Chapter Text
“For all the sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’”
- John Greenleaf Whittier
Chapter One
A Chance Encounter
The Red Keep was an eerie place at night. In the day, it bustled as much as the city below. Servants and messengers and squires flitted underfoot, scarcely taking their eyes off the marbled floors as they sought their destination. Knights and lordlings of every rank stomped about for attention, namely the king’s, but any of the princes might do, while ladies in brightly colored gossamer gowns tittered and fawned over their equally gaudy counterparts. The winding stone halls of the castle carried the cacophony about in an unequal manner, leaving some spaces merely humming from the activity while others declared its occupants with all the subtle nature of a thunderclap.
But at night, there was scarce a sound to be heard. A hundred chambers oft filled yet they may as well have been tombs for what little came from them once the sun dipped below the horizon. Those still awake tread carefully, as unintended noises were quick to fly down the corridors and announce their presence. Dozens of servants might be working with only the occasional clatter of a poorly placed broom, which still warranted a jump from those unaccustomed to the nights.
Maeve loved this time the most. Fewer eyes left her free to indulge her curiosity, and Maester Crellan’s many chains served as a quick warning when he was near.
She enjoyed looking through the many books in the library. There was scarce a word or even a letter she knew, but Maeve thought one day she might, and remained vigilant. In the meanwhile, she liked to imagine their contents. The large tome with cracked red leather was an accounting of The Conquest, while the smaller, newer green one was on the less fortunate second Aegon. She smiled often when she thought of the largest book in the whole room being on the practical uses of corn.
That evening was quieter than most. Prince Aerys had recently ceased coming to the library altogether, leaving it to the maesters or their serving boys to fetch his requests and deliver them to the royal apartments. Maester Crellan, a wisp of a man, had been grumbling earlier as he’d personally hauled three large texts away. Once, she’d offered to aid him, but he’d cuffed her for it and mumbled about allowing women in sacred spaces. He hadn’t sent her away, but she did not ask again either, and took small morsels of satisfaction from the prince’s torture.
Maeve spent a long while squinting at a yellow bound tome near the top of the bookshelf. There was no name that she could see, and it was thinner by half than its neighbors. She dueled long with her curiosity, for every book was bound by chains that would rattle fiercely in a place so quiet. It was not as if she could read what it contained, yet she lingered regardless. Only with a mighty huff did she manage to tear herself from her fixation and return to her duties.
It was a simple routine. Dust and clean the shelves and tables, extinguish and replace reading candles, manage the hearth, note any outward damage of any of the tomes, and any that may be missing without the maester’s seal. She would also return when the sun rose and light the candles again. A single apprentice had managed the operation, but had been caught stealing. She’d taken his job while he lost his hand and freedom. It did not replace her other duties, however. She still scoured pots and peeled potatoes and helped whoever Mistress Midge deemed needed her attention, but Maeve found the work to be a reward, not a punishment. It was a privilege to be among such fine things, and the more she worked, the less she dreamt, and that was the greatest gift she could ask for.
The only days she dreaded were when the maester chose to go through the volumes one by one, looking for any signs of decay or misuse. He insisted she be with him, though he neither asked for her aid nor for her opinion. She would stand solemnly as he ranted and raved about his duties and lack of respect. Once, his spittle had soaked a page before he closed the tome and replaced it. As he would tolerate no language from her, Maeve was forced to swallow her concern and leave it be.
“He’s never held the attention of a pretty maid before. It’s the only reason he does it,” Enith would say. She laughed the laugh of a woman grateful it was another suffering.
In a small corner of the room, where Prince Aerys had once piled books about him like his own personal keep and lit enough candles that rivaled the heat of the hearth, a lone book had been left open upon the table. A single candle burned, the wax a mere stub and the wick nearly spent. Maeve quickly checked around the area for a stray owner, though she’d scarcely heard a sound since the maester left, before returning to the open pages.
Bold, golden letters shone in the dying light, telling a story she could never hope to understand. In the bottom left corner, a painted lion roared, while one in the upper right pawed at the letters. She smiled at the imagery, her finger hovering over the lines, tracing them. She’d never seen a lion before. Enith pointed one out to her on a tapestry, but when Maeve asked how she knew, the girl had grown quiet.
