Maximofftrash

And when his youngest, Matarys came to you with a book in hand and smile pleading, you dared not refuse. You had been close with both boys since your betrothal, left without the softness of their mother since her death many years before, they grew fond of you instantly.

Valarr had remained proper, polite smiles and kind words while sharing jests when others were not listening, he orbited you during feasts and tourneys, a steady presence with a soft smile. Whereas Matarys had become your shadow, one that had clung hard. Though often prone to distance with his nose in a book, he took to you, preferring to be at your side than most others.

And Baelor had delighted in it, watching carefully across halls of from your arm with a tender gaze. As had you, though they he was warned even by his brother not to smother you, you assured him, finding comfort in his presence and the break from humdrum at court.

Hunting was something your husband had little time to do these days, much less with his son, but it had proven triumphant. Hares and boar were found upon the trail they had set out on, taking up all day from the early morning and leaving you alone, and they had only arrived back once the rain had set in, and the ache in their bones began to burn.

You were not so unfortunate to be out in it however, instead the hearth crackled from the corner of the fireplace, soft pillows pressed into your back as Matarys lay gently next to you. He had peeped into your solar with a book so big it had barely fit into his arms, clutching it tightly as he set it into both of your lap’s.

“And what is this?”

“Histories of Old Valyria.. and the Doom.” You watched the way his face lit up as he talked of his ancestors, only looking up at you once he had opened it, dragging his finger along the pages as you did the same. They were worn, rough at the edges and thick with old parchment, the book itself had smelt of mothballs and ancient ink, the black thick across the cream coloured page.

“Is this the choice for today hm?”

“Indeed, I thought it would be best. I have been practicing my Valyrian.” He beamed, sitting back just under your arm as you leaned in to listen.

“Then you shall have to teach me.” You smiled, holding the other side to keep the heavy book open.

And the pair of you read together, aloud, taking turns across the chapters, and you indulged in such histories, hearing more of them than you ever had. First the many houses that had existed in such a time.. more than just your blood of the dragon. Velaryons, Celtigars, Belaerys and over forty that were known to rule.. You had read about Daenys and her premonition that forsaw the end of their reign, and that their empire was not so much one throne but a Freehold, much different to the way life was lived in the present.

Baelor had climbed the stairs in steady strides, flight after flight passing guard and servant alike he had kept his head low, nodding politely. He ached, a sharpness in his back pushing him all the way to your chambers, and how he longed for you. To relax and to bathe, to hold you and catch up on the day you had without one another as you often did.

It was something he looked forward to, though what he didn’t expect, walking the seemingly longest hall to your chameber and guiding the door open, was two figures laid across the armchair. The chair itself sprawled wide and long much like a chaise, coverings of gold and crimson with engravings of patterned flowers.

It was Matarys’ chapter to read, purely in Valyrian, an account of one of the many supposed slaves of the time and their life under the rule of their dragon lords. The both of your were so engrossed you did not noticed the way he studied form the doorway, his back to the door he had closed quietly.

His finger trailed the page, carefully reading over every word in ancient tongue as you encouraged him, learning just beside him. Baelor felt something tight pull in his chest, rather settle, not like the muscles that ached or bones that felt cool to their depth, it was warmth. The hearth had raged on yes, but he was many paces away, and the tiresome furrow of his brow had eased into a look of wonder, his gaze honing in on you both tenderly.

“Naenie sia glad hen vējes kesrio syt ēdas maghatan.. I know this word, peace, it says peace but I don’t know..” Many people were glad of the Doom because it had brought..

He stumbled over his words, looking up at you for help, eyes squinting at the word before him neither of you managed to pronounce properly.

“Lyks.” Peace.

Both of your eyes shot up then, landing onto Baelor who stepped steadily toward you both, that familiar tug of his lip forming with the tilt of his head.

“Lyks.” You both repeated, and he had nodded, moving across the chamber to your other side. His hand planted over Matarys’ head who already began reading once more, this time more confidently, pride settling in his chest as it did his father’s who looked at you with a smile.

He pressed a kiss to your temple as he sat beside, stroking your knee as your duo soon had become a trio, settling into the softness of the afternoon. The storm thundered on outside, but inside by the hearth and with your family, there was a warmth nothing quite else could fulfill.

Maekar had warned you of the children at first. And it had made you laugh, waving him off like it was nothing, though you hadn’t entirely realised what you were getting into. They were a handful to say the least, and after many months into your marriage, you know understood why beyond his targaryen heritage, his hairs were more grey than silver.

The girls had ran to you all at once, another little pair of feet following just after.

Egg.

The little ones had done this most often, creating havoc where they went, chasing one another about until they landed at someone’s feet, and somehow that had been yours. Particularly in their fathers absence, and though they respected your word just as his, they felt as if they had gotten away with more with just you, that they were able to be more than just an expectation, but children.

It wasn’t entirely his fault, all of you knew of it, and he didn’t do it out of malice, only love, but even after the nights of urging him to ease, his pacing back and forth about their whereabouts and behaviour, he hardly managed to stay so calm, and it irked him.

So they came to you instead, and with Maekar standing on council for the early morning until noon, it was no better than you to have been left in charge. Also when that had descended from simple lessons into playful chaos.

They had set a stool in front of you first.

“Our nursemaid does not know how to braid, could you help us.. the traditional ones? Please please..” Words tumbled out at once, two pairs of eyes peering up at you expectantly. Their dresses swirled at their feet, shades of violets and pink, sweet smiles on their flushed faces from running you suspected.

And so you did.

At first you had brushed Daella’s hair, sitting her in front of your vanity so that you both could see better, pins and clips in between your fingers as you combed through the light brown strands. Rhae stood at her side, peering up just over to see the mirror she could barely reach, impatiently awaiting her turn.

You did so one by one, praising both yourself and the Gods that you had managed to practice on the off chance. Daella’s braids were pulled slightly looser, sitting in twos across each side of her head, pulling her hair into a half up half down, elegant style. Rhae’s were no different, but more refined, higher up on the scalp and tightened into a small bun.

Aegon sat behind, watching the three of you with a curious smile as he kicked the floor below him from the daychair. He caught your eye in the mirror as the girls marvelled and whispered about their hair, in a world of his own.

“Are you not having your hair braided my prince?” He shrugged a little, standing tall as he met your eyes

“Knights do not wear braids.” He complained, shaking his hair.

“Now that is not true. Only the finest warriors wear braids..”

And thus, between the gallant voice you’d raised and the smirks his sisters gave him behind you, he had obliged, changing his mind as quick as it took him to sit onto the stool at your legs and command, nicely, what braids he had wanted.

With the length of his hair just growing through to his ears, after shaving it all off mysteriously, there was little to work with, but you made do. He donned two at the sides of his head by the time you were done, one on each, proud and tightly knotted.

The three of them were pleased, just as you were with your handiwork, and then they had turned to you. Menacingly..

“You must do yours..” Daella spoke first.

“I don’t know about that they are not—“ You reasoned.

“You are one of us.. you have to.” They had begged, a string of ‘pleases’ and cries probably loud enough to be heard down the hallway until you had relented.

“Fine.. but only a few.” You had insisted, and they delivered.

Albeit, more than a few. Much like the girls, you had multiple on each sides of your head, well done for small, clumsy fingers, and it left your hair flowing but pulled out of your face.

The four of you together, battle ready and mischievous, but only then did it begin.

Wooden swords bashed together just as feet tapped and danced about the room, the chaos wasn’t like the usual craziness, more sharpened, like all four of you were truly staking out where to go and who to pick off next. It had been every man for himself, as Egg had declared, and all of you set about your solar taking turns hiding and attacking.

You had been so engaged in fact you didn’t notice you husband standing entranced with wide eyes until you had collided with his chest, warm, calloused hands clutching at your arms to keep you from falling.

“Oh I’m so—“ You had looked up, huffing the stray hairs from your face as you met eyes with his violet ones, piercing and yet tender as they gazed into yours.

“Husband.” You breathed, easing in his grip, it did not soften, only stroked the sides of your arms through your sleeves

“Wife..” It came out gentle, the familar grumble and astute annoyance left in his voice from hours of a court debacle that had been left on his tongue just as he was about to utter it when he found you.

“We were just..” You went to speak, still out of breath.

“Look father it is our braids.” His youngest called out, running toward you both.

“A warrior hm?” Rhae fell into his side, a hand moving from you with one to cup her little face with a half smile. He tilted his head at her looking over her hair and back to you, your wooden sword still in hand, eyes raking over your face, your blush, your braids.

“But you haven’t killed anyone.”

“I have.” Maekar raised an eyebrow and she turned, angling you both to the other side of the chamber. “Two.”

Her little finger pointed playfully, to the other two in a heap on the floor barely controlling the giggles that left their mouths and shook their bodies on the cool floor. His eyes followed to them, huffing under his breath, a sound that could have been mistaken for a laugh, rumbling his chest, before turning once more to you.

You were certainly disheveled and rather unsightly for a lady of your position. Your skirts had rumpled, your hair a mess and pulled from its styling but the smile that reached your face in small pants was unlike anything he had seen.

And just as Rhae had ran back off to ‘finish the battle’, he had closed his arm around your middle, pressing a sharp kiss to your lips as your noses nudged.

“They suit you.” He did not specify what he had meant, because his words had a double meaning. And it was not only the braids he was talking about..

Life on the road brought little comfort. That was until Dunk had found you. And the boy who by any means never left his side. He was grateful of Egg’s company, even after the events that ensued not long into their friendship, somehow it brought them closer, more comfortable in a war torn world wrecked by grief and guilt.

And with the three of you together, there was more than just friendship found, there was love, a family.

Egg had clung to you both, in different ways. Where there was lessons to be learned from both of you, Dunk often walked first, leading the strides in arms and worldly wears, whereas he found gentleness in you, sharing curiosities and the wonders of the world.

Both of you often getting into more trouble than you had meant to behind Dunk’s back. And after a long day of travelling, making your way further into the westerlands of the Reach, you had sound your spot to set up camp.

The night was coming in faster that particular evening, the late spring having its last few cold blights until summer was upon the realm. Leaves were beginning to fill the trees, the countryside greener than you had seen it in a long time, the cool wind settling a deep chill in your bones.

“Got some more wood f’the fire.” Dunk called from the trees as he stumbled through with logs in his large hands, rising up as he caught sight of you both. Egg had sat with you, flattening out the blanket that had been rolled up on Sweetfoot’s flank for half of your journey.

It was barely warm enough, a dark shade of green, covered in lint and fallen leaves but the wool was enough to keep you enclosed and the most of the chill out as you took it around your shoulders and his smaller ones.

“Could you go any slower?” Egg mumbled rubbing his eyes.

“Hey I spent half the afternoon chopping these..” Dunk reasoned, chuckingthe kindling between you all.

“It shall be done soon..” You assured him, breaking a yawn that pulled from you, wracking your body in a shiver from your own tiredness. Your eyes wandered to Dunk where he had ducked in front of the fire, sliding the flint across the rock in front of the piles of logs with a huff, cursing under his breath at the boy’s impatience. You had only chuckled, watching him struggle to light the fire as Egg shivered into your side, you shushed him quietly.

The fire had taken only minutes of grumbling to light, an array of orange flickering bright onto the roots to the tree branches you had sat under. Egg’s eyes grew wide before they fell tired, eyelids growing heavy with full bellies as much as finding food would allow, and the comfort of your embrace.

“See it did not take that long..” You said, turning to him as he nodded.

“You’re telling me..” Dunk softened then, looking up at you across from the flamed, his broad features lighting up in the darkness as your softer ones did. He found himself staring more than he had meaned to, swearing it was just to keep you both under watch, eyes darting at the sounds around you as he stoked the fire with a sharp stick.

But it was more than that. It was the way you held Egg, his now squire, and the way he tucked into you looking so contented and calm, the fact you had still stuck beside him after all of this time. And somehow, by the grace of all that was good, your beauty was amplified by all of it.

Night descended fast as the three of you talked, more so, the three of you talked eachother into sleep. Egg had not relented of course, as he usually did, despite how tired he was himself, he had kept on, he had never wanted to sleep.

“Those three are brighter tonight..” His small voice mumbled out, hand pointing up into the sky through the fluttering leaves in the night breeze. You had laid down by then, propped up only slightly on the satchels and sacks you had carried with you. He was growing more tired by the moment, fighting to keep his eyes open even as he told you tales of the stars and planets above you.

“Perhaps it is the three of us..”

He smiled at that, curling further into your side, blinking up at the stars twinkling above you.

Dunk lay across from you, propped up on the nearest tree, always watching as he continued to even with an arm under his head and laying back onto his cloak.

“He is close t’you.” He called out, voice rumbling as he observed, the boy’s breathing evening out as he fell into a fast sleep.

“He is to us both..” You answered, tucking the blanket around you both tighter.

“Aye, but he softens with you.. haven’t seen him do that in months.”

“You mean he bullies you less.” You chuckled, as your eyes met, the firelight flickering in your pupils, his already blown.

“Or that.” He shook his head, tutting quietly bit playfully, crossing his arms as he lay back properly.

“Goodnight Dunk.” You smirked, rolling over to at last rest.

“Goodnight Love.”

Though even as he closed his eyes, head fallen back and the hammering of his heart quickening in his chest slowing with exhaustion, he had stayed awake. Long after Egg had fallen asleep, and a while after you, the embers growing white and cold with the night, the three of you had laid together, with one last look up to the night sky.

The three stars still shone brightly even as the moon fell over the horizon, a knowing from Egg’s words alone, that the three of you were together, and you were better off that way.

His gaze did not betray him, not once.

He saw the way they wanted after you, the way you gave your kindness freely and lovingly, in ways he had not seen for many years. He wanted one of his own of your own. And truthfully, though it pulled at him, stoking the fire that burned beneath, beyond all primal urges and ‘duty’ if it was not one of his own, he would not have looked upon you the way he did in such moments.

Your own babe, Maegor, named after the cruel, by his account, lay across your chest. Familar silver hairs flopped across your skin, the firelight flickering in the background.

Aerion had been dragged from the tourney with scraped and bruises to match his triumph, as champion of the day he had not been as worn as many expected him to be. Instead the thought of you powered him, the ride back from the nearest town and into the courtyard stables.

You had spent the days at home since birth, many worries for your health from the advisory of maesters and your chambermaids. Your husband hadn’t delighted in the idea, particularly missing out on you spectating his victories. Though to keep you away from everyone else and just in his arms for a little longer from court, he did not argue. Not when he was so close to having you in his arms again, turning corridor to corridor until he had found you.

