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Floris stared at her face in the mirror on her dressing table as the servants gently brushed her long, silky dark hair. She spent long hours of her day making sure it was always perfect, pinned up in elaborate updos or left half-up when she was in the company of only her ladies.
Her dinner was carefully laid out on a table beside her bed, just as she had instructed. She didn’t bother to ask if her husband would join her—he never did. His visits to her chambers were always the same: rare and driven only by a sense of duty.
Floris sipped her tea as she stared at the fire crackling in the grate, kept low so that the room was neither too cold nor too warm. Nights in King’s Landing were very different from those in Storm’s End. Sometimes she missed hearing the rain outside, or the wind against the window, and even the sound of thunder waking her in the night was a source of longing for her. Today, all she had was silence.
When she had first come to the Red Keep, when she had been no more than five and ten, she had still believed in the tales of brave knights and the maidens they loved. She had spent the three years before pining for the prince she had seen only once, in the hall at Storm’s End. The prince who had chosen her to wed before flying off on his dragon to kill his own nephew.
Aemond Targaryen was almost a legend. The One-Eyed Prince, they called him. The One-Eyed King, he was called now, ever since he had flown victoriously away from the God's Eye, the bodies of Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes left behind.
Floris loved to sing songs about him, to giggle like a fool every time her sisters mentioned his name. She had barely slept in the month leading up to their wedding, dreaming of the moment when he would drape the cloak in the colors of House Targaryen over her shoulders and take her to wife.
How stupid she was.
He was now a man of twenty-five, dark as night and as scarred inside as he was out. There was no song and pleasantry about him, but pure violence. He had not courted her, or showered her with flowers or gifts as she had thought he would. He had treated her almost as a nuisance, a thorn in his side that he had to deal with.
She had tried to lie to herself that this was just the way of men. Her mother had reassured her the day after the bedding that eventually the king would soften toward her. That it took time for a husband and wife to grow to love each other.
That was five years ago now.
Much had happened since then. But nothing that would bring the king closer to her.
Nothing would, really. She had gotten used to it. For there had been someone occupying Aemond’s heart, mind, and bed long before she arrived.
She was his secret. But she was truly no secret to anyone. Floris first saw her as she was leaving the king’s chambers, dressed in clothes too simple to be a noble lady, and too rich to be a servant.
She was Aemond’s age, almost ten years older than Floris. She had dark hair and eyes just as dark, and a lightly tanned skin, with calluses on her hands that betrayed years of manual labor.
She paid no attention to the woman. And she still didn’t when she discovered, weeks later, that she was the one who warmed the king’s bed on the nights he failed to fulfill his conjugal duty to his wife.
Lords took mistresses all the time. Temporary diversions, nothing important. He would soon tire of her, just as he would of those that would come later. Floris should not worry, she had heard from her mother and sisters. She was too noble to lower herself to the level of a servant, to fight for nightly affections unworthy of a lady of her rank.
Until one day she saw the same woman walking down the hall, one child in her arms, another being pulled by the hand. Floris stopped on her feet, noting in astonishment that both children looked like the image of her husband, with the same silver hair and lilac eyes.
The woman bowed as she passed, murmuring a low 'Your Grace' before going on her way.
Floris wondered, for many nights, if her own children would resemble hers.
She never found out, even five years later.
...
When Floris woke the next day, there was a large red stain on her sheets. Her ladies rush to summon a meister, but she knows it is too late. Her hands slide over her slightly rounded belly, but she knows there is nothing there anymore.
...
"The meister told me you lost the child," the king murmurs that night, sipping a glass of wine as he watches her from the corner of his eye.
She can hear the words beneath his voice, even if he does not say them.
Again.
"Yes, my lord," she confirms, lowering her head.
He drums his fingers on the table, his face twisted into a scowl of disgust.
"You know how important an heir is," he says, "To both of us."
She nods, looking down at her lap.
"We both know the problem does not lie with me," he continues, his eye drifting almost unconsciously to the corner of the room, where three silver-haired children are playing with their food. "Then it must lie with you."
Floris stares at the children too. Two born before she arrived in King's Landing, one after. All the spitting image of their father. She knows there are two more in rooms far away, probably sleeping peacefully in their cribs, and one more in the womb of the woman he chose to sow six times over.
"I grieve for every loss, husband. Perhaps... if you visited my chambers more often..."
"Four times," he interrupts her, his fist clenched.
"Pardon?"
