#ako7k

Part 3.5 of Seven Hells In You

Banner art and Maegon belong to @vivi-arttt

Aerion Targaryen x oc , Valarr Targaryen x oc , oc x oc

Summary: Maegon struggles with his feelings of betrayal towards Valarr while Haelene and Aerion have a jolly good time. The trial happens then, and a dear family member is lost in the fight.

Warnings: MDNI, INCEST, implied sexual content, targcest, character death, canon character death, implied gore, descriptions of gore and death, angst

The hours crept by slow and suffocating, though Aerion had soon announced he would joust the next round, and Haelene was all too happy to agree.

She pushed the door to her and Maegon's shared room open, and to no surprise found him on the bed still, staring up at the low ceiling above him. His green eyes looked dull in the dark light of the room, and he tossed a wooden cup before catching it again, the motion repetitive.

Haelene dropped the bundle of clothes she'd brought with her on the mattress and snatched the cup from his hands, ignoring his pointed glare.

"Get up," She demanded, her tone light, almost cheerful. "Aerion will joust later, I wish to attend it with you."

Maegon hummed softly, unmoving. "I hope he dies," He said bluntly, voice rough.

Haelene punched her fist into one of the bruises covering his torso, making him cringe and curl inward and onto his side, groaning into the sheets.

"Get up," Haelene repeated, firmer now, "I will dress you."

And she did, as she had always done. Fine-tuning the little details and lacing his boots in perfect symmetry. She drew a cape over his perfectly tailored clothes, one of black and red velvet, a little looser than the capes she usually gave him. A silver broach pinned it in place, shaped like dragon wings.

She collected his silver hair in her hands and brushed through the curls quickly, twisting in a simple braid into it to keep it out of his face while letting the rest sit loose on his shoulders.

The horns sounded just as she finished up the last fine details and stepped back to observe her precise work while Maegon stood awkwardly in front of the mirror.

"It feels pretentious," He stated.

"Our whole marriage is pretentious," Haelene argued. "This is the least you could do."

Maegon mocked her silently when she turned away for a moment, rolling his shoulders to let the heavy robe sit a little more comfortably in its place.

They made their way to the tourney field in measured steps, close enough to seem like a true couple, though their hands remained at their sides and their eyes straight ahead.

Haelene caught onto Aerion as soon as she was sat in place, shooting him a wide grin. The prince returned it with his own cocky smile, spurring his stallion forth towards the various pavilions.

He paused in front of Valarr's pavilion, speaking a few words to his cousin before he continued a little further down the line, and took as his challenge ser Humfrey Hardyng.

Haelene glanced sideways at Maegon, noting his burning glare at the brown haired prince who sat in front of his tent, lounging lazily while the game unfolded.

The horn sounded once more, and Aerion charged at the knight, dodging his lance in a foul move. Haelene laughed at the play, clapping her hands together at the displeased crowd. She ignored Maegon's heavy sigh beside her and the way Baelor's head sank into his hand slowly, all the while Aerion rounded his horse again, ready for the next charge.

He held the lance low, dangerously so. And just before ser Hardyng's own lance could strike his shield, Aerion burst the sharp point into his opponent's mount.

The beast tumbled to the ground, legs flailing in the air, Ser Hardyng's leg shattered beneath the weight of the animal.

Aerion looked again to the stands for approval, though he received only silent looks and a pained frown on Haelene's face, her lip curled up at the sight of the horse on the ground. She rose from her seat and descended the steps rather hurriedly, leaving her husband by himself. Maegon perked up, grinning slightly at his little brother's failed display and the most astounded look on his face.

Aerion caught Haelene later, just before the dinner lord Ashford had prepared for the family. He pulled her into an abandoned room, shutting the door silently before he turned to face her fully.

"You left," He said, a hint of frustration seeping through his words.

"I did," Haelene agreed, looking down at his fingers snaking up her waist, toying at the fabric of her dress. "You went too far by slaying the horse," She told him, pulling back a little to create some space between the two of them, something Aerion preferred to keep out.

Aerion scoffed at her words, ignoring her silent plea for more room and following her movements closely, his hand coming up to touch her braided hair, tracing the outline of the faux horns.

"My apologising won't bring the thing back," He whispered, leaning close enough to press his lips to her temple in an almost soothing kiss. "But I could show you just how sorry I am."

He pressed her into the wall then, his mouth travelling to her neck while his hands lifted her skirts.

"Aerion," She breathed, shoving his arms away, "not here, not now."

And though he was persistent, even he knew not to overstep. He leaned back a little, his eyes falling on her braided horns again, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"I did not mean to upset you," He whispered, his tone soft, "Truly."

It brought the slightest of smiles onto her face, and this time she initiated contact by brushing a thumb over his lip. "It was foul play," She whispered, and Aerion hummed softly, inching his face closer to hers. "But I expected nothing less from you, Aerion."

They shared a grin and a kiss, quiet laughter spilling from their lips. Aerion tugged her closer by her waist, pressing himself against her and grinding his hips into hers.

"Will you join me?" He asked suddenly, pulling back a little. "I will explore the tourney grounds, after dinner."

Haelene shook her head, raking her fingers through his pale cropped hair. "I promised my father a word."

The dinner was slow and boring, as it was the night before. The same stories, the same even tone, and the same music playing gently in the background.

Even Baelor seemed to tire of it, and he sat with a heavy sigh later that evening, when the sun started to set already. Haelene entered the makeshift study he currently occupied, holding a few pages of parchment with hastily scribbled notes.

"Ah," Baelor smiled upon the sight of his daughter, "my Master of Horses."

Haelene slipped into the chair opposite him, laying the papers down in front of him. Baelor studied them for a moment before his mismatched eyes sought hers, seeking an explanation.

"I've written down the suitable farmers to see to their feed, and I've studied the horses playing in the jousts today," The princess explained, tapping an inked name. "Lord Tyrell has a stallion I've set my sights on, he would do well with the mares in our stable."

Baelor nodded slowly, his attention drifting back to the papers spread out in front of him. Haelene continued her rambling, criticising every horse she'd seen today and noting their temperaments and physical qualities.

She was interrupted soon, when stars had begun to show themselves in the dark cloak of night. A knight hurried into the room, not bothering with pleasantries and pardons. He made his way to her father, leaning down to whisper something discreet and hushed.

Baelor only nodded, and gestured to the princess. "Escort Princess Haelene back to her rooms, I will see to this mishap."

"Your Grace?" Haelene started, rising from her seat. Baelor dismissed her with a flick of his wrist, and she was ushered out of the room by the dark cloaked knight, led through the corridors and back to her and Maegon's room.

Her husband was already there, his face buried in a pillow, his tunic and boots forgotten on the floor.

Haelene approached him when the door clicked shut, though no footsteps followed, and she knew the knight kept watch outside.

She tapped a finger to his head, and he stirred at the touch, his voice slurred.

"Val?" He murmured, blinking his green eyes open.

Haelene sighed heavy, rounding the bed to get to her side. "Idiot."

They were startled awake the next morning by heavy banging on the door and an order shouted by Maekar to get ready at once.

Haelene blinked her eyes open, lifting her head from Maegon's arm where it formerly rested. Maegon lay beside her, heavy circles beneath his eyes, twirling a lock of hair around his finger. It seemed he did not sleep at all, or barely.

"What's happening?" She asked, to which Maegon shrugged his shoulders, slowly getting out of bed.

Haelene followed, slipping out of her nightshift and into her velvet red dress. The corset sat snugly against her skin, not too tight, not too loose. Her skirts dragged along the floor, no doubt dirtied within the first our of the day, but it did not bother her. Her bodice was embroidered with flames and stars of gold, shining brightly in the summer sun.

Maegon's expression faltered when she pulled out of the closet a perfectly tailored piece for him as well, almost alike to hers.

"Absolutely not," He said, shaking his head when she stepped closer.

"Absolutely," Haelene countered, tugging him towards the mirror.