You hummed to your son, a tune you had heard once when you were a girl, smoothing your palm over his head as he cooed in your arms. He had only seen the top of your head from the doorway, through the cool night, the curtains blowing in as night curled over the realm. It had been the only way for him to settle for the moment, moonlight calming him over the heat of the day, as much it did you, even as you heard the door click and footsteps step in.

His armour had long since been discarded, removed carefully by his squires, leaving him in just his open chainmail and breeches, arms flexing as they braced around your chair.

He did not say anything for a moment, eyes widening to find your son in your arms and not in his cradle or with a maid. And though he did not have it in him to often ease, wanting your company and yours alone, he did not find himself disappointed.

Not with the both of you together, his wife, his son.. he exhaled harsh through his nose, curling around to your side to press a curl to the crown of your head.

“You should not coddle him, he is blood of the dragon, not a parasite.”

“He is but three moons old Aerion.” You snapped though you didn’t hear the bite in his voice, it was merely jest, though he underlined it with truth, the familar growl settling as he stood before you both.

“Mhm.”

And though it could have sounded like protest, his eyes told a different story. The stoney eyed scowl he usually wore twinkled as he blinked, mouth pressing open as he breathed, taking in the sight before him. You were in your nightclothes, the white chemise curling at your feet as the small boy wriggled in your arms, sound asleep.

“And how was today..?” You blinked up at him.

“I brought home trophy, there wasn’t much competition. There never is.”

“So I see.” You said, eyes raking over the cut across his cheek, small but mighty, a dark bead of crimson to match the bruises at his knuckled and arms, just as you imagined them littered across the rest of his body.

“Though this is much better..” His voice did not falter, and he only watched, slinking his back into the chair beside you with a tap of his fingers on its rest.

The trophy was brought home, whispers of his name climbing ranks as a knight to be paraded across the realm, both by lord and himself alike. Though he had meant it, beyond every clash of a sword and ounce of blood he had spilled, when he had came home to you, it had meant more than just that. It was protection, assurance, for him, for you.

His family.

Among all of the traipses and splendours that journeying could give you, away from your home at Storm’s End, there was one thing to be lacked.

Softness.

That couldn’t be said for you marriage of course, it was full of it, all tenderness and warm hands, soft kisses to your skin and gentle words from a proud man. However debauchery was often centrefold, not quite the place for a little boy, much less a Prince.

The boy had flitted around to from time to time. whispers grew louder at every visit with him and the large man your husband had come to love. As did children come from time to time, sitting upon the benches as their mothers and fathers drank themselves into a stupor of chattering and laughter, they often occupied themselves. You had smiled at them as they ran over to you, enchanted by the Laughing Storm and his wife and he did not know what to do with such attention, even as they chased after his antlers and your pretty dresses.

Egg had been apart of that, though more observant. He was more refined, more gentle than the other children, as you would have supposed for his different upbringing. And there you grew fond of him as he did you.

The celebrations were in full swing, tents lined on the grasses of Storm’s End across fields and meadows. For one of the nearby lord’s name days, Lyonel had decided to host, allowing more space and more excuse to let loose after weeks of tense councils.

And just as your husband had relished in the arrival of his hedge knight’s arrival upon invitation, you had some so with the boy that had launched into your middle in a tight embrace.

“Good to see you too, my Prince.” You hugged him to you with a huff.

“I missed you.. it was an awfully long journey.” He pulled away to smooth the dirt from his worn clothes, violet eyes bright.

“So I imagine..” You chuckled wiping the dirt from his cheek.

Dunk had followed just after, catching up to you both as Lyonel stood beside you, beaming widely. The festivities boomed behind you, the sunshine high in the sky as your castle home loomed proudly at its side.

“Come big man.” He held his arms out, embracing the giant before you as he bowed politely to you with a smile.

“The boy wouldn’t let me refuse.” He chuckled, sniffing through the pollenated air. The men then began conversation, something of tourneys and when Ser Duncan planned to stay, when Egg tugged onto your sleeve.

“Might we get something to eat.”

“We might, I have a few ideas..”

The pair of you took off, walking through market stalls and vendors, snacking on treats and tarts and eyeing up all sorts of weaponry. You had enjoyed yourself immenselyand by the time the evening began to draw in, the string lights of the markets lighting up your way to a familar voice booming.

“To mark the happy day, humbly hosted by me nd my.. astounding wife.” He raised the chalice as everyone followed for your shared friend’s nameday, and also to you, just as you and Egg had entered the tent, Lyonel’s eyes finding you through the crowd with a loving smile. “And to my father who let us hold this whole thing.” He rumbled out at the end, taking a long gulp of his wine as he and the others laughed in cheers.

The night carried on in happiness with you relaxing at your table enjoying the warmth and fun around you.

Egg had sat by your side through the whole thing, spotting faces in the crowd and the small noble houses and their sigils, telling you all he knew of each of them. Though even when the hedge knight was around, his frame taking up the space rightly as he was dragged into dance and stepping around people, people stumbling and jumping about, Lyonel couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.

Amidst the noise, he found himself honed in, even as he himself was pulled up to dance, he took it graciously, performing just by the slightest as you both locked eyes, and though there was that usual, deep carnal spark between you, there was something different he felt. Something he had not began to think of until you, and as he made his way, weaving through people, he tucked his arm around you as you and Egg mimicked others and laughed together.

He pressed a kiss to your lips, pulling away only as he sat down, though his eyes didn’t, only moving around as a cough came at your other side.

“You don’t plan to steal my wife do you.”

“Of course not Ser.” He blinked up at him bashfully, a smirk pulling onto his face. And though he had meant it, Lyonel’s eyes squinting at the boy he only chuckled.

Because it was more than he had in a long time, good ale, his love, and more good company.

Daeron had been put in charge, oft imposed on responsibility of taking care of his younger sibling ever since his mother’s death, much less when Maekar lost slight control of them all in their growing age.

But with his own afflictions, it only grew harder, more difficult to manage and keep up. And that’s when you came along.

They hovered around you, out of respect and love, much like their eldest brother did .

“Give her some space for Seven’s sake.” Maekar sometimes ordered, one time at the feasting table with a mouthful of food, and they listened at once, through it did not stop their gazes following you everywhere. Or the way they tumbled after you wherever you had went.

Much like it did in the very moment you spent in the gardens. It was a welcome break, your studies done for the day already before noon, and no others until the morrow, you were entirely alone and thankful for such peace. The lilies were in full bloom, summer flowers and peonies brightening the bushes into a glow.

You had closed your eyes all but for a moment until you heard bickering, it was muffled at first, from behind the bushes.

“Do not step there..” A voice broke the silence.

“Perhaps she is sleeping..” A smaller once came next.

“Let’s go.”

“No she said we could.”

You peeped one eye open, and that’s when two little legs had been pushed forward, standing right in front of where you sat in the marble bench. You opened both of your eyes then to find Aegon, or Egg as you all called him, with an apologetic smile on his face.

“And what might I help you with?” You inquired, sitting up straighter to face him.

“The girls and I were wondering if you wanted to join us.” You urged him on in a nod as he rocked on his heel, hands princely behind his back as you caught them snickering behind the bushes.

“I would much love to. Perhaps we should race them to the fountains.” He grinned brightly as you whispered in close, taking his hands as the pair of you ducked through the hedgerows, much set out like a maze. Their giggling had stopped, noticing the way you had disappeared as they looked around, smirking as they knew this game.

There was always one to be had, someone chased someone, someone beat and raced another, it was non stop, and even with the sun on your backs, blazing ardently, you had not minded, even if your peace had been disrupted.

You had reached the fountains first, the girls tumbling around the other side in short bursts of breath, all of you placed your hands onto the solid, white rock.

“It seems I have won.” Egg announced.

“No.. I made it here first.” Rhae called, tilting her chin up to the sky in pride.

“You did not, I did.” Daella reasoned with them both with folded arms.

“Actually—“ Egg started.

“Perhaps we should race to the other one, then we will truly see.” You had cut them off before banter had turned to arguing, never truly knowing who would be set off first. They all turned to you at that, eyeing them mischievously with your skirts in hand as you began to rise.

“Race you.” Rhae teased then, poking her tongue out at you.

“You first.” Your hand flicked up a scoop of the water from the fountain as they three sprinted away, you following after, their squeals and screams stumbling down the steps and stone as they headed for the nearby fountain. They had made it all in one group, still arguing as they all pushed and shoved to reach the rock first.

You slowed into the scene not long after, huffing as you smoothed your skirts.

“Right right.. and who won now.”

“It seems none of you.” The four of you jumped, the breeze bristling as Daeron stood up from the walled rock he had leant upon, a weary smile on his face as he moved to you. Truth be told he had heard you before he had seen you all, sneaking away himself from his father’s side to be pushed onto a council he wanted no part of, he found himself in the gardens, following the sound of your voice until three others chimed in.

And so it seemed, he had made it there first. He stopped behind you, resting his chin onto your shoulder as his arms wrapped around your middle, your own folded over his gently.

“Mind If I steal her back..” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, a smile creeping up onto his face at his younger brother’s looks of disgust and sisters one of wonder. And they ran off once more, chasing and laughing, his chest pressed into your back.

“I like you with them. They are whole like this.. We all are.”

The tourney was a grand event. Stalls and marketplaces full of fruits and wears from across the realm trailed for miles and miles, smiling ladies and courteous knights, there was little to be bored with.

Though even as you were left to your own devices, walking amongst the hustle and bustle with Ser Roland at your side, there was another presence who wasn’t enjoyng himself quite as much.

“Must we always come here in the heat of the day.” Matarys grumbled, a large price of parchment in his hands of all the names yet to be called upon the tourney field.

“Come now, we are here in support, it is not that bad..” You reasoned with him, walking steadily ahead as your eyes caught the many faces that urged you to their stalls.

“It wouldn’t be if my brother would come out earlier.”

You huffed a laugh, remembering the early morning you had spent together, awake at dawn in your shared tent, waking softly bare and sharing short kisses before he had to leave . He had always left early, ‘to ready himself’ he’d often said. Though the hours that passed seemed to weigh on you all in anticipation.

“None of them do Matarys, the day has hardly begun.” You turned on your feel to face him, both the Prince and Ser Roland stopping in their tracks, the older man greeting you with a gentle smile on his stern, weathered face. Your good brother with a quizzical one as you held out your hand, taking him into your stride.

Boredom had claimed you both by the time you had reached the royal tents, no books or scrolls or even spying on passing houses had been able to occupy you.

Not until you both had the brilliant, though probably not the wisest, idea to dress one another in his brother’s armour. Upon the stand near your shared dresser had stood the exact replica of the midnight black metals he had worn that day, used for the safe keeping from every battering should he need another.

“Is this at the front of the back?” Matarys turned around, checking over his back and chest where the next plate was supposed to go. And though you had seen your husband dressed many times, you hadn’t the slightest clue.

“I believe on the back.”

You moved the metals around, frowning as it still didn’t look right, sliding them over his shoulders as they sagged from the heavy weight. He had the chest plate on as you turned it to fit properly, putting it on the wrong way at first, or so you thought, as you kneeled down to clasp the armour at his legs.

His arm reached out at once with a smile, flicking his auburn hairs from his face, “And you can have this, he’d want you to have it.” You barely registered what he had said before he had held the open visored helm next to your face, “It should fit.”

“If you insist.” You smiled wearily with a chuckle, taking it into your hands as you patted the armour on his body to check its tightness. You placed the helm over your head, sliding it on with a careful tug, his body stumbling backward as he attempted to stand tall on the oversized armour.

“Well.. how does it look?” You held your arms out, twirling in place, the metal muffling your voice deeply.

“Ridiculous.” He laughed heartily as you looked at each other and fell into shared near uncontrollable laughter, your head nodding back as the helm nearly pulled your head back.

How on earth could he wear this?

“As do you.” You jested back.

“I feel it.”

“You both certainly look like something..” Another voice called out then, the smile reaching your ears before you had seen it.

Valarr.

He held the flap of the tent open, straightening his back as he entered, smiling from ear to ear with sweat on his brow. What a sight that something was. His younger brother and his wife in his armour, about ready to fall over under the weight of it all, much like he had felt from the heat until he made it into the cool.

“Husband you are back..” You moved to meet him, hardly able to see over the holes in the helm

“Indeed Iam..” He stepped forth, clutching the helm as you attempted to pull it free, though he studied you in it for a minute, contemplating with a smirk, before removing it off entirely, finally giving you room to breathe. He whispered a small ‘hello’ as the familiar hearty swell crept up chest, his lips curving at you.

“And you do know you have that wrong don’t you.” Valarr suddenly turned to his brother looking him up and down as if he was the most daft thing of all.

“For Seven’s sake, we’ve tried it three times already.”

you never knew a knight could be so adorable. his ears were red and he was suddenly unable to look at you for more than a few seconds.

"i get how it works for a man. not too difficult there. but women —ladies —you're..." he faltered.

"complicated?" you offer.

"yes. no. yes," he stumbled and couldn't look directly at you. he felt so thick-headed and clumsy, even more than usual when he was around you.

"i could teach you," you offered.

dunk's gaze returned to you. his brilliant blue eyes so earnest and eager. "would you?" he asked with the level of enthusiasm most other men would only show if someone had offered to please them.

"what would you like to try?" you ask.

"i dunno. whatever would feel good for you."

dunk wasn't entirely ignorant. he knew the basic mechanics of sex. he had some experience, not much, but some. but you deserved better than his ignorance and fumbling. you deserved a lover who could make you sing. and by the gods, if you would lead him, he'd do whatever you asked.

you knew immediately what you wanted.

"well...you know how women can use their mouth on a man, right?" you begin to explain. dunk nodded. "well, men can use their mouths on women, too."

you could practically see him working it out.

"you mean, kissing you...there" he said, his voice hitching slightly. you nodded.

"you don't have to. you don't have to do anything you don't w—"

"i want to" he interrupted, eyes wide and already panting slightly just at the thought. "please let me."

you smiled and kissed him, soft, reassuring. you took his hand in your much smaller one and led him over to the bed. you made yourself comfortable lying on it, dunk on top of you with his hands at your waist, kissing a while. you finally pulled back and gently pushed on his broad shoulders to urge him downwards.

he took the hint and moved down your body, dropping kisses to your covered form as he went. dunk was so big that you had to spread your legs wide just to fit his large frame between your thighs. he pushed your skirts up to bunch around your hips.

