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Aelor & Aelora Targaryen | | Elayne Lothston
Wake up before dawn. Dress in leather and mail, try not to need any help but quietly thank the Kingsguard for a hand when needed, making it faster and easier. Eat fruit, a bite of bacon, some dark beer in the working kitchen while the Red Keep bakers mostly run the place. Meet Captain Davik and his two men at the main gate just before the sun rises. Spend most of the early morning walking around Flea Bottom, listening to every word the Gold Cloaks offer about businesses and notable residents and orphans, an alley where a woman was murdered the night before their eventual focus.
The Prince watched as the three Gold Cloaks questioned residents. Someone heard some noise but thought nothing of it—it’s Flea Bottom. Davik knows an old woman who lives in the alley that likes to sit at her windows. The woman provides a vague description. Follow the Gold Cloaks across Flea Bottom, to another alley, breaking up a small gambling game and detaining one of the gamblers. Ichy, he calls himself, with arrogance. Aelor doesn’t blink when Davik puts a fist into Ichy’s ribs. Ichy, Davik would later explain, is someone who offers information to them from time to time. In return, he further explained, they allow Ichy to live.
By evening the Gold Cloaks are tired enough to let Aelor bust down a door, chase down a thief. The errands are small but better than the nothing of before. Over weeks Davik trusts him to do more, and more. By the end of the year, it wasn’t uncommon for the Prince to return to the Red Keep at dawn, collapsing into his bed after a night filled with patrol and long periods of tedium before explosions of chaos.
And, sometimes, it was just odd: like the raving madman who approached them, loudly proclaiming himself King Aegon the Conqueror reborn. Davik allowed the Prince the pleasure of dealing with that. Aelor remarked to the madman that he was no Targaryen and turned to face Davik. So, the madman pissed on his boots. He waited three hours for the sun to rise and a merchant Aelor knew through Maekar to open his shop so Aelor could replace the pissed-on boots.
One morning he came in, and Aelora greeted him. As much as Aelora loved to sleep, she was never awake at any point around dawn. The suspense didn’t last long as she revealed why she was so very awake, and so very busily active, telling him to sleep on the road; they were off to Maekar’s tournament to support their uncle and cousin. Aelor moaned about a bad night, Aelora reminded him that she had reminded him the night before, after telling him about it two days before that.
Aelor slept in the wheelhouse for most of the first day.
The trip took two days, and the night camped he spent wandering the Stormlands woods, because he was used to sleeping while they were about, and being awake while the Red Keep, King’s Landing, and his family mostly slept. His father encouraged it, even if his mother had begun to worry. The next day he didn’t sleep, but mostly rode a horse with Aelora or walked to stay awake. They arrived at Summerhall just before sundown, but after greeting his family, Aelor escaped with Aelora to sleep. She read him to sleep, a history of Essos, volume fifteen by some Magister.
When he awoke it wasn’t early, but it wasn’t as late as his usual awakening. Mid to late morning, he guessed, before dressing lazily in black riding leather trousers and a thin black linen tunic that went just past his waist, unlaced as the Summerhall sun warmed the skin of his chest that it left exposed as he rode about the various tourney campgrounds. When he was noticed he gave polite waves, nods, and simple greetings. Maekar had teased him the day before about being ready for the ‘marketplace’ as the family indulged in chatter about potential matches for the twins, knowing full well how much the twins loathed such dull conversation.
The thought spurred him forward. It was a nervous feeling that he was unused to. He presumed it a matter of facing the unknown, dismissed it thusly, and managed to snap out of his thoughts just long enough to keep the horse from hitting the woman. The girl? “My Lady, beg your pardon.” He said, once. He was sure of that, even if the woman or girl pretended not to hear him, or just didn’t hear him. Perhaps she was lost in her own thoughts, too, so Aelor tried again. Louder.
This time, the girl’s head snapped toward him, seeing him, as he saw her, and offered a polite-sized smile on his otherwise reserved features. Girl, not woman, because she looked younger than Aelora and he, even if not by over much. Aelor’s purple eyes swept left and right, noticing the number of heads turning when he looked.