He stood and watched her dress him, and though he hated her hands lacing up his boots and clipping on his cloak, he had to admit the clothes themselves were rather comfortable.

When she was done at last, she had him sit on a low chair, brushing through his hair and twisting it into three braids, letting the rest fall over his shoulders, just as she did the day before.

Then she twisted her own hair into her favoured dragon horns and sprayed her honeyed perfume on her wrists and neck, and one on Maegon's hair.

"It's in my eye," He complained, blinking rapidly to get the sting out.

When they stepped out of the shockingly empty castle and into the tourney grounds, they were met with chaos. Commoners running around, urging other's to place bets on the accused or the accusers, lords and ladies hurrying to the stands.

Their guards paved a path for them by shoving people to the side and staying nearby, guiding them towards the field, where the crowd was thicker and rowdy.

"Where is Aerion?" Haelene asked one of the guards behind her, lifting up her skirts to walk a pace faster. "Where is my father?"

"He will be there, Your Grace," The man assured her with a nod and a smile.

Haelene frowned, feeling Maegon tug at her arm, pulling her up the steps to the stands. All their family's assigned seats were empty, and only Gwynn sat in her place, while the rest was nowhere to be found.

"Where is Aerion?" Haelene asked again, turning to Maegon this time.

He rolled his eyes, pushing her into her chair and seating himself beside her. "I don't know, I don't care."

Out of frustration, Haelene turned to Gwynn at last, leaning in close. "What's going on?"

The girl shook her head, big eyes darting from the field to the prince and princess. "A trial by combat, Prince Aerion accused Ser Duncan for striking him the day before," She explained quickly.

But before Haelene could press further, the horn sounded, shaking the crowd. The gates to the field opened to let the kingsguard through, three ghostly white cloaks riding through the mist. Maekar and Aerion followed, and Daeron behind them.

Haelene and Maegon sat stiff in their seats, silent anger boiling within them as they watched the groups collect and step into their places. They glared at the hedge knight's speech, and then at Baelor's entrance.

Haelene clutched the edges of her seat, her fists shaking with rage. "He's foolish," She said aloud, and Maegon could only hum in agreement.

The trial started then, but Haelene could not hear past the ringing in her ear and the echoes of the crowd. She watched Aerion beat the giant man into the dirt, while the knight got up time and time again. She watched Baelor fight Maekar, stumbling back and forth after a hit against his helmet. Valarr's helmet.

Ser Duncan cut down Aerion then, and the boy's screams cut across the battlefield. Haelene's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Maegon snickered softly beside her, tapping his boot against the side of her heel in a silent mockery. She pinched his skin in turn, digging her nails into the flesh until he jerked away from her.

The rest of the trial seemed a blur, figures lost in the mist, screams dulled by helmets and the mud they fell into. Haelene and Maegon inched closer to the edge of their seat with each hit and each loss, until the horn blew one last time, and Aerion crawled off the field.

It wasn't long after that, when Haelene and Maegon stood in the corner of Aerion's room in Ashford castle, watching the maester carefully stitch and clean the boy's wounds that a guard hurried into the room, his voice shaking when he spoke.

Prince Baelor had fallen due to a wound too great. Pretty words for a broken skull with the brains pouring out of him, Haelene would later discover. Her father had collapsed on the spot, into the hedge knight's arms, in her brother's armour.

Maekar was shaken with grief and rage alike, and he spoke to no one but Aerion's sleeping form. Haelene heard it when she listened in from outside the room, a tray of food in hand, a fresh cloth for her cousin's wounds over her shoulder.

It was at Baelor's funeral that Maekar spoke again, though only after they watched the body burn and the silent sisters came to collect his ashes from the pile.

Valarr had reached for Maegon's hand, and though the touch was small, Maegon had returned it. All the while Haelene stood right beside him, clutching her own skirts for comfort.

Maekar stopped Maegon on their way back, grasping his son's arm and yanking him back a step, out of the other's ear shot.

"Your wife has just lost her father," He whispered sharply, his jaw tight.

"My wife is far too busy tending to my brother," Maegon said after a moment, pulling out of the man's grip.

The hour was late when Haelene stepped into her room, her eyes heavy from the day passed. She unlaced her gown slowly, trying to stop her hands from their involuntary shaking.

She'd gone to see Aerion in a rare moment of waking, and he spoke of his sorry loss and the stitches he felt every time he moved his leg. She had told him of Baelor in turn, and lied that she did not grieve him. Aerion had squeezed her hand lightly and smiled softly, "Of course you don't," He had whispered, though it sounded as false as her own lie had.

She turned to the bed now, after tugging on her nightshift and tucking the laces in the front instead of tediously tying them as she would do every night.

Maegon lay propped up against the headboard, flipping through some notes on parchment, written in thick black ink.

"You think my stallion is unfit?" He asked, flicking his finger at one of the notes. Her notes from the night before, the notes Baelor was supposed to study.

Haelene crawled onto the mattress, tucking herself into the sheets. "Yes," She answered sternly and stubbornly, a tone he had grown all too used to.

It was silent for a while, with Maegon scanning over the papers and squinting his eyes at some parts, while he shrugged at others.

"I did not want to see it."

Haelene's whisper was small, barely audible, but it caught his attention nonetheless. Maegon turned his face to her, but she remained staring at the ceiling, hands clasped over her stomach.

"See what?" He inquired, his voice a little rougher than expected.

"Baelor," Haelene said, pausing, thinking. "I saw it, his skull, his wound."

Maegon sat quietly beside her, his posture a little tenser than before, his fingers fidgeting at the edges of the parchment. He laid them down on his bedside table after a moment, reaching one hand to his wife.

Haelene stiffened at his touch, her eyes snapping from his hand on hers to his face. Words failed him in moments like these, and physical comfort was not something either of them ever offered each other.

She shifted away slightly, nudging his hand back to his side. "Valarr might seek comfort from you, too," She said then.

Maegon could only nod, slipping beneath the covers. "He might."

The news of Aerion's exile would come later, and Haelene would plead and beg Maekar to let her go with him, though she knew as well as anyone the prince was unlikely to agree.

It all goes downhill from here

masterlist

wc : 5,4k

Part three of Seven Hells In You

Banner art and Maegon belong to @vivi-arttt

Aerion Targaryen x oc , Valarr Targaryen x oc , oc x oc

Summary: On their way to the tourney, Maegon attempts to win Valarr over after their dispute while Haelene and Aerion seem to have no trouble making up. At the joust, Maegon challenges a worthy foe and finds everything but victory.

Warnings: MDNI, INCEST, implied sexual content, targcest, implied gore (mild), violence, physical violence, Maekar is a bad parent

The day was young, and warmer still. A gentle breeze drifting through the old oak tree beside the stables.

Maegon watched knights and servants fuss about, carrying heavy luggage onto carriages and strapping men into their gear. Stable boys saddled the family's mounts and swept a quick brush over their coats, feeding them a few handfuls of oats for the journey ahead.

Maegon held his grey stallion on a loose rein, standing beside the horse's head in the shadows of the tree. His eyes were on Valarr, who seemed dead set on ignoring him.

Haelene fussed at the saddle on the stallion's back, tightening a strap and tucking it into the leather. "I told you," She started, her voice sharp and accusing, "to prepare him for the journey."

Maegon could not help but sigh loudly, green eyes rolling in his skull. "I did," He argued, already tired of his wife's nitpicking.

"He's fat, Maegon," Haelene said curtly, coming to stand before him.

"That's just how he's built," The pale haired prince nodded, stroking the destrier's velvety nose.

Haelene frowned, inching closer to study Maegon's attire now. She straightened the cloak over his shoulders and drew it tighter around him, tucking his hair behind his ears quickly, before he had a chance to pull away.

