#apotsk

Chapter 1 - Ashford

Sneaking out was easier than you thought it would be.

It was concerning how easily you managed to evade the Kingsguard. All you had to do was switch clothes with your most trusted handmaiden and slip out the door, keeping your face hidden from the view of the supposed greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms.

This wasn’t the first time you were grateful that you did not possess the silvery white hair of your ancestors; it would have made evading your father’s sworn guards all the more difficult.

Instead, you took after your father, and his mother before him. You had dark hair, reminiscent of your Dornish ancestry, and the violet eyes of a Targaryen, matching the exact shade of purple as your father’s right eye.

Just the right eye, not both.

A strange trait for such a powerful man, but not one entirely unheard of in the Targaryen bloodline, or even within your own immediate family, because your brother had the same heterochromatic violet and brown eyes.

That was because your father was Baelor Targaryen. 

Hand of the King.

Prince of Dragonstone.

Heir to the Iron Throne.

And the current bane of your existence.

You pulled the hood of your cloak lower over your face as you wandered through the tourney grounds at Ashford Meadow.

While you may not look much like the blood of old Valyria, there could still be the odd lord or knight who may recognize you for what you are—a Targaryen princess, not in look, but in blood and name—and a Targaryen alone was a dangerous thing.

An honorable man might seek to return you to your father, using your blunder to earn your father’s favor. A less than honorable man might still see you returned to your kin, but at a cost worthy of your royal blood, because your father was the second most powerful man in Westeros, and you were his only daughter.

 You ducked off to the side when you spotted Ser Manfred Dondarrion, your late mother’s kin, walking towards you, a whore on each arm, his cheeks flushed with drink. Not that it mattered. Ser Manfred was likely so drunk he wouldn’t have recognized the king were he right in front of him.

Still, you could not afford to get caught.

If your father ever discovered that you snuck ahead to Ashford on your own, there’d be the Seven Hells to pay, but if all went according to plan, you’d be back before your father and uncle ever realized you were gone.

Then you’d go back to your normal, boring life; back to the Red Keep with its vipers and schemes and false smiles; and back to your betrothed, equal parts prince and monster.

You’d been so excited to attend the tourney.

Lord Ashford’s daughter asked Valarr to be one of her five champions, and your brother eagerly accepted. Your cousin Daeron also planned to enter the lists, bringing your little Egglet from Summerhall to squire for him.

Your father had agreed to attend the tourney as well, along with your Uncle Maekar, and you had been looking forward to watching the jousts beside your father, who was always too busy with his duties as Hand to spend any quality time with you, especially after your mother had died.

You should have known it was too good to be true.

The night before, after settling into a nearby inn, your father and uncle sat you down to inform you that they had reached an agreement.

Once you returned home to King’s Landing, you would marry your cousin, Aerion, uniting your families in both blood and marriage.

Aerion, the second-born son.

Aerion, the self-proclaimed Brightflame.

Aerion the Monstrous, as you were wont to call him.

And soon that monster would be your husband.

Your cousin did not look at all surprised when your father broke the news. You’d even go so far as to say he already knew.

Aerion had been acting smug ever since you left King’s Landing. He kept stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking, his violet eyes gleaming with poorly disguised glee, and when you caught him staring, he’d smile and tap a finger to his lips, shushing you as if the two of you shared some big secret.

You hated him.

You hated him more than anything, which was why you couldn’t believe your father had agreed to the match.

At first, you raged, throwing refusals and insults at your father like knives, and when that didn’t work, you begged, tears streaming down your face.

You haven’t cried since your mother died, but even that wasn’t enough to change your father’s mind.

Aerion just smiled throughout the entire ordeal; he looked at you like a man who had won, and you were his prize.

You haven’t spoken to your father since, too angry and betrayed to even look at him. Instead, you rode in the carriage alone when you would much rather ride next to your father on horseback, and you ignored his attempts at conversation during meals because you wanted him to feel as insignificant as you did in that moment.

You weren’t naive—you knew one day you would have to marry some lord or another. It was your duty as a princess to strengthen your family through a political match, but you always thought your father would give you a say in who you eventually married. 

But you were mistaken. 

Your father did not consult you about the match.

Even when your royal grandfather had bid Valarr to marry Kiera, your father still asked Valarr if he was willing to do what needed to be done for the sake of the realm.

Kiera was the daughter of the new Archon of Tyrosh, one of the Free Cities just north of the Stepstones, and the home of what remained of House Blackfyre, the blight of House Targaryen.

Your grandfather, King Daeron II Targaryen, thought—or rather his Small Council thought, your father included—that a political match between your families would prevent the Tyroshi from supporting a second Blackfyre rebellion, Seven forbid.

Valarr, ever the perfect and dutiful heir, had agreed without question, but at least your father had asked him whether he was willing to perform his duty. For his son, he gave consideration, but for you, he sprang this marriage like a trap not all that different from the one he’d executed with his brother at the Battle of the Redgrass Field.

Fine.

If your father was so determined to take away your freedom, then you’d just have to carve out a piece for yourself, which was why you had snuck away to Ashford in the first place.

All you wanted was one last night of freedom. One last night of fun before your father shipped you off to Summerhall like some prized breeding mare.

You were determined to make the most of this night, even if it meant defying your dear father. In your mind, he owed you at least this much for promising you to Aerion; one last night of happiness for a lifetime of misery. 

You even came dressed for the part. Underneath the clothes and cloak you had borrowed from your handmaiden, you wore a loose and rather scandalous dress that would have made your Septa faint on the spot, and a corset that hugged your curves in all the right places.

After checking to see if anyone was watching, you stashed your cloak and other clothing underneath the roots of a large tree bordering the edges of the camp and explored the tourney grounds in earnest.

Ashford Meadow was by far the most exciting place you’d ever been.

As a princess, you grew up rather sheltered within the confines of the Red Keep. Every moment of every day was carefully monitored; and even the slightest misstep would immediately get reported to your father—not that you gave your father many reasons to reprimand you.

By all accounts, you were the perfect princess, the perfect daughter.

You were educated, as was appropriate for a woman of your station, and you were well taught in the arts of courtesy and politics. You could manage a castle three times the size of the Red Keep should you wish, and you could sing and dance as good as the traveling companies from Dorne that often frequented your grandfather’s halls.

You were beautiful too, which was about the only thing that mattered to most men (the other being the size of your dowry), and the first Targaryen princess born to your grandfather’s line.

But none of it mattered, not really. It all paled in comparison to your defiant nature.

No matter how perfect you may have appeared to the outside world, the truth was that your behavior was far from princess-like.

You did not like doing what you were told, at least not without reason, and you enjoyed archery, often spending your days in the training yard practicing, shooting arrow after arrow until your fingers and arms were numb because you still did not understand why your father would not allow you a sword.

You always did your best to respect your father’s word—he was your father after all, and you loved him—but your desire to be treated as an equal was far too often mistaken for defiance.

It was strange, you thought, how something that was once considered a charming characteristic of a curious child could quickly change into an undesirable trait for a respectable young lady.

When you were little, you and your brother used to constantly sneak beneath the tunnels of the Red Keep, but now you were not even permitted to wander the gardens alone, much less anyplace as dangerous or exciting as Ashford.

You’d never even been to Fleabottom, despite living in King’s Landing your entire life, and you’d likely never get the chance.

Tonight was your one and only chance to see the real world before you traded one castle’s prison walls for another, and you couldn’t get enough of it—the real world, that is, and all the freedom that came with shedding your royal title.

The tourney grounds were what you could only describe as full of life.

Every inch of space was occupied by some pavilion of some sort, the largest ones belonging to the greatest houses in Westeros. You spotted a great red pavilion, no doubt belonging to the Lannisters, and another equally large green one, likely the Tyrells, given that Lord Ashford is one of Lord Tyrell’s sworn bannerman.

There were smaller pavilions too, belonging to the smaller noble houses, arranged so that they encircled their respective lord paramount’s much larger dwellings.

They arranged everything into a sort of organized chaos, much like a beehive.

Everyone here had a place.

Knights, still clad in their armor, sat around fires laughing and drinking ale while their squires sparred in the muddy training fields, their swords singing out into the warm night.

Women of all sorts moved freely throughout the camp, performing their respective duties. Whether that be carrying laundry or attending to men in their private quarters or even preparing a puppet show for the children, every woman here served a purpose, unlike yourself.

Children were present here, running through the grounds with wooden swords and shields, playing at war: red dragon versus black dragon.

You liked the center of the camp the best, where the common folk had set up a market of sorts selling everything from armor and leather sword belts to wild game and silks and incense from across the Narrow Sea. People, commoners and nobles alike, wandered amongst the rows of shops, haggling over prices, and there was a man walking around with a swollen bag of coin taking bets on who would emerge victorious in the jousts or die in the attempt.

You used some of your own coin to buy a cup of ale (it tasted awful, but you still drank every drop, delighted by the novelty of it) and slipped inside a large yellow pavilion, drawn by the smell of savory smoked meats, the sweet fragrance of wine, and the unmistakable scent of trouble.

The moment you breached the flap of the tent, you were hit by a wall of laughter.

The air inside the tent was warm and filled with mirth and music. Men and women alike sat on benches around long wooden tables, feasting and drinking from endless cups of wine.

You took a cup for yourself and slipped into an open space at one of the nearby tables, jostling your wine as you sat, spilling a little on your hand and onto the floor, which was already wet and sticky beneath your boots from spilt wine and the Seven knew what else.

You snatched a tender goose leg from the platter in front of you. Your septa would throw a fit if she ever saw you eating with your hands, but you were far past caring. The smell of the poultry meat in your hand was enough to make your mouth water, and you sank your teeth into its flesh, the juice from the meat trickling out of your mouth and down your chin.

It was the best thing you had ever tasted. 

You moaned into your food and piled your plate with more meats, fruits, and fresh pastries—taking only a bite from each before reaching for more so that you could sample a bit of everything.

You kept drinking all the while, chasing that flying feeling. The wine kept flowing, so you kept drinking, and the more you drank, the lighter you felt.

Everything faded into a pleasant buzz amidst the music and laughter, and all your worries—Aerion, your father’s disappointment—drifted away like a boat riding the current. Heat colored your cheeks, making your head feel fuzzy, and your body felt hot and restless.

The tables had not yet been cleared for dancing, so you danced on top of them instead, kicking aside empty plates while you twirled, skirts flared, and danced with your arms above your head. Another woman joined you on top of the table, and the two of you danced to a jaunty tune while the surrounding men clapped their hands to the beat.

You’d never felt so alive, dancing as if it were your last night in this world because, in a way, it was.

It was only after the song had ended that you felt his eyes on you.

You turned towards the high table and met the gaze of a man who could have been none other than Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the heir to Storm’s End.

The Laughing Storm.

You’d never met Ser Lyonel before, but you’d heard rumors—and only a man as gaudy as he would ever wear a crown made of antlers. 

He was handsomer than you thought he would be, with his thick black curls streaked with the lightest touch of silver. He was older than yourself; but not as old as your father or uncle, and he exuded an almost child-like glee characteristic of someone much younger.

Ser Lyonel grinned and beckoned you over with his finger. 

You sauntered towards the high table, his eyes never once straying from your form. He stared at you like a starving man, and you were his salvation. It should have scared you, or maybe even reminded you of Aerion, but it didn’t.

While Aerion looked at you like a piece of meat, Ser Lyonel stared at you with a devotion that bordered on worship, as if you were a goddess and he your devoted servant.

You never thought a lord could ever look at a woman in the way Ser Lyonel looked at you, and the thought brought a blush to your already flushed cheeks.

“My lord,” you greeted, dropping into a curtsey.

“Forgive me, darling,” Ser Lyonel said sensually. “But how is it I have been sitting at this table all night and not once have you come to greet me?” 

He said all this with the arrogance of a man born with both power and station. 

You were familiar with his kind, and yet you couldn’t help but feel… disappointed by this development. 

But stroking Ser Lyonel’s ego could be its own sort of fun. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” you said, your voice taking on a sultry tone. “I was having so much fun, it must have slipped my mind.”

 “Yes, that was quite the performance you gave us,” Ser Lyonel said, fiddling with a dagger in his hands. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

You bit your lip, thinking of a response.

“Dorne, my lord. My father’s family hails from there.”

It wasn’t a total lie. Having no daughters of her own to spoil, your grandmother took to spoil you, her first granddaughter, instead with dance lessons from her homeland.

“Hmm. Dorne, you say? I met a woman from Dorne once.”

The men around the table snickered.

“A fine lass she was, although not nearly as interesting as you,” he added. “You say your father hails from Dorne, but you don’t strike me as Dornish. Where are you from, darling, truly?”

King’s Landing, you thought.

“My blood comes from the east, far across the Narrow Sea,” you said instead.

From the lands of Old Valyria.

You left this last bit unsaid, but Ser Lyonel need not know this. It wasn’t your fault that Essos was such a large continent.

