Angsty Badger

Chapter 6: Give me back my heart you wingless thing

If gods exist they must surely hate you. Or maybe they are simply cruel and take pleasure in your suffering.

Because how else could you explain this? How come that the last two men standing for the final duel are Lyonel and Aerion?

As if the situation wasn’t terrible enough. You’ve spent the last few hours beside prince Maekar. Just you and him, since Daeron decided to not show up. Maekar didn’t talk much and you were, frankly, very grateful for that today. Because every time you spoke you had to forcefully strip your words of the fear lingering on your tongue. You pushed that fear down, made it settle under your ribs. The sting grew more violent every minute. Every breath you took had to fight against that tightness. Aerion’s eyes were on you the whole time, as if waiting for your body to fail you.

But you couldn’t let it. You had to keep it together. Because if prince Maekar started to suspect something, if he took one longer look at you, he would see the signs you couldn’t hide. Your paleness. Your hands, cold, sweaty and trembling, the part of your body you never had any control over. The only thing you could do was fold them in your lap. Stare ahead and smile. Meet Aerion’s eyes like everything was fine. And just hope you could keep it up for the rest of the morning. Because if you couldn’t… gods help you.

When it became clear who the last competing champions would be, when Lyonel raised his lance, when the cheer swelled along the barriers - you almost cracked. Your stomach dropped. Your vision narrowed. For a moment you really thought you might faint. Like a proper romance heroine.

Then, a warm hand lands on your arm. A gentle squeeze.

Daeron looks like hell. Bad enough to shift your attention from the disaster unfolding on the tiltyard. Judging by his sunken eyes and the paleness of his face, his absence this morning must’ve had something to do with emptying a few bottles of wine from the castle cellar.

His voice is low, mindful of his father’s presence.

‘I’m here.’

You don’t respond. Just try to start breathing again.

‘I need to tell you something although it might be too late already.’ He sneaks a glance at Maekar, making sure he’s not listening, but he is too occupied with the joust to notice his son’s arrival. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. But I had another dream. It was a bad one.’

Lyonel and Aerion take their positions. Sunlight reflects golden and blinding in Lyonel’s helmet as he lifts his head, his gaze finding you among the crowd.

‘I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t about you.’ Daeron continues. His hand falls from your arm to hold one of your hands, hidden from the onlookers. ‘But something already has happened, hasn’t it?’

They couch their lances; you grit your teeth. Daeron’s gaze stays fixed on you. The gentle squeeze you give his hand suffices for an answer.

‘I told you I know only when it’s too late. And it’s probably too late already.’

First charge; you bite the inside of your cheek. Aerion’s lance shifts at the last moment - as if he lost control  - almost hitting Lyonel’s horse. Lyonel manages to parry it with his shield, but he has to reach so far that he nearly loses balance. You clench your jaw. Taste the iron blood in your mouth.

‘I dreamed of flowers. But there was blood upon them. And…’ Daeron’s free hand lifts to his mouth, as if in thought. But his fingers tremble, betraying him before he can still them. ‘There is no use in telling you the rest. It won’t do you any good. Just know that I’m here.’

On the bare ground below, churned up by the hooves of dozens of horses, lies your green ribbon. The favour that must’ve fallen from Aerion’s arm. He hadn’t noticed. Or hadn’t cared.

You glance towards Daeron.

‘Aerion knows.’

His chair creaks as he leans back.

‘Fuck.’

Squires hurry with fresh lances.

You don’t care about the outcome. Whatever it is, it won’t change anything. But Aerion is furious and he’s already proven that he’s not above playing dirty. The words circle in your mind, like a prayer to no god in particular. Don’t hurt him.

You can’t help but shut your eyes when the signal to ride breaks over the field. The murmur of the crowd swells, the dry crack of the lances rings in your ears. Then a loud thud - a body hitting the ground. You open your eyes slowly. Lyonel is taking off his helmet. Your eyes catch. He runs the back of his armored hand over his sweaty forehead, pulling away the curls falling in his eyes. A smile you cannot reciprocate tugs at the corner of his lips. He turns to face the roaring mass, lifting his lance in triumph.

