#a knight of the seven kingdoms

Relief first. Always relief first, before anything else had a chance to register — the voice on the other end was yours, was laughing, was fine, whatever else it was.

"How little?" he asked, already reaching for his shoes, his heart still catching up with itself.

"Like a lot little," you tried, which made no grammatical sense and made you laugh so hard he had to hold the phone away from his ear.

"Text me the address," he said, keeping his voice level, keeping the worry out of it. "I'm leaving now. Are you somewhere safe?"

"I'm on the pavement," you said, like this answered the question.

"Are you alone?"

"Valarr was here," you said, voice a little further because you were sending him — or trying to — the address while speaking, "but he left early, Kiera wanted to go, they're very cute together, did you know that, they are very cute—"

"I did know that," he said, pulling his coat on, something in his chest loosening slightly at the sound of you being simply, ordinarily silly rather than anything worse. "Stay where you are. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You're the best," you said, with the enormous sincerity of the extremely intoxicated. "Has anyone told you that?"

"I only care if you’re the one that tells me," he said, and the fifteen minutes it took to reach the club were the longest of his week regardless, his mind running the same short list it always ran when you were somewhere he couldn't see you for a long period of time.

He found you exactly where you'd said, propped against the wall with your shoes in one hand, and the sight of you — upright, laughing, entirely yourself — untied something in him so completely he had to stand still a second before trusting his voice.

"There he is," you announced to the small queue nearby. "That's my Baelor. Everyone, this is my Baelor."

"Yes," he said, warmth surprising even him, smiling something close to shyly to the strangers around you. He took your shoes and got an arm around your waist. "Let's get you to the car, sweetheart."

"I told everyone about you tonight," you said, letting him steer you across the car park. "Everyone. I told them you're the most intelligent man I've ever met. And the most caring. I told Tansy you make tea for people without being asked and she said that was, and I quote, 'disgustingly wholesome,' and I said I know, isn't he perfect—"

"I'm not perfect," he said, though something in his chest had gone very warm.

"You are," you fought back, with total conviction, stopping walking entirely to make the point, which meant he stopped too. "You're my perfect boyfriend. I told everyone. I was very loud about it."

"I gathered," he said, gently getting you moving again, smile plastered on his face.

He got you into the passenger seat, leaned across to do your seatbelt when the buckle defeated you, and you kept going, apparently not finished.

"Valarr was so happy for us," you said. "Did I say that? He was really happy."

Something crossed Baelor's face, a faint colour rising at his cheeks, there and gone, the specific self-consciousness of a man who was, in point of fact, dating his son's best friend, and who had mostly made his peace with that fact in private, composed moments, and found it landed rather differently hearing it said aloud, drunk and delighted, in a car park at two in the morning.

"He's very fond of you," Baelor said, carefully.

"He loves me," you said. "He told me tonight. He said I make you lighter. He said you used to forget to eat lunch and now you don't, and that's apparently my doing."

"That is your doing, my love," Baelor admitted, the colour at his cheeks not fully fading, and pulled out of the car park before you could see it clearly.

You didn't stop talking. You were, if anything, gathering momentum.

"Baelor," you said, with sudden urgency, as though you'd just remembered something critical. "The mosaic!"

"Which mosaic?"

"The one at the exhibition. The Ravenna one, the — the fish, and the — you know the one, the sixth century one, I sent you the link, you have to come with me, you have to, it closes in three weeks and I want to go with you specifically because you'll actually know what I'm looking at and everyone else just says oh that's nice and I don't want nice, I want you—"

"I'll come," he said through your banter.

"—and you can tell me about the tesserae and the — wait." You stopped. "You said yes?"

"I said yes," he repeated, not really managing to entirely remove the smile from his lips.

"You didn't even let me finish drunk-begging," you said, sounding faintly betrayed by this efficiency.

"I didn't need you to," he said, and found, absurdly, that he was smiling harder — the composure entirely undone by the sheer earnestness of you, drunk and rambling and so plainly, uncomplicatedly happy, telling perfect strangers about him in a queue outside a club.

By the time he got you up the stairs you'd moved on to a lengthy, deeply sincere assessment of his reading glasses, and he steered you to the sofa — glasses off, shoes off, water glass filled and placed in your hand, more out of habit than any real worry now.

"Drink that," he indicated, "and then you can tell me more about your mosaic."

"Deal," you said, drinking half in one go, and then, quieter, the momentum finally slowing: "Baelor."

"Yes."

"I really love you," sudden, overwhelming sincerity, all the yapping dropping away at once. "Like, a lot."

Something in his face went entirely soft.

"I really love you too, sweetheart," he said, sitting beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. He held you there a moment, quiet, and found himself saying, before he'd fully decided to: "Next time you go out — let me come with you."

"Mm?" already half asleep.

"Not to hover," he said, mostly to himself now, working it out as he spoke. "Just — I'd like to be there. Somewhere in the room. So you don't have to call me from a pavement."