“And yet you have no accent?”

“I never said I was born there.”

Lyonel smiled and leaned closer across the table, delighted as a cat playing with a mouse.  

“You are a mysterious one… I like that. Come. Sit and drink with me,” he said, gesturing to his side, only to find the seat occupied by one of his bannerman.

Lyonel glared at the man, but he remained oblivious to his lord’s burning gaze until the man beside him nudged his side to alert him to Ser Lyonel’s quiet ire.

“Yuh-yes my lord?”

“Move.”

“Move? Me, my lord?”

“No, the Dothraki bouncing on your cock—yes, you! Get up, you lousy cunt! The lady needs a place to sit and your fat ass is in the way. Help the lady into her seat and begone with you.”

 “Yes, my lord.”

The frightened man helped you over the bench and into his former seat; he even poured you a fresh cup of wine before he scampered off like a boy caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.

“About time he fucked off,” Lyonel said. “Nothing bores me more than a sycophant. That cunt would let a White Walker fuck him in the ass with its frozen cock if he thought it would help curry my favor.”

You laughed. It was a loud, nasally kind of laugh most unbecoming of a princess; it was the kind of laugh you had when you didn’t care if anyone was listening.

Lyonel grinned, his humor positively infectious.

“Cheers, darling,” he said, tapping his cup against yours, the soft clink echoing in your ears like a promise.

“Perhaps now we can discuss your lack of manners and how you’re going to make it up to me.”

“I believe I have already apologized for my forgetfulness, my lord. Surely, you’re not still angry with me, are you?”

“Angry? Most certainly not. I could never stay angry with a beautiful wench, but a lord’s pride is a fragile thing, my dear.”

You snorted with amusement. There was nothing fragile about Lyonel Baratheon, and he knew it.

 “And I’d be the laughingstock of my house if I didn’t collect a tribute of some sort.”

You smiled, mulling over his words while you swirled the wine in your hand.

“I’m afraid I have nothing to give you, my lord,” you said. “Nothing but my good company, that is, which you already have.” 

You winked, causing him to laugh.

“And what if I desire more than just your company?” Lyonel asked, tucking a loose curl behind your ear.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, ser,” you said coquettishly, blinking your eyelashes at him while you sipped some more of your wine.

“Come now, there’s no need to be shy. Surely there is something—some skill you may possess that is of some interest to me.”

You knew exactly what he meant, and while you were not averse to his suggestion, you couldn’t help but want to play with him some more.

Lyonel Baratheon was the type of man who liked the chase, and you were going to give him one.

You leaned forward, your lips only a whisper away from his, and you heard Lyonel take a sharp breath in anticipation.

“Archery,” you said, drawing away before your lips could meet.  

Lyonel blinked.

“Archery?” he asked, a thick brow raised curiously.

You nodded, folding one leg over the other, a victorious smile on your face.

“Fancy yourself the next Daena the Defiant, do you?”

You laughed.

 “And become the next great matriarch of bastards? No, thank you, ser. Besides, I have no desire to be queen.”

“Doesn’t every woman secretly dream of a crown?” Lyonel bantered. “And a prince to go along with it?”

You thought of Aerion and the monster he hid beneath his princely mask.

“A crown can weigh as heavily as a shackle,” you said. “I’d rather go naked.”

Lyonel roared with laughter, like a sailor caught in a squall.

“Is that so? Then how about a little wager?” Lyonel asked. “We each shoot an arrow, and the closest one to the target wins a prize.”

“Oh? And what prize is that, exactly?”

“If you win, I’ll forget about your tribute, and I’ll even let you wear my crown.”

“And if you win, my lord?”

He grinned like a fox in a henhouse.

“I’ll still let you wear my crown, but that will be the only thing you’re wearing,” Lyonel said, his voice laced with desire.

Excitement bubbled inside your chest and settled low in your belly. You could never resist a challenge.

“I’ll take that bet, ser.”

“Wonderful. Bring us a target and a bow and quiver!” Lyonel shouted.

He didn’t shout at any man in particular, but as a lord (and a very prominent one at that), Lord Lyonel was accustomed to being obeyed. He spoke and people listened; and soon a target appeared in the center of the tent for your little contest.

“After you, my lord,” you said, gesturing to the bow placed in front of you.

“If you insist, darling,” he said, standing to his feet with a slight stumble as he did so.

You lifted your cup to your lips to hide your smirk.

Even if he were sober, Ser Lyonel stood no chance against you.

There was no doubt in your mind that you were more practiced than he was. You practiced shooting nearly every day, and a man such as Lyonel would sooner wield a lance than a bow. That, in addition to the slight wobble in his step, all but guaranteed your victory.

“Quiet!” Lyonel shouted, and the tent immediately hushed.

He notched an arrow and drew, taking aim at the target. He fired, sinking the arrow just to the left of the center.

The crowd applauded, and Lyonel swept forward into a dramatic bow.

“Not bad, my lord,” you said.

Honestly, he was a better shot than you thought he would be.

“Think you can do better?” Lyonel asked.

You didn’t answer. The result would speak for itself.

You took the bow from his hand and another arrow from the quiver. You notched the arrow, the finely stripped hawk feathers soft to the touch, and took your stance in front of the target. You drew the drawstring back to your ear and took a deep breath, holding it in while you aimed.

Deep breath in.

Aim.

Breathe out.

Fire.

Simple. You’d done it thousands of times.

There was no way you could miss, but right when you were about to fire, Lyonel nudged your leg, forcing you off balance.

The arrow flew wide right, just grazing the outer ring of the target.

The crowd laughed, and you felt the blood rising to your face. You glared at Lyonel, who was laughing with the rest of them.

“You cheated,” you said contemptuously.

Lyonel raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Now, now. It was just a bit of fun, love. There’s no need to be so sore about it. Now, about those clothes…”

Lyonel winked at you, and you scoffed, storming away.

You stomped towards the target, feeling every bit of the dragon that you were, blood hot and fuming.

“Oh, come back, darling! I was only jesting about the naked part,” Lyonel said, returning to his seat and grabbing a ripe red apple off the table. “But you’ll still have to wear the crown. Although I wouldn’t mind if you’d like to flash me your tits—”

You pulled your arrow from the target and fired, shooting the apple right out of Ser Lyonel’s hands, embedding it in the wooden post behind him with a satisfying thunk.

The pavilion fell silent except for the crackling of the torches. Even Ser Lyonel could only stare in shock.

You smirked.

“You can keep your crown, ser. But perhaps you’d like to show me your tits instead.”

Lyonel looked away from his hand and the ghost of the apple that was once held between his fingers and met your gaze, his eyes swirling with emotion.

For a moment, you thought you might have gone too far. Your father always said you didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

But then Ser Lionel laughed, and you finally understood why they called him the Laughing Storm.

You’d never heard something so free, so careless, so… liberating.

Lyonel’s boisterous laughter was like an ember in the wind. Once he started laughing, everyone else joined in, a little awkward at first, but soon everyone was roaring with glee.

Lyonel stood from his chair and approached you, hopping on and off the table, never once breaking eye contact. He dropped to his knees and knelt in front of you, and for a moment it was as if you two were like a princess and a knight from a tale.

“I yield,” Lyonel said. “By my honor, I declare you the winner of this contest.”

He then rose to his feet, and you had to look up to meet his gaze. He really was quite tall.

“Now, for your prize,” he said, lifting the crown from his head.

“I told you I didn’t want a crown.”

“That may be so, but I would like to make you my queen and crown you anyway. At least for a drink or two.”

Lyonel did not place the crown on your head right away. He waited for you to nod your consent before he crowned you with a gentleness you didn’t know he was capable of.

Afterwards, the two of sat side-by-side, knees touching with a familiarity you would normally have associated with lovers, drinking and laughing as if you’d known each other all your lives.

True to your word, you left the crown on until you finished your second drink, after which you returned it to Lyonel, glad to be free of its weight.

“Four thousand years ago…” Lyonel began, after the Seven knew how many drinks. “Four thousand years ago… cunts. I can’t hear myself. I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen!”

The man to Lyonel’s right banged the table, calling for silence, and the crowd went deathly quiet under their liege lord’s gaze.

“Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that…big field outside to blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. Well, I say… the fuck was I gonna say?” Lyonel asked, leaning towards you for guidance.

You shrugged. You just wanted Lyonel to get on with it so you could dance.

“First ever joust… Ah!” Lyonel said, seeming to remember the point. “Men could not have devised such a joy. So, who was it?” Lyonel asked the crowd.  

Someone coughed, but no one answered. 

“Huh? Who was it?”

Silence again.

“Hmm. Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best!” he shouted, tossing a pouch of gold across the table.

The crowd cheered and lifted their cups.

“Now, eat your birds so we can dance!”

Servants placed more food on the table, and you greedily dug into a pastry smothered with jam, but Ser Lyonel did not touch any of the food.

Instead, he fiddled with the dagger in his hands and stared into the crowd. You followed his line of sight until your eyes landed on a man even larger than Lyonel.

Lyonel nodded to one of his men, who then motioned for the tall men to come over. He was holding one of the same jam-covered pastries you had been eating.

The tall man hunched his head but did not speak, his cheeks still full of food.

“You ever been punched in the face before?” Lyonel asked.

The tall man swallowed before answering.

“I beg—I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

“Big men get punched more than little men. Did you know that?”

“No, but… but I believe it.”

“That why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”

“I… I don’t slouch.”

“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night,” Lyonel chuckled.

“I… I meant no disrespect, ser. Not towards you or your lady, honest. Where I grew up, you… you learn to go unnoticed, is all.” 

“My lady?” Lyonel asked.

“Wh-what?” the tall man sputtered.

“You said, my lady.”

 “Is… is this beautiful woman not your wife?”

“You think she’s beautiful, do you?” Lyonel said, his tone threatening.

“What? No! I mean, yes! Yes, she’s beautiful, any man can see that, but I would never—I wouldn’t dare—”

Lyonel laughed.

“I’m just messing with you, man. Beautiful as she may be, she is not my wife. I’m not ready to have my balls chopped off just yet. This is… Love, I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

You panicked for a moment—for all your careful planning; you failed to come up with a suitable alias.

“Serra,” you answered after a pause.

Short for Princess Viserra.

Daughter of Prince Baelor Targaryen.

First-born granddaughter of King Daeron the Good.

“And I second Lord Lyonel’s sentiments. I belong to no man, ser.”

Not yet anyway.

“I am beggin’ your pardons, my lady. I meant no disrespect,” the tall man said, his face as red as the jam on the half-eaten pastry in his hand.

He almost seemed to shrink in on himself when he spoke.

“None taken, ser. But Ser Lyonel has a point—you shouldn’t slouch.”

“The Seven above gave you tallness. So, be tall,” Lyonel said, flourishing his hands.

He pointed the blade at the tall man with all the authority of a king.

“Or I will name you a heretic and burn you. Drown you. Drop you off a tall—I don’t know. What do they do to heretics?” Lyonel asked you.

“Burn them, my lord,” you answered between sips of wine.

“Fine,” Lyonel said, the blade clattering on the table. “What have you brought me?”

“Um… Uh, ser, I… beggin’ your pardons. I— I didn’t realize.”

“You wish to curry my favor some, yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen,” Lyonel said, pointing to the crowd. “The smug cunt in red, he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinnied up this bauble from his family’s cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help or your head. So, you’ve come for my head, then.”

“W-what? No. No!”

“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?”

“S-supper.”

You giggled at the answer. It was so… honest, you couldn’t help but laugh. Lyonel couldn’t help his amusement either.

He laughed and said, “Alright. Actually, makes sense. What is your name, man?”

“Dunk… Ser Dunk,” the tall knight answered.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lyonel said.

You couldn’t help but agree, but in a way the name seemed fitting for the awkward but humble knight before you.

Lyonel leaned towards Dunk, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Do you like dancing?” Lyonel asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Dunk asked back.

You don’t remember getting up to dance, but once you started, you never wanted to stop. You danced with Lyonel and Ser Dunk and so many other lords and knights, you lost count after a while, drunk on dancing and wine.

You danced and danced and danced; every feeling, every thought, and every worry lost to the rhythm of the music and the stomping of your feet.

After what felt like both a minute and an eternity, the rowdy music faded into a soothing drawl, and you found yourself swaying in the arms of some lord whose name you didn’t know and did not care to.

You’d danced with Lyonel for most of the night, but he disappeared some time ago with that hedge knight.

Ser… Drunk?

No, you were drunk.

Hunk?

That wasn’t it either.

Dunk.

Yes, that was his name.

Ser Dunk, the hedge knight.

You rather liked him. He was strong, and you felt so safe dancing in his arms.

Perhaps he’d dance with you again if you asked—

“Fuck off, cunt,” Lyonel said, interrupting your thoughts.

He pulled you away from the nameless lord and folded you in his arms. You wrapped your own arms around his shoulders and buried your head in the nape of his neck, inhaling his masculine scent.