Maegon bit the insides of his cheek in frustration, though there were too many eyes around to refuse her, which she made use of. The mark on her cheek from a night or two ago had bloomed into an ugly bruise, blue and purple spread over her cheekbone beneath her right eye. They had told the court she fell and bruised herself on the edges of the bed, though their distance and the subtle flinch whenever they brushed against each other said more than enough.

Haelene made for her horse then, and the family was ready to depart. Maegon's head throbbed with a dull ache at the idea of being stuck to his wife's side for the next few days, riding behind his father and Daeron and in front of his demonic little brothers.

The road was long, and Maegon looked back on the city of Kingslanding that grew smaller with every step. There was no talking between him and his wife, only some whispers amongst their fathers and some laughter from the very back of the long trail of knights.

Haelene's mare was quick and light on her feet, taking every hill and stone path at an easy pace whilst Maegon's stallion huffed nearly every time he lifted a hoof to set another step. Haelene was right, his mount was fat and likely unfit to travel, but Maegon's pride would not allow his horse to falter.

Meanwhile, Valarr was still all too set on ignoring him, riding out in front of him without looking back once. His posture was rigid, his tone clipped when he answered one of Daeron's drunken questions. Maegon would do anything to have the young prince to himself again. And so he would, he decided.

On the first day, he found a shiny feather, and upon further inspection he found a nest with eggs still unhatched. He brought it to Valarr, who merely glanced at it and then cursed at someone to put it back where it belonged. Maegon blamed it on one of the squires instead of owning up to it.

On the second day he found a shiny beetle, though in his attempt to deliver it to the prince Maekar found him and smacked him over the head, demanding Daeron and Aegon's whereabouts. Maegon never got to bring the beetle to its destination.

The third day was soured completely by Maekar, and he kept a close eye on Maegon, swearing he'd tie a rope to him to keep him within eyesight. Aerion was happy as a clam, for he got to ride beside Haelene, if only for a day.

The fourth day, Maegon continued his pursuit by fetching a series of shiny rocks from the creek besides their makeshift camp. Haelene splashed his face with the cold water and laughed at the mud splatters in his pale hair, tugging harshly on one of the curls. Maegon swatted her hands away and brought the rocks to Valarr's tent, hiding them away under the boy's pillow as a surprise.

Valarr complained of neck pains and a headache the next day, swearing it must've been one of the squires that put those nasty rocks under his pillow. Maegon braided the feather from the first day into the mane of Valarr's mount, a silent plea for forgiveness.

That night as Maegon stepped into his and Haelene's shared room of the inn, Valarr was waiting for him there, the feather in his hand.

"It wasn't the squire," He said, his tone even, expression unreadable.

Maegon loosened his belt and set his sword and dagger to the side, shaking his head, his eyes never leaving Valarr. "No."

The brown haired prince's brows drew together in a frown, a small smile curling at his lips. "Why did you put rocks beneath my pillow?"

Maegon stared at him, his voice quiet when he spoke. "It was a surprise."

Valarr's quiet laughter filled the room, though it died out as soon as Haelene stepped through the door. Her skirts were ripped and her hair a mess, a nasty mark just below her jaw. She glanced once between the two men, tilting her head slightly.

"Get out," She said to her brother, who didn't waste a moment to slip past Maegon, hands touching only briefly.

When the door clicked shut again, the couple turned to face each other, lips curling in disgust. Maegon could strangle Haelene, with her reckless behaviour and dishevelled state. His hand came up to test at the bruise beneath her eye, still prominent and dark, as if to mock him. He'd hoped it would fade in a day or two, since the blow itself had been brief and not nearly as hard as the wound made it seem to be.

"You saw Aerion," He said, a statement rather than a question. His eyes fell on the hickey in her neck, and he pressed a finger onto it, making her cringe. "How do you plan to make up for this?" He continued, glancing down to her ripped gown.

Haelene pushed his hand away, starting on the laces of her gown. "We share a room, don't we? No one will suspect."

The night after that was one of stories, and the men shared drinks around the campfire they had set up for themselves, wrapped in their cloaks and heavy furs.

Maegon gulped another cup of ale down, the liquid pouring easily down his throat. He sat near ser Donnell, listening in on stories of old battles and long summer nights.

Inching closer and closer until his knee brushed against the older man's, the rest of the men had long since moved on to another topic, their tones low. The knights white cloak and armour lay forgotten at the foot of his tent, and he seemed like a different man entirely. Loose, relaxed, almost.

Maegon's speech was slightly slurred as he leaned in, pupils swallowing up the green in his irises, a red flush over his cheeks.

Maekar sat a little further away, deep in conversation with Haelene. She spoke of Maegon's fat horse and her fear for the mount when he would ride it on the tourney field, she claimed the beast was certain to misstep and wound itself.

Maekar did not listen to her ramblings, keeping his eyes trained on his son instead. He noted Maegon's lazy smile, the close proximity between him and the knight, and his son's straying hand touching at the white cloak's thigh.

He excused himself from his conversation with Haelene, and after slamming his cup down onto a treestump strode over to where his son sat. Maekar's hand was rough when it reached and grabbed the boy's collar, though Maegon was far too drunk to truly care.

He was dragged off somehwere to the side, where the light of the fires in the camp could barely reach them. Maekar was all but gentle with his second son, and he slammed him harshly against a tree, his back connecting to the wood with a dull thud.

"Have you lost your mind?" The older man hissed, his voice low despite the privacy their spot granted them.

Maegon only shook his head, green eyes trying to make sense of the situation, his brain catching up with his father's words soon enough.

"I will not have you make a fool of me, of our family," Maekar continued, disgust ugly on his face, "by prancing around like a whore amongst men. What have you become?"

Maegon swallowed hard, gone completely still in his father's hold. "I just..." He started, though he could not find the words to finish it.

"Your wife was there, she was stood right there!" Maekar was rambling now, out of frustration, Maegon could tell. "And you turn your eye to this," His father stopped, the words catching in his throat.

"What have you become?" He repeated.

Maegon had no answer to that, none that he would like. He lashed out instead, shoving at his father's chest and breaking from his grip. His attempt to swing a fist at the man's head was quickly shut down when he seized his wrist, the other hand coming down quick and hard on the prince's brow. The boy winced, staggering back a step or two.

"Go to your tent," Maekar said, pushing him in the right direction, "and sober up."

Their arrival to Ashford meadows was delayed only a little, and Haelene rode a few paces in front of Maegon, his mount struggling to keep up after the long journey.

At their dismount, she took both the horses reins, dismissing the stable boy with a glare. "I will see to them," She insisted, watching her husband stride off without so much as a glance her way.

She caught snippets of conversations as she led the horses to the stable, passing a tall young man standing by Aerion's mount. His glances at her did not go unnoticed, though she pointedly ignored him.

After seeing to the horses, Haelene made her way inside to wash up and tour Ashford castle. It was smaller than she had expected, and she was disappointed to find she had to share yet another room with her lord husband, though she believed it was one of the largest rooms available.

She sat through dinner with a smile and a nod, listening to the fat lord Ashford's stories. It was dull, and she leaned toward Maegon only slightly. "He's quite the bore," She whispered, earning a hum of agreement.

"Tell me about it."

From across the table, Aerion's eyes narrowed sharply, glancing between the couple. His foot slid over the floor, boot tapping against the side of Haelene's heel, inching up her heavy skirts bit by bit. He was desperate to gain any form of attention from her, satisfaction evident when he saw her lips quirk up into the smallest of grins.

The joust started when the sun had already set far beneath the treetops, and Haelene climbed up onto the stands, following Baelor's directions to her seat. Right beside Maegon, who leaned forward in his seat, eyes fixed on his cousin in the field.

The crowd cheered at the first charge, and Haelene made notes to Maegon about the mounts and their condition, and how to approach a charge based on the animal's speed and strength. And though he pretended not to listen, Maegon noted every comment.

The following morning he entered the lists and had his squire dress him in his armour. Haelene and Maekar stood in front of him, watching the boy struggle with the clasps and straps of his shining silver plate.