Most heads just stared. He was a Prince, the son of the Hand of the King, and heir to the throne. And unlike some members of his family, Aelor and his sister looked like Valyrian Dragon Lords of old, which meant people stared. The heads that quickly turned away? Men. Not highborn, either, from the quick glance he got of them. In the back of his mind, Aelor heard only Davik, ” Men expose their guilt with every word and act, you just have to do this long enough to see it when they do it.”
His eyes returned to the girl, the noble Lady, as he suspected the guilt behind the faces that turned away from his glance. She wasn’t ugly. Her gown looked well-fitted to her. “May I offer you a ride home?”
The woman looked startled that she had nearly run into a horse, so worried had she been at the fact she could not remember how to retrace her steps it had taken a second questioning to make her blue eyes flicker to the rider. Her head tilted as she studied the man as though judging him for a portrait, her red-blonde hair falling in curls over a shoulder. Elayne Lothston was unaware of the men who had been approaching her and her worry was dispelled as she wondered how exactly she could capture the man before her with the stroke of a brush or needle. “My apologies, your Highness.” Her voice was breathless as her cheeks flushed in embarrassment at being woolgathering when the Prince had asked a question. For Prince, he was, a Targaryen, though which one was not exactly known to her.
Twisting about, she looked at the different banners and stalls all were very delightful. Something she had never seen before and if Danelle and her father laid their hands upon her after this, would be something she would undoubtedly never see again unless through a ring of thick men-at-arm with stout clubs. Tugging at a lock of her hair in agitation and worry for that fact, she gave the Prince a beaming smile that faltered slightly. “It is very wonderful, is it not? Though I admit, I am a bit confused as to where I am exactly. Danelle will see me never set foot out of Harrenhal again.” She trailed off as that thought came to her and worry, and fear flashed down her spine. Danelle would never let her out of the tent without her, let alone the searing tone she would have to bear, and only that if she was lucky enough to keep Septa Bessa close.
“Elayne Lothston, Highness. My apologies, I am trying to place myself.” She felt as though she must seem a fool, trying to preserve all she saw and her wonder of it while being utterly lost and now making a fool of herself in front of a Prince. Never mind that her father would be having that twitch in his hand, as he did when the Targaryens were mentioned. Perhaps having run into him would spare her some of Danelle’s temper? Dipping a curtsy, she tugged at the lock of hair again and her head swiveled to scan the banners. “Father will never let me leave the castle again. Lost at a tournament. Danelle will see me fed to hounds.” Elayne spoke more to herself, seeming caught up with how best to deal with the situation at hand and the reactions she would get for it, than the actual situation at hand. Such a fool was she, Elayne tugged her hair again.
His mouth barely hinting at the smile of amusement the girl’s ranting produced within his spirit, Aelor leaned in the saddle and offered her an open hand at the end of his long, strong, arm, “None of that. Come now, I’ll see you safe.”
She took his hand before she thought. It wasn’t really in Elayne to question someone so much higher. Though she blinked in shock and stammered slightly. “No, I would hate to be a bother. Surely you have things to attend to? The tents- They must be right around the corner.” Her words were almost running over each other and but she did have one reason as to why this was a very bad idea. “I’m wearing a gown.”
His face twisted at the issue at hand. A bloody gown, he could have sighed. It took some lifting with his legs in the stirrups, and the left hand to hold the bottom hem of the damnable gown down, but in a motion that strained most of the muscles of his body he brought her closer with their hands locked, then let go, reached out to hook her waist, and carefully lift her, setting her across his lap in the saddle, the right hand taking the reins back up, the left casually placed on the outside of the thigh furthest from him. The grey Rounsey only silently gave a shake of its head, Aelora’s nameless horse taking them at a careful pace back to Summerhall, picking its way through make-shift boulevards of tent town as they headed towards palace gates.
“Forgive me,” he said loud enough only to be heard by her as they went, “my name is Prince Aelor. What House is it you are from, Lady…?”
