Chapter 53: Under the Yoke
Watching the wheelhouse depart, Tyrion gripped the pommel of his sword with a tightening hold. He slammed his other hand upon the stone windowsill. By the gods, why did his father see fit to involve himself in Tyrion's own victory? "Why? Why?!" he yelled at his own staff.
Technically he didn't need to follow old Loren Lannister's advice. Tyrion was in command of an army of the Faith, not the Westerlands even though all his forces were of the Westerlands - even the Warrior's Sons were of the Lannisport chapter, commanded by another of their knights as Joffrey Doggett found himself promoted to the late Damon Morrigen's place. Loren, the loser in a battle against the Targaryens, could not command his son while in the field.
Still did his advice infuriate the man. The Northmen were trapped in place, ringed by shield walls, the cliffs of the valley, and solid lines of knights ready to run them down. In the northern camp, after many fruitless attempts had been made to break out, it was clear that Brandon Stark and his lords found themselves at last in a state of utter destitution. The necessity compelled them to send envoys to Tyrion to ask in the first instance for fair terms of peace, and failing that to challenge them to battle.
Tyrion would love to massacre them, but orders from the Starry Sept were to keep his army as intact as possible - the appeal of defeating the Northmen without losing a man were also just too good to pass up, but how to go about it?
Such was the quandary, and Tyrion was at a loss. His bannermen persuaded him against his instincts to ask for his father's advice, only for Loren to show up in the dead of night. His advice simply baffled Tyrion.
Old and feeble, advanced in years and given up of all public business unless done through intermediaries, Loren Lannister nevertheless stood up to speak as clear as ever before his son and bannermen. Either the whole force ought to be at once allowed to depart uninjured, or that to a man they should be put to death. On receiving these contradictory solutions, Tyrion's first impression was that his father had gone mad.
Any other son would've just thought this, but Tyrion - bold and brash - told Loren to his face. He received a slap upon the cheek as if he were a boy, and burned with humiliation as he yielded to a war council.
"The North will never be conquered," Loren spoke plainly to all involved. "They are allied to the dragons and in that they are dangerous, but our focus should be eliminating the dragons - then they will depart without need for us, and if you are to establish a durable peace and friendship with a most powerful people then treating them with such exceptional kindness is the solution."
Eloquent… "Foolish. They will come after us again and again."
Loren sighed but continued. "Then kill them all. You will postpone war for many generations that way, for it would take that time for the North to recover her strength painfully and slowly after the loss of their main army. Heed these words. There is no third course. The Northmen may be ice to Valyria's fire but both are devastating when risen to anger. They remember all slights and are a nation who know not how to remain quiet under defeat. Whatever disgrace this present extremity burns into their souls will rankle there forever, and will allow them no rest till they have made you pay for it many times over."
The memory made Tyrion scoff. Killing them all would do that, deprive them of fear. Of terror, which he wanted to spread. The legend of Tyrion Lannister, the slayer of Northmen, how would that spread if he left them all dead on the battlefield. It would anger the North, but not stoke in them the pervasive terror that would haunt their souls till mankind disappeared off the earth.
How else would they reject Rhaenys Targaryen as their lady?
And so he came up with his plan.
"My Lord, they are here."
He nodded to Lord Lefford. "Good, send them in." His bannermen waited behind him as the guards bid entry to the commanders of the Northern army. Marlon Umber, Medrik Karstark, Silas Mormont, Jon Flint, and Brandon Stark himself. A broken but still proud man… whom Tyrion delighted in humbling. "So, you're here to offer your surrender?"
Brandon glared at him, only to nod. "Aye. There is no use to see our men die in needless bloodshed." He gulped. "Tell me, is Prince Aegon in any threat?"
"Oh, he is," Tyrion chuckled. "Eventually he'll die, but let him stew in Castamere for a few more moons with his whore and the traitor Lord Reyne." It had been brilliant of him, duping the Northman's sense of honor and family devotion to force march him into the trap. "Your sword then, Lord Stark."
Tyrion grinned like a madman at the worn, bitter stare of Brandon Stark. The man wanted to strangle him, but the ignominy of defeat and the exhaustion of fruitless fighting had broken him. Without a sound he reached behind him and drew his sword. The greatsword Ice, a legendary blade forged in the earliest days of Old Valyria for the Kings of Winter. He held it in two hands and presented it to Tyrion, who took the blade.
