asa

the kayak slices the water calmly and then you're being lifted out by big arms and carefully positioned legs, thick and sturdy.

you think he asks if you're alright, and you think you laugh when he does.

—

the familiar sensation of emerging from unconsciousness crawls over you, your body returning to you piecemeal until you've puzzled it out. you fainted when he lifted you out and you noticed you were standing in some industrial dockyard. specifically now, you're in some office stretched out above you from where you seem to be lying on a couch. everything burns and stings.

"alrigh'?" a thick, craggy voice from behind your head. you twist slightly and there's the man that helped you.

"i'm so sorry," you sob again, like the fainting only hit pause on your crying.

silence. "wot for?"

you don't even know. you're waterlogged and sunburned and you're pretty sure you can't lift your arms above your head if you needed to.

"my boyfriend left me out there," you try to explain through shaking breaths. "he had…everything in his kayak. the compass. water. phones. food. i think maybe he thought i still had my phone on me."

"wot the fuck 're you sayin'? your boyfriend wot?" then he finally pushes himself out of the wooden office chair and leans against the desk where you can see him better. folds his huge arms across his huge chest.

"no," and it's a laugh-cry. "he thought it was funny. wanted to see if i could make it back without his help. i tried following him, but he was too fast. then it came to a fork in the river and i didn't know how to get back."

the man's face is dark with something even beyond anger. it doesn't fit the mundanity of the office surrounding you; lists and certificates and handwritten notes tacked up everywhere on the cheap walls.

it feels good to see it reflected in someone else's face. "i didn't know where i was, or where to paddle. i just needed to find anything human. it's been…hours." and then your anger breaks open easy like yolk trapped under a thin skein to reveal the sadness underneath because all you really are are sad. a man you've been dating, let come inside you more than once, met your friends and your grandparents, left you out in the middle of a giant body of water with no means of survival.

you could've died and you can already hear his voice in your head: babe i thought you had your phone! how was i supposed to know you've put it in my bag? you should've said something. babe please you're really making something out of nothing. you're always saying how much you want to toughen up and get into the outdoors stuff with me. i came back to find you but you'd disappeared; you should've just stayed put and i would've found you. you made it into such a big deal. jesus.

sometimes, the worst part of seeing your partner as they really are is not what they say or do, but what you can very clearly hear them saying or picture them doing.

"you're in a shipyard, love. don' know where you started but i'm bettin' you've come a long ways."

you shrug. "we parked on the side of a two-lane highway. portaged in. i'm not from here, i have no idea."

"judgin' by the look of you, it's been a few hours at least." he pushes himself off the desk and shuffles through something out of sight. comes back with a first aid kit, and after flipping through the contents, what looks like cooling gel packs for burns.

"oh, no, don't waste that on me" is silenced by a rude look.

"can you sit up."

you do awkwardly.

"i'm gonna cut your top off. don't think your arms are gonna be much help." a pair of scissors is brandished and they look insanely small in his big, calloused hands, and he drags it through the fabric of your tank top unless it falls down to your waist, leaving your bikini top underneath. you think if you had your wits about you, you'd try to argue.

"move a bit." he softly uses his hands to shift you, then out of sight, you hear the packet ripped open. then a blissfully cold gel is being spread across the sun-scorched skin; over your shoulders, up your neck and tops of ears, with a gentleness that doesn't match those big hands, down your upper arms, and the top knob of your spine where your tank top had dipped low all day.

a shuddering breath is punched out of you as the gel seems to penetrate the top layer of skin left to cook under the hot august sun with no reprieve from cloud cover.

you're turned back around with his hands on your waist, facing out into this office. it must be one of those offices set up in a trailer. he crouches down in front of you, knee cartilage popping.

"better." he's not asking. declaring it to be true about you. he presses a cold water bottle into your palm, and that's when you both notice where your trail shorts had ridden up, revealing a patch of skin that got burned as well. a stupid rectangle across both thighs.

he rips open another gel pack with his teeth. you watch quietly as he smears it across your flesh, trying not to drag the skin.

"chin up."

more along your breastbone where the tank top didn't shield, up your throat, and you realize how large his hands really span when they're cupped around your trachea. tops of your ears. forehead. it feels so intimate and clinical at the same time.

"that bad, huh," you give out shakily when he's chucked the sixth pack to the side, used up.

he grunts. instructs you to sip the water slow, no matter how dry your mouth feels, how badly you want to tip it down your throat and let it sluice through your bloodstream.

"headache?"

somehow the least of your concerns all things considered, but yes. fetches you some pills from the first aid kit, watches you carefully as you swallow them.

"get some rest then. i'll take y'home when i'm done."

the realization that you don't have anything to get you home yourself is devastating and if you had moisture to conjure fresh tears, you'd surely cry again. trying to find a comfortable position is impossible, so you end up just reclining to the side, wedging someone's spare hooded sweatshirt under your head as a pillow.

shockingly, you must doze off sometime after you hear the man leave the trailer. when your eyes open, dry and achy, there's a flickering overhead light on and the sky's darkened outside. you look around and find a clock on the wall. you don't know when he hauled you in, but it must have been at least an hour of sleep.

you readjust and check out the burns on your forearms, and fall back asleep.

the sound of his boots hitting metal steps has you inhaling sharply out of hazy, discomfited sleep. you watch him enter, eyes trained on you over the desk.

"y'alrigh'?"

you nod stiffly.

"let's go." he helps you into the oversized sweatshirt that you used as a pillow. it stinks like cigarettes and body odour, but it helps protect your sunburn from being scraped against. you're grateful for the size of it, that it doesn't force you to move your arms much to be folded into it.

he has to slow and shorten his long-legged stride to match your small, aching ones across the shadowed shipyard, lit only by sharp white fluorescent overheads. he brings you over to a large black truck, gets you situated (with his help) into the passenger side, and then goes back to the yard to lock up.

when he returns, you're trembling slightly inside the big hoodie. dreading what has to come next.

"everything is at my boyfriend's," you nearly whisper, embarrassed and penitent. "my keys and…it's all there."

"right." he gets directions and doesn't bother tapping them into his gps, just steers the truck out of the parking lot and onto some dark highway.

"i'm really so—"

"no." he actually raises a hand off the steering wheel to emphasize the rough word. "you're not apologizin' for 'im."

—

the ride is long and silent, and you must doze back off in front of the blue-lit dashboard and the man, who introduced himself finally as simon, who smokes a cigarette out his window a few times. you feel too guilty to ask if he even lives close to the city, to gauge whether this trip is adding time to his own commute. you can only imagine it does, and it burns you hotter for it.

coming to under frequent lights of the highway carved through the city, minutes from your boyfriend's exit.

you direct him the rest of the way, softly. "this unit, yeah, right here."

"what's his name?" he asks while sidling the truck up behind your boyfriend's car. so he did come home.

"sam," you answer without a thought, and then he's out of the truck and locking it behind him, striding in double time up the steps.

you hide. you hate yourself for it but you shrink in the hoodie, pulling it up over your mouth anxiously as you watch the door open under a shitty porch light. then all you see is the massive shadow of this man, simon, with his arms stretched out and he disappears into the open door. the door slams shut.

minutes and minutes stretch. you keep your hand on the handle but you won't leave the safety of the truck cab.

he reemerges alone. he comes up to your car door and unlocks it with the fob. "this all of it? check."

your phone, purse and wallet, house keys, reusable water bottle, and random things like a pair of your pajama shorts, a couple books, toothbrush, skincare stuff, tampons. it's stuffed into one of you old duffel bags you must've lugged over there at some point.

"i mean…i think this is it?"

"don't guess. you don't wanna come back again."

has he broken up with your boyfriend for you?

so you check the bag again. "yes…yes, it's everything." anything else is a lost cause, you don't need to tell him that the hard liquor was all purchased by you.

he hauls himself back in the truck and you can see under the street lights, the split knuckles on his fists, smeared blood down some hairy fingers.

"thank you," you whisper.

his fingers ripple off the wheel in a "don't mention it" gesture. you tell him where your apartment is, and then fall silent.

—

you invite him up. for logistics mostly, because it hurts too much to lift the duffel bag by yourself. he stands beside you in the elevator, huge and bulky, silent on his own.

you feel his eyes flick around your space as you let yourself into the apartment. he agrees to a cup of coffee, despite the hour.

there's only the one couch. you're distinctly aware that the only other man who's sat here with you has been sam. by contrast, simon is huge, taking up space that makes the couch feel more like a loveseat. he's technically in the corner, but his big ass and legs has him nearly halfway to you.

"is this yours?" you ask, fingers picking at the large wrinkled sweatshirt swamping you. "i can give it back."

"nah," he says firmly, and you notice how absurdly small the coffee mug looks wrapped in his big hand and thick fingers. "looks better on you."

you set your mug on the coffee table nervously. "okay, so i get the sense that you don't want me to thank you, that you're not the type that would accept it even if i tried?"

silence tells you you're right.

"do you…are you seeing someone?" you shift slightly to look at him, watch his reaction.

"no."

you already know he wouldn't come up just to be nice. he's dragged a woman to shore and broken up with her shitty boyfriend for her and taken her home. he owes nothing to you.

when you lean over, disbelief seems to flicker over his still face before your mouth finds his. you feel the taut sunburnt skin stretch painfully under the hoodie, but his warm lips opening against yours is a hot distraction. you let both soft, warm puffs of air against him as you pull away and go for the skin of his neck.

this is when you remember that you woke up in your bed with sam this morning.

his hands fall at your waist, where the skin was safe from the sun, pulling at your hips with a soft hot sound behind his teeth. you separate, both huffing.

"i think maybe that we should—"

"yeah, course." he says it too quickly.

you raise your eyebrow. "—wait til i'm healed. is what i was gonna say."

he's surprised. hides it fast but you catch it.

you give him your number. type it into his old phone.

his mouth tastes of cigarettes and coffee when you kiss him goodnight at the door. you don't brush your teeth at bed, choosing to savour the taste on your lips. you pull the hoodie up over your mouth and breathe in his scent, stale and kind of gross but safe, until you fall asleep.

-

Oh you’re angry all right. He wakes in an alleyway, sun in his eyes and the toe of your boot pushing against his temple. You've got your arms crossed in a huff, brow furrowed, but he can’t help but see you as a deity, a jewel glimmering in the scum of King’s Landing. He’s pleased to see a guard with you, he’s well aware of what can happen in the places he frequents. You kick him again, gentle but enough for him to know he needs to rise. You take him back to the palace, berating him with every step. Does he know how dangerous it is for a Prince to be out on his own? Does he have no respect for you? What would you do if something happened to him? Daeron can’t seem to find it in him to be upset; he can almost see the steam coming out of your ears, but your voice is so captivating and your glare is so beautiful and you care. Care for the dirty, disheveled, drunk of a Prince, enough to stomp out into the city to find him when he didn’t come home. His heart hurts. How is he supposed to let you go now? 