"You'd hate it," you mumbled. "Too loud. Too many people. Too little brains."

"Probably," he admitted with a huffed laugh. "But I'd manage."

You didn't answer — already gone, your weight settling fully against him, the water glass listing until he rescued it from your hand.

He sat there a while longer, turning the evening over — the mosaic, Valarr, the specific, undignified warmth of being called perfect by someone too drunk to know better and meaning it entirely anyway — and pressed his mouth to the top of your head.

"Sleep," he said, to no one now, and meant it for both of you.

Maekar was watching some silly nonsense on the TV by 1:52 when you called him.

He was awake, some instinct honed over twenty-five years of teenagers with curfews he no longer had jurisdiction over, and the phone lighting up did something specific to his stomach every single time it happened at this hour — a drop, fast and total, before he'd even seen the name.

"Heeeeeey," you said, extremely loud. "Hey, Maekar, so, funny story—"

The drop didn't fully leave. Not yet. Not until he had eyes on you.

"Where," he said, already pulling jeans on, the phone wedged against his shoulder.

"I might be a little drunk," you said, stretching the little a bit more than necessary.

"Where."

"The one with the blue sign," you tried. "Near the — the place. You know the place."

"I don't know the place." Flat, controlled, the specific calm he used when something needed handling and panicking wouldn't help. "Text me a pin. Now."

"Fine," you said, put-upon, and then, immediately cheerful: "you're coming to get me? You're soooo nice."

"You alone?" he said, keys already in hand.

"There's a lady here with a very cute dog," you said. "We are friends now!"

"Stay with her," he all but commanded. "Don't move. I'll be there in ten."

He hung up and was in the car within ninety seconds, and the drive there was the kind of quiet that had nothing peaceful in it — his jaw tight the whole way, his mind doing the same math it always did, too fast, too many outcomes, until the only thing that would fix it was actually seeing you.

He found you sitting on the curb, shoes off, deep in conversation with a stranger about her dog, and the second he was close enough to be sure — really sure, eyes on you, upright, laughing — something in his chest unclenched so hard it was almost painful.

"There he is," you announced to the stranger, standing too fast and grabbing his arm for balance. "That's him. That's my pookie Maekar!"

"Get in the car," he said mildly embarrassed at the pet name, and pulled you in against his front for one long moment before he let himself do anything else, his hand splayed flat against your back, checking without checking, making sure you were solid and warm and actually there.

"You're squeezing me," you laughed, muffled against his chest.

"Yeah, I know," he said. You pressed your face against his sternum, between his thick pec muscles, and screamed into the wall of his chest for a moment before stepping back slightly and smiling dumbly at him.

You could see the faint redness starting at the tip of his ears and traveling down to his face, so he rushed a bit to get you into the passenger seat. He did your seatbelt when your hands proved uncoordinated, and produced a water bottle from the door pocket — he'd started keeping one there weeks ago and had never mentioned why.

"Drink," he told you.

"You brought water!" you almost yelled, like this was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to anyone. "You're the best."

"Drink it," he said, and the gruffness didn't quite cover how flushed he still was.

He turned on the engine and started driving. You drank a third, set it down, reached for his shirt buttons instead.

"What do you think you’re doing?" flat, not stopping the car, though the corner of his mouth had already moved despite himself.

"Taking your shirt off," like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"We're in a car."

"That's fine," you protested. "You know I can multitask."

He caught your hand, gently, redirected it to the water. "Drink."

You pouted, actual bottom lip and everything, and he had to look at the road very hard to keep from laughing at you. You drank in apparent protest and then tried to go for his belt instead.

"No," catching your wrist, his jaw working — the specific fond exasperation he used to get with Daeron at fourteen, except warmer; except entirely, hopelessly yours. "You need water."

"You're no fun," you whined, and he huffed something that was almost a laugh, low and involuntary.

By the time he pulled up outside his place you'd migrated to his hair, turned to the side completely and both hands buried in it, informing him with great seriousness that it was so soft, actually, nobody talks about how soft it is, and he'd given up keeping you off him entirely and settled for just not letting you undo buttons.

"Get inside," arm firm around your waist. "Then you can talk about my hair all you want."

"Deal," and then, hand flat against his chest, eventually squeezing, as he walked you up the path: "your chest is so — solid."

"Yeah, I know," he said, and something about the plain sincerity of it, drunk and unguarded, hit somewhere soft in him he didn't examine too closely.

He got you to the sofa, fresh water in your hands, stood over you arms crossed until you'd drunk half, maintaining unblinking eye contact with him the whole time like it was a competition he intended to win.

"There," setting the glass down. "Happy?"

"Definitely getting there," he said, and sat, and you curled into his side immediately, the chaos of the last twenty minutes softening into something quieter.

"Maekar."

"Yes?"

"You came and got me."

"’Course I did, silly," like it was self-evident, because to him it was — there was no version of tonight where he didn't.

