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The autumn evening allowed the birds surrounding King’s landing to sing all the sweetest songs towards your ears as you gazed far into the horizon. A daughter’s duties were plenty, a princess's, even more so. With the dragons now dead, House Targaryen was left to employ the usual behavior of any other noble house: marriage. You had hoped your father, whom above all his children favored you alone, would let you choose your own suitor, but that was a stupid dream you carried. You would be married to a man who could aid your house in times of need, who would carry a name as grand as your own.

Still, you dearly hoped he wouldn’t be ugly, or cruel, especially not cruel.

Daella, your sister, jogged to your place near the ornate windows with easy steps and a smile that broke her sunny face in two.

“Look at you sulking about.” She gripped your shoulder and laid her head of silver curls on it. “Father wants to speak to you, he said he finally made a decision.”

You nodded, already sure of the idea that you will be traded like a broodmare to some sad lord who, if the gods were good, would only be half as angry as your dad most days.

“Please don’t argue with him, he wants the best for you, for all of us.” Daella noticed your sour expression with her usual perceptiveness. You squeezed her hand as you turned your gown of black velvet around towards your father’s chambers. This is what you were born for. This or Aerion, you couldn’t tell which fate is worse.

Prince Maekar was sitting at his desk with his usual grimace on his face, but his eyes did catch a glimmer as they looked at you. While placing yourself in front of him with your hands behind your back so he might not see the way they shook in anticipation and fear, he took a deep breath as he started:

“Before I will tell you who I have agreed to wed you to, I must tell you this.” He leaned forward, arms on the heavy mahogany table. “I want you to be happy.” You couldn’t bring yourself to believe him. Your father was a fourth son, so far in the line of succession that his daughter marrying someone she chooses, wouldn’t matter. Not really.

Your father’s voice broke the silence once more.

“He petitioned your grandfather for an audience regarding the issue of your hand and of course he was granted it and since I see no point in arguing with my father I have come to the conclusion that it is for the best you are to be wed.” Your heart pounded in your chest like it might burst out, “His house has long been a friend and loyal companion to our own since the days of the great Dragon himself.”

Lyonel Baratheon was a handsome man. Handsome and strong. One of the finest and greatest swordsmen of his time. Your sister laughed as you told her who asked for you and was granted your hand without even a second thought by your grandfather, King Daeron. House Baratheon was the second mightiest house after your own, with an army to match and the stormlands harbored a people as fierce as thunder with their mighty leader in front. “The Laughing Storm” they call him. The Lord of Storm’s End, the great stag’s reputation preceded him, he was one of the most popular people of the smallfolk and many years older than you. You heard he once killed five skilled knights one after the other in the Blackfyre rebellion. You also heard he enjoyed a party as much as he enjoyed bloodshed and war.

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“I’m telling you…you shouldn’t be afraid.” Daella’s eyes, wise beyond her years, looked at you over your head in the mirror, both of you were in your night gowns after being dressed for bed by the servants. Your mind was running and it was plagued by the most serious thoughts.

“I’m not afraid… I am sad. I don’t want to leave my home-“ Bowing your head, so she might move her nimble fingers better over the intricate braid she was making, you looked down at your hands. The thought of being sent away from your siblings, be they as they are, half mad and half drunk or too young for you to be unable to see grow up sent a fresh rush of tears to your eyes.

“Hey-“ Daella leaned down to your eyes “-we are still going to see each other, we will write to each other every day. I promise, I swear to it.” You nodded.

You and your youngest sister were inseparable as the only girls born of Maekar and your sweet darling mother taken far too soon from you. This separation is heartbreak in its purest form. You bid your ‘goodnights’ shortly after and while being escorted by a member of the kingsguard to your chamber, you were once again left to your thoughts.

Would he be cruel and uncaring? Does he have bastards running around you must tolerate? Does he enjoy horseback riding as much as you do? Would he enjoy a game of cyvasse without flipping the board when he will, undoubtedly, lose? Hopefully he doesn’t whore around or worse, beat you or force you to do horrible things. You held your silk red pillow close to your chest as you prayed that he will be kind and above all, gentle. That he will understand you and desire the best for you. That he will not want to bed you the first time you meet, but you could see why that must be a fond hope. He was, after all, the one who was adamant for your hand.

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Your sister's hands shook as she placed the obsidian circlet above your brow, “Have courage.” Daella half commanded, half whispered. House Targaryen had been left partly crippled after the Blackfyre rebellion and in the days that followed the news you understood why your grandfather accepted the marriage. Still, you wished you could’ve remained a girl longer. Touching the intricate details of your black velvet bodice, you sighed, your ribs were encompassed by two red dragons made out of careful red beads and you had on top of your dress a red cloak, for the ceremony. The blood you carried weighed heavier tonight.

Maekar kissed your cheek before you entered the Grand Sept, eyes slightly glazed in a manner quite unlike himself. Kings landing was buzzing with the news of your wedding, many lowborn and highborn came to attend the ceremony, half of them just wishing they would catch a glimpse of your face. Tomorrow you would depart from Kings Landing and begin the journey to your new home, Storm’s End.

You fidgeted with your hands, a fact that annoyed your father to no end and never left you since you were barely a girl. With your heartbeat in your ears you stepped forward as the trumpets sang.