His eyes raked over the priceless blade. "This shall make a perfectly acceptable replacement for Brightroar, once I replace the pommel." A wolf's head wouldn't do for a Lannister. As for Brandon… "Seize him."
Guards descended upon the defenseless northern lords. Some tried to fight, but they were quickly subdued with punches and kicks. His guards bound them in manacles, rendering them completely submitted.
Brandon glared at him. "Your word was given, to spare my army."
"Aye, your army will be spared." Tyrion shrugged. "Most of it anyway - and that doesn't extend to you, Lord Brandon."
Blinking, he looked to the ground. Sighing in disgust and resignation. "My wife will burn you for this."
"Your wife does not concern me," Tyrion laughed. "I hope she enjoys your severed head, as will all your wives, my Lords… though I have something special planned for you, Lord Stark." A message would be sent, one that would cripple the North and leave it to crawl behind its fortress and never contend with the Seven Who are One again.
A message bathed in blood.
Hearing the moans and cries of love and lust even past the guards, Visenya shook her head with a sigh. Pausing not, she flung the door to the lord's bedchambers open with an abruptness certainly drew the attention of those inside. "By Tessarion, I can't leave you lechers alone for an hour, can I?"
Head pitched back, mouth open in pleasure, Aegon nevertheless lazily raised it to meet Visenya's gaze. "Apparently you can't, sister."
She refused to visibly show how mentioning their relation affected her - a trickle of wetness moistening her smallclothes. "Indeed," Visenya mused, surveying the tangled mass of limbs upon sweat-soaked sheets that were her siblings and spouses. Clad in a red dress clinging to her body like a sheath, she cut a striking vision with her silver hair tied up in a gentle bun - some strands loose and falling down her face. "Have you even left the bed since I left this morning?" She still scowled, but her tone was filled with exasperation and amusement.
Visenya could never be mad at them.
A silver-gold mess of hair rose from Aegon's crotch, releasing his cock with a loud pop. "We bathed," Rhaenys answered with a delightful giggle. She crawled up to kiss his lips, her nude body settling beside him. "Come join us," she giggled.
Visenya's brow furrowed. "Are you serious?" She smoothed her dress and fixed her best big sister stare on them.
Aegon wrapped an arm around their naked sister. "Kessa."
Fuck, why did they have to be so gorgeous? So tempting? Visenya envied the Andals, saddled with siblings they didn't wish to jump every minute. "You're the one who wishes to go to war on the continent and conquer it. Seven Kingdoms, hundreds of thousands of men while we barely have two thousand."
"And three dragons," Aegon shrugged, kissing down Rhaenys' neck. Making her giggle… and then moan, tilting her head to give him more access. Visenya bit her lip - she wanted to be doing that. "Even dragons need their rest, which is what we were doing this morning before you fled."
"Yes, we did," Visenya spoke, purple eyes flashing with annoyance. Damn him and his easygoing good looks. "We rested plenty. It is time to get out of bed and continue the preparations."
Her siblings shared an expression, one of curiosity and… mischief. Visenya took a step back when Rhaenys whispered into Aegon's ear, the latter's eyes twinking while she adopted a rather wicked smirk.
Aegon kissed Rhaenys' cheek and then rose from the tangle of their limbs. Visenya watched him approach her, unable to look away from how his cock bounced between his thighs. Breath hitching when his hands encircled her hips to pull her body flush against his own."Husband…"
He didn't give her a chance to continue. "Come join us," Aegon whispered in her ear, licking the shell before crashing their lips together. It was a gentle determination, Visenya's mouth yielded for his tongue. His hands roamed to release the loose bun and fell her locks around her shoulder.
"I shouldn't," Visenya whispered against his lips, but her body betrayed her. She rubbed against his chest with hers, while her hands reached down - one gripping his arse and the other stroking his cock. Fuck, it was hard.
"Please," he replied, undoing the clasps that held her dress. It pooled around her feet, Aegon grinning. He cupped her breasts and thumbed her nipples. His hard cock pressed against her belly. "I'll make you feel good."
By the gods, Visenya had put up a fight… well, she didn't, but she wouldn't admit it. Surrender she did, however, allowing him to lift her by her arse and carry her to the bed. Visenya wrapped her legs around him, kissing him madly. Consumed by her lust.
They were only a few years into their marriage, and aside from dragonriding and sparring this was their favorite pastime - her spars with Aegon usually ended in this anyways.