"I love you," sudden, sincere, the teasing gone, your face tilted upward to look at him. "A lot. Like, a lot a lot."

Something in his chest did the thing again, harder, and he allowed himself a chuckle.

"Yeah," low, smiling somewhat dumbly at you, "same." He pulled you closer, pressed his mouth briefly to your forehead, and held it there a beat longer than usual. "You scared me tonight. A little bit."

"Sorry," you mumbled, already going heavy against his chest.

"Don't be sorry," he said. "Just — call sooner next time. Before it's a whole thing."

"Mm," not really hearing him anymore, and he reached over and finished the water himself when it was clear you weren't going to.

He sat there awake for a moment longer, just feeling the warm weight of your body against him, and squeezed you slightly to him. He huffed a laugh. “My pookie,” he repeated the pet name you’d used while slightly shaking his head, and got comfortable against the plush of the sofa to sleep as well.

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Daeron is taken aback, to say the least. His face contorts in confusion at your question, how would you know he saw anything beyond the nightmares of a tortured mind? You seemingly sense his unease. 

“In the North, there are people- some say they see things. Things that haven’t happened yet, or things that happened before.” 

It all seems so simple, the way you say it. He doesn’t want to scare you, but the Starks are known to be honorable and he knows you won’t chastise him. 

After his confession, he still wakes suddenly most nights. Sometimes he wakes you, accidentally, and he whispers stories of fire and castles and dragons. Other nights, just having you close is enough to calm him. The steady beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin; he presses himself up against your side and sighs deeply when you unconsciously wrap an arm around him. 

Daeron would have no trouble with you participating in a hunt. In fact, he quite enjoys the look on his father’s face when he sees his heir reclined on the dais sipping wine. The young Prince just shrugs when he’s questioned, gesturing to where you’re readying your horse and stringing your bow. Maekar makes a pinched face, but Daeron only laughs. 

“My wife will be taking my place in The hunt, father. She won’t disappoint you, she’s far more skilled than I am.” 

Side note I think the idea of Lady Stark out-weirding Daeron is so silly like him very nervously telling you about how he sees these visions of the future and fearing you’ll deem him insane and working himself up about it and you say something like “Oh like how I can see through the eyes of my direwolf.” and he’s like “…..what.”

Maekar:

To me, this match makes the most sense. There is definitely a lot of disagreeing, butting heads, arguing back and forth loud enough to shake Summerhall, but in the end Maekar has a lot of the same ideologies the Starks do. I’m not the first person who’s said this, but the Anvil is the type of man who sticks out in the lush, relaxed sort of atmosphere of the southern houses, but slots perfectly into the harsh realities of the North. There's a no-nonsense sort of attitude that is imperative to the lord and lady of Winterfell, no room for prattle and frivolity. Life is hard in winter, they need someone who will help their lady Stark make difficult decisions, and defend her until his dying breath. 

Maekar is fiercely loyal, willing to do almost anything for the people he cares for. It's a trait you share. Maekar doesn't really know what to say when you defend him, speaking out against a knight who made a snide comment about your match. Or when you go out of your way to take care of him; ordering him to stop training and rest, asking him to be careful for you on a hunt. He’s used to being the one who takes care of everybody. Six children, two brothers in need of defending, the other set on overexerting himself to an early grave. You cross your arms, square your shoulders, tilt your head back to look him in the eye, and tell him he will take a hot bath and eat something, otherwise he’ll have to answer to you. He grumbles about it, but is not in the business of denying his lady what she asks for. 

Maekar is also very amused at your inability to handle the southerly heat when visiting his parents and brother in the capital. There are times where it snows in the summer back at Winterfell, and you look so crestfallen when you shed your wolfskin cloak, that Maekar almost agrees to leaving his family and returning to your home. Even your gowns are meant to fight the harsh winds and morning chills, sweltering in the sun of King’s Landing. The Prince is quietly charmed by your humidity-frizzed hair and crabby disposition; the glower you show him when he reaches to brush the thin glimmer of perspiration at your forehead before he presses a kiss there.

He loses his mind the first time you arrive at a feast dressed in the stylings of the south. He adores your traditional clothing, the grey fur and the black leather and the white cashmere, but seeing you dressed in so little has his head spinning. He’s on his feet in an instant, determined to intercept you before any knight or lordling has the gall to stand before his lady Stark. You’re no less regal in the shimmering gossamer, but he still feels like a green boy staring at your exposed décolletage. 

“My love, has something distracted you?” 

There’s a small smirk on your face, but he doesn’t return it. He wastes no time taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. You’re absolutely right: he was staring. 

“You are- my wife, I-” 

He can barely find the words, ears turning an adorable shade of pink, but you give him some grace. 

“Do you like my gown? I had it made when I knew we’d be coming south.” 