If Balerion the Black Dread could have come out of the sky and eaten her in that instant, Elayne would have been most thankful. As it was, she gave an indignant squeak as she found herself lifted and set across the lap of the Prince, her face most likely a match for any scarlet banner. It was indecent and if her father saw, he would be drawing steel. Nothing was made better as her planned apologies were cut off by an introduction.
She resolutely wished to throw herself from the horse and into the jaws of a kraken.
Yet a question had been answered and it was rude to not reply. “House Lothston. Elayne of House Lothston of Harrenhal.” She whispered in something more of a strangled squeak. The slow plod of the horse torture within itself. “Father will see me never leaving my rooms again.” She whispered in horror, “Highness, please. It’s quite alright. I can find my own way back.” Surely her voice wasn’t so high-pitched? She was a lady, a lady’s voice did not squeak. Then again, a proper lady would not be sitting so in the lap of the son of the Heir to the Iron Throne! “Danelle is going to flay me alive.” She whispered in despair, and Danelle would for Elayne slipping away, let alone causing this mess! Then again, it would be far easier to live with Danelle than feeling this amount of heat in her cheeks. Pushing slightly, she attempted to slide from the horse, “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I do not mean to cause you such trouble.” She whispered, mortified by the situation.
Irritation seemed to flash by his face; purple Valyrian eyes narrowed as his lips pressed, head tilting as he watched move to slide. He simply re-acquainted the hold around her and slid her up and right again, balanced once more. Though he didn’t say it, the side glance he gave was a mild, ‘quit that.’ Other than Elayne, the ride was easy; not many horses were allowed down these paths. Horses and carts were kept to exterior paths, outlying the camps, not the internal ones. It would turn them into muddy pits.
Did Prince Aelor seem to care about that? Not particularly. Did anyone seem determined to shout him out and stop him? Not really. People moved, the Aelora’s horse moving at a casual pace that people didn’t have much trouble getting out of their way. And being they were the only ones on a horse…people got out of their way.
“Lady Elayne, well met,” he began, cheerfully, before his tone grew stern and absolute in its conviction of his following words: “You mistake the situation, Elayne. You required a ride, I happily gave one. You seem to have a unique charm, and I’ve not met your Lord Father, though I’ve heard of your sister.”
He kept it singular, though he certainly could have used the plural.
“What could be the matter? What front to honor? Do you think a man insane enough to suggest anything other than the virtuous occurred here today exists in all the realm? Do you know the price for making such wild accusations against a Prince?... I don’t either, but I can’t imagine it’s any good for the accuser.”
No good for the accuser certainly, Elayne was one to agree. Though tongues would wag and people would think as they would, speaking behind hands and closed doors. She was one to read every so often when she was trapped in the boyer of the castle and she had seen the result of talk. Even if that talk could not be proven. Jeyne, who taught her some arts that Septa Bessa would have squealed at, was proof of such, though the young lady said nothing in reply and tried in vain to think of anything other than honor and virtue and the fact the man next to her was incredibly handsome. Talking at least would have proved a distraction but she had learned well when to be silent, and the last thing she wanted was to offend a man who offered to help her. Let alone offending the son of the heir!
Once they crossed the gates of Summerhall, palace guards helped the Lady down, and the Prince quickly dismounted to follow. “You seem overcome, perhaps it’s the heat of the day or the dizzying nature of the large crowds in every direction? You must stay and rest, the understewards will find you a cool place to rest.” As he said it, he looked past her, motioning to one of the officious-looking men wearing Targaryen colors on their tunic, buzzing about the outer courtyard of Summerhall, before motioning to her. He seemed to understand and headed in their direction. “We will invite your Lord Father and sister to dinner.”
“Prince Aelor, how may I assist?” He said it with a bow, eyeing the Prince and the Lady like he dreaded what came next.
Aelor didn’t seem to notice, “Lady Elayne will require a room to rest in.”
Elayne began to protest, but it was the Understeward who cut in, “Prince, there are no rooms. The palace is past full, there are no appropriate accommodations for the Lady.”
“Alright,” he said, looking down and thinking, “She can have mine.”