Rhaenys was waiting for them, nude and utterly beautiful. A feminine, impish grace whereas Visenya was more striking - fierce. Aegon tossed her on the bed, Visenya only able to suck in a single breath before Rhaenys mounted her and claimed her lips for her own. Bodies molding against one another. Visenya's full breasts pressed against Rhaenys' smaller yet perky apples.
"Oh kessa…" Visenya moaned. Rhaenys kissed along her neck, biting just as she felt Aegon's cock thrust into her. Filling her deliciously. "Give me a son, husband…" Why did she try and stop this? There was nothing better than enjoying this, wishing it would never end.
Unfortunately, dreams were just that. Dreams. For the Dowager Queen, awakening from her bed restless and aching all over, the worst agony was the knowledge that such pleasure and love were simply memories.
Rhaenys was dead.
Aegon was dead.
Visenya wished she were dead as well. Only her children kept her in this fight. Grandchildren that needed her… alongside the persistent call of vengeance. Rising from the bed and calling out for the servants - not too proud to allow their assistance to dress her elderly body - Visenya would let it continue to drive her forward. Until peace, at least.
Then she would be happy.
Her bones creaked and her skin was weathered, but lean muscle still rippled underneath, her reflexes were still sharp, and Visenya still possessed a powerful mind. Wearing riding armor, she walked outside into the courtyard only to find Vivienne Gardener and Argella Baratheon standing. Watching the sea break against the cliffs. Visenya walked to them till she was alongside her two compatriots. All left of the great minds that finalized the union of Westeros aside from Hugor Flowers and Loren Lannister. "What news?" she asked, no need for pretenses.
Vivienne and Argella didn't take offense. "Maegor still doesn't wake." It was Vivienne.
Visenya sighed. "It's been days." Rhaena's burning of the Sept of Remembrance with Dreamfyre was welcome, but her son's continued coma wasn't. In any case, there wasn't much Visenya could do about it but worry, and that was counterproductive. "Anything else?"
Her goodsister bit her lip. "The northern army was trapped in the Westerlands." Visenya's eyes widened. "Completely destroyed, or at least they're likely to be."
"Seven hells." Visenya wanted to punch a tree. "That's tens of thousands of troops we cannot afford to lose."
"Rogar wishes to march out now. Deal the main army of the Faith a defeat before they can march out of the Reach." She shrugged. "I gave him permission - we need a victory."
Visenya gazed at the sky. "Aye, we do. It's why I'm going."
"Good luck," both women stated.
"Volantis will not be easy to sway." That was Vivienne.
She shrugged, calling out to Vhagar. "What choice to I have?" Neither answered, and soon she was upon Vhagar's back, flying across Shipbreaker Bay towards Essos. Tarth would welcome her, as they were loyal - a trait hard to find these days.
"Aegon, Rhaenys…" she murmured, voice lost to all but her in the winds that howled all around them. "Grant us something… anything. Relieve our pain."
Nothing and no one responded.
"The North remembers!"
Down swung the axe, severing the head of Lord Mormont. It rolled along the grassy ground away from the severely mutilated body. One the Lannister men-at-arms now carried towards where the other Lords stood. Dangling from a rope tied around their ankles. Holding up the corpses for all to see.
Brandon Stark being one of them, but as he waited for his punishment at the hands of Tyrion Lannister, it wasn't he that served as the intended audience.
There they were, the soldiers. What remained of them anyways. It had been two days since the surrender. One day since they had endured all but one last part of their punishment - namely having each ten men kill one of their group with their own hands, then be subjected to a brand of both the Seven-Pointed Star and the Lannister lion upon their flesh.
Which hurt them the most? The humiliation or the guilt of having killed their comrades, corpses impaled along the road leading back to the Riverlands. Brandon didn't know, but could see only their agony. Their sorrows.
Each of them were looking at each other, gazing sadly at the stacked armor and weapons which were given up, making them at the mercy of their enemies. Better that then look at the men they killed, than at the Lords butchered. The Westermen and the Stars and Swords especially heaped taunts and insulting looks upon their miserable hides.
Proud Northmen. For the first time in a thousand years they had been defeated without receiving a single wound, or using a single weapon, or fighting a single battle. They had not been allowed to draw the sword or come to grips with the enemy.
And all was his fault. Brandon knew he deserved this, but his men didn't. The North Remembers. They'd remember this for centuries to come.