You drag him back to your chambers, slamming the door and ordering the maid to draw a bath. Daeron listens when you tell him to strip, sinking into the hot water. It surprises him when you sit beside the tub, scrubbing his hair and rubbing the soap into his skin. His voice is quiet, hoarse, the first words he’s spoken since you found him:

“You should go.” 

You pause momentarily, hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

It's your tough love that grounds him. He’s not perfect; he continues to drink, he’s certainly not the Prince he thinks you deserve, but he does try. When you tell him he will join you at tea, he’s pulling himself together enough to find you in the gardens. He's got dark rings around his eyes and a splitting headache, but you look so pleased that he’s there that he finds it in himself to ignore the pain. It's in these moments he forgets he's trying to distance himself. It's selfish, but his heart won’t let him part from you. 

One night in bed you tell him you’ve fallen in love with him.

Daeron’s in your arms, your lips mumbling against his shoulder. He can’t see your face, his back tucked against your chest, but he can feel your soft smile on his skin. Tears well in his eyes, but he wills them to stay put as he turns over. Nose to nose, he searches for any sign of discomfort, of an untruth in your words, but you're looking at him with kinder eyes than he deserves. He kisses you desperately, starving and grabbing at you. He whispers his confession back against your mouth, tears finally falling and wetting your cheeks.  

Maekar:

Maekar is decidedly against the notion of taking a wife. The rebellion is over, he’s come back a hero, and a different man than he was before: physically and mentally. His back aches when he sits for too long, his skin is laced with more scars than he left with, and he carries himself with the weight of a man much older than he really is. So when his mother insists on a political match, he decides he won’t be sugarcoating himself for some prim lady. The crassness, the brutality, the cold stare and hard set of his brow; they'd given him the esteem of his fellow soldiers on the battlefield, surely they would give him an advantage in his marriage. 

Cut to him seeing you across the garden for the first time; you’re speaking earnestly with Myriah, sparkling in the afternoon sun, and he forgets, momentarily, how to breathe. It's not until Baelor claps him on the back with a laugh that he realizes he’s staring. He quickly squares his shoulders, tilting up his chin in an attempt to seem, what, princely? Maekar doesn’t really know, but his feet are moving him toward you and he’s hoping to the gods that his face isn’t red. Baelor watches with a fond laugh and a shake of his head. 

Maekar has prepared himself for the usual way conversations with ladies go. Polite, formal introductions, curtsies and clipped smiles, eyes lingering on the pox marked skin of his jaw, and then peering around him to eye his oldest brother. You are polite, but not in a way that feels forced for royalty. You curtsey, and offer your hand for him to kiss. You smile, and it's so bright he can barely look at it for too long. You do eye his face, the crease between his eyebrows, the scowl, and the pox scars too, but your eyes don’t linger; it's like you’re taking him all in. not once do you look to see if the older Prince is near. Maekar knows his brother is behind him, well within eyesight, but you seem genuinely interested in his short answers to your questions, you watch him closely when you’re looking for a reaction, and you seem pleased when he awkwardly asks you if you’d like to take a turn with him. 

Maekar, to his unyielding surprise, finds having a wife wholly delightful. Someone he can speak his mind with, who listens to his ranting and calls him out on his attitude. A hand on his shoulder when he feels himself getting angry, a grin and a wink when a lord says something stupid and he needs to know someone else heard it. Warmth in his bed- not just for making love, though he does wholeheartedly- but to throw an arm around, tuck under his chin, and keep safe. There is no doubt that he enjoys spoiling you. Often you don’t even ask; he’s already anticipating you needing something, or you liking something, and it appears on your vanity like magic. A fur-lined cloak when the weather turns, a tawny horse when you mention your love of riding, a book on the intricacies of flowers; the glee on your face is worth the gold, the searching, the orders. 

He does this all believing you do not feel the same. There is duty in what he does, he’s good at taking orders, especially from his mother. There are also his own growing affections. Though to some, he’s still the same callous Prince, those that know him cannot deny how smitten he is. Maekar is willing to give you whatever you desire, jewels, castles, dragons (he swears he’ll find a way, if you wish it), without ever thinking you’d return his desire.

When you do tell him you love him, and you’ll have to do it first, it's careless and offhand and sweet as anything. He’s complaining about something a lord said to him in a counsel meeting, lounging on the settee in your chambers. You have your head in his lap, in a way that has him sitting very still, watching him speak through your lashes with a grin. Maekar pauses to take a breath, intent on launching into another tirade about trade disputes, when you laugh, reaching up to pat his cheek and scratch at his stubble.

“Oh, my dear, I love you.” 

There’s no grand declaration, no perfect moment, just you, there, close enough to feel the warmth of your body. He’s suddenly reinterpreting every interaction you’ve shared in the months you’ve been married. It's very much a “We share a bed and take baths together and eat meals sitting beside one another and have no secrets but what are we?”

You immediately know what he’s thinking from the look on his face, and you sit up to wrap your arms around his neck. In an instant, his mouth is on yours, firm and desperate, mumbling something you’re certain is his frantic revelation of his love to you. After all, he’s been saying it through his actions since you met. 

Aerion:

When your marriage to Aerion is announced, the murmurings at court spoke of the terrible fate that had befallen you. A gentle, tender-hearted soul, kind to everyone you met and as lovely as a rose. Surely, they said, the dragon Prince would eat you alive. To the gentry’s astonishment, Aerion takes to you immediately. 

His eyes follow you about the room, piercing lavender through the crowds. He’s never far, a possessive hand gripping your hip, plastered to the small of your back, or, when he feels particularly possessive, gripping the nape of your neck. His family are bewildered by the pair of you; you’re giggling and smiling softly as Aerion whispers in your ear at dinner. What has come over the boy? Maekar turns his head with a grumble when he spots his son’s hand dangerously far up your thigh under the table. 

Some think he’s finally turned a corner, that this genteel, pleasant lady has finally pulled Aerion from the brink. 

That is not the case.

If anything, he has only fallen deeper into his compulsion. You're at a hunt, walking with your hand tucked into his elbow, smiling at confused passerby. You mumble something, softly, about walking so far, the stress of the day, the fatigue in your feat. Immediately, he stops, bending his head down close to your mouth. 

“Tell me, sweetling, shall I find you somewhere to rest?” 

Before you can finish nodding, he’s already snapping his fingers, commanding for a chair to be brought forth for you. He’s adjusting the seat, making sure the pillows are just so, extending his hand for you to sit and straightening your skirts. If you tell him it's too much, that people are staring and it's unprincely to dote on your wife, he’s scoffing. A dragon protects what's his, and what are you if not the dragon’s hoard? 

The day you met, Aerion knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing would come between him and having you. You’d met at a tourney, a celebration of your betrothal to some sniveling Tarly boy. With the exception of knocking other men off their horses, Aerion had been wholly uninterested in any of the fanfare, until the announcement and introductions of the bride-to-be. The Prince perked up on his horse. You stood on the dias, draped in your house colors and smiling to the crowds. He pulled the dragon helm from his head, urging his horse forward and trotting up to you. At his approach, you gave a curtsey, with all the courtly flair fit for a Princess. He bowed his head, extending a hand for you to take. You did, though not without looking back to your parents with confusion. 

“Fair lady, it would be an honor to accept a favor from you.” 

No question, no permission, no asking for a gift, just the careful demand of a Targaryen. You were unsure of what to do; you were to wed another man, but to refuse a Prince would be treasonous, surely. Slowly, you pulled the bow from your hair, releasing the ribbon. Aerion leaned forward, giving you his arm to tie the satin around. The Prince’s voice echoed across the dirt of the field. 

“After I win this tournament, I will take this lady as my bride. Any man who dares to challenge that, can meet me at the lists.” 

It's easy, of course, to fall for a man who treats you like the world was built for you. There's no question that Aerion feels his emotions fully, intense and all-encompassing. 

It's not that he’s kind- he’s not- but there is a tenderness that comes from caring so deeply for someone. 

Dunk:

Dunk never, in all his life, thought he would ever be in a situation where he was given a wife. He’d dreamed as a boy of finding someone, kind and strong and beautiful, to share the work of a hard life, to take care of, to love. The reality of his situation is no shock to him; a poor hedge knight, nary a penny to his name, who sleeps under the stars and travels where the work is needed. 

He saves the heir to a minor house, a young boy with more courage than sense, who’d stepped into a fight he wasn’t prepared for. If not for Dunk, the poor boy would be nothing but a trampled mess, but his Father is so relieved to have his son back that he offers Dunk a wife. His youngest daughter, soft and sweet from years spent in a castle, and suddenly the hedge knight can barely form a sentence. He tries to stutter out a reply, something about being undeserving, his journey no place for a lady, but it’s clear the lord has far too many daughters and is pleased to rid himself of you. 

You’re trepidatious at first, clever and educated but having no idea how to survive in the world. Dunk doesn’t blame you; why would you be happy to hastily wed a destitute traveler? Your hands had shook in the Sept, and he couldn’t help but feel how soft they felt in his larger ones. 

Dunk resolves that he will do everything he can to make you comfortable. Wrapping his ratty cloak around your shoulders when the wind blows hard, sitting you on a log while he builds a fire, only touching you to help you from the horse or tie your boots. He thinks this is him being helpful, a good husband, but it’s honestly driving you crazy. Does he think you can’t figure out how to tie a horse to a tree? Or wash bedding in the river? You try your best to do things for him, reading to Egg, picking berries, mending his trousers; each time, he looks so positively startled you can’t help but giggle. 

He is completely bewildered. Why are you helping him? He’s dragged you across the Realm, a lovely lady who has no wish to be with him. You can’t understand him, either, never giving you inclination of wanting you closer. 

Finally you break, so fed up with his belief in your incapability to survive. He’s got you sat on a bed roll; you’ve asked him twice if he wants help cooking dinner, but he’s brushed off both attempts with a shrug and a mumble of, “S’no trouble, m’lady.” He’s attempting to shift the pot over the fire, which really should be done by two people, when you snap. 

“Gods above, let me help you. I problemise I’m not as stupid as you clearly think I am.” 

Dunk is utterly shocked, looking up at you with wide eyes and mouth agape. You look angry, your brows furrowed in a way he’s come to find endearing, but he doesn’t understand. Why would he think you’re stupid? You’re far better educated than he is, and you’re certainly better with your words. 

“I- why would I- I’d never think to call you that!” He sputters out. You shake your head. 

“No? Then why won’t you let me do anything? Do you think I can’t learn how to build a fire? Or cook a rabbit?” You reply, exasperated. Dunk stays kneeling, watching you. 