Maekar had promised to stay and watch Maegon's challenge against one of the lords, and afterwards he would go out to search for his lost sons. Haelene would much rather have stayed in bed with Aerion, but even she knew she had appearances and duties to uphold.

"Leave it," She hissed to the squire, her patience worn thin as she stepped forth and clipped the last of Maegon's plates into place, her hands quick and firm.

The boy stood to the side, sheepishly shifting his feet beneath him.

"Fetch his shield," Haelene commanded, reaching her hand up to her husband's curls before he swatted it away. "You can do that much, can't you?" She asked the squire.

Out of all people, Maegon thought it wise to challenge Lyonel Baratheon. He jumped into the saddle, shield and lace in hand, and spurred Silver forward. Straight to the Laughing Storm's pavilion.

Haelene knew it would either end in travesty or a soured mood, neither in her husband's favour, but she let him play his games and have his fun.

She watched the first lance break and splinter, the shock of the blow sending Maegon backwards in the saddle, though he remained mounted. The crowd cheered, shaking the stands and making her ears ring.

The second charge was faster, Maegon's grip on the lance tighter, his strike quicker and harder. Though this lance broke too, and Lyonel still sat in his saddle.

Haelene could see her husband's frustration in the tight set of his shoulders and the way he pushed Silver forward just a little too hard, snatching the next lance from his squire's hands and turning his destrier just a little too tight. The horse's hind sent the boy onto the muddied ground, having him scramble to his feet to prevent getting trampled when Maegon rode forward again.

The third lance broke as well, though the next one hit its mark. The prince flew off his horse's back and into the dirt, rolling a few times before he found his footing again. The crowd rejoiced in Lyonel's victory, chanting out his name.

Haelene watched her husband slam his shield onto the ground and push past his squire, into his tent where he would no doubt spend the rest of the day sulking.

"Go to him," Maekar said, ushering her to her feet. "Now."

And Haelene obeyed, begrudgingly. She stepped into the tent just in time to avoid an armour plate thrown her way and her cousin's most frustrated cursing.

"You've made quite the fool of yourself already," She stated calmly, taking a seat in one of the chairs set up in the small space. "Must you make it worse?"

"Shut up," Maegon spat at her, ripping off the last of his armour and tossing it onto the pile.

"Challenging Lyonel Baratheon," His cousin continued, shaking her head slowly, "on your fat horse? You were bound to lose, and stupid enough not to see it. Cocky, perhaps."

"Enough!" Maegon yelled, flipping over the table beside her, the few goblets that formerly stood on it now falling to the ground.

He hated her, he really did. He hated the look she gave him, the fading bruise beneath her eye, and the mockery she made of him.

"Leave!" He shouted at her, though he was the one turning around and storming out of the tent.

The stands cleared themselves out, until no one remained. There stood only a few knights and family at the pavilions, sipping from their cups or speaking of challengers.

Maekar stomped through the grounds, kicking up mud with every step. He flung Maegon's tent flap open, but was met with only Haelene and Baelor tensely sharing some wine and speaking in low voices.

"Maegon wandered off," Haelene said when she noticed the sour look on the man's face. She waved her hand around, frowning. "Somewhere.."

Baelor traced the rim of his cup with a thumb, his brows raised, though his eyes did not stray from his hands.

It did little to soothe Maekar, and he stormed back outside, eyes scanning the fields for any sign of his silver-haired offspring. He found him a few tents away, lounging next to his cousin, The Young Prince. They sat close, just a little too close to be friendly, and just a little too loose to be hostile.

It hit Maekar then, just as it did that night around the fireplace.

Maegon noticed little of his father's approach, until he stood before him, with his hands already at his collar.

"Have you lost your mind?" The man growled through clenched teeth, his grip painfully tight.

Maegon's hand came up to catch his father's wrist, but his iron grip did not relent, if anything, it only tightened further. He felt the shaking start in his legs, a pathetic trembling, before it ran through his whole body. He only hoped Valarr would not notice how he had gone three shades paler than before.

He looked towards him then for help, but the brown haired prince seemed interested only in shining up his helmet.

Maegon reached for him, but he did not look up, not even when Maekar dragged his son away. And Maegon believed he never hated him as much as he did now.

Haelene stepped into their shared given chambers with a bowl of lukewarm water and a cloth, her eyes falling immediately upon her husband sitting at the edge of the bed.

His body was bruised from the joust, though his face and arms from something else. His father's rough hands, another fight lost. Maekar's rings made clean cuts along Maegon's brow and cheek, cuts that bled and threatened to scar.

Haelene set the bowl down on the bedside table, dipping the cloth in water and wringing it out slightly. Her hand caught his jaw, tilting his face upwards, and Maegon leaned into the touch.

The room was quiet, save for the few sobs escaping Maegon's lips. Haelene had insisted on cleaning up and tending to his wounds, for it was one of her strange interests, and she claimed Aerion always let her do it. It didn't surprise Maegon in the slightest, though he was glad for the uneasy comfort her touch brought.

Haelene's fingers were surprisingly warm against his skin, her face twisted in concentration. Maegon would almost call it cute if he didn't know her better than he did.

She set the cloth down in water again, picking up a small pot of crushed up herbs. It smelled fresh and sharp, though it looked like chewed up grass and mud.

It stung when she applied it to his wounds, and he flinched away from the touch, one hand coming up to grab her wrist. "It stings," He complained, inching backwards when she brought her hand forth again.

"Suck it up," Haelene answered, applying the rest of the ointment to his face.

Maegon watched her while she worked, the look on her face, her relaxed posture. He rubbed his thumb once over her wrist, and once more when she did not react. She froze at the third time, stormy eyes staring into his green ones.

Slowly, Maegon rose from his seated position, until he towered over her again, his hand still on her wrist. He sought her warmth, her comfort, any comfort, and leaned closer. Close enough for their foreheads to touch and their noses to brush, close enough for his free hand to brush her jaw and his lips to fall upon hers before she shoved him back onto the bed.

Haelene stood stiff as a statue, her fists clenched at her sides, a scowl on her face. "Are you mad?" She scoffed, peering down at him. "My helping you was not an invitation."

And with that she turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her. Maegon was left on the bed, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He lay there coated in his shame and dreading the night to come.

Outside his window, he heard Maekar depart with a few of his men. Hooves beating against the stone ground, fading into the distance until there was nothing but silence.

Nothing but his spiralling thoughts.

Long chapter whups

he only lady deemed worthy of marrying the newly crowned king of Westeros was you, shy and scared of intimacy you must battle the court as a new wife and queen

Baelor Targaryen x Lannister! Reader

Word count: 2,811

CW: MDI, 18+, age gap, arranged marriage, fertility issues, miscarriage, talks of stillbirth, angst, nausea, throwing up, drinking, depression, reader is described as having golden hair and implied as being shorter than Baelor. no other physical descriptions. alcohol abuse. kind proofread. kind of an open ending, i hope you enjoy it (im scared)

Masterlist | one | two | three

authors note: i know i said i wanted to include a flashback of Baelor and his sons but it didn’t make sense to include it in this. thank you all fro your amazing ideas for this. this is the last part but i will be writing drabbles for them!

sent to the keep to find prince to take to husband. You choose Maekar Targaryen. who despite his public aversion to the match is egar to get on his knees for you in private.

Requested (1)

Maekar Targaryen x Lannister!reader

Word count: 1,400

Cw: 18+, MDI, smut, oral (f receiving), Maekar trying to pre tend he isn’t in love with reader when he is, enemies to lovers? Kinda?

Authors note: I’m getting back into writing after a month unplanned hiatus. It’s shorter than I wanted but I hope you enjoy!

Part two of Seven Hells In You

Banner art and Maegon belong to @vivi-arttt

Aerion Targaryen x oc , Valarr Targaryen x oc , oc x oc

Summary: After the night shared together, Haelene and Maegon share hallucinations and dreamed delusions. Their lovers confront them on it one night, and frustration has them lash out at one another.