It's not the last time you must adjust your wardrobe for the weather. How delighted he is, upon reaching your chambers at the end of a long, hot day, forced into endless meetings with lords who wish to gain favor with the North- as if he was the one whose approval they needed- to find you sprawled out, atop the bedclothes, not a stitch of fabric on you. 

“The heat, dearest, I cannot stand it.” 

You reach for him, and he says a prayer to the old gods and the new before stomping to your bed. He’s no help in cooling you down, but you don’t complain, not when he’s following you into nakedness and climbing into your arms. 

Aerion:

Aerion is obsessed. 

A sort of one-way stalking that slowly takes control over his life. You’re busy; settling grain disputes, meeting with masons, attending to duties of Winterfell with strength and poise appropriate for a woman raised to warden the North. Aerion is your shadow, following behind and watching you with an intensity one can only describe as reptilian. It's enough to make most uncomfortable, and the Prince is no stranger to piercing the young ladies at court with his gaze, but you barely acknowledge the Targaryen. It drives him insane. What woman isn’t instantly drawn to his delicate, Valerian features? 

He throws himself into trying to impress you; ears red and nose dripping from the cold, yet he still tugs his shirt over his head while training in the yard. Aerion knows you're watching from the battlements, looking down your nose with the careful expression that constantly paints your face. He can feel your eyes on him, and it makes him hot. Lithe and wiry, the young dragon impresses you when he knocks down strapping northern boys twice his size. You don’t mention you’re affected, nor do you compliment his swordsmanship, but he preens when you allow him moments of council. 

Every time he moves to speak to you, to get close enough to catch the smell of your evergreen soap you bathe with (he’d spent more than enough time thinking about that), a deep, growling noise startles him. It's primal, the fear that creeps up his spine, and there's nothing he hates more than feeling unguarded. Your direwolf is never far from you, scenting the air and smelling the pampered Prince’s desperation for his lady. It's not that she dislikes him, she's never lunged or snapped at him, it's more that she is completely indifferent- and it's almost worse. Some girl’s silly dog doesn’t see Aerion as a threat? What he doesn’t understand is that the connection between the Starks and their wolves is far deeper than anything a southerner could understand. You thought a Targaryen, so long bound to their dragons, would see the soul-connection with your companion; the way she could sense what you needed, how you felt. She doesn’t read the Prince as a threat because you don’t see him that way. He’s far too busy stewing in his irritation over the Stark sigil still being around to bond with. 

Aerion becomes someone you take to counsel, not because he’s particularly good at strategy, or navigating noble court, but you know he will stand up for what you believe wholeheartedly. You do not need to speak out of turn, to draw attention to the fact that you are a woman ruling Winterfell and there are more than a few lords who think you unqualified. Aerion will happily use that tone of his, the one that means “I don’t respect you and I want you to know it,” to back any claim you make. Misogynistic lords will argue with a lady they believe is playing at being the warden of the North, but who can argue with a Prince? Especially that Prince? Aerion knows he’ll get a kiss, and possibly even a smile, after; he’s ready to swing on any man who tries to discredit his lady Stark. 

Dunk:

A Stark would have more respect for Dunk than most of the southern lords do. Knighthood is intrinsically tied to the Seven, and so the idea of needing the gods to anoint you a knight doesn’t really mean anything to Northerners. It’s his character that determines your admiration for him. Brave, honorable, good-hearted; he’s the type of man you can depend on, and that’s a valued thing when the nights grow long and cold. 

Dunk, like Daeron, falls victim to the intimidation of his Lady Stark. As a noble, there is an uncomfortability in the disparity of your standings. Dunk, while having no problem speaking to those of higher birth, does occasionally fall prey to the incongruence. There is also the notion of your Stark character; direct, clever, just, he’s not used to anyone really acting that way. He’s acutely aware of the horrors the world has to offer, and the cruelty that can come from those with power, seeing you wield your influence (and Ice) with strength and justice throws him for a loop. We see how quickly he idolizes Baelor after showing his character, Dunk just wants a kind, fair lady to follow. 

Dunk is honest to a fault (except for the knight thing lol), and does not appreciate those who lie and scheme to get what they want. Starks of course are known for their honesty- whether it gets them into trouble or not. Treachery is not the true Northern way. When you comment on these attributes, praising his strength and fortitude, pleased with his need to help others, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. Ears red, shrugging his shoulders and fumbling with his words. “‘Tis nothin’, m’lady. Only doin’ what's right.” 

You’re not one to give approval when it's not warranted. Because of this, Dunk tucks each little thing you tell him close to his heart. He is utterly devoted to his lady; he acts like he’s your personal guard dog (or wolf), especially when in the south. In true Dunk fashion, he cannot help but confess to you the truth of his knightship. On his knees before you, big blue eyes wet and brows drawn, head hung low, he begs you to forgive him. 

But there is nothing to forgive.

An oath sworn to faraway gods means nothing to those who know real winter. When the storms come, when houses clash, when there is no one to turn to but your own, what use is a man who has only his word to sustain him?