The guards announced your presence way before you saw him. The gold and bronze colors of the Baratheon house intertwined with the Targaryen black and red filled your vision as you walked inside the ceremonial hall, your father in front of you acting as a shield from the many eyes of the court. Many smiling faces greeted you, some you recognized, some you didn't. Every sense in you singled out the presence in front of the High Septon, and you felt your cheeks become flushed as your father stepped to his place looking at the altar.

Your husband was indeed a handsome man. He looked down upon your solemn face as you carefully climbed the steps and faced him and proceeded to grin all the wider as he bowed to the princess of the realm and his future wife.

He searched your face in the hope you would look at him, but you couldn’t move your eyes away from the septon’s grey robes. No, you shan’t take this lightly, never. He took you from your home, he went and petitioned the king for your hand, for your blood and changed your fate forever. Your hands suddenly felt freezing cold and a nod climbed its way into your throat at your predicament but you swallowed it as quickly as it came and looked at the septon as he started invoking the gods: the Father for justice, the Mother for mercy, the Maiden for purity- your thoughts moved to your husband once again, to his broad shoulders encased in his house’s ancient armor, the proud stag of the Baratheon’s stood over his breast, holding his heavy cloak of storm grey wool. He looked every bit the lord he was. As the priest called upon the Stranger, you made eye contact and he smiled once again at you. You looked away immediately, this was a terrible event for you, and yet for him, this must be the best day of his life, his sons would be dragons-

“Who comes before the Seven to be joined in holy union?” The High Septon exclaimed before the ladies and lords of the court.

“Lyonel of House Baratheon. Lord of Storm’s End.” His voice, strong and powerful, resonated through the colossal room of the Grand Sept like it was made to be there.

You said your name proudly, for this was the last time you would be a Targaryen in title.

A moment passed before Lyonnel stepped his heavy boots forward, reached to your shoulders and unfastened the silver dragons holding your black and red cloak. It fell to the floor and a septa’s careful feet were heard as she placed the heavy fabric in her arms and took it away from you. Lyonel received another cloak to replace your old one, much like the grey one he was already wearing but thinner and fitted for a lighter figure. He gently fastened the fabric, marking you as one of his House and laid his strong hand on your shoulder, like he was trying to bring you back to this moment, but everything seemed to go past in a blur of practiced courtesy for you and you prayed it will be all over sooner rather than later.

The septon carried on with the ceremony: “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and cherish him, to defend him, and to bear his children?”

I don’t want this. I want to stay home.

“Yes, I take him.” Your voice was stronger than you felt.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and cherish her, to protect her, and to keep her?”

“I take her.” His smile was evident in his voice and he stepped forward once again. A shiver moved through your body and pooled at your ankles sealing you to the floor, you lifted your head as he placed a quick kiss to your lips. He smelled of the pine oil most famous in the stormlands and his lips were soft as they gently touched your own.

He whispered a quick “You are beautiful.” meant only for your ears as the crowd erupted in cheers and music so you gazed upon him once again. His hair, black and grey like the storms in the night reigning over his ancestral seat would’ve made a more common looking man look plain, but it seemed to only add to his already charming appearance.

It mattered not to you however.

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Your grandfather was old and too frail to attend the night's festivities, still he sent a messenger with well wishes and a symbolic dragon egg, wrought out of pure Lannister gold to commemorate the occasion, citing that he wished your union will be as strong and as powerful as a dragon.

As you took your seats in the middle of the high table, surrounded by lords sweating in too expensive silk. The smell of roasted boar hit your nose as the many servants brought out your food.

Your husband hadn’t even bothered to change into silk doublets as he remained in his armor, Lord Lyonel seemed to be in such a contrast to you, it almost made you laugh: from his wild, wind swept curls to your tightly braided silver hair, to his war-like presence that seemed to make the already grand ballroom seem a bit too small for him, you, however, fit in like a chess piece. He was loud, boyish and seemed delighted to be the center of attention, slamming his gold chalice down on the heavy oak board to punctuate a joke that made the knights and lords near him roar in laughter like a great cacophony of lions.

You frequently caught the eye of your sister, Daella. Across the swirling mess of dancers and spilled wine, she offered a small, knowing tilt of her head, confirming what you already felt: your husband was, above all else, arrogant. He was a man who took up all the air in a room, leaving none for you. Arrogant and selfish. For he didn’t share a word with you through the whole evening, besides that, he would only stare at you every so often like you were some sort of great oddity from beyond the Sunset Sea. It only added to the fire and resentment you had building inside of you. Some lesser women might feel charmed under his gaze, but not you.

By the time most of the wine was drunk by the guests and the dancing turned half drunken stumble half joyful hopping, your family already started slipping away into the night. Your family bid their goodnights and you watched your father’s stiff back disappear through the heavy oak doors, followed by Daella’s sympathetic glance. You dearly wished to follow, crawl into the cool, quiet sheets of a bed that felt like home. But the moon had long claimed the sky, and you were no longer a girl of the Red Keep. You were a Baratheon bride, and Lyonel was only just beginning to enjoy the "jolly company" of his third flagon of Arbor gold.

One of the highborns, a Tully perhaps, stood and raised his chalice swaying a little as he yelled to cover the sound of the great hall, “To the beautiful couple!” enticing many cheers from the crowd and a similar raise of his own drink by your husband, you cracked a smile in courtesy. Daella was gone, so was your father. You were left feeling absolutely lonely while completely surrounded.

