually wearing the gift. Then, his eyes crinkled in pleasure as he captured one of her hands to bring up to his lips. Once more, there was that burning sensation that leapt through her blood as the touch of his lips lingered like a ghost before he backed up and left without a word.

The silent exchange held far more weight than a conversation could have between them, and clutching her kissed hand to her chest, Gael had to take some very deep, long breaths to steady herself, light-headed from the full attention of her betrothed. Then, as the sound of the lords and ladies greeting her father began to filter through the open door, Gael decided to hurry back to her rooms. She needed some time to make sure she wasn’t going to be an entirely flustered mess when the Northern lords dined with them tonight.

The wedding could not come quick enough, Gael spending most of her time on last minute changes and additions to her dress, wanting it to be as perfect as possible. And when she was not in her room doing so, surrounded by the women of her family who had come for the wedding, Gael was taking strolls with Diarmuid through the garden. They were just as they were before, though now Gael was full of giddy energy with the upcoming ceremony.

On one such stroll, two days before the wedding, Diarmuid paused on their walk through the small hedge maze. In such privacy – guards a far distance enough to afford them that illusion – the lord spoke freely, “I want to address the topic of heirs.”

Blinking, Gael nodded slowly, “Will you be wanting one as soon as possible?” It would not be so unusual for a man how had recently come into his lordship.

“No.” Diarmuid said bluntly, startling her. Before she could inquire, the man was already elaborating in that typical, succinct way of his, “You’re too young to safely carry a child. The Targaryen women have already shown how dangerous having a child can be, and I’ve been made aware of the danger of have a babe when the mother is young herself. We will wait until you are eight and ten.”

Pursing her lips to turn his words over in her head instead of arguing immediately, Gael turned forward to continue their walk. There was a moment of hesitation before Diarmuid was following along behind her, long legs and strides catching up after a few paces.

There was a part of her that was relieved that she would not be pressured to give him heirs immediately, that demanding weight lifted from her shoulders. On top of that, Gael was heartened to hear that Diarmuid was more concerned for her health than need to have children, that she would not become like Aemma. On the other hand, her father was promised children to solidify the alliance between the North and the Targaryens. She would go three years without having children, when typically a year or two was granted before pressure began to build. Then again, Aemon had promised father’s death was in the near future, so Gael likely did not need to concern herself about that pressure of duty. And Gael would be in the North, untouchable and safe from her ailing parents. Her oldest brother would not harm her, the princess was certain of that. And it was not like she was Viserra, Gael was going to provide heirs for House Bolton.

There was also that small part of her that ignited like a spark. She did not know how she felt, hearing him firmly decide for her, without sounding willing to be moved on the topic. But, Gael tried to rationalise that Diarmuid was showing that he cared, in his own, abrasive way.

“Thank you,” Gael finally spoke up after gathering her thoughts and feeling on the matter, “Your consideration means more to me than you know.”

“Your niece lost her child.” Diarmuid stated. The short sentence held an entire monologue of information on why he was right.

Letting out a sad sigh, the princess divulged , “Visery’s married her at one and ten, and promised to not touch her until she was three and ten. She lost the child, and I’ve ordered Aemon to keep Viserys from touching Aemma. She needs to recover, and she needs to be older until she can safely have a child, as you’ve said.”

There was still the mystery of why Viserys was so desperate to have an heir, when he wasn’t even second in line to the throne. He wouldn’t even be a contender unless Aemon, Rhaenys, Laena, and then Baelon all died first. From some of the furious and hushed conversations she had spotted from time to time during family gatherings, it was still a point of contention but none of her older brothers have revealed to her on Viserys’ reasoning, if they have learnt it.

Taking a breath, Gael paused to turn and face Diarmuid, the man mirroring her a second after, as if he was attuned to her motions perfectly. With a burning courage in her chest, knowing the request could be unwanted, Gael grasped his leather-covered hands and pleaded, “Let me bring Aemma with me. Mother would be upset, but I do not care. She is a sister to me, and I could not bear to leave her alone in the Red Keep. Aemon does all that he can, along with Baelon, but they will never be enough. I could have her as one of my ladies-in-waiting. Please, I won’t ask for anything-”

“Do not beg.”

Diarmuid cut her off, quiet but firm. Gael’s mouth clicked shut as her cheeks burnt, embarrassed and ducking her head down. “Apologies, my lord.”

At her whispered words, the hands in hers tightened before one slipped out of her grasp. It tucked under her chin, drawing her gaze back up to meet Diarmuid’s. There was complicated emotions running in those pale irises, and she could nearly get lost in the clouds of them if her emotions weren’t in turmoil.

“You have done nothing to beg forgiveness for.” The cool tone of his words lacked any tightness she had learnt to recognise as annoyance in the time they have shared together, and her taut body released some of its tension as he continued on, “You care for your family. That is a credit to your person. Your niece may join your household.”

Hope rising, Gael’s mouth lifted in a surprised smile, “Truly, my lord?”

“Diarmuid.” He corrected her.

“Of course,” The princess agreed, smiled softening, “I just did not wish to overstep.”

“You are to be my wife. I am to take care of you. Whatever you may need, you are always welcome to ask. If I deem it unacceptable, I will explain why. Understood?”

‘So curt and serious,’ Gael thought fondly as she nodded in understanding. “I will make sure my requests are not so ridiculous.”

“Much appreciated,” Diarmuid drawled, and she giggled, picking up his teasing tone. With the solemn topics addressed and sorted, Gael felt brave enough to wrap her hand around his arm, and he bent it in silent offer for her to have a more comfortable hold. Closer now, her shoulder brushing against him as they walked, the pair fell back into a pleasant silence as they continued their walk.

“Wow…” Viserra breathed out, stepping back from where she had finished adjusting the sleeves on Gael. Aemma was grinning wide from where she was stood next to the mirror, eyes glimmering as she agreed, “You look beautiful, Gael.”

And Gael had to agree, staring at her reflection.

Macabre and grotesque w ere the words they had used when first designing the wedding dress as inspiration , and it took nearly half a year of pain-staking detail and aching fingers to achieve that goal. The dress was a mixture of white fabrics, under layer of cotton to go against the skin, with another later of satin, to then have tulle draped over that. It made the crimson dye and embroidery stand out so starkly that Gael truly looked as if she was covered in blood.

With the clever use of unspun wool, they used strips of fabric to mimic a skeleton , the wool stuffed under it before it was stitched down, making the false bones stand out in the shape of a rib cage . Then, creating the illusion of more depth than was actually there, clever embroidery with varying shades of red was used. It was as if her entire torso had been ripped open, revealing her rib s as the blood pooled down the skirts.