Aerion struggles to rise. He swats his squire’s outstretched hand, as if that could prove anything after his spectacular loss. Then finally pulls himself up with a slight wobble, the weight of his armor nearly pulling him off balance. Nobody seems to acknowledge his presence, not even Lyonel, as the prince storms off the field. Only the metallic clink of armor signals his departure.

The herald’s announcement sounds clear, carrying over the cacophony of voices. The time has come for the winner to choose his queen of love and beauty. Another burst of shouts and whistles erupts from the crowd, following Lyonel as he marches through the beaten earth, removing his armor gloves on the way. The crown gets placed gently in his hands. Cream roses glow against the backdrop of leaves, interspersed with tiny yellow flowers.

Daeron’s hand slips from yours. His eyes appear more sunken, his complexion even paler than before. It hits you. The flowers. But he cannot be right about this. Lyonel wouldn’t do something this stupid, would he?

A small shy smile forms on Lady Tully’s face when Lyonel jumps over the barrier in one swift motion, landing very close to her seat. He had danced with her twice; she has every right to hope for the crown. But he doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he chooses to climb the steps leading to the highest point of the galleries. Where the royal family is seated. Where you are seated.

He stops before you, holding the flowers like an offering. The crowd goes completely silent.

‘Will you accept this title, My Lady?’

His eyes are locked on you. Warm and golden and terrifyingly determined at the same time. The question is pure formality. There is no way in which you could deny him. His touch lingers for a moment too long as he places the crown upon your lowered head. He bows; looks at you again, as if posing a question. But he must know that whatever it is, you cannot answer now. The crowd remains silent as he descends the steps, followed by confused looks.

You lower yourself slowly onto your chair. Prince Maekar is gone.

…

The conversations quiet around you as you walk through the great hall. People step aside, as if even brushing your shoulder would condemn them as traitors to the crown. You can’t blame them. Prince Maekar sits by the table perfectly stiff, his controlled demeanor betraying his anger more than any outburst would. The air around the table feels stuffy as you take your place, wondering if coming here was a smart choice, if your presence was even expected. Maekar for one made a point of not acknowledging your arrival. But not coming could be read as an admission. The same was true about your flower crown. Not wearing it was a declaration that something went wrong; but still you opted to leave it in your room, so as to not further provoke your betrothed. Who wasn’t here. His absence glaringly obvious by the emptiness of the chair between you and Maekar. Aerion’s revolting presence would at least put a barrier between you and his father’s rage, which is becoming more obvious and more frightening by the minute.

The other end of the table is unusually quiet. Even after the first course is served, wine poured into every cup, the voices don’t rise. The booming laughter doesn’t carry across the hall. Lyonel’s voice reaches your ears from time to time, but its lowered quality makes it almost unrecognizable.

Daeron sneaks you glances over his cup, too hesitant to speak with you openly in his father’s presence. At least he’s brave enough to look at you. It couldn’t be said about anyone else here. These curious, gossip-starved hyenas. You lower your head and the room watches; raise it and every set of eyes finds somewhere else to be. Except once. When you look up and meet the glare of your father. The disapproving look that made you cower your entire life. And that is your first instinct - avert your eyes, make yourself small, accept your guilt. But you’re either too tired or simply too fucking fed up to do that. You hold his gaze. The corner of your mouth lifts at the sight of his cheeks blooming red with anger. You stand abruptly, your chair pushing back with a loud squeak against the stone, finally causing Maekar's face to turn your way.

‘I’m sorry, I have to excuse myself.’

The words leave your mouth like an afterthought, uttered to no one in particular.

After a few hurried steps down the dark corridor the sound of the feast becomes only a memory. You breath out. It feels like you’ve been holding it in since the joust. But as you inhale the damp air back into your lungs and steady your step the uneasiness returns. You’ve escaped for now. But what comes next? What comes tomorrow?

The light from the sconces flickers on the ground, disappearing and reappearing in a familiar rhythm as you pass them by, treading the familiar path to your room. Nobody disturbs you on the way. The sound of your steps bounces off the stone walls.