“I- I only thought, well, that a lady ought not worry herself over such tasks,” He bows his head, “I cannot give you what you deserve, but I can ease the trouble of traveling with me.”  

You pause, staring a moment before walking to him and taking his cheeks in your hands. His pretty blue eyes are cut low, focused on the dirt, and you have to tilt his chin up, hands cupping his cheeks. 

“Dunk, my love, listen. I could not have asked for a better husband. You care so much for me, but you must let me help you.” 

You punctuate your confession with a featherlight kiss to his chapped lips. The dopey grin that spreads across his face, and the ruddy pink of his cheeks, are worth the miscommunication. 

“Besides,” You say, brushing the hair from his forehead, “what would I do in that stuffy old castle anyway?”

Baelor:

As the heir to the throne, Baelor is deftly aware of his duty to wed a noble lady and give her sons. He’s respectful to a fault, following the careful rules of society, and how to treat a wife. Offering a hand to you on the stairs, dancing with you at feasts, and gentle intimacy to ensure the continuation of his line. He’s dutiful to your pleasure; making certain you’re comfortable and well cared for. It is all very much like a song, a pretty poem about a valiant knight and his lovely lady, but it's not exactly romantic. At least not yet. 

Baelor is a good man; he’s courteous and humble, polite and gentlemanly, but he’s devoted to his role as the Hand of the King in a way he’s not willing to part with. It disappoints you, at first, to think the perfect Prince you’ve married is uninterested in you. You know it's a blessing, to have a husband who is kind, who keeps his hands gentle and his words soft, but you wish for more. Deeper conversation, secrets only shared between the two of you, a proper ravishing. 

At first, you think you’ve done something wrong. Had you offended him in some way? Were you not clever or graceful or pretty enough? He’d never given you the idea of him being displeased in any way, but he spent so long in that damned tower of the hand that you couldn't help but feel like he was avoiding you. 

The truth, however, is that Baelor doesn’t know how to be anything other than the perfect son. Doing what is asked, going above and beyond, showing the realm that the Dornish-borne Prince is deserving of the crown. If he’s not penning ledgers or reading over correspondence, he feels like he’s not doing enough. If he’s not waking up with the sun, he’s losing precious time he could be trying to fix the many problems that face the Realm. He’s never more pleased than when he’s listening to you talk, or holding you in his arms, or kissing your neck, but there's the ever-looming sense of dread that he can’t seem to shake. 

You have to be the one to reach for him. He finds the note tucked between the pages of a reference book. The flower pressed alongside it immediately tells him it's from you, and the careful script makes him smile. It's short, a few words on missing him at breakfast, but he’s reading and rereading what you’ve given him. Baelor keeps it in a box on his desk, meticulously placed so as not to smudge the ink. As the weeks go by, his collection of little gifts grows. A heart shaped stone, an embroidered ribbon, silly musings about your day, he cherishes each trinket like it's made of gold. When he’s feeling particularly tense, ramblings of the day pressing down on his shoulders, he opens the box and slowly goes through each item. He knows them all by heart, has memorized the words you’ve written for him. 

You’re giddy the first time you find something from him. A ring, glittering gold and studded with a ruby, tucked between your perfume bottle and your hairbrush on your vanity. There's a note, too. Wear it and think of me, my love. A book on the histories, a bird made of folded paper, notes on how lovely you looked when you woke up that morning. Neither of you talk about the gifts when you’re together, neither of you want to break the precious balance, but you can feel the two of you growing closer through the exchanges. 

Instead of immediately rising from the bed in the morning, Baelor lazes in bed after you wake, kissing your forehead and petting your hair. No longer does he take his meals in the solar, you’ve coaxed him into spending a little time away from the dread of work throughout the day. At night, he comes to bed a little earlier, content in tucking his head between your thighs and murmuring his confessions of love. 

Lyonel:

Lyonel is disinterested in having a wife, someone he’s supposed to devote himself to. Why keep yourself from the pleasures of life just because your parents say you must marry? His opinion changes slightly once you meet, not demure and genteel but bright, feisty, interesting, immediately dazzling him. The two of you are fooling around even before you’re wed. kissing in dark hallways, grasping at each other's clothes and biting throats, grinding on thighs and groping flesh. You’re eager for him- who wouldn’t be? So tall and handsome and exciting- and he takes you in his arms every chance he gets. 

It's all fun and games until he realizes just how far he’s fallen. He’s been clear with his intentions. You’re husband and wife to the Realm, but he has no inclination to have you tucked away in a dusty old castle, pushing out heirs. He insists on the two of you staying casual, why ruin what you have with the complications of love? Nevermind that he hasn't looked at another woman for more than a moment since you met, or that the thought of you with another makes him so angry he has to go swing his sword at something. 

One evening, your relationship takes a turn. You’ve planned a lovely feast, lighting up the gloom of Storms End with the grace and power needed for a lady Baratheon. He’s watching, he’s always watching, when he sees you speaking with a handsome young knight across the hall. You’ve been making your rounds, addressing your guests with a smile. Lyonel sits up straighter in his chair when the man bows to you, kissing your hand. His hands grip the table in front of him, willing himself unaffected as you laugh at something the knight says. It's Lyonel’s job to make you laugh like that. He’s up before he knows it, stomping through the crowds and brushing off lords who try to speak with him. You look surprised when he takes your waist, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. His hands don’t leave you again that night, following you closely as you continue to speak with the gentry. 

You don’t mention it, but he knows you can sense his shift. He goes out of his way to spend more time with you; not just in your bed (or on his desk or in front of the fireplace), but sitting with you when you read, trying-and failing- to help you with your embroidery, and insisting on clipping your necklaces and pinning your hair. He knows he’s smitten, there's no denying how wrong he’d been about the notion of tender affections. 

It's a night in his tourney tent that his feelings come out. He sat at the head of the table, bruised but grinning wide from his wins in the day’s tilts. The music is jolly, and sweet Arbor gold graces his tongue. You’re out on the floor, where he can see you, hair wild as you spin with your ladies. Your gown, so lovely at the start of the day, is mussed, with mud on the hem and a winestain on the sleeve. Your forehead is sweat-lined and your feet grow wary from dancing, but you're smiling so wide and he swears you’ve never been so beautiful. If anyone was to look to the high lord, they’d see his face soft, doe-eyes wide and grin like a man so completely bewitched. When the song ends, you find him, slinking up to the dais and bending to give him a kiss. You giggle when he pulls you into his lap, pecking your cheeks as you squirm. 

“Gods above, I love you, woman.”

DAERON

Daeron has always had a tendency to, ah, forget himself, and somehow you make it much worse. In his defense, before he married you, the women he frequented were all whores, who weren’t known to care much for propriety. During long dinners, he’ll grab your hand in his, tapping his fingers to your palm, playing with them, and you let him, because at least then he isn’t drinking.

He’ll slump against your shoulder, eyes half lidded, and if you don’t pay attention to him, he just might start lazily kissing your neck, drowning himself in your scent and your skin. You do your best to push him away before Maekar notices, and when you do he just falls back into his chair, sulking, diving back into his goblet. It’s only a matter of time before he’s touching you again, pulled towards you like gravity, and you never fail to leave those dinners with desire coiled tightly into your belly, desperate to make it back to your chambers.

“My prince,” you call, voice soft, as you try to shake your husband awake, lying on the bench in one of King Landing’s seedier inns.

He rolls onto his back, miraculously doesn’t fall down, and his eyes open lazily. He gazes up at you, lifts a hand to touch your face. He traces it with a gentleness that leaves you breathless, thumb pressing against your lips, and because you don’t catch onto it fast enough, next thing you know, he’s pulling you down towards him, his tongue in your mouth, burying his hand in your hair. You can taste the cheap wine he’s been gorging himself with for hours and somewhere, underneath it, your Daeron, who is kissing you because, with all inhibitions gone, he is doing what he wants the most.

Have you.

You have to pull away, panting, glancing around to make sure no one here will speak of this. With a tilt of your head, you indicate to the member of the Kingsguard that accompanied you to slip a coin to anyone who might need encouragement in shutting up.

“At least wait until we’ve made it to the carriage,” you whisper, your own hand coming to stroke his cheek gently, with all the affection you have for him, even in this state.

Pliantly, Daeron accompanies you as you pull him to his feet. He puts an arm around your shoulders, his cheek coming to press against yours. Once you’ve made it inside, he lies back down, putting his head in your lap like it belongs there. You exhale, and intertwine your hand in his hair, massaging his scalp, and Daeron lets himself fall into his own private heaven, the one that your touch brings him.

At least until the alcohol wears off and the dreams start again.

VALARR

The thing about Valarr is that he is good, and proper, and honorable, and so are any of his gestures towards you. His hand rests over your lower back as he guides you out of a room, he greets you with a polite, fleeting kiss to your knuckles, his touch on your waist is light when the two of you share a dance.

The other thing about Valarr is that he wants much more than he will ever allow himself to take, a truth that holds even in private. He does not indulge his desires freely, keeps himself controlled, contained. He tells himself, firmly, that that is a way of preserving your honor, that he cannot risk debasing a noble lady such as yourself. He refuses to linger on the fact that he doesn’t know who he will be if he loses control, and that it terrifies him.

“Allow me, my lady.”

He comes to stand next to you as you prepare to dismount from your horse. You smile at him and let him encircle your thighs as he helps you down. For a single, delicious second, your body is pressed against his. His hand is closed around your waist, his senses are filled with your perfume, your face is close enough that he would only need to move an inch to be able to kiss you. He knows you would let him, that you would close your eyes and welcome the kiss.

And though you are alone in the stable, anyone could walk in, and he will not have that.

He steps away to let you walk out. His hesitation lasted less than a second. When your hand brushes against his, he only puts more distance between of you.

His knuckles ache as if he’d been burned.

When you part because he is called into a meeting, he takes your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, gently, as he plunges his eyes in yours.

“I do apologize for leaving you so soon, my lady.”

“I understand that you have duties to attend to, my prince. I will be eagerly awaiting your return.”

You mean those words absolutely, and you can see that they reach him, can see from the intensity in his eyes that he takes them in and tucks them away in his heart. When he kisses your hand, as subdued as the gesture is, you know that he means for it to carry everything he cannot express. It is filled with craving, desperation, a hunger that has never been satisfied.

And for a second, though you’ve received hundreds of such gestures, because it's him, you forget how to breathe.

AERION

Simply put, Aerion does not care that you’re in public. You’re his, whether it is only the two of you in your chambers, or you’re standing in front of a crowd, in front of his family, in front of his father right before a tourney. He is a Targaryen, a dragon, and a dragon does as he pleases and takes what he wants. If anything, he draws a dark enjoyment from knowing that you’ll let him do it, that you’ll engage in such improper actions because of him.