The expert dyers had done as she requested, a wide trail of blood coming down from where the bodice connected to the rest of the dress, before fully soaking the white fabric red, as if Gael had walked through a pool of blood. The dress’ short train was equally drenched in that dark maroon, an ombr é effect of it darkening the further down the dye went . Beading of rubies and garnets, with speckling of onyx, made it glint and shine like it was freshly soaked, additional red threads were added to create a splattering effect.

Her white sleeves billow ed out before cuffing at her wrists. Said cuffs had tiny dragons curled around them, the red and black vibrant against the white. The neck of the dress went up high, lines of pink and red thread to copy the way the muscles of the body would form. Her entire dress was as if she was flayed open, and hours of studying diagrams from the Grand Maester’s tomes had been worth the eye aches in managing to create such gory realism .

Her hair was done up in an elaborate bun, pins of opals and pearls added in to make her silver hair twinkle when the light caught the gems , with Diarmuid’s gift slipped into its place of pride. Simple in appearance in an effort to not detract from the dress, with diamond earrings dangling in the same shade of Bolton pink as her only piece of jewelry on her person.

Running her hands gently along her bodice, feeling the extra definition of the false ribs smooth in comparison to the threads and beads, Gael turned to present her back to the mirror, glancing over her shoulder. In similar fashion to the ribs, the detailed spine that ran from the base of her skull, down her bodice and a little bit onto her skirt was mesmerising, the rib cage wrapping around the back to connect in the way it would do so within the body. The skirts bunched up on either side of the tail end, defining it further.

W hen she faced back to the mirror, Gael looked to her awe-struck sister and niece, “Do you think he will approve?”

“He’d be an idiot to not to.” Viserra weakly joked.

The younger sister frowned, stepping closer, concerned. “Are you well, sister?”

Then, to the surprise of both Gael and Aemma, Viserra choked up, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as she struggled to blink away tears. “Y-you just look so beautiful, Gael. I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

Softening as she felt her own tears prick in her eyes, Gael gently pulled the hand from Viserra’s face away, grasping it as she reached out with her other one to take Aemma’s small hand. Looking between the both of them, Gael said, “Thank you, both of you. These last few years have been made bearable between you two. Viserra with your letters, and Aemma with your company. I love you both so dearly, and no distance will take that away.”

The three shared a tearful embrace, arms tangling together. As they parted, there was a knock before Gael’s mother entered. The older woman had barely closed the door behind her before she was freezing at the sight of her youngest child.

A tiny voice in her head told Gael that she should feel ashamed or embarrassed to wear something so morbid for her own wedding. Then, the rest of herself decided that was stupid. Her dress was a work of art, and it didn’t matter if no one else liked, Gael loved it. And she was certain Diarmuid would as well. Though he had never been never cruel to her, he was a Bolton through and through, and violence was a language he spoke far more fluent ly than Westerosi. Gael was determined to speak that language in the best ways she knew how.

She was still a Targaryen too, and blood was something they dealt in plenty.

There was a myriad of emotions flickering across her mother’s face. A few, Gael could spot: grief, distaste, uncertainty, fear. The rest, she struggled to comprehend. After all, Alysanne Targaryen had never looked at Gael with pride.

Then, the queen tilted her chin up, emotions tucked away behind a marble mask despite her violet eyes still swimming with turmoil, and approached Gael. Practically holding her breath, awaiting for her mother’s opinion, Gael stepped away from Aemma and Viserra to meet her half-way.

Alysanne was a tall woman, and when Gael tilted her gaze up to meet her mother’s f ear lessly, she did not feel small in the queen’s presence. And the older woman noticed that. Wrinkled hands cupped her face after a moment of hesitation , the touch warm as the thumbs brushed over her cheek bones.

“You wear the Flayed Man well, Gael,” Her mother finally spoke, “But do not forget you are still a dragon.” The praise lit a fire within the young princess, and she smiled brightly.

“I won’t, mother.”

Lips were pressed to her forehead, the touch reverent and Gael felt as if she was finally given her mother’s approval and blessing for this union. In the past half year her mother had been nothing but displeased by Gael’s impending marriage, railing against father like she had never seen before. For so long, Alysanne Targaryen was a frightened woman, staying far from court and her husband as much as she could, protecting Gael in the way a bird tried to protect its eggs from a horde of cats: futile.

Now, it was like the grief her mother had worn like a S epta’s headscarf was peeled away. Strength returned, Gael decided she preferred this version of her mother.

“Now,” Mother continued, glancing to Viserra and Aemma, “We must begin to the Sept. Let us escort Gael, we have a wedding to get to.”

T he Royal Sept was one Gael had visited infrequently. The gods had no draw for her, Gael preferring the open gardens over the altars and its thick incense. She always felt about ready to burst out of her dresses anytime she was there. Years of being confined to the Red Keep meant that the Royal Sept was like a cage within a cage, and Gael did not wish to feel further trapped than she already was.

However, for the first time that Gael enter ed the Sept – brought to a side chamber before she was to be walked down the aisle – the princess did not shudder. Instead, she took a breath of that choking smoke and felt free. In the North, they did not have Septs, besides the one in White Harbour. She would never have to return to a place where her faith could not find something to latch on to. Instead, Gael would be released to the open skies and endless stretch of lands of the North, and find freedom there.

Her mind drifted to what the North would look like come her arrival to the Dreadfort as mother and her sister fussed with her dress and hair last minute. Aemma was sat on a stool, watching her with a sad, longing look in her eyes, and Gael felt a rush of sympathy. Her niece had been terrified for her wedding, had confessed her reluctance to be bound to Viserys, and Gael twisted with regret that she could not have done anything to protect the girl then.

But she could do something about it now.

“Mother,” Gael spoke up, gaining the woman’s attention, “I would take Aemma with me as my lady-in-waiting when I leave to the North.”

Alysanne’s mouth twisted with disapproval. Viserra quickly piped up before their mother could voice her disagreement, “Yes, mother! Aemma would do well in the North. I found that the cold weather was very bracing for my health.”

“And Diarmuid has agreed, and I’m sure to be lonely without any family with me so far from the Red Keep-”

Mother held up her hand, the silent command quieting the sisters in their badgering. With sharp eyes, the woman glanced between the two of them, before turning to Aemma, who wilted under the Queen’s attention.

“Do you wish to go to the North with your aunt, Aemma?”

Lavender eyes went wide as Gael’s niece ducked her head, staying silent. Then, Gael watched as courage began to bloom in the girl, Aemma taking a deep breath before meeting the Queen’s gaze once more. “Yes, your grace. I want to go with Gael.”

Pursing her lips, Alysanne observed the girl for a long drawn moment, tension rising within the room, before giving a curt nod. “Very well. I expect you to return to the Red Keep when you feel stronger. Understood?”

