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Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Myriah

"Go to bed."

The young woman shook her head and Myriah sighed, annoyed. "Whom, exactly, do you think you're helping?" she demanded. "You can see he feels just fine with me, yes? You haven't slept in two days, except for napping in this chair now and then. I say, go and eat something. Have a bath. The only thing worse than having a sick one to tend is to have two of them!"

If there was a weary smile in response, Myriah did not see it. It was almost dark in the bedchamber, the curtains drawn tightly for light hurt his eyes. Since the men had returned, four days ago, candles had been lit only when most needed, and even then very scanty. It was a chamber of shadows and fever, of dreams and delirious ravings, of hastily murmured soothing words and cloths soaked in soothing rose water. Cinnamon and myrtle scented the air, chasing away the smell of sickness and dread. The heavy carpets absorbed all footsteps. They all talked in hushed voices.

"I don't dare," Shiera Seastar said. "What if he wakes up?"

"Right," the Queen agreed. "What if he wakes up?"

Silence. The young woman's weary brain could not get the reason for Myriah suddenly being so concordant.

"Just look at yourself!" the Queen went on. "If he happens to wake up as we talk, you're going to scare him back into oblivion."

Even in the darkness, Shiera's exhaustion was visible. Myriah pressed further. "The maesters say he's going to regain consciousness in a day, two at most. That's when he'll have greatest need of you – and you won't be able to rise from this chair, let alone be of any use."

This was the argument that finally won Shiera over. She rose, stumbling in her hem, and leaned over him to stroke his cheek. He leaned into her caress but didn't open his eyes… eye.

"Rest calmly," Myriah said. "I'll take good care of him."

As the most desired woman at court left, her hair a bird's nest, her eyes no longer arresting, just mismatched, her silks reeking of sweat and sickness, the Queen thought, saddened, that no one would ever know how much Shiera loved him, not even Brynden himself. Sure, everyone knew that they were a couple and no one would raise any doubt as to the passion of their relationship – but passion and being a couple did not mean love. What a pity he can't see her now, Myriah mused. He'll never have cause to question her feelings.

She soaked a cloth in fresh water and pressed it to Brynden's lips. Differing to the last, he would not abide having water poured in his mouth even as he tossed around in fever, even if his parched lips bled. Not that they would let them bleed, of course. Placing a damp cloth to his mouth always did the trick: he sucked at it and the in precious wetness went. Of course, it was much longer and harder this way.

When he turned his head aside, meaning that he was no longer thirsty, Myriah rose and went to open the windows. Scented air was good but he needed some fresh one, too. She returned to her chair and bathed his face with rose water before taking his hand into hers. They had discovered that certain gestures soothed him, as well as certain presences – Shiera most of all, of course, but also Daeron, Myriah herself, Aerys and Aelinor to a lesser extent. It saddened her to think how few friends he had, even in this treacherous world of theirs. No one would ever forgive him for having this strange stain on his cheek and those ruby red eyes, so he had turned them to his advantage, winning Myriah's appreciation.

He stirred again and she leaned over, murmuring some soothing, wordless sounds and stroking his head. He relaxed a little and she sat back, taking his hand once again. She stared at it, bone-white in the darkness, and remembered the first time she had held a little boy's hand, red eyes wide and disbelieving that the Princess had touched him on her own will. All the times she had grabbed a young man by the hand to lead him somewhere away from his books and reports. "Come on, Brynden," she would say. "Will you ever learn not to be so serious?" "I am afraid not, Your Grace," he would reply so very seriously, yet the slightest curve of his lips would show that he was, indeed, pleased of her company and the distraction she forced on him. Her attitude, in turns maternal and flirtatious, seemed to strike the right chord with him – after all, he had barely had the first and he too often saw Shiera aim the later at other men.

She inspected the pale hand. Five fingers, all lines and planes. It looked no different than it had looked a few months ago, a few years ago, yet it was now stained with the blood that had already gained him the nickname kinslayer. Praise to the Seven, he was strong enough to not let that torment him. He had done what needed to be done. Daemon Blackfyre's death only angered Myriah, for it was such a senseless loss. The boy had had so many talents. If only he hadn't listened to the wrong people or that mother of his, still seething that Viserys got the throne instead of her, he could have achieved so much. Instead, he had found the grave he deserved in that grass of red. Baelor had confirmed that Daeron's vision had been true. The grass had been red. Myriah shuddered at the memory of the sack of Sunspear, the Toyne rebellion, all those times war had made its black way into their lives and thanked the Seven that it was finally over, that they had come back alive.