"Four times you carried my seed, four times you lost it," he hisses in a low voice, "If you do not do your duty as a wife, why should I do mine as a husband?"
Floris swallows hard, and spends the rest of the dinner in silence in the chair next to the king. She no longer feels hungry, and only picks at the food on her plate, her thoughts far from there.
She visits the nursery of the keep after dinner. The last child who slept there was Jaeherys, the son of the former King Aegon, before he was killed by Blood and Cheese during the war. Aemond's bastards, all five of them, stay with their mother in another tower.
Floris runs her fingers along the dusty cradles, tears welling up as she thinks of her now empty womb.
The dagger stabs deeper into her heart when, on her way back to her chambers, she passes in front of the king’s chambers, only to hear the bed bang against the stone wall, Aemon’s loud growls intertwining with the woman’s pleading moans beneath him.
Floris has always been curious to know what he looks like when he’s not with her, so she peeks through the half-open door, her eyes widening as she sees her husband thrusting between his mistress’s spread legs.
They are so tightly held together that it is almost as if they are one, her legs wrapped around his hips, her hands traveling over his broad back. She lies on her back on the bed, her dark eyes fixed on Aemond’s, her lips parted and sweat dripping from her forehead with each thrust.
Floris can’t help but think that he has never taken her like this—never looking her in the eye, never sliding his fingers down her body in a near-bow, never roaring in despair each time he pulls out, only to bury himself back in again.
It seems so different from what happens in Floris’s chambers. The king always takes her from behind, her face pushed into the pillow, his mechanical movements and silence making her feel even more uncomfortable than she already was. She always had only a few minutes to enjoy the feeling of him stretching her insides before he released himself inside her, and then she would just listen to him slide out before he changed and left her alone.
He always seemed to want to... finish as soon as possible. Fill her up with his seed quickly so he could get out of her. Maybe go back to his whore.
Floris doesn't know what's wrong with her. It can't be about beauty. She's the prettiest of her sisters, and everyone says she's the most beautiful woman in King's Landing. She's always been vain, and makes a point of keeping her skin and hair in perfect condition. She knows she's much nicer to look at than her husband's mistress, and yet he acts like the whore is the most beautiful woman in the world to him.
It's the first time Floris has seen her naked. She has a slim body, but the marks of childbearing are stamped all over it, from the stretch marks on her belly to the sagging around her navel. But there's also a small bump there, from which Floris knows it's where the king's sixth baby is growing.
The sound of his wet cock burying itself inside her, along with their moans, fills the room. Aemond pushes her legs up until her knees are almost touching her ears, opening her up even more so he can use her as he pleases.
Floris notices a trail of milk dripping from her swollen nipples, and the king quickly licks them clean, only to have more liquid run out.
"My love," the woman moans, "Save some for your children."
"You have enough for all of us," he replies, squeezing her breasts in his hands as he thrusts harder and harder, her body rising and falling with each thrust, "Fucking take it, take it."
"Too hard," she sighs, holding onto his shoulders.
"Oh, but you can handle it," he replies, "Don't you want my seed, my little slut?" He continues at the same pace, his hand tightening around her neck, "Feel how your cunt begs for it. Seven years and I still can't get enough."
Floris feels her eyes water at that, at how different and passionate the king is when he's in the arms of another.
"Witch," he groans, "You must have cursed me. For it's unnatural how much I need you."
"Oh, my king," the whore moans, "Faster, faster."
Aemond chuckles.
"Oh, now you want it faster?" His fingers dig into the skin at her waist, "Of course you do. Such a pretty whore."
"Yours," she murmurs, "Your whore. Only yours."
"Yes," he growls, his eyes closing for a moment, "Only mine."
Before Floris can witness him climax inside her, she decides she's had enough, and stumbles away, hugging herself, thinking about how pathetic she was.
And how much she hated that woman.
...
They are at a public petition six months later when a servant rushes over to whisper something in the king’s ear. Aemond merely nods, then quickly rises from his throne, interrupting the rest of the hearings and saying he will continue them tomorrow.
Floris, sitting next to him, watches curiously as he hurries out of the hall without telling her why.
Later that night, she discovers that his mistress has just given birth again, a girl this time. Floris’s lady tells her they have decided to name her Helaena, after the king’s late sister.
That should be my daughter’s name, she thinks bitterly, touching her stomach almost unconsciously. A Targaryen name for a bastard… How pathetic.
...