“Yes, your grace.”

With another sharp nod, Alysanne turned to Gael, “You will take care of your niece. She may go to be part of your household, but she is still yours to look after. Understood, Gael?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Good. Now, I will check to see if they are ready for you.”

Mother swept out of the room, and the three remaining occupants let out breaths of relief. Then, Aemma rushed over to give Gael a tight hug, “Thank you, Auntie!”

Pressing a kiss to the girl’s crown, the older of the pair murmured softly, “Of course, sweet niece. Anything for you.”

The ceremony was nearly a blur, Gael almost missing her cues to speak. She was instead lost in the blinding joy of marrying Diarmuid. The weight of his cloak on her shoulders, the press of his lips against hers, it was everything she had wanted. And so caught up in the euphoria, the youngest princess was startled when suddenly the long ceremony was over and they were gathering to the feast.

Gael was endlessly grateful for whatever machinations Aemon had playing in the background of her life. For that meant that her father was too sick to walk her down the aisle, meaning that she did not have to be near the man at all on what was the happiest moment of her life so far.

She practically floated into the Throne Room after the ceremony , tables now lining the chamber, food set out for the feasting as the highborn found seats and began to eat. Sat at the high table, for once in the centre, Gael did not care much of her father sitting to her right, distracting herself by turn ing towards her new husband as they ate, back to the king . However, she noticed immediately – and she was sure many others too – how sickly the king’s appearance was. Though Gael was certain only she noticed the flash of satisfaction in Aemon’s eyes as he sat down beside the man.

Then, deciding Gael wanted to enjoy her wedding, she ignored all the silent games and glances being played from that moment onward, eating the delicious feast provided and flushing when she was pleasantly surprised by Diarmuid’s offer to dance.

All in all, the feast was a lso a blurring of conversation in the candle light , highborns coming up to congratulate the couple – and Gael steadfast pretended like she did not hear any hidden insults, though Diarmuid likely would remember them clearly going by the slight arch in his brow when he detected one – and even more dancing. Diarmuid did not seem particularly fond of it so she only made him suffer through three dances. The rest were given over to Aemon and Baelon, as well as a few turns with Viserra and Aemma.

This all meant, as she was riding on the wings of her happiness, that Gael was abruptly dragged back down when there was a call for the bedding. It was already getting quite late into the festivities so it was of no surprise the guests wanted more entertainment beyond the court jester and the bards. Startled as she was finishing up a bite of her lemon cake, Gael whipped her head around to her mother in a panic, who had been sat on Diarmuid’s other side.

The chair for her father was empty, the king having retired at least an hour ago, which meant that her mother was the next in power. Meeting her fearful mother’s gaze over her new husband’s empty chair – the man having gone down to visit the table with the Northern party – the queen pursed her lips. The expression was as if to say ‘be strong and it will be over quickly ’ .

Gael did not like that at all , and searched for help in Aemon. Seeing her panicking, the heir to the throne stood up to speak over the drunken excitement, only for another voice to speak first.

“Unless someone desires to lose their hands, there will be no bedding ceremony.”

It was the loudest Gael had ever heard Diarmuid speak, turning to find him standing near his bannermen and allies. I t was not a shout he spoke with, even as his words rang out around the room that quickly went silent, as Diarmuid was not a man to raise his voice. It was with a sharpness that carried the threat, a promise he was not afraid to fulfill . Col d , pale eyes surveyed the lords as if they were prey, unsettling many into sitting back down.

When it appeared no one was going to argue against his decree – though a few glanced to Aemon as if looking for his support, which the prince did not give – Diarmuid faced Gael, holding out a hand, “My wife.”

It was the first time he had used her new title, and Gael loved how her heart sped up at the sound of it. Smiling, Gael gathered up her skirts as she stood and made her way around the table. Taking his hand after she descended down the dais, Gael suddenly did not wish for her guests to be disappointed. Yes, she was relieved these strangers were not going to strip her – and likely ruin her dress as well as all her hard work – but she understood the merriment that was flowing through them. She herself was experiencing the same feeling just a few seconds ago.

So, with her most grateful tone, Gael addressed the guests from the bottom of the steps, “Thank you all for coming, I’m most honored that my wedding has brought so many of Houses together. I pray the rest of the evening will be just as enjoyable as it has been so far.”

Then, turning to Diarmuid expectantly, the lord began to lead her out of the room. Guests dipped their heads as they walked by as the music started up again , a few of the ones more deep in their cups gave out words of encouragement. It made Gael flush a little, especially the more lewd comments, but she paid it no heed, preferring their words over actions.

Once out of the hall, Gael could breathe, the room having become stifling and the attention nerve-wracking. Now, alone with her new husband and not having to worry so much about propriety and chaperons , the princess enjoyed the peace and quiet as they walked to the bedding chamber. Her body was already becoming alight with excitement and anxiety in equal measure at what was to come next. Rhaenys had been...kind, enough to divulge what the Septas would not when it came to bedsport. And flushed throughout the whole conversation, Gael’s heart had been racing with the very thought of Diarmuid touching her.

Those thoughts now began to run rampant in her mind as they reached the bedchamber, her husband opening the door and stepping aside for her to enter. Gael fiddled with the cuffs of her dress as she walked in, fingers running over the embroidery as she tried to find something to say, coming up empty as the door closed behind her.

Looking over her shoulder, Gael’s breath stilled in her lungs at the pale eyes that were watching her closely, heavy and dark. Diarmuid blinked slow as he softly spoke up, “How do you wish to proceed, Gael?”

The princess hesitated before turning around to face him fully. Summoning all the courage that she knew she had deep under her uncertainty, Gael requested, “Would you kiss me again, Diarmuid?” That few second long press of their lips to seal their marriage had not been enough for her. Nor had they been for Diarmuid, going by how pleased he looked at her request.

His gaze was all-consuming as he approached her, tilting her chin back with gentle hands. How desperately she wanted to feel his hand s truly, with no leather blocking the contact. She would ask in a minute, Gael thought dizzily as Diarmuid did as she asked. His lips were soft where they touched hers, a light press before they pulled away.

It wasn’t enough, Gael decided, gripping his jerkin to tug him back down and this time, the kiss was fierce. He was hungry for her, the princess realised, dazed by that knowledge as he consumed her . This man. This terrifying, controlled man wanted her. Simple, soft, Gael.

Breath hitching and a high whine escaping her throat, Gael stood up on her toes as she released his jerkin to instead slip her fingers into his dark hair. It was softer than she expected, and tightening her grip, Gael pulled a deep groan from Diarmuid’s chest.