"fuck" he groaned as he took in the sight of your pretty cunt. dunk couldn't believe it had never occurred to him before to think of kissing a woman there, when so clearly that part of you was made to be kissed. he'd have dived in, even without a clue what he was doing, but you laid a hand on his shoulder.

"don't go straight in. run your hands up and down my legs and kiss around it. it feels better when you let it build. you shouldn't do anything to a woman until she's begging you for it," you breath, heart already beating fast.

his huge hands glided up and down your legs. dunk kissed your inner thighs and groaned at the softness. his trousers were already uncomfortably tight. he wanted them off, but didn't want to do anything without you telling him to, and he wasn't about to interrupt your enjoyment to ask for his own relief.

you whined as he moved closer to your cunt. he ran his tongue along the crease of your thigh. your hips bucked up against his face.

"sorry" you breathed. your hands ran apologetically along his shoulders and the back of his neck.

"go on. i can take far worse." he groaned.

dunk pressed small kisses along the outside of your slit, but never where you most needed him.

"y-you can kiss it now..." you panted.

"but m'lady, i shouldn't do anything to a woman until she's begging for it" he grinned up at you.

you whined and threw your head back against the pillow in frustration. "please, dunk. please please please, let me have your mouth." you took a breath. "that enough for you?"

"it'll do, m'lady"

he easily lifted one of your legs up and over his shoulder, leaving you spread open for him and allowing him to pull your cunt directly on to his face. dunk groaned at the overwhelming sensations: your warmth, your softness, your wetness. fuck, all this was for him? he couldn't believe his luck.

you gasped at the sensation. he took to the task open-mouthed, messy, and eager. there wasn't much technique, just enthusiasm and pure, raw, genuine hunger. one of your hands gripped his shoulder and the other grabbed at his hair.

dunk must have been relying on instinct, because the gods knew he couldn't think right now. not with your soft thighs around his ears and your heat on his tongue. he wanted to stay right there forever. he groaned into you as he realized you were pushing on his head to show him exactly where you wanted him. he followed where you led. dunk didn't know much about sex, but he knew what a clit was (a man might learn things by being respectful to brothel ladies). you guided him to yours and he began licking and sucking at different speeds and intensities, figuring out what you liked. each gasp and moan from you was worth more than any joust prize. dunk began to rock his hips against the mattress, slow, careful, not wanting to disturb you.

you gripped the back of his head for dear life. you were certain you must be hurting him. you tried to move your hands off of him, to fist the sheets instead, but without slowing his mouth's actions dunk grabbed your hand and pointedly put it back in his hair.

dunk didn't want you gripping the sheets. he wanted you holding on to him for dear life. he wanted to prove he was strong enough, good enough, to give you everything. he wanted to be good for you. make you feel better than you ever dreamed. he couldn't help rocking against the bed harder.

you could feel him rutting against the bed so hard the mattress shook. "fuck, dunk!" you moaned. he whined into your cunt. his fingers dug into your hips, hard, bruising. the rocking mattress stopped and his head pushed even closer against you, if that was possible.

fuck, fuck, fuck, you couldn't take much more.

"dunk, dunk, please, dunk, i'm going to—DUNK!" you cried out his name as you came, hard, rocking against his face and clinging on to him.

dunk had decided it was best to keep doing the exact same thing until you told him otherwise. he kept up the exact same speed and suction and held you in place by your thighs. he kept going even as he felt you shaking and his jaw starting to clench, only stopping when your hand left his hair to cup his chin and pull him off of you.

you dragged him up your body so you could kiss him. you were still trembling under his steady form. you could feel dunk smiling as you kissed him.

"fuck, dunk, that was so good. so good for me."

"just did what you told me to" he seemingly brushed aside, but you could see the way his eyes lit up.

you ran your hand down his chest to his belt.

"want to return the favour" you panted.

suddenly, dunk was red-faced again.

"i, uh, already—"

"did you cum?" you asked.

his face went even redder.

"'m sorry. didn't mean to. just all felt so good, then you were moaning my name, 'm sorry—"

you kissed him again.

"don't be. you made me feel amazing and on the first try. i'm glad you liked it too."

"does that mean i get to do it again?" he asked.

you laughed and pulled him closer.

By morning, the camp had the exhausted, bruised look of a place that had survived itself. The rain had left everything rinsed and slick, but it hadn’t cleaned anything that mattered. Ashford Meadow still smelled like wet leather and trampled grass and smoke that clung to canvas the way secrets clung to people. You woke in the royal encampment to servants moving quietly, to muffled voices beyond your pavilion, to the faint metallic ring of armor being buckled on somewhere nearby. The world had decided it was time to be respectable again, and that was almost worse than the chaos, because respectability required pretending nothing had happened the night before. You lay there for a moment staring at the tent roof while your mind replayed the Baratheon pavilion in flashes. Torchlight, laughter, the antlers wobbling on Dunk’s head like a curse, Lyonel’s eyes tracking you through the storm of bodies as if he’d learned your shape by instinct. You should’ve felt guilt. You should’ve felt caution. Instead you felt… awake. Like you’d been underwater too long and finally surfaced, lungs burning, heart hammering, mind painfully clear.

Your father’s presence was the first thing you felt when you stepped out. Not because he was looming like some tyrant, but because Baelor Breakspear made space around him without trying. Men stood straighter when he passed. Voices dropped. Even arguments seemed to find softer words. He was in plain riding leathers now, not the ceremonial armor, and he still looked like the kind of man people built songs around, the kind of prince who could be loved and feared in the same breath. Valarr was nearby, blade at his hip, face bright with that particular young-prince delight at being somewhere crowded and dangerous and public. He saw you and immediately looked like he was about to start teasing, because he had inherited the family talent for poking at wounds until they laughed.

Baelor’s gaze settled on you, calm and heavy. “You disappeared.”

You didn’t flinch. That was the trick, always. You never flinched first. “I rode ahead.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly, which was as close as Baelor came to sarcasm before he decided he didn’t like the taste. His eyes flicked over you, taking in your plain cloak and the mud-stained hem and the fact you looked entirely too comfortable for someone who’d been unescorted in a tourney camp full of drunk men. “You could have been recognized.”

“I wasn’t,” you said.

Valarr laughed under his breath. “That’s not the point.” Then leaned in, grinning. “Is it true you caused a riot in a Baratheon tent?”

You shot him a look. “It wasn’t a riot.”

“It was a spectacle,” Valarr corrected himself, clearly pleased by the word.

Baelor closed his eyes for a brief moment, the way a man did when he could physically feel a headache forming. “Tell me,” he said, voice still perfectly even, “that you did not attach yourself to anything involving Lyonel Baratheon.”

You lifted your shoulders in the smallest shrug. “I didn’t attach myself to him. He chased.”

Valarr made a choking sound like he’d swallowed laughter wrong. His grin widened to the point of cruelty. “Oh, Father.”

Baelor opened his eyes again and fixed you with that very specific Breakspear stare. Not angry. Not indulgent. Just… aware. “You’re not a child.”

“No,” you agreed, which was the worst thing you could say, because it meant you weren’t making excuses.

Baelor looked like he wanted to ask ten questions and couldn’t decide which one would do the least damage. “Where did you go?”

“Into a tent,” you said simply.

Valarr laughed outright. “That’s definitely not going to help. Which tent?”

You ignored him because you weren’t here to entertain your brother with your own choices. You met Baelor’s gaze straight on. “I went to see the camp. I wanted to be in it, not above it.”

Baelor’s mouth tightened, just slightly. “And you found… what?”

You considered. The answer wasn’t simple enough for a clean sentence. “People,” you said finally. “Real ones. Not court ones.”

Baelor exhaled through his nose like he was trying to keep his patience intact. “The tourney is about to begin. Stay close today.”

You didn’t promise, because promising would be lying.

That was when Duncan the Tall appeared at the edge of the royal space like a man stepping into a lion’s den while trying to pretend it was a garden. He was too big to move unnoticed, but he moved like he wished he were smaller, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze flicking around as if he expected someone to shout at him for breathing wrong. Beside him was his shaved-headed squire, small and watchful, the boy’s eyes scanning everything with a calm that didn’t match his age. You noticed the boy first, because there was something unsettlingly familiar in the way he looked at the world, like he’d seen it from better angles before. Then you looked at Dunk, and the memory of the antlers returned so vividly you almost smiled.

Baelor saw them too. Baelor saw everything.

Dunk swallowed hard as he came closer. He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed awkwardly, like a man who knew the gesture mattered but had never had to use it so carefully. “Your Grace.”

You watched your father’s face remain politely neutral. “Ser?”

“Ser Duncan,” Dunk said quickly. “Duncan the Tall.”

The name drew a few glances from nearby knights. A hedge knight, here, speaking to Baelor Breakspear. That alone was a small event.

“And what brings you to my pavilion, Ser Duncan?” Baelor asked, voice mild in a way that warned people not to assume it meant softness.

Dunk’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest second, then back to Baelor, and you saw him choose the safer path. “I… I have a message.”

Valarr looked delighted already, like he could smell trouble. He leaned on his heel, grinning. Baelor’s gaze didn’t shift. “From whom?”

Dunk’s throat worked. “From Lord Lyonel Baratheon.”

Baelor didn’t change expression. If anything, he became more still, as if he’d turned to stone to avoid reacting. “A message,” he repeated, carefully.

Dunk nodded, then made the mistake of looking at you again, as if begging for help from the very person who was about to make his life worse.

Baelor followed the glance. He finally looked at you, and there it was: that growing, slow headache he’d been trying to prevent. “For my daughter.”

Dunk’s face went a shade paler. “Yes, Your Grace. But, ah, Lord Lyonel told me to deliver it to her directly.”

Valarr made a sound like he’d been punched by laughter. His grin was basically feral now.

Baelor’s eyes closed again. Just for a moment. When he opened them, he looked at Dunk with a calm that could cut steel. “And you chose to obey.”

Dunk’s jaw tightened. “He… threatened to make me wear antlers in the lists.”

That got a snort out of nearby Kingsguard. Valarr coughed, trying to hide his laughter behind his hand and failing.

Baelor stared at Dunk as if he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or impressed by Lyonel’s creativity. “You are in an unfortunate position, Ser Duncan.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Dunk said sincerely, like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to acknowledge that.

You stepped forward before this became a full execution. “Father.”

Baelor’s gaze flicked to you. “No.”

The word was quiet, not shouted, but it landed heavy. It wasn’t even refusal so much as warning.

You didn’t back down. “If Lyonel Baratheon sent a hedge knight as messenger, that says he didn’t want it to become a formal insult.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That says he wanted to get around me.”

“Yes,” you agreed, because you weren’t going to pretend otherwise. “And he chose a man who looks like he’d rather fight a bear than speak to a prince, which is… almost courteous.”

Dunk looked offended and relieved at the same time, like he didn’t know whether he’d been praised or mocked.

Baelor’s mouth tightened. “Princess.”

The title in his voice was never affectionate. It was a reminder: remember who you are.

You met it anyway. “Let him speak. If it’s foolish, we’ll laugh about it and it dies. If it’s worse, you can stop it.”

Baelor stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he looked at Dunk. “Speak. Here.”

Dunk looked like he might faint. His eyes darted around at the watching guards, the passing courtiers, your brother’s gleeful face. This was not what he’d wanted. You could practically feel his regret radiating off him.

“Your Grace,” Dunk began, then stopped, because the words weren’t meant for your father’s ears. He swallowed hard, then looked at you again, and something in his expression begged you to make it easier.

You did. You stepped closer, just enough to take the message into your space. “Tell me.”

Dunk exhaled, relieved to have permission. “Lord Lyonel says… he’s holding a place for you today. Wherever you want. The lists. The feast. He said you can walk in like you own it.”

Valarr made a low appreciative sound and his eyebrows lifted, impressed despite himself.

Baelor’s expression didn’t change, but you saw his fingers flex once at his side, the smallest sign of restraint.

Dunk continued, words tumbling now that he’d started. “He also said… if you wear your hood again, he’ll steal it and keep it.” Dunk grimaced like he knew how that sounded. “And… he said, if you want to keep winning, you’ll have to give him a fair chance to lose properly.”

Silence.

Not awkward silence. A stunned, suspended kind of silence where everyone in earshot understood they’d just witnessed a Baratheon courting attempt delivered through a terrified hedge knight, in front of the most respected prince in the realm.

Then Valarr laughed, because Valarr had never met a fire he didn’t want to poke. “That’s actually… brazen.”

Baelor looked like his headache had sprouted horns.

You didn’t laugh. You could have. It would’ve been easy. Lyonel had given you something theatrical enough to turn into a joke. But the message wasn’t crude. It wasn’t insulting. It wasn’t even safe. It was an invitation with teeth, offered in a way that implied he’d noticed exactly how you moved through the world, exactly how you hated being treated like a prize.

You felt your pulse quicken, unhelpfully.

You looked at Dunk. “And what does Lord Lyonel want in exchange for this ‘place?’”

Dunk blinked. “I… I don’t think he thought in exchanges, Princess.”

The shaved-headed boy shifted slightly behind Dunk, eyes bright with interest, and you caught his gaze for half a heartbeat. There was something in it that made your stomach twist, a strange sense of recognition. The boy looked away first, too quickly, like he knew he’d been noticed.

You turned back to Dunk. “He wants me to show up.”

Dunk nodded carefully. “Yes.”

You inhaled slowly, and then you made the decision that would ruin Baelor’s day and improve your own.

“Tell him I accept,” you said.

Baelor’s head turned toward you so fast it almost seemed a blur. “No.”

You didn’t even blink. “I already said it.”

“Y/N,” Baelor said, voice controlled, dangerous with restraint. “You will not be paraded in a Baratheon tent like—”

“It’s not a tent,” you cut in, calm. “It’s daylight. It’s public. It’s the lists. If he wants to make a fool of himself, let him do it where the realm can watch.”

Valarr muttered, almost reverently, “She’s going to kill him and enjoy it.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed, and you could see the calculation in him now. Baelor Breakspear didn’t react like a possessive father. He reacted like a statesman. He weighed risks, outcomes, ripples.

“Maekar,” Baelor said without looking away from you, voice clipped.

Your uncle Maekar had been approaching, drawn by the commotion like a man drawn to the sound of someone else’s problems. He paused just outside the tight circle, arms crossed, expression flat in that famously unimpressed way of his. He looked from Dunk to you to Baelor, and you could practically see him decide he was grateful for one thing: none of this was his sons’ fault for once.

Maekar’s mouth twitched. “Yes?”