Helaena is two months old when Aemond visits Floris again in her chambers. It has been over a year since the last time, and when the servants tell the queen that the king will be seeing her that night, she makes a point of wearing her best perfumes and brushing her hair until there is not a strand out of place.
The king barely looks at her as he enters the doors, ordering the servants to leave. He quickly strips off his robe, then points to the bed.
“Get on all fours.”
Floris walks over and lies down on the sheets, facing him.
“On all fours,” he repeats, and then grabs her leg as if to force her to turn over.
“Husband,” she begins softly, taking his arm, “Allow us to do it like this this time. Facing each other.”
He looks at her as if she is crazy.
“Turn around, Floris. I do not like repeating myself.”
"But why?" she insists, "Can't I look into my husband's eyes while we make love?"
"You don't have to look at me to be with child," he says harshly, "Hurry up."
"Is this a privilege only for your whore then?" she asks cheekily, lifting her chin.
Aemond freezes in place.
"What did you say?"
"You heard."
The next second, Floris feels the weight of his palm on her cheek, and her head whips to the side, her eyes closing in pain.
But soon the king grabs her by the cheeks, pulling her roughly until their noses almost touch.
"If I hear you call her that again, I'll be sure to make you Vhagar's next meal."
"What the hell should I call her then?" Floris feels tears streaming down her cheeks, "What do you call a woman who spreads her legs for a married man?"
His hand curls around her neck, his eyes blind with rage. So different from the passion he felt when he had also squeezed his mistress's throat.
"She is no whore," he hisses, "She came as a maiden to me," Floris's face begins to turn red from the lack of air, "Watch your tongue as you speak of the mother of my children. My only children, for you are so useless that you can never hold a child long enough."
Suddenly, he releases her, and Floris sucks in a breath, coughing. But she barely has time to react before he flips her onto her stomach on the bed and lifts her hips, thrusting himself in so hard she could swear she could feel his cock in her throat.
"Do you want me to fuck you like I fuck her, Floris?" he chuckles bitterly, "You'll never get that. You'll be stuck in this fucking marriage until you die, knowing that I'll never care for you like I care for her. Knowing that I'll never love your children like I love hers. Knowing that I'll walk out of here straight into her arms."
His pace is punishing, and she cries out, feeling her entire body ache as he thrusts himself inside her hard.
"Did you know I had her on our wedding night?" he smirks once more, "I still had her cunt juices on my cock when I took your maidenhead. It was the only way I could get hard for you," he tugs her hair hard, and she cries out, feeling her head whip back, "To this day, I have to have her before I come to you. Oh, how I wish I could still be there. How I wish I was fucking another baby inside her, instead of seeding a weak womb like yours."
She cries, and cries, and cries, and keeps crying even after he dumps himself inside her and leaves her on the bed, her lady parts burning and throbbing, her entire body feeling broken. But not as much as her heart.
...
Floris slips into the king’s chambers a few days later, knowing full well that he would be flying on Vhagar at that hour. Despite his absence, the room is full of life, children’s laughter filling the walls.
A woman sits on the king’s bed, nursing a small, silver-haired girl. A little boy not much older watches his sister nurse, his violet eyes adjusting to the fact that he is no longer the youngest child.
Four other children play on the carpet, toy dragons in their chubby hands.
Floris knows their names by now, though she is not sure which is which. She knows there is a Daeron, and an Aerys, and a Maekar, and a Baelor, and a Vaella. But they all look like copies of each other, their ages not very far apart.
Her husband’s mistress is startled to see her there, making as if to jump out of bed with the baby in her arms.
"My queen," she says, but Floris holds up his hand, indicating that she should remain seated, "The king is not here."
"I am aware of that. I have come to speak with you."
The woman blinks hesitantly, then motions for her children to go play in the adjacent chambers. The baby continues to suckle at her nipple, her lilac eyes intent on her mother's tense face.
"How can I help you, Your Grace?"
"Let us not make a fuss when neither you nor I have any need for it. I will not pretend that I do not know who you are, nor do I want you to pretend that you do not know who you sleep with every night. I only want you to name me your price," Floris replies bitterly, "I will give you as many golden dragons as it takes, if you will remove your claws from my husband."
"I beg your pardon, my lady?"
"I may be married to the king, but I am still a Baratheon. Name your price. I am sure I can pay it," she clenches her fists, "I have endured long enough, foolishly believing that he would tire of you. But I have had enough of your spells. I need you to free my husband."