“And here I thought you left me for the hedge knight,” you teased, letting him drowsily sway you to the music.

“He’s not as pretty as you,” he whispered, his lips tickling against your ear.

You giggled.

“Do you like it when I call you pretty?” 

“Not as much as I like it when you call me darling,” you answered, your tongue loosened by the wine.

You felt Lyonel smile against the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“Well, darling,” he said, kissing your neck, causing you to shiver. “I think you’re pretty.”

He kissed you under your jaw.

“Charming.”

Behind your ear.

“Witty.”

Your cheek.

“The product of my wildest dreams.”

The corner of your mouth.

You waited for him to finish what he’d started, but he only rested his forehead tenderly against yours.

“Such sweet words,” you said, playing with the collar of his shirt. “I bet you say that to all the pretty maidens who’ve caught your eye.”

“Only those who are bold enough to shoot an apple out of my hand.”

You’re not sure who leaned in first, but by the time your lips meet his, it hardly mattered anymore.

Ser Lyonel kissed like he did everything else in his life—greedy and full of passion.

It wasn’t a delicate kiss by any means, but you weren’t delicate people.

Your lips met with all the inevitably of two ships sailing towards a collision course. It was a clash born from challenge and aching desire and the human need to feel alive.

He cupped your face in both of his hands, his rings cool against your flushed skin, and kissed you like he’d been running and he finally found what he’d been chasing his entire life, and you kissed him back with all the ferocity of a princess locked inside a tower who’d finally been set free.

Lyonel bit your bottom lip, causing you to gasp, which was all the invitation he needed to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like wine and the electric crackle before a storm. You moaned and buried your fingers into the hair at the base of his neck, drawing him closer.

Finally, the need for air became too great, and the two of you broke apart panting, your lips parting with a reluctant smack.

Lyonel didn’t wait for you to catch your breath before he started attacking your neck, sucking a mark into the delicate skin that you weren’t sure how you were going to explain away the next day, but did not care enough to make him stop. 

He guided you backward until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the table. Lyonel leaned you back with one arm and with the other, he swept away the clutter littering the table so he could lay you on the table with surprising gentleness.

You didn’t want gentle. You wanted him.

Ser Lyonel liked your boldness, so bold you would be. 

In a move that even surprised yourself, you grabbed Lyonel by the antlers of his stupid crown and pulled him in for another searing kiss. Lyonel groaned into your mouth and lifted your leg to circle his waist, closing the space between you until your chests were touching and you could feel his hard breathing and heartbeat against your breasts.

You felt hot. It was as if you were burning, and Ser Lyonel had lit the torch. The heat spread across your entire body and settled in your stomach, building into both a familiar and alien tension, and all the wine rushed to your head at once, leaving your head fuzzy and drunk on the feeling of this man pressed between your legs.

It was the hoots and hollers that finally broke you out of your trance. There weren’t many people left inside the pavilion at this hour, but those still present were openly gawking and giggling at their liege lord coupling with a woman on a table for all to see.

You blushed. If one of them recognized you and told your father…

“Perhaps we should continue this someplace more private?” Lyonel whispered in your ear, reigniting your desire.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and Lyonel picked you up off the table, your legs and arms wrapping around his waist and neck, and carried you out of the pavilion, kissing your lips and caressing your sides all the while.

You’d been so distracted by the arrival of Ser Dunk you had forgotten just how tall Lyonel was. You felt like you were seeing the world for the first time; everything looked smaller than it did before, and you thought you finally understood how Lyonel could act as carefree as he did.

Lyonel was shockingly steady on his feet all things considered, but he still stumbled on his way out of the pavilion. Every time he stumbled, you gasped, thinking he’d drop you, but he never did. Every time this happened, you sighed with relief, and then you two would laugh and kiss and repeat this dance over and over again until you finally arrived at your destination.

His thumbs just lightly grazed the undersides of your breasts when he lifted the flap of his private tent and laid you down on his bed.

Lyonel crawled on top of you, settling between your legs like he belonged there, and continued his conquest of your mouth.

But you wouldn’t let him conquer you so easily.

You gave as good as you got, stroking your tongue along his, fighting for dominance, and you yanked his crown off his head, tossing it off the bed, so you could dig your fingers into his black and silver curls.

“You know, if I were a king, that could be considered treason,” Lyonel said, his lips wet and swollen.

“And what are you going to do about it?” you goaded.

Lyonel growled, low and rumbling, and kissed you again, your teeth clashing in an unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome, kind of pain like pleasure.

“Such a naughty girl,” Lyonel purred, his fingers working frantically at the ties of your dress. “Do you enjoy teasing me, love?”

Your shiver at his words was answer enough.

Finally, he loosened the front of your dress, exposing your naked breasts. Instinctively, you raised your arms to cover yourself, but Ser Lyonel gripped both your wrists in one hand and held them above your head.

It wasn’t a very strong hold, so you knew if you really wanted to break his grip, you could and he would let you. It wasn’t the kind of restraint meant to hold you down so much as it was to keep you in place so he could eye his fill.

You blushed under his gaze. No man had ever seen you like this.

“Beautiful,” Lyonel said.

He buried his face in the valley between your breasts, kissing along your sternum. He released your wrists so he could squeeze your breasts in both of his hands, his thumbs rubbing over your peaked nipples in soothing patterns.

Meanwhile, he kept kissing and sucking at your breasts, leaving more marks besides the ones he’d already left on your neck, until his mouth finally closed around your right nipple, his tongue circling around the sensitive point, causing you to gasp and arch into his touch.

“My lord!” you cried out, pulling at his hair.

In response, Lyonel pinched your other nipple, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger while he bit and sucked at its twin.

The tension in your stomach was building again, and the ache between your thighs was becoming borderline painful. You thrust up your hips, desperate to relieve the growing tension, and met with the hard evidence of Ser Lyonel’s own arousal pressing between your legs.

You both groaned at the contact, the pleasure like a shock to your molten core. You could feel your arousal pooling in the fabric of your small clothes and leaking onto your thighs, but you were too far gone to feel embarrassed by your growing wetness.

Lyonel reached down to grip the bottom of your skirts and pulled them up above your hips, leaving you naked from the waist down except for your rapidly soaking small clothes.

He ran his fingers across the outer lips of your cunt—they came back glistening.

“Fucking gods,” Lyonel swore. 

He kissed you again and continued to stroke you through your small clothes. You moaned when his thumb pressed against the point at the top of your opening, a jolt of pleasure coursing through your veins.

You’d never felt such pleasure in all your life, and you never wanted it to stop. You knew where this was going, and you felt equal parts eager and terrified.

Your mind involuntarily turned to your betrothed.

Your blood ran cold, and your thoughts drifted to a warm night much like this one.

In your bedroom at King’s Landing.

A hand over your mouth.

And a knife pressed to your ribs.

Aerion would kill you if he ever learned that you were no longer a maiden.

Your father be damned, he’d kill you and name you a whore as he did so, and then you’d just be another dead Targaryen princess, mourned only for what you represented and not for who you were.

Lyonel slipped his fingers underneath your small clothes and pressed them against your opening.

“My lord, I’m sorry. I can’t,” you said, pushing his hand away.

You thought he would be angry, but he only stared down at you with a look of utter concern.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Lyonel asked, sitting up so that his weight was no longer caging you against the furs of his bed. “Are you no longer enjoying yourself?”

“I was… I am.”

“Then what’s wrong? Tell me what I can do, please.”

You swallowed, and you felt tears well up in your eyes from his care and attentiveness.

“I cannot—we cannot continue because… because I—”

“I know that you’re a lady,” he said. “And a maiden at that.”

Your eyes widened.

“You do? How?” you asked.

Lyonel chuckled.

“Only a lady walks around like she has a stick up her own ass.”

“I do not!” you scoffed indignantly.

“You do. That’s how I pegged you for a lady the moment we met, but that besides, only a lady calls her lover my lord in the throes of passion,” he said flirtatiously, kissing you on the cheek.

You snorted, offended, but you did not contradict him.

“If you really knew all that… then why did you bring me back here? I can’t give you what you want.”

Lyonel grinned and rubbed circles along your hipbone.

“There are plenty of other ways we can find pleasure that don’t involve me sticking my cock in your cunt. You need only ask.”

Your breath hitched inside your throat.

Your septas mentioned none of these other methods Ser Lyonel alluded to; in fact, they never talked about pleasure at all, if you were being honest. You weren’t at all sure what Lyonel meant by his words, but you were eager to find out.

Still, you hesitated.

“Do you promise not to take my maidenhood?”

“On my honor as a knight, I won’t fuck you unless you ask me to. So, what do you say, my lady?”

Fuck it.

You nodded, and that was all the permission Lyonel needed to drag your small clothes down your legs and toss them on the floor beside his long-forgotten crown.

He spread your legs open with his hands, but before you could even consider feeling embarrassed or exposed, he buried his face between your thighs and licked a long stripe up your center.

“My lord!” you cried out.

“Fuck, you taste like wine,” he cursed, hitching your legs on top of his shoulders before continuing his assault on your weeping cunt.

He started by licking at your folds, gathering your arousal on his tongue before moving up to kiss and suck on that place that made you see stars.

You hissed with pleasure, throwing your head back in utter ecstasy. He circled your pearl with his tongue in maddening circles, and right when you thought he’d found a rhythm, he closed his mouth around the hypersensitive area and sucked.

Hard.

“My lord! Lyonel!” you screamed.

You yanked at his hair and wrapped your legs around his head, pulling him closer.

He returned to stroking your folds, teasing your entrance with little flicks of his tongue before he finally, finally breached your core with one powerful thrust.

Lyonel groaned into your cunt and dug his fingers into your bare ass, his blunted nails leaving small crescent-shaped marks on your unblemished skin.

You thrust your hips to meet the strokes of his tongue, and soon the only thing you could hear was the obscene wet sound of you fucking his mouth and your uncontrollable moans.

Lyonel reached a hand between your legs to rub at your pearl, and simultaneously, he curled his tongue inside of you, igniting a fire inside your belly you could only compare to what you thought riding a dragon must feel like.

“Please, my lord!” You weren’t even sure what you were begging for. “Please. I—”

He pinched your pearl between his fingers, and it became too much. You came with a scream, the fire in your belly overflowing into your core, sending you over the edge, where your walls fluttered around his tongue in pleasurable waves.

Lyonel kept working his tongue through your release, drinking up every drop of your ecstasy until you were shaking.

Once satisfied, he kissed the inside of your thigh, causing you to shiver, and he winked when he caught your dazed expression, his beard glistening with your release.

He sat up on his knees and loosened his belt, freeing his aching hard cock from his trousers. He groaned and began stroking himself in front of you, smearing his arousal around the tip, his eyes never once straying from your face as he did.

You blushed at the sight. He was unsurprisingly large, thick too, and it curved in a way that made your walls clench helplessly around nothing.

Lyonel lined himself up against your flower, rubbing his cock in your wetness, and you panicked.

“Wait, you promised—”

“Fear not, my lady.” Lyonel said. “I am a man of my word. Your virtue is safe with me. But unless you want to learn how to suck cock, I suggest you keep those pretty thighs of yours closed nice and tight.”

Lyonel pushed your thighs together and slid his cock between them, trapped between your legs and your dampening folds.

“Yes! Just like that!” he praised and began to thrust.

It wasn’t so much thrusting as it was rubbing himself along your cunt, but it felt good, so good, and soon that familiar ache was building up again inside your groin.

You moaned, and a fresh wave of arousal coated Ser Lyonel’s cock, making the act easier and even more sinful.

You squeezed your thighs tighter and were rewarded with a loud groan from Ser Lyonel.

“Cunts yes!” Lyonel cried out and continued to rattle off praise. “Do that again. Fucking Others! You were made for me. Fuck!”

Lyonel kissed the hollow of your throat and reached up to squeeze one of your breasts, worrying your nipple between his skilled fingers.

You gasped and sank your teeth into the skin between his neck and shoulder before you could unleash a breathy moan.

“Gods! You’re perfect. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

He came with a shout loud enough to wake the entire camp, finishing between your thighs at the same time you found your own release, this one somehow even more intense than the first.

Lyonel collapsed on top of you, but his weight was a welcome comfort. You buried your hands in his hair, and he kissed you on your neck, whispering promises and sweet nothings into your ear.

“So good to me… Make you mine…” he murmured. “My lady… my wife…”

Your heart stopped.

Did he really just say…

“My lord—”

Ser Lyonel snored in response.

You tried to shake him, but he would not wake. So when that didn’t work, you tried to push him off you, but to no avail. You groaned, trapped underneath him, and flopped back in defeat.

It wouldn’t hurt to let him sleep for a while, you supposed. You could use the rest as well.

As long as you returned before your father noticed your absence, you’d be fine, so you closed your eyes, only planning to sleep for an hour or two, but when you woke, you could see sunlight peaking in from outside the tent and you could hear the morning birds chirping in the distance.