Baelor’s jaw tightened. “Your… squire.”

Maekar looked at the shaved-headed boy behind Dunk with a flicker of something unreadable. The boy’s face went very still, very careful.

Maekar’s eyes slid back to Baelor, and the faintest hint of amusement touched his expression. “Not mine.”

Which was technically true in the sense that Maekar liked to pretend half his life wasn’t happening.

Valarr coughed, hiding laughter.

Maekar’s gaze returned to you. “At least it isn’t Aerion doing it this time.”

Baelor’s eyes closed again. Headache, confirmed.

You turned back to Dunk. “Tell Lord Lyonel I will come. Tell him to keep his place warm.”

Dunk looked relieved and horrified, like he’d just been given permission and a death sentence at the same time. “Yes, Princess.”

“And,” you added, because you couldn’t help yourself, “tell him if he steals my hood, I’ll steal something of his and make him chase it.”

Dunk blinked. “Something of his?”

You smiled faintly. “Let him worry.”

The shaved-headed boy made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh. Dunk shot him a look like don’t, but it was too late. The boy’s eyes were gleaming again.

Baelor’s voice cut through, low and firm. “You will sit with us.”

You turned to him, meeting his gaze. “I will sit with you,” you agreed, because you weren’t stupid. “Until I stand.”

Baelor looked like he might actually pray for patience.

Maekar leaned slightly toward Baelor, voice dry. “Better you than me.”

Baelor didn’t even dignify that with a response.

By midmorning, the tourney grounds had become a living thing again. The lists were set, banners lifted and drying in the weak sun, horses prancing and snorting as knights in bright armor paraded like jeweled threats. The stands swelled with noble spectators, their pavilions arranged in a hierarchy that screamed power in silk and wood and gold cloth. You took your place beside your father because you’d agreed to it, because Baelor’s presence was both a leash and a shield. Valarr flanked you like he was guarding a treasure, but his eyes kept darting toward the Baratheon section with the eager anticipation of a man waiting for a fight.

You wore your plain cloak again.

Not because you needed to hide now. Everyone with sense knew who you were the moment you sat beside Baelor Breakspear. But you liked the cloak. You liked the hood. You liked the idea that even when they knew your name, they still didn’t get all of you.

When Lyonel Baratheon arrived, he did it like everything was a performance. He didn’t slink into his seat. He took it like he’d conquered it, laughing with men around him, gesturing broadly, alive with that restless storm energy. And the moment his gaze found you across the space, something in him tightened into focus. His grin shifted, slower now, more deliberate. Like he’d woken up expecting you to be a dream and instead found you sitting in daylight, real and dangerous.

You lifted your cup slightly, a small salute.

Lyonel’s eyes brightened, and he rose.

The movement drew attention the way lightning drew eyes. Men turned. Murmurs lifted. A Baratheon standing during the lists meant one of two things: either he was about to make a boast or start a problem.

He did both.

“My prince!” Lyonel called, voice carrying across the stands, perfectly clear. “Prince Baelor!”

Baelor didn’t move at first. He kept his posture composed, head turning only enough to acknowledge the address. “Lord Lyonel.”

The formal exchange was a thin layer of ice over deep water.

Lyonel grinned wider, unbothered. “Your daughter honors us with her presence.”

Baelor’s expression remained calm, but you felt the tension in him like a live wire. “She honors the tourney.”

Lyonel’s gaze flicked to you again. “And my place is warm, as promised.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the stands. A ripple of whispering too. People loved a public courting. They loved the idea of danger wrapped in flirtation.

Baelor’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

You stood.

The movement was small but it carried. It shifted the air. It turned whispers into attention.

Valarr muttered, delighted, “Oh, here we go.” Then he leaned forward like he didn’t want to miss a single heartbeat.

Maekar, seated a few rows off, watched with a grim satisfaction that suggested he was genuinely grateful this chaos wasn’t being manufactured by Aerion for once.

You stepped forward to the edge of your pavilion, cloak hood still up, and looked across at Lyonel Baratheon like he was a question you intended to answer.

“My lord,” you called, voice clear, calm. “You made an offer. I accepted.”

Lyonel’s grin went wide and triumphant.

You continued, because the realm could have its spectacle, but it would be on your terms. “You said you wanted a fair chance to lose properly. Then lose properly.”

A beat of silence.

Then Lyonel laughed, loud and pleased, and the stands erupted into sound again, nobles leaning toward one another, hungry for more.

“How would you have me lose, Princess?” Lyonel called back, voice dripping amusement.

You pulled your hood back just enough to let him see your face fully, not hidden now, not a rumor in a tent, but Baelor Breakspear’s daughter standing in daylight like she belonged there.

“You’re going to enter the melee,” you said.

The crowd stirred at that. Lyonel’s eyebrows lifted, delighted.

“And,” you added, letting your gaze sweep his men, his proud posture, his cocky smile, “you’re going to fight without boasting first.”

That landed like a slap.

Lyonel’s grin faltered for half a breath, then returned even brighter because you’d just challenged his favorite habit and he loved you for it.

Baelor’s voice cut in, low, warning. “Y/N.”

You didn’t look at him. You kept your attention on Lyonel, because this wasn’t about your father’s control now. This was about choice, and you’d already chosen.

Lyonel put a hand to his chest theatrically. “Cruel.”

You smiled faintly. “Honest.”

Lyonel’s eyes glittered. “Fine. No boast. But when I win, I claim my prize.”

The stands erupted in laughter again.

Baelor’s headache visibly escalated into a full-blown political migraine.

You tilted your head. “If you win, you can ask for something.”

Lyonel’s grin sharpened into something hungry. “And if I lose?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Then you admit I was right to run.”

Lyonel laughed again, and the sound of it warmed the air between you like a fire. “Done.”

Baelor leaned toward you, voice quiet and lethal. “You are not bargaining with a Baratheon like he’s a sellsword.”

You leaned back slightly, just enough to keep your voice equally quiet. “He’s bargaining with me.”

Baelor stared at you, and you felt, briefly, the full weight of his fear. Not fear of Lyonel hurting you. Fear of the realm deciding your life for you. Fear of how quickly joy could become a cage.

Then he exhaled, slow. “At least do it where I can see you.”

You gave him the smallest nod, not quite obedience, but not cruelty either.

The melee became the obvious center of the day after that. Knights entered with renewed appetite, because now there was a Baratheon doing it for a princess’s attention, and men loved nothing more than being near a story. Lyonel stripped off his cloak, took up his weapon, and stepped into the ring with the kind of eager confidence that made reasonable men hate him on sight. You watched him move, watched how he carried himself even in armor, how he looked like he was built for impact. You watched him fight without the boast he wanted, and the restraint itself became its own kind of spectacle, because men like Lyonel rarely restrained anything.

He fought like a storm breaking on stone. He didn’t dance around danger. He ran straight at it and made it regret existing. He took hits and laughed like pain was a compliment. He drove men back with sheer force and fury, and the crowd roared his name until your ears rang. And the whole time, every time there was a break in the clash, his gaze flicked toward you like he needed to confirm you were still watching, still there, still real.

You didn’t cheer.

You didn’t have to. You stood, hands on the pavilion rail, calm as a blade, and let your attention be the thing that hooked him.

When the melee ended, Lyonel was still standing.

Of course he was.

He ripped his helm off, hair damp with sweat, face flushed with exertion and triumph. He didn’t raise his arms to the crowd. He didn’t turn to his men. He looked straight at you.

And then he started walking.

Not back to his pavilion. Toward yours.

The camp shifted around the movement. Men parted instinctively. Whispering rose like birds. Someone laughed nervously. Someone muttered about whether Baelor would kill him on the spot. The guards at your pavilion tensed, waiting for your father’s signal.

Baelor didn’t stand. He stayed seated, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Lyonel with the calm of a man who had survived battles and courts and knew which threats were real.

Maekar, somewhere behind, looked almost cheerful. Not joyful, but entertained in that grim way of his. Not my sons. Not my circus.

Lyonel stopped just short of the guard line, breathing hard, eyes bright, still burning with the aftermath of the fight. He looked up at Baelor first, because he wasn’t completely suicidal.

“My prince,” Lyonel said, voice roughened by exertion. “I fought. Without boasting.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed. “I saw.”

Lyonel’s gaze slid to you then, and something raw and honest flashed in it. “And I won.”

You stepped forward before Baelor could block it. You didn’t descend to the ground like some obedient daughter. You stayed elevated, meeting Lyonel’s gaze from above, because you weren’t offering him humility. You were offering him attention.

“You did,” you said.

Lyonel’s mouth twitched. “So I get to ask.”

Baelor’s voice was quiet and dangerous. “Mind your ask.”

Lyonel didn’t look away from you. “I want her hood.”

Baelor blinked, thrown off by how small it was.

Valarr made a strangled noise, half laughter, half outrage and whispered, delighted, “That’s insane.”

You stared at Lyonel for a moment, feeling the absurdity of it, the childishness, the meaning hidden inside it. He didn’t want a kiss in front of the realm. He didn’t want to claim you like property. He wanted the symbol of your secrecy, your wildness, your refusal to be fully seen.

You smiled slowly. “No.”

Lyonel’s grin flickered, but he didn’t look offended. He looked intrigued. “No?”

You lifted a hand to the edge of your hood, fingers resting there. “You said you’d steal it.”

Lyonel laughed, breathless. “And I will.”

You leaned forward slightly. “Then steal it.”

Baelor’s eyes closed again, and when he opened them, the headache was fully formed. He looked like a man watching a battle he couldn’t stop because stopping it would only make it worse.

Lyonel took a step closer, just inside the boundary where guards could’ve stopped him if Baelor had signaled. He didn’t reach up yet. He waited, eyes on you, letting you decide whether this was war or play.

Your pulse beat hard against your throat.

You stepped down from the pavilion stairs, cloak brushing the steps, boots hitting damp earth. The crowd’s murmur followed you like a tide. You walked straight toward him, not fast, not hesitant, and stopped so close you could smell sweat and leather and the faint metallic tang of blood where he’d been grazed.

Lyonel’s eyes were bright, hungry, amused and something else underneath, something that looked too much like awe for a man like him.

“Princess,” he murmured, and the word sounded different now. Less title. More… threat.

You lifted your chin. “Lord Baratheon.”

His hand rose slowly, not grabbing, not forcing, just hovering at the edge of your hood like he was asking permission with restraint instead of words.

You should have stopped him.

You didn’t.

His fingers caught the fabric and peeled it back, the motion oddly gentle for a man who broke other men for sport. The hood slipped off your head, and cool air kissed your hairline. Lyonel held the hood for a second like it mattered more than it should, like he’d just stolen something intimate and wasn’t sure what to do with the weight of it.

Then he looked at you fully uncovered, and the amusement in his face faltered.

Because up close, in daylight, you weren’t just trouble in a tent. You were Baelor Breakspear’s daughter. You were power wrapped in a woman’s body, and the realm loved to pretend those two things couldn’t coexist.

Lyonel’s voice dropped, rough. “You really came.”

You watched his throat move as he swallowed, and you felt the moment pull tight around you, the crowd fading into a blur, the noise turning into distance. Something about the melee’s adrenaline still clung to him. Something about your own choice still burned in you.

“I accepted,” you reminded him quietly.

His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if he was trying to decide whether he was allowed to want what he wanted.

Behind you, Baelor shifted, and you felt it like a pressure at your back. The prince’s restraint was a wall. The realm’s eyes were a net.

Lyonel’s hand tightened on your hood. “If I keep this,” he murmured, “you’ll steal something of mine.”

You smiled faintly. “Yes.”

“What?”

You leaned in just enough to make him hold still, and you said, soft enough that only he could hear it, “Your composure.”

His grin flashed, wicked and helpless. “Already gone.”

And then the chaos you’d created finally snapped into its inevitable shape, because a Baratheon didn’t win quietly and a Targaryen princess didn’t step into daylight without consequences.

Lyonel moved before the world could reclaim you.

He reached out and caught your waist, not rough, not possessive, just urgent, like he needed to anchor himself to something real. You felt the heat of him through cloth and leather, felt the leftover violence in his muscles, felt the way he held you like you might vanish if he didn’t.

You should’ve pulled away.

Instead, you leaned into him.

The kiss wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t staged for court. It was a collision born of laughter and challenge and adrenaline and the stupid, irresistible honesty of two people who enjoyed setting fires. Lyonel kissed you like he’d been running since last night and finally caught what he’d been chasing, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting to be caught by someone worth the risk.

The stands exploded.

Not literally, unfortunately, but the sound hit like a wave. Gasps, laughter, shocked shouts, delighted screaming from men who lived for scandal, outraged muttering from people who lived for control. You heard someone yell, “Seven hells!” and someone else laugh so hard they choked. You heard Valarr’s voice somewhere, bright with disbelief, “She really did it!” And he sounded like he was dying of laughter.

Baelor’s hand came up to his forehead as if he might physically hold his skull together through sheer force of will.

Maekar, gods bless his cold soul, looked satisfied in a quiet, vindictive way, as if he’d just watched someone else take a blow that had been meant for him for years. You could almost hear him thinking it: Thank the gods it isn’t Aerion making a spectacle. Thank the gods it isn’t Daeron drunk in a ditch. Thank the gods it isn’t my sons for once.

Lyonel broke the kiss first, breathing hard, eyes wild with triumph and something dangerously sincere. He pressed his forehead briefly to yours like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed that fraction of contact to steady.

“You,” he murmured, voice rough with laughter and awe, “are going to get me killed.”

You breathed out a soft laugh, still too close to him, still held at the waist, still very aware of how the entire realm was watching you be exactly who you were. “You chose to chase.”

Lyonel’s grin returned, feral. “And I’ll chase again.”

Behind you, Baelor finally stood.

The simple act of it shifted the air. Guards straightened. Voices dipped. The crowd’s laughter thinned at the edges, because now the father was upright, and fathers were always the real danger in stories like this.

Baelor looked at Lyonel, and for a moment the world narrowed into two men measuring one another. Baelor’s gaze was calm enough to be terrifying. Lyonel’s posture didn’t fold, but it did sharpen, the way a man’s body did when he realized the game had become a battlefield.

“You have made my day,” Baelor said, voice even, “more complicated than it needed to be.”

Lyonel’s grin flickered, but he didn’t release you. He didn’t hide behind jokes. He held your hood in one hand like a stolen trophy and kept the other at your waist as if he’d decided he wasn’t giving up ground.

“My prince,” Lyonel said, voice respectful in the way a storm respected a mountain, “I’m willing to make it more complicated properly.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed. “Properly.”