Elayne’s terror was plain enough for those that knew what it looked like, and what sparked it in the first place. The voice that swooped in was sweetly pitched with a rich, warm, layer always there in whispers and more quietly spoken words, but now came across like a fanfare of trumpets announcing an arrival: “Place the Lady Elayne in my room, Qarltin, thank you.”
A gown of jet black samite with a tight-laced bodice with shining red lace came swooping into view as the source of the voice, baring shoulders and the tops of the breasts under a short span of similarly glittering red lace, sleeves and skirts settling from the sway of the young woman’s fast, flowing, movement to arrive within the group that had just arrived. A young woman of a beauty that seemed like it belonged to another time, in an age of heroes, before the Doom, the hair and eyes of a Dragon Lord, even if it was a term she rarely used. Purple Valyrian eyes set squarely on Elayne, awaiting introduction.
An arrival that seemed to please Prince Aelor just fine, motioning to the new arrival, then Elayne, “...better idea. Elayne, this is Princess Aelora, my twin sister.”
Aelora’s nature was warm, even disarming. It was as if Aelor had helped people before, and Aelora knew well enough to try to make the person he brought feel more at ease. In the case of Lady Elayne, that was easy: Aelora could relate to Elayne far better than Aelor could. If Elayne didn’t pass out soon from shock, Aelora would be impressed, giving a gentle nod and a happy little smile. “Lady Elayne of House Lothston, very nice to meet you.”
“We’re inviting her family to dinner. Think we can do the duck?”
Aelora chuckled, “With the cherry?”
“Exactly.”
She smiled large enough to contain the laughter she almost gave, instead, “We brought Rem and his wife with us. I spent an hour finding their kitchen space. I’m sure I could find duck…just your father and sister? So five total?”
In a snap, the twins had started planning dinner before even looking at Elayne, the kind of thing the twins were known to do, before Aelora stopped, looked at Elayne, and thought to ask just who, and more importantly how many, were being invited.
Blue eyes stared at the twins, her jaw held firmly close against the need to gap at how she had found her life jerked up into a saddled at sat before dragons. Hesitating, the woman, she was a woman, dipped a belated and rather elegant curtsy to Aelora. Her features were as open as any book as they settled in adoring thankfulness. "I-" Her voice shook slightly and she swallowed. She was not Danelle to demand answers, nor was she the stubborn, smiling girl she could remember of Alysanne. "I think I had best take you up on your offer, Your Highness?" How had that come out as a question? She desperately needed to sit down and think. Some place quiet, someplace where could awaken in her tent and find it all some strange dream and have Septa Bessa standing over her tutting.
Of course, her eyes took that skeptical look of judgment. Wide and innocent but weighing. They were both beautiful, the shape of their faces, their coloring, she longed for paint or needle or weft. Blinking, she pushed those thoughts away. "My apologies, I get lost in thought. Five. Lord of Harrenhal Manfryd of House Lothston, my father, and, my sister, Danelle of House Lothston." She agreed to the earlier question. Downright lost, and then snatched off a tournament street so it seemed! Her fingers pulled at a curl of hair in distress as she felt horribly out of her depth, and it was so much more than that.
Her father hated Targaryens, for their slight against giving his father a spoiled wife, then dismissing him from court with his father when mother and daughter have shamed the family. He would come to dinner, with the sword and demand to have her back and her honor restored. Never mind that she had lost none. In that Prince, Aelor was mistaken. Angry men would talk and use any chance to stroke their fury. She had seen her father do it often enough. Tugging the lock of hair again, Elayne nodded meekly. She could see the avalanche or horror that was coming and could only hope that Danelle would range their father in.
"It would be an honor to join Your Highnesses, though I must warn you, for the kindness, you have shown me, my father will take this badly." She whispered, "I would not like to bring you trouble, nor him." Danelle would contain herself, until later. Then she would demand answers and Elayne would have none. She tugged her curl again, looking distinctly worried. What on earth had the Prince been thinking? A unique charm? Her?
Perhaps there was Targaryen madness in him? She hoped not, he was a kind man so far and good. If perhaps stubborn but most men were. A slight flush crept unto her cheeks and she added a hasty, 'Your Highness'.