Perhaps it was a book on animals, Maeve thought, but she quickly dismissed the idea as silly. No lord was resting in the library reading on animals. Those were tales meant for children, and they learned in their apartments. One of the noble houses used lions, surely. She’d seen the heraldry before, though she could not hope to name who it belonged to. She knew the three-headed dragon was for House Targaryen, and the spear-pierced sun for Martell. Most houses of the Crownlands she’d spied from Dragonstone’s shores as a child, and could name them as well as any, the Farrings and Stokeworths, Velaryons and Bar Emmons. There were no lions among them, nor among the lords whose chambers she’d seen to since her arrival. It was simply another mystery upon the many.
With great hesitation, Maeve finally closed the book and scooped it up. Her eyes glanced over the shelves about her, but found none in need of another occupant. And that was where the trouble would begin, she knew it.
With a sigh, she waved the little flame out, noting to replace it later, before stepping out into the library proper.
Two levels of darkened, towering bookshelves opened up to her, the darkness of the night making them appear giants. A winding stair of marble rested to her right, while a great hearth that could fit ten men abreast roared to her left, the fire casting strange shadows that used to terrify her. She stood in the middle, amongst the long tables and scribe desks, eying the vast space.
She did not know where this book belonged.
Maeve held it in both hands, eyes desperately scanning the cover for any clues. Silver letters glowed against the black leather, but they would not reveal their secrets to her. She knew how to read them as much as she did any other. If she searched every shelf, Maeve knew she would eventually stumble across the correct place, but even walking amongst the capital’s collection of books would take her half the night. If Maester Crellan returned to her duties unfinished, he’d relinquish the kindness he’d given her and bring a new apprentice for certain.
She clutched the tome tightly to her breast, and once more looked for answers in her surroundings, but the library was as silent as it had ever been. Now the books that she had relished being amongst turned into eyes of judgment, watching and weighing her worth. But Maeve was determined to not be found wanting, so she began her hurried trek across the library.
Back and forth she went, flitting from bookshelf to bookshelf, in search of an open space. Her heart soared three different times as she spied openings, but they were already marked. Prince Aerys was proving to be her greatest opponent that night. But she continued on, stomping out her frustration, and using her skirts to dust as she went.
At her fourth disappointment, Maeve spat out a curse and trudged out of the aisle with a fury so blinding she nearly missed the figure standing before her, as tall and dark as the bookshelves surrounding them in the dim light. In a terrified panic, she dropped the book and fell backward onto the floor with a squeak that might have echoed throughout all of Maegor’s Holdfast that night.
Upon seeing the face looking down at her, Maeve corrected herself and clambered onto her knees in a desperate bow. “Prince Baelor.”
Most members of House Targaryen were easy to place, with varying crowns of gold and violet eyes that captured one’s attention wholly - Aerys had caught her with them once and Maeve had felt her blood run cold - but Prince Baelor and his sons were a different sort. A gift from his Martell mother, the prince and his heirs possessed darker hair, and eyes of a more normal nature. She’d heard Midge mutter once that he ought to always wear the colors of his house, or no one would know who he was.
Maeve knew that to be a falsehood. She’d spied the prince once as he spoke quiet words with his younger brother. None of the lords in King’s Landing had ever stood quite so tall as he, with an earnest pride and commanding presence. He could have ridden alone into her village dressed in naught but rags, and she would have known him to be of king’s blood.
And now he’d watched her make a fool of herself. Servants weren’t meant to be seen or heard, and she’d gone and done both. Word was the prince was kinder than most, and she hoped to see that proven true.
His hand entered her vision, gently grabbing the discarded tome. It had opened to a page with an archer firing green arrows, the letters gone from golden to emerald.
“You may stand,” he spoke calmly. Maeve sprung to her feet before he’d finished picking up the book, and waited on him, head dipped. He wore a dark green doublet that evening, and though he no longer looked the giant her panicked mind had envisioned, he still towered over her by a head and half more. She watched as he carefully closed the volume and dusted it off. “You appeared distressed just now.”
Maeve felt her face go hot. Would he think she had meant to steal the book, or that she was some foolhardy girl who had no place in the midst of learned things? Maester Crellan would have her beat, and Midge would not allow her out of the kitchens again.
One thing at a time, you fool! the rational part of her mind cried.
“I’ve been trying to find a place for the book, milord. Seems everywhere I go isn’t right.”
There was a heavy pause, and Maeve knew she was being studied. “Did the maester not tell you how he catalogues the library?”
