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Foreign Queen

Dark Presentiments

The first look at Daenerys' face told Myriah that the girl was nervous, although their ladies-in-waiting might not think so – Daenerys was becoming very good at guarding her face and emotions. But she was clearly anxious. Playing the lute did not help and she was so absent-minded that she pricked her finger four times in the space of less than an hour. Finally, Myriah took pity of the girl's mind and feelings and dismissed the women – all save for Alaena.

"Why isn't Lyselle with us?" Daenerys asked as soon as the three women were alone.

Alaena lifted a shoulder. "She was feeling unwell," she said, repeating the pretext she had given the Queen, although both Myriah and Daenaerys knew that the most likely reason for Lyselle's absence was the last weeks of court events following one after another. The girl still felt overwhelmed, exhausting so much energy and focus on how to behave according to the occasions and socialize that once the feasts and celebrations were over, she needed days of recovery, not doing anything that would strain her. Especially interacting with people. She's going to learn, Myriah told herself. Sometimes, she's so charming and witty that all the ambassadors and lords attending are taken with her. That's the queen she's going to make. But then, invariably, some deeply seated fear took hold of the girl, making her shrink into herself, unable to take part into a conversation, let alone lead one, and fear crawled along Myriah's spine. What if that was the queen she was going to make? But there was no going back now. People expected that the two branches would be united. Breaking the betrothal would be a huge offense. And Lyselle's troubles could not do any lasting damage if she was surrounded by efficient people. She was not too proud to refuse help.

"What about you, child?" Alaena asked before Myriah could do so. "What troubles you?"

Daenerys looked down. To both of the older women's surprise, her fair skin blushed scarlet. "I heard some things about Prince Maron," she said. "About his mistress," she elaborated.

Myriah and Alaena shared a look. "Many great lords have mistresses before they wed," Alaena said guardedly.

Not paramours, Myriah thought. Not like in Dorne. But of course, that was not the moment to say it. And it didn't matter anyway. Daenerys did it for her, despite not using the word.

"Not like this," she said.

Of course it wasn't like this. Her father had dismissed his mistresses in just a few years each. She was smart enough to make the difference.

"I heard that he's been with her since he was… younger than I am now," the girl said. "Does he love her?"

Once again, Myriah and Alaena shared a look. How did one answer such a question? Especially when they didn't know the answer themselves? How were they supposed to ease Daenerys' fears when they didn't know what the situation was? Maron's paramour was not a bastard or a woman without means as was often the case with paramours. Try as he might, Myriah could see only one reason for a highborn lady to become an official paramour, greatly reducing her chances for a husband of rank. Love. Not what her young goodsister needed to hear.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I suppose she loves him but I don't know about him."

"They've been together for many years and she's been with child twice already." Daenerys' voice was very scared. "What if he doesn't send her away when I arrive? He doesn't know me at all, you know…"

"She miscarried both times," Alaena said. "And even if she gives him a child, what of it? None of her children will inherit anything. His only heirs would be the ones of your womb."

Daenerys looked down. "I know, I know, but still…" She blushed again and halted. Recently, she had started turning into a strikingly lovely young woman, with all of Naerys' gentle charm but none of the frailness. Myriah sympathized with her apprehensions, remembering her own time in Dorne when all that she knew of the Targaryen prince she would marry one day were rumours. But then, another thought flashed through her mind, pushing all of her gentler feelings away. "Daenerys," she said sharply. "Has Daemon told you something?"

"No," Daenerys replied all too quickly and Myriah sighed with both relief and fear. She was trying to think that the frictions between Daemon and her own sons were only temporary but she didn't believe it. Especially in the last year, when Baelor had reached majority and the number of honours and responsibilities he received had started growing steadily, the tensions had started turning into hostility with frightening speed. Daeron still insisted that Daemon would grow out of it. Myriah was not so sure and now Daenerys' awkwardness told her that the boy had said something to her. Daenerys' fondness of him was really unfortunate.

"It'll fade once she's wedded and bedded," Daeron said confidently later when she relayed the conversation to him. She might have as well not bothered at all! "I would have sent her to Dorne right now if there weren't still so many things to be done."

Myriah started busying herself with looking through her schedule for the next day. He was exhausted, this much was clear. Another long day with the Small Council. He had left before she woke up and emerged from their hall when the supper in the great hall had been already halfway through. Now she regretted that she had brought up the question at all.

"Say something," her husband suddenly snapped. "I cannot stand it when you're so desperately disagreeing."

She was stunned. "But I didn't say a word!"

Daeron glared. "And you think that after all those years I actually need you to say something to know what you think?"

She folded the paper up and looked at him. "I think we should just send Daenerys there and face the music right now. But you already know this."

"I do," he sighed. "I've barely started to heal the wounds inflicted by my father, Myriah. If I send her there now, tension will only rise. Time to smooth the hostilities would be beneficial. Let's not make the lords think that…"

"That you're giving Dorne too much."

"I did not say that."

"And you think that after all those years I actually need you to say something to know what you think?"

She was really proficient in infuriating her peaceful husband. She knew that this was what he had been going to say because people said so. Not because he thought it. And still, she could not help herself. "Why don't you send me away if you're so keen on pleasing them? And don't forget to send our son away with me. You know, the Dornish looking one. I can assure you, that'll make some of them extremely happy. Then, you can officially proclaim Daemon your heir. Because he's growing such a big head that I cannot think of another explanation of your patience."

"That's enough!"

Myriah gasped and made an involuntarily step back when he strode towards her. His anger disappeared at the sight of her fear. He sighed and stroked her cheek. "I don't understand why Daemon worries you so much," he said. "He isn't a bad boy. He was just influenced by the way court was before. He'll grow out of it."

No, he couldn't. That was one of the things she loved about him – that he was a man who tried to always act from place of goodness and honour. But that was one of the things that scared her where Daemon was concerned. The boy was a danger to their own children – and Daeron couldn't see that. She was well aware that he thought her meddling and obtrusive about that and she tried not to talk about her dark presentments but it didn't always work. Enough talk about Daemon for tonight.

"I suppose you may be right," she murmured. Or not. Either way, she was sorry for bringing the boy into their parlour. Daeron was weary and because of that, irritable. He didn't need another discussion with both of them rehashing the old arguments. She held his hand against her cheek. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "Let's just have some rest."

Perhaps later, she would get something more than rest. With the passing of years, the wild passion of their youth had faded replaced by familiarity and openness which nonetheless left her filled with the same desire and longing. But when she saw how absent-minded he was, what a great effort it took him to just keep his eyes open, the dark smudges under his eyelids, she realized that this, too, was not an option for tonight, so she rose and accompanied him to the bedchamber where she helped him undress and find his much needed rest. She had already decided that the next day, she would let him catch some more sleep. The Small Council could wait for a while.