Lyonel nodded once, the smallest concession. “Properly.”

You felt Baelor’s gaze shift briefly to you, and in it was not just irritation, not just headache, but that deeper thing: the recognition that you had chosen this moment, chosen this chaos, chosen to step into the open and make the realm watch you do it.

Valarr’s voice drifted in, too cheerful. “Father, at least she didn’t set anything on fire. Yet.”

Baelor didn’t look away from you. “Y/N.”

You lifted your chin slightly. “Father.”

Baelor’s mouth tightened, and then, against all expectation, he exhaled slowly like a man deciding not to swing a sword when he could. “We will speak later.”

That wasn’t permission.

But it also wasn’t a command to end it.

Maekar’s voice cut in from behind, low and amused. “I’ll take ‘later’ over ‘now.’”

Baelor shot Maekar a look that could’ve curdled milk.

Maekar shrugged, unbothered. “What? I’m just happy it isn’t one of mine for once.”

Lyonel’s hand squeezed your waist slightly, grounding, and his mouth brushed close to your ear as if he didn’t care who watched him do it. “Tell me,” he murmured, voice private inside public chaos, “do you always kiss like you’re winning a war.”

You smiled, breath still unsteady, heart still hammering. “Only when I am.”

His laugh was quiet, thick with satisfaction. “Good.”

You left them in the rain on purpose.

Not in some dramatic, shouted way, not with banners snapping and your father’s men scrambling, just with a quiet decision made at dawn while the camp still smelled like wet wool and horse breath and the ashes of last night’s fire. Prince Baelor Breakspear moved through the world like a mountain moves: slow when he chose, unstoppable when he didn’t. Valarr was lightning compared to him, young and restless and loud in the way princes could afford to be. You loved them, in the way you loved a storm you’d grown up under, but you also knew what it meant to travel with them. It meant being seen. It meant being watched and weighed and remembered. It meant every step you took becoming a story someone else would tell with their own smug little additions.

So you rode ahead.

Your cloak was plain on purpose too, dark and heavy, the hood pulled low, the hem already spattered with mud. The horse beneath you was good stock but not one of the horses people would point at and whisper royal. You had no silver-gold braid spilling down your back, no obvious Valyrian ghost-lovely beauty that made men stare before they even decided if they hated you. You looked like your father, and that meant you could pass if you wanted to. Dark hair, sun-warmed skin, that hard, steady set to your face that made people assume you were someone’s capable daughter, not the sort of person songs got written about. You had a small escort at a distance, men who knew better than to argue with you when you spoke in the voice you inherited from Baelor, the voice that didn’t need to be loud to be obeyed.

Ashford Meadow came into view like a bruise spreading across the green. Tents and pavilions sat on the damp earth in swelling clusters, canvas bellies slick with rain, banners sagging under water weight. Smoke crawled low, reluctant, from cookfires that kept trying to die. The air tasted of wet grass, horse sweat, and frying fat, and even from the ridge you could hear it. The half-made roar of a tourney assembling itself. Hammers on stakes. Men shouting over one another. The shriek of a whetstone. Laughter that sounded too early in the day to be honest. It was chaos with purpose, and the thing about purpose-built chaos was that people stopped looking closely at what moved inside it.

You rode in like you belonged, because you did, and because nobody knew it yet.

Near the outer ring of tents, where the merchants set up under patched awnings and the smallfolk hovered like hopeful birds, you dismounted and handed your reins off without ceremony. The man who took them looked at your boots first, then your hands, then the way you stood, and decided you were trouble in the expensive sense. He didn’t ask your name anyway. People who lived by other people’s money learned fast when not to poke the knife and risk breaking the handle.

You walked through puddles and trampled straw, letting the noise wrap around you until it felt like a shield. Everywhere you looked, there were little wars being fought without blood: a washerwoman arguing with a knight’s squire over coin; a cook cursing a boy who dropped a sack of onions into mud; a hedge singer trying to convince a bored group of men that his ballad was worth a copper. You watched it all with the calm of someone raised in courts where the knives were polished and the smiles were more cutting than the steel.

A wooden dragon bobbed above a crowd, absurd and magnificent, its painted jaws open in a silent roar as a puppeteer worked it with practiced hands. The thing was carved with love, not money, all angles and crude menace, and children shrieked and ducked as if it might actually bite. You paused just long enough to feel something strange and prickly settle in your chest, because there was a kind of courage in building a dragon out of wood and string and making people believe in it for a moment. The puppeteer caught your eye, not with flattery but with that quick, measuring look artists had, like he was trying to decide what kind of story you were.

“Careful,” he said, voice rough as rope. “Dragons draw attention.”

You let your mouth tilt, almost a smile. “So do tourneys.”

He snorted. “Tourneys draw fools. Dragons draw trouble.”

You looked at the puppet’s teeth, the painted scales, the ridiculous pride in its posture. “Sometimes that’s the same thing.”

His laugh was loud and surprised, and you left him there with his dragon and his small kingdom of delighted children, moving deeper into the tent-city where the air got thicker with meat smoke and wet leather.

That was where you saw him.

Not because you were looking for him. Not because you cared about hedge knights and their noble dreams. You saw him because he was too damn big to miss, like someone had taken a man and stretched him upward without bothering to widen the world around him. He stood outside a modest little camp in the lee of some trees, his cloak patched, his boots muddy, his shoulders broad enough to make the men beside him look like boys. He was talking to his horses as if they were people who could answer him, and there was something in that that was both ridiculous and… honest.

A bald boy sat near the fire, small and watchful, peeling something with a knife like he’d been born with a blade in his hand. The boy looked up as you passed, eyes quick, and for half a heartbeat you felt that horrible little prickle again, the feeling of being noticed in the exact way you didn’t want. Not admiration, not lust, not the usual stupid cataloguing men did. This was different. This was a child looking at you like he knows you.

You kept walking as if you hadn’t felt it.

Up ahead, the great pavilions rose like ship sails, bright even under the low sky, each one a declaration. That one’s a Reachman. That one’s a Stormlander. That one’s a man with money who wanted everyone to know it. You drifted toward the loudest, the one where the laughter came in rolling waves, where the torches burned even in daylight because whoever owned the tent wanted warmth and light on demand.

Baratheon.

The antlered stag snapped on black and gold, proud as sin, and the men spilling in and out of the entrance looked like they’d been built to break other men’s bones for sport. A servant tried to stop you on instinct, saw your posture, reconsidered his entire life, and stepped aside without a word. That was the advantage of being raised by Baelor Breakspear: you learned early how to occupy space like you were entitled to it, because you were, and because entitlement was just confidence with better clothes.

Inside, the tent was a warm mouth. Smoke, spice, sweat, and wine hit you at once. The ground was layered with rushes and trampled straw, already damp from spilled drink. Trellised lanterns threw a honey glow over faces flushed with celebration, and someone was shouting a story at the top of his lungs while nobody listened properly because they were too busy laughing over him. There were women too, not courtly arranged and delicate, but present in the messy, human way that happened when men weren’t pretending they were gods. A musician scraped at a fiddle like it owed him coin.

At the center of it, lounging like he owned the air, sat Lyonel Baratheon.

He was younger than the old men liked to admit, all raw energy and restless amusement, built like a fighter and dressed like someone who enjoyed reminding the world he could afford velvet even when he didn’t need it. His hair was dark, his grin large, and on the table near him sat a ridiculous helm crowned with sprawling antlers, as if someone had decided to mount a forest on a man’s head for the sake of a joke.

You watched him watch the tent.

He wasn’t the kind of lord who stared at women like they were meat. He stared at everything like it was a possible weapon, possible entertainment, possible problem. His eyes flicked across faces, collecting reactions, weighing moods, and when he laughed it wasn’t polite. It was delighted, like he’d found a crack in the world and meant to pry it open.

You slid into the chaos like a knife into water.

A cup appeared in your hand because you took it. A man offered you a seat because he assumed you belonged somewhere near someone important, and you let him keep that assumption. Someone shoved a plate of bread and dripping meat toward you, and you took it too, because you hadn’t ridden through rain all morning to pretend you weren’t hungry. A group of minor lords were arguing loudly about who would unhorse whom in the lists, all swagger and certainty, and you listened just long enough to learn what kind of stupid they were.

“One pass,” one of them insisted, slapping the table hard enough to rattle cups. “One clean pass, and Fossoway will put Dondarrion in the mud. You’ll see.”

“Fossoway’s too eager,” you said, mild as cream.

They all turned.

You let them look you over and find nothing obvious to latch onto. No silver hair. No purple eyes. No jeweled collar screaming princess. Just a woman with mud on her hem and a voice that didn’t wobble.

The man closest to you narrowed his eyes. “And who are you to say?”

You tore bread with your hands, slow. “Someone who’s watched eager men overreach and die for it.”

A beat of silence, and then someone barked a laugh. Not at you. With you.

The argument shifted. You didn’t lecture. You didn’t play the clever court game where you “win” by humiliating someone. You just nudged. You redirected. You poured oil on the right fires and watched the whole table get louder and more entertaining.

Across the tent, Lyonel Baratheon’s gaze found you.

It wasn’t instant. He didn’t snap to you like a starving man to food. He noticed you the way a hawk notices movement: subtle, predatory, interested. His grin shifted as if he’d found a new toy.

The night leaned forward.

A man near Lyonel stood and raised a cup. “To Baratheon! To storms and strong backs!”

“To storms,” you echoed, lifting your drink without thinking, and the timing was perfect enough that heads turned again, laughter rising.

Lyonel’s eyes gleamed.

He stood suddenly, chair scraping. The room’s attention tilted toward him because men like him didn’t need to ask for it. He snatched up the antlered helm and held it aloft.

“New rule,” Lyonel announced. “Anyone who speaks a coward’s word tonight wears the stag.”

Cheering. Groans. Someone shouted, “What’s a coward’s word?”

Lyonel’s grin cut wider. “Anything I decide it is.”

More laughter. Someone threw a nut at him. He caught it in midair and tossed it into his mouth like he was born performing for a crowd.

Then his gaze speared straight through the tent again and landed on you like a hand.

“And you,” he called, voice carrying with easy arrogance. “Hooded trouble. Say something cowardly.”

You didn’t flinch. You took a slow sip of your drink, let the heat slide down your throat, and then said, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear, “I would never insult a man by calling him brave when he’s only loud.”

The tent went quiet for half a breath, the kind of quiet where people decide whether they’re about to witness a murder or a legend.

Then Lyonel laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. A full-bodied, delighted laugh that made the men around him grin too, because their lord was amused and amusement meant safety.

“Not cowardly,” Lyonel declared. “But you’ve earned the stag anyway.”

Someone hooted. Someone else shouted, “Put it on her!”

You lifted your hands in mock surrender. “If you want me wearing your symbol, my lord, you’ll have to catch me.”

And then you moved.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t a dance. It was a slip between bodies, a twist past a bench, a laugh pulled from your own throat because for once you weren’t performing princesshood, you were just running. People shouted and reached for you, half helping Lyonel, half helping you because the chase was the best thing that had happened all day. A man tried to grab your cloak and got a fistful of wet fabric while you ducked away. Someone spilled ale. Someone cursed. A musician started playing faster like he sensed the mood shift and wanted to ride it.

Behind you, Lyonel Baratheon vaulted a bench with disgusting athletic ease for someone wearing that much confidence.

“Come back,” he called, laughing again. “Coward!”

You barked, “That word doesn’t work when I’m winning,” and darted toward the edge of the pavilion where the shadows clung.

You should have stopped there. You should have been smart. You should have remembered you were alone ahead of your father’s camp and that this was Westeros, where “fun” had teeth.

Instead, you doubled back straight into the center of the tent, right where the crowd was thickest, because the only thing better than slipping away was making the chase impossible.

Lyonel reached for you and missed by inches.

His hand grazed your sleeve, just fabric and heat, and something in his expression changed. Not anger. Not offense. Interest. He wasn’t chasing you because you were a woman. He was chasing you because you were a problem that laughed back.

You ducked under an arm, slid past a table, and then someone grabbed your wrist from the side and yanked you into a pocket of space.

You spun, ready to strike or scream or both, and found yourself face to chest with a man who was basically a walking wall.

Ser Duncan the Tall.

Close up, he looked even more out of place than he had outside. His clothes were too plain for this tent, his posture too wary, like he was afraid someone would realize he didn’t belong and throw him out. His hands were big enough to break a man’s neck, but he held you like you were something fragile he’d accidentally caught.

“Sorry,” he blurted, eyes wide. “I thought you were going to run into the table.”

You stared at him for a heartbeat, then laughed under your breath because of course the giant’s first instinct was to keep someone from getting hurt.

“Thank you,” you said, and slipped free before he could decide whether he’d done the right thing.

Lyonel skidded to a stop a few steps away, breathing a little harder now, eyes on Dunk and then back to you.

“What in the seven hells is happening?” Lyonel demanded, still smiling like he hoped it would get worse.

Dunk looked panicked. “Nothing, my lord. I just…”

Lyonel pointed at you with the antlered helm like it was a weapon. “Who is she?”

Dunk blinked, genuinely baffled. His gaze flicked to you as if he expected you to provide the answer.

You gave him nothing. Just that same calm you’d worn all day, hood still shadowing your face, lips curved like you’d swallowed a secret.

“I don’t know,” Dunk admitted, a little miserable. “I’ve never seen her before.”

The men around Lyonel leaned in, smelling gossip the way dogs smelled meat. A minor lord with a red nose squinted. “She’s not one of ours.”

Another said, “Not Reach. Not Stormlands. Not with that mouth.”

You tilted your head. “My condolences.”

Laughter burst again, and even Dunk’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

Lyonel watched you like you were a spark he wanted to see catch.

“You run like you’ve been chased before,” he said.

You met his eyes fully then, letting him see just enough of you to make him curious. “And you chase like you’re bored.”

His grin went feral. “True.”

A servant tried to wedge between you with a platter and nearly got knocked over when someone started chanting, “Stag! Stag! Stag!” because the crowd had decided your little game needed a ceremonial end. Lyonel shoved the helm toward you again, close enough that the antlers brushed your shoulder.

“You can’t dodge forever,” he said, voice lower now, meant for you. “Put it on.”

You stared at it like it might bite. “If I do, will you stop?”

He leaned closer, eyes bright. “No.”

“Honest,” you murmured, and then you took the helm.

The tent roared approval as you lifted it, tested the weight, and then, because you were apparently determined to be a menace tonight, you didn’t put it on your own head.