“He-he did, milord. Noble houses and histories on the upper level, maps and scrolls in the corner farthest from the fire, illness and medicines closest to the door for the other maesters, numbers and fig-”
Prince Baelor held up a hand, and Maeve bit her tongue to keep silent. “Yes, it appears that Maester Crellan did his due diligence in educating you in all that matters except that of greatest import. You cannot read, can you?”
Now Maeve chanced to meet his gaze, and was struck by the mismatched eyes looking back at her. Even Baelor Targaryen had managed to look unique when all others claimed otherwise.
“No, milord.”
There was a sharpness to his gaze, a terrible judgment rendered upon herself and the maester, but the prince only inhaled deeply and sighed. He looked at the book again, and she marveled at the studiousness that entered those eyes. To know what he did, it must have been something grand.
“This is The Histories of the Houses of the Westerlands. It’s not a particularly good book. I believe my brother Aerys said it would be more useful as kindling.”
Maeve frowned as her heart sank. “I thought it was beautiful.”
She froze as his gaze flicked back to her, bowing her head quickly so she need not see whatever poor emotion was reflected in it now, mumbling a quiet ‘milord’ as she went. Her hair might have caught fire for how terribly she felt his stare, but he did not reprimand her for the outburst, and she allowed herself a small comfort in that.
The sound of the book opening caught her attention, and Maeve glanced at the prince’s long fingers flipping through the pages.
“The artistry is good,” he admitted. Maeve made certain to keep her head down as she smiled. “Now, can you tell me where this book should be?”
“On the upper level, milord,” she replied, feeling confident enough to look up again. “Maester Crellan separates the houses by region. The Westerlands are on the other side of the stairs.”
Prince Baelor nodded once and gestured with the book. Maeve turned about and began to walk toward the staircase, his slow footfalls following not long after. Each step felt like a dagger pressed against her heart, and Maeve kept a hard grip on the front of her skirts.
He ought to have gone first, she thought. I do not care for having him out of my sight.
Lords and knights were chivalrous for ladies of their station, but they were seldom so kind to those below. The prince may have been courteous thus far, but she knew not his thoughts, only tales whispered in the dead of night. Their whole family was queer, their customs, their language, their minds. Her village was filled with the descendents of their awful ways, light-haired, bright-eyed children with no knowledge of their history, only their appearance.
She was one of them.
The upper level of the library had proven to be her favorite. Stained glass covered the eastern wall with depictions of dragons and knights and the seven-pointed star. She made certain to be inside when the sun passed by and scattered a thousand colors across the room below. Maester Crellan had caught her staring once and threw a candle at her, but it did not stop her from returning the next day, and the one after. But the windows were dark now, with all the somber coloring of the deepest night.
“How did you come to be in the maester’s service?” the prince asked. Maeve did her best not to jump at the sudden sound of his voice, but he would have certainly caught how her gait wavered.
“His ‘prentice stole a book saying it was for Prince Aerys, milord. The guards caught him trying to smuggle it out. I think he meant to sell it,” Maeve replied, keeping her gaze straight ahead. “I offered to help.”
“And how is it you were on hand to offer your assistance? Were you spying on more books that you could not read?” Maeve stopped in place and turned to face the prince, who had settled a knowing look on her. “I was up here for some time this evening. You were quite fixated on one particular spot earlier.”
“I do not intend to take anything,” she replied lamely, unable to muster more of a defense. What could she say? That she hoped she would suddenly know how to read? That was an embarrassment she could not afford.
Prince Baelor hummed, tracing his thumb along the spine of the book. “Regardless, Maester Crellan ought to have replaced you by now. I imagine your skills hinder more than they help, unless there is more to your service.”
She knew that tone; she had heard it in a dozen other voices since she came into service at the Red Keep. Midge had clucked it at her when she first arrived in the kitchens, calling her too pretty to be of use, and that some lordling would have their way with her. The stable lads made bets on who might take her first. Even Enith’s sympathetic voice was twinged with it, and it fouled the words she intended to be kind.
“Milord, I have done nothing untoward,” she spoke, feeling a rage pressing against the seams of her being. Her eyes were hot and stinging, and it only served to make her angrier. “I only wished to help, and help I have. The maester has taken nothing from me. What is in his heart is his and his alone.”
Maeve longed to go then, to flee the prince and all he implied, but to do so without his leave would call for harsher consequences than what she had already brought down upon herself. Perhaps he might only walk away, or strike her if that caught his fancy. As long as he did not take her from the library, she would manage.