Warnings: MDNI, INCEST, 18+, sexual themes, cheating, toxic relationships, fluff if you squint, smut if you squint, targcest eugh, questionable actions towards their spouses (idk?? 😭)

The rustle of sheets was soft, the touch trailing over Haelene's arm was softer still. Her skin shone warm in the light of the sun, two coloured curls falling over her face, casting a curtain around the man beneath her.

She was bare beneath the furs, hips pushing, grinding. A moan slipped from the man's lips, his arms coming up around her waist, pulling her into him.

She brushed her fingers through his silver-gold hair, tugging at the strands. "Aerion," She breathed, capturing his lips then.

Her lashes fluttered when she pulled back, staring into green eyes and holding long curls instead of short cropped hair. "Maegon?"

The shock of it shook her awake, stormy eyes flying open, immediately blinded by the harsh light coming from outside. She lay in a tangle of blankets and furs, her hair fallen out of its usual night braid and her shift turned and bunched on her frame.

The dream lingered, as much as she tried to push it to the back of her mind. It had been two weeks since that night now, but it seemed it was hard to shake off the effects. Her dreams usually revolved around Aerion, and Aerion alone, nevermind his idiot brother. Her idiot husband.

Haelene cringed, ringing a bell with haste. Almost immediately, the doors to her room swung open, two serving maids rushing into the space. They set a plate and a cup of wine on the table before turning to Haelene, hands trembling, ready to fuss at her.

"What are you lingering around for?" The princess snapped, kicking the sheets off her. The ladies departed at once, with only a mumbled plea for forgiveness.

Haelene dressed herself in silence, pulling on breeches and boots instead of her usual skirts and dresses. The morning was warm, and the day promised to bring more heat into Kingslanding, perfect weather for a ride, Haelene decided.

Her sworn sword walked five paces behind her on their way to the stable, and while Haelene fumbled with her leather gloves, another man came to walk beside her.

"You've been avoiding me," He whispered, leaning in close.

The knight behind them gave a quick cough, noting their close proximity.

"Yet again, I spent a night alone." Aerion continued, glancing back at the white cloak in disdain.

Haelene finished with her gloves, trudging into the stables and nodding towards her sworn sword, who turned on his heel and left.

"It would raise suspicion," She said, a flimsy excuse.

Aerion followed close behind her as she made her way past the other horses, stopping briefly at Maegon's mount to feed it half an apple. Her cousin huffed out a laugh, shrugging his shoulders.

"And yet," He started, "your lord husband still seeks out your brother every night. Is that not suspicious?"

Haelene sighed aloud, arriving at last at her own mare. A beautiful beast that shone copper in the sun, with long legs built for show and speed. Haelene would often brush her till her coat shone bright and soft as silk, fed the finest oats and sappy apples and given water straight from creeks and rivers.

"I'm not avoiding you, Aerion," Haelene assured her cousin, stroking her mare's neck somewhat lovingly. "I've been busy."

It was just another excuse, Aerion knew, though he cared little if he simply got what he wanted. The boy leaned close again, teasing his fingers into the waistband of Haelene's breeches and tugging lightly. His lips landed upon her jaw in a chaste kiss, pulling away almost immediately.

"Come see me tonight," He whispered to her, the warmth of his hand slipping away in time with his step backwards. "Please?"

Haelene thought on it for a while, though her answer was known to the both of them already. She could most definitely use the distraction, and hopefully it would turn her vivid dreams to Aerion again, instead of her lord husband.

"I'll be there," She promised, taking one glance at their surroundings before returning the kiss, right at the corner of his mouth.

Aerion departed with a grin, casting one last look over his shoulder while Haelene saddled her mount.

Maegon's day started lazy, as did any other day when he willed it so. He stretched himself in the bed, not his bed, he noted around the pounding in his head. Too much wine the night prior, a long talk on the prince's balcony in the last light of the sun.

He remembered it, Valarr's hand on his knee, then in his hair, toying with the white curls. The simple smile that graced his lips, it seemed to come easy when he was around Maegon. It seemed genuine. And Maegon believed it was.

He prided himself on that, and he wanted no other to see that smile. No one but him.

Valarr, who lay beside him now, asleep at an hour prince's should not be sleeping. Maegon traced one finger over the white in his hair, shuffling closer. His face looked soft, a different kind of gentle from the mask he wore at court. Something you could only see in sleep.

A kiss was pressed to the brown haired prince's temple, and then his cheek, and lastly his mouth. It roused him from sleep and drew his arms around his cousin's neck, drawing him in close.

"Maegon," The boy whispered, and Maegon's heart stuttered in its pace. He cradled the prince's face in his hands, a smile curling his lips.

"No," He said in turn, "Guess again."

It earned him a playful shove to his shoulder and the softest of laughs, arms soon returning to their former position, wrapped around his neck.

Valarr smiled and curled into his embrace, laying one ear over his heart and listening to the rapid beating. Maegon never did get used to it, no matter how many times they lay together or how much time they spent together, this closeness that was reserved only for him made his heart race.

"Don't you have courtly duties to attend?" Maegon asked eventually, though his cousin wanted to hear nothing of it and swallowed his words with a kiss.

"Just a little longer," He murmured between caresses, pulling Maegon closer still.

The morning was long and lazy, uninterrupted by servants or fathers. Valarr and Maegon lay a long time yet in the bed, snoozing off in each other's embrace. Until time came when even Maegon couldn't deny his duties any longer, and he regrettably dragged himself out of bed.

With one last kiss to Valarr he departed the room, dishevelled from sleep still, and made way to his and Haelene's shared chambers. The room was empty and cold when he walked in, the bed neatly made by Haelene's serving maids. She must've left early in the morning, likely to the stables. Maegon was glad for her lack of presence, for now he could dress himself in a set of comfortable breeches and boots instead of her tight laced clothes.

The rest of the day would progress like any other, in which he pointedly ignored Maekar, and avoided Baelor. He spent some time later on with his grandfather, playing a set of cards and winning a bottle of king Daeron's favourite wine. He circled around the training yard as sun began to set, watching Valarr's last practice of the day and threatening Aerion with a sword, but the boy was no longer scared of him. A pity, Maegon thought.

He returned to his and his wife's shared chambers when the sky had turned a deep dark blue and stars shone in the light of the moon. It smelled of horse and a green forest, Haelene's honeyed perfume lingering in some places. She'd likely been out all day, as she preferred. She often took herself on hunts or swimming in a creek in the company of her copper mare, Meleys.

But she was gone now, no doubt gone to Aerion to share his bed. The bottle of wine he'd won earlier was gone too, Maegon noted, silently cursing his ladywife for it.

He exchanged his clothes for a simple tunic and some loose breeches, stepping into his unlaced boots and sneaking off to Valarr's room once again.

The door opened on itself, and Maegon locked it behind him before anyone could see. He drew closer to the young prince who stood in a corner of the room, undoing his belt.

Coming up behind him, Maegon's fingers grasped at the brown haired boy's waist, startling him before spinning him around. "Here I am," He grinned, catching Valarr's lips with his own.

Valarr smiled into the kiss, his fingers touching at his cousin's tunic, curling into the fabric. Maegon let himself be pushed onto the mattress, lazily kicking off his boots while Valarr's hands ventured underneath his clothes, sending shivers through his body. Their kisses turned slow and messy, trailing from their lips to their neck and to their jaw. A satisfied sigh slipped from Maegon's lips, his fingers tugging at the prince's breeches. Valarr pushed them down to his ankles and stripped himself of his remaining clothes, lean muscles rippling beneath his skin.