A chambermaid came to bring in the bowl of clear soup they requested changed hourly to keep it warm, just in case he woke up. The Queen noticed the fearful look the woman cast at the bed. He saved you, silly woman, she wanted to say. He saved you, and me, and he saved Westeros from a war that might have raged for years. Still, she had to admit that the news of Daemon's twins' deaths was deeply unsettling. She could see Brynden's reasoning and she was grateful beyond belief that the children's blood that had been shed was not that of her own grandchildren. And still, the manner of their deaths was chilling. If she mourned for anyone in Daemon's lying, self-advancing clique, it was the children.

Outside, dusk turned to darkness. Myriah sat holding his hand, thinking of the toll that war had exacted on him, thinking of the children and wondering where the rush of the first joy after hearing about the victory, after meeting them at their arrival had gone.

It was now time to go and dress for the evening feast. She was about to go out and send for a master when a small gnarled figure made her way into the chamber in the light of a single candle. She was all shadows and lines – lined face, lined neck, lined old hands – but her eyes were as sharp as ever, her dress and person immaculately clean. Myriah immediately decided against calling a maester – her old wetnurse was one of the few people Brynden had had an immediate rapport with. Her practicality and inability to suffer nonsense resonated finely with Brynden's own and the dark mutterings of doom brought out by her own gift of the second sight found their reflection in the way he believed fate could be read in the depth of water, the dance of flame, the whispering of weirwoods. Ever since he was a little boy, he had been fascinated by the Queen's Witch, as they called Lelia. And her knowledge of the secret herb-lore that could prevent conception, summon an illness or alleviate one, and heighten the prophetic sense of those who had it could only elevate her in the eyes of the man who valued practical knowledge more than anything.

"Go now," Lelia said. "I'll stay with him."

Myriah rose and placed Brynden's hand carefully on the cover. Lelia leaned closer, squinting at his face. "He'll wake up in a few hours," she announced and looked around. "Where's the girl? Don't tell me that she listened to reason and went to have some rest?"

"She did," the Queen said, resisting the urge to boast that she had been the one who had made Shiera listen. It was strange to think that no matter how old one was, they still needed to impress their parents – and Lelia was the closest thing she had had to a mother ever since her own died all those years ago, soon after the Young Dragon's army had been decimated.

In her chambers, she quickly changed and entered the buzz and lively conversations in the great hall. Now that everyone could breathe, the air was full of relief and laughter. Men boasted of their heroics in the battle. Women gasped and gave exclamations at all the right places. Servitors kept running around the tables with plates. Dornish red flowed liberally. And yet looking around at her tablemates on the dais, Myriah could see that they were all but joyful. Daenerys was not present. Daeron kept his expression impassive as always, yet she knew that the devastation tore at him. Ruin was ruin, even after the victory was won. Baelor, still not quite used to hiding his thoughts, looked downright sad. Lyselle's anxiety did not help matters. Myriah's goddaughter barely tasted the plates servants placed in front of them. Myriah could see that the more her pregnancy progressed, the more her fear grew. After Matarys 's birth, Lyselle had gone on to conceive two more times, each ending with a child that was perfectly formed for the moons spent in the womb, yet too small to live, so close to the line when it would be developed enough to make it. Rhaegel, the most sensitive out of all of Myriah's children, would not look at anyone, crushed by the misery coming at him from all sides. Aerys had chosen to hide from the aftermath in his world of books and knowledge. Myriah wondered what prophecy he was thinking about now, so distant his expression was. Aelinor was returning the new Volantene's ambassador flirting in full measure, trying to pretend that war and devastation hadn't happened at all. Judging by the looks from the hall, their little game of mutual adoration did not go unnoticed.

"Stop it," Myriah warned in a low voice. Her daughter gave her a look of mock surprise. What is it that I should stop, her eyes asked. Myriah sighed. For all her silver beauty, there was more of Dorne in Aelinor than she was entitled to and it showed, especially now, when Aerys had made it abundantly clear that he had no desire to be a true husband to her. Myriah was not sure how that made her feel. On one hand, she was immensely relieved that the incest Targaryens took for normal would not take place between her own children; on the other, she felt for Aelinor, doomed to spend her life alone, without a man's caress.

Further down the table, little Daeron was saying something about a ship being tossed this way and that, people screaming inside, and a crown floating all over them, unsure on which head to perch, his face very pale. Myriah had learned to recognize the signs that it was one of his dreams he was talking about. A quick look around showed her that Maekar was nowhere to be seen and Naeryn was too engrossed in her own conversation and she sighed in relief. It's ridiculous, she thought, defending Daeron from his own parents. Yet she knew all too well what damage a well-meaning parent could wreck.