“You have proven yourself through your presence; I know the nature of your heart.” 

He becomes your shadow- a big, hulking shadow, keeping close and surveying crowds with a watchful glance. It's not that you cannot handle yourself, but he finds himself needing to ease any burden he can assist you with. If that means standing between you and danger, so be it. He is especially fond of helping you stay warm. It's all for your safety- obviously. No other reason to peel back the layers of leather and chainmail, linen and fur, to tuck you against his bare chest in your bed. It's his job, really, sworn to protect you, even from the elements. On particularly cold nights, he’ll pull the blankets and furs into a great pile by the fire, wrapping you in his big arms and cradling you close. The winds howl, the snow blows hard against the windows, but you're safe and warm in your knight’s arms.

Baelor:

For a man so proper, so rule-abiding, so utterly fixed toward propriety, Baelor immediately takes a liking to the wild in your veins. It's not that you're carefree, there's a seriousness that comes from understanding the harsh reality of living in the North, but you have no love for the prim rules of court. For that, Baelor finds you endlessly captivating. You wear your hair loose, speak out when you disagree, and handle a bow better than any man in the yard. He’s quick to shut down any unkind word thrown toward you, the Prince’s “Wildling bride,” sent from the North to plead for alliances. 

He can’t quite understand why the other southerners cannot see the beauty in the fierceness, and has little patience, or tolerance, for cruelty toward his betrothed. 

You do not immediately return the gesture. It's no secret the Starks are suspicious of the Valyrian dynasty, and Baelor is the heir, set to inherit a crown and sit on the throne that forced your ancestors to kneel. Initially, you find him trying. Constantly striving for perfection, working long past any other council member, stuck up in the tower of the hand, doing whatever his father says- you imagine. What else would a spoiled, first-born son do but follow in the footsteps of those who came before him? But you watch him anyway, telling yourself it's protecting your people. It's important, of course, to know the man who will one day rule your kingdom; better to understand him now than to guess later down the line.

What you find is a man devoted to the realm, and it's hard to fault him for that. You also observe that he is not as well respected as you would have thought him to be. You roll your eyes at the lords of the Reach, who whisper nonsense about dark hair and Dornish dispositions. It helps you understand him, his need to be the best. To prove to those who doubt him that he’s worthy of the crown. 

He feels your resentment toward him ease. Gone are the days of clipped responses, poor excuses, and snide looks. Baelor can sense you studying him; but instead of the uneasy feeling he’s felt all his life at other nobles watching, he finds himself warmed that you care to know him. You agree with him in a meeting discussing trade agreements, nodding your approval and dismissing the lordling who dared to insinuate Baelor favoring his mother’s kingdom. You ask him to share a meal with you one evening, just the two of you in your chambers, and he can’t quite believe it to be true. He pauses at the door before knocking, straightening his velvet doublet and hoping his hair lays flat. A blush catches on his cheeks when you open the door to find him preening himself. The embarrassment is worth getting to hear you speak unbound to the niceties of court. You can feel the bond forming between you, the northern outsider and the Valyrian Prince who doesn’t look the part, what a pair you make. 

Baelor listens when you talk, so unlike the men who see you as a prize, a ticket to wardenhood- even if it’s in the North. It's not even just a curiosity for the woman who will be his wife, he genuinely wants to know you. The two of you find common ground most easily in nature. Riding out in the cool morning air, sword at his belt the only guard, and the wind whistling the only mindless chatter. He likes to see you in your element like this, a smile on your lips, eyes bright from the exertion, nothing to bind you into the confines of society. He can just be a man, in love with a woman, deep in the King’s Wood. often on your rides, you find yourselves off your horses; Baelor’s fine woolen cloak laid out in the grass, your hands in his hair and his mouth at your neck. He especially likes those mornings.

Lyonel: 

Definition of he fell first AND harder. You’ve heard all about Lyonel Baratheon before you even see him. Whispers traveled up the King’s Road of a beast of a man; wild, lascivious, barbaric, each rumor cruder and more shocking than the next. You knew most of the gossip was just meant to frighten you, a young wolf traveling south to your betrothed. Surely a knight had more honor than what was spoken of him, but it did not stop your trepidation.

He finds you in the misty gardens of Storm’s End, bracing yourself on a low branch, attempting to hop the garden wall. 

“My lady, are you in need of assistance?” 

You spin, silver gown whipping around your feet, to see a handsome stranger leaning against the archway. His blue eyes watch you playfully, and there's an easy grin across his lips. You don’t return the gesture. 

“I’m quite alright, thank you. No need to stare.” 

Hastily, you turn back to your task at hand, so rarely does a man’s smile alone shake a woman of Winterfell. You hear a shout from behind:

“What is it you’re doing?” 

Eyes roll, is it not obvious? 

“Nothing.” 