“Will you do me honor of giving me your favor?” Aerion drawls, guiding his horse towards the booth where you’re sitting with his family.

You smile sweetly, though he knows you well enough to catch the steel in your eyes, the imperceptible furrowing of your brow.

“My favor is always with you, husband of mine,” you reply, and yet you don’t hesitate to give him a handkerchief, embroidered with your family crest in Targaryen colors.

When you lean forward to tie it around his lance, you know he’s got something on his mind. If not, he would have asked earlier, in private, or not asked at all.

So you’re not all that surprised when he grabs your chin and kisses you harshly, teeth clashing, tongue pushing inside your mouth to claim it. He greedily swallows your whimper, nose brushing against your cheek when he presses himself to you harder. He lets you go with a final bite to your mouth, and admires his work, your wide eyes, swollen lips, and quick breathing.

There are whispers in the crowd. His father is glaring furiously at him, his uncle rubbing his temples, and his cousin has averted his eyes.

“Do win, husband,” you say, and Aerion grins before putting on his helmet.

That night, as the banquet drags on, he distracts himself with you. Under the table, his hands travel over your thighs, sneak underneath your dress, and when you take it in yours to firmly put in back on the table, he holds your fingers tightly between his, bringing them to his lips to kiss them — though not for a brief, polite kiss. No, his tongue flicks over your skin, watching you as you swallow and avert your eyes, a predator enjoying his prey’s squirming.

But as much as he enjoys taunting and teasing you, he would also kill anyone that laid eyes on you when you’re lost in the throes of pleasure, and so those he’ll jealously keep behind closed doors.

Taking a moment to calm yourself, you decided this was all a dream. Dragons have been gone a long time, and you don't remember how you got to this strange place. In fact, last thing you remember was laying abed. With that hypothesis, you found yourself stood across the should-be-dead creature, your movements addled with the strain of pain with every stretch of muscle, but you moved anyway. It was not everyday one is faced with a dragon—even if it was not real.

You've always wondered how they looked like, physically, not as illustrative lines of ink in a long aged book. This one was alive—and so, so magnificent.

It began to rouse ever so steadily, slow breaths quickening at the disturbance of your hands studying it's face. It all felt so real. It all looked so real too, its pitch black scales that seemed to absorb the moonlight to bathe itself with crimson red luster. It's eyes were alight with violet, like glimmering sugilites.

The Anvil sat back in the chair with a spine so rigid and frozen it might crack with his next breath, but even that was taken from him. Just what were you doing? Touching at a prince like that?

Your hand ran through his silver beard, the calluses borne out of hard-work scratching pleasantly at his jaw. "You are breathtaking."

Maekar would never describe himself with such a word, not in any way unrelated to combat, but he did not refute it. The maester said you might act strangely still, and advised all not to agitate you. However, he should have done something about this a half minute ago, but his hands were still clutched at the armrests. His breaths turned shallow when your caress traveled down, fingers softly feeling his throat and then moving down his chest. "That's enough!" Maekar stopped your hands from sating their strange interest. You gave a startled look, yet curiosity remained its main feature.

Remembering the man's instructions, he lowered his tone and released your wrists gently. "My lady," he called, as if it could tether you back to earth. "you must rest."

"You can speak?"

He blinked. "Yes. Sit down."

You obey, eyes still staring him down, studying… admiring? only for your attention to leave him for something to his side that did not exist. Maekar sighed. At least you were alive. He swept up the vial on the table and blocked your view of whatever it was you were hallucinating and offered it to you. "Drink this and sleep."

Quietly, you stared at the vial. "I am not trying to poison you." The gruff dragon said. That was not the problem, you still did not get to examine him enough — but all good things must come to an end you supposed.

Maekar watched you drink down the medicine like it was water, no flinch at the smell or complaints about the taste. He remembered recoiling when the revolting scent hit him. Either you were used to such strong medicine or that brainless cunt hit you hard enough for your senses to be impaired — he hoped it was the first explanation. Because then that means the blow to your head was not as bad as he initially feared it to be.

Your eyes fluttered slow, the onyx dragon blurring in your vision and for a blink of a moment you thought you'd seen a man in black.

After closing your eyes for what felt like mere seconds, you opened them once more to a sunlit room. The dragon replaced with an empty intricately carved wooden chair. You shot up and severely regretted the action, the dizziness wrecking your balance and feeling that same stabbing pain in your skull. When you finally recovered enough to open your eyes (with difficulty due to the sunlight attacking them), you realized where you were — The Same Room.

Frustration built up high in your stomach, was this one of those dreams? where you dream within a dream? You could still taste that disgusting liquid the dragon gave to you, the bitter aftertaste stuck on the back of your throat.

"You're awake!" a small voice cried. You turned to the door to find a familiar face staring back at you. "Egg?"

"I'd heard about what happened. I'm glad you're alright!" The boy ran up until he reached your bedside. You gave a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you remember?" He questioned, little head tilted in confusion. You shook your head in response.

"I don't know a lot either, only what I heard from father's conversation with the maester. It was a little hard to hear inside the secret passage," he noticed your confused look. "my grandfather—the King had them built for safe escape, that's what Daeron told me."

"I can show you how to get there from here if you'd like," he added, already looking towards where you assumed the entry was from within this chamber.

"I do not think you should be telling me this, sweet prince," you smiled.

"Why not? You're my friend."

"Yes, but still you–" The sound of the opening door stopped you from finishing your sentence.

"Aegon," the older prince said, exasperated, a familiar old man stood dutifully beside him, Maester Melaquin. The princeling called upon looked as if he was caught red-handed committing a crime. "what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see if she was okay," Egg said quickly, before his father took his hand and led him outside, leaving you with the maester, who sat by your side after closing the blinds, dimming the room into a more comfortable and bearable lighting.

"Good morrow, my lady," he said, voice quiet and soothing. You returned the greeting.

"How do you feel? any headaches? pain or soreness anywhere?"

You leaned your back on the overly fluffed pillows, beginning to tire from this delirious dream, but you humored him anyways. "My head aches like nothing I've felt before and my muscles feel sore,"

"Nausea?"

You shook your head. He looked at you carefully before he spoke again, almost hesitant. "Have you seen anything strange? things that should not exist?"

His questions were far too specific, planting seeds of doubt in your mind. "Yes—many of them,"

"Do you see them anymore?"

"No."

Maester Melaquin pulled a pouch from his pocket, loosening the string as he spoke. "Are you familiar with the name: Devil's Fungus?" Recognition had your eyes widen as you looked at the plum mushroom in his grasp. "Yes," you responded grip tight on the blanket.

"We found them within a sack in your home. I believe you confused them for their twin the Blushing Cap, understandable error considering their identical appearance, the only difference is–"

The deep, deeply annoyed voice of the Anvil interrupted as he put down a seat on the other side of the bed. "With all due respect, maester—who cares about the difference?"

You did. You care about the difference.

It was not as if you had no knowledge of it, you did, but how could you be that careless? You do not even remember ingesting it. "Last thing I remember was going to sleep, I never ate anything that contained it," the side-effects crossed your mind one by one. "although I suppose it made me forget," you said more to yourself than to them.

"It must have been a small quantity since you hadn't dropped dead by now," the maester joked with a smile, trying to calm you down. You sighed, the embarrassment of possibly having mistaken not one, but five whole toxic mushrooms for their safe counterparts was just too hard to bear.

"No… I always use five or six," The way the maester balked at your words had the Anvil nearly jump in his seat. Maester Melaquin took a moment to compose himself. "While I do not understand how you did not die within the hour after consuming such a quantity—it is great that you haven't. And the antidote you had taken seems to have worked wonderfully with warding off the more daunting symptoms, you will take it again after you break fast,"

You tried to focus on the maester's instructions, but you were overwhelmed by a multitude of things other than his words. How have they found you? How long have you been here and how long will you stay? He made it seem like you were to recover here.

More and more questions flooded your mind as you fought off your headache. The screech of the chair resounded as the maester stood, bid you farewell and left. Leaving you with the prince.

"Your meals will be brought to you here, since you cannot strain yourself," he told you, and you nodded silently, accepting your fate. "a handful of servants will be assigned to attend you during this time, do you have any questions?"

A moment passed before you spoke up. "Will you tell me how you found me, your grace?"

He gazed back at your expectant eyes, debating if he should tell you or not, then sighed. "If you must know—I came to check on you with a handful of my household guards, only to find your front door wide open and the insides of your home in chaos. You mistook us for enemies and attacked,"

Your eyes widened. "Was anyone hurt?"

"None, save for yourself," Maekar lied. "one of the men knocked you right out before you could." The maester did say you hit your head, never explained to you why. You supposed he didn't want to overwhelm you with too many memories or information at once.

"Where's Bluebell?" You asked and hoped they hadn't left her at the farmhouse. You haven't spent a day apart since you first found each other, you couldn't imagine spending a day without her, much less being separated for a whole moon's time.

"In the kennels with the other dogs, took a while for her to finally calm, I heard, but I wouldn't worry about her, she's in good hands."

"May I see her? Here—I mean."

"I do not allow dogs inside," he responded. It used to be that no kind of animal was to be allowed within castle walls, until Egg begged and pleaded for weeks to have a cat, then cats were an exception. Something told him he would need to relinquish all animal bans from the way you looked at him now.

"Could you make an exception for her, your grace? She's very well-behaved—I promise she wouldn't make a mess," you tried to reason with him.

"Fine," he yielded with a hand raised to stop you from pleading your case any longer. "if it will not disturb your recovery—then fine."

"It will not." You said quickly as he stood.

You expected him to leave but instead he took a pitcher and poured some water before all but shoving the cup into your hand. "You will have your morning meal brought here shortly. Drink some water until then."

He went to leave immediately after, pausing in place when he heard your voice again, calling him, tone inquisitive, almost hesitant.

"Were you the one who gave me the medicine?"

The Anvil gave you a sidelong glance. "No, must have been the maester or one of his assistants. Does it matter?"

You avoided his eyes. "I suppose not."

His gaze drifted downwards to the floor. "Later then," he said before taking his leave, ignoring the aching wound gnawing hotly at his chest.

Ashford Meadow did not smell like spring the way songs pretended it did. It smelled like trampled grass beaten into pulp by thousands of boots, like horse sweat baked into leather tack, like roasting meat turned too often over too-hot coals because nobody wanted to be the cook who disappointed a lord. It smelled like cheap perfume drifting out of a line of bright tents where men with coin went looking for distraction, and like fresh sawdust scattered over patches of mud that had already lost the fight. The air was loud with it too, a constant, messy sound that had no discipline and no shame: hawkers calling, children shrieking, ale sloshing, metal ringing when someone bumped a suit of armor, laughter that came too quick and died too quick. If you closed your eyes, it was chaos. If you opened them, it was color arranged into something almost orderly: banners and streamers, painted shields on poles, pavilions set like small kingdoms in rows. Lord Ashford had turned a meadow into a city and expected everyone to pretend it was permanent.