Maegon traced a finger over a faint scar running up the prince's side, a mishap from his childhood, brought to him by prince Daeron. His eyes fluttered shut when Valarr's lips brushed down his neck, soft and warm. The fingers toying at his waistband were nimble and teasing, as his wife's had been. The thought had him stiffen in his breeches, and Maegon shuddered when the mouth previously on his neck licked its way up to his jaw again. He reached his hand up, squeezing at the supple flesh of a breast, though he was met only with the hard plane of Valarr's pec.

His partner froze, pulling back immediately at the touch. "You.." He started, sitting up entirely. "You thought I was my sister?"

Maegon nearly jumped out of his skin, his hands reaching for Valarr, trying to tug the boy back into his arms. "Don't be ridiculous," He huffed, "I would never mistake you for my wife!"

Valarr's eyes widened at his words, and he leaned back even further now. "Your wife?"

Maegon could hit himself with his stupidity as he watched the brown haired boy pull his breeches back over his hips and step away from the bed, eyes looking anywhere but his way. The young prince's tone was dismissive when he spoke again, a cutting edge to his words.

"You may leave."

It was simple as that, and Maegon knew he could not refuse. Still half hard beneath his clothes, he slipped out of bed and trudged toward the door, his steps heavier than usual. Valarr had always been quick to catch onto these things, and it was stupid of Maegon to think his night with Haelene would be so easily forgotten by his lover.

He sauntered through the candlelit corridors, his movements sluggish and rather dramatic, before he reached his and Haelene's shared chambers. The air was much the same in the room, cold and smelling of the outside and his wife's perfume.

He fell onto the bed, burying himself in the sheets and pillows.

Haelene and Aerion sat at the hearth, the bottle of wine she'd found earlier already half empty. She swallowed up the last of her drink, setting the goblet down on the floor beside them.

Aerion sat on the carpet next to her, his fingers toying at the laces of her shift, tugging it open slightly. His face was flushed from the wine and her presence, his tongue darting out to taste the liquid on his lips.

Haelene shifted closer slightly, her fingers slipping into his silver cropped hair naturally, her legs coming to rest on either side of his until she straddled him. Aerion let himself be guided back onto the softness of the carpet, his hands gripping her hips. He fell into her embrace and her kisses, his minds fogged over by her scent and the wine she brought.

Haelene's fingers were shockingly cold on his skin from where they trailed from his hair to his neck and lower still.

"You've been avoiding me," Aerion claimed again, muttering against her lips.

Haelene simply hummed, licking into his mouth, the taste of him sweeter than she could recall.

And despite himself, Aerion sought out more of her, sighing softly at the feeling of her flesh under his hands and weight atop him. Her fingers deftly worked at his belt, tugging it free and off of his hips.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" He repeated, clearer now, his blown pupils watching her pull his breeches down his thighs.

"I haven't," Haelene answered, pressing another kiss to his lips, though it was hasty.

"You have," Aerion argued, studying her face now. "Did something happen between you and Maegon?" He asked her, his voice turning sharp.

"What did he do to you?" Aerion pushed, and Haelene's hands stopped working him.

"Do you want this, or not?" She snapped, feeling his hands tighten at her waist.

"I want to know what happened," Her cousin said.

"In detail, too?"

Aerion shoved her off his lap then, roughly putting her to the side. Haelene scrambled to her feet along with him, her stormy eyes glaring into his infuriatingly pretty ones.

He grabbed her arm roughly, dragging her out of the door and slamming it shut behind her. She was left standing alone, with her gown half unlaced and slipping down one shoulder, swaying on her feet from the wine.

Arriving back at her and Maegon's shared chambers, Haelene pushed the door open and stoppen. Her husband lay on his side of the bed, bare footed and his tunic unlaced, exposing the smooth skin of his chest.

Haelene approached him slowly, brushing her hand over the pale hairs coating his body. He didn't respond, likely asleep, she thought as she propped a leg up on the mattress, sliding onto his resting frame.

"Maegon," She tried, to which he stirred a little. "Aerion refused me," She continued, testing her hips by rocking them against his.

He responded, his eyes fluttering open, hands immediately at her hips. "Get off me," He demanded.

Haelene shook her head, capturing his lips in a drunken kiss. He leaned in, only briefly, seeking out the softness and the warmth of her mouth and the strange familiarity it brought. Then he pulled away and began pushing at her body, trying to pry her off him.

"You're drunk," He stated, shaking his head. "You stole my wine!"

Haelene giggled and nodded, pushing his tunic up to his chest, her eyes raking over his bare torso. "It was very good, a little strong." She noted, leaning down to kiss up the line of silver hair along his stomach.

Maegon caught her jaw between his thumb and index, pushing her away. Haelene frowned at him, pushing her full weight onto him. "Stop fighting," She commanded, now pushing his hands away from her.

"Right back at you," Maegon snapped, surprised still by the amount of strength she held within her.

They struggled against each other for a while, until Haelene ground her hips into his spitefully, pulling a moan from his lips and a weakening in his grip. She used it to her advantage, smacking him over the head and crowding his space again.

Maegon flinched back, his body acting before his mind could catch up. The sound of the slap echoed through the room, the sting of it rapidly spreading across Haelene's cheek. Her head snapped to the side, her entire body frozen atop his.

Maegon reached out and caught her wrists, sitting up on the bed to face her properly. "Haelene," he started, trying to ignore the red spot blooming on her face. "You're drunk, go to sleep."

His voice broke into a whisper at the end, his hands guiding her gently to lay beside him on the mattress. He tried his best to avoid her widened eyes and the tension in each and every movement of hers, his fingers fumbling as he tried to tie the laces of her shift.

"Leave it," Her voice cut through the silence, and she abruptly turned onto her side, facing away from him.

Maegon didn't argue, falling back onto his own part of the bed and curling himself into the sheets. And while his wife soon fell asleep, his mind wandered to their wedding, as it often did when they fought and cursed.

The sun that shone too hot that day, and the moon that never appeared at night. The dress Haelene wore, black and red, her attempt at making a statement.

Baelor had practically dragged her to the sept, his grip tight on her arm, afraid she may slip away at any given moment.

The rest of the family had been forced there as much as the bride and groom, sour faces in every corner of the room. Aerion and Valarr, both gripping the hilt of their sword just a little too tight, Daeron who stood drunk and barely upright, and their grandfather, smiling from ear to ear.

Maekar held Maegon by his collar when the ceremony played out, forcing his eyes to stay on his future wife instead of straying to someone in the crowd.

And when the couple descended the stairs away from the sept rather quickly, the people of Kingslanding cheered and praised them on their beauty and their marriage.

Maegon hated it even now, and he could still feel Baelor's eyes burning into the back of his skull like they did that day. He imagined Haelene could feel it too, though that part bothered him little.

Eventually, he too fell into the night's embrace, and he dreamt of a burning sept and an escape, into the arms of his brown haired prince.

So, we now know Lyonel wants her as a potential bride, but she now clearly wants nothing to do with him (at least on the surface.... 😉).

Will we see him court and woo her? I mean, if she is from a lower house, surely her father or brother seeing a Lord paramount be interested in her will be like hitting a jackpot... but we know she will not be particularly pleased to keep seeing him after what she told him...

Drunken Fools : Lyonel Baratheon x F!Reader

Summary : You end up drunk in Ashford forest and just happens to find yourself in the company of Lord Baratheon, who just left his own feast to take some much needed fresh air.

I guess it could be read as a standalone but reading this : Manwhore before that would explain a lot. No use or Y/N and no physical descriptions ( I try but please if i missed something just tell me )

Thanks for the ask @liliac-dreamer ! Sorry it took a while to answer but i intended to write a whole follow-up and your ask just happens to fit perfectly.

Warning : good father figure in westeros ? I guess it can be surprising and scary for some. Slightly suggestive but nothing outrageous. Not proof read and yes that's a warning, especiallty since english is not my first language.

Enjoy and do not hesitate to drop by and leave requests/asks/questions or whatever really, I just love talking about this ship !