The woman stares at her in surprise, holding baby Helaena closer to her.
"I apologize if I have offended you, Your Grace. But your husband seeks me out of his own free will."
"Not if you were not here."
The woman shakes her head.
"I have nowhere to go, my queen," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice, "My life is the king and our children now. I am nothing and will never be anything without them."
"Don't play the victim," Floris narrows her eyes, "He has a wife! Aren't you ashamed? That you're sleeping with someone else's husband? With someone who will never be yours in the eyes of the gods?"
The woman looks down in shame.
"Of course I'm ashamed, Your Grace. This was never the life I wanted for myself."
"You're here by choice."
"You wouldn't understand," she says wistfully, "I'm sure your grace never had to worry about whether you'd have enough to eat for dinner, or a place to sleep at night. Before I started working in the keep as a maid, I had to crawl behind burnt bread to keep from starving to death," she strokes the cheek of the baby, wrapped in rich silk cloths, "I had no desire for the king's attentions. I would have been happy to be just a maid, or even to marry some stable boy, who would treat me kindly and provide for our children. But once the king's eyes fell upon me, there was nothing I could do but... give in."
Floris stares at her with a frown, seeing her husband's mistress with new eyes for the first time. Her words seem sincere, and the queen realizes that perhaps she is as much a victim here as she is.
They are silent for a while, Floris's eyes fixed on Helaena, whose eyes are beginning to drift sleepily.
"What is your name?" she asks suddenly, realizing she had never memorized it, preferring to just call her whore in her head.
"Elys, Your Grace."
"Elys," Floris repeats, "Elys of what?"
"Elys... Waters."
The queen nods.
"Do you love him?" Floris asks suddenly. She doesn't need to say that it is the king she is referring to.
"Not at first, but I learned to," Elys replies thoughtfully, "And you... Do you love him, Your Grace?"
Floris looks away to the window, feeling her chest tighten.
“Since the first time I saw him,” she confides, “And I’ve loved him ever since. But… I’m not sure now.”
Elys nods.
"We don't control our hearts."
"No, we certainly don't," Floris sighs.
She watches as Elys removes the nipple from Helaena’s mouth, then gently lays the child down on the sheets, the practiced movements of a seasoned mother of five other children.
“You will have yours too, my queen,” she says gently, noticing Floris’s sad look, “Princes and princesses to inherit the throne.”
Floris nods, thinking bitterly that if she lives to bear a living child, she fears it will never be as loved as the children Elys bears the king.
"I can't conceive on my own," she murmurs, "He expects me to sleep with him once every few months, and I'll magically get pregnant the next day."
Elys watches her carefully, then drops her gaze to the mattress.
"I can... talk to him, if you like. To have him come to your chambers tonight."
"Why would you do that?" Floris asks suspiciously.
"Because he needs an heir," she replies, "And I can't give him that."
Floris nods.
"He told me he always lies with you before coming to me."
Elys blushes and looks away.
"Yes... he tends to do that.", she sighs, "We all have to do our duties. Whether we like it or not."
Duty. The word burned through Floris’s mind all the way back to her chambers.
Her duty to bear the king children.
Elys’s duty to be his mistress.
Duty.
How could something like that make them so much alike?
...
Elys and Floris sit side by side in the courtyard of the keep, watching the children play. Maekar, Daeron, and Vaella chase each other, Baelor tries to climb a tree, and Aerys plays with the leaves scattered on the ground.
Elys bounces Helaena on her knee, careful not to let the nearly one-year-old girl elbow her mother’s slightly swollen belly.
Floris, beside her, caresses her own nearly six-month pregnant belly. She prayed every day in the sept that the baby would be born alive this time, and for some reason, she had a feeling that this time the gods would hear her.
She doubted she would ever have a nursery as full as Elys’s, but she would be happy if she could have just one baby to call her own.
“Mama, look what I made!” Aerys says proudly, showing off the sculpture he had made from the wet leaves.
"Oh, that's lovely, my love," Elys smiles, "Why don't you show the queen too?"
Aerys shyly approaches her, holding out the sheets. Floris smiles at the child.
"It looks wonderful," she says, "You'll certainly be an artist."
"Aerys wants to be a knight, actually," Elys murmurs, as her son walks away from them, "Ever since the king gave him a wooden sword."
"Maekar and Baelor too, don't they?"
"Yes," Floris laughs, "Let's see if they change their minds when they grow up."