Hands settled on her waist, grip firm. They were large enough to almost completely surround her body. Needing to pull back for both air and to not pass out from how light headed she was getting, Gael panted hard. Eyes cracking open, the princess marvelled at the touch of red that painted across Diarmuid’s pale face. It brushed across his cheeks, stained his lips, and Gael greedily wanted more.

They kissed for a time, still clothed but becoming comfortable with sharing the intimacy of lips touching lips, breath passed between them with each gasp and moan. It was Diarmuid in the end who took control, releasing her waist to step back and run a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“Undress.” He rasped.

A shiver ran through Gael’s body, ending up as a heat between her thighs. Biting her lip, the princess turned around to present the hidden buttons of her dress to the man. Hoping the glance she cast him over her shoulder was enticing, Gael asked breathlessly, “Help me?”

The power that fluttered through her at noticing the way his throat bobbed – barely hidden by his collar – was intoxicating as Dornish wine. Fingers reaching up, the leather brushed against the top of her neck, just under her hairline, before deftly slipping each button free. They were cleverly made to blend in with the red embroidery, just to the left of the spine so as not to ruin the design.

As each button was undone, cool air slipped under and against her skin, a relief against how overheated Gael had become. Then came the heat of his breath brushing against, and Gael bit her lip to hold back another tremor that wished to wrack through her body. When he reached the end, Diarmuid stepped back once again so that she could pull herself out of the sleeves and let the dress pool to the ground.

Then, Gael winced and quickly gathered it up, finding the wardrobe to hang it up in. She spent far too much time on it to let it pick up any dirt or dust on the ground. There was a noise from her husband, and when she faced back around, now in her shift,corset, and stockings – Gael quickly slid off her slippers to not look stupid – Diarmuid was pressing his lips tight together.

He was amused. Amused at her fretting, and Gael grinned in response. Tugging the pins in her hair out, including the one he got her, the princess stated, “You’d be just as fastidious as me if you spent moons creating that dress. Viserra actually picked up a needle to help, and she distastes sewing.”

“I will have to give my new good-sister my gratitude.” Diarmuid replied, pale eyes holding that twinkle of humour that many would miss if they did not know to look for it. “Many of the Northerners praised your dress.”

Preening, Gael said, “I wanted everyone to know exactly who I was marrying.”

And there, the light atmosphere grew heavy once more, desire darkening Diarmuid’s eyes as he murmured, almost to himself, “No one would doubt it now.”

The man then began to strip. A voice in her head murmured ‘finally’, as the jerkin was unlaced, boots kicked off, and Gael was given the rare sight of Diarmuid being hasty. He was just as undone as she was, just as excited even if he did not show it so obviously.

When he was down to his breeches and under tunic, Gael noticed the way he started to hesitate. Pale eyes flickering to his gloves, as if he did not wish to take them off.

Curiosity was always there on why he always wore them, but Gael assumed it was habit. Now, however, Gael wondered if it was something far deeper than that. Coming closer, the princess tentatively placed her hands upon his, catching his eyes with her gaze.

“Do not remove them, if it makes you uncomfortable to do so.” Gael murmured kindly.

Diarmuid took them off without a word, one finger at a time, tugged and soon revealing pale hands, calloused and wide. It took a her moment to look past the joy at knowing her trusted her to instead settle into a faint horror at the scars that lined his hands, the backs and the palms.

They were not scars made from accidents, nor made from cuts during a spar. Deliberate, neat pale lines down each finger, splitting the skin of the hands and running further to dip under the cuffs of his undertunic.

Gael could not think of why they were there, but a dark thought itched in the back of her head. Flaying. Torture. Lip trembling, the princess wanted to cry at the idea that someone had caused Diarmuid such harm. Who could have done this? It had to be another lord, no commoner would dare, unless he had been captured for ransom?

One hand slipped from where she was cradling them reverently to tip her chin up. Furious violet met his passive pale. “My father was not a kind one. That is all I shall say on the matter.” He rasped, pain contained enough that it was only due to Gael being so close that she saw the old agony in his gaze.

“Tell me one day?” Gael whispered.

There was a tightness at the corner of his eyes, even as he nodded in agreement. Then, he captured her lips, the ferocious touch putting all dark thoughts from either of their minds, instead focusing on the now. There was a marriage to consummate, and the desire to do so was stronger than any questions Gael had.

Chapter Text

The entire Northern party left together, Gael and Aemma joining them, along with Viserra of course. Her older sister seemed pleased to be leaving the capital, but no one could match Gael’s excitement as they exited the litter. Taking in the sights around her, King’s Landing Port wasn’t truly that interesting to most, but seeing as this was the first time she was outside of the Red Keep at all, it was nothing short of magical to her. The harbour was bustling, sailors calling to one another and hurrying about with tasks in mind.

Wide eyed as Diarmuid helped her step out, the young princess was looking every which way that she could as her new husband led her up the gangplank to the massive vessel. Viserra had her arm linked with Aemma ahead of them, chattering the girl’s ear off about sailing, words confident and knowledgeable, but Gael would expect nothing less of the Lady Manderly. In fact, Lord Manderly watched on with fond amusement.

The exchange of goodbyes in the Red Keep were somewhat tearful. Her mother was not pleased about her daughter leaving her side still, but she had come to terms with the inevitable over the last few moons, and was able to give Gael a firm hug that did not feel as smothering as it typically would. Father was not present, sickly that morning and unable to leave bed. When she caught Aemon’s gaze after he gave her a hug, Gael could see the faint pleased gleam in his eye and held her tongue. What her brother had planned was not for her to know.

Viserys was very obviously upset about his wife leaving his side, but Baelon and Aemon’s glares were withering enough for her nephew to keep his mouth shut on the topic. Instead, he pressed a kiss to Aemma’s lips with a hint of ferocity that made his young wife go ridged. Luckily, that did not last long, Aemma quick to step back and tuck herself next to a silently irate Viserra. Her other nephew, Daemon had given her a hug as he murmured some foul joke about House Bolton that Gael refused to think about. She would not be missing her nephews at all.

There was a more formal exchange of pleasantries between Aemon and the Northern lords, thanking them for coming and wishing them all a safe journey. The small smirks Diarmuid and Gael’s eldest brother shared at the private joke were noticed by her, and she had to hide a giggle behind her hand to not disrupt the conversation. It had her heart swelling, seeing the camaraderie between her husband and favoured family members.

Under her feet now, the vessel was a swaying, creaking beast, and Gael wanted to stay above board to watch them sail away from the harbour, delighting in the crew that moved with quick proficiency as they prepared the ship. Diarmuid had led her to the bow of the ship, so that she would not be in the crew’s way, softly explaining what some of the men were doing.