The door to your room was left open. It must’ve slipped your mind to close it, too preoccupied with the perspective of that godforsaken feast. You plop onto your bed unceremoniously, letting your head hang down, stretching the muscles of your tense shoulders.

‘I thought I would have to wait longer.’

The unexpected voice makes your head snap up. His eyes are what you notice first. Glowing silver in the moonlight. Fixed on you from the corner of your room, where the shadows pool behind the large dresser. Aerion stands up from a chair and steps into the light.

‘See, I even found myself something to read.’ He holds up one of your books, taking another step closer. The light of the hearth dances on his face, sculpting his features sharp and distorted. Your gaze drifts to the door, but he’s too close now. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

‘What are you doing here?’

He sneers.

‘What are you doing here, My Prince. You’re forgetting yourself.’ Your book lands on the floor with a loud thud, the leather-clad cover falling open to reveal the white pages inside. ‘What am I saying, you forgot yourself a while ago, didn’t you?’

You try to get up from the bed, but he reaches you in one swift motion. His hand lands on your shoulder, pushing you back down.

‘I should have you whipped for that little stunt. But I’m not a monster.’ He leans over you. The alcoholic smell on his breath carries sharp notes of decay and fermentation. ‘I decided to give you a chance to make it up to me. That’s only fair, don’t you think?’

‘Don’t you dare-’

His hand pushes harder against your arm urging you to lay down on the bed. You try to resist; he catches your wrist before you can reach him. Then it happens so fast that you can barely register what he did before it’s too late. Something hits your chest, pushing the breath out of your lungs. Your back hits the mattress. His body is looming over you. You try to wriggle away; his hold over your wrist tightens. Holding them over your head.

‘Feisty, aren’t you? Were you this mouthy with him too? Does he like this sort of thing?’

A broken, raspy scream leaves your lips. His hand clasps over your mouth, head jerking toward the door. He waits. Seconds pass, uninterrupted by any sign of presence outside the door. The disturbed smile returns to his face.

‘Seems like everyone’s at the feast. You’re alone with me, pet. But that’s not a problem, right? You are used to spreading your legs.’

In the last desperate attempt, you open your mouth as far as the firm grasp over it lets you and bite down with full force. His hand snaps back, droplets of his saliva landing on your face as a hiss escapes through his teeth. You try to use this moment of distraction. Your legs push against the bed frame, your lips open to let out a scream.

The feeling of cold metal on your neck freezes the voice leaving your lips.

‘I like a challenge, but biting is a little much.’ Aerion pushes the knife to your jaw, not enough to bleed you, but enough to make a point. 'Now, be a good whore and shut your mouth.’

Your eyes squeeze closed. His cold hand trails down your neckline. He tugs at the fabric once, twice. The loud snap of threads rings in your ears. His breath lingers over your skin. Tears threaten at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, you try to keep them in.

As his hand breaches the hem of your torn neckline, pushing lower and lower, you clench your teeth and-

It pulls back.

His whole body pulls back.

A groan. A thump.

You open your eyes slowly. Push your body up.

It takes you a moment to realize what you’re seeing. Aerion is on the floor; Lyonel is pushing him down.

A wet crack.

Aerion’s face is bloodied. Lyonel raises his fist again.

You can’t move, eyes glued to the scene before you. There is a movement in the corner of your eye. Soft fabric wraps over your shoulders. Somebody’s arm settles on your back, pulling you to your feet.

‘Come now, let’s get you out of here.’

Daeron leads you out of the room. You glance back once, only once, just to see Lyonel standing up over the bloodied, unconscious body on the floor.

…

The soft mattress dips under your weight as Daeron helps you lower onto his bed. You wrap the cloak he gave you tighter around your body.

He hesitates before touching you. The sensation of his arm finally settling on your back tears a small sob out of your throat. He freezes for a moment; but then pulls you closer and it all comes rushing out.

‘You’re safe now.’

His hands shift nervously over your shaking back, not quite sure what to do in this situation. His voice however remains completely calm.

