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Love to Live

Silks and Steels

Smooth as silk.

Maelys would not put her to sleep in her brother's bed – his bed now – out of fear of waking up in soiled sheets, for now she did everything small children did. But at night, after the handmaidens had washed and fed her, she looked as beautiful and pure as she certainly wasn't, like a princess from the songs bards sang. Her hair shone like a river of molten silver. Her skin was smooth as silk.

Out of all women he had taken in his life, she was the only one who didn't fear him, the only one who wasn't terrified by him. The only one he could examine with his palms and fingers without her cowering or wailing. Of course, he knew it wasn't for real, yet he found himself pretending that he didn't realize the truth about their situation – that when he placed her hand upon his shoulder, it stayed there because he had curled her fingers that way, not because she kept it there. When he took her, she didn't show fear only because she couldn't feel a thing. Yet his relationship with this beautiful doll with silky skin and dead eyes was the closest thing he'd ever have to acceptance. At least she didn't cringe at the sight of him.

She stayed wherever he placed her; she didn't utter a protest when he took Lady Isanne's silver hairbrush to brush her own hair out. His fingers were clumsy, unused to wielding such a fine object, and he cringed each time he encountered a knot but she didn't look as if she were in pain. When he was done, he would lean over and inhale the scent of the perfume the handmaidens applied to her neck and hair before carrying her to the bed.

In the second night after taking her in front of the entire castle, he was taken aback at finding himself stroking her pale cheek, parting her legs with care that he had never before given to any woman. The strange mix of ownership and desire to keep her safely away from all the men he had promised her to that had made him claim her in front of everyone slowly grew into a disturbing desire to make her feel as comfortable as possible. He knew it was madness, of course, but he still felt compelled to try.

And then, of course, she came to her senses. Or her feelings, at least.

Exactly one week had passed from the day of her wedding when he woke up to the sound of her screams. It was still night and when he lit the candle at the bedside, he saw Aelinor in the nightgown she had just thorn to shreds. Now, her hands were trying to tear her hair out as she howled like a fighting cat or a man-at-arms who would not have the decency to die quietly of his wounds. Dark gashes woozed blood all over her cheeks and arms.

Maelys had always been taught that Westerosi noble ladies were always dignified and self-controlled. Now, this girl from the Falseborn line whose blood was supposed to be inferior only to Aegon's own children's, kept proving him wrong. In her grief, there was no dignity, no self-restraint. In fact, he doubted there was even much thought. She slammed her head against the wall. Red blood blossomed against the pale tapestry. Seeing that she was going to repeat the motion, completely unfazed by the gaping gash in her skull, Maelys sprang to her and restrained her – barely. Compared to him, she was as fragile as a flower, yet he had great difficulty holding her. Aelinor Gargalen had gone mad. Her strength was that of madness and it was almost a match for Maelys' own physical, great power of a lifetime of battles. But not quite.

He held her as she fought – not against him, exactly, but against the memory of everything that had happened. When he felt that she had spent her energy, he let her go and watched fascinated as she raged and wept, calling out Eltor Dayne's name as if she could persuade him to return. She reached over and swept all the vials and small boxes from her goodsister's dressing table. Glass and powder showered all over the floor. The young woman reached out and grabbed a few hairbrushes and small looking-glassed that crashed and broke against the wall. The door opened a crack. Frightened faces appeared. Maelys waved them away and sat on the bed, looking at Aelinor, fascinated and numb, and watchful not to let her cause further harm to this silky skin of hers.

When she finally collapsed, he waited for a while and then came near, expecting to find her in the same neither dead nor alive state he had seen her in during their first night together.

She was breathing deeply. Sleeping.

He spent the day discussing the combined attack against Sunspear – both on land and sea – and trying to overhear something from the general direction of the lord's chambers. But if she had flown into a new fit of rage, it must be a quieter one, for he could not hear a thing.

As night drew near, he thought of finding another bedchamber from tonight but dismissed the idea immediately. Damn it, he wasn't running away from a mad whore! If anything, it would be her whom he might send to the doghouse – literally, if she gave him a single provocation!

But when he entered the chamber, he had to look at the scabs on her face and hands to make sure that the events from last night had taken place. She was sitting in a chair, freshly bathed and dressed in simple dark gown. Her hair, brushed out and shining, fell down her shoulders in a luminous river. When he came near, he saw that her lips were white and bitten all over. The blue bruises under her eyes looked like traces left by a man's fingers. There was no blood in her face but the crescent moons where she had thorn at her own cheeks gleamed scarlet, like few grinning mouths. The rugged raw wound went from her skull to her right temple. She gave him a level look, not whimpering in fear but not faking bravery either.

"Are you in pain?" Maelys asked.

There was confusion in her eyes and he looked at her temple to help her. She did not raise a hand to feel the wound as it could have been expected. "No," she said in a distant voice. "Nothing can hurt me anymore."

He held out a hand; slowly, reluctantly but showing no hesitation, she took it and let him take her to bed.