Your father refused to pretend.

Maekar Targaryen rode in like he was arriving at a battlefield inspection, not a celebration for a girl’s thirteenth nameday. His horse moved steady under him, and he sat the saddle with the same brutal economy he sat a chair, as if comfort was a childish thing other men chased. You kept pace at his side with the rest of the royal party, heat pressing under your collar and at the back of your neck, your hair pinned up and already threatening to come loose from the ride. It was an insult, being dressed for court in a place that wanted dust and sweat, but the insult wasn’t new. The insult was that you were here at all, because Aerion had made such a long, whining sport of it that Maekar had chosen the simplest solution: bring you, let him stop complaining, and in the process, maybe give you something beyond the walls of Summerhall to look at for once.

Aerion rode a half-length behind, as if he wanted the world to see him but also wanted to be close enough to lean in and poison anything you might enjoy. He wore his bright arrogance like a cloak, all pale hair and polished fittings, and the kind of smile that promised he would ruin a thing just to prove he could. Every time you shifted in your saddle, you felt him watching, not with affection and not even with desire in the clean way singers lied about, but with that possessive fixation he’d nursed since you were children, the one that turned him stupid when Maekar told him no and turned him cruel when he could not have what he decided belonged to him.

Then Valarr came alongside, the shift in the air around you as immediate as shade.

He did not crowd you. He never did. He just moved close enough that Aerion’s casual reach, the way his hand sometimes drifted toward your reins or your sleeve like he owned the right to touch, suddenly had somewhere to crash. Valarr’s presence was a barrier made of manners and blood and the fact that, for all Aerion’s swagger, Valarr was Baelor’s son and carried himself like it. Not soft. Not weak. Just… controlled, as if he’d learned early that power did not need to shout.

“You’re staring,” Valarr said under his breath, not looking at you when he spoke, eyes forward on the sprawling field ahead. He sounded mildly amused, which in a Targaryen boy was almost suspicious.

“I’m taking account,” you answered, because you refused to give anyone the satisfaction of calling it awe.

“Taking account of the smell?” he murmured. “Or the fact half the Reach has decided this is an acceptable way to spend coin.”

“You can smell the Reach from here,” you said. “Perfume and pride.”

Valarr’s mouth quirked, quick and restrained. “That’s an unkind summary.”

“It’s accurate.”

He glanced at you then, just a flicker. His eyes were steady, the kind that could look at a situation and not flinch. “Try not to look like you want to set the whole meadow on fire. It will draw attention.”

“Attention is what everyone here is paying for,” you said, and you hated that it came out harsher than you meant, because you could feel Aerion behind you, could feel him listening for any crack he could shove a blade into.

Valarr’s gaze moved past you, casually, as if checking the spacing of the riders. “He’s in a mood,” he said, as if you needed the report.

“He’s always in a mood,” you replied.

From ahead, Maekar’s voice cut back without him turning his head. “Enough.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The word landed like a hand on the back of your neck, reminding you where you were and what your father expected: composure, restraint, obedience to the shape of the family even when the family felt like a cage. You straightened automatically, reins adjusted, posture corrected. You had been trained to do that long before you understood why you needed it.

They brought the royal party through a lane that stewards had cleared with frantic energy, men shouting for smallfolk to move and bow and pretend they hadn’t been standing there first. The crowd pressed in anyway, hungry for spectacle. Faces turned, dirty hands waved, children craned to see pale hair and dragon sigils. Some looked at Maekar with fear. Some looked at Aerion with fascination. A few looked at you with the specific interest people had in noblewomen, the kind that measured you for stories you didn’t ask to be part of. You kept your chin level and your expression calm, the way you’d been taught, even as your skin prickled under their attention.

Lord Ashford’s welcome waited near the larger pavilions, where the grass had been hammered flatter and the banners flew higher. The Ashford sigil snapped in the wind like it wanted to be noticed by gods. Lord Ashford himself bowed low, sweating through his finery, doing that careful dance men did around dragons: reverence mixed with calculation. His wife hovered behind him like a shadow in embroidered cloth, and beyond them, you saw girls, a cluster of them, all dressed bright, all trying to look thrilled and not terrified. One of them was the nameday girl, Lady Ashford’s daughter, thirteen and clearly overwhelmed by what her father had built in her honor. She looked like a doll placed too close to a hearth. Her smile shook.

“Your Grace,” Lord Ashford said, voice thick with sincerity he had purchased. “Prince Baelor. Prince Maekar. Princes… my lords. Princess Y/N.” His eyes landed on you, and you felt the assessment, the quick calculation of your place in the web of this gathering, what use you might be as a compliment or a pawn. “You honor my house.”

Baelor Targaryen dismounted with the ease of a man who did not carry his authority like armor because he did not fear anyone would forget it. He smiled at Lord Ashford in a way that made the man’s shoulders loosen, as if he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Baelor’s presence did that. It was infuriating, almost, how simple he made peace look.

“Your hospitality honors us,” Baelor replied, warm and measured. “And your daughter. A thirteenth nameday should be remembered kindly.”

Maekar swung down next, sharper, the movement efficient, as if lingering was indulgence. He gave Lord Ashford a nod that was not quite a greeting and not quite a dismissal. “The lists look well set,” he said, because Maekar could compliment a structure and ignore the sentiment behind it.

Lord Ashford brightened at that anyway, starving for approval. “We’ve done our best. Five champions for my daughter, as tradition asks. Challengers will ride to take their places if they’re unhorsed. The queen of love and beauty will have her defenders, and the realm will have its sport.” His gaze flicked to Baelor again, hopeful, because if Baelor approved, the story would spread.

“And the melee?” Aerion asked, sliding into the conversation like a knife into soft fruit. He smiled at Lord Ashford with false charm. “Will there be enough men brave enough to bleed for a girl’s smile?”

Lord Ashford laughed too loudly. “Plenty, my prince. Plenty.”

Aerion’s eyes cut to you, bright and cruel. “Good,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll see who deserves to be called a knight.”

Valarr had dismounted close enough that you felt him at your shoulder. Not touching you. Just there, as if he understood that your brother’s words were not aimed at Lord Ashford at all.

Baelor’s gaze moved briefly to Aerion, a quiet warning in the look. “We will see who remembers what knighthood means,” he said, tone still gentle, but the meaning clear enough.

Aerion’s smile did not falter. It never did, not when he was being corrected. He simply bowed his head a fraction, mock-deferential. “As you say, uncle.”

Maekar’s attention snapped toward you then, quick as a whip. “You will stay near our pavilion,” he said, voice low enough that only you and those closest could hear. “You will not wander. You will not be drawn into anyone’s games.”

You met his eyes. They were hard, but not unfeeling. Maekar loved like a man who did not trust love to save anyone, so he used rules instead. “I understand.”

Aerion laughed softly, as if it was the funniest thing in the world that you had to be instructed like a child. “She understands,” he echoed, and his gaze lingered on you, proprietary, poisonous.

Valarr spoke before you did, easy as breath. “She’s not here for your entertainment, Aerion.”

It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was just a sentence said with calm certainty, and you felt the small shift in the air as Aerion’s attention snapped fully onto Valarr. Like a hound catching scent.

Aerion’s smile grew. “I don’t remember asking you.”

“You didn’t,” Valarr replied, and his tone stayed polite enough to pass in front of strangers. “You rarely do.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. Baelor’s expression stayed pleasant, but his eyes held warning now, the kind of warning that said not here, not now.

Aerion leaned closer in his saddle, voice pitched for the family alone. “Careful,” he said to Valarr, sweet as honey. “You forget your place.”

Valarr did not flinch. “No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t.”

The moment could have snapped into something uglier, right there in front of Ashford’s banners and all those eager eyes, but Baelor placed a hand lightly on Maekar’s arm, a silent reminder that spectacle fed on Targaryen temper. Then Baelor turned back to Lord Ashford, smile returning like nothing had happened, and the world obligingly followed his lead.

They were led toward the royal pavilions, a cluster of tents that looked like a small fortress dressed in silk. Inside, the shade was a relief, though the air was still warm and heavy with the scent of oiled leather and crushed herbs. Servants moved quickly, setting basins, offering watered wine, arranging chairs as if furniture could protect royalty from discomfort. You let them fuss without reacting, because reacting invited comment. Outside, the noise of the meadow rolled on, unbothered by dragon blood.

When you stepped back out after washing the dust from your hands, the lists were visible from a slight rise, long and fenced, with stands built for lords and ladies. Knights moved like bright insects below, armor flashing, horses tossing their heads. Squiring boys ran with lances and buckets and cloths, sweating through their tunics, faces alight with excitement or fear. Banners lifted and dipped in the breeze, each sigil a claim, each color a declaration. This was pageantry, yes. It was also a marketplace of pride, and pride was often the first thing that got men killed.

You watched as a hedge knight passed near the outer line, taller than most, moving awkwardly in gear that didn’t quite fit like it was borrowed or inherited. His shield was plain compared to the rest, and he carried himself with a wariness that made him look older than his face suggested. He had the air of someone who had been told “no” his whole life and was foolish enough to try anyway. A boy trailed him, small, watchful, too keen-eyed for his size, glancing at everything like he was memorizing the world. They were nobody, which made them interesting in a place where everyone else was desperate to be somebody.

“Don’t,” Valarr said, and you realized he’d followed your gaze.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t start collecting strays,” he replied, dry.

You looked at him then, eyebrow lifting. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Valarr’s expression softened for a heartbeat, something almost fond under all that control. “I think you’re bored,” he said. “And when you’re bored, you look for patterns. You look for people who don’t fit. Then you feel responsible for them.”

“That’s an assumption.”

“It’s an observation,” he corrected.

Before you could answer, Aerion’s voice slid in from behind you, too close. “Talking about responsibility?” he asked, amused. “That’s rich.”

You didn’t turn immediately. You hated giving him reaction. When you did look back, Aerion was smiling like he’d just been invited into a conversation he’d been eavesdropping on for sport, his eyes bright with that restless malice that always seemed hungry. “Enjoying the view?” he continued. “Or are you staring at the smallfolk like they’re a curiosity?”

“I’m staring at the lists,” you said evenly.

Aerion’s gaze flicked over you, slow. “You stare at everything like you’re judging it. It’s unattractive.”

Valarr’s voice cut in, mild. “And yet you keep looking.”

Aerion’s smile thinned. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the heat of him, the faint scent of wine already on his breath even though the day had barely begun. “You think you’re clever,” he said to Valarr. “Because Father likes you. Because Uncle smiles at you. Because you’re Baelor’s pretty son who gets to pretend he’s a hero.”