Gael listened intently, both because of the new experience, but also because she loved to hear her husband’s voice, rarely spoken as he was. Their wedding night was intense, the passion a quiet but burning thing between them, and Gael had never felt such heavy focus on her person before then. Diarmuid had drawn Gael to pleasure twice before he sought his own. And when they slept, her new husband had wrapped himself around her, placing his body between the door and her. Now, he stood with a propriety hand upon her waist, the newly wedded pair close together, and Gael found the right word for how she felt about Diarmuid.

Cherished. An interesting word, and not one Gael had been familiar with. She had a list of words that hung around her head, words that described what she thought others felt about her. Burdening. Tiresome. Dull. Coddled. Lately, those words have been shifting to other ones that were not as grim, however cherished was the word that rang a clearly as the Sept bells, a new one to add to the list.

Diarmuid may not be a person of love, but he would take care of her, and that was enough for Gael.

As they were perhaps an hour on their embarked journey to the North, there was a blood-chilling shriek from high in the air. Gael may not have been around dragons, but she had seen them flying above the Red Keep from her balcony, and knew what the creatures fearsome bellows sounded like.

Glancing up, searching to see if perhaps one of her brothers had decided they wanted to fly above and give another goodbye, she was instead greeted to the sight of an unfamiliar dragon without a rider. Excitement became terror as the dragon looped around above them, descending from high above rapidly towards the ship.

Around her, the crew was panicking. Diarmuid tensed next to her, arm sliding around her as if to drag her away as Gael’s eyes stayed locked onto this wild dragon. She tried to go through the unclaimed ones she had heard of quickly; Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost.

The Cannibal.

This one had to be that dreaded beast, the scales dark as Baelon once described, and due to it showing itself instead of hidden away as the other two would. However, as everyone seemed to brace for the dragon to either crash into the ship or burn them all alive, The Cannibal took a sharp turn before meeting the ship, the gust of winding throwing many to the floor of the vessel as the dragon beat its wings to spiral back up into the sky. She fell, but was a lucky one to have her landing softened by her husband. He then covered her form, preparing for a second blow. But none came.

Stunned, Gael laid on the floor and found the terror in her chest shifting to something...wonderous, as she stared up past Diarmuid’s shoulder to watch the dragon. She had never flown, let alone seen as dragon so close before, and had desired to do so but never got such a chance. Now, as she mourned the wild dragon’s departure, Gael pondered on what it would be like to fly on the back of The Cannibal. There was a pressure in her chest, as if her heart was reaching out to the beast as it disappeared into the clouds, and idly allowed her sister and husband bring her back to her feet, eyes still staring up into the sky and the silhouette of The Cannibal shrinking in the distance.

“Gael? Gael!? Are you alright?” Viserra panicked voice dragged Gael from her thoughts, the younger sister blinking slowly at her.

“I-I am,” She shook her head, clearing away the odd sensations that had settled over her mind, “Apologies, I was just a bit taken off guard.”

Viserra snorted, pale but still with good cheer, “You and everyone else.” And once her sister appeared satisfied with Gael’s healthy state, she moved over to Aemma, fussing over their young niece. On her other side, Diarmuid continued to hold her arm, and there was an odd look about his eyes as he gazed down at her.

“You have never rode a dragon.” He commented softly.

Gael nodded, eyes still flicking back to the sky, as if still unable to put the dragon’s appearance out of mind. Still aching to see one up close once again. “No, mother would not allow it.”

The man continued to watch her, gaze scrutinising before he gave a short nod, “You are well?”

Smiling softly, Gael rose up onto her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “I am. Thank you for your concern.”

His intense pale eyes gentled at her touch. He gave her arm a small squeeze before releasing her. Around them, the crew, shaken but hardy, got back to work, and the appearance of the dragon was soon just chatter around the vessel. In fact, Gael caught one man expounding to an awed younger crew mate about having seen a sea dragon once, and giggled to herself. Such excitement, and it hadn’t even been one day away from King’s Landing! How her life was changing in such wonderful ways.

The journey to White Harbour was blessedly uneventful. They hit no storms, no pirate attacks, and the winds were in their favour. All was on schedule.

And Gael had a dragon stalking her.

Throughout the weeks it took to arrive at the port, The Cannibal was sighted in the sky often. It did not get as close as the first time, but continued to roar or screech at odd intervals when it revealed itself, soaring high about them, ducking in and out of the clouds. She almost wanted to scream back in response, see what would happen.

Gael did not know what to think about it all, mainly because she did not want to get her hopes up. Unless the dragon egg had been placed in the cradle with the babe, dragons were the ones to choose their riders. She had considered perhaps The Cannibal was interested in her niece or sister, but both girls have been in and out of the Red Keep, which meant the dragon could have gone to them any time it wanted if it had desired. And with the wild dragon not attacking the ship, even someone deemed as slow as Gael could walk her mind to the conclusion.

But she dared not voice it. Not to her sister or niece, nor to Diarmuid. To voice it would lead to heartbreak if she was incorrect. However, her husband was a canny one, and when he was nearby, the man would watch her as well as the dragon when it came closer. Diarmuid was coming to the same conclusion.

Gael feared for what it would mean for the throne, and for her family. The North would be given a dragon, if Gael accepted The Cannibal’s claim. Rhaella got away with her dragon claiming because at least the Vaeleryon’s were Valryian. The Boltons were far from that bloodline. There was a reason women in her family who claimed dragons married their brothers.

Claiming a dragon only meant freedom and power to the men of House Targaryen. It was just another shackle to chain the women to the house.

But there was no chance she would have her marriage annulled if the crown pushed for it, if The Cannibal claimed her. Gael would not allow it, would fight it with every breath as she fought for her chance of freedom. She would swear fealty to the throne every year – every year! - if she must in order to stay with her husband.

“Make sure it eats fish and not any livestock.” Diarmuid’s rasping voice came from behind her, startling Gael from where she was gazing up at the stars, searching for the dark shape of the dragon. Pressing her hands to the railing as she glanced over her shoulder, the young princess couldn’t stop the wry smile that crept upon her lips.

“I don’t believe I have much control over what that dragon eats. Especially with its name being what it is.”

He let out a short huff as he took his spot beside her, hand sliding to her hip. Gael had learnt quite quickly that Diarmuid liked to hold her close, a curiously affectionate gesture for one who could not give her love. She wondered how much of what he told her was true, and how much of it was what he just believed about himself. Either way, she basked in the attention, leaning into his touch, continuing on to say, “But that is if I am to claim the dragon.”

Her words were met with a doubtful glance, holding an entire paragraph of a response in that single look alone. Gael grimaced, “I do not wish to get my hopes up, only for them to be dashed.”