‘You’re going to be alright. I can see it now.’

You sit in silence for some time. Only once does he leave you, to talk to Lyonel. He refuses to let him in - they speak outside the closed door of Daeron’s chamber. Some fragments of the conversation reach your ears when their voices rise. Daeron urges Lyonel to go back to the party; Lyonel asks to speak with you; Daeron yells something about the blood on his face.

He looks calm when he comes back and joins you on the bed again.

‘Daeron?’

‘Yes?’

‘Is Lyonel going to…’

You can’t bring yourself to finish the question. But from the look he gives you, you’re sure he understands.

‘Don’t think about any of that now. Just rest. Please.’

Soon a maid comes, sent by the host, to take you to a fresh chamber. Some of your belongings have been transferred there; not all, just the most important things. Daeron waits outside as you change into your nightgown. The room is bigger than your previous one; the fire in the hearth has been set up with a generous amount of wood, the Baratheon tapestries hung over the walls are meant to keep the warmth inside. But since the chamber has been prepared so hastily, it will take a few hours for the space to heat up. You let Daeron in as soon as you’re done changing. He decides a settee under the window to be the best place for him. You offer him one of the blankets before slipping under the covers yourself. While your body warms up quickly under the plush sheets, your mind is far too shaken for sleep. So you just lay there, listening to the sea outside. Sneaking a glance at Daeron from time to time, as he props his head up on the palm of his hand, looking through the window.

A quiet knock on the door makes your head jerk up. Daeron calms you with a gesture of his hand as he stands up from the settee. He opens the door just a crack, to see the visitor outside.

‘Is she still up?’

Lyonel’s quiet voice comes from the other side of the door. You lift yourself up, shifting to sit on the edge of your bed. Give Daeron a nod. He moves back to let Lyonel in.

His step is careful, like he’s afraid to startle you. He had to change his doublet; you don’t even want to think about what state his clothes must’ve ended up in after his encounter with Aerion. The new one is black as well, what differentiates it is the golden thread running through the samite, forming delicate leaf ornaments over his shoulders. The bracelet on his wrist clinks as his hands come together, playing with one of his golden rings.

‘I think I will leave you alone.’

Daeron takes one last look at you, then slips away quietly, closing the door behind him with a dull creak.

This is the first time you’re left alone where he actually looks like a lord. His clothes are in perfect order. A little speckle of blood left on the back of his hand is the only imperfection.

You need to avert your eyes from his soft gaze before it can make you burst into tears again.

‘How are you holding up?’ His voice cracks on the last words. ‘That’s a stupid question. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m fine.’

The bed beside you dips. His warmth reaches you through the flimsy fabric of your nightgown.

‘No you’re not. I can see that you’re not.’

You can’t force yourself to look at him. He waits for you to say something, but when nothing comes, he decides to continue.

‘Listen, I-’ the words get stuck in his throat. He swallows, tries again. ‘I don’t know what to say. I should’ve come sooner. I followed you after you left the feast. To speak with you. But I didn’t want to be too obvious, so I waited. If I knew he would-’

‘Lyonel.’ you cut him off bluntly, tears swelling in your eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

Silence. He shifts on the bed.

‘I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?’

You muster up the courage to look at him. His sad eyes make you want to forget the whole thing. Sink into his arms. But the anger holds its ground.

‘Why did you crown me? You knew how it would look.’

‘I couldn’t just sit back and watch you marry him.’

‘But you didn’t give me a choice!’

‘I know!’

Lyonel snaps back, springing to his feet. Starts pacing the room. Your tears decide to flow again and shutting your eyes does nothing to stop them. The warmth spreads across your puffy lids, feeling almost soothing. He finally stops. Runs a hand over his face, letting out a loud exhale. The tears in your eyes distort the image; moonlight floats blue across his curls, shifting and swirling as he moves, turns toward you. His gaze softens when he sees your face. Coming closer, he can’t help but reach out. The only response you can manage against his finger running slowly down your cheek is leaning into his touch. He lowers himself slowly. Settles on his knees before you. His hand finds yours between the folds of your nightgown.