Wordscount : 3.5K

Taglist : @yikes-buddy @purple-1995 @scarletwolfxox

First part

You could hear the clamour of the neighbouring tents from where you sat across your father. The sounds of rhythmic music, laughter and heavy footsteps a constant reminder that today is supposed to be a joyous celebration.

You, however, would not join in the fun. Instead you hid from the rest of the world in an attempt to spend the evening in peace. Attempt.

"Why spend the night here ? You could have gone with your brothers to enjoy the festivities, too. Surely you find your old father far less entertaining."

Your father was a kind-hearted man, whose greatest wish was to see all of his children live long, happy, and fulfilling lives. That desire came to define him after you sister passed away.

"You're too harsh on yourself, father. You are of great company." the taste of your drink sits heavy on your tongue as you continue, "Besides, should you not be happy at least one of your children is acting proper tonight ? I bet your dear sons are making fools of themselves in the tent with the strongest liquor."

You raise your fourth glass of the evening to your lips, or perhaps it was the fifth ?

"I would agree with you if you were not drowning in your drinks. If you’d gone along with them, you could at least have enjoyed your stay here and meet some people” He insists.

“If you really want me to enjoy myself like you claim, then you’d let me travel. Just as I’ve been begging you for the past three years. It's the only thing that could make me truly content.” You remind him, bitterness in your voice.

He says your name with a sigh, not out of annoyance, but simply because he’s tired of repeating the same conversation.

“No. How could I leave my only remaining daughter to travel alone ? You cannot ask this of me.”

Remaining.

You were about to start another argument, but held back when you heard this. You know he is only scared of seeing you suffer the same fate as your sister.

You slump back in your chair, all fighting spirit gone.

“I'm grown—” you begin, more softly, but he cuts you off.

“So was your sister.”

“You’re trying to force your idea of happiness on me. You talk about meeting people, but what you really mean is finding a man you can send me off to.” you accuse, starting to fiddle with your jewelry. A habit your father recognizes from when you're feeling restless;

“My last husband died and I thank the Stranger every day for that. The years I spent with him were the most dreadful of my life,” you admit, without a trace of shame in your voice. You hated that cunt. “I gave marriage a try, and it’s not for me.”

“You just didn’t find the right person. That’s all. You weren’t meant to spend the rest of your life with Lord Harold, nor were you meant to stay in Coldwater” He counters.

“Father!” you cry out, exasperated. "It's not about him ! I know I would be miserable beside any lord of Westeros. You granted me so much independence growing up, and now you ask me to lay it all at the feet of whoever asked to marry me?”

“Letting you marry him was a mistake. I know that now,” he admits, “But you can still find someone suitable for you. I’m not talking about love. I know your mother and I were lucky to have that. However, you can still find a husband who respects your freedom, values your opinion, and honors your wishes. ”

“Even my wish to travel?” you interrupt him.

“Yes. Even that.” He stands up from his seat and walks over to you.

" It’s not that I don’t want you to travel.” He tilts his head slightly, as though unconvinced by his own words. “Of course, I worry about what might happen to you on the road, but that isn’t what frightens me most. What I fear is that you’ll come to know the same loneliness I’ve lived with since your mother’s death.

Surprise washes over you. He rarely mentions your late mother.

“If you choose to go on your travels as you insist, then I fear you may end up isolating yourself, and I would never wish that upon you. " He sighs, before continuing

"The years without your mother were long and lonely. You and your brothers were the lights that guided me through them, but beyond you, I had no one. I do not want the same fate for you."

He rests a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“I’m afraid to think of you being alone for the rest of your life. The reason I’m talking about marriage is simply because it seems to me to be the only way to spare you the same suffering I’ve endured.”

You can’t bring yourself to tell your father that, unlike him, who mourned his wife’s death for twenty years, you found companionship quite easily when you looked for it. Though you’ll admit that all your “relationships” were meaningless.

“I do not blame you for thinking that, but I’m afraid I don’t have many prospects for marriage anyway.”

You watch him open his mouth, ready to argue, but you stop him.

“I am a widow who is well past her prime. I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you on this matter father.”

He frowns.

“You could never disappoint me.” he states with conviction.

Oh, if only he knew what you did the night before. He wouldn’t be saying this.

“You are still young and beautiful. You are not without wit and are a pleasant lady to be around. I know you will find someone, daughter. Or else I'll conclude the realm is governed by blind and foolish men” He smiles before bending down to kiss the top of your head.

“Get some rest, all right? And do not agonize over this too much. You remaining single is no cause for disappointment. I simply wish the best for you.” he reassure you one last time.

He steps back and takes his leave, not without adressing you a reassuring smile. You let out a long breath. You feel as though the air in the tent is too thick for you to breathe properly.

Some fresh air would do you good. You grab the bottle of wine you’d started on the way to the tent entrance. After all, you don’t want to get bored, or worse, sober in the middle of the forest.

“Back off, bastards ! get out of the way!” shouts Lyonel, his voice echoing across the open field where his tent was pitched as he wobbles out of it.

He takes a deep breath of fresh air, his newly recovered crown perched askew on his head. The party was fun. The giant of a man he danced with was especially entertaining, but he needed a moment to himself. Mainly because he felt like throwing up, and, if he did, he’d rather do it away from his men.

He decides the forest might be the best place to do that and so he walks there. He's grateful that the alcohol he’d been drinking all evening was keeping him warm on this cold night. The impromptu walk was also doing his stomach good.

The silence of the forest made it easy for him to get lost in his thoughts. His drunkenness ensured that his thoughts weren’t particularly deep. Instead, they turn to the feast, the people, and the dancing with Dunk. He then catches himself thinking of you—specifically, of you dancing.

He imagines having to chase you. He's sure you would make him work to earn the chance to whirl you in his arms. You would be a hard prey to catch.

He runs his hand over his face, laughing at himself. He just can’t get you out of his mind, can he? So much so that he thinks he’s hallucinating when he sees you lying against a rock. Alone. In the middle of the woods.

He realises that his mind isn’t playing tricks on him as he watches you bring a bottle to your mouth.

He is grateful for the full moon, its light bright enough for him to make out your features. You seem troubled and lost in thought.

Even then he found you captivating. Tough he would rather have you smile, preferably at him. Down at him even, as you straddled him like you did the night before. But he is just rambling now.

Watching you take another sip of the liquor, he makes it his mission to lift your spirits. Maybe you’d grace him with a smile if he played his cards right. He hopes he does.

“I knew you would be the type to spend your nights in places not exactly suitable for a lady. I wonder why…” he feigns thoughtfulness

His voice carries distinctly in the silence of the night, and the sound of it makes you jump in surprise. In a panic, you draw a short blade, holding it up in front of you, ready to defend yourself.

Lyonel raises his hands in surrender, not without amusement.

“I haven’t tried knife play yet, but consider me interested if you’re the one holding the blade.” You know he’s smiling as he makes that stupid comment. Even if you can’t see it, you can hear it.

You squint your eyes, having a hard time making out his features as he stands in the shade of a tree. Still, his voice, the lewd comment, and the ridiculous golden color of his cape make it easy for you to recognize the stag lord.

“What’s wrong with you?” You shout, the blade still in your hand.

“Me? I’m not the one sulking all alone in the middle of the forest.” He remarks

“What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

“Of course not. I just needed some fresh air” he defends himself, but he can see you’re not quite convinced. Still, he has the audacity to request your company.

“Mind if I sit here a while, my lady?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He sits anyway.

“Old age is getting to you, my lord. Are your ears failing you? I said no.”

That dig made him chuckle.

“No, I heard you quite well. I simply decided to go against your instructions. I followed them well enough yesterday. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m too easy”

If you ordered him to take you against that rock, though, he would heed your words without complaint.

" Are you going to bring that up everytime we meet ? Discretion is not your strong point, is it ?" You reproach

" If this is about the other time with your brother then I appologize. I did not mean to put you in dire position."

You lower the dagger you were still clutching tightly in your hands. He seemed sincere.