"Move!" Ser Marq Serrett, holding the axe, raised it as they shoved Marlon Umber into place. "Any last words, heathen."
Marlon spat. "Fuck you."
Down swung the axe, ending the great warrior's life with said words of defiance. Now it was up to young Jeyne Umber to lead Last Hearth into recovery. What a waste.
"Well, Lord Stark." Brandon wouldn't turn and give him the satisfaction, but was sure a smug, cruel smile formed on Tyrion's lips. "Anything you wish to say to me before I finish what we've started here?"
Brandon's hands were tied so he couldn't punch the heir to Casterly Rock. He was defenseless, and displayed in not but a pair of ripped trousers. They'd wished for him to be naked, but changed their minds at the sight of how large his cock was.
That made him smile. "My men will not rest until Casterly Rock burns to the ground for this."
"Oh really?" Tyrion cackled. "Those men? Mere slaves and beaten dogs?" Wolves… wolves that bit. "Let them loose!"
"Sound march!" proclaimed his heralds, and soon warhorns boomed across the valley. Slowly, inexorably, the Northmen marched. The remaining highborns - heirs now likely Lords and Ladies in their own right - were the first to be sent, little more than half-clothed. They trudged under the yoke, a large gate formed by captured spears bound together like fetters. Once they passed, then came the officers and finally the common soldiers and noncombatants one after the other.
Around them stood the fully-armed Westermen, reviling and jeering at them. Swords were pointed at most of them. Some didn't like that, but each word was answered with a crossbow to the head or neck. Their corpses stained the ground, but the men continued to march. Beaten and destroyed.
Serving only to reveal such a hideous sight as they marched along, more gloomy than any shape of death.
"See your brave Northmen, reduced to nothing but sheep."
"They are herded not by dogs, but by wolves and dragons."
"Who will soon die… as you will now."
So this was it. Brandon sighed, being shoved to his knees. Splayed prone atop a large boulder. This would be his death.
"No man should enjoy what I am about to do, but I will enjoy this, Stark." Smirk only widening, Tyrion raised his large knife high before bringing it down hard onto Brandon's ribcage.
If Brandon thought he knew pain before, each moment proved him wrong. Hardened Lords and Knights of the Westerlands cringed at the splatters of blood all around him, but he didn't speak. Didn't scream or beg for mercy. He was a Stark of Winterfell, and they did not show themselves as cowards.
They were direwolves, and wolves howled. And howl he did, a mournful sound that echoed across the entire valley. Ended only when Brandon felt his insides being ripped out. His lungs yanked out of his chest and placed on his back, forming the wings of a grotesque bird of prey bathed in blood.
Such was the bloody eagle.
Before the blackness overcame him, he saw his wife ahead. Light shone all around her, and a smile touched his lips. Remember with fire and blood.
Princess Rhaenys felt small. She shouldn't, as she sat atop the Lord's table in Raventree Hall gazing down upon the envoy of the Faith. She was the dragonrider of Arrax, the daughter of King Aegon and Queen Visenya. The Lady of Winterfell…
She could only imagine her kepa staring down at her. In her mind, he seemed to be frowning. As if he were displeased that this girl was fighting for him. That she had learned nothing from his example.
Faced with the basket that had just been given her, with the horrible contents within that drove her companions to anger and herself to a terrible silence, she wondered his image was not right. That she was just a girl that learned nothing.
The envoy from Tyrion Lannister was Ser Marq Serret. There were several amulets of the Faith of the Seven on his fine cloak and armor, a gold chain hanging from his neck. "And so is the remnant of Brandon Stark - the others are being taken North by your army. What's left of it anyways."
The lords and ladies gathered with Rhaenys, mostly of the loyal Rivermen but some Northmen as well - Rogar Bolton, Harlow Reed, Lord Locke and Lord Wull, not to mention Ralla and Gelina the wildlings. Rhaenys could not miss the stares of anticipation occasionally thrown her way. They hate the Faith. Ser Marq was watched with loathing, wishing he would die. But they wonder if I am weak.
She was their leader now. Brandon couldn't be mourned, for the North was hers now.
The envoy cleared his throat. he was waiting. Silence filled the hall. The lords and ladies were also waiting. "So what shall it be?" The terms given were insulting, and yet this was the North's darkest hour. "Your army is shattered, a broken husk. We will do the same to this tiny force, so Tyrion Lannister will be lenient. Go North of the Neck and stay there. You can take the Blackwood heathens too." Lord Blackwood looked like he wished to strangle him.