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” 

You huffed, your attempts at climbing the lattice proving futile. It did not help the penetrating stare of your gawker, boring into the back of your head. 

“Are you afraid of him, then?” 

His words made you pause. 

“Afraid? No. It is only that I have no desire to marry a silly southern knight. No doubt he’s off drinking or whoring right now, what kind of a life for a lady is that?” You say, haughtily, struggling again to climb the rain-slick branches. 

A glower paints your face when you hear him laugh. A deep, thunderous thing, rolling off his tongue in a way that makes your heart quicken. You turn, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to keep your upper hand. When he finally catches his breath, he manages to choke out a response.

“My dear lady, I can assure you that Ser Lyonel is, at least mostly, sober at the moment, and far from any brothel. Though I’m sure if the lady was willing, he would be happy to be of service.” 

Like any Lyonel romance, he is the ultimate ragebaiter. He loves to push your buttons, seeing how far he can take a joke before you snap. Sometimes it's well thought out, playing into your serious tone and pretending to be on the same page until you see a tell-tale glint in his eye. Other days, he's immediately doing what comes to mind; a quick tug on a braid, scooping you up from behind while you're focused, taking something out of your hands and holding it above your head. He doesn't mind if you growl, if you slap his arm or bite, he is thrilled to have your attention on him. Gods help any southern courtiers who try to do the same, commenting on the strange northern customs or the stoic set of your face, Lyonel goes from his usual smile to needing to be restrained. 

He is constantly at your elbow, ready to speak enough for the two of you. He adores it when you take his arm, not because you need it, but because you’re laying a claim on him. Lyonel loves too, to grab you up in his big arms and smother your face in kisses. There's a particular joy in you grumbling about distractions and decorum, but he can always feel you nuzzling closer. 

(Of course inspired by the scene in Queen Charlotte.)  

"Listen," he says urgently, "you need to get inside and lock the doors, alright? Gather what you can as a weapon, defend yourselves best you can if anyone tries to get in."

"You cannot," you hiss through gritted teeth, "seriously think I would leave you to fight alone out there, do you?"

He looks at you in disbelief. You're a fiery thing, he knows that, but you're also smarter than this. The highwaymen outnumber the villagers three to ones. Best bet is to hold out until the local lord's knights get here, but that will take some time still, which they don't have. It's not humble of him, but Dunk's certain he can make a difference out there.

But first, he needs you to be safe.

"Beg your pardon," he mumbles, "you'll yell at me all you want afterwards, but for now…"

He hoists you up on his shoulder without so much as grunting from the effort. You let out a shriek, more of surprise than anything else, and barely try to wiggle out of his grasp before he drops you inside a house — which means he must have really shocked you, which means you'll be very mad at him afterwards.

It's fine. He can take it.

"Egg, I'm countin' on you. You both stay here, alright?"

Then he closes the door with you still gaping at him, before his smartass squire can also find something to retort to him.

The fight is brutal and nasty. Mounted on Thunder, Dunk delivers swift, fatal blows, saving lives wherever he can. It is still a relief when the castle knights arrive, in time for most of the villagers to make it out unscathed.

It's a little while before he sees you again in the chaos that follows. When you approach him, your face is unreadable, and his heart sinks.

"Look, I'm so—"

He's cut short when you wrap your arms around his middle and hug him tight. Your hair comes to tickle his nose, and he goes very still for a few seconds before he dares to close his arms around you, as properly as he can.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"What for?"

"Saving my life and everyone else's out there. I'm sorry I gave you a hard time."

"Oh." He clears his throat, feeling his cheeks start to heat up. "Well, it wasn't much. Did my duty, is all."

"You did great," you say, and his entire body warms up. "I just hate it when there's nothing I can do to help you."

"You help me plenty," he replies, but he thinks you might have just lit a fire he'll never be able to put out inside his chest.

He hunches, wrapping himself around you more, greedily trying to get more of you. You let him, breathing in his scent, enjoying his warmth.

He knows, then and there, that it won't ever matter how mad it makes you.

He will never let anything happen to you.

DAERON

Daeron doesn't think he has a single protective bone in his body. He isn't built that way, or if he once was, it's been methodically driven out of him, little by little, every single time he failed to save someone from a death he'd foreseen, until all that was left was a wreck of man trying to dissolve himself into a pint of ale. Or beer. Or wine. Or anything he could drink that would blur the edges of his mind.

If he'd been protective, he would have fought his father much harder to avoid the wedding. If he'd been protective, he would never have allowed you to be dragged into his mess. But he is apathetic, and lazy, and a coward, and every day that he sees your lips tighten when you watch him drink himself into a deeper hole, every time you wipe his forehead or help him into bed or pick him up drunk out of his mind in a tavern, he hates himself a little more for it.

Truly, it's a good thing he isn't protective.

If he was, he would have thrown himself out of the Red Keep's windows by now.

He wakes up in a cold sweat from one of his recurring dream. It doesn't change much — a dragon spewing green flames, a castle engulfed within seconds, people charred and screaming as they die.