Another man rose, with the same red hair and beet-red face “And to the mighty storm sons your beautiful wife will bear!” The roar of the crowd was almost primal, filled with pounding feets and the rhythmic chanting of “Hear! Hear!” by men who had drunk enough to forget the dignity of a royal presence.

Another lord rose, one whom you didn’t recognize, besides the hungry look in his eyes of a man already full in his belly.

“They are already married, nay?! Lyonel, let’s have the bedding ceremony- We think it is about time, no?” He yelled and was shortly supported by other people, mostly men, next to him as they laughed. Someone even started singing “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”. You felt a fire inside of your chest filled with rage at the crude wish of the crowd.

Lyonel laughed.

A full and boisterous laugh that filled your ears. You dearly wished you were in your bed by now, not fidgeting with your fingers under the table and trying to quieten down your heartbeat. A flush crept behind your neck that took hold of your ears. This is your life now. A silent ornament by a man that laughs while you are shamed.

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” Your husband threw back the last remaining sip of his wine and remarked to the man “I am in no state to perform tonight…especially not in front of such a wretched audience. The wine you Rivermen bring is stronger than any vintage in Storm’s End.” He raised his voice at the end and people laughed once more. But the beast of a crowd couldn’t be tamed as they only erupted again: “Don’t be a prude!” and “We want to see what that old friendship between your houses is capable of!” seemed to catch your ears.

The chair beside you scraped against the stone floor with a violent, jarring screech. And Lyonel stood. He swayed slightly, his enameled yellow armor catching the flickering orange light of the hearths, but the air around him suddenly felt heavy with the promise of a dare.

The room went deathly silent in respect. Respect earned through the violence of a man who spent decades building a reputation on it. A reputation created by besting men twice as mighty, and not quite as drunk.

“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Lyonel repeated while pointing his finger at the crass lord and you swore you could hear the fire from the candles burning in the stillness of the room.

His voice was no longer boyish nor jolly. Its noise was that of iron on wood. He let the silence stretch, his hazel eyes scanning the faces of the lords who had been shouting just moments before. He looked at the man who had started the chant, his lip curling into a mocking smile. Someone was holding the man who yelled the remark by the arm in a guiding motion to take a seat. This is not a fight he would win. Not in words nor in steel. Not even if all the Tully wine was drunk by Lyonel alone.

“Now…bring some more of that fucking wine.” The crowd's cheer answered him, thinner than before. No one dared raise their voice again, afraid this might be the last night they would have. He sat back down with a thud, his wild curls damp with sweat, and turned to you. The arrogance was still there, etched into the line of his jaw, but when he leaned in, he didn't smell of the crude men in the hall, he smelled of something akin to gentleness.

“Would you like more wine?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time that evening. A strange, conflicting curiosity flickered in your chest and hope reignited once more.

You thought this was as good time as any to have him pardon you for tonight, “Actually, may I be excused… my Lord? I have become quite tired, I don’t usually stay this late.”

He didn’t even question that, nor understand that you meant pardoning for you alone as he called out, “The princess wishes to sleep,” Lyonel stood, holding out his hand “I’ve also grown quite fucking tired of the lot of you.”

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The transition from the roar of the Great Hall to the suffocating quiet of the royal apartments felt like a sudden plunge into deep water. Each footfall on the stone gallery echoed, a reminder of the man following you. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You waited for the weight of his hand to connect to your back, but it never came. There was only the steady, metallic sound of his enameled greaves and the heavy thud of his boots.

As the doors to your bedchamber swung shut, the room felt impossibly smaller. This had been your sanctuary, filled with the scent of dried lilac and the familiar black and red silks of your house. Now, with Lyonel standing in the center of the rug, the space felt conquered. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing orange light across the bed. The left side was already prepared with a silver ewer and cup for the night, should he have need for it.

You stared at the bed, the realization sinking in with a cold, dull ache that this is your life now. This was the man who would share your table, your bed, and your name until the Stranger took one of you. You were no longer under your father’s watchful shadow and you prayed he would honor his words in the hall, that the wine had truly made him too weary to claim what the septon had just granted him under the Gods’ eyes.

“I’ve heard tales of your beauty,” he said and it wasn't the boisterous roar that had filled the pavilion. It was gentler, contained, and oddly soft, as if he were speaking to a frightened deer rather than a descendant of Aegon the Conqueror. “But the tales don’t compare to seeing the dragon herself standing next to me,” he finished.

He was undeniably handsome, with his salt and peppered hair and beard, his features were sharp and rugged, softened only by the wild, dark curls that fell over his brow before he swept them back.

“Thank you, my lord-“

“Lyonel,” he interrupted, though not unkindly. He took a step closer, the heat radiating from his armor. “I am your husband, not some stranger you met on the road. Please refer to me by name.”

“Thank you... Lyonel.” The name felt heavy and foreign in your mouth. You stared at the floor, the red patterns in the rug suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“Why must you be so saddened?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Your gaze has barely left the floor all through the ceremony. Are you afraid of me? You shouldn't be.”