Diarmuid gave an understanding hum, “We will prepare either way.”

They rested for a day at White Harbour. Lord Manderly insisted on longer, eager to show case hospitality, but Gael could tell her husband was eager to return to the Dreadfort as swiftly as possible. So, she was the one to graciously turn down the offer as other Houses accepted the offer, and did not complain as they woke up early the next day. Viserra certainly did as the sisters bid each other farewell that early morning, her older sister promised to visit in some moons once the newly married young woman was settled in her husband’s household in between mutters of being too tired to be up that early.

Gael herself thought she did well enough to not complain in comparison when she was promptly stuck upon a horse and rode for the first time ever. It was uncomfortable in position though she enjoyed the height. Aemma however was a natural, having rode horses in her youth through the Vale. Gael tried not to envy her niece, a healthy glow to her skin and a relaxed posture for the first time in years. Instead, the older Targaryen girl bit back her discomfort and did her best to observe the riders around her, mimicking their postures. Her niece was also kind enough to offer advice too, so Gael could quell her envy easily enough at the assistance.

Their party began their journey further north at an easy pace for her, thankfully, though it had Gael grimacing. She hated the idea of already being seen as a burden, slowing down the men, because of her inexperience. And she knew that Diarmuid was impatient to reach home, still so new in his position of power. That factored into her decision to offer on their second night after a slow day of riding, “You should go on ahead without me.”

In their tent, bedding down for the evening, Diarmuid said nothing when he turned her way, the silence encouraging her to continue. Curled under the covers, Gael played with the strands of the fur blanket of the bedroll as she explained quietly, “I am slowing us all down. You should ride on to The Dreadfort, I will meet you there.”

Her husband gave a slow blink, considering her words before replying steadily, “I would not leave my wife and her niece to journey unfamiliar lands alone.”

“I would have the guards,” She pointed out.

Climbing under the covers, Diarmuid tugged her close as he murmured, “I trust no one.”

Frowning, Gael reached up to card her fingers through his wavy, dark locks, “Not even men paid?” Her head tilted back to examine his expression. There was a flinty sharpness to his pale eyes, speaking of old and unhappy memories.

“Men that could be bought are men to distrust. Bolton men are not loyal men. Not truly.”

Unease fluttered in her chest at that, confused on how a House could have no trusted men. Was he paranoid? Was it a past experience that marred his ability to trust? Or was it the truth? She would just have to wait and see. Sighing softly, Gael cuddled in close to his body, head ducked under the man’s chin, “Please give it some thought? I hate to be a burden.”

The arm over her waist seemed to hold her closer, even as he said nothing in response.

It took two more days of travel before her husband finally broke, just as Gael suspected he would. In the morning, he had taken the guards a short distance away from Aemma and Gael, and whatever he had spoken to the men in low tones had them coming back pale and shaking, thoroughly threatened into compliance. Then, he had his things quickly packed up, taking only five guards with him as he departed.

Before doing so, he cupped Gael’s face in those cold leather gloves, and murmured so softly it could be a gentle caress, “I have left those I know won’t be bought so easily. Manderly land borders Bolton’s, there is only a very small chance of bandits that would dare to attack, and even so, you have twenty men to shield you. Be safe, I will see you soon.”

Gael did not have to chance to give a response as he pressed a quick but powerful kiss to her lips before stepping away to swing up onto his horse. Staring down at her from the height, it was as if he was memorising Gael as quickly as he could before heading off at a gallop towards his home, guards thundering behind him.

Now, left alone with Aemma, Gael glanced around at the rest of the men, locking onto to the familiar head guard of the party that Diarmuid left behind. Willem was a common born man who rose up in ranks through pure grit and determination. He was talented with a blade, having seen moments of practise between him and the other guards. When Gael had inquired further the next night after her discussion with Diarmuid, if he truly had no one he trusted, her husband had paused for a long moment before admitting there was one man he knew to be faithful to his House. This man had been a stable boy that Diarmuid had grown up with, finding an odd friendship forming over the years. Willem was unfaltering in his loyalty as well as unphased by the darkness of House Bolton.

Addressing Willem now, though projecting her voice for all the men, Gael said, “I wish to apologise for the delay to reach the Dreadfort. I understand all of you wish to return home far quicker than our pace has allowed. I will do my best to hasten my ability upon my steed. Let us break down camp and disembark at the earliest convenience.”

Her hands were faintly trembling from where they were clasped in front of her, hoping she gave off an air of confidence as Willem nodded curtly and began issuing off rapid orders. Gael was of no mind that she was in charge of the camp. As their Lord’s wife, and Princess, she was the highest ranked figure within their party, but her lack of experience meant the men would turn to Willem for command, as Gael was more than relieved to let the man take charge. Unfamiliar with the way long journeys were managed, the young woman did not wish to cause havoc with her lack of experience and delay them further.

And with Willem in charge, their party continued on with the previous efficiency, even without their lord present. It was a good sign, to Gael, as she and Aemma stayed firmly in the middle of the travelling group, their pace picking up as time went on and Gael got the hang of riding. As they went, the pair would talk with the closest guards, asking about the North, their homes, and any stories they wished to divulge.

Gael could only hope that her genuine curiosity, and lack of demands or whining as she bedded down on flat bed rolls and washed in rivers like them, meant they would grow to like her. Or, at least, tolerate her presence. Gael did have certain expectations as a princess – she grew up in the Red Keep, for goodness sake – but she liked to think of herself as less likely to complain over things that were outside of her control. Like her aching body after the long ride, or the discomfort of sleeping on the hard ground, or the bland food served at the campfire. A part of her wished they had taken a litter, if only so she was a little more comfortable at night. But that would have slowed them further than they already were with the wagon of supplies and trunks they lugged with them. If there was one thing Gael knew deeply about Diarmuid, was that he preferred productivity and effectiveness. Frivolity was something he would frown upon, especially if it got in the way of the completion of tasks.

So, the princess bore the long journey to the Dreadfort with dignity, the chill worsening the further north they crept. At the time, Gael had thought it an exaggeration of the amount given, but now she was fully thankful for the furs and woolen dresses Viserra had gifted for Gael’s wedding. Between her and Aemma, the pair had at least four layers on just to keep the bite off their skin, and even then they had a faint chatter to their teeth. Her niece adjusted a bit better, Vale born as she was. Gael just had to believe that she would learn to adjust herself swiftly enough.