‘I know. And I’m sorry about that. But I’m not sorry about anything else.’

You finally let his eyes meet yours as he comes closer, tilting his head to see you better.

‘When you told me… in the woods, you told me you would marry me if you could. And this - this was the only way I could ask.’

You don’t respond; your hand shifts in his, fingers running across his palm.

‘And I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t certain you-’ His gaze breaks away from you, eyes shut, a small wrinkle forming between his furrowed brows. ‘I know this has caused you so much pain. And I will be apologizing for that for the rest of my life. If you let me.’

The moonlight pools in the corner of his lashes, a tear threatening to fall. His hold on your hands trembles.

‘What about him?’ You speak after a moment of hesitation. ‘He won’t let this go. Not now, not after you-’

Your voice pulls his gaze back to you.

‘I will take care of that. I promise.’

‘You attacked a prince.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s treason.’

‘I know.’

The small tear falls down his cheek, almost imperceptible. You squeeze his hand. Lift it up to your lips and place a soft kiss on his fingers. And he looks at you like you’ve given him something he doesn’t deserve. When you pull your mouth away, his hand shifts to cup your face, thumb stroking gently against your skin, wiping away the tears that have since become cold on your cheeks.

‘I'm still angry with you.’

His quiet laugh makes you smile despite yourself.

‘Fair.’

Lyonel helps you get back into bed. Tucks you in, placing the covers carefully over your body. Then crawls under the blankets beside you. One hand placed over your waist, the other resting on the back of your head, stroking your hair like he did in the forest. He places gentle kisses upon your aching, puffy eyelids.

‘Lyonel?’

His eyes lift up, glimmering golden under the cover of his dark lashes.

‘Yes?’

‘There is one thing that I still don’t understand.’ Your teeth graze the skin of your lip. ‘When I came to you in the solar you said you didn’t want to marry. So what changed?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ He looks positively bewildered, even more so when your brows furrow at his reaction. ‘Wait, you thought I meant- Mother’s blessed cunt I’m an idiot. Is that why you were so… cold after that?’

‘Well, you did tell me you get bored of people after one night. And the moon tea sealed the deal.’

‘First of all, if you mention that bloody moon tea again I might actually swing myself from a window.’ The corner of his mouth lifts at the sound of your laughter bouncing off the walls of the chamber. ‘What I said was true, even if looking back it makes me sound like a complete rake. I won’t deny, that has always been my pattern. But it was never meant to deter you.’ His fingers smooth the fabric of your sleeve, tracing the flower patterns embroidered onto the soft cambric. ‘When I said it I rather foolishly thought it would sound like a- a wish, maybe? Because it was exactly that.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘Well… I knew it was different with you. In some way, I knew even before you came to me that night. Not only because I couldn’t sleep. Although that was uncharacteristic.’ The roguish tilt of his mouth almost makes you want to roll your eyes, but then he continues and the sudden softness of his voice takes you by surprise. ‘It was the way you looked at me. Like you’ve seen through the act and saw that pathetic man underneath it all and you still… you still came to me that night. And then you left and I didn’t feel any relief. Gods no, it was only worse.’

‘So you simply like being tortured?’

This time it’s his laugh that moves the brisk air in the chamber.

‘It makes me sound even more desperate when you put it this way. But yes, I guess I would prefer to be tortured by you than to not have you at all.’

His lips are next to your ear, warm words tingling against your skin. Your breath hitches, mouth moving aimlessly as you try to form an answer. He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything; his beard nuzzles into your neck, lips pressing light pecks against your skin, sending you into a fit of laughter.

His arms wrap around your waist after he decides the attack accomplished its purpose - whatever it was. You let your breath steady, hiding your head between his arms.

‘Sleep well, my love.’

My love. It sounds strangely right coming from his mouth. Maybe it always lurked at the end of his tongue. Just waiting for the right moment to escape.

When sleep finally takes you, he holds you through the nightmares. And as you wake up through the night, eyes searching for his form, desperate to find reassurance in it, he remains there. His raspy breath and the hum of the sea lull you back to sleep.

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