Their conversation is interrupted when the children suddenly start running towards the entrance of the courtyard, where the king enters still dressed in his riding clothes, surely having just come from a ride with Vhagar. Even little Helaena squirms in her mother’s arms until Elys lets her toddle over to Aemond, who quickly picks the baby up to give her a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“I want to see Vhagar!” Maekar demands, clinging to his father’s leg.
“You saw her yesterday,” Aemond replies, stroking his son's hair.
“But I want to see her again, kepa.”
Aemond distracts him with something, and after greeting all the children, he approaches the two women swollen with his seed, sitting in the corner of the courtyard, his eyes fixed on Elys.
Floris is used to it by now. The excruciating pain in her heart every time he looks at his mistress with such adoration has been reduced to nothing more than an annoyance that can be ignored.
He leans in to kiss Elys right in front of her, and Floris looks away, not before noticing how his hand spreads protectively over her belly, which now carries their seventh child.
“You smell good,” he murmurs softly, but enough for Floris to hear.
Elys rolls her eyes, but allows him to run his nose along her neck.
“How is the child?” he asks, looking down at her belly.
“It's well,” Elys replies, smiling, “I have a feeling it will be another girl.”
“You got it right last time.”
“I always get it right.”
The king chuckles, and then looks back at his wife, his posture quickly changing.
“Floris,” he says sharply.
“It’s good to see you, husband,” Floris says, “Would you join us in watching the children?”
He looks between them, looking irritated, and then shakes his head.
“I have some council business to attend to,” he says, and then leans down slightly to rub Elys’ belly again, “Come to my chambers tonight.”
Elys nods, watching him disappear the way he came.
...
The queen goes into labor a fortnight earlier than expected, and Elys, even with her belly heavy with child, insists on going to the birthing chamber, staying by Floris's side as she screams and cries with each contraction that tears her apart.
Hours pass, and then they arrive the next day, and Floris looks like she's about to pass out from exhaustion.
"One last time, Your Grace," Elys encourages her, "You're almost there."
But she's not. It takes several more hours for the baby's head to appear, and Floris screams in pain once more as the maester has to cut her open below to allow the child to come out.
When the baby is born, the chambers are plunged into silence for a few seconds until a cry causes Floris and Elys to sigh in relief. Elys brings the baby to the queen, laying him on her tired chest.
"A boy, Your Grace," she says with tears in her eyes, "A prince."
Floris looks down at the child's silver hair, and his lilac eyes, so like the king's.
"Thank you," she says, looking at Elys, "Thank you."
They stand in silence, watching the baby, until the queen's head drops to the side, her arms limp until the baby almost falls.
Elys takes the child in her arms, looking at the queen in terror. She screams for the maester, but when she looks down, she sees blood on the sheets.
Too much blood.
"Get out of here," the maester orders, "Take the baby away."
Elys is forced out of the room, her eyes wide and breathing hard as she waits outside.
The little prince begins to cry in her arms, and she realizes that he hasn't even had time to nurse from his own mother. Instinctively, Elys uncovers her own breast, swollen with milk for the baby she is carrying and for Helaena, who is still suckling from her, and expertly places her nipple in the newborn's mouth, who eagerly begins to suckle.
Hours pass before the doors open again, and when the maester emerges covered in blood, finding Elys with the prince still clung to her breast, he does not need to say anything to let her know what has happened.
The queen is dead.
...
“Oh, there you are.”
Elys feels Aemond’s arms close around her, his head resting in the crook of her neck.
“Were you looking for me?” she asks.
“I’m always looking for you,” he replies with a smirk, his hands already eagerly tugging the skirts of her dress up.
He takes her right there, against the window of his chambers, each thrust between her legs making her see stars. As he spills himself inside her and pulls away with a roar, Elys makes a mental note to find moon tea without him knowing. Enough with so many children.
They all dine together at the same table that night: Aemond, Elys, and their twelve children.
It’s been seven years since Floris’s death, and Elys still lights a candle for her in the sept every month.
Aemond has chosen to name their son, his only trueborn, Baelon. Elys raises the future king as if he were one of her own children, to the point that he never calls her anything other than muña, and never calls her children anything other than siblings. Aemond never corrects him, and on the contrary, never even mentions Floris to him.
But Elys does. She talks about the kind queen she met years ago, about how Baelon's smile resembles her own. One day she will tell the prince that Floris was the one who gave birth to him... But for now, she will still be his only mother.