You sat up with a start.

Ser Lyonel no longer lay on top of you. Instead, he slept beside you, his arms wrapped around your waist, still trapping you in bed.

He groaned from the sudden movement, and the hangover no doubt.

You pried his arms away and stood up from the bed, grabbing your small clothes up off the floor.

After you slipped them on and began to fix your dress, Lyonel tried to pull you back into bed, his arms wrapped around your waist. 

“Come back to bed, darling,” he grumbled, kissing the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“I—I can’t. I have somewhere I need to be.”

“Where could you possibly have to be this early in the morning?”

“I—”

But before you could come up with an excuse, he turned your chin so he could kiss you properly.

You melted into the touch, letting him kiss you some more, but when he tried to undo the ties of your dress again, you pulled away.

“I can’t,” you said. “I have to go.”

Lyonel groaned and flopped back onto the bed.

You finished tying your dress and made to leave.  

You should have been back hours ago…

“Wait,” Lyonel said, grabbing your hand. “When can I see you again?”

You flushed.

Again.

He wanted to do this again.

“I—I don’t know,” you answered, maybe never if your father caught you. “I can try to sneak—see you later today.”

Lyonel grinned tiredly.

“You better not be making any promises you can’t keep, love. Now leave before I change my mind and chain you to the bed,” he teased, closing his eyes to go back to sleep.

You laughed, and because your father was right that you couldn’t leave anything well enough alone, you leaned down to press a chaste kiss to Ser Lyonel’s lips. He tried to chase your lips as you pulled away, but you placed a gentle hand on his lips, stopping and silencing him all at once.

“Consider that a promise, my lord,” you whispered, and you took off before Ser Lyonel could make good on his promise to keep you in bed.

The tourney grounds were still quiet and groggy with sleep when you exited the tent. Very few people were up and about, but the ones who were lined up along the road to greet some new arrivals, whose lead riders bore the banners of House Targaryen.

Seven hells, you thought.

You were too late.

Chapter 3 - The Horse and the Apple

“I can’t believe Father let you out of his sight,” Valarr said, after listening to you recall the events of that morning in Lord Ashford’s solar. “Especially after what that hedge knight said.”

You shrugged and readjusted your grip on the reins, steering your horse back onto the muddy path.

Valarr guided his palfrey towards yours until you were riding side by side. He grinned, his mismatched eyes twinkling with a mirth you hadn’t seen since you were children, unweighted by the responsibilities of adulthood. 

“Perhaps the gods will be kind and make this hedge knight my first opponent in the lists. Then I can ransom his horse and armor back for your stolen honor,” he teased. “Remind me, what was his name again?”

“Ser Duncan,” you answered. “And he meant no harm, Valarr, really. What was he supposed to do? Lie to the heir to the Iron Throne? Ser Duncan could no sooner lie than a pig could learn to fly. You should have seen him talking with Father. It was like watching a leaf tremble in the wind.”

“More like the trunk of a tree, assuming you spoke the truth about his height. Is he part giant? He’s certainly as thick as one.”

“Enough Valarr. I hold no grudge against Ser Duncan, and neither should you.”

Besides, if your brother was going to duel anyone over your supposed, ‘stolen honor,’ then he was going to have to take that matter up with Ser Lyonel, not Ser Duncan.

Ser Lyonel.

Just the thought of his name was enough to make you blush like the maiden you (still) were.

Oh, how you longed to see him again.

You could just see the top of his yellow pavilion rising in the distance, the banners of House Baratheon flapping in the wind, and it would have been all too easy to urge your horse into a sprint until the distance between you two disappeared and you could bury yourself in his arms again.

It was funny; you never considered yourself to be much of a romantic. You much rather preferred the history books your cousin, Aemon, was so fond of as opposed to the stories of love and romance your ladies-in-waiting liked to gossip about over tea, but you were beginning to see their appeal.

You pictured Ser Lyonel as the knight from one of these tales, imagining a scenario where he enters a tourney at King’s Landing, adorned in golden armor, lance in hand, asking for your favor. In your daydream, you fantasized about him riding into battle and defeating opponent after opponent in the lists until he was named champion, crowning you his Queen of Love and Beauty, just as he’d crowned you the night before with his ridiculous antler crown.

A coquettish smile teased at your lips, threatening to spill over into a blush-filled grin, and you thought you finally understood the fluttering feeling inside your chest. It was the same feeling your cousins, Aelora, Daella, Daenora, and Rhae, described when the gallant knight finally rescued the princess at the end of the tale, and he promised himself to her before the eyes of gods and men.

Love.

That feeling was love.

The thought of loving Ser Lyonel should have frightened you, but it didn’t. You felt no fear when you were with him. It didn’t matter how quickly your feelings came; all that mattered was that they were true and real in your heart. 

And you knew, you just knew, that he must feel the same way. Especially after what he said to you last night.

Make you mine…

My lady… my wife…

You flushed from head to toe, your heart a stuttering mess at the thought of becoming his lady wife, and for the first time since your father betrothed you to Aerion, you had hope.

Lyonel was your chance to escape from Aerion for good. Your cousin may be a prince, but he was low in the line of succession, eighth in line for the throne, to be exact. Lyonel, however, was the heir to House Baratheon, one of the greatest houses in Westeros. Surely, even your father would see the wisdom in marrying you to the future Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

“I was thinking,” Valarr said, interrupting your daydreams. “Since you have no intention of visiting Aerion, perhaps you’d like to help me practice instead.”

“Are you finally going to teach me how to joust?” you asked, perking up at the suggestion.

“Seven hells, no. Father would kill me if I ever let you anywhere near a lance. I thought we could race along the tilts like we used to. You always were faster than me.”

“Does that mean I can ride Silver?”

“Well, you can’t very well ride a palfrey into battle, so yes, you may ride Silver.”

“What are we waiting for, then? Come on!”

You nudged your horse into a run and Valarr chuckled at your eagerness, urging his own horse after yours. You felt as if you were children again, laughing and free, racing your palfreys to the stables to retrieve Valarr’s warhorses.

Valarr had two warhorses—Zobriax and Silver, a rare pair of twins bred from the finest destriers in the Reach—which were a gift from your father for his thirteenth name day.

You remember how excited your brother had been when he found them waiting for him in the stables. You’d been excited too, thinking that one of the young colts was meant for you. They were, in fact, only gifts for Valarr (your father had gifted you a rare Valyrian steel necklace for your name day that year), but your brother has always had a kind heart, and he was more than happy to share his name day gifts with you, his twin.

Zobriax, the elder brother, was a large black stallion with a nasty bite and a mean temperament. Or at least he was mean to everyone except your brother, who he adored, allowing no one else to ride him, except maybe your father, who he tolerated to a degree. He was your brother’s favored mount, and for good reason. A large horse was a sturdy horse, and a sturdy horse was hard to bring down in a joust.

Silver was the younger of the two twins. He had a beautiful silver coat (hence the name) and was smaller than Zobriax, but he was much faster on the tilts than his bulkier elder brother. Silver was your favorite, and that’s not just because Zobriax bit you when you were four-and-ten. 

Zobriax may be strong, but Silver was pure wind.

The first time you’d been allowed to ride him, you felt like you were flying. He was faster than any horse you had ever ridden or ever would ride again, so you named him Silver, not just for the color of his coat, but for the name of your favorite dragon—Silverwing.

Silver snorted with excitement when he saw you arrive. He had a much gentler temperament than his brother, who seemed to glare at you from the neighboring stall, his beady eyes dark and mistrustful.

Stupid horse.

Valarr ordered the stable hands to take your palfreys and saddle the twin destriers, careful to instruct them to mind Zobriax’s teeth.

Once they were saddled and armored, you led your mismatched horses to the tiltyard, Ser Donnel following close behind, having been tasked with your and Valarr’s safety that morning.

Valarr’s pavilion was already set up when you arrived, along with those of the other four champions. His squires, boys of noble birth sent to serve Valarr from the Stormlands, were waiting for him and were more than eager to help their prince into his armor.

Your brother looked striking in his all-black armor, the red crest of House Targaryen on his chest marking him as a true prince of the realm. Lady Ashford was wise to name him as one of her champions, for she’d be hard-pressed to find any knight more noble than your dear brother.

After his squires finished fastening his gauntlets, Valarr outfitted you in a spare chest plate and helmet he’d bought from a traveling blacksmith.

“I don’t see why I have to wear armor if you will not let me use a lance,” you complained while Valarr tightened the straps at your shoulders.

“The armor is more to protect you in case you fall,” he said. “It’s already bad enough that I’m letting you ride in that ridiculous dress.”

“I thought this dress was quite practical.”

He snorted in a very unprincely manner.

“Maybe if you were a dragon rider. Besides, if I must wear all this armor, so do you. It wouldn’t be a fair race otherwise.”

He slipped the helmet over your head, mindful of your hair.

“There, now you look like a proper knight,” he teased.  

“Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite elder brother?”

 Valarr tipped the visor of your helmet down with a bemused flick.

“Just shut up and get on the horse.”

He helped you into your saddle before mounting his own steed and rode to the far end of the tiltyard, lining Zobriax up to run along the left side of the barrier. You took your position opposite him and waited in anticipation for the start of the race.

A horn blew somewhere beyond the periphery of your vision, obscured by the confines of your helmet, and you were off.

You pushed Silver into a run, but the well-trained destrier needed little coaxing because Silver loved to run just as much as you loved riding him. He passed Valarr and Zobriax a little past the half-way mark, taking the lead. If this were a real joust, your brother would be face down in the mud, your lance finding its mark before his own could even reach your shield, but there was more to jousting than just speed, as you well knew.

Fortunately for you, this was not a joust.

This was a race, and you were winning.

You reached the end of the rail and turned Silver around at the tilt, guiding him with your reins; his agile legs jumped back into a sprint the moment he cleared the turn and emerged onto the straight. 

“Hyah!” Valarr shouted across the way, the snap of his reins echoing in your ears as he spurred Zobriax to run faster, trying to make up for lost ground.

You cleared the second tilt with ease, widening the gap between you and your brother, but you didn’t dare slow down, instead urging Silver to gallop faster and faster until you could scarcely feel the ground beneath Silver’s hoofs.

“Faster, Silver! Faster!” you cried with glee.

And then you truly were flying.

The final turn came too soon and too quickly all at once. You surged past Valarr one last time along the straight, and you knew you’d won before you even reached the final rail.

The sound of cheers heralded your victory, and you pulled at the reins, slowing Silver down until he was moving at a light trot.

You rejoined your brother by his pavilion, a triumphant smile hidden beneath your visor, and you dismounted to a round of applause. Your little competition had drawn quite the crowd—knights and squires alike had gathered along the fences to watch you race, and some had even come to congratulate Valarr on a race-well-fought.

But in truth, they had just come to seek your brother’s favor as the second in line to the throne.

“Your squire is a formidable rider, my prince,” a man with curling yellow hair complimented.

He seemed to be a knight, as he was wearing a lavish set of bronze armor with apple branches etched into the metal and a deep red cloak the color of wine. He kept his hand on the pommel of his sword while he talked with your brother, his back held straight, carrying himself like a man who believed in his self-importance.

The bronze knight was accompanied by another man who you assumed to be his squire. He was shorter than the other man, and his hair was dark brown, similar to your own, curling around his forehead in gentle waves. The squire wore no armor. Instead, he wore a deep red doublet, the same color as the knight’s cape (brothers, perhaps), and he kept staring at the ground, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, a large frown pulling at his lips. 

“I thank you, ser,” Valarr said, his helmet tucked securely underneath one arm. “But I’m afraid she’s not my squire, but my sister.”

You removed the helmet from your head, shaking your hair free, your cheeks flushed and damp with sweat, and grinned. The knight’s jaw dropped, his squire’s too, and the surprised look on their faces was something you would treasure for the rest of your life. 

“Viserra,” Valarr said, his expression amused. “This is Ser Steffon of House Fossoway and his squire, Raymun Fossoway.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ser,” you said, dropping into a practiced curtsey. “You as well, Raymun.”

Ser Steffon was the first to recover from his shock, dropping to one knee. You extended your hand, and he placed a chaste kiss to the back of your palm.

“The pleasure is all mine, princess,” Ser Steffon said, still holding your hand. “Please forgive me for mistaking you for the prince’s squire. I did not recognize your beauty from underneath that unflattering helm.”

Raymun snorted, and then he coughed to disguise the sound when Ser Steffon glared at him.

“Sorry,” Raymun mumbled, his gaze returning to the ground, but not before the two of you shared a small smile.

“You honor me, Ser Steffon,” you said, your voice honeyed with lies. “But—”

 “But my sister is already betrothed,” Valarr finished, ever the dutiful brother. “So, I’d kindly ask you to remove your hand.”

“Of course, my prince,” Ser Steffon said, releasing your hand and rising to his feet. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, princess. May I ask who the lucky lord is?”