Outside of the moon long journey and the cold, Gael was in awe at the sights around her. The Red Keep and the city beyond it could never compare to the raw wilderness that surrounded them. The air was fresh, no need for flowers and perfumes to cover up the stench of King’s Landing. The land seemed to stretch on forever. Sloping plains, mountains blue and white in the distance, and an expansive sky that she could stare at for hours. A few of the guards would point out birds that only inhabited the North, another would explain the constellations to a riveted Aemma and Gael, the man lecturing on how to navigate with only the stars. And, for the first time in her life, Gael could see the breath that escaped her, laughing in delight at it. She may have been born during winter, but the South’s winter was summertime for the North.

It was peaceful journey, one that Gael could not find dull. Not when it meant she was getting further away from her cage of a home and all its machinations. She was no fool, she knew that the Dreadfort and the rest of the North had their own politics, but at least Gael knew she was guaranteed the protection of her husband. And he was patient when he explained topics in the past that she was unfamiliar with, so she could trust him to do the same with the complex relationships the Northern Houses held.

And under all that wonder, Gael couldn’t help the tension at The Cannibal that had stalked the beginning of their journey. Since they arrived on land, the beast had disappeared, and she smothered the disappointment that came the absence. It was likely the dragon was just curious, unlikely to want a weak Targaryen like herself to claim it. Perhaps it claimed Viserra, maybe finally noticing her spitfire of a sister, and Gael would hear all about it through a raven that was already waiting at the Dreadfort for her.

Gael vowed to be excited for her sister, if that was so. Viserra deserved the world. And with that determination, Gael firmly put the dragon out of her mind, inconsequential to her future.

The Dreadfort earned its name. The towering, looming structure was foreboding as it sat on its hill, a moat surrounding it of dark waters, the cloudy gloom from above empasising that fearsome appearance. The ramparts were flat and rigid in structure, built to withstand the fierce weather and not made to look beautiful. It was made to strike fear. Grey stone, unadorned and strong, Gael could already imagine feeling safe within its walls the way she would within Diarmuid’s embrace. There was a large swathe of flat farm land surrounding it before any woods erupted from the ground, giving a clear view all around in case of an attack.

Smiling giddily at Aemma, her niece sent back an exasperated look, “I do not understand you, Gael.”

“What do you mean, sweet niece?” Gael asked with faux innocence. She knew exactly how people saw her excitement as madness, and it had her giggling when Aemma reached over to flick her shoulder in retaliation. Her niece had truly come out of her shell the moment they were away from the Red Keep and Viserys, and Gael dreaded the day Aemma had to return. She could only pray Aemma took the strength she had gained back with her to that pit of despair.

The only colour to touch the monochrome keep was the banners of the flayed man. The pink and red was stark in brightness, and Gael loved it. It was a clear reminder of whom ruled this portion of the North; a warning to all enemies of the pain that would come should they cross the Boltons. And it filled her with the sensation that Gael had predicted as their horses clopped their way through the tower gate: She was safe here.

Her head could have been one of an owl’s with the way she whipped around to take it all in. There was no screams of torture as people would whisper in court, nor pelts of human flesh hanging from the battlements. It was clean; blood was not staining the roads or splattered against walls despite what rumours said. Nothing deemed ‘barbaric’ was on display. In fact, she heard some laughter of children as they passed by a baker’s store. It was a whole city – albeit a small one – within the Dreadfort, and Gael could imagine that she would have everything she would need here. There was a peace in this place, no matter the fear the very name Bolton could strike in a person.

People stopped as they passed by, a little girl perking up at the sight of Gael from where she was helping to carry a basket. Gael smiled as she sent a wave to the girl. The grin she got in return made this whole slog of a journey worth it. Especially when they reached the keep proper, passing another set of walls and through a gate to enter the inner courtyard.

Diarmuid waited beside another figure, but Gael could only see her husband as she held back the urge to fling herself from her horse and run to him. If she had thought those moons preparing for the wedding was filled with longing, the single moon apart from him after she called him her husband was agony from how much she missed him. Gripping the reins to suppress her delight, the stable-hands could not come quick enough. As soon as her horse was halted and a step stool placed down, Gael was dismounting.

It took everything in her to not hasten her stride, but she knew her expression was blatant in her excitement if Diarmuid’s twitch of a smile was anything to go by. Following formality was difficult but she managed, Gael dipping into a curtsy as she greeted her husband, “Lord Bolton.”

Bowing first, Diarmuid then stepped closer to brush loose hair from her face, “Welcome home, wife.”

A grin split her face as she bounced on her toes, Gael captured his other hand to give it a firm squeeze, “I’m grateful to be home, husband.” She wanted to kiss him, but did not know if that would be appropriate here, especially with a large audience.

He gave a short nod of his head, the tiniest of smiles on his lips as he turned to present the person next to him, “My lady mother, Sigrid Bolton.”

The woman was taller than Gael, though still an inch or two shorter than her son. Dressed in a simple dark red gown that could be almost brown, it reminded Gael of dried blood. It was adorned with simple embroidery and a fur cloak to beat back the chill. She was broad for a woman, skin weathered and dark, with hair the same inky blackness as Diarmuid’s. Brown eyes that could be the same shade as freshly watered soil, Sigrid Bolton carried herself like a veteran soldier, the scar that gouged down the left side of her face emphasising such presence. The name she carried was unusual, and Gael pondered over her origins as she gave a far deeper curtsy than her rank as princess would deem appropriate. Thick, dark brows rose with faint surprise, even as she gave a deep bow in response.

“An honour to meet you, Lady Bolton.”

“Are you not Lady Bolton, yourself?” The woman asked. Her voice held a natural harshness, accent thick.

Flushing at the sharp question, Gael demurred, “I am by marriage only. I would never presume myself to know the Dreadfort as well as yourself, my lady. I look to you for guidance.”

There was a hint of approval in the woman’s dark eyes, glancing for a second to Diarmuid, before back to her. Then, she looked over Gael’s shoulder. Following it line of sight, the princess noticed Aemma hesitating at the back, near where Willem was still stood with a few of the guards. Smiling in reassurance, Gael gestured for her niece to approach.

Timid in her posture as she approached, Gael placed a hand on the girl’s back as she announced, “My niece, Lady Aemma Targaryen. She is here to help me settle, and to help her health recover.” The younger girl gave a curtsy too, murmuring her greetings.

“So my son has said.” Lady Bolton acknowledge, a faint softness to her eyes as she looked upon girl. “You are both welcome here. Come, let us get you both bathed and fed.”

At the woman’s orders, Gael and Aemma followed after her, Diarmuid a step behind as he conversed quietly with Willem. Internally, Gael could acknowledge that she should feel slighted at being ordered around by a woman that was technically below her station. However, even as a princess Gael grew up as the lowest in the pecking order with her family, and fell into the role of the guided easily. But it was made easier by Lady Bolton’s honesty in her gruffness. She did not put on false pleasantries, and it reminded Gael very much of first meeting Diarmuid.