At the courtesy added with haste, Aelor just smiled and motioned for her to follow. The distance from that courtyard to her chamber wasn’t short. The halls of the palace were packed with servants, pages, squires, lords, and ladies. Aelor could almost hear her uncle Maekar grumbling about the number of noble children about. As soon as they stepped into the palace and turned into a long corridor they were having to press themselves nearer the walls as a small army of servants carried enough wine to flood a bedchamber to the ceiling.
It took so long that Aelor struck up a conversation with a Lady Laylah of House Erenford, stuck against the wall like everyone else, on the other side of a small table between Aelora and the elder Lady of Erenford, beginning the chat with a curious, “How many years has it been, Lady Laylah?” Before the white-haired and age-wrinkled woman responded with a pained laugh that it had been at least two since Aelor and Aelora had toured the Riverlands, and met so many, the elder Lady Laylah included. Aelora apologized for the inconvenience and promised to send her own Maester as purple eyes noticed Laylah’s hands gripping her left hip under her gown.
When the train of servants was gone in a minute more, Aelora helped the woman because every single eye in the corridor was on the Targaryen Princess, and they would move for her, and so long as she helped the elder Lady get started down the corridor they moved for Lady Laylah too.
Then there was a blockage in the eastern stair. There were no servants to blame here, they weren’t allowed on the eastern stair, just some lingering that had turned into some words exchanged which had turned into less appropriate words. Aelora laughed loudly, tilting her head towards Elayne, and saying loud enough to be heard, “It’s true. I really do pity any man who causes a scene in the Prince of Summerhall’s home. The things I’ve seen that man do…” Her head shook, sadly, in a jest so dry it would be impossible to tell where humor began or ended, and where truth began or ended.
The stairs started moving, a group of young Lords moving aside and insisting the two Ladies go ahead. They were polite enough with their words, but their eyes Aelora could feel until they turned the corner to go up the final bit of stairs. Two older men in finery were whispering near the stairs, pausing for the two young Ladies to pass. Targaryen men-at-arms stood sentinel almost everywhere they looked, including outside her door.
“This is Lady Elayne,” Aelora explained to Timm and Ed, left of the door and right of the door, before opening the door and inviting Elayne in with the formality of a Princess raised in royal residences all her life. The space was mostly bed with the outer wall lined with windows draped in delicate white that pooled on the floor just barely and a balcony beyond, lined with small trees and flower bushes grown in ornate clay pots, while the interior was a large bed and a round table room enough for six, at most, and a table off to the side for basin and her stock of candles. Just inside the door and to the left was a long, narrow, table hugging the wall that was covered in books, at least a dozen, as well as a seeing glass, and an empty space where books had been shoved aside that was covered with various parchments, with drawings in thick black lines of structures not familiar to any Westerosi, and letters half written, at least three, in three different languages; High Valyrian, Braavosi, and Volantene.
The bed was a mix of furs and linens and finer fabrics beneath, where the bed met the wall was a mass of pillows in a rainbow of colors and varying fabrics that reached no less than three feet from the bed itself. She motioned to the two bottles at the table’s center; with four empty cups standing adjacent. The blue bottle, she explained, was a rare sweetwine she recommended from Dorne while the red was a sweet cider. There were apples, oranges, and grapes littered around the bottles and cups, to which Aelora simply told Elayne to help herself should she want.
The look in Elayne’s eyes reminded Aelora that she hadn’t said anything to Elayne the entire way there. Her expression remained serene, her tone as calm and happy as the courtyard before, her lips curving to a rueful tiny smile. “I understand, Lady Elayne. Truly. It is a tale I’ve witnessed many times before. You may breathe. This looks like your first time in such a setting, with the people, and the politics, and the never-ending never-ending? I promise this is not my first day as a Targaryen Princess. You may believe that and relax. At least until we dine. I’ll send one of my ladies to go with our messenger to your family as they deliver the invitation to pick out a gown for tonight among your things. Your sister’s sense of style is infamous and insults the Gods, so I must send my own trusted agent.”