“Prince—”

“Ser Steffon,” you said, interrupting your brother before he could speak that dreaded name. “Are you planning on entering the lists?”

“Aye, I am indeed. Although I don’t ride half as well as you do, Your Grace,” Ser Steffon added, addressing Valarr.

“You flatter me, ser,” Valarr said, a tight smile on his face. “But your praise ought to belong to Viserra.”

Ser Steffon’s throat bobbed as if he’d swallowed something nasty, his lips moving against his will when he said, “I—as you say, my prince. My apologies, Your Grace, it’s just that I’ve never met a woman who could ride so well.”

“There’s a lot you think a woman can’t do,” Raymun grumbled under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear.

“What did you say?” Ser Steffon accosted, lunging towards Raymun, who flinched back.

“Forgive my cousin, my prince. He’s unripe and hasn’t learned to keep his mouth shut in front of his betters. He claims he saw a woman best Ser Lyonel Baratheon in an archery competition last night, and I keep telling him it’s a lie. Shot an apple out of his hand, if you could believe such a thing. It’s utterly ridiculous. No woman could possibly best a trained knight.”

You looked away before your expression could give yourself away, but not before you caught Valarr giving you a sharp look. There was still a lot you hadn’t told your brother about last night, and you intended to keep it that way, lest he find out about your less than honorable night spent in the furs of Ser Lyonel’s bed.

“I cannot speak to this person your cousin may have seen last night, Ser Steffon, but I do know of such a woman, if you’re willing to place a little wager,” Valarr said.

“What kind of wager, Your Grace?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about fifty gold dragons?”

“Fifty gold dragons?” Ser Steffon exclaimed. “Your Grace, you cannot be serious. No woman is worth that price. Except maybe for a Lyseni whore,” he chuckled dryly.

“Mind your tongue, ser. This woman you mock is none other than the princess herself.”

Ser Steffon’s eyes widened to the size of dragon eggs, his tongue fumbling over his next words.

“Surely you must be jesting, my prince.”

“I can assure you I am not. My sister was taught by the best archer in the Seven Kingdoms. There is no target too small or far she cannot hit.”

“Except maybe Steffon’s wrinkly ruddy cock,” Raymun said, drawing laughter from the gathering crowd, and you had to bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling, your brother too.

Ser Steffon flushed the same deep red color as his cloak.

“Then perhaps you’d like to volunteer to be the lady’s target,” he said. “Grab an apple and go stand by the tilts. Put it on your head and we’ll see if the princess’s aim is true.”

Quiet murmurs settled over the crowd, and you shared a look with your brother that conveyed everything you needed to say without words.

This had gone too far.

Yes, you were confident in your abilities, and you would have loved nothing more than to knock this arrogant knight off his chauvinist hill, but you’ve never fired an arrow at another person before. Except for last night, when you shot that apple out of Ser Lyonel’s hands.

In hindsight, that was reckless. You could have easily hurt him or even killed him if you had missed. And now Ser Steffon wanted you to shoot an apple off Raymun’s head, where one mistake on your part would mean his certain death.

It was completely absurd. Did Ser Steffon not care about his cousin’s life? Or was he just goading you and Valarr into backing down?

Bluff or not, you would not risk Raymun’s life for your pride.

“Ser—” you began. 

“It’s alright,” Raymun said to you. “I’ll do it. At least then he’ll know I ain’t no bloody liar.”

He strode off before anyone could stop him, a fierce determination in his step.

The crowd whispered admiringly about Raymun’s courage.

Or they laughed at his stupidity.

“Edric,” Valarr called to his squire. “Fetch a bow and quiver for my sister.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

He returned with due haste, giving the wooden bow to your brother and the quiver to you with a dutiful bow. You fastened the leather quiver around your hips, your fingers steady as you secured the buckles in place.

A steady hand has nothing to do with fear.

Your great-uncle’s words came unbidden to your mind.

It’s about discipline. If you can control the movement of your hand, you can control where the arrow flies.

You remembered his lessons as if they were yesterday.

The first time you met Lord Bloodraven, you were five years old, and your father and uncle had just returned home from the war, your Uncle Brynden in tow along with his Raven’s Teeth.

You’d been terrified of him. His missing eye, sallow skin, and wine-stain birthmark all hallmarks of the monster you were convinced lived inside the tunnels beneath the Red Keep. (You learned much later that Aerion fabricated the rumor just to frighten you).

So, you kept a careful distance, tiptoeing around your great-uncle as if he were a sleeping dragon. That all changed when you were about one-and-ten.

You’d been in the training yard, your arms straining to pull the string of a bow that was far too large for you. You’d kept trying to aim the arrow at the target in front of you, but the arrow kept straying to the side before you could fire, and every time you’d tried to correct it, you’d lose focus on the target, and your arms would strain more.

“If you keep trying to shoot like that, you’re going to take someone’s eye out,” a voice had said, interrupting your concentration. 

And in your surprise, you almost did just that, accidentally firing the arrow towards your great-uncle Brynden’s head and his last remaining eye, only missing because he ducked his head at the last moment.

His one eye eyed you dubiously, but not with anger, only mild annoyance.

“What are you doing here, princess?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be at your lessons?”

“I don’t want to go to my lessons,” you shot back contemptuously, your usual fear masked by your anger. “They’re boring. I want to learn from Grand Maester Malleon, not some stupid Septa who thinks the Seven-Pointed Star is the only book worth reading.”

Bloodraven huffed.

“I see you’re still angry about your father’s decision.”

Angry was a gross understatement. You’d been furious in a way only a daughter could be when she thought her father was being unreasonable.

All your life, you did everything with Valarr. You ate together; you slept together; you played together; you had lessons together; and you trained in the yard together with little wooden swords, practicing to be knights with Daeron and Aerion.

You shared everything together, always had, doing nothing without the other, but now that you were approaching womanhood, your father had deemed your involvement in such activities to be improper for a young lady of the court.

It started with separate bedchambers, and then separate lessons, and now he’d forbidden you to train in the yard with Valarr and the others, especially now that they were using actual swords. 

It was unfair, as you told your mother and father many times, but at that age, you knew better than to disobey.

You grabbed another arrow from your quiver and tried again, pointedly ignoring your uncle, hoping he might finally grow bored and leave.

“Stop,” he said. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? You’re going to kill someone if you’re not taught properly. Have you not asked your father to teach you?” 

You shrugged.

“I did, but Father said he does not have the time, and that he isn’t very good, anyway. He promised to find me an instructor, but I’m tired of waiting. I asked Uncle Maekar if he’d teach me, but he said he wouldn’t do it because…” you trailed off.

“Because what? What did your uncle say, sweet girl?”

You gulped, but you met his one red eye, channeling your bravery.

“He said that a bow is a woman’s weapon… or a craven’s.”

You assumed your words would enrage him, but to your great surprise, he laughed. It was a faint, crackly-sort of sound, as though he hadn’t laughed for a very long time. 

“Did he now? How typical of him. Let me tell you a little secret, dear niece. Craven or not, it was not the sword that ended Daemon’s rebellion, but a rain of arrows. Now draw your arm back again, but this time I want you to keep it close to your ear.”

You blinked in surprise, but did as he said.

“That’s it. Now grip the bow just below the center and keep your arms straight and in line with each other. Rest the arrow just above your forefinger—yes, good—and aim at the target. Take a deep breath and then release your fingers. Don’t overthink it.”

You fired, sinking the arrow into the middle circle with a satisfying thwack.

It wasn’t a perfect shot, but it came close, missing the center by half an inch.

You turned towards your uncle, both incredulous and excited, and he seemed just as surprised as you were, his pale white brows raised in astonishment.

“I… I did it!” 

“Good,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Now do it again.”

He trained with you every day since then, correcting your form and drilling the repetition into your body repeatedly until there was nothing left for him to teach you.

To this day, you still don’t know why he decided to teach you, but you were forever grateful that he did.  

Valarr handed you the bow without a word, his violet and brown eyes searching your face for any hint of fear or hesitation.

“Will you defend me in a trial by combat if I accidentally kill him?”

“Only after I’ve fought in my own trial, after I’ve killed Ser Steffon.” 

You both laughed, breaking the tension.

“Aim true,” Valarr said, squeezing your shoulder. “I have fifty gold dragons on you, remember?”

He stepped away, and an eager silence fell over the grounds.

You selected an arrow from your quiver and notched it to the drawstring.

Raymun was already waiting for you, standing about sixty feet away down the straight, and with a shaking hand, he placed a bright green apple on his head.

A twisted thrill bubbled inside your chest, igniting the blood in your veins, and you wondered whether you possessed more of your family’s madness than you thought.

You drew back, and you thought you saw Raymun close his eyes.

Please keep still, you prayed. Seven please, make him keep still.

Deep breath in.

Aim.

Your hands were steady.

Deep breath out.

Fire.

The apple flew harmlessly off Raymun’s head, tumbling to the ground, skewered perfectly through the middle, just as you knew it would be.

The roaring from the crowd was just as loud, you imagined, as when Baelor Breakspear unhorsed Daemon Blackfyre in the final tilt at Princess Daenerys’s wedding tourney.

Valarr came up from behind and hugged you around the shoulders, spinning you off the ground, his expression delighted. You giggled and embraced him with one arm, your bow still clutched tightly in the other, and you spotted Ser Steffon slinking away, followed by the jeering from the crowd.

“I think I may have upset Ser Steffon,” you snickered after your feet had returned to the ground.

“Aye,” Raymun said, joining you, the fallen apple clutched in his hand. “He may look like a shiny, ripe apple, but he’s really rotten to the core.”

He pulled out the arrow and peeked at you through the hole as if it were a looking glass before he presented it to you like a trophy. You took it gladly—you could relate to rotten cousins.

“Excellent shot, princess,” Ser Donnel said, bowing his head. “My prince, it’s time for your training.”

Valarr nodded. “Alright ser. I shall escort Viserra back to the castle and join you shortly.”

“No need, brother,” you said, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Ser Raymun can escort me back.”

Raymun blushed as red as his doublet.

“You honor me, princess, but I’m only just a squire.”

“And he is neither family nor a member of the Kingsguard,” Ser Donnel added. “Your father—”

“Would allow him this honor,” you finished.

You turned to Raymun.

“He trusted me enough to shoot an apple off his head, so surely I can trust him to take me to my betrothed.”

“Your betrothed?” Valarr asked, his eyebrows raised.

You nodded.

“I did promise Father I’d go see him,” you said, the excuse an easy lie coming from your lips.

After all, the best-told lies were always laced with a little bit of truth.

“Ser Raymun can take me, and then you can join us once you’re done training with Ser Donnel.”

“I—of course. I’d be honored to escort you, princess,” Raymun sputtered.

“It’s decided then,” you said, clapping your hands together happily.

You took Ser Raymun’s arm and dragged him away before anyone could stop you.

“Viserra—” Valarr called warningly.

“Best of luck to you, brother!”

And then you were off, not towards the dreary castle or your wretched betrothed, but towards freedom and the black and yellow banners of House Baratheon.

“I must thank you, Ser Raymun,” you began. “If not for you, my brother would never have let me go without him—and I’m so very eager to see my betrothed again.” 

And if Ser Raymun assumed your betrothed was Ser Lyonel instead of Aerion, then all the better.

“Oh, it’s no problem, Your Grace. It’s the least I can do for you showin’ up me cousin like you did. And I’m no ser, princess. I’m only just a squire and probably will be for the rest of me life if Steffon has anything to say about it.”

“That’s a shame. I think any man brave enough to put his life in the hands of another is more courageous than even the best of knights.”

Raymun smiled, his ears-tinged pink.

“That’s kind of you, princess, but it’s not courage if I knew you would not miss. The truth is that I recognized you… from last night. I saw the competition with Ser Lyonel, and then we… we even danced for a bit until Ser Lyonel whisked you away.”

It was your turn to blush; the memory stirring the butterflies that lay dormant inside your chest.

“I remember now,” you said. “You were a fine dance partner, ser. I apologize for Ser Lyonel cutting our time short. He’s a very… passionate man.”

Raymun chuckled.

“There’s no need to apologize, Your Grace. I’d do the same if my betrothed were as lovely as you.”

You stopped in front of Ser Lyonel’s tent, and Raymun bent over to kiss your hand.

“This is where I leave you. I’ll stick around the camp until Prince Valarr arrives, but for now I’ll give you two some… privacy,” he said, and then with a wink, he strolled off, leaving you alone with your back to the tent.

You rubbed your hands down your skirts, smoothing out the wrinkles that had appeared during your ride, and fiddled with your hair, easing the tangles out of your curls until you felt they were presentable.

You took a deep breath to settle your nerves, but before you could turn to enter the tent, you were dragged back inside by your arm until your back rested against a warm, naked chest.

A pair of muscular arms wrapped around you from behind, drawing you closer, and a set of familiar lips latched onto your neck, and you sighed, melting into the touch, knowing exactly to whom these lips belonged.