Rhaenys opened her mouth, then closed it. The wish for Vengeance coursed through her soul, but she remembered the fate of her parents. Years of destruction and murder in Dorne to avenge her namesake, and it amounted to nothing. Was not peace preferable? Who else would die, fathers and husbands and sons… Rhaenys closed her eyes, Trying to wade through the tortuous agony that Brandon's death had subjected her to.
For a moment though she swore she could see him before her. Much like the image of her father. Brandon was the handsome young man she had fallen in love with. Oh, how Rhaenys ached for him, but that smile wasn't there. His face was grim, but then softened. Not the carefree smile she was used to, but something more… calming. Reassuring. He nodded to her.
She opened her mouth, still not looking. Old gods, give me strength. Give me words. "Your offer is most gracious," she said. A murmur of confusion swept the audience. "Since by such loathsome insults, I would be within my rights to take your head!"
Another rumble swept the crowd, a growl of satisfaction. Ser Marq stepped back. "This is most horrid, dragonspawn."
Rhaenys leaned back. "I will tell your master, both the one in Casterly Rock and the one in Oldtown, that the North will know no peace save victory! No rest but justice!"
The roar of acclamation from the audience was unanimous.
Eyes opening, they were devoid of emotion. Bloodless, as if a divine being presiding over the infinite justice upon mortals. "Seize them."
"What?" the knight proclaimed as the Northmen and Frey soldiers apprehended him and his companions. "We are envoys, protected by guest right."
"You think us godless barbarians, so mayhaps we are free of your traditions." She caressed the brown hair of her beloved husband. Never again would feel his warmth, delight in his passion. His love deprived from Aegon, Saera, Alaric, and… gods, Lyanna wouldn't even have memories of him. Rhaenys rose, hands shaking. "And you are not worthy of mercy."
"Preposterous, you heathens would do to repent…"
"It was him!" One of the men-at-arms, a puddle of piss at his feet, screamed and seeped his confession to Rhaenys. "He put the lungs on Lord Stark's back, your Grace!"
"You insolent…" the knight tried to break free and assault his man, but Ser Cleos hit him in the side.
"Mercy! Please mercy!"
Rhaenys nodded to Galina. The wildling war chieftess hefted her axe and with a single sweep of her arms beheaded the man-at-arms. "A quick death, merciful compared to what faces the rest of you."
"The bloody eagle, my Lady." Lord Reed blazed fury upon them. "They killed our Lord with the bloody eagle."
"I know." For now, it fueled her. The flame that do sustained the dragon. "Lord Bolton, dispose of those as you see fit."
Rogar Bolton was one of the more reasonable men of his house, but the sadistic smirk common to Boltons came natural even to him. "Our knives are always sharp, my Lady." The men-at-arms didn't know the gruesome history of House Bolton and their flaying… they would soon.
As for Ser Serrett… "Good Ser, unlike your men, you will be spared the fate of your comrades. Tis not the fate of the Bolton knife that is in store for you, but the bone knife of the Wildlings."
"What are you talking about?"
"She's talkin' bout me, fucker." Gelina was behind him, and Rhaenys could see the bone knife drawn from its sheath. Both sharp enough to cut flesh and dull enough to not make it clean. "How far do you want me to go?"
Rhaenys narrowed his eyes and peered at Ser Marq. "Leave his face recognizable for Lord Lannister. Otherwise feel free to be creative." Ser Marq's eyes widened as he finally realized what true terror was. "See to it he doesn't survive past nightfall."
"Yes, mi'Lady."
The keep shook with the screams of the Westerlands knight - the man that had helped kill Ser Brandon Stark.
But that did not grant Rhaenys any relief. Shutting herself in her chambers, in the relief of solitude - where the Princess could shed her royalty and simply become herself - she collapsed upon her bed. Not the bed she ever shared with her husband… there would be no more beds like that.
Her husband was dead.
Falling to her knees, Rhaenys screamed. The cries echoed through the bedchamber - she beat her breast, she pulled at her hair. She buried her face into the pillows and wondered if death would end the agony.
End the pain.
What was life worth if Brandon was no longer by her side? Now she finally knew what her muna felt, and couldn't fathom how she survived so long without kepa by her side. Rhaenys had lost Brandon for mere hours, and she already wanted to die.