He leaned down slightly, trying to catch your eyes. You finally forced your shoulders to drop, the tension bleeding out of you into a weary slump. Up close, you noticed a small glint of gold, an earring pierced through his lobe, a detail that made him look less like a lord and more like a high-seas adventurer your uncle, Baelor, would delight in telling you stories about. He was unlike any man, lord or servant you had ever met, and perhaps it was the exhaustion or the sheer weight of the night, but the truth spilled out of you before you could keep it in your heart.

“I don’t wish to leave my family,” you whispered. “Or my house.”

Lyonel’s expression shifted. The cocky grin he’d worn all night vanished. He looked down at the floor, then back at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with a surprising depth of understanding you thought he must’ve been incapable of just a few moments ago.

“I understand,” he said quietly. He took a long breath, the yellow enamel of his chestplate rising and falling. “But you must understand that from now on... I am your family, too. Yes?”

You nodded slowly. It was a terrifying thought, but a true one. He wasn't just a guest in your life or passing character, he was your life. Every action he took would reflect upon you as well.

He let out a huff of a laugh, reaching up to fumble with the leather straps at his shoulder.

“This armor is a bastard to get off alone,” he muttered, the "Laughing Storm" returning in a small way. He turned his back to you, motioning to the intricate steel clasps that held the yellow plate together. “You wouldn’t mind helping me unfasten these things, would you?”

The request was so domestic and so startlingly human, you made the first conscious choice of the night and stepped forward towards his mighty frame.

He bowed his head and it felt as if he was doing it on purpose to not tower over you.

The first clasp was at the nape of his neck. You reached up on your toes to unfasten the leather thong that held his gorget in place. When it came loose, he lifted it away himself and set it carefully on the chair.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now the shoulders.”

You moved to his side and slid your fingers under the edge of one pauldron. It was heavier than you expected. He bent his arm slightly so you could ease it off, then the other.

Next came the breastplate. “There are two straps,” he said quietly, “One here. One at my side.”

Your hands shook a little as you worked the buckles loose. You could feel the heat of him through the leather beneath the steel. When the last strap came free, the weight of the armor shifted forward and he caught it instinctively, lifting it away from his chest.

He smiled at you and you caught yourself smiling back.

“You want me to help you as well?” He gestured to your dress and you nodded.

“If you won’t mind.”

He grinned “No, I won’t mind.”

His fingers found the first hook at the top of your back. They were large, a little rough from sword hilts and reins, but impossibly careful now. He worked slowly, deliberately, unfastening each tiny clasp like he was afraid the dress might shatter if he rushed it.

“You’ve got more hooks than a fishing net,” he murmured. A soft breath escaped you. Not quite a laugh. But close.The heavy velvet finally loosened and slid down your arms. He stepped back so you could shrug out of it yourself. The gown pooled at your feet like shed skin.

Lyonel looked less like a lord now and more like just a man. His earring caught the flame and winked at you as you tried to make sense of your husband’s presence.

You climbed into the high bed, the furs feeling familiarly soft. As Lyonel extinguished all but a single candle, his movements were slightly heavy, a lingering sway in his step from the night’s revelry. He moved to his side of the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. A moment passed.

"Lyonel?" you whispered into the dimness.

"Mmm?" He was already half-buried in the pillows, his voice a thick, sleepy rumble.

You thought to let him rest, to let him forget. But remembering how tomorrow might wake him from his slumber and remind him that his own wife let their marriage consummation go unquestioned set your heart beating, you did not wish to see him angry again, like tonight.

"Do you... do you wish to bed me?"

The question hung in the air and you held your breath, your heart thudding a frantic rhythm as Lyonel shifted, turning onto his side to face you. You realized how close you were. The nights spent comforting Daella after a nightmare made you involuntarily seek his presence, your mind wishing to be close to the body next to you.

"Only if my wife so wishes," he said softly, his breath smelling of summer grapes and the sweet song-inducing promise of a man’s heat on top of you. You slowly shook your head ‘no’ and could hear the smile in his voice as he responded “Then not tonight,". Lyonel turned back over, swinging his heavy leg over the furs you had for cover on the bed "Sleep, my dragon. The road to Storm's End is long."

You turned your back to him, staring at the tapestry from your wall and took a deep breath, trying to quieten your mind so you could sleep. However, this was a night for remembrance, it seemed, you remembered the sweet scent of your mother’s black hair. May she rest in peace. Her death made your already tough father even more difficult, none of you were the same with her gone, little Aegon barely knew her. Many memories came flooding, the soft laughter of your sister as you used to fluff up the most incredible stories of dragons and knights of old for her young imagination. Aemon falling asleep during a speech from your grandfather. Aerion getting a smack over the head when he was being arrogant and cruel. You took those memories and closed them tightly in your mind and heart, so they might not be extinguished by the new ones you will create alongside your husband. Reality faded in. Tomorrow you would leave, only a couple more hours of rest until the stormy nights of your husband’s fortress will encompass you whole.

A sob broke out before you could realize you were crying. A small one, and then a hiccup. Its brother followed as you pressed your face to the pillow and the bed shifted. Ashamed you woke him, you turned your whole body to the bed, wishing it could swallow you whole.

"Hey," a gravelly voice murmured.

A large, warm hand settled on your shoulder, gently coaxing you to turn. Lyonel was propped up on one elbow, his body a barely distinguishable black mass in the dark of the room. He sounded concerned. You turned to protest, say this is nothing but a woman’s challenging humors so he might leave you to your tears, but he continued before you could do so.