“Hello, darling,” Ser Lyonel whispered against your skin. “Or should I say, princess?”

Your blood froze.

“My lord—”

“I bet you thought yourself to be quite clever,” he said, his hands traveling along your waist, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips. “With all those deflections and half-truths.”

He pulled your hair back for better access to your neck, kissing a mark there and to the sensitive skin behind your ear, making you gasp.

“You even told me your name, or at least part of it, Viserra,” he said, emphasizing the first syllable with a dragged-out hiss.

Despite yourself, you purred at the sound of your name on his lips.

“How… how did you know?” you asked.

Lyonel chuckled, the sound reverberating through the small tent like a beat from a gong.

“Prince Maekar paid me a visit this morning. He was very concerned about some rumors regarding the virtue of his niece.” 

Your back stiffened in response. If your uncle ever found out about what you did… If he told your father, or Seven forbid, Aerion…

“And what did you tell him?”

“The truth—that your honor is still intact.”

You sighed with relief.

“Which seemed to be the only thing he cared about, so I didn’t bother telling him about the night we spent here in my bed, or the things I did to you with my tongue, or the sounds you made when you—”

You shushed him with a kiss, smashing his lips to yours. He returned the kiss with eager passion, his tongue teasing at your lips, begging for entry. You obliged, opening your mouth to his, your tongues dancing like dragons, coaxing each other higher and higher into the sky until everything below faded away.

“Do you truly not care that I am a princess?” you asked when the need for air became too great.

“No more than I cared when I thought you were just a lady.”

He spun you around so that you were facing him, his eyes burning with desire as they trailed down your form and the fitted dress you wore.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said, his voice deep with want. “Not a moment has gone by where I haven’t dreamed of your breasts, or your mouth, or your sweet cunt. I could still taste you on my tongue when Lord Tyrell challenged me to a game of tug of war, and I had to leave the competition part-way to get a drink so that I wouldn’t grow hard.”

You shuddered at his words, desire pooling deep inside your belly.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admitted, reaching on your toes to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Oh? And what exactly were you thinking about, princess?” he asked suggestively.

You blushed when he called you princess; the word sounding more like an endearment than a title coming from his lips. 

He leaned down and whispered in your ear, “What do you want?”

“I want…” You paused to look him in the eyes. “I want you to touch me like you did last night.”

Ser Lyonel grinned like a man who’d just won a tourney, his eyer bright with adrenaline and amorous fervor.

“As my princess commands,” he said.

Lyonel dropped to his knees, his eyes never once straying from yours as he reverently trailed his hands down your body.

“Wait, what are you—ahh!”

With both hands, he squeezed your ass, molding the flesh with his large, calloused fingers.

You yelped, and he chuckled in response, his dark eyes crinkling with all the mischief of a boy who’d discovered kissing games for the first time.

He placed a kiss on your stomach, just above your mound, before he smoothed his hands down the back of your dress until he was cupping the back of your knee with one hand while the other crept underneath your dress and up your bare leg, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.

Lyonel hooked his fingers beneath your small clothes and slowly dragged them down your legs, evidence of your desire sticking to the thin material and smearing down your thighs like tears.

You lifted your leg when you felt the garment pool around your ankles, eager to be rid of it. Then you took Lyonel’s free hand, and he helped you step out of your small clothes, which he then tucked inside his trousers, a small smirk tugging at his lips while he did so.

You flushed, panting with anticipation. Last night was the first time you had ever experienced such carnal pleasure at the hands of another. It was the first time you had reached that elusive peak you’d heard so much about, but could never find on your own in the quiet hours of the night when you secretly touched yourself between your legs, exploring your body until you were left hot and wanting and unsure of how to relieve the tension.

But now you knew, and that knowledge only seemed to heighten your arousal and make every touch, every caress, feel like that moment before you teetered over the edge.

Lyonel lifted your dress and ducked underneath your skirts, and you shuddered at the thought of what he intended to do. You spread your legs further to accommodate him and rested your hands on top of his shoulders, gripping him tight.

He started by kissing the inside of your thigh. You could hear the soft smooching sounds from underneath your skirts, but you could not see him kissing his way up to your core, forcing you to focus only on the sensation of his lips dancing across your skin and his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass.

He dragged his tongue up the trail of arousal trickling down your thighs until he found your soaking cunt and moaned.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me.”

He drank from your folds like you were an oasis, and he had been stranded in the desert for too long. Every eager stroke of his tongue delved deeper and deeper into your cunt, submerging himself in your essence until you thought he must be drowning in it.

Ser Lyonel did not seem to mind. A fresh wave of slickness coated his mouth, making him groan, and he stuck his tongue inside your cunt, lapping greedily at your clenching hole until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began.

He nudged your swollen clit with the tip of his nose, and the hairs from his beard tickled pleasantly against the sensitive skin of your folds, making you gasp.

“My lord!” you moaned, unable to help yourself.

This was dangerous. You were no longer some unknown lady seeking comfort in the bed of a man you’d just met; you were now a princess of the realm. If anyone saw you like this, your reputation would be ruined—your father’s reputation would be ruined—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Especially not when Ser Lyonel was licking circles around your clit.

“Fuck,” you cursed, your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing.

Your hips moved of their own accord, thrusting forward to meet every swipe of his tongue against your puffy pearl until you were whimpering from the sensation, but nowhere close to finishing.

“More,” you demanded. “I need more.”

Without relenting his assault on your clit, he lifted your leg above his shoulder and wrapped it around his head, maintaining a firm grip on your ass with his other hand to keep you from losing your balance.

He gripped the thigh resting on his shoulder, spreading you open even further, and drove his tongue back inside your dripping hole, the new angle allowing him to thrust deeper inside of you, curling and teasing at your sensitive walls until you were clenching around him like an expensive whore. 

You moved your body to match Lyonel’s thrusts, using his shoulders for leverage, too far gone to care how needy you must sound, your cunt squelching with every jolt of your hips.

He hummed against your sex, and the vibration sent a pulse of fresh hot pleasure to your clit.

“Ah! My lord! I—”

You could feel your orgasm building, more intensely than before. Unlike the night before, there was no wine to dull your senses; there was nothing to quell the fire pulsing through your veins or stop the knot tightening inside your belly; nothing except for his tongue, which seemed determined to both prolong and release you from your pleasure-filled purgatory all at once.

“Please!” you begged.

Don’t stop.

Make it stop.

“Please!”

Then, just when you thought you couldn’t take much more of this, Lyonel latched his lips around your clit, taking it into his mouth, and sucked.

You screamed his name, not caring who might hear, and he rewarded your cries by licking at your clit, applying pressure with the flat of his tongue until you were sobbing.  

With one final flick of his tongue, you shattered, back arching and legs trembling, your release gushing down your thighs. You felt your knee buckle under the force of your orgasm, and you would have fallen if not for Ser Lyonel’s firm hands gripping your legs, keeping you upright. 

Lyonel didn’t stop after you came. He kept licking and sucking at your sensitive pearl, prolonging your climax, only stopping once the throbbing pulses from your insides ceased and he’d had his fill of your sweet release, leaving you shaking and oversensitive.

He gently lowered your leg from his shoulder and crawled out from underneath your skirts, licking his lips with a satisfied groan. He grinned up at you, and the sight of him on his knees, face dripping with your slick, reignited your desire for him like a spark to a bottle of wildfire.

“Is the princess satisfied with my service?” Lyonel teased, knowing quite well that you were.

“Kiss me,” you commanded instead.

He obeyed, crashing your lips together in one fluid motion that made your head spin. You could taste yourself in his mouth, and you moaned, sucking his tongue deeper into your mouth.

Lyonel grabbed your waist in both hands, grinding your bodies together, and you could feel his hot erection pressing against your stomach, hard and heavy and begging to be touched. The feeling of him made you flush hotter, dizzy knowing that you had just as much of an effect on him as he did on you.

You reached between your bodies to palm his cock through his trousers, his hips thrusting into your hand where you squeezed.

Then, with a sultriness you didn’t know you possessed, you said, “I want to make you feel good.”

“You already do,” he rasped, hips still bucking.

You squeezed him harder, dislodging a deep groan from inside his chest.

“I want to taste you like you tasted me. Teach me how,” you pleaded.

You lowered yourself onto your knees, but before you could reach for his belt, he grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

“Get up,” he said, his eyes still dark with lust. “I will not have you kneeling before me.”

You flushed again. Not with need, but with shame.

“I—I’m sorry, my lord,” you said, rising back up to your feet, mortified tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. “I should have never… I should go—”

He pulled you back into a searing kiss, his hands firm but gentle on your hips, and despite your embarrassment, you relaxed into the kiss.

You parted your lips, inviting him in, and Lyonel wasted no time delving deeper into your mouth, his tongue coaxing along yours in passionate strokes.

Kissing Ser Lyonel was like riding Silver for the first time.

It was weightless.

Every taste of his mouth was like nectar on your tongue; every shared breath felt like a dragon setting your heart ablaze; and every press of his lips against yours kept pushing you higher and higher until it was as if you were floating.

When he finally broke the kiss, he left you breathless and dizzy with desire.

“I never said that I didn’t want it,” he said, his forehead resting against yours.

“If you wanted it, then why did you stop me?” you panted, still reeling from the kiss.

“Oh, darling. You do not know how hard it was for me to say no, but you are a princess,” he said, tilting your chin up with his fingers. “And a princess should never kneel. If you really want to suck my cock, we will continue this on the bed, not with you on your knees like some common whore.”

And he meant it, too.

You could see it in his eyes, and you had to swallow back the lump in your throat because never in your life had you ever felt more seen.

You nodded your head, wanting nothing more in that moment than to please him, to belong to him.

“Use your words, princess. I need to hear you.”

“I want to go to the bed,” you said. “I want to touch you. Please—”

He interrupted you with a kiss, your noses crashing together in his haste to chase the plea from your mouth.

“You never have to beg,” he said. “Anything you want, it’s yours. I’m yours.”

He kept kissing you as he walked backward to the bed, his hands squeezing and exploring your waist until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed and he fell back, pulling you on top of him, causing you both to laugh.

Lyonel lifted you off his lap just long enough to spring his aching cock from his trousers and sit back against the headboard, his head thrown back against the wood in ecstasy as he stroked himself. 

You licked your lips at the sight. He looked even larger up close, and in the light of day, you could see a large vein running up the side of his length and his arousal wetting the tip. 

“You can touch it, you know,” he said, noticing your stare.

“Show me,” you said, eyes glued to the gentle stroking of his hand.

Lyonel took your hand in his and guided it towards his cock. You started at the base of his shaft, his fingers curled on top of yours, showing you how to touch and squeeze him.

He hissed when your fingertips reached the tip of his cock. You nearly paused, thinking you might have hurt him, but he kept stroking your hand up and down, building a steady pace until you no longer needed his hand to guide you.

“Fuck!” he cried when you squeezed a little harder.

You wanted to look at his face, but you were addicted to the way your hand looked gripping his thick cock, and when you experimentally swiped your thumb over the tip, smearing his fluids around the head, you were overcome with the desperate urge to taste it.

You bent down until your lips were level with his manhood, your hands placed firmly on either side of his groin. Before you could overthink it, you pressed your lips to the head of his cock, kissing it lightly, and when he moaned, you licked it, rolling his arousal across your tongue like honey.

He tasted bitter and a little salty, but you found you didn’t mind the taste. Not when Ser Lyonel was writhing beneath you, unmade by your touch.

You licked him along the sensitive vein spanning the length of his shaft, stroking him up and down until his breathing turned ragged.

Feeling emboldened by his response, you took the head into your mouth.

“Fuck! That’s it, yes!” Lyonel cried, fisting his hand in your hair. “Go slowly. Take me in a little at a time. Mind your teeth and use your tongue to—cunts yes! Just like that!” 

You slid him further into your mouth, careful not to graze him, and used your tongue to tease the underside of his shaft, drawing out a breathy moan.

“Others take me,” he panted. “Are you sure—ah! You’ve never… done this before?”

If your lips weren’t already stretched around his lengthy cock, you would have smiled, his praise rushing straight to your core and desire building there. 

You kept going until you could feel him in the back of your throat, and when you couldn’t take in any more of him, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked around his weeping cock. He instinctively bucked into your mouth, causing you to gag, your eyes stinging with tears as you pulled back.

“Shit! I didn’t mean to,” Lyonel said, pulling your head away by your hair. “Darling, I’m sorry. I—”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish.

In one fluid motion, you took him all the way back to the base, your nose nestling into the coarse black hairs of his abdomen, and when he groaned, you forgot all about your discomfort, your focus diverted to his pleasure and your intense desire to watch him come undone.

You swallowed him around you, inching your way down his shaft until you reached the tip, swirling it around on your tongue before taking him back down your throat. 

He was thrusting into your mouth now with unreserved fervor, the hand in your hair guiding your head as you bobbed up and down around his cock.