“It’s all right. My brother’s a bit of an oaf. He’s probably forgotten all about it by now.”

He remains silent, not knowing what to say, but you quickly break the silence with a surprising question.

“How come no one’s called me a whore yet ?”

He tilts his head to one side, taken aback.

“What?”

“I’d have thought the news would have spread by now. You’re not exactly known for being the quiet trype. ”

“You asked me to keep it to myself, so I did.”

“And that’s enough to shut you up?” you ask, incredulously. “Men like you usually like to brag.”

“Firstly, there are no men like me. Secondly, no man worthy of being called a knight would publicly humiliate a lady. ”

“Then few men deserve that title.”

“What a sad statement. " he sighs in fake hopelessness "Let me have a sip to cheer myself up.” he asks, tilting his chin towards the bottle you’re holding.

You hesitate for a moment. He’s put you in a terrible situation. If anyone found you here, it would be the final blow to what little pride you have left. You consider leaving, but change your mind. You were here first. Besides, you’ve always been stubborn, even more so when you’ve had a drink

You then hand him the bottle without saying a word. He doesn’t look as though he’s going anywhere any time soon, either.

You take a moment to watch him as he drinks. You were right the other night. He is a handsome man. Although his current clothes give him a more noble air, you do not blame your former self for thinking he was a prostitute. His appearance is rather flamboyant. His headpiece is proof of that.

Unsurprisingly, the night you spent together comes back to you. You then recall the words you exchanged once all the misunderstandings had been cleared up

“I lied.” you blurt out without thinking.

“Huh?” he mumbles, confused

“I lied when I said I didn’t mind if you told your men about it.”

“I suspected as much" he replies.

You feel the need to explain yourself.

“Don’t get me wrong, my lord. I’m not ashamed of what I did, nor do I regret it. At least, not the act itself,” you assure him. “But the repercussions on my family would be disastrous, and I don’t want to cause them any harm.”

“I certainly hope you don’t regret it!” he barks, “That would make me a shit whore.”

This makes you chuckle, which quickly turns into a fit of laughter as you think back of the whole thing. It’s the first time you’ve really laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

Lyonel smiles in turn. He’s finally managed to get that smile. Better still, he’s even been treated to a laugh. The alcohol is certainly playing a big part in your hilarity, but hell take it.

“Well, I hope you’ll forgive me for calling you a prostitute, my lord,” you apologise, though a hint of amusement still creeps into your voice.

“Lyonel. Just adress me as Lyonel. I think we’re done with the formalities. And there is no need to apologize. You did leave a generous tip. ”

You cringe at the mention but pretend otherwise.

“Very well. As you wish, Lyonel.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name, my lady ?” he asks when he realises you aren’t returning the courtesy.

Not that he needs it. It wasn’t all that difficult to find out who you were, especially after your brother’s performance at the joust. He would openly admits that he was delighted to learn you were a widow. Free to do as she pleases, as he came to learn.

“No, I’d prefer you to address me properly,” you reply in a playful tone.

Oh, how he’d love to wipe that smug little smile off your face with a kiss.

"As you wish, my lady." He eventually complied.

The moment fades, and silence settles over your conversation, but you don’t feel the need to break it. The resentment you felt towards him fades as you two finish the bottle.

“Thank you,” you say at last as he tosses the bottle aside while you play with the hem of your dress.

“ What for ? My incredible performance in bed ?”

You roll your eyes, but you let him brag. He notes with satisfaction that you do not contradict him.

“For not telling anyone” you clarify.

“As I said, I have no intention of damaging your ‘already ruined reputation’, as you put it. "

You huff, half surprised, half annoyed that he remembered your exact words

“Aren’t you curious to know why? Or perhaps you already do?”

He shakes his head.

“All I know is that your late husband died a few years ago.” He admits.

You lean back more comfortably against the rock behind you, not bothering to maintain a proper posture. He’s seen you in far more compromising positions recently.

“Well, that’s the main reason I have such a terrible reputation. But you won’t hear me complaining about my status ”

He had already concluded that you were no longer mourning your late husband, given the circumstances of your first meeting, but he feels a certain joy at hearing you say yourself. It means he is free to court you.

“Oh my, that’s the sort of remark that would make a septon gnash his teeth.”

You turn sligtly around , head resting on your hand

“You're one to speak. Remember we paid for the same whore ?" you fire back, a flirtatious edge in your voice.

" I do. I also remember that you quite enjoyed the show, did you not, my lady ?"

You do not answer, but amusement flicker in your eyes.

Bloody hell, he really shouldn’t be playing along. You’re both a bit too drunk and he’s trying to prove himself to you. He doesn’t want you to think he’s only after sex. He can't say he's not looking forward to it but he is trying his best.

He’s genuinely keen to follow through on his intentions, but as soon as you pat the space beside you, he rushes straight over.

"Do I really look like a whore?" Lyonel then asks

You raise an eyebrow at him, as if to say, ‘Are you seriously asking me this?’

"Yes. The circumstances did support this conclusion, but in the end, yes, you do."

"Even dressed like this?"

"Especially dressed like this" Your hands find their way to his chest and start to undo the buttons of his top. "Now you’re the perfect picture of a whore."

"That’s not the sort of thing to say to a lord." he threatens without much conviction, biting his lip.

"Would it make it better if I said you’d make a very successful one?"

This remark makes him crack a smile.

"Depends. Would it be my looks or my performance that would make me successful?"

You pretend to ponder the question.

"I don’t know. I’d need a reminder about the latter."

"So you do admit I’m handsome." He grins seductively.

You stifle a giggle.

"You’re more handsome when you shut up" you say, grabbing him by his beard and making him lean in to kiss you.

You hum against his lips. The taste of his wine-stained lips and the prickle of his beard serve as a stark reminder of the night you spent with him. Yes, given how well kiss he would make a more than succesful whore.

You lean closer to him, your hands resting on his sturdy chest, your fingers losing themselves in his coarse chest hair.

His hand, rough and strangely warm, rests on your cheek before using the leverage to push you gently away. You almost whine as he peels himself away from you.

“Gods, you can’t do this to me, woman, I’m trying to control myself here” he says, his thumb tracing your lower lip then gently tugging at it.

“Why?”

“You’ve had your fair share of drinks. You’re drunk. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“I wasn’t entirely sober yesterday either,” you retort.

“You were not nearly as drunk as right now. It’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” he insists

Yes. It is. He’s trying really hard not to mess things up with you. To court you properly, perhaps? He’s not sure. His mind is a bit fuzzy from the alcohol himself. He just knows that the conventional order of things is all messed up and he’s trying his best to do things the right way from now on.

“I didn’t know you were a prude” you taunt him.

He presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes to avoid looking at your moist, inviting lips.

“Please. Don’t make this harder for me.”

You watch him closely. He genuinely looks as if he’s struggling to hold back. His skin feels hot against your palms too.

"Very well. As you wish,’"you give in.

He sighs, almost relieved. He then stands up and holds out his hand to help you do the same.

"You’re sweet,"you add, deciding to share your opinion.

"Don’t say that. It just makes it worse. Just let me get you back to your tent before I change my mind." he groans.

You smile to yourself. You do feel a little powerful, seeing this big, imposing man so flustered. You let him off the hook for now. He’s right. You’re drunk, and having an affair in the middle of the woods, surrounded by the tents of nobles, wouldn’t be your brightest idea.

The walk back is a short one and is made in silence, but a warm, comfortable one. He stops not far from your tents. He doesn’t want another run-in with your brother.

“Thank you. Sleep well, Lyonel,” you wave at him, a slightly teasing smile tugging at your lips. You know he’s too worked up to get a really good night’s sleep.

He doesn’t pick up on your teasing and instead wishes you good night in turn.

"You too, my lady" he whispers.

He stays there for a moment longer, making sure to watch you get into your tent with his own eyes before heading back to his own, his gait slightly odd—and it’s not the alcohol.