"What is this?" he asked, his heavy hand encompassed the side of your face, thumb catching a stray tear. "Why the salt water? Did I snore too loud already?"

"I don't want to leave," you choked out, the honesty of the dark emboldening you, making your too mighty husband seem less like the frightening figure outside and more like a friend in the night you could pour your feelings to "I'm afraid of the Stormlands. I’m afraid of leaving my family and being all alone."

Lyonel sighed and he reached out, grabbing you and pulling you towards him. You settled in the crook of his arm like a child. A quiet happiness settled in your heart at the comfort he offered. You had never been so close to a man who wasn’t family before. His other hand swallowed yours as he placed it to his chest. He rubbed circles on your upper arm as he held you in his all too warm embrace.

"You won't be alone," he said, his chest vibrating with his voice "And the Stormlands... they aren't all grey rocks and thunder. They have a beauty of their own." His heart thrummed beneath your palm and you came to the realization he was very much human.

He pressed his face to your forehead with the unfamiliar scratch of his beard rubbing against your delicate skin.

"Have you ever heard the tale of Durran Godsgrief?"

You shook your head slightly against him, your voice small and pained. "No… my maesters spoke only of the Conquest and the Old King."

Lyonel murmured an approval, like he was expecting your answer. You felt him smile from his face pressed to your own: "Dragon kings have little time for the legends of men. But this is the story of my house. And now, it is yours too. A long time ago, in the Age of Heroes," he began, his voice taking on a storytelling cadence, and you would’ve been lying if you said to yourself you weren’t entirely focused on the story he now began, "there was a man named Durran and he was a king of men, but he had the heart of a fool, for he fell in love with Elenei, the daughter of the Sea God and the Goddess of the Wind. They were not pleased that their immortal daughter would choose a man of clay."

You found your imagination wonder, already seeing the sea-daughter: wild, young and restless. And Durran: tall, with black hair and hazel eyes filled with a dangerous glint that reminded you all too well of your husband.

"On their wedding night," Lyonel continued, "the gods unleashed their fury. A storm like the world had never seen tore Durran’s castle to the ground, killing all his guests and kin. Elenei shielded Durran with her own divinity, but the gods weren't finished. They told him that if he stayed with her, they would never stop until he was broken."

You could hear the pride swelling in his chest as he continued. "Durran raised a second castle, and the gods tore it down. He raised a third, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth. Each time, the sea rose up to swallow the stones, and the wind shrieked to pull the towers apart. The people begged him to stop, to simply find a mortal girl and live in peace. But Durran looked at the sea and told the gods that his love was stronger than their tides and their wrath combined. Finally, with the help of a young boy named Bran, the one we now know as The Builder, Durran raised a seventh castle. A fist of stone so thick and so strong that even the gods could not break it and upon its completion he called it… Storm’s End. It has stood for over a thousand years, and the gods are still screaming at its walls, yet not a single stone has ever fallen from it."

The fear that had been a cold knot in your stomach began to unravel. You imagined the great, drum-shaped tower of your new home, standing defiant against the crashing waves and the angry gods from beyond its walls.

Lyonel noticed your child-like silence and he dropped his voice to a reverent whisper: "In the summer, the salt spray fills the air like a tonic. In the winter, the wind plays a song through the battlements that sounds like a thousand harps and if you pay very close attention during the night as a storm rolls in, you can still hear the curses the Gods sent Durran and his love."

You felt a strange spark of curiosity, a desire to see the "fist of stone" and hear the song of the wind. Lyonel’s hand finally moved, his large, warm fingers gently tucking a stray silver lock of hair behind your ear and wiping a fresh tear that slipped out of your eye as it rolled down your cheek.

"You think you are leaving your family behind," he said softly, "but the Stag and the Dragon have always been together. My ancestor, Orys Baratheon, was the first Hand, the rumored brother of the Conqueror in all but name. Our blood was joined at the very start of your dynasty. We are more than allies; we are kin of the spirit. I did not take you from your house to diminish you. I took you because a Dragon belongs where the air is wild and she won’t be enclosed by the whispers or the poison of the court."

Your voice interrupted his “Is that the only reason you chose me?”

“That and because you are beautiful. I am just a man at the end of the day, like Durran.” His voice was a whisper. "It is a beautiful place, Storm’s End." Lyonel continued, "Beyond the walls, the Rainwood stretches for miles with forests so deep and green they look like emeralds in the morning mist. The trees are older than the Faith, draped in grey moss, and the air always smells of pine and wet earth. And our cliffs... they are white as bone, dropping straight into the Narrow Sea.”

As he continued to murmur about the green forests of the Rainwood and the sapphire waters of the coast your sadness didn't vanish entirely, but it was eclipsed by a new small excitement for the horizon.

Your eyes slowly drifted shut, with your head on your husband’s body and being rocked to sleep by his vibrating voice.

And yet, you didn’t dream of dragons, destiny or the fear that gripped your heart when faced with your future.

Nay, for the first time in all your years, you dreamt of the sea.