You turned and shoved it down onto Dunk’s.

The antlers wobbled. Dunk stiffened like he’d been sentenced to death. The sight of the huge, earnest hedge knight crowned like some ridiculous forest king made the entire pavilion lose its mind. Men howled with laughter, slapping tables, spilling drink. Someone shouted, “Stag knight!” Someone else shouted, “He looks like he’s about to apologize to the woods!”

Dunk’s face went red under the candlelight. “I… I didn’t… I don’t think…”

You stepped back, pleased with yourself. “There. Now nobody can accuse me of cowardice. I shared the burden.”

Lyonel Baratheon laughed again, but this time it sounded different. Not just entertained. Taken.

He clapped Dunk on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Good news,” he told him. “You’ve been promoted to decoration.”

Dunk swallowed hard. “My lord, I…”

“Eat,” Lyonel said, waving him toward food like it was a command Dunk could actually understand. “Drink. Try not to weep into the stew.”

You watched Dunk stumble toward a table like a man walking into an ambush, antlers bobbing above the crowd. The bald boy you’d seen earlier slipped in at the edge of the tent, eyes sharp as ever, and for a brief moment his gaze flicked to you again, as if he recognized your shape in the chaos even if nobody else did.

Then Lyonel’s attention reclaimed you.

He offered you his cup without asking, as if sharing drink was inevitable. You took it because refusing would have been a different kind of admission.

“What are you?” he asked softly, not like a lord interrogating a subject, but like a man trying to name a storm by the feel of the wind.

You drank. “Tired.”

He snorted, delighted. “Not that.”

You handed his cup back. “Then you’re asking the wrong question.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what’s the right one?”

You leaned in just enough that he could smell rain on you, mud, smoke. “Why are you so interested?”

Lyonel’s smile grew into something almost boyish. “Because you walked into my tent like you owned it.”

“I did own it,” you said, deadpan.

He blinked. Then he laughed again, softer, like you’d just confirmed his favorite suspicion.

The music shifted into something faster, rougher. Someone dragged Lyonel toward the open space in the center where men were stomping and spinning in that aggressive, half-drunk way noblemen called dancing when they wanted to pretend they weren’t just burning off violence. Lyonel let himself be pulled, then turned and held out a hand to you as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at his hand.

Not because you were shy. Because you were calculating. Because touching a man like Lyonel Baratheon, even in jest, even in a tent full of witnesses, meant something in a realm that treated women’s bodies like battlegrounds.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t cajole. He just kept his hand there and waited, eyes daring you to choose.

So you did.

You stepped into the circle and took his hand, and the moment his fingers closed around yours, something in him settled, as if he’d won a small victory he wasn’t sure he’d been allowed to want.

He pulled you into the rough rhythm of the dance, spinning you once, twice. You weren’t trained for courtly steps like your sisters would have been if you’d been born more obviously Targaryen. You weren’t a doll for some lord’s display. You moved the way you fought: instinctive, sharp, full of refusal to be led too gently. Lyonel matched you without effort, laughing when you almost tripped him, tightening his grip when you tried to break free just to see if he’d let you.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” you accused, breathless.

“I’m miserable,” he lied, eyes bright. “This is terrible.”

“Liar.”

“Yes,” he said easily. “And you love it.”

You should have denied it.

You didn’t.

Around you, the tent boiled with noise and smoke and spilled drink. Men shouted bets about the lists. A singer tried to start a ballad and got drowned out by someone chanting Dunk’s new title, Stag knight, stag knight, while Dunk himself tried to shrink out of existence under the antlers. The bald boy hovered near him like a shadow, looking far too pleased. Lyonel kept you moving, kept you laughing, kept you in the center of the storm as if he could trap you there by sheer momentum.

And the worst part was, it almost worked.

Hours blurred. Torches burned lower. The rain outside eased into a steady whisper on canvas. You forgot, for stretches of time, that you were supposed to be careful. You forgot that your father’s name carried weight that could crush men like Lyonel if it fell wrong. You forgot that Valarr would come looking, that Baelor would not be amused, that the court would turn even your laughter into a story harsh enough to bite you later.

Lyonel didn’t forget.

You saw it in the way his gaze kept flicking, checking entrances, gauging who watched you, how people reacted to you. He was having fun, yes, but he was also a Baratheon, and Baratheons survived by reading storms.

Near midnight, when the tent was thick with heat and bodies and the smell of too much wine, a shift rippled through the outer camp like wind hitting grass. The sort of shift that made men straighten and servants hurry and laughter turn cautious at the edges.

Arrival.

Royal arrival.

You felt it before you saw it, your spine tightening as if someone had tugged a string.

Lyonel noticed your change instantly. His hand stayed at your waist, but his grip eased a fraction, as if giving you space to bolt if you chose.

“What is it?” he murmured.

You didn’t answer, because you didn’t trust your voice.

Outside, horns sounded, not the rough braying of drunken men but something formal, controlled. The pavilion’s entrance flapped as people moved to see, and cold air spilled in with the scent of wet banners and polished steel.

Your escort appeared at the edge of the tent, one of your father’s men, eyes scanning until they found you. His face tightened with relief and irritation in equal measure.

“There you are,” he said, pitching his voice low but urgent. “Princess.”

The word landed like a thrown knife.

For a heartbeat, the entire world went quiet in your head even as the tent roared on around you.

Lyonel Baratheon went still.

Slowly, he turned his head toward you, and the amusement in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it turned into something new, something hungry and incredulous.

“Princess,” he repeated under his breath, like he was tasting it.

You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second, because of course it couldn’t just be a fun night. Of course it had to become politics the moment it became real.

When you opened your eyes again, Lyonel was smiling, but now there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before.

“Well,” he said softly, leaning closer so only you could hear him over the noise. “That explains the way you walked in like you owned the tent.”

You exhaled through your nose, half a laugh, half a curse. “Don’t.”

He looked delighted by your warning, as if warnings were invitations in his world.

Outside, the horns sounded again, and you could already picture Baelor Breakspear dismounting in the mud with that calm, terrifying patience of his, Valarr at his shoulder like eager blade. The tourney grounds would shift around them like grass around a stone.

Your father had arrived.

And you had left fingerprints all over the night.

You stepped back from Lyonel, pulling your hood up as if fabric could undo what had just been spoken. Your escort moved closer, ready to shepherd you out before anyone else caught on. Around you, men were still laughing, still drinking, still chanting stag knight at the towering hedge knight who looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him.

Lyonel didn’t reach for you again.

He just watched.

Watched you retreat like you were a prize he’d nearly taken without knowing the rules, watched your escort close in, watched the entrance where the world outside waited with names and banners and consequences.

And then, as you turned to leave, his voice cut through the chaos one last time, low and pleased, meant only for you.

“Storms love dragons,” Lyonel Baratheon said. “Even the ones pretending they aren’t dragons at all.”

Morning at Ashford Meadow didn’t arrive politely. It crawled in under the tent flaps like a petty thief, stole the last of the night’s warmth, and left behind that damp, sour smell that always followed too much drink and too many bodies packed together pretending they were invincible. Duncan woke with the kind of headache that made you question every decision that led to your current existence, and if he’d been a smarter man, he would’ve blamed the gods, fate, or the general moral decay of tourneys. Instead he blamed himself, because that was his special talent. He lay there for a moment listening to the camp breathe. Horses snorting, men coughing, someone retching in the distance with heroic commitment, a few early hammers already going as squires hammered stakes back into the earth. The rain had stopped sometime in the night but the world still looked washed-out, like the sky couldn’t be bothered to pick a color.

Egg was already up.

Of course he was. The boy had that irritating, keen-eyed energy like he ran on spite and curiosity instead of sleep. He crouched by the fire, blowing on embers, hair mussed, face smudged, and still somehow looked more awake than Dunk felt after a full day of work. His gaze flicked toward Dunk the moment Dunk moved, and there was a glint in it that made Dunk wary. Egg had been watching last night like it was theater written specifically for him, and Dunk hadn’t liked the feeling of being on a stage.

“We’re going,” Egg said, like it was already decided and all Dunk had to do was keep up.

Dunk sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. “We’re going where?”

Egg’s mouth twitched. “To find the Baratheon.”

Dunk groaned without meaning to. “Why?”

Egg looked at him with the expression of someone watching a dog try to do sums. “Because he’s going to find you anyway. Better to get ahead of it.”

Dunk stared at him. “Why would he find me?”

Egg’s eyes flicked, quick and wicked. “Because you wore his stag antlers and didn’t die, and because he’s the kind of man who wakes up the next day and immediately wants to do it again.”

Dunk opened his mouth to argue, realized he had no good argument, and instead reached for his boots with a resigned sigh. He pulled on his clothes, stiff from yesterday’s rain and sweat, and felt his stomach turn a little at the memory of the antlered helm bobbing above him while an entire tent of drunk nobles laughed like hyenas. It wasn’t even the humiliation that bothered him most. It was the part where, for a moment, it had been almost… fun. That was the dangerous thing. Fun was how trouble got under your skin and stayed there.

They stepped out into a camp that looked like it had been fought over. Men stumbled through mud with blank, wounded faces. A knight sat on a stool outside his tent holding his head like it might fall off. Somewhere, someone was arguing with a cook about whether vomiting in the rushes counted as “a mess” if it was mostly liquid. The smell of stale ale hung in the air, and the ground was a patchwork of footprints, spilled wine, and trampled straw. A cart creaked past loaded with empty barrels, and a boy ran after it yelling about payment.

Egg walked beside Dunk like he owned the place, chin up, eyes scanning, absorbing everything. Dunk kept catching people glancing at them, and he didn’t like that either. Word traveled fast in a camp like this, and when you were a hedge knight with no name worth speaking, being noticed was a risk.

The Baratheon pavilion still stood proud in the morning light, stag banners damp but stubborn, guards posted at the entrance looking as if they’d spent the night trying to keep drunk lords from starting a war over a dice game. Inside, the noise was different now. Not roaring laughter, but a low hum of men nursing themselves back into being human.

A guard blocked their path with a bored look, then actually looked at Dunk properly and blinked. Recognition lit his face like a lantern.

“You,” the guard said, pointing. “Stag knight.”

Dunk’s ears went hot. “I’m not—”

Egg stepped in smoothly, voice bright and polite. “Ser Duncan the Tall. We’re here to see Lord Lyonel.”

The guard hesitated, then shrugged with the lazy certainty of someone who didn’t get paid enough to care about consequences. “Go on. He’s inside. He’s… awake.”

That “awake” sounded like a warning.

They entered.

The tent had been cleaned in the rough way. The worst of the spilled drink soaked up, the tables rearranged, new rushes thrown down to cover the stains that wouldn’t come out. But the air still held the ghosts of last night’s heat and chaos. There were men slumped on benches, cups of watered wine in their hands, faces pale and shiny with sweat. A servant moved between them with a tray like he was feeding injured animals. Someone had a strip of cloth tied around his head like it would keep his skull from cracking.

Lyonel Baratheon was in the center of it all like a sun that didn’t know how to dim.

He sat with his boots up on a table, cloak discarded, hair a mess, eyes bright even with exhaustion. He held a cup and drank like it was medicine. Two men were arguing quietly near him about something serious and political, and Lyonel looked like he was letting them make noise while he thought about entirely different things.

Then he saw Dunk.

His grin appeared instantly, sharp as a drawn blade.

“Well,” Lyonel said, voice carrying, “if it isn’t my forest king.”

Dunk stopped like he’d hit a wall. “My lord.”

Egg bowed neatly at Dunk’s side, all manners and innocence. It was a little too neat. It made Dunk suspicious, as it always did.

Lyonel waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t look so grim. You survived my tent. Most men don’t.” His eyes flicked down to Egg. “And who is this? Your squire?”

Egg smiled in that sweet, harmless way that meant he was about to cause trouble. “Egg, my lord.”

Lyonel’s brow lifted. “Egg?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lyonel stared at him for a beat, then laughed once, short and pleased. “Perfect. The gods really do have humor.”

Dunk cleared his throat. “My lord, we didn’t come to—”

“You came because you’re sensible,” Lyonel cut in, grinning wider. “And because you want to keep your head attached. Sit.”

Dunk didn’t move.

Lyonel sighed theatrically. “Gods, you’re earnest. Fine. Stand. But listen.”

He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes glinting with the kind of energy men got when they were about to do something stupid and knew it.

“I’ve decided,” Lyonel announced, “that I need a proper end to last night.”

One of the minor lords nearby groaned softly. Another muttered, “Seven save us.”

Lyonel ignored them. “I don’t like unfinished things, Duncan.”

Dunk swallowed. “My lord, about last night, I didn’t mean to offend—”

“You didn’t,” Lyonel said, cheerful. “You improved it.”

Dunk blinked.

Lyonel’s smile sharpened again, and then he said it, casual as if he were ordering another cup of wine.

“I want you to find her.”

Dunk froze. “Find… who?”

Lyonel’s eyes flashed with open amusement, like he couldn’t believe Dunk had the audacity to ask. “The hooded menace. The princess.”

The word rang in the morning tent like a bell. A couple men straightened. A servant paused mid-step like he’d heard something dangerous. Even the air felt tighter for a moment, as if the pavilion itself recognized the name.

Dunk’s stomach dropped.

“My lord,” Dunk said carefully, “you can’t just—”

Lyonel cut him off again, delighted. “I can do whatever I like. I’m a Baratheon.”

Egg made a small sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh. Dunk shot him a look. Egg’s face was innocent, but his eyes were dancing.

Dunk forced himself to keep his voice calm. “Princess Y/N is the daughter of Prince Baelor Breakspear. Anything regarding her should go through her father.”

Lyonel stared at him like Dunk had just suggested eating sand.

“Gods,” Lyonel said, leaning back. “You’re boring.”

Dunk’s jaw tightened. “I’m not boring, my lord. I’m careful.”

“You’re careful,” Lyonel repeated, like the word tasted bad. “Careful is what men are when they plan to die old and unhappy.”

One of the minor lords coughed, probably hiding a laugh.

Dunk pressed on, stubborn. “If you approach her improperly, Prince Baelor will—”

Lyonel lifted his cup. “Yes, yes, the great Breakspear will glare and make men feel small and honorable. I know. That’s why it’s more fun.”

Dunk stared, horrified by how lightly Lyonel held the idea of being crushed by one of the realm’s most respected princes.

Egg cleared his throat, stepping forward like he belonged in that circle of nobles. “My lord?”