Valarr’s posture didn’t change, but you saw the subtle tightening at his jaw. “I don’t pretend.”

Aerion leaned in a fraction more, voice soft enough that it was almost intimate, almost a secret. “If you keep inserting yourself between me and what’s mine, you’ll learn what pretending costs.”

Your stomach went cold, not with fear exactly, but with the familiar recognition of Aerion’s logic: everything was a contest, everything was possession, and anyone who resisted him was an enemy. You didn’t look away. You refused to give him that victory.

“She’s not yours,” Valarr said, and there was steel under the quiet now.

Aerion’s eyes slid to you, possessive and delighted all at once, like he enjoyed hearing your life spoken about as if you weren’t standing right there. “She is Targaryen,” he said. “She is blood. She is family. That means she belongs to the House, and the House decides.”

“The House already decided,” you said, voice steady, and you watched the smallest flicker cross his face at that reminder. Maekar’s refusal was a wound Aerion never stopped picking at.

Aerion’s smile returned, dangerous. “Father decided,” he corrected. “For now.”

From the pavilion, Maekar’s voice snapped out, hard. “Aerion.”

Aerion straightened as if he’d been yanked by a leash. He took a step back, all innocence in his posture, and called back, “Yes, Father?”

Maekar emerged into the light, eyes like hammered iron. He looked from Aerion to Valarr to you in one sweep, reading the shape of the tension without needing to be told. “You will behave,” he said to Aerion, each word deliberate. “You will not shame your uncle here. You will not start trouble in another man’s hall.”

Aerion bowed his head. “I would never.”

Maekar’s stare did not soften. “Your ‘never’ is unreliable.”

That earned a quick laugh from somewhere behind, and you saw Baelor step out, expression composed but eyes sharp with quiet disappointment. “The tourney is meant to honor Lord Ashford’s daughter,” Baelor said, tone calm. “Let it do that. Let it be… simple, for a day.”

Aerion’s gaze flicked to Baelor, and for a heartbeat you saw something like resentment, because Baelor was everything Aerion wasn’t: respected without needing to be feared. “Simple,” Aerion echoed, polite. “Of course, uncle.”

Baelor’s gaze moved to you then, a silent check-in, and you found yourself holding his eyes for a moment. There was kindness there. Also caution. Baelor knew what Aerion was. Baelor also knew what it cost to fight a fire in public.

“Come,” Maekar said to you, and the command was gentler than it sounded, because it was a rescue disguised as authority. “You will sit with us in the stands. You will watch. You will learn something, if you can.”

You followed without argument, because arguing would only feed Aerion’s appetite for spectacle. As you moved toward the stands, Valarr fell into step beside you, not crowding, not touching, just steady at your shoulder like a quiet promise that you would not be alone in this crowd.

“You didn’t have to say it,” you murmured, eyes forward.

Valarr’s voice stayed low. “Yes, I did.”

“What are you trying to be?” you asked, not teasing, not quite. Something else, edged with exhaustion. “My shield?”

Valarr glanced at you, and his expression softened again, brief and real. “No,” he said. “Just… present.”

It was such a simple word. Present. As if that could be enough against Aerion’s obsession and the way noble families chewed their own. And maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing ever was. Still, when you sat in the shaded stands and the first lances were carried out, when the crowd roared itself hoarse and the meadow turned its attention fully to sport, you felt Valarr’s calm beside you like a hand on the back of your mind, steadying you.

Below, the champions rode out in their bright arrogance, five defenders for a child’s honor, and challengers lined up to take their places if they fell, because that was the game Lord Ashford had chosen. A game of replacement. A game of men proving themselves by knocking each other into the dirt for the sake of a girl who looked too small for the weight of all those eyes. The queen of love and beauty sat stiff in her seat, smiling like her cheeks hurt, while her father beamed as if he’d purchased glory itself.

Aerion leaned back in his chair beside Maekar, looking relaxed, looking amused, looking like a prince at ease. You knew better. You could feel his attention shift and circle, always hunting for the next thing to ruin. The sunlight caught on his pale hair, made him look almost angelic if you didn’t know what was under it.

Valarr sat a little farther down, close enough that you could speak without raising your voice, far enough that it wouldn’t look like a declaration to the whole stand. He watched the lists with focus, but every so often his gaze flicked toward you, quick and checking, like he was making sure you were still steady.

The horn blew. The crowd surged to its feet. Hooves thundered. Wood cracked. A man went down hard, armor biting into earth, and the roar that followed was hungry, delighted, thoughtless.

You watched, hands folded in your lap, and told yourself you were here to learn something, like Maekar demanded.

What you learned, quickly, was that Ashford Meadow was not just a tourney.

It was a stage.

And you were not here as an audience member. You were here as part of the show, whether you liked it or not.

The next day evening at Ashford Meadow was its own beast, dressed up in torchlight and music to make people forget what it cost to build a city out of canvas and pride. The air cooled just enough to feel merciful against skin that had baked all day under sun and scrutiny, but the ground still held the heat like a grudge. Torches lined the paths between pavilions and the lists, their flames snapping in the wind and throwing everything into gold and shadow, so armor glimmered like moving stars and faces looked carved a little harsher than they had at noon. The crowd sounded different at night too. The daytime roar had been bright and frantic, all appetite and noise. Now it was heavier, drunker, meaner around the edges. Men laughed with their mouths full. Women whispered behind sleeves. Boys ran half-wild until a steward cuffed them back into place. Somewhere a lute tried its best over the constant clatter of tankards and boots. The tourney was still a tourney, still horses and lances and the thrill of watching someone fall, but the evening wrapped it in celebration so it could pretend it was only sport.

This time you sat with Lord Ashford’s daughter as if you belonged beside her, as if you were simply another girl keeping another girl company, not a Targaryen placed there like a ribbon on a prize. She was dressed in something pale and expensive that looked too fine for the meadow’s grit, her hair braided with tiny ribbons that had loosened through the day. Thirteen was a cruel age to be displayed. Old enough to be told she was a lady, young enough that her hands still fidgeted in her lap when she thought no one was watching. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and the attention. Every time the crowd rose and cheered, she flinched like the sound might hit her.

“You’re quiet,” she said after a while, voice small but determined, as if quiet was something she could accuse you of to make herself feel braver. She glanced at you and then quickly looked away again, respectful and nervous in the way girls were taught to be around dragons.

“I’m watching,” you answered. You kept your tone even, gentle enough not to frighten her further, because she wasn’t your enemy and you were not in the mood to make one out of a child. “You’re allowed to be quiet too. It’s your nameday, not your trial.”

That earned a weak little smile, the kind that lived for a breath and then vanished when she remembered the stands and the banners and the men willing to crack ribs for the idea of honoring her. “It feels like a trial,” she admitted. “Everyone keeps saying how lucky I am.”

Lucky. You looked out over the lists where men in polished steel tested lances and checked girths, where squires hurried like ants, where blood had already darkened patches of sand despite the fresh scattering meant to hide it. “People call it luck when they don’t want to think about the parts that are unpleasant.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “Is it unpleasant for you?”

You could have lied. It would have been easy. A pretty lie would have kept her comfortable. Instead you chose something gentler than truth but not false. “It’s loud,” you said. “And everyone has an opinion. That’s tiring.”

She nodded quickly, grateful for something she could agree with. “My father says it’s an honor. He says it’s what a good lord does for his daughter.”

“A good lord does many things,” you replied, and you didn’t let your gaze drift toward the royal seating when you said it, even though you could feel the weight of it the way you could feel a storm brewing. “Some of them are for his daughter. Some are for himself.”

She stared at her hands for a moment as if she didn’t know what to do with that. Then, like a child reaching for safety, she changed the subject. “Will the princes ride again tonight?”

Your eyes lifted, and there, in the torchlit mess of banners and helmets, Valarr’s shield was visible near the far side of the lists, its colors clean, its shape familiar in the chaos. He was preparing with a calm focus that set him apart from the knights who strutted and preened for the stands. There was no showiness in him. Just intent, like the act mattered and the watching mattered and he would not cheapen it for applause. You felt your attention settle on him without asking permission from yourself.

“Valarr will,” you said softly, because she had asked and because you did not want to say Aerion’s name out loud tonight if you could help it.

Her face brightened. “Prince Valarr seems… kind,” she said, as if kindness was a rumor she hoped was true.

“He can be,” you answered, and that was as close to praise as you ever allowed yourself in public.

A trumpet sounded, dragging the crowd back into one mind. The chatter thinned into anticipation. The fighters moved into position. You felt the girl beside you straighten like a doll propped up by invisible hands. She was trying to look like what she had been told she should be, a lady presiding over her own celebration with grace. You understood the performance better than she did, and that made something in your chest tighten, not with pity exactly, but with recognition.

Across the way, the royal seating sat higher, heavier, draped in privilege like cloth. Baelor was there, composed as ever, watching with that quiet attention that made men behave when they remembered he could see them. Maekar sat stiff beside him, shoulders set like stone, eyes scanning everything as if he expected threat to crawl out of the crowd. Aerion lounged like he owned the stands, like the realm had been built for him to sneer at, his silver hair catching torchlight, his mouth curved in a smile that never reached his eyes.

Then Valarr rode out.

The crowd loved him the way crowds loved princes who looked like the songs. He was handsome in armor, yes, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way he carried himself, not arrogant, not timid, simply steady. His horse moved under him with practiced ease. His helm dipped in acknowledgment of the stands, not theatrical, not hungry. When he took his place, lance angled, shield set, he looked like he belonged to the lists in a way that made other men look like they were borrowing the role.

His opponent rode out too, a knight with a proud sigil and a heavier swagger, the sort that fed on the crowd’s reaction. They saluted. The herald shouted names that the wind half stole. The crowd rose, pressed forward, hungry as always.

You watched Valarr’s posture, the little shifts that meant control, the way his knees hugged the saddle, the way his shoulders stayed loose enough to move. You had seen enough training in castle yards to know when someone was competent and when someone was merely brave. Valarr was both. That was a dangerous combination in Westeros, because it made people expect things of you.

The trumpet blew.

They charged.

Hooves hammered the ground hard enough you felt it in your ribs. Lances lowered. The world narrowed to two riders and the thin line between them, and then the impact came like a crack of thunder. Wood splintered. The opponent’s lance shattered against Valarr’s shield, pieces flying like sparks. Valarr’s lance hit clean, not cruelly, not wildly, but with precision, and the other knight reeled in his saddle. He fought to stay up, pride refusing to fall, but the force took him anyway. He went down hard, armor clanging, the crowd roaring like it had been starving.

The nameday girl gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh,” she breathed, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to truly fall.