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The air in King’s Landing was heavy with humidity and the vile stench of the streets below the towering walls of the Red Keep. The day had begun with a damp wind that came from Blackwater Bay, carrying with it the smell of seaweed and fish that travelled with the sailors who had already halved their work day. It was followed by a flash of rain which temporarily alleviated the airs about the city. Then the rain mixed with the soiled waters on the streets of Flea Bottom and the smell regained its spot above all that lived in the capital. The true heir to the Iron Throne - the stench of King’s Landing. 

Only the Gods would know why a city of such import was so terribly built that it stewed in its own filth. Like a haggard old man too frail to even leave his death bed for his chamber pot. Then again, it was the Gods on needed to thank for also devising the sweet scents of flowers and herbs. Their dried petals mixed in oils and water were the only scents that could overpower the stench. 

And a bowl of such sweet concoction sat on the open window sill in Princess Visenya’s room. The lady herself was sprawled at the edge of her large bed with her legs propped up and a young woman between them. Visenya’s hair was spread around her head like a halo of ash. Long and silken waves of hair that mimicked the cinders in the hearth after a long night. All black and grey with flecks of golden brown like dying embers. Very little of the traditional Targaryen white but at least her dark violet eyes could stake her claim as a member of the illustrious family. And after all, the people in her family who could pride themselves on that most famous Targaryen feature, which were the locks of pale white hair, were few and far between. Especially after several marriages to Westerosi nobles of varied appearances.

The princess arched her back on the bed and a soft hiss slipped past her lips as the woman between her legs licked her folds with an expert’s confidence. Truly, there were whores in the brothels throughout the kingdom that couldn’t match Nira Waters’s prowess. And she showed off her talents most eagerly for Visenya. 

‘Can you cease your fidgeting,’ a man’s somewhat annoyed voice came from behind an easel in the corner of the bedchamber. ‘I’m trying to get the curve of your thigh right.’

A high pitched moan died a sad death in Visenya’s throat and she rolled her eyes. Propping herself up on her elbows, she raised an eyebrow at the man who did not seem scared by the princess’s annoyance. In fact he appeared even more vexed by her further moving on the bed.

Nira’s mouth finally left Visenya’s cunt with a lewd smack and she also looked at the man. ‘Can ye blame ‘er, Rod? I ain’t called Goldmouth for my pretty smile and good conversation, ain’t I.’

Visenya smirked at the woman between her legs and bent down to give her a kiss. She tasted herself on her tongue and lips. She loved it, it felt truly and completely debauched. Very much unlady-like. Just the kind of behaviour one might expect to see from the young princess.

‘She is right, you know.’ Visenya purred as her lips left Nira’s. She then grabbed a thin, silken robe that was thoughtlessly discarded behind her in a heap, tossed a leg above the head of her lover and slid off her perch. Visenya wrapped the garment around her body and tightened the delicate belt at her waist. She padded across the bedchamber to where Rod was sitting with his canvas and easel. 

The young man had seemingly no eyes for the sensual and sinful imagery that the two women were portraying. He had trained a deeply concentrated look at his painting with a paint-covered hand resting on his chin. 

Visenya stood behind him and grabbed a goblet of the Arber Gold they had been enjoying since last night. The drink had turned too warm in its spot next to the open window and had soured by the elongated exposure to the sun streaming through. Visenya scrunched her face and placed the goblet back down on the small table. Mayhaps, she could grab another bottle from the kitchens after supper. She wrapped an arm around Rodrick’s shoulders and looked at his painting. 

It was one of his few works that were not for everybody to see. He had grown in popularity amongst the upper echelons of Westerosi society, and particularly in the Targaryen court. His official position of court portraitist meant that his usual works depicted the royal family and the scores of children that it boasted with. Not erotic scenes between a member of said family and a Crownlands bastard. But he was a dear friend of Visenya’s, and an occasional companion in her bed along with his wife and assistant, Nira. 

The latter had gotten up from the floor at the foot of the bed and took up the spot that Visenya had been occupying. She stretched and rolled onto her belly like a cat. Visenya gave her a quick wink before returning her full attention to the painting. 

‘Wouldn’t it be best if you…’ Visenya extended a hand towards the canvas and drew invisible lines with her long fingers. ‘You see how my leg looks elongated here. The proportions are a little off between my hip and my knee.’

The princess was an astute artist herself. From an early age, her tutors had observed that she had a great talent and an eye for unseen beauty. Although those talents were expected to remain within the appropriate spheres of artistry. But Visenya had grown more curious about other subjects over the years. And that keen interest had led her to the acquaintance of other brilliant artists such as Rodrick and Nira. An acquaintance which had combined the professional with the occasional tumble in the sheets. Last night and this morning had been one such occasion. 

‘Well, if you had sat a little more firmly, I wouldn’t have gotten distracted,’ Rodrick commented.

Visenya snickered and trailed her nose along the side of his throat till she reached the shell of his ear. ‘You could always join and… unwind a little before you continue your work.’ 

Rodrick sighed a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a whimper and looked at the smiling princess. He seemed very conflicted, wanting to fix his work while the paint was still wet and yet very intrigued by the princess’s indelicate proposition. He looked to his wife who enticed him with a smile herself and curled a finger, beckoning him in.