Yes, everything here would be a major adjustment, Gael knew she was going to find a very good home in the Dreadfort.

The Dreadfort was not as grand as the Red Keep, nor as luxurious as the Manderly’s castle. It was rooted in realism, as if it scoffed at decadent decorations and welcomed art that accurately depicted what the Boltons and their home was meant to represent. And if that representation was meant to be an inhabited crypt, then they managed to encapsulate that inspiration without being too gauche. Ancestral weapons displayed, a few skeletons cleaned and poised in armour that was near the most populated areas where guest could examine. Tapestries lined the walls that depicted brutal scenes of battle and hunting, which trapped the heat of the hand shaped torches and bone embedded fireplaces in the keep, shooing away the drafts that dared to crawl in. It was all quite tasteful, Gael admired. And that was saying something from the family that had dragons carved into every railing and door frame of their home.

Gael promised to herself to spend a day examining every single piece of woven art, already spotting a few techniques she was not familiar with, as she was led to her rooms. The apartments for the Lord Bolton consisted of a solar, the main bedchamber for the pair, and a few rooms for the closest of servants and household to live nearby. The bedchamber itself was separated into two sections: a parlour where one could have guests or the couple could lounge, and then the true bedchamber.

Gael was given an entire wardrobe, dressing table, and large trunk for her things, to which she began instructing the two servants in placement, assisting with the hanging or folding of gowns. The two maids that were now hers were called Freya and Tansy, both quiet but Gael could only hope that over time they would talk with her more. Diarmuid watched on for a short time, assuring himself of her settling, before ducking out of the room.

The dresses she would wear more often, as feasting gowns would be impractical to wear around the keep, were hung up. Her wedding dress was carefully kept in the bottom of a trunk, where Gael hoped one day her future daughters would wear it for their own weddings. In another trunk was incomplete dresses that she was working on for easier access, and kept out of the way when not.

It was only later, when she was bathing as was Diarmuid updating her on what had occurred in the time of their separation, that Gael learnt he had overseen the placement of her loom and spinning wheel within the solar. He had explained that the Lord had a separate solar elsewhere in the keep, and that she was free to decorate her solar to her heart’s content. Surprised but alight with anticipation, Gael dragged him into a kiss to show her gratitude, water sloshing over the tub and onto his breeches but Diarmuid did not seem to mind one bit.

Dinner was a private affair. Diarmuid had mentioned a large feast to welcome her, but Gael had turned down the suggestion. To celebrate with a large feast in a kingdom where overindulgence was rare, Gael deemed it unnecessary. They had celebrated in the Red Keep on their wedding; it was enough for her. Besides, Gael was not one for large gatherings anyway, and she knew her husband felt similarly.

The first meal of her life in the Dreadfort took place in Sigrid’s own solar, the woman insisting sternly to call her ‘good-mother’, waving off her formalities with a tsk after the third time Gael referred to her with the woman’s previous title. “I am not Lady Bolton any longer, though you are correct in needing guidance in taking the role. Once you have settled properly, I would have you follow me as I run the household.”

Nodding eagerly, Gael replied, “I would appreciate that, good-mother.”

“Is there anything you require of me, my lady?” Aemma quietly asked after a pause.

Softening once more when she looked to Aemma, Sigrid shook her head, “Enjoy your time here, child. You are a guest. If there is anything you need, let me know.”

Her heart warmed at the kindness from her good-mother for her niece. Aemma deserved everything good in the world, and Gael hoped she would receive that here. Smiling at her niece beside her, she reached under the table to hold her hand. How fortunate, Gael was, to have married into this kind family of two.

The first night together in what would be their bed, was spent with Diarmuid carefully taking her apart until she was a panting, heaving mess. Then, he systematically brought her over the edge again, and then once more after that. Aemma had never described sex – when Gael had asked her during the preparations of the wedding – as a rush of heavenly pleasure. She had always described it as duty. It was Viserra who had snorted and pointed out that if it ‘didn’t feel good, then the man isn’t doing it right’.

And the Seven know that Diarmuid must be doing something right to have her trembling afterward, her husband stroking her hair as she caught her breath. They were a slick mess of sweat and spent, and Gael would never get over the fact that she could run her hand across his skin, and he would allow it. Naked, he bore himself to her in the way no one else would be given such permission to view.

As a child, forgotten but smothered in equal turn, nothing ever really felt hers. The lists were proof of that in her mind, but everything felt like it could be taken away from her the moment she stepped out of line. Gael was the Winter Child. She was quiet and simple-minded. That was how the majority of her family saw her, and she was afraid if she had proved them wrong, that there was a person underneath the little doll on the shelf, they would steal all that she had painstakingly accumulated as her own.

Diarmuid was hers. Gael felt that burn in her chest that agreed with that conclusion, like a dragon with its horde. Her husband. And Gael knew there was something deep within her that could be twisted into a monster if anyone dared tried to take Diarmuid away from her. He may not love her, but Gael knew she would love him. She did love him, even this early on in their marriage. It was an emotion that was infinite, and would grow and grow and never stop.

Her husband could not love her that way, but that did not mean Gael could not love enough for the both of them. Gael was under his protection, and Diarmuid was under her adoration. They would find contentment and happiness with one another.

A finger traced down her spine where she half-laid on his chest, listening to the steady drumming of his heart just inches away. Humming at the tickling sensation, Gael pressed her nose into his neck as his arm tightened around her waist. Fluttering her eyelids open, the young woman tilted her head back to meet his gaze. The pale irises were silver in the shadows cast by the fireplace. It reminded her of the moon, her hand reaching up to gently push tuck away the dark curls that fell across his forehead.

“Must I drink the tea?” She murmured, forlorn at having to wait to have his child. A family with this man felt like the final chain to break her away from her cage. A permanent proof of Gael now being a Bolton, no longer under her mother or father’s dominion.

“For your health, and future children, yes.” Diarmuid intoned, though there was a touch of amusement at her eagerness in his words.

Huffing, displeased, Gael turned her face to lightly bite at his chest. The man twitched at the sudden but minor pain, the hand on her waist grasping as he warned in her ear, “Do not start what you cannot handle.”

Feet lightly kicking in the air, eager, Gael looked back at him with a wicked smile, “Who says I cannot handle more? Surely not my husband, for it would only be in his favour to give in.”

A rare chuckle rumbled from him as he flipped them over, Gael’s back pressed to the sheets as she gazed up at him, breathless, excited, and pleased to have stirred his arousal once more. “Very well, princess,” He began to kiss down her neck before biting at the juncture there, making Gael hiss as she arched up at the pain mixing with pleasure, “As you demand.”