Spit trickled down your chin from the corners of your mouth, and your jaw was beginning to ache something fierce trying to accommodate his manhood, but you kept going, eager—no—desperate to please him.

You remembered your septas telling you once that it was a sin to take a man into your mouth. They said that only whores would let a man debase them in such a way, making a mockery of the gods and the sacred act of consummation, but you didn’t feel used or debased or mocked.

You felt powerful.

Powerful in the knowledge that it was you who had this effect on him and no one else.

He was close.

You could tell by the way his groin muscles tightened beneath your fingers, begging for release, and the reckless, almost erratic, thrusting of his hips. You peered up at him from underneath your lashes, and the sight of him fucking his cock into your mouth, lost in the throes of pleasure—the pleasure you gave him—was enough to make you moan and the need to touch yourself overwhelming.

Lyonel came with one final jolt of his hips, spilling his bitter seed down your throat, leaving it raw and aching. You swallowed what you could, continuing to milk his cock through his release, but some of his seed still managed to dribble out of the side of your mouth and onto your dress.

You released his cock with a wet pop and wiped your mouth with the sleeve of your dress. His hand was still in your hair, gently soothing the scalp where he’d pulled too hard when he came.

“Is my lord satisfied with my service?” you asked, smiling despite the soreness in your lips.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he drew you up by your hair and kissed you.

When he finally pulled away, you collapsed beside him, spent.

He kissed your cheek one last time before he tucked himself back into his trousers and got up to pour himself a goblet of wine.

“You know, I have half a mind to skip this tourney altogether and take you back with me to Storm’s End,” he said, handing you a cup. 

Your heart skipped a beat.

This was it.

This was the moment you’d been waiting for.

“Then why don’t you?” you asked, taking a sip of your wine to disguise your excitement.

“Nice try, darling, but I know that you’re already betrothed,” he said, smiling slyly. “Did you think Prince Maekar conveniently forgot to mention that part? Or did you think I wouldn’t be honorable enough to care?” 

Your face fell.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” you said, diverting your eyes. “It was not my intention to question your honor. I only thought—”

“Relax, princess, I’m only messing with you,” Lyonel said. “I have no intention of sabotaging your marriage, but I’m not so honorable as to say no to some pre-marital fun. Your secret is safe with me, darling. Once this tourney is through, our time together will end, and your betrothed will be none the wiser.”

He clicked his goblet to yours as if you’d reached an agreement.

“It doesn’t have to be,” you said. “The end, I mean.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Last night, after we…you know,” you said, blushing. “You said that you wanted to make me yours. That you wanted to make me your wife.”

He laughed, and you blushed for an entirely different reason.

“I was drunk when I said that.”

“Are you saying that you didn’t mean it?”

“I’m sure I did at the time, but that was before Prince Maekar threatened to geld me for touching the blood of the dragon. I already fought in a war between dragons, and I’m not about to start another one because you don’t want to marry your… brother? Uncle? Or was it your nephew?”

“Cousin,” you said coldly.

“Right, cousin,” Lyonel said, emptying his goblet in one large gulp.

“If you’d just speak with my father—”

“Don’t take it personally, princess,” he interjected. “I’ve enjoyed our fun together, but you’re asking me to risk a lot for a cunt I’ve never even fucked.”

Your stomach dropped, and you felt your heart shattering into a thousand pieces.

The memory of that cursed night with Daeron came unbidden into your mind, and you remembered what he’d said to your father when he’d caught you in bed together with unsettling clarity.

“What does it matter if I fucked her yet or not?” he’d slurred. “She’s going to be my wife either way.”  

Your father’s eyes lit up with a fury you had never seen before, and you remembered thinking your father was going to hit him.

He didn’t.

Instead, he broke your engagement, citing Daeron’s drunkenness as an excuse, but you knew the truth.

Your father broke your betrothal because Daeron had dishonored you. 

Daeron had called you his whore in everything but name, reducing your existence to the opening between your legs and the heirs you could give him, but what you remembered most about the experience was how dirty and insignificant those words made you feel.

You felt that way now, sitting on Ser Lyonel’s bed, his seed staining your dress, your flower still sensitive and throbbing.

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill, but you refused to let him see you cry. You wouldn’t let him think you were weak.

That was how Aerion saw you.

That was how Ser Steffon saw you.

That was how Daeron saw you, even if he later swore he didn’t mean it.

“Princess—”

Rage boiled inside you at the sound of his voice, and without thinking, you tossed your wine in his face. You stormed out without another word, and a small, pathetic part of you hoped he would come after you, but he didn’t.

You found Raymun drinking with some other squires not too far from Ser Lyonel’s tent.

“We’re leaving,” you said to him.

His eyes widened at your appearance. You must look awful. 

“My lady, are you crying?” he asked, his concern palpable.

You dabbed at your eyes, your tears mixing with the semen on your sleeve.

“I’m fine, Raymun. I just wish to leave. Now.” 

“Of course. Should I take you back to your brother?”

“No!” you shouted, panic rising.  

You didn’t want Valarr to see you like this. He’d know something was wrong almost immediately, and you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself from crying and telling him everything if he saw you now.

“I don’t want to see him. Not yet. Take me… take me to see Prince Aerion.”

“Prince Aerion?” Raymun asked, confused.

“My betrothed,” you said, the words like poison on your tongue.

“Wait, I thought Ser Lyonel was…”

“I said to take me to see Prince Aerion,” you snapped.

“I—at once, Your Grace.”

You walked in silence after that, neither of you willing nor wanting to speak.

On your way through camp, you passed by a tent of traveling puppeteers giving a performance.

“You are no knight,” you heard a woman say. “You are Florian the Fool!”

“I am, my lady,” a man’s voice replied. “As great a fool as ever lived. And as great a knight as well!”

“A fool and a knight,” the woman said skeptically. “I have never heard of such a thing.” 

“Sweet lady. All men are fools, and all men are knights… where women are concerned.”

The crowd laughed and cheered, and you felt your heart break all over again.

All men are knights…

You watched the fake knight try to lift the skirts of the woman puppeteer, the snickering from the crowd egging him on, and you scoffed.

Chapter 2 - The Prince

Seven fucking hells.

You gasped for breath as you ran toward Ashford Castle, your cloak billowing behind you like a banner in the wind. Your skirts were heavy with mud, dragging along your feet like a corpse, but you dared not stop.

For a moment, you had contemplated leaving your disguise and heading straight for the castle, but the thought of your father catching you wearing… well, almost nothing at all, was enough to give you pause and make you reconsider your plan.

So there you were, tearing through the camp, your hood pulled over your head to hide your face, running as if the Others were on your tail, ready to devour you whole.

There was still a chance your father hadn’t realized you were gone. 

After you failed to return last night, your handmaidens, ever loyal to you, would have tried to keep up the rouse for as long as they could while they awaited your return.

Once they realized you were still in Ashford, knowing them, they’d dress Taryn (whom you bore the closest physical resemblance to) in your clothes and try to sneak her inside the castle under the guise of feigning illness.

It could work, too. 

You haven’t spoken to your father since he first broke the news of your betrothal, so he’d likely just assume that you were still wroth with him, but once everyone was settled inside the castle, your handmaidens would no longer be able to cover for you.

No matter how angry you were or how bad the argument may have been, you always broke your fast with your father. It was the only time during the day you could ever count on his company, especially since he became the Hand of the King, so if you missed it, he would immediately become suspicious and seek you out.

If you could just get inside the castle before then, your father would never have to know you were gone or what you had done, or who you had been with.

You arrived at the courtyard just after your father dismounted and greeted the Lord of Ashford; and you almost laughed aloud when the herald announced your uncle’s presence almost as an afterthought.

Still, you couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped between your lips, amused despite the circumstances. The sound nearly gave you away, drawing the attention of both Ser Donnel and Ser Roland, but you quickly hid behind the gate before either man could notice you.

You waited for the clanking sounds of their armor to fade before you peeked your head around the corner. You watched your handmaidens escort Taryn—or rather you—inside the castle; her face hidden underneath an ornate veil that matched the ostentatious red and black gown she’d borrowed from your wardrobe.

“Viserra,” your father called after you.

Taryn froze. She was just an arm’s length away from breaching the threshold of the castle.

You could feel her panic just as strongly as you could feel your own bubbling inside your chest. Her disguise was good, but it was by no means perfect, and your father was no fool. If he came even a half-step closer, or forced you—Taryn—to speak, he’d quickly realize it was not you underneath that veil, but an imposter.

Of course, you would intervene if necessary—you would never allow your handmaidens to face punishment for your actions—but they were on the verge of success, and you found yourself unable to suppress a feeling of giddy anticipation that their scheme might just succeed.

“Be angry with me all you like, but you will not spurn our generous host with your tantrum. I expect to see you in Lord Ashford’s solar to break your fast once you’ve finished settling in. Do I make myself clear?”

You (Taryn) nodded and retreated inside the castle before your father could demand a verbal response, your other handmaidens following in her wake with a notable level of anxiety and lack of poise, indicative of their collective panic.

When your father let them go without another word, you sighed with relief.

They did it.

You could hardly believe your good fortune and felt a deep sense of gratitude for your loyal handmaidens.

I should gift them each a necklace, you thought, or I could help them arrange a match with some landed knight or minor lordling, if they should wish it. 

You smiled at the thought. Just because you were doomed to a miserable marriage with an equally horrible husband didn’t mean that your handmaidens should have to suffer the same fate.

You waited until your father disappeared inside the keep alongside Lord Ashford before you finally emerged from your hiding spot.

The plan was simple—sneak inside the castle, slip into your room, change into something more presentable, and then join your father in Lord Ashford’s solar before he became wise to your deception. However, before you could cross the threshold, you were stopped by a pair of guards. 

“Halt,” the first guard said, crossing his spear with that of his companion’s, blocking your path.

The guard was rather fat, his belly bulging against his ghastly orange robe, and one of his watery blue eyes sat higher on his face than the other, giving him a look of constant suspicion.

“My Lord Ashford’s household and the royal family are the only ones allowed inside the castle today. Outsiders are strictly forbidden,” the fat guard finished.

“Well, if I see one, I’ll be sure to let you know,” you said, voice dripping with authority.

You held your head up high and straightened your shoulders, carrying yourself with the pride of a Targaryen and the regality of a princess, looking every bit like your father’s daughter.

“Now, if you’d pardon me, sers,” you said, making to move past them, but their spears stopped you once again, the metal tips clashing with a resounding clink.

“And where do you think you’re going, wench?” the second guard asked scathingly.

He was shorter than the other guard and much skinnier, almost skeletal. He had a weasel-like face and a wispy brown beard that looked more like the whiskers of a greying cat.

“You don’t look like one of em’ silver-haired cunts,” the guard continued. “And I ain’t ever seen your face around here before, so begone, whore, before I stick you with something you won’t like.”

The two men snickered, and your jaw dropped with indignation.

“Excuse me? How dare you—”

“Viserra!” a familiar voice shouted behind you, making you flinch.

You didn’t want to turn around. As long as you didn’t look, you could pretend that he wasn’t there. You turned around anyway, almost against your will, your body a slave to both the inevitable confrontation and the morbid curiosity of knowing that the monster was right behind you, snarling and breathing down your neck, and still wanting, needing to take a peek.

“Aerion,” you greeted, dejected and demure.

Aerion grinned, flashing his teeth. He was still wearing his traveling cloak, which he flourished aside to reach for your hand. He kissed the back of your hand in what appeared to be an affectionate gesture, but was really an act of possession.

It took every bit of your self-control not to recoil from his touch, his lips like leeches sinking into your skin and his spit like slime from the mouth of a drowned corpse.

“Good morrow, my little dragon. I’ve been most eager to see you.”

He intertwined your fingers, chaining you to him, before he turned his attention to the guards.

“Step aside, you imbeciles. My betrothed is the blood of the dragon, not some common whore. And should you ever call her one again, I promise to stick you with something you won’t like.”

“Ah—at once, muh-my prince,” the weasel-guard sputtered. “For-forgive us, my lady.”

“Princess,” Aerion corrected.

“Forgive us, Princess,” the fat guard said, bowing his head.

“Yuh-yes. Forgive us, Princess.”

“Good,” Aerion said, satisfied. “Now scurry off before I change my mind.”

The two guards nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to get away. So much for guarding their posts.

“Come, I’ll take you back to your room,” Aerion said, tugging your hand.

Seeing no other choice, you let Aerion escort you inside the castle.

The keep itself was rather quant; you’d bet a purse of gold dragons that it was no bigger than the size of the Tower of the Hand where you lived with your family back in King’s Landing. 

You thought of your little brother, Matarys, back home.

Valarr had wanted Matarys to squire for him, but Matarys was a sweet-tempered boy with no real taste for violence, so he opted to stay home and continue to serve as your grandfather’s cupbearer instead. 

Still, you couldn’t help but miss him.