‘I guess…’ the man coyly smiled and let Rhaenys led him by the collar of his billowy shirt and away from the easel. She walked backwards towards the bed where Nira was rolling back around and crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the bed. Visenya whipped Rodrick around and pushed him down onto the goose feather mattress. Nira wasted no time and began peppering open mouth kisses to her husband’s neck and face. Visenya observed the two with excitement and bit down on her bottom lip when Rodrick began to cradle his wife’s cunt in his palm. The two gave her expectant looks from the bed. The princess returned their gaze in feigned deliberation - should she simply watch her lovers enjoy each other’s body or join them? 

The door opened with a loud clap against the wall behind it and interrupted Visenya’s train of thought. She turned quick as a flash to see the last person she had expected to make an appearance at that moment. It was her father standing in the doorway, a look of shock on his face. One might say that Baelor Breakspear had seen plenty in his life, but the sight of his scantily dressed daughter and a couple at varied stages of undress was enough to turn his olive-tinted face pale. 

‘Visenya!’

‘Good morrow, father!’ She greeted sweetly, hoping to divert his attention long enough for the startled pair on her bed to gather some pieces of their clothing and get decent. She looked down at her own dressing gown which was too thin, semi-transparent, and definitely not an outfit she would normally wear in front of her own father. She crossed her arms to, at the very least, hide her hardened nipples.

‘It is midday,’ Baelor deadpanned. 

He made a motion for the guard outside Visenya’s bedchamber to step away. Then half-closed the door to limit any curious chambermaids from seeing inside. Too bad that most of the maids in the castle already had a good idea of the princess’s indiscretions and some had even helped her sneak in and out of the castle more than once. 

Visenya noticed that Nira had thrown her chemise and dress on hastily and the top garment was backwards. Whilst Roderick needed only to slide his feet back into his breeches and boots. Prince Baelor gave them the small dignity of looking out the window while they got dressed.

‘Your Grace.’ Nira mumbled and dipped in a curtsy. Rodrick bowed his head and murmured a brief apology to the Prince who returned a terse nod. The artist then speedily escorted his wife out of Visenya’s bedchamber, leaving the princess to share the awkward silence with her father. 

Visenya waited for the click of the closing door. She pursed her lips, ‘Forgive the shock you must have experienced just now, father.’

Baelor sighed, ‘I am beyond that now. I’ve known of this… tryst for some time.’

Of course. The Master of Whispers surely spoke not only in the King’s ear but in his heir’s as well.

Baelor ran a hand down his face and moved towards the open window. Visenya inwardly cringed – the bloody painting was still there! She moved slowly but surely towards the easel and blocked her father’s view of it by standing next to him. 

‘I suppose I cannot sit in judgement when plenty of princes have enjoyed the pleasurable company of other people in their youth.’

‘Some even past it,’ Visenya supplied and Baelor nodded. He finally looked down at his daughter with the kind of look only a father could muster. A horrid combination of disappointment and understanding. Seven Hells!

‘But you’re a lady.’

‘Oh, father!’ Visenya groaned. ‘I know! But I will not be denied things that would otherwise be so easily afforded to my brothers and male cousins.’

‘I understand that, but there are our wants and then there is the way of things. And the way of things in this world is more discriminating of ladies who engage in such behaviour.’

Visenya rolled her eyes.

‘Had I been born a Viserys, no one would’ve begrudged me those indulgences.’ 

‘Yes, but Gods deemed you were born a Visenya.’ Baelor’s soft voice grew stronger, firmer. It was the kind of timbre that demanded obedience. And Visenya was terrible at obedience.

‘Even your namesake was brought to heel in the face of matrimony.’ 

‘Should I then ask Valarr if he would take me as his second wife?’ Visenya challenged with a great degree of insolence in her tone. ‘Or would Matarys be expected to produce some heirs for the throne soon?’

‘The question of marriage,’ Baelor interrupted his daughter loudly. ‘Your marriage was what I was coming to discuss with you.’

Visenya put her face in her hands and rubbed her temples. ‘Gods be good.’

‘The small council sat in discussion today. And with the increasing number of improprieties you commit, I deemed their suggestions most wise.’

Baelor reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He held it up to the sunlight. 

‘They have compiled a very short list of eligible lords-’ Visenya tried to protest, but Baelor did not heed her ‘-and I have decided to allow you the one freedom of selecting your suitor.’

Visenya grabbed the parchment and roughly opened it to see a truly brief column of names. The council really didn’t think much of her chances then.

‘You could’ve at least suggested a Dornishman,’ she said dryly. ‘I doubt a lord from the Westerlands or the Reach would appreciate a wife who already has more experience than him in the bedchamber.’

Baelor made no indication her comment disturbed him. ‘The council has agreed that these lords would provide the most beneficial matches for you.’

‘Right… and here I thought when you said you would never push me into an arranged betrothal - remember? it was but half a year ago - you actually meant it.’

‘I meant it, but you’re leaving me with no choice. You will inspect the list and you will decide.’ Baelor near shouted. His dark eyes bore into his daughter’s, both of them vying to strongarm the other with looks only. Visenya, however, had been startled by her father’s sudden outburst of anger. Yes, she’d seen him angry, but he’d never been angry with her. 

She was his one and only daughter and as such she’d always benefited from being his treasured one. He doted on her and he had allowed her liberties that most fathers would withhold from their daughters, but it seemed that even his patience had run thin. 