I hate him. I hate him. I hate him, Aelinor repeated over and over in her head while the disgusting act continued. But in this long day since she awoke, for first time in days in full possession of her faculties, she had had time to pore over her situation and come to the conclusion that her only way to survive lay with Maelys Blackfyre. She vaguely remembered the many men gathering around her in the courtyard – and how he had pushed them all away, claiming her for his own. The memory was blissfully faint and that was a good thing since she didn't think she could bear it if she knew what exactly had happened. She was moved by instincts alone – and they told her that the way to her survival was to cling to Maelys, find a way to bend him to her will at least enough to make him keep protecting her from the other brigands… until the time came for her to be free from her protector. As much as she wanted to curl back into a ball and sob, she no longer had this luxury. Eltor made an attempt to sneak back into her thoughts and she barely resisted the urge to shake. I am doing this for you, too, my love, she thought at him. I am. I cannot avenge you if I am dead – and he can kill me upon the spot if I anger him. During this last day, her terror and grief had slowly congealed to icy resolve. She would live, and she would triumph. And she would see both of Maelys Blackfyre's heads on pikes! Else, she had no reason to gather her wits. It had been far easier when she had been senseless…

While bathing her, the handmaidens had whispered to her what was going on in the castle. Her brothers and their wives were still locked away in their chambers. No one disturbed the children in the nursery, save for the fact that there were guards at their door. But their attendants were smart enough not to show them out. Amazingly, but Doran had managed to keep his identity a secret so far and was roaming all over the castle. Aelinor thought she knew what her nephew had in mind but she reminded herself not to get overexcited. The Seven knew that she had gone through a most severe disappointment already.

But even more important than the news about the castle, the women could share with her the evidence of the brief moments that they had seen the monster of man sharing with her. And it confirmed to Aelinor what her own instinct already knew: she had to treat Maelys like any other man. Not with affection – he was too smart to buy it. But antagonizing him wouldn't bring her any good, either. And for the life of hers, she shouldn't let him see her revulsion. She had to tolerate him, bind him to her with whatever means she could find. Of course, she knew that anything short of outright defiance would bring her the greatest dishonour into the eyes of Westeros… but she didn't care. She wanted to live, survive… she would think about the rest later. For now, she only cared whether she'd see the sun rise ever again, meet the new day. And it depended on Maelys Blackfyre.

With bitter irony, she remembered how she had used to shiver with superstitious disgust at the tales of the two-headed man. Now, he could look like the handsomest man who had ever walked the earth, and her revulsion would not lessen even one bit. It was not his looks that scared her. It was the memory of what he had done there, in the sept. An image seared in her mind so that she would carry it with her for a lifetime and beyond.


The stench of fish, old sweat, stale food, and clothes that had not been changed in a week made Travas gag – no mean feat for someone who worked in the stables. The boy wondered how the Prince could smell himself without fainting. After all, Doran Martell was used to having the best…But he had to admit that the disguise was a perfect one. None of the enemies gave the reeking boy a second glance, let alone examine him closely. This way, Doran was free to go around the castle when he wasn't occupied with menial tasks of the crudest sort, many of them demanding things that Travas felt sure princes didn't even know were done. But Doran was a talented student, learning quickly and working efficiently. And in his free time, he frequented some most peculiar places in the castle… at most peculiar times.

"Let's move these over," he now said and Travis gave him a look of dismay.

"All those shelves?"

"Quite right," Doran confirmed and started setting his own command in order. Grunting, the other boy leaned over to help, feeling a surge of fear when it looked like some presence had started helping them moving the heavy wooden shelves.

"But this is…" he started and then a part of the wall turned to one side and gaped open to reveal a vague silhouette in the darkness on the other side.

Travis was about to scream but Doran immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.

The man who had come through this newfound door now stopped in front of the boys.

"Uncle!" Doran whispered. "I knew you'd come."

The Lord of Salt Shore gave them a long look and then cracked a smile. "And here I was worrying about you," he said. "More fool I. Anyway, why is your smell so… interesting?"

"That's a part of fooling the fools," Doran explained and immediately went to practicalities. "It's a little after midnight, they usually change the sentries two times a night and the last patrol was here a short time ago…"

Once again, Lord Gargalen looked around his own cellar and then Doran. His smile died. "Are your parents well?" he asked.

The boy sighed. "They live, that's what I know. And Aunt Aelinor is now living in your chambers… with Maelys Blackfyre."

For a moment, Mikkel Gargalen's eyes flashed such anger that Travas almost made the sign against the evil eye, for his lord now looked just as fierce and pitiless as Maelys Blackfyre. His purple eyes looked like scarlet drops of blood. "He won't be using them for much longer," he promised as behind him, his men started pouring out. There weren't many of them but it was night and no one was expecting them. "You," he told the two boys. "Stay here. As to us, we're going to reclaim out home from those who clearly didn't read history. For someone who venerates the Young Dragon so, I'd think the Blackfyres would know just how easy it is to keep Dorne."