Lyonel’s gaze snapped to him. “Egg.”

Egg’s mouth twitched. “If you want Princess Y/N to notice you… you shouldn’t chase her like she’s a hare.”

Lyonel blinked, intrigued. “Oh?”

Dunk’s eyebrows knit. “What are you doing?”

Egg ignored him, because of course he did. “She ran because you made it a game. She liked the game. But she won because she wanted to. If you chase again the same way, you’ll lose on purpose and not even realize it.”

The pavilion went quiet in that subtle way men got when a child said something too wise to be accidental.

Lyonel leaned forward, eyes fixed on Egg now like he’d found a new source of entertainment. “Go on.”

Egg clasped his hands behind his back, sweet as a septon’s sermon. “You should do something she can’t resist without making it about her being a princess. Something that makes her curious, not cautious.”

Lyonel’s grin crept back. “Such as?”

Egg’s eyes flicked briefly toward Dunk, and Dunk felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The boy was planning. The boy was enjoying himself.

“Challenge,” Egg said simply. “Not her. You.”

Lyonel tilted his head. “Me?”

Egg nodded. “If you want her attention, give her a reason to watch you. Not because you’re loud, but because you’re clever. She likes clever. She likes people who don’t treat her like a symbol.”

Dunk’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t even know what to say to that, because it was… true, wasn’t it? From the little he’d seen. She’d moved through the tent like she was untouchable and untamed, like she’d been waiting all her life for someone to be interesting enough to bother with.

Lyonel looked delighted, like the boy had just handed him a knife and pointed at a target.

“That,” Lyonel declared, “is perfect advice.”

Dunk’s head snapped toward Lyonel. “My lord, it’s ridiculous.”

Lyonel waved him off. “Your opinion is noted and discarded.”

Dunk’s frustration flared. “You can’t just involve me in your… whatever this is.”

“Oh, I can,” Lyonel said cheerfully. “You’re going to help me. That’s an order.”

Dunk stared, dread settling into him like mud. “What order?”

Lyonel smiled like the sunrise had personally congratulated him. “You’re going to be my messenger.”

Egg’s eyes sparkled. Dunk shot him another look, sharper this time. Egg’s face was still innocent, which was offensive.

“My lord,” Dunk said, slow, “messenger for what?”

Lyonel sat up straighter, voice taking on that performative grandeur he’d had last night, the voice that made men want to laugh and cheer and follow him into dumb decisions.

“You,” Lyonel said, pointing at Dunk, “are going to deliver a gift.”

Dunk’s stomach tightened. “A gift?”

“Yes,” Lyonel said, as if this was obvious. “To Princess Y/N.”

Dunk looked like he might choke. “My lord, no.”

Lyonel blinked, surprised, then laughed. “You can’t just say ‘no’ to me.”

“I can,” Dunk said, because he was a big man and sometimes being big was all you had. “And I am. No.”

The tent went quiet again. Men watched with that hungry interest nobles had when they sensed a confrontation that wasn’t theirs. Lyonel’s eyes narrowed, not angry, but assessing.

Egg, traitor that he was, chose that moment to speak again.

“My lord,” Egg said, polite as anything, “it doesn’t have to be a real gift.”

Lyonel’s gaze flicked to him. “Explain.”

Egg smiled, small and smug. “A message can be a gift. Or… a dare.”

Lyonel’s grin returned instantly. “A dare.”

Dunk shut his eyes for half a second like he was praying for mercy. He wasn’t even sure who he was praying to.

Egg continued, because stopping would’ve been too kind. “Princess Y/N likes chaos. You should offer her chaos that’s controlled. Something she can choose to step into.”

Lyonel’s eyes gleamed. “Gods, I like you, Egg.”

Egg bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”

Dunk looked at the boy like he was seeing him for the first time. “Egg,” he hissed under his breath, “stop helping.”

Egg whispered back without moving his lips much, “Stop being boring.”

Dunk’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Lyonel slapped his hand on the table. “Done. Duncan, you’re delivering my dare.”

Dunk opened his mouth, but Lyonel steamrolled him with the ease of a man who’d been raised believing the world was something you could argue into submission.

“You’re going to find Princess Y/N,” Lyonel said, counting on his fingers like he was listing a hunt. “Not through her father. Not through a herald. You’re going to find her the way she found my tent. Through the camp. Through the mud. Through the real world.”

Dunk stared. “My lord, that’s… that’s insane.”

Lyonel smiled brightly. “And that’s why it’ll work.”

Dunk tried one last time, desperation creeping in. “Prince Baelor will kill me.”

Lyonel waved him off. “Breakspear won’t kill you. He’ll just lecture you until you wish you were dead.”

That wasn’t reassuring.

Egg added, helpfully, “If you die, at least you’ll die famous.”

Dunk’s head snapped toward him. “That’s not helping.”

Egg shrugged. “It’s true.”

Lyonel leaned forward again, voice dropping into something more focused, as if beneath the humor there was an actual hunger that had settled in him overnight and wasn’t going anywhere.

“You tell her,” Lyonel said, “that I’m holding a place for her tonight.”

Dunk blinked. “A place?”

Lyonel’s grin grew. “At the lists. At the feast. Wherever she wants to be. A place where she can walk in like she owns it.”

Dunk swallowed, because that sounded… dangerous in its own way. Not a crude proposition. Not a drunken demand. Something subtler. Something that admitted he’d noticed the way she moved through the world.

“And,” Lyonel continued, eyes gleaming, “you tell her that if she wears a hood again, I’ll steal it off her head and keep it.”

Dunk stared, appalled. “My lord—”

Lyonel held up a hand. “And you tell her… that if she wants to keep winning, she’ll have to give me a fair chance to lose properly.”

Dunk stood there feeling like the gods had personally appointed him the realm’s dumbest messenger.

Egg’s expression was openly amused now, the little bastard not even trying to hide it. “That’s almost poetic, my lord.”

Lyonel looked smug. “I can be poetic.”

Dunk muttered, “You can be dead.”

Lyonel laughed. “Not today.”

Dunk took a breath, steadying himself. “This is ridiculous. Anything regarding a princess should go through her father. Baelor Breakspear is not a man to be played with.”

Lyonel’s smile didn’t fade, but it sharpened, and for a moment Dunk saw the steel under the humor. Lyonel wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what he was poking.

“That’s the point,” Lyonel said quietly. “It’s always going through fathers and brothers and councils and rules. I want her to have a choice that’s hers.”

Dunk stared at him, thrown off by the sudden sincerity.

Egg’s voice cut in, soft and smug. “She’ll like that.”

Dunk looked at Egg again, suspicion curling tight. The boy spoke like he knew her. Like he understood what she’d like. Like this wasn’t all just fun to him, but something personal.

Lyonel straightened and clapped his hands once, the moment of seriousness dismissed like a coin tossed aside.

“So,” Lyonel said brightly, “off you go. Forest king and his egg.”

Dunk grimaced. “My lord—”

Lyonel leaned back, eyes glittering with mischief. “If you come back without delivering my message, I’ll put the antlers on you again. And this time, I’ll make you wear them in the lists.”

Dunk’s stomach dropped.

Egg, traitorous creature, laughed.

Dunk turned slowly toward Egg, voice low and deadly. “If you laugh again, I’ll make you polish my armor with your tongue.”

Egg smiled sweetly. “You don’t have armor.”

Dunk exhaled through his nose, hard, and turned back toward the tent entrance, because arguing was pointless and the world clearly hated him.

As they stepped out into the gray morning, the air hit them cold and wet and honest. Dunk felt the weight of Lyonel’s ridiculous order settle on his shoulders like a yoke.

Egg walked beside him with far too much spring in his step.

Dunk glanced down at the boy. “You know something.”

Egg looked up at him, eyes bright. “I know a lot of things.”

Dunk frowned. “About her.”

Egg shrugged, the picture of casual innocence. “Maybe.”

Dunk stopped walking, forcing Egg to stop too. “Egg.”

Egg blinked up at him. “What?”

Dunk leaned down slightly, trying to look intimidating, which was hard when your head hurt and you’d been drafted into flirting on behalf of a lord. “Why are you so amused by this?”

Egg’s smile widened just enough to be infuriating. “Because it’s funny.”

Dunk narrowed his eyes. “That’s not all.”

Egg tilted his head. “Maybe not.”

Dunk stared at him, and Egg stared back, and for a moment Dunk had the unnerving feeling that the boy wasn’t just a boy at all, but something else, something with too much knowledge behind his eyes.

Then Egg’s expression softened into something almost normal, almost kind.

“She’s not like the others,” Egg said quietly, and then, as if he’d revealed too much, he added, “Don’t mess it up.”

Dunk’s throat tightened. “I’m not trying to mess anything up.”

Egg shrugged. “Men always mess things up.”

Dunk couldn’t argue with that. The world was basically built on men messing things up and then calling it destiny.

They started walking again, deeper into the camp, toward the tents that would belong to royalty, toward Baelor Breakspear’s orbit, toward the place where a princess who didn’t look like a princess had chosen to hide herself in mud and laughter for one night.

Dunk felt like he was walking toward an execution.

Egg looked like he was walking toward the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.

“Could this be true?” The young man drawled, a wicked smirk on his face as he crossed his arms against the wooden list the pair stood by and rested his head atop them. A glimmer of bright fascination shone in his eyes, communicating his mocking interest in no uncertain manner. Her own flashed to meet his with a fiery scowl, knowing at once what she was about to be accosted with. “Our darling sister, staring at a man. Our Lady Mother would all but faint with relief and joy.”

“She’ll faint when I return you to her unconscious, should you not cease that at once.” Her response was a sharp jab accompanied with a meaningful glare. Tommard held her gaze for a moment with the edges of his lips curled, before he gave another entertained chuckle and shook his head, squinting almost comically in dramatic exaggeration as he returned to looking across the way to the Targaryen tent.

“Let us see –” He proclaimed loudly, standing up straight and leaning forward to catch sight of the man in question. Her eyes widened sharply and her arm shot out to yank his sleeve harshly towards her.

“Enough!” Her hiss of annoyance only served to further intrigue her elder brother and he raised his eyebrows as he gazed down at her irritated expression.

Tommard was the closest brother to her in age. For much of their lives, she had held the height advantage over him despite the eight months that separated their births. Almost twins, as their mother liked to say when she was reminding them not to squabble over petty things as children. And of all their brothers, he was the one who understood her the most. Their eldest three indulged her whims and fancies yet treated her as something far more delicate than she felt.

Something questioning quirked in his expression as he held her icy one. Eyes that looked much like her own flicked back across the way.

“…Prince Valarr, is it?” Her brother had lowered his voice markedly as he spoke. Lady Baratheon narrowed her gaze at him before clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth and reluctantly turning to stare at the prince in question as well. He was speaking with another knight, a man in bright silver armor and a gold cloak who was decidedly taller than the prince. Dressed in his own shadowy armor, the red dragons that roared upon the banners above his head curled upon his breastplate as well. His expression was neutral and unreadable, and at such distance it was impossible to discern the nature of the conversion being held. The bustle of the tourney camp around them made the task impossible; horses neighed and whinnied as they were attended to, and the early drinking had begun with raucous fanfare inside their uncle’s tent. The sound of mugs of mead clashing and bright laughter rung out from beneath the golden flaps. Both Baratheons observed the prince for a moment of contemplative silence.

“Of all of them, he is the most sensible. I will give you that.” Tommard said with a shake of his head. Ripping her eyes away to flash another glowering look, she huffed a sigh. Her reactive instinct was to drive her elbow into her brother’s side and begin a fight over his nonsensical and taunting insinuations. But she had, in truth, not caught the prince’s name when they had spoken the night prior beneath the cloudless sky and luminous crescent moon and the new information piqued in her interest.

“…And he is fighting in the tourney?” Her election to ask a quiet question rather than to lunge at him caused Tommard to turn fully to face her. His features twisted into indignant disbelief.

“Gods be good, you truly do not know who he is?” Tommard’s question was met with no great defense from his sister. 

She gave a limp shrugging of her shoulders and leaned forward, her weight fully resting on the wooden list in front of them. Rocking onto her toes, Lady Baratheon stood up on them to stretch her arms above her head. “Why would I need to?”

“They are our princes, you would think you could at least recognize the eldest of them,” The youngest of the Baratheon sons shook his head dramatically, earning a nonplussed glance from the lady who waited expectantly for him to continue. “He is third in line for the throne of Westeros.”

“Good for him.” Lady Baratheon yawned. The adventure of the night prior had meant she had but two or three hours of rest before she’d been awoken by the hectic commotion of the camp rising with the morning sun ascending above the eastern plains. It would have rendered her a sullen terror on a typical day, but the excitement of the tourney kept her in marginally higher spirits.

She pondered over her brother’s assessment of Valarr with an impassive look. A squire hurried past them and the lady heard the distant disgruntled shout of the knight who was waiting on the panicked boy. “What is wrong with the rest of the princes then?”

“Sister.” Tommard hissed, a pensive expression forming as he shushed her at once. She meant his gaze with a defiant tilt of her chin that signified her unapologetic expectation for an answer to the question she posed. Shaking his head at her boldness, he drummed his fingertips on the wood before them.

“You are to keep this to yourself, do you understand?” The young man said finally, fixing the lady with a weighty and firm gaze. She blinked back at him to indicate the obviousness of it. After casting a glance around to ensure no one was eavesdropping upon their conversation, her brother lowered his voice even further. “The other lords say that a few of them are … rather unsavory characters. Drunkenness, cruelty, poor treatment of those in their circles. Prince Aerion especially you ought to steer clear of.”

Lady Baratheon had heard such rumors before, but none in great detail. Yet she did not need anecdotes to believe the truth of the assessment. While she had never been greatly concerned with memorizing the names nor descriptions of any of the members of House Targaryen, she had often been fascinated by tales of the height of their power, when they had reigned alongside the dragons. And while the madness of those who came before might be exaggerated to enhance the entertainment of the narratives, it must hold some degree of truth to be commented upon at such great length. Men of awesome power growing cruel and spoiled under a kingdom who served their every desire and praised them as descendants from gods. The plausibility was substantial.

“But not him?” Her eyes had returned to Valarr. The sun illuminated the single lock of silvery hair upon his head as he turned to enter his tent. His cape swirled behind him in a flutter of charcoal and crimson.

“I have not heard much of him, in truth,” Tommard leaned forward to rest his body against the list in a way that matched her own. “But he is favored to win the tourney. Steffon spoke to him yesterday, said he was pleasant enough.”