‘All of them will be in attendance at the tourney and I will expect you to make a decision by the time we arrive at Ashford. Once a man has been chosen, you will have the entire tourney to get to know him before your betrothal is announced upon its conclusion.’

Visenya lifted her chin. ‘And what if I refuse?’

Baelor’s face remained unchanged as he observed her. ‘You will not. Visenya… I am trying to appease the council and my father. Your marriage was discussed long ago but as I promised you, I was never going to force your hand. But you have forced mine. You are a princess and you will do your duty to the realm.’

‘Oh, yes! As a brood mare, what a duty!’ Visenya muttered under her breath, still Baelor heard her comment. Another pained sigh left his lips and he placed a large warm hand on the back of her neck. 

‘Not all marriages are reduced to their base functions. I came to love your mother… very much. This is why I insisted on your right to a choice before the council. So you may choose someone whom you might grow to care for. I pray the Gods for a long life so I may see my only daughter happy and in love.’ 

‘Do you intend to live forever then?’ Visenya jested. She felt that this was one battle that she would not easily win. And hadn’t the master-at-arms always insisted that one must always know when to withdraw from a duel. 

Visenya relented to give the list another look. 

Ser Tybolt Lannister. Seven heavens, no. If she’d been desperate for riches, she might consider a match with a Lannister but she wasn’t. The goldheaded cunts were also known for their arrogance and conceit. No, Tybolt Lannister wouldn't do. And wasn’t he betrothed to Teora Kyndall? Poor girl. Some consider marriage to a Targaryen more stylish than that to a noblewoman of a minor house. But Tybolt was a definitive no. 

Ser Humphrey Beesbury. Adorable. She would be sure to enjoy mead, and honeycakes, and whatever it is they had in the Reach. A Beesbury was sure to bore her to tears. 

Ser Androw Ashford. Really?

Lord Medgar Tully. Another no. The poor man would probably know less of what marriage entailed than a maester. 

Lord Lyonel Baratheon. Oh? She knew him. 

The first time they met was when he visited the capital for a tourney or a feast of some sort, but it was such a long time ago. She had just turned sixteen and was in that awkward stage of womanhood when every young man (or woman) could enthral her. But he was four and twenty and certainly not interested in girls as young as her. No, he was interested in the sword, and the lance, and fighting Valarr in the courtyard until both were reduced to sweaty heaps in the mud. 

The second and last time was… Valarr’s own wedding feast. She had spoken to Lyonel briefly but once again he did not seem interested in talking to her. Dancing and wine held more of his attention. And thinking back, if he did talk to her more extensively, her family might’ve gotten the idea of betrothing her to him right then and there. 

Visenya scoffed at the prospect. She wouldn’t have learned all the pleasures of the world if she had been married then. 

Had Lyonel managed to escape the chains of matrimony then?

Visenya considered him for a moment. For a lord of his station to have not married meant that he was not in any rush. And he was… thirty something with no wife and no heirs. Surely, he would be an easy pick to undermine the council’s plan and her father’s expectations. 

That could work, Visenya thought. 

‘Are you considering this?’ Baelor asked, evidently hopeful. 

Visenya looked up from the parchment. ‘I think I see a clear choice. When are we to depart for Ashford?’ 

‘In three days' time,’ Baelor replied, scratching his brow. ‘Daeron has already left with Aegon.’ 

Visenya blanched at the thought. ‘D- Daeron?! Father, I would not trust him with the keys to the wine cellar. Let alone little Egg.’ 

Visenya groaned. She pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking. 

‘And I suppose they left without the proper escort?’

‘Your uncle allowed it. Said it would be good for the lads to get an early scope of the terrain. And they do have a guard escorting them.’

Visenya pursed her lips. That wouldn’t do, she thought. She did not hate her cousin, he was a sweet man. He’d always lamented having troubled sleep and horrid nightmares that kept him up all night. She was quite jealous too that he could be so often deep into his cups yet invoke no ire from the family. But he was unpredictable when intoxicated and Egg was too little to manage the road with Daeron as his guardian. 

‘I will go after them,’ she said with determination.

‘That would not be appropriate.’

‘I think we have determined that I am not an appropriate princess anyways, father. I can ride out ahead and catch Daeron in some inn before he drinks himself into a stupor or gets robbed. Escort or no. Either way, I will make sure he and Egg are safe.’

‘Take Mallister, at least. I will not have you ride out without a guard of your own.’

Visenya nodded. Mallister was her sworn knight and protector when she decided that the confines of the Red Keep were not to be endured. He was older than her father yet still large and powerful enough to be trusted with the life and safety of the princess. And he was one of the best riders; it only made sense that he should accompany her as she rides out to catch her cousin lest he gets set upon by bandits. 

Baelor, trusting his daughter’s judgement on this, leaned down to kiss Visenya’s forehead before departing her chambers. She smiled at him and promised to see him at Ashford. The prince was halfway to the door when she made one final plea.

‘Please, do not punish Roderick for what I did. Or Nira. They need his position.’

Baelor smiled at his daughter. ‘His position is quite safe. He is an excellent artist and I should hate to see him leave court. Might I make a request of my own?’

Visenya nodded in response.

‘Hide that painting. It is far too much for any father to see of his daughter. Let alone for the rest of the household.’ Visneya groaned in despair. Gods,  and this week had started off so well…

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