Except. Except this time.

This time you were there. Your body turned black and curled up on itself, mouth open wide in agony, any signs of your identity gone as even your bones turn to ashes.

He doesn't manage to reach the edge of the bed before he vomits all over his sheets, but he doesn't let it slow him down. He wipes his mouth as he drags himself out the bed, grabs the cup of water that is always, without fail, on his nightstand when he wakes up. He has said a million times he doesn't need it, and a million times you've ignored it.

For once, he is thankful for it. He downs it immediately and stumbles out of his room.

The Red Keep is dead quiet as he makes his way through it. He reaches your room and the door slams against the wall when he opens it. You jolt awake while he winces.

"Daeron? W-what's happening?"

Should it sting, that you're this shocked to see your husband? Or does it make sense that you wouldn't be expecting him at this hour? He cannot tell. His mind isn't cooperating, nor is his body, numb with fear.

He stumbles against your bed and all but falls in. You look terrified in the candlelight, eyes searching around for a threat of some kind, but there is none. This candle won't kill you, he thinks distantly, and that's when the futility of his endeavor catches up with him.

What is the point? Is he supposed to start fearing any fires he sees? Is he supposed to lock you up somewhere, far away from his family? Is he supposed to never see you again, never again feel your body under his, never again hear your laughter?

He fears he is much too selfish to ever make such a decision, and he collapses on your bed, out of breath.

You lean over him, eyes wide, trying to understand, and he reaches up to better memorize your face that he just saw melt in front of him.

"Sweet love," he whispers, "I hope I will not be there to watch you die."

Your hand comes up to rest on his, pressing it to your cheek.

"What are you talking about?" you ask softly. "No one is dying tonight."

Not tonight. But some day, certainly, and there is nothing to be done. Any step to avoid it will precipitate it; doing nothing means the same outcome.

It's all meaningless.

He needs a drink.

"What did you see?"

That is his gift to you, he decides, not telling you. He refuses to plague you with paranoia and fears and, even worse, hope. He kisses you with as clear a mind as he ever has, and you let him, fall into his touch with a sigh. He spends the night trying to compel you to memory, your face, your body, your whimpers, your scent. He lets himself drown in you instead of the alcohol, tells himself he will not waste any more time he could have by your side.

On another day, when you cry next to him in the carriage on the ride back to the Red Keep, he knows he is nothing but an incompetent liar, giving you hope one night and throwing it and himself into the gutter the next.

The one thing you truly need protection from is him.

VALARR

Valarr is intensely protective when he is around you, which is much less often than he would like it to be. Were he not a prince, he would stand guard in full armor in front of your chambers. As it stands, he sleeps by your side as often as he can, sword nearby — a ridiculous precaution within the Red Keep, as his cousins mocked him for — and settles for having a Kingsguard there when he is called elsewhere. He wishes he could be your sworn shield, escorting you through King's Landing when you decide to leave on a whim.

Since he cannot do that either most times, busy with lessons and other princely duties, he has settled for having a few guards dedicated to you, always ready to follow you where you wish. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel a longing in his chest when you stop by the library or the training yard to ask him if he wants to come and he must deny you, or that there isn't a vague jealousy that burns inside him before he squashes it, knowing he will not be the one keeping you safe.

Coming from the Free Cities, you find the armed escorts a little excessive, personally, but the Targaryens are no strangers to senseless violence. It is a small, selfish comfort at least, knowing that your husband worries so terribly, even if there is only so much time he can spend by your side.

"Was everything well today?" Valarr asks ser Donnel, finally able to escape a small council his father wanted him to attend but that seemed to last an eternity.

The Kingsguard clears his throat, and Valarr's attention narrows on him like lightning striking a tree.

"What happened? Where is my wife?"

The knight shakes his head.

"Nothing happened, my prince, your wife is quite fine and resting in her chambers. It's just, ah, she seemed rather upset today at the harbor."

"Why?" Valarr's voice is a low, dangerous growl. "Did someone try to attack you? Was someone unkind to her?"

"Not that I saw, my prince, no, but she cried the whole way home."

It doesn't take Valarr long to push open the door to your room. When you look up, cheeks streaked with tears and eyes puffy, he feels his body lunging forward without him having to command it. It's all instinct, his hands that reach to caress your face first, then move down your body looking for an injury.

"Are you hurt?"

You blink at him, then can't help a quiet, crystalline laugh of broken glass.

"I am not injured, husband," you say, grabbing his wrists to stop his fruitless searching.

You sigh, putting your forehead to his, and Valarr lets you, frozen in place, desperate to provide you with whatever it is you need.

"There was a merchant from— home. He sold flowers I had not smelled since I left, flowers that grew in our garden." Another quiet laugh. "I fear even you cannot shield me from homesickness, dearest husband."

That explanation does not satisfy him. He wipes your tears away with the gentlest of hands, a prince undone by your crying.