The door opened. Disturbing her solitude. Only ten minutes earlier, Rhaenys would've fed the intruder to her dragon, but in the midst of her pain she didn't care. Didn't resist as the figure pulled her up. Embracing her. Again, any other time she'd have been stunned. "Easy, dragon, easy." For once, Gelina's tone was soothing. Calloused hands stroking her shoulders, accepting as Rhaenys cried into her tunic. "Lit' it all out."
And Rhaenys did.
It was everywhere.
The stench of smoke, of flame… of burnt flesh. It hung over King's Landing like a fog, permeating every nook and cranny. With supply routes resumed with the outside world, the servants of the Dragonpalace took to burning incense or other sweet-smelling herbs to mask it. To Tyanna, it was only somewhat of a respite. Somewhat.
Quickly wolfing down her bowl of soup - something the cooks haphazardly boiled together out of broth, some chopped potato, onions, and a little beef - Tyanna rose once the last spoonful disappeared down her gullet to resume her place at Maegor's side. She shot out her hand, feeling his forehead. No fever.
Thank the gods for small favors. If there was a fever with his wounds, he would not be long for this world.
Just the thought made her sob. Fuck, her sobbing over a man…
"Ty…" She blinked, focusing on the form of Rhaena seated across the bed from her. Greasy soot and ash covering the riding leathers she hadn't bothered to change out of for days. No bath, no clean clothes. Not while her husband was in peril.
Rhaena still looked beautiful. "Rhae…" Tyanna reached out and took her hands.
"How long was I out?"
She looked adorable like that, still groggy with sleep - though Tyanna knew that from a far better perspective on the sultry Queen. "Since the sun fell."
Cursing, Rhaena plopped back down. Frowning. "Seven hells, I must not do that."
"You're tired, and you're filthy." She rounded the bed, going to Rhaena's shoulders. Allowing herself a level of intimacy with her female love that hadn't been seen since their affair ended. There was no doubt in her mind where she wished this to go, and indulged herself even with the agony both of them shared over Maegor's fate. "You need to rest and clean yourself."
"If I leave his side, I don't deserve to be his wife. To be loved by him."
"And what about those others that love you?" It wasn't just the soot and grime. Rhaena's eyes were bloodshot, skin pale. The lustrous silver hair Tyanna loved to run her hands through while they made love was dulled, as if a tarnished silver. It broke her heart. "Of Daemon, of your siblings, of me."
Rhaena's eyes focused on her. "Of you?"
She nodded. "Aye, I love you."
"Tyanna…"
But Tyanna didn't care. The pain of it all was grating on her. She hadn't confessed her true feelings budding inside of her to Maegor before he flew off to the fight, but damned if she wouldn't do so for Rhaena. "I love you… and I love him too."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
A shrug. "Is it truly harder to win my heart over that of a dragonrider?" Without waiting for Rhaena to speak further, she leaned down. Bent over with her arse sticking out, but when her lips met Rhaena's it was worth the strain on her back and the ridiculous position. Especially when the nervous Rhaena moaned, relaxed, and reciprocated the kiss.
Hands clutched on each other, rediscovering what had been lost since they ended their love affair. Desire flooded through Tyanna and a small part of her wished to disregard their surroundings and mount Rhaena, burn through the tension with something pleasing.
She moaned when a hand brushed her arm. "Mmmm, touch me. Go lower."
"I'm already touching you," Rhaena mumbled against her lips. Both of her hands quite lovingly grabbing her head and weaving through her black hair.
But the other hand… Gasping, Tyanna drew back. The hand, sluggishly lowering back down, connected to a pair of worn, lidded violet eyes staring up at her. At them. "Loves?"
"Gods!" Rhaena leapt up and threw her arms around her husband. "Maegor, you're awake!" Tears fell down her cheeks, as they did for Tyanna too. She couldn't stop smiling.
Weak, his voice croaked. "Did… did we…"
"Aye, Fire and Blood." Rhaena needed not say more.
Maegor sighed, relieved. "Ty… love, you too." Her heart exploded. Before he fell asleep once more, she indulged, joining the embrace. Feeling as if her life had finally pieced back together.
Rhaena would finally bathe and sleep that evening, Tyanna by her side for all of it. And oh, it was glorious, only made better by the promise of more once the King truly recovered.