Their eldest brother would be competing in the joust alongside the prince. The lady hummed.

“Are they to face each other?” She asked, the inquisitive fire alighting in her chest. The illusion of it was constructed in brilliant fabrication within her mind at once, the thudding of heartbeats and rush of adrenaline as the challengers stared each other down for the one still moment before the crashing collision of lances and shields. If only it were her instead, the prince across the list from her in his dark armor. Her heart leaped at the thought.

“I do not know. Garen was certainly whining about the possibility of it.” Tommard snorted. This was met with a rolling of her eyes and an amused breath of her own.

“What was he not whining about?” Half of the carriage ride to Ashford Meadow had been composed of their brother’s complaints regarding the tournament, subjecting the youngest Baratheon siblings to a torturously slow journey. A grin of shared suffering was exchanged between the two.

Lady Baratheon was not as free as she might wish to traverse about the grounds of the tourney camp. Her father’s approval of her joining the traveling party had hinged upon one of her brothers accompanying her at all times. In an ideal fantasy world, her father would have demanded that her uncle do it. Yet her uncle was staunchly devoted to his own pleasure at such events and his drinking began with the rising of the sun, which meant that one of her brothers would have to do. As Steffon and Garen were preoccupied with participating in the tourney, she had all but kidnapped Tommard to chaperone her around the grounds. Both of them had the luxury of avoiding their mother’s determined matchmaking thus far and had grown accustomed to sticking together. After the eldest of her children were married, she had tempered considerably, but Lady Baratheon knew her uncle’s intervention on her behalf at her imploring would not spare her for all eternity.

As they walked about, observing the circus-esque chaos of the daylight events and games, the excitement in her heart had only swelled. It swept over her with a rushing crescendo, a brilliant smile on her face as they watched an axe throwing contest held near the base of Ashford Castle. As the crowd gathered, she stood up on her toes to ensure she did not miss a moment of it, especially not when she’d wagered with Tommard over the victor. As the knight she had selected hurled his axe with tremendous might to lodge it firmly into the wooden target with near perfect precision, she whooped and cheered with triumphant victory as Tommard groaned and put his head into his hands. A laugh tumbled from her lips as she pushed his shoulder, earning her a sulky glare.

As they retreated from the crowd, she looped her arm into Tommard’s and grinned with pleased satisfaction.

“Another win for me, brother,” They had made wagering during tourneys a habit, since neither of them participated in the main events. Lady Baratheon won considerably more often than she lost, a fact she was smugly proud of.

“You’re a rotten cheat. I just have yet to prove it.” Tommard grumbled sourly. It did little to stop her glowing smile. Her brother’s expression shifted as he caught sight of something near the shade of the castle gate. His footfalls stilled, causing her to be yanked to an abrupt halt. She cast him a quizzical gaze.

“What – ?” Lady Baratheon did not get the opportunity to so much as utter a syllable of a second word before her brother interrupted her briskly. “Your prince is waving us over.” His words were barely audible, muttered through a forced smile of clenched teeth. She was being tugged forth before she could think to speak, her face still arranged in confused bewilderment. When she looked in the direction she was being led, her eyes widened.

They were, as Tommard had said, being hailed by Valarr whose hand was raised in an unmistakable gesture that indicated he wished them to approach. Her breath caught in her chest and a desperate shock fluttered over her features as fast as a bird’s wings. She tried to pull back on her brother’s arm, but he gave no indication of heeding her wishes.

“What are you doing? Do not go that way –”

“Have you lost your mind?” Tommard’s teeth were still gritted, trying to maintain an amiable expression. “We are being summoned by a prince, of course we must go.”

She shook her head in a tiny, frantic gesture, hand insistently tugging at the sleeve of her brother’s tunic. “No we must not.”

“Would you shut up.” It was the last thing Tommard was able to shoot at her before they abruptly reached the prince, both siblings immediately lowering their heads as they stood before the man.

Lady Baratheon gave what she hoped was a curtsy of appropriate height before lifting her head slowly, unsure of what to expect. The uncertainty echoed across her face as her eyes met Valarr’s for a moment. She had been hoping their meeting last night would go entirely forgotten by the prince, but this did not seem to be the case. In the daylight, she noticed at once that the variance between the colors of his eyes was even more striking. Like different depths of the ocean on a clear summer day, the alternating hues of blue were startlingly captivating. She blinked, regarding them with soft curiosity as Valarr held her gaze gently in turn. It was only when Tommard cleared his throat that she realized she had been staring for longer than was typically deemed acceptable.

“My prince.” Her brother began, as she cast her eyes elsewhere and brushed a strand of hair from her face. The lady had believed the matter of the previous night to have been settled, but perhaps Tommard had been incorrect in his assessment of Valarr and the man did wish to punish her for being so idiotic as to point a sword at his chest.

“Lord Tommard,” Valarr greeted with calm cordiality, before turning his gaze to the lady. She stiffened under his attention, her eyes remaining cast pointedly to the stone of the castle wall behind him. “My lady.”

She dipped her head at this, mind still racing as to wonder what he might wish to speak with her for. For unless Tommard had additionally caused some sort of royal incident the day prior, it was surely her whose foolish actions had caused this summoning. And her brother, now past the immediate shock of the situation, had quickly pieced together her staring this morning and the faintly guilty expression upon her face that was distinctly reminiscent of the one she wore each time she was awaiting a scolding from their parents. His eyes burned into the side of her head, but she did not turn to look at him.

“It occurred to me, after we spoke,” Valarr said, his eyes upon her as he began. She closed her own for a brief moment, knowing that it was only the fact that they were before a prince that her brother did not begin shouting at her there. When she opened them again, she caught a glimpse of something amused in Valarr’s eyes. She blinked, realizing at once that he was revealing the information of their acquaintance to her brother intentionally. Her startled uncertainty was replaced with soft annoyance. “That I had not introduced myself properly. It was rude, and I wish to rectify it.”

Lady Baratheon had no choice but to shake her head slowly, forcing what she hoped was a friendly smile onto her face. “It was brief, I could hardly blame you, my prince.”

Valarr observed her passive dismissal for a moment with an unreadable expression, before he tilted his head in consideration. It seemed honest enough, but because she had spoken with him the night before, she caught sight of the entertained glitter of his eyes. “It was no so brief.”

“It was brief enough.” The words were quicker and sharper than she might have wished them to be, so she strained another smile that was far too wide onto her lips.

“What my sister means to say,” Tommard interjected quickly, his eyes darting to her in silent warning before returning to Valarr. “Is that we are honored to speak with you, your highness.”

Lady Baratheon stared silently at Valarr for a moment, before she felt the insistent eyes of her brother upon her once more. She swallowed any lingering retorts back down her throat.

“Yes,” She affirmed solemnly, nodding. There was a brief pause in which she saw the corners of Valarr’s mouth twitch slightly. The lady continued. “That is exactly what I mean.”

“I am glad for it,” Valarr returned in a warm tone, bright and clear, pressing forward without any mind to the evident awkwardness of the situation. “And I would like to extend an invitation for both of you to join me for lunch this afternoon in the castle courtyard.”

Lady Baratheon knew that an invitation from a prince was a mandate in thinly concealed disguise. There would be no universe in which it was turned down, not out of fear of offending. She inhaled a slow breath. It would seem she would be paying for her insolence the night prior after all, only not in a way she had imagined.

“We would be honored.” Tommard accepted graciously at once. Yet the Targaryen prince was not looking at him, but regarding the lady with unspoken waiting. Her mind drifted back to the conversation the night prior, to the rather sudden familiarity that had developed when the two of them had been alone underneath the myriad of stars above the meadow and she allowed to speak freely. It was surprising that she had been so comfortable with someone she knew so little of, and Valarr had in turn appeared to harbor a kindred perception of the strange understanding that had transpired between them. The shining of his eyes reminded her of the warmth of his hand atop hers and she felt her stomach twist.

“Honored.” She repeated quietly.

The interior of Ashford Castle was not as bustling as the crowded campground of the tourney across the way. Most of its serving staff appeared to be attending to the festivities happening throughout the event, despite a few maids scurrying about past the open courtyard that Valarr had led them to. The sun shone down brightly, yet lunch had been arranged upon delicate tables beneath the shade of a stone gazebo with floral vines descending the grey surface in cascading tumbles. The demanding warmth of summer was carried out with the coming of an autumn breeze, fluttering the emerald leaves of the surrounding shrubbery. It tussled Lady Baratheon’s hair as she observed the extravagant display of food that had been brought out for their pleasure. Silver trays of sandwiches of fresh sourdough and local vegetables, tiny cakes of brilliant shades topped with the zest of fruit that had been brought up from the southern towns of the Reach.

An uncomfortable silence had descended upon the party of three after the initial pleasantries had been bypassed. The lady sipped her tea thoughtfully, having since decided that she did not believe Prince Valarr intended to have her punished as she had speculated. She now peered across the table at him with unabashed curiosity, wondering if she might deduce his objective. Tommard still appeared uncertainly anxious, and when Prince Valarr asked politely for her to accompany him on a stroll about the courtyard, she agreed if only to give her brother a moment to collect his thoughts upon their situation.

As they drifted out of earshot, Valarr cast his eyes to her before letting out a soft sigh.

“My lady, I must admit I have not been entirely forthcoming about my intentions inviting you and your lord brother here this afternoon.” The prince began, framing his words with a slow hesitation, as if not wishing to startle her. Her eyes lifted to meet his as they walked, the bright rays of sunlight warm as they settled onto her hair in gentle illumination.

“Is that so?” She replied dryly, the words just shy of being deemed mocking. Valarr’s expression altered, remnants of the curious amusement from last night evident in the way he observed her. Her lashes fluttered briefly as she distanced her gaze from his face, displeased by the resonant fluttering in her chest. It tugged a sullen frown from her at once, yet Valarr pressed on.

“The truth of the matter is that I have not been able to banish you from my mind since seeing the way you held my sword last night.” He explained slowly. As he walked, the necessary amount of distance required for propriety was intentionally left between them. Lady Baratheon was relieved the prince was observing it, even if only to not offend her brother.

At his reasoning, the lady made no effort to conceal the irritated fire alighting in her eyes, which were now firmly fixed upon his face as her head turned sharply.

“I believed we had come to an understanding over the offense but if you wish to  – .”

“I promise you my lady, there is no offense.” The assurance came out in a quick rush. While she did not normally appreciate being interrupted, it would seem Valarr was eager to convince her that he did not retain any ill intentions towards her. His fist clenched and then opened again slowly, as he silently undertook the preparation for verbalizing what he had been overturning at seemingly great lengths. As the quiet hummed soft and insistent between them, Valarr’s reserved uncertainty assuaged some of the combative instinct in her heart.

“Then why bring me here?” Lady Baratheon would rather he be plain with her, no matter the truth of his desire to converse with her further. The prince nodded, as if understanding at once her belief over the matter. It startled her, as his final comment had last night before he had slipped away into the nocturnal shadows.

“…I wish to spar with you if I am being transparent.”  When he finished speaking, she had stopped short behind him. As he turned to face her, Valarr was met with fiery eyes and a drawn brow.

“If this is some joke, prince or otherwise, I am not amused.” Icy and sharp, her words were most unfitting for a lady and exceptionally damning in their aiming at a prince. The mocking of her more masculine interests was hardly an experience to which she was uncustomed. A little lady who would rather spend her time in the yard than upon a sewing chair, she had endured many callous and cruel comments from others her age and from adults. Now that she had grown, she no longer needed to rely upon one of her elder brothers to aid in defending her honor. The Lady Baratheon was perfectly capable of doing it on her own, regardless of what trouble might sprout in its wake.

Valarr did not turn his gaze away. It remained sure and steadfast as he stood before her with the sort of regal grace only a prince could possess.

“It is not,” His insistence was soft yet weighty. A step in her direction, met with a defiant raising of her chin. “I swear it, upon my honor.”

The sharpness in her burning glare was not so easily quelled by words alone, but his countenance implied no indication of falsehood. Standing her ground with determined resolve, she considered all his previously spoken words and the manner in which he had acted towards her thus far. Finally, her shoulders lowered and she regarded him with exasperated frustration.

“How could I possibly do that?” The disbelieving inquisition was reasonably founded. It was odd from any perspective, a lady sparring, and his title again led to further improper implications. Even Tommard would be aghast, and he had known the young woman all of her life. Valarr merely shook his head.

“Most are away on the grounds of the tourney,” The prince reasoned. “It was why I wished to ask you here.”

A heartbeat of silent protest, and another one where it was given voice. “I am wearing a gown.”

“And you look lovely in it.”

The Lady Baratheon tossed her hands up into the air, her eyes rolling once more. It was a light dress, as she had only packed what she might have the most freedom in despite needing to maintain the illusion of ladylikeness. Yet it was hardly comparable to training in trousers. “That is of little consequence when it hinders my range of motion.”

Valarr considered this thoughtfully. “Then I shall use my other hand.”

“No, I would not wish you to,” One raised hand was used to wave off the offer. She immensely disliked knowing her opponent was intentionally weakening themselves, given that her eldest brothers often engaged in such behavior when they sparred with her. Realizing that he had gotten her to consider it, she shook her head firmly, a vexed sigh escaping her lips. “Oh, but I cannot. To swing a sword at a prince…”

“I am asking you to,” The gentle reassurance in his tone had the same effect as his eyes. Bewilderingly disarming and devastatingly effective if weaponized, she realized. It left her mouth dry. “But only if you wish, for it is truly my own curiosity I am satiating. I will hold no grudge if you would rather leave and be on your way.”

She shook her head, the demand hot and burning in her throat. “And what is it about me that has made you so curious?” “That is exactly what I am trying to determine.” His chest was too near to her own as he drew closer, her eyes flickering between his as she felt her breath catch in her lungs. It was frighteningly unfamiliar, the warmth he kindled in her that blossomed across her chest and curled up her neck and cheeks like the rose vines upon the gazebo under which they had sat. The curiosity that he had expressed lingered insistently in her own mind, about the edges of her vision even when he was not in it. Their strange encounter had upended something in her that she had not been able to settle, unrecognizable and wholly maddening.

A soft sigh fell from her lips, a reluctant white flag raised. “…I will do it.”

Notes: thank you for all of the interactions with my first installment of this mini-series! feedback is always appreciated!! lmk if you would like to be included in the tag list, and a series guide will be posted this week to help navigate the work more easily. also this one got no beta read either and i'm in the trenches at university so forgive me for errors.

Taglist: @torchbearerkyle @corpsebride25 @ladyhesperus