Of all your siblings, Matarys resembled your mother the most, so every time you looked into his playful blue eyes or ruffled his tawny red hair, you were reminded of her. It used to make you sad, but now it brought you a solemn kind of happiness only someone who has experienced loss could understand.

Aerion led you further inside the castle, which would have made you nervous except for the dozens of servants and guards milling about, at least for now.

A pair of serving girls giggled at your intertwined hands, and Aerion smiled coyly and winked, causing them to blush and burst into another fit of giggles.

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. 

It never ceased to amaze you how quickly Aerion could don the mask of the charming prince.

You hated that mask.

It was the reason no one could believe that this beautiful Targaryen prince was actually a monster in disguise, a wolf wearing sheep’s clothing.

It was the only reason you could fathom why your father would betroth the two of you at all.

“You know, I came looking for you last night,” Aerion began. “I was hoping we could celebrate our engagement in private, so imagine my surprise when I went to your room and found some filthy whore in your bed instead.”

You drew a sharp breath, your heart pounding, and curled your free hand into a tight fist when it began to tremble.

Fear flooded your veins, not for yourself, but for Taryn.

“You… you didn’t hurt her, did you?”

“Now why would I do that?” Aerion asked, feigning innocence.

“Don’t play games with me, Aerion.”

Aerion stopped and grabbed you by the chin, pushing you back against the castle wall.

You squeaked with fright when your back hit the rough stone, but you didn’t dare scream.

Aerion lifted your tangled hands and held them captive against your breasts, and he squeezed your hand so hard, you thought it would break.

You hissed in pain and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. He lifted your chin and forced you to meet his gaze, his violet eyes dark with anger.

“You don’t talk that way to the Dragon,” he said. “You want me to be gentle on our wedding night, don’t you?”

You nodded your head. You would do anything he said so long as he didn’t hurt you anymore.

Aerion loosened his grip on your hand, but did not let go. You sighed with relief, breathing hard.

You thought that would be the end of it, but then Aerion leaned forward and sniffed at your neck like a hound.

“You smell like sex,” he said.

Aerion released your hand so he could wrap his fingers around your throat. He squeezed his hand, but not enough to cut off your air, only applying enough pressure to warn you he could strangle you at any moment should you displease him.

You grabbed his arm with both of your hands, a silent plea not to hurt you.

“Where were you last night?” Aerion asked, and you panicked.

There was no explanation that would satisfy Aerion, not when he was in this state. Even the truth would not be enough to save you. It wouldn’t matter to him that you didn’t actually have sex; the fact that you let another man touch you at all would be enough to send Aerion into a blind rage.

When you didn’t answer, Aerion squeezed tighter, his fingers bruising the skin only a hair’s breadth away from the marks Ser Lyonel had left last night.

You clawed at his arm, your nails raking his exposed skin.

“I was... I went to… Aerion, please I…”

The sound of footsteps echoed around the corner, and as quickly as Aerion grabbed you, he released you, wrapping his arms around your waist instead and forcing your head into his shoulder to disguise your sobs.

To anyone passing by, you would look like a pair of lovers stealing a quiet moment in a deserted part of the castle, not a princess being attacked by her betrothed.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall. More than anything you wished for your father, or your uncle, or Ser Lyonel, or, Seven Hells, even Daeron. Anyone who could save you from Aerion and his wrath. 

The footsteps ceased, like the end of a funeral march.

“Viserra! There you are.”

Your heart leapt, lodging itself in your throat. You didn’t move; you weren’t even sure if you were still breathing. Slowly, you raised your gaze, your hope feeling just as fragile as your body did in that moment, trapped in Aerion’s grasp.

For the first time since Aerion took your hand, you felt hopeful, desperately so, because you knew that voice better than you knew your own.

“Valarr!” you exclaimed.

Your brother.

Your twin.

Your savior.

Aerion pulled away, a shy smile on his lips. He looked like a boy who had just been caught kissing a maiden for the first time.

Valarr crossed his arms and glared at your cousin, his posture rigid with authority and protective fervor.

“Cousin,” Valarr greeted monotonously. “Surely you are not so impatient that you cannot wait until after you two are wed.”

“Forgive me, cousin,” Aerion said, his expression bright and love-struck. “You are right. This can wait until after the wedding.”

He said this last bit to you, and you could feel the fear that had previously dissipated rapidly rebuild inside your chest.

His expression spoke volumes.

Don’t tell him anything, or I’ll make it worse for you, it seemed to say.

Your brother, however, saw through your cousin’s deceptive charm.

Valarr squinted his mismatched eyes, his gaze darting back-and-forth between you and Aerion suspiciously.

“You better,” Valarr said. “If I catch the two of you alone again, Father will be the least of your worries.”

Aerion held up his hands, mocking surrender.

“Of course, cousin. Or should I call you brother now?” he asked with a smirk. 

You wanted to scream.

“Let’s go, Viserra,” Valarr said, ignoring Aerion’s taunt. “Father is waiting for you.”

You stepped forward, resisting the urge to run to your brother, but then a gentle, yet possessive, hand clutched your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Wait,” Aerion said.

Aerion cupped your cheek, the action almost tender, and leaned in to kiss you. You turned your head away at the last moment, avoiding his lips so that he’d kiss your cheek instead.

You did not want Aerion kissing you, not when you still had the feeling of Ser Lyonel on your lips.

The look in Aerion’s eyes promised that you’d pay for your defiance later, but Aerion wouldn’t try anything in front of Valarr; he wouldn’t dare.

“I’ll see you tonight, my little dragon,” Aerion said, bidding you farewell.

Whether he was referring to tonight’s opening joust or later in your bedchambers, you were not sure. Aerion was purposefully vague, and the thought of him trying to sneak into your room again made you shiver. 

You nodded your head, not trusting yourself to speak, and accepted your brother’s arm. It was only after Aerion disappeared down the hall, his footsteps fading beyond perception, that you finally allowed yourself to breathe. 

“I thought you didn’t want to marry Aerion,” Valarr said, leading you away and up the stairs towards your room.

“I don’t,” you replied.

Valarr snorted in disbelief.

“You could have fooled me,” he said. “The two of you seemed awfully… close back there.”

You stopped at the top of the stairs and glared up at your brother, feeling both hurt and betrayed.

“That wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Really? Well, it looked to me like you two were playing kissing games in the corner. How did you even manage to sneak away without Father or Uncle Maekar noticing?”

“I did not sneak off with him!” you shouted hotly. “And I did not kiss him. It was Aerion who led me back here. He was supposed to take me back to my room.”

“Then why in the Seven Hells are you dressed like that? You look like a thief in the night.”

You stared down at your feet, unable to look your brother in the eye, feeling chastised but not ashamed.

“I… snuck out last night. But it wasn’t to see Aerion, I swear it! He caught me trying to slip inside the castle, that’s all.”

“How the fuck did you—never mind. I don’t want to know. The less I know about it, the less I have to tell Father when you’re caught.”

“He’s not going to find out. Not unless you tell him.”

“You know I would never tell on you, but what about Aerion? You just said he caught you in the act.”

“Aerion won’t tell,” you said.

Not unless he also wanted to explain to your father why he was in your bedchambers so late at night, terrorizing your poor handmaiden in your stead.

“Aerion is many things, but he’s no rat, even though it suits him.”

You stormed ahead of your brother, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Viserra, wait!” Valarr shouted, jogging to catch up with you.

“I can’t believe you thought I snuck out to see him,” you said. “I hate him.”

Valarr sighed.

“Viserra, please. I’m just trying to understand. I know Aerion isn’t the most… noble of knights, but you’ve been against this marriage from the very start, and I’m trying really hard to understand why. What did Aerion do to make you hate him so much?”

Tell him the truth.

Tell him what happened.

Tell him… tell him… tell him…

But how could you?

Shame crawled up the back of your neck and threatened to drown you like a cat down a well. 

Valarr is your brother, you chided yourself. He loves you; he’ll believe you.

“Will you still try to talk to Father on my behalf?” you asked instead. “He listens to you. If you tell him you disapprove of the match, he may reconsider.”

Valarr sighed again. He never used to sigh so much in your presence, but then you never used to keep secrets from one another either, and now you had too many to count.

“Of course I will,” he said, cupping the back of your neck so he could place a chaste kiss on the crown of your head. “This is your room. You had better change before Father sees you. And be quick about it. He’s expecting you.”

“You won’t be joining us?”

Valarr shook his head.

“I need to practice for the tourney, but I’ll see you for dinner, unless you think you can slip away again.”  

You nodded and reached for the door.

“Viserra?”

“Yes?”

“I know that this marriage isn’t what you wanted. In a perfect world, you would have married Daeron and become the Lady of Summerhall, but Daeron has proved again and again that he is unworthy of your hand. Father just wants what’s best for you, so please don’t do anything to anger him further, at least not until I’ve had the chance to speak with him.”

Valarr grabbed your hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“You know, I wasn’t exactly excited about my marriage either, but Kiera and I were able to find happiness in one another. Mother and Father were the same way. Is it really so hard to believe that you could find that same happiness with Aerion?”

You pulled away, letting go of your brother’s hand, and watched it fall limply back to his side.

“Thank you for showing me to my room.”

“Viserra—”

“Have a good day, brother.”

Before he could respond, you opened and slammed the door shut, your skirts almost getting caught in the doorframe. You leaned against the back of the door and sighed with relief when you heard your brother retreat down the hall.

“Princess!”

You jumped, clutching your chest, your heart racing like a horse along a tilt. After the encounter with Aerion and Valarr, you’d forgotten about your handmaidens.

“Princess! Where have you been? Your father—”

“Is expecting me, I know.”

 You rushed over to Taryn, who was sitting at the foot of the bed between two other handmaidens. She still wore your clothes, but they had pulled the veil back over her head to reveal her face, which was streaked with tears. The other girls were trying to comfort her, but poor Taryn was hysterical.

Guilt burned inside your throat. You never meant for any of this to happen. As usual, you couldn’t leave well enough alone, and now you’d gone too far.

You knelt before Taryn and pulled her into a tight embrace, unbothered by the snot and tears staining the fabric around your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I’m so sorry, Taryn. I never should have put you in this position. This is all my fault.”

“It—it’s all-alright, Yuh-your Grace,” Taryn sniffled.

You pulled away and took Taryn’s hands, settling your joined hands on her lap. You looked up into her face, searching. Her eyes were still red from crying and there was a bubble of snot peeking out from her nose, threatening to drip, but she appeared unharmed.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

He being Aerion.

Taryn shook her head.

“Nuh-no, Your Grace. Prince Aerion… huh-he climbed into bed with me, and he… he tried to touch me, but I didn’t want him to, I swear! Please forgive me, Princess!”

“Shh! It’s alright, I believe you,” you reassured her, squeezing her hands. “Did anything else happen?”  

“Wuh-when he realized I wasn’t you, he pushed me out of the bed and left. He looked so angry, Princess, and I thought he was going to hurt me, but then he said… he told me to tell you that… the next time he found some whore in your bed, he’d… he’d treat you like one.” 

Taryn burst into tears, loud and inconsolable, her cries the only break in the uneasy silence shrouding the room.

“We must tell His Grace at once.”

“No,” you said. “You will tell no one about this.”

“But Princess—”

“I said no. I will handle this on my own. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good. Now, please lay out a new dress and leave me so I can wash in private. I will call for you when I need you.”

“At once, Princess.” 

Your handmaidens did as they were told, laying an elegant, but less gaudy, red and black dress across your bed before leaving you alone in your room.

You stripped out of your clothes and threw everything you were wearing into the roaring fireplace, destroying all evidence of last night’s dalliance.

Well, almost all of it.

You glanced at your naked body in the mirror and blushed, memories from last night replaying in your head. 

Bruises bloomed like rose petals along your skin, trailing a path from the hollow of your neck to your breasts and all the way down to your inner thighs, where Ser Lyonel’s seed had dried to your skin. You gently traced the marks with your fingers, admiring them along with the man who gave them to you.

You started at your neck, probing the tender skin, before moving down to your breasts, caressing them with your thumb, each touch a reminder of the carnal pleasure that had been given to you by a man who was not your husband.

A breathy gasp escaped your lips when you touched the marks between your thighs, your skin sticky with fresh arousal.

You dipped your fingers between your folds, gathering your fluids along your fingertips, and then trailed your nails back up to your breasts, spreading your nectar across your body in a filthy gesture.

You stopped your exploration when you reached the underside of your breast, glimpsing the scar peeking out from underneath the plump flesh.

You belong to the Dragon now.

Your arousal faded as quickly as it came and was replaced with a deep and not so unfamiliar feeling of revulsion.

Shame and disgust rose like bile inside your throat and you rubbed at the scar as if you could erase it like pictures drawn in the sand.

But the scar would not disappear, and neither would the memory of that night.

Tell him the truth.

It’s not that you didn’t want to tell Valarr what had happened. You wanted to tell Valarr the truth more than anything, but for now you’d settle