You didn’t move. You kept your hands in your lap. Your gaze stayed on Valarr as he reined in, circled once, controlled his horse like he controlled everything else, then turned toward the stands. He lifted his helm enough that you saw his face, flushed from exertion, eyes bright with the heat of the tilt, but still… him. He looked up toward the royal seating first, because duty demanded it, because Baelor was there. Then his gaze shifted.

It found you.

Not by accident. Not as a sweep. It landed on you with intention, and for a heartbeat the noise dimmed in your head the way it did when something became suddenly, very personal.

Valarr raised his voice. He didn’t shout, not like a man trying to make himself a spectacle. He spoke like a prince who expected to be heard. “Princess Y/N,” he called, and the words carried across the lists, across the stands, cutting through the cheering in a way that made faces turn. “Will you grant me your favor?”

You felt it immediately, the way a crowd reacts when it smells a story. Hundreds of heads shifted, like a field of grain bending to wind. Whispers sparked into life. The nameday girl beside you went very still, eyes wide, like she had been struck by the thrill of being next to scandal.

Your heart did not race. It dropped, heavy and cold, because you understood what that request meant in your family. It wasn’t only romance. It was alignment. It was a public declaration that could be twisted into politics by morning. It was Valarr placing himself between you and Aerion in a way so visible that even the stupidest lordling in the Reach would notice.

And because the gods hated quiet, you felt Aerion’s reaction like heat at your back even though he was far across the lists.

He sat up from his lazy sprawl as if yanked by invisible hands. His smile vanished. His face tightened into something dark and ugly. The torchlight made his eyes look almost black. For a moment he looked younger, not in innocence, but in the raw, petulant fury of a boy who had been denied a toy and had never been taught to accept it.

Maekar moved before Aerion could. Your father’s hand clamped down on Aerion’s forearm, not gentle, not subtle. It was the grip of a man stopping a dog from lunging. You saw Aerion’s body tense against it, saw the twitch at his jaw, the pulse in his throat. Maekar leaned in and said something you couldn’t hear, but you didn’t need the words. Whatever it was, it dragged Aerion back into his seat by force of will alone.

Aerion still tried to rise.

Maekar’s grip tightened.

Aerion’s mouth moved, and you could read it even from here. Mine.

You swallowed once. The air felt too thin.

Beside you, the nameday girl whispered, voice trembling with excitement and fear. “He asked you. In front of everyone.”

“Yes,” you said, and your voice came out calmer than you felt. Calm was a weapon you had been forced to learn early.

“What will you do?” she asked, and you could hear the awe in it. As if choice was a gift and not a trap.

You looked at Valarr. He waited, horse steady, posture composed, not begging, not pressuring, simply offering you a moment where you could accept or refuse and the whole realm would interpret it either way. His eyes didn’t flick toward Aerion. He didn’t perform courage at your brother’s expense. He didn’t do it to bait him. He did it because he meant it.

Across the royal seating, Baelor’s gaze locked onto Valarr. It was not anger. It was not approval either. It was a look that said: you have done something brave and complicated, and we will speak of it when there are no crowds to feed on it. Baelor did not move, did not make a scene, but the warning in his eyes was clear enough that even Valarr, shining in victory, must have felt it.

Your fingers moved before your mind finished arguing. You reached up and touched the ribbon braided into your hair, a narrow strip of fabric the color of dark wine, chosen because it suited you, because you liked it, because you had been stubborn enough to keep it when a handmaid suggested something brighter. You drew it free slowly, deliberately, letting the crowd see that you were not panicking, not rushing, not being dragged into anything. The act felt strange in your own hands, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with kisses and everything to do with being seen.

The nameday girl let out a tiny sound, almost a squeak, as if she couldn’t bear the suspense.

You stood, because you refused to be small while you did this, and because standing made you visible in a way that said you were not hiding behind anyone’s permission. You stepped forward to the edge of the stand, the torches throwing heat against your face, the wind tugging at loose strands of hair. You held the ribbon in your hand, felt the roughness of it against your palm, then lifted it high enough for Valarr to see.

“For your next ride,” you called back, and your voice carried, clear and even. You kept the words simple because anything too poetic would sound like surrender. “And for your honor, if you remember what it is.”

A ripple went through the crowd, a sound like a wave pulling back before it crashes. Valarr’s expression shifted, just slightly, as if something in him eased and tightened at the same time. He raised a hand, palm open, a gesture of respect more than triumph. One of the squires ran forward to collect the favor, and Valarr took it with care, winding it around his lance with a steadiness that looked almost reverent.

The nameday girl turned to you, eyes shining. “That was perfect,” she breathed, as if she had witnessed some great romance in a song.

It wasn’t romance that made your stomach knot. It was the fact you could feel Aerion’s stare from across the meadow like a blade pressed to skin.

Aerion did not look away. He leaned forward in his seat now, Maekar’s hand still iron on his arm, and spoke to your father in a hiss you couldn’t hear, but the way Maekar’s face went even harder told you enough. Aerion’s fury wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It had weight. It had memory. It had the kind of entitlement that didn’t burn out quickly.

Valarr turned his horse, rode the circuit of the lists, accepted the crowd’s roar with polite distance. When he passed beneath the royal seating, he lifted his lance slightly, ribbon fluttering in the torchlight like a wound dressed in silk. He did not look at Aerion. He did not give him the satisfaction. He looked at Baelor, briefly, and there was something like apology in the angle of his head. Baelor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then gave the smallest nod that did not soothe or forgive, only acknowledged: Later.

Maekar finally released Aerion’s arm, but only because Aerion sat still enough to pretend he was under control. Your brother’s smile returned, slow and sickly sweet, the kind he wore when he was planning something and wanted everyone to think he wasn’t. He lifted his cup, took a long drink, and never once stopped watching you.

The nameday girl tugged at your sleeve, tentative. “Do you think,” she whispered, “that Prince Aerion will challenge him?”

You looked down at her, at the innocent curiosity and fear braided together in her expression. You could have lied again. You could have protected her from understanding what princes did when they were crossed.

Instead you said, quietly, “If he does, it won’t be noble.”

The trumpet sounded again. Another match called. The crowd’s attention shifted, because people were fickle and violence was easy to love when it wasn’t your life on the line. You sat back down, smoothing your skirts, posture composed. Inside, you felt the consequences stacking like stones.

On the sand below, Valarr rode on with your favor tied to his lance, bright against the dark. In the stands above, Aerion sat with his anger leashed but not tamed. Maekar watched like a man calculating the cost of tomorrow. Baelor stayed calm, because Baelor always stayed calm, but his gaze did not soften when it drifted back to his son.

And you, sitting beside a frightened girl in a borrowed city of tents, understood exactly what had just happened.

Valarr had asked for your favor in public.

You had given it.

Now the realm would do what it always did with Targaryens.

It would turn it into a problem.

The royal pavilion at Ashford looked civilized only if you kept your eyes on the cloth and the gold thread and ignored the fact it was still a tent pitched in a churned-up meadow, held together by pegs and the fragile agreement that men with swords would behave. Torches burned in iron brackets, their smoke caught under the canopy until it found a seam to escape through, so the air tasted faintly of pitch and spiced wine. Music drifted in from outside, muffled by canvas and distance, a steady thrum meant to soothe and entertain, but inside the pavilion the sound was mostly voices. Lords laughing too loudly. Knights boasting about bruises. Stewards moving like shadows between benches with platters of roasted fowl and trenchers soaking through with grease. It was celebration the way court always did it, pretending feasting could wash blood off the day, pretending the realm was not a constant negotiation of ego and threat.

Maekar had already removed his daughter from it hours ago, as if he could fold you up and put you away where Aerion could not reach. He had ushered you off with your ladies and instructions and that hard look that allowed no argument, and for once, no one had tried to stop him. Not because they respected your rest, but because they respected the temper of the man escorting you. Even Aerion, simmering all evening, had not snapped at the moment. He had only watched you go with that too-bright smile, like a man watching a door close and making plans for the next time it opened.

Now, with the princess gone, the pavilion felt smaller.

Baelor sat at the center table like he belonged to the seat of a king even when there was no crown present, his posture composed, his expression pleasant enough to make the Ashfords believe their hospitality had succeeded. He spoke when spoken to, drank sparingly, listened more than he talked, and in the spaces between conversation his eyes kept moving, quietly taking measure. He was waiting for the moment he could pull Valarr aside and speak privately, not as a prince to a prince, but as a father to his son. He had given Valarr that look after the favor was accepted. The look had said: you have stepped into something dangerous, and you do not get to pretend you didn’t.

Valarr stood a little apart from the densest knot of revelers, helm gone, hair slightly damp at the temples from heat and exertion, still in his tourney clothes but with his gloves removed as if he needed bare hands to remind himself he was not made of armor. He accepted congratulations with polite restraint, nodded at lords whose names he did not care about, tolerated the way knights slapped his shoulder as if victory gave them permission to touch royal blood. He did not boast. He did not bask. He looked like a man who had done what he came to do and was already thinking about consequences.

Aerion had been thinking about consequences since the moment Valarr asked for the favor, and unlike Valarr, he looked as if he enjoyed the idea.

He drifted through the pavilion with a cup in his hand, the motion smooth and easy, the expression on his face almost charming if you were the sort of person who believed charm was the same thing as decency. He laughed at the right moments. He said the right shallow compliments to the right shallow men. He let the Ashfords feel honored that a prince was gracing their celebration with attention, and in return they fed him more wine and more praise because they were too proud and too foolish to recognize when they were being used as scenery.

Maekar watched him like a man watching a spark near dry straw.

“Drink slower,” Maekar said at one point, voice low, not a suggestion.

Aerion lifted his cup in a mock salute. “I’m enjoying myself. Lord Ashford has gone to such effort. It would be rude not to.”

“It would be wiser,” Maekar replied.

Aerion’s smile did not slip, but his eyes slid toward Valarr, where he stood with that infuriating calm. “Wisdom is so rarely rewarded,” Aerion murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, “Besides, it’s only wine. Not poison.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Not everything that ruins a man comes in a vial.”

Aerion laughed softly, as if his father had told a quaint joke, and took another sip anyway.

Baelor’s patience lasted longer than most men’s because Baelor had learned how to swallow irritation and call it diplomacy, but even diplomacy had its limit when you watched your son and your nephew circle each other like blades. He waited for a lull, for a moment when the Ashfords were distracted by their own guests, and then he rose. It was not dramatic. He simply stood, and the pavilion’s noise shifted slightly, instinctively making space. He moved toward Valarr with that quiet authority that made men step back without realizing they were obeying.

Valarr saw him coming and straightened, ready, eyes attentive.

Aerion saw him too, and quickened his pace as if he could not bear the thought of Baelor speaking to Valarr without him there to poison it.