All of a sudden, she rose. She could no longer abide this false cheerfulness, those forced smiles, this air of coming down to earth after the first ecstasy after the victory. Daeron looked at her and she gave him a quick smile to indicate that she was fine and she'd be back soon. One of the Kingsguard followed her. Myriah did not look to see who it was – it still pained her to know that Gwayne Corbray would never walk two steps behind her as he had for twelve years.

From the high terrace overlooking the city King's Landing looked like a tapestry of fireflies. The stench could not reach as high as the top of Aegon's Hill and Myriah breathed the fresh air in, hungrily. Slowly, her heartbeat calmed down and her head stopped pounding with the echo of the hall. She was leaning against the railing when she realized she wasn't alone.

"You couldn't stand it either?" Maekar asked from his corner of the terrace, showing no surprise at her arrival.

"Not a minute longer," she replied.

"How is he?" he asked. "I am told he'll be on the mend soon."

"That's right," Myriah said, surprised that he'd take care to keep himself informed. Her youngest did not like Brynden a bit and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it was Maekar's sense of duty that drove him about that, as it did in almost all other things. "He's better already."

"I am pleased to hear it."

Was he going to bring up the kinslaying thing? Why should it matter at all? It shouldn't. "Is it true that he killed them himself?" she heard her own voice asking. "Daemon and the boys?"

Maekar shook his head without hesitation, his hair a second moon under the moon. "No, that's a stupid rumour and nothing more. You know there is no love lost between him and me but I swear, there was no way for anyone to say whose arrows it was that ended their lives."

Myriah let out the breath she had been holding and looked at the city, trying to explain to herself why it would have mattered not if Brynden had killed them in person but it mattered so much that he hadn't.

Maekar seemed to read her thoughts, for he said curtly, "You aren't going to give way to female sensitivities now, are you? The truth is still the same, no matter that Daemon is dead. That's why I am not sorry about him, not even now. He would have had us all murdered – you and me, Father, all of us. Even Lyselle's unborn babe. Oh, he would not have ordered the children killed, of course, but he would have condoned it after someone did it for him, eager to curry favour."

"I know," she agreed and it was no mere words.

They looked at each other and for a moment, Myriah felt as close to him as she rarely had, just like she had once when after spending three months in Dorne, he had come back speaking with Dornish accent. It did not last long, though: a moment later, he looked away as he so often did with her.

Does he know, Myriah wondered for a hundredth time. Sometimes she felt that he did, that since the day he was born, he had been aware of her attempt to prevent her last pregnancy and when her bid failed, induce a miscarriage before anyone found out. Had it not been for King Aegon, she would have taken the blasted herb that would have killed her child in the womb. Myriah always took care to remember this fact when she thought of her goodfather's misdeeds. Of course, it was entirely possible that he had informed Maekar of the whole affair. Knowing him, he would have taken great pleasure in letting the boy know. Sometimes, she was desperate to know – but she could never ask.

"Was it as terrible as I think?" she asked.

Maekar didn't look at her. "It was," he said. "It was all that you think, and more." He paused. "It was standing there that was hardest," he said after a while and leaned over to inhale the scent of the jasmine beneath the terrace – and hide his face, as she thought. "Holding out. All that I had, all that I wanted screamed at me to ride forth to the battle, yet I had to wait and keep my men where they were until Baelor smashed the rebels against us."

For a while, Myriah was silent. She could say that he hadn't been sleeping, that what happened still haunted him. It would stay with him for years to come – and she was just as powerless to help him as she had been in that cursed day seventeen years ago when Aegon had him dragged straight from his bed to have him taken to King's Landing.

"So you've won a victory against yourself," she finally said. "Those are the most precious ones, in my opinion."

He looked at her and smiled briefly. "I suppose you're right," he said but he didn't look like he believed it.

Naeryn'd better come around, Myriah thought. It's her that he needs, not me. Her patience for her goodaughter's behavior was stretching dangerously thin. As much as she related to Naeryn's feelings, for she'd been there herself, it was now her son and not her husband at the receiving end and that made all the difference.

For a while, they stood there and talked of small things of no meaning before they returned to the torment of the great hall. And when it was finally over, when she was blissfully alone in her bedchamber with her husband, she reached out and held him tight, not saying anything, because she knew that while she did not mourn for Daemon, Daeron did.