"If you know their name, I will have them planted in the Red Keep." He presses a kiss to your eyelids, and is relieved to see a smile has made its way on your lips. "Is there anything else you wish for? Fabrics or perfumes? Jewels or—"

You stop him with a finger to his lips, stop to trace their shape. He feels himself melt under your touch.

"It cannot be bought, what I am missing."

Valarr stares at you. He isn't used to problems without solutions, not with the strength of the Targaryen apparatus and the crown's treasure behind him. He knows to use them sparingly, certainly, but he knows that he can solve things. Yet now, he is brought to his knees by your tears and there is nothing he can do to quench them.

"We will visit," he says.

He doesn't think about it before the words slip past his lips, yet he knows the moment they do that he means them. It matters not that he is the heir to the crown; what matters is that his wife is crying, and he will do anything he must to shield her from this pain that ails her.

"I will bring you back home," he promises, an oath whispered into your mouth.

For now, all he can do is hold you, tightly clutching your body to his. One day, he prays quietly into the night, he will become your home.

And you will never have to cry again.

AERION

Aerion's protectiveness is tightly intertwined with ego and possessiveness. In the early days of your marriage, when he'd made his distaste of you clear, he would still not suffer any insult to you that could be read as disrespect towards him. You might not have the blood of the dragon running through your veins, but you bore his last name and shared his bed when he allowed it. When a noble woman mocks your birth to please him, he is swift and cruel; she leaves in tears.

It has nothing to do with you.

When you pique his interest and he discovers the joys of toying with you, protectiveness means mine. You're his to torment, no one else's. He finds it delightful, discovering what makes your eyes spark in anger, what makes your lip quiver, what leads you to hide a smirk behind your hand, as ill-conceived insults tend to. When a drunken lord claims that you must be barren or repulse your husband, after a year of marriage with no children, and your eyes shine with tears, Aerion joins him on the training grounds the next day; he breaks his wrist and shatters his ankle.

His rage, he tells himself, has everything to do with him.

You fall from your horse in Lys, having followed him in exile. He isn't there to see it happen, but he does see you approaching the house, riding in the back of a cart like a peasant. The useless knight he'd tasked with ensuring you wouldn't throw yourself at another man, as he's heard happens often in the Free City, isn't far behind, guiding your horse back into the courtyard.

Aerion is waiting for you on the steps when you arrive, hands behind his back, disdainful expression on his face. You don't need to brace yourself from his ire anymore — you've learned to let it slide of you.

"Did you fall? Surely, you are too old to think clumsiness would be endearing?"

"Believe it or not, husband, I did not throw myself off a horse for your attention," you sigh, tentatively putting a foot to the ground.

He watches critically when you try to stand. You let out a yelp when your second foot touches the floor and immediately lift it up again. Your knight takes a step towards; Aerion holds out a hand.

"Do not touch her."

He sees your jaw tightening. Your eyes focus on him, but you don't glare at him — you know better. You're guarded, worried.

"Will you force me to hop to the maester on one foot, husband?"

He is pleased by the sensible amount of fear in your voice. Good. You know who you are dealing with.

"Why did you fall?"

You draw in a sharp breath. Your pain makes it harder to hide your annoyance.

"There were fire-eaters in town. My horse got scared."

Aerion tuts, stepping closer to you.

"You will need more lessons. You should have known how to control her."

Before you need to bite your tongue to hold back an answer, his hand reaches under your knee while the other comes to encircle your torso. He lifts you up with little effort, and you heave a sigh of relief, holding on to his shoulders.

"Perhaps a horse with a mellower temperament would be more suited to your— abilities, too."

The knight walks towards him, arms outstretched.

"My prince, please, don't burden yourself, I'll—"

"I will cut any finger that you lay on her," Aerion says matter-of-factly. "Do not touch her, and go fetch a maester."

This time, the man knows better than to challenge him.

"You will need a better escort, too," Aerion keeps going, starting to walk you through the house. "One who can anticipate such issues. As for the fire-eaters, I will be magnanimous and only require that they be whipped."

"There really is no need—"

"People break their backs falling from horses. That would be unacceptable."

He holds you tighter than he needs, and you don't know if it's a comfort to you. He keeps blurring the lines, contradicting his words with his actions, switching between soft lips and sharp teeth like it's second nature.

"Thank you," you whisper when he drops you on your bed, and he goes very still, looking at you so intensely you worry you'll melt from the heat of his gaze.

He says nothing.

Later, when he watches the maester manipulates your ankle and nearly breaks the man's arm when you cry out in pain, he has a hard time keeping up the charade.

This might have everything to do with you after all.

listen daeron just makes me so sad i can't seem to write him having a good time. the other ones get to act chivalrous or, if they're aerion, be vaguely nice and act like a dick about it the whole time. meanwhile daeron is just having the worst time of his life, except it is his life. i'm sorry.