Instead, Prince Baelor closed his eyes. “I have offended you. Forgive me. The hour is late and it seems my courtesy has fled. I only wished to inquire if Maester Crellan was forsaking his vows. I might have done so in a gentler manner.”
She’d never expected a prince to admit he was wrong, and was at a loss for what to do. As her anger still simmered and threatened more words she could not take back, Maeve could only nod. She waited then as he watched her. Perhaps he had expected more, and when she did nothing, his gaze fled back to the book. She thought he might stare at it all night.
“I expect Maester Crellan also told you he sorts the books alphabetically,” he spoke after a long while, turning back to her. When she nodded, he added, “Do you know what that means?”
“No, milord,” she replied, twisting her fingers together. “Maester Crellan does not like questions.”
“No, of course he doesn’t,” Prince Baelor said, his mouth forming a firm line. “Letters have a set order which helps us to separate them. In this case, the book will go with the Hs for Histories.”
“But milord, it started with ‘The,’ did it not?” Maeve asked, earning a raised eyebrow. She quietly cursed herself for not holding her tongue. A prince had better things to entertain than a servant’s curiosity. But she had already started down that road, and there would be no returning the words now. “Should it not go with the…”
She did not know the letter; she did not know any letter apart from H now.
“The Ts,” the prince finished, his lips curving faintly as if she’d just told some long held joke. “No. We don’t count the ‘the.’ I haven’t the faintest idea why, except that too many titles start with it, and it wouldn’t be very helpful in the long run.”
He walked down the aisle then, with Maeve slowly following behind. She watched his gaze flick across the shelves, quickly reading and understanding what was before him. It took but a moment for the prince to find the open space and return the wayward book to its chained home. A deep shame filled her. It was not for princes to do her tasks.
His face spoke as much when he looked back to her. It was not unsympathetic, but it only deepened the shame. She was a woman grown and he looked at her as one might a child.
“I know you only meant to help, but if the maester cannot depend on you to complete tasks on your own, then he should not allow you to remain here,” he spoke gently, careful not to repeat his prior mistake. “There are others that you can handle in the keep, yes?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, milord, just…none I like so well.”
It wasn’t a smile on his face, the emotion wasn’t there. It was more of an obligated gesture. “Would that we could all do what we enjoy. I will speak with the maester on the morrow.”
Prince Baelor departed then, passing by her without another word. His footfalls boomed across the library now, great behemoth steps that shook the floor and rattled her bones. Why could he not have just hit her and moved along? Or ignore her as all the other lords were wont to? He offered his help with one hand and took away all she cared for with the other.
Maeve curled her hands into fists, feeling the nails dig into her palms. She looked to the book that doomed her, memorized its spot, its appearance, its stupid silver lettering, and then followed him.
“Prince Baelor!” she called, unafraid of how her voice cascaded across the library. May every servant, maester, and rat know who she addressed now.
The prince turned to acknowledge her, but the movements were stiff, irritated. He might not lash out in anger at her yet, but Maeve knew her next words would determine much of his opinion of her, as low as it was already. It might be he’d toss her from the Red Keep himself, but she thought it a worthy risk.
“Might you give me time to learn?” she asked, stepping forward boldly. A smart girl would have kept her distance, but Maeve thought it would look poorly on her. “If I can prove myself worthy, might you let me stay and not speak with Maester Crellan?”
His eyes were dark as pitch in the candlelight about them. It gave him a sinister air as he looked down at her, but she would not retreat. If she looked away, she would fail.
“And how do you plan to learn? You said it yourself, the maester does not care for questions.”
“You’ve already shown me much, milord. I can go from there.”
“I’ve given you two letters out of twenty-six,” the prince replied, his voice curt and irritated. “I am not your septa. I will not give you the others.”
“I will learn.”
“How?”
“By trying, milord. And by failing until I haven’t.”
It was Prince Baelor who turned away first, leaving her to wonder at the thoughts brewing in his mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply, as if she’d caused him some great pain.
“Very well,” he spoke eventually, looking back at her. She thought his eyes were brighter, though the light had not changed. “This is Crellan’s business after all, and far be it from me to question the methods of a learned maester, as foolish as they might appear. Should you fail, it will be on him.”
“I will not fail, milord.”
“So you say.”
He turned and left then, striking out at a brisk pace. She would need to run to catch up with him, but there was no need now. Only when he descended the stairs and his footfalls were swallowed by the silence did she let her smile know freedom.