“Cousin,” Aerion said brightly, slipping into the space before Baelor could reach his son. “You were magnificent today. Truly. A clean hit. Very pretty.”

Valarr’s expression held. “Thank you.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked down, deliberately, to where the ribbon favor was tied to Valarr’s lance resting against a support near the pavilion wall, kept there like a trophy. “And bold,” Aerion added, voice light. “Asking for favors. It’s almost romantic.”

Baelor’s gaze focused. “Aerion.”

Aerion turned that smile on him immediately, innocent. “Uncle. I’m praising him.”

“Praise is not the same as bait,” Baelor replied, calm but flat.

Aerion lifted his hands a fraction. “No bait. Only admiration.” His eyes went back to Valarr, and the admiration curdled into something thin and cruel. “You should be careful, though. Some favors come with… expectations.”

Valarr’s tone stayed polite. “I know what I’m doing.”

Aerion hummed, like he found that amusing. “Do you? Because from where I stand, it looks like you’ve chosen to involve yourself in something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Maekar’s chair scraped back. The sound cut through a nearby conversation like a knife. “Aerion,” he said, the warning heavier now.

Aerion did not look at him. “I’m speaking to my cousin,” he said, and he made “cousin” sound like a claim.

Valarr’s gaze held steady on Aerion. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

Aerion’s smile widened. “Plainly. Fine.” He leaned in slightly, just enough to make it intimate, just enough to make it feel like a private insult delivered in public. “You wanted her attention. You wanted to look noble in front of the whole meadow. So you asked for her favor like a gallant knight from a song.”

Valarr’s voice remained even. “And she granted it.”

Aerion’s eyes glittered. “She shouldn’t have.”

Baelor stepped closer, placing himself between them by half a pace. His tone was quiet, but it carried the weight of command. “This is not the place.”

Aerion’s smile turned toward Baelor again, almost affectionate. “It never is, is it? There’s always some better time. Some private chamber. Some later.” He looked back at Valarr. “Tell me, did it make you feel important? Wearing her ribbon? Pretending you’re her shield?”

Valarr’s jaw flexed once. The only sign, small and human, that the words were landing where Aerion wanted them to land.

Maekar’s voice cut in again, hard. “Enough.”

Aerion’s eyes slid to his father at last, lazy and defiant. “I’m only speaking truth.”

“You’re only speaking,” Maekar said. “And you’re doing it too much.”

Aerion’s lips parted in a grin. “So commanding.” Then, without looking away from Maekar, he spoke to Valarr anyway, voice sweetened with contempt. “You know what’s funny? You think you’re protecting her. But you’re not. You’re simply making yourself a target.”

Valarr’s composure held by a thread you could almost see. “Stop.”

Aerion blinked, as if surprised. “Stop what?”

“Stop talking about her like she’s an object,” Valarr said, and his voice had cooled, turning into something that did not ask. “Stop using her name like it’s a weapon.”

Aerion’s smile faded into something colder. “She is my blood.”

“She is her own,” Valarr answered, and that was where he made his mistake, because Aerion did not hate being corrected. He hated being denied.

Aerion’s cup tipped slightly in his hand, wine sloshing. He set it down with exaggerated care, as if he didn’t want to waste a drop. Then he stepped in close enough that only the people nearest would hear, and his voice softened into a whisper that carried anyway because the pavilion had begun to listen.

“She would have been mine,” Aerion said, and there was no charm left in it now. “Father stole that from me. And you.” His gaze flicked down and back up, quick and filthy in its implication. “You think you can take what was meant to be mine because you’re Baelor’s son and the realm claps for you? You think you can reach into my family and pull out what you want?”

Valarr’s nostrils flared. “You’re not entitled to her.”

Aerion’s mouth curled. “Entitled.” He tasted the word like it was ridiculous. “I’m a prince. Dragon blood decides entitlement.”

Baelor’s voice cut in, low, controlled. “Aerion. Step back.”

Aerion did not step back. He turned his face toward Baelor and smiled again, the smile he used when he wanted to wound politely. “Will you stop me, uncle?”

Baelor’s eyes hardened. “Yes.”

Aerion’s gaze snapped back to Valarr, and he chose the blade that would slip under the armor of restraint. “You want to play her champion,” he said softly. “Tell me, did she look at you the way she looks at me when she’s frightened?”

Valarr moved before he finished the thought.

It was not a dramatic lunge. It was a single step, quick and controlled, and his hand shot out and seized Aerion by the front of his tunic, hauling him forward hard enough that Aerion’s shoulders jolted. The pavilion sucked in a breath. A couple of lords rose halfway from their seats, eyes wide, like they were watching a bear step into a feast. Maekar’s chair scraped again, and this time he was on his feet fully.

Valarr’s voice was low, shaking with fury he had kept caged all day. “You will not speak of her like that.”

Aerion’s eyes widened for a heartbeat, not with fear, but with delighted surprise, because this was what he wanted. This was always what he wanted: proof that he could make another man lose control. He smiled, close enough now that his breath hit Valarr’s face. “There it is,” he whispered. “The pretty prince breaks.”

Valarr’s fist drove forward.

It was a clean punch, a straight line, not wild, not sloppy. It caught Aerion on the mouth, snapping his head to the side. Blood specked immediately, bright in torchlight. Aerion staggered a half-step, then laughed, actually laughed, the sound wet and vicious.

“Oh,” Aerion said, touching his lip with his tongue. “So it’s like that.”

He hit back.

Aerion was not as skilled as he believed himself to be, but he was fast, and anger made men stupid and strong in equal measure. His fist clipped Valarr’s cheekbone, a crack that made Valarr’s head jerk. Valarr’s response was immediate. He drove Aerion backward, hands on his shoulders, forcing him toward a support pole, and Aerion slammed into it hard enough that the canvas above shuddered. Tankards rattled on tables. Someone shouted. Someone else laughed nervously like they couldn’t believe it was real.

“Valarr!” Baelor barked, and the single use of his son’s name like that, loud and stern, cut through the pavilion like a whip. It did not stop Valarr’s motion, but it reached him, because Baelor’s voice was not something he ignored lightly.

Maekar surged forward at the same time, but the Kingsguard were faster. Two white cloaks moved like they’d been waiting for this moment all evening, because they probably had. One seized Valarr around the torso from behind, hauling him back with brute strength. Another stepped between Aerion and everyone else, arm across Aerion’s chest, blocking him. Aerion tried to shove past anyway, spitting blood and fury, and the Kingsguard slammed him back with a hard forearm that made the pavilion go quiet in shock at the audacity of stopping a prince like a misbehaving boy.

Aerion’s eyes went wild. “Get off me!” he snapped. “I’ll have you flogged!”

The Kingsguard did not release him. “Your Grace,” one of them said, voice flat with practiced disrespect disguised as duty, “you will stand down.”

Aerion twisted, trying to reach around him to strike Valarr again, and Valarr strained against the man holding him, muscles corded, breathing hard, face flushed with rage and shame. For a moment it looked like the Kingsguard might not be enough, not because they were weak, but because princes were stupid when their pride was bleeding.

Baelor stepped forward into the space between them, and the pavilion’s attention snapped to him like a hooked line.

“That is enough,” Baelor said, not loud, not theatrical, but absolute. The warmth had drained out of his voice. What remained was command. “Release my son.”

The Kingsguard holding Valarr hesitated, then loosened his grip but did not fully let go, hands still ready. Valarr stood rigid, chest heaving, eyes locked on Aerion with a fury he had not shown anyone before. A bruise was already darkening along his cheekbone where Aerion had struck him.

Baelor’s gaze moved to Aerion, and the disappointment in it was heavy, almost worse than anger. “You will return to your seat,” Baelor said. “You will wash your mouth. You will speak to no one until you can remember you are not the center of the realm.”

Aerion laughed, short and sharp, and blood flicked from his lip. “And what about him?” he snapped, nodding toward Valarr. “Your precious son. He struck a dragon.”

Baelor did not blink. “He struck a man who deserved it.”

The pavilion went so quiet you could hear the torches crackle.

Maekar’s head turned slowly toward Baelor, surprise flickering across his stern expression. He had expected Baelor to condemn violence on principle. Baelor had chosen, instead, to condemn the cause.

Aerion stared at Baelor as if he had never seen him before, as if he couldn’t understand how kindness could contain steel. “So that’s it,” Aerion breathed, voice tight. “You choose him?”

Baelor’s reply was calm and lethal in its simplicity. “I choose what is right.”

Aerion’s gaze snapped to Maekar, looking for support, for permission, for someone to confirm he was the wronged party. Maekar’s expression was granite. “You embarrassed yourself,” Maekar said. “Again.”

Aerion’s mouth twisted. “He attacked me.”

“You provoked him,” Maekar answered, and every word sounded like it hurt to say because it meant admitting what Aerion was. “You always do.”

Aerion’s breathing was fast, nostrils flaring, and for a second you could see the boy under the cruelty, the boy who had never been told no without turning it into a war. Then the cruelty slid back over his face like a mask.

“This isn’t finished,” Aerion said softly, eyes on Valarr now, promising. “You think you can touch what I want and not pay for it.”

Valarr’s voice was hoarse. “She’s not what you want. She’s who you want to own.”

Aerion smiled, bloody and bright. “Same thing.”

Baelor’s hand lifted, a small gesture, and the Kingsguard tightened again, guiding Aerion away despite his resistance. Maekar watched him go with an expression that looked like fatigue and fury had finally fused into something permanent. Lords and knights pretended not to stare, pretended this was not the most interesting thing that had happened all night, but their eyes followed every step, greedy for a story they could repeat over fires for years.

When Aerion was gone from immediate reach, Baelor turned to Valarr. His voice dropped, private but still edged with authority. “Come with me.”

Valarr’s anger had not vanished, but it had shifted. Now there was shame in it too, because he had lost control in public, because he had given Aerion exactly what he wanted: a scene. He nodded once, jaw tight, and followed Baelor deeper into the pavilion where the light was dimmer and the air tasted less like wine.

Maekar stayed where he was for a moment, staring after them, hands clenched at his sides. Then he exhaled through his nose like a man trying not to become a storm and turned to the Kingsguard still stationed nearby.

“Double the watch,” Maekar said quietly. “On the girl’s quarters. On Aerion. On everyone. Tonight.”

The Kingsguard inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Maekar’s eyes tracked the pavilion entrance, the torchlit gap in the canvas where the noise of celebration still drifted in as if nothing had happened. “This meadow is full of drunk men and sharp tongues,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “And my son thinks he can set fires without getting burned.”

Outside, the music kept playing. Cups kept clinking. Laughter kept rising into the night.

Inside, blood dried on Aerion’s mouth, a bruise darkened on Valarr’s face, and Baelor Targaryen took his son away to speak words that would not be gentle, because gentleness did not stop men like Aerion.