There was amusement twinkling in those lavender eyes as she reminded herself she had no time for such amusements. “Yes, well, if you need another thing ask one of the fine men outside. The cuter of the two is the nicer of the two, as well, or at least the one less nervous about speaking to us. They’ll go with you if you need anything or wish to go anywhere…yes,” she said, looking this way, that way, back again to this way, before issuing a little sigh and nodding to, apparently, herself, “Rest well, Lady Elayne.”
The whirlwind of Targaryen siblings swept her from her feet again and Elayne found herself led down halls and along stairs packed with an array of people she had never seen before. Of course, the cousins visited from time to time on their journeys about the realm, but Harrenhal's halls often echoed and rarely were so full. Still, Elayne followed and watched, helping Aelore as she could with the elderly Lady Laylah, giving disapproving frowns that were more curious than anything to the men who caused problems, and she watched.
The princess was skilled and practiced at handling these situations. A skill Elayne wished she could boast herself. Giving a small sigh as they're achieving the elaborate rooms, she could hardly believe these were borrowed and not her rooms in truth. Much had been brought along the road and it was befitting a princess. But then the woman spoke her bit and Elayne's stomach knotted. "Danelle has a well-thought-out sense of style." Which did not always suit Elayne's own tastes, but her first reaction was to defend her sister without thought or reason. Feeling heat flood her cheeks, she looked away. Her hands smoothed over her silk gown as she recalled that Danelle had chosen it. Did it look so horrible?
Seeing as Aelora planned to leave her, Elayne's thoughts broke free. The one question that she could hardly keep in. "Your Highness? I do not mean to sound ungrateful for this honor but I must ask, why?" Her soft voice was tense with worry and confusion. The hurt about her own gown which she thought looked rather nice plain in her delicate voice. "I worry this shall cause problems for you and I would not wish that. Your brother says no one would speak of a Prince's honor, and forgive me for doing so, but my Father's sister is Jeyne Lothston. I well know people's whispering, even about kings, can disparage honor. Surely you must see that?" She knew that her cheeks must be flaming and her gaze drifted to the floor before snapping back to Aelora. Firmly taking this point to try and protect the honor of the man who had helped her. Prince or no, it was the right thing to do.
Aelora just smiled. "Is a grown Lady gaining a few new friends from an odd family really so dishonorable, Lady Elayne?"
There was a meekly suffering look as Aelora dodged her question! Yet she could not call the Princess out without being rude. Giving a defeated sigh, no one would reveal things to her ever it seemed, she dropped a curtsy to the woman. "No, Your Highness. I suspect not." Why did she think the sister would be any different from her brother? "I believe I shall rest as you so wisely suggested. I feel I have need." She felt as though she had been picked up and tossed into a whirlwind and found her feet only to land firmly on her bottom again. If her voice was a bit dry, who was to notice? "Please, if I may be of service in any way, Your Highness, I would be glad to be of assistance." She gave Aelora a hopeful look. Elayne would not see their kindness and care go without return.
She hoped Targaryen madness did not come in pairs with twins, but it seemed so. Surely there could be no other answer to this madness and they had offered no other reason!
“You can help me set up dinner when it’s closer to time. We’ll have to chase down plates, cups…everything not nailed down or reserved for my uncle seems to be fair game as a dozen meals get served in these walls, alone, never mind the dozens more outside these walls…” Aelora lingered at the door a moment, the corner of her eye-catching the table near the door, and the letters. Her lips drew grim as she sighed lightly and shuffled papers into appropriate books, where she kept them.
“My brother has an eye for people in need, Elayne. He’s…forgetful, at times cold, at times unthoughtful, and so much more…but he’s always had a good heart. If you’re worried about the why I wouldn’t. Because he wants to, and I’ve known him and his choices long enough to be intrigued, too. So enjoy being intriguing, Lady Elayne.” Words punctuated with a small chuckle as she looked back to Elayne, bidding her rest easy.
The woman flushed and gave a weak protest that Prince Aelor was certainly not unthoughtful, or forgetful and certainly not cold! Stammering over the words, she fell silent with a shake of her head in disagreement. Firm disagreement, and accepted the bid that she rest and a promise of her aid for the hunt in such elusive things. Though she meekly added she would fair better with a guide.
