Chapter 1: The Late Prince's Welcome
The wheelhouse wheels cracked over wet cobblestones, the sound echoing off the sheer red walls of the keep. Dusk had settled into a damp, clinging mist, turning the torches to blurred orange smears. Mariya Tully watched through the slats as the portcullis groaned shut behind them, sealing her into her new life. She adjusted the fall of her sleeve, a simple, deliberate motion. Feelings were for later, in private. For now, there was only the next step.
The courtyard was vast, empty, and glistening. Not a courtier, not a groom. Only two figures waited under the stone arch of the inner gate. One was a mountain in white enameled steel. Ser Duncan the Tall’s head nearly brushed the apex of the arch, his face plain and patient. Beside him stood an older man, stern, with a beard of grey and silver, wearing a black velvet doublet sewn with rubies. King Maekar I’s expression was cut from the same stone as his fortress.
The wheelhouse door opened. Mariya took the offered hand and descended, the damp cold immediately seeping through her shoes. She curtsied, the picture of composed grace. “Your Grace.”
King Maekar’s eyes assessed her, a quick, sharp scan. “Lady Tully. Welcome to King’s Landing.” His voice was gravel under a boot. “Your journey was tolerable?”
“The roads were mud, but my father’s men are capable. Thank you, Your Grace.”
A beat of silence. The king gestured vaguely toward the massive knight. “Ser Duncan will see you to your rooms. My son…” He paused, and a flicker of something—annoyance, fatigue—passed over his face. “Aerion is at the training yard. He lost track of the hour.”
Ser Duncan bowed, an impressive feat of engineering. “My lady. The prince will be along directly.”
Mariya offered a small, understanding smile. It cost her nothing. “A man dedicated to his craft is to be admired. I am content to wait.”
The king gave a grunt that might have been approval, nodded once, and turned on his heel, his boots tapping a retreat into the keep. Mariya was left with the giant in white.
“This way, my lady,” Ser Duncan rumbled, falling into step beside her. His stride was so long she had to take two steps for each of his. “The rain makes the stones slick.”
“So I see.” She matched his pace, her skirts whispering. “Is he often so… dedicated?”
Ser Duncan’s lips twitched. “The prince has many enthusiasms. Today it is the longsword. Yesterday it was hawking. The day before, it was a dice game in Flea Bottom that required my assistance to conclude peacefully.”
“A man of varied interests,” she said, her tone drier than the Dornish marches.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Her chambers were in the Maidenvault, spacious and opulently appointed. A fire crackled in the hearth, fighting the chill. Mariya dismissed her maids, asking only for wine. She stood by the window, watching the last grey light bleed from the sky over Blackwater Bay. The silence was a palpable thing. She had expected noise, clamor, the oppressive weight of Targaryen drama. Not this quiet waiting.
She was on her second cup of a surprisingly good Arbor gold when the door swung open without a knock.
Prince Aerion Brightflame filled the doorway, still in his training leathers, which were dark with sweat and clung to his lean frame. His silver-gold hair was plastered to his temples, and his violet eyes burned with a vibrant, restless energy. He smelled of leather, steel, and hard exertion.
He stopped, looked her up and down. The appraisal was frank, not leering, but it missed nothing—the auburn hair coiled simply at her nape, the blue wool of her gown, the curve of hip and breast beneath it. A slow, infectious grin spread across his face, transforming it from handsome to dangerously appealing.
“Gods be good,” he said, his voice a rasp from shouting drills. “They said you had Tully coloring. They didn’t say you’d put the sunset to shame.”
Mariya took a slow sip of wine. “They said you had a silver tongue. They didn’t say you’d waste its first strokes on such transparent flattery.”
He laughed, a bright, startled sound, and stepped fully into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He crossed the space in a few strides, didn’t bow, didn’t kiss her hand in the formal way. Instead, he caught her free hand in his, his fingers calloused and warm. He brought it to his lips, but his eyes never left hers.
“Transparent, was it? Forgive me. I’m out of practice with brides who actually listen to what I say.” He turned her hand over, his thumb brushing her palm. “My father glowered, Ser Duncan loomed, and you were perfectly polite, I’m sure. A tedious welcome. I intend to make our first private encounter considerably more memorable.”
His voice had dropped to a murmur, intimate and full of wicked promise. He was close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his skin, see the pulse at the base of his throat. This was the reckless charmer, the bawdy prince. This was the performance.
Mariya let her gaze drift from his eyes to his mouth, then back up. She did not pull her hand away. She lifted one brow, just a fraction.
“Promise?” she asked, her voice quiet, steady, and layered with a challenge that was neither coy nor afraid.
The grin on Aerion’s face froze. The easy confidence in his violet eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat, replaced by a flash of pure, unguarded surprise. He had expected a blush, a simper, a flustered look away. He had not expected a calm, curious interrogation of his boast, a question that demanded proof.
He recovered quickly, his smile returning, but it was sharper now, more focused. The game had suddenly changed players. “Oh, my lady,” he said, his thumb making another slow pass over her palm. “I suppose that depends entirely on you.”
He released her hand and strode to the sideboard, pouring himself a full cup of wine. He drank half in one go, watching her over the rim. “Tell me, did they pack any humor in your luggage along with the famous Tully composure? Or is it all steady nerves and sober judgment?”
“I find sober judgment is often the cause of humor, not its enemy,” she said, turning to face him fully. “For instance, I am currently judging the fact that you are tracking mud from the training yard onto a Myrish carpet. I find that mildly hilarious.”
Aerion looked down at his boots, then at the faint smudges on the intricate weave. He barked another laugh. “Ser Duncan will scold me for that tomorrow. He notices everything.” He finished the wine. “So. Mariya of Riverrun. What shall we do with each other?”
“We could begin with a conversation that doesn’t sound like a line from a mummer’s farce,” she suggested, sitting smoothly in a chair by the fire. “Or you could continue to loom and drip. The choice is yours, my prince.”
He leaned against the stone mantel, crossing his arms. The sweat had dried on his skin, leaving him glowing in the firelight. The mask of the flirt was still there, but she saw the intelligence now, watching her, calculating. “You’re not what I expected.”
“I rarely am. What did you expect?”
“Someone… softer. More eager to please. Or more terrified.”
“Disappointed?”
“Intrigued,” he admitted, and for a moment, the word seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. He pushed off the mantel. “The court feasts for us tomorrow. A spectacle. They’ll all be watching to see if the dragon can make the trout steam.”
“Let them watch,” Mariya said, meeting his gaze. “I’ve never steamed on command.”
“No,” he said softly, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw. “I don’t believe you do.” He moved then, not toward her, but to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch. “Get some sleep, my lady. The spectacle awaits. And so do I.”
He was gone, leaving behind the scent of sweat and wine, and a silence that now throbbed with a different energy. Mariya released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She looked at her palm, where his thumb had stroked. Then she looked at the mud stains on the carpet, and a genuine, warm smile touched her lips for the first time that day.
In the corridor, Aerion strode past Ser Duncan, who stood like a white sentinel against the wall.
“Well?” the big knight murmured.
Aerion didn’t break his stride. “She asked me if I promised.”
Ser Duncan fell in beside him. “And what did you say?”
“I didn’t have an answer.” Aerion’s pace slowed. He rubbed his thumb over his own palm, thoughtful. “Find out everything you can about her, Dunk. Not the courtly nonsense. The real things. What she reads. What makes her laugh. What she wanted from this.”
“You think she wanted something specific?”
“Everyone does,” Aerion said, but his voice lacked its usual cynical bite. He glanced back toward the Maidenvault. “She just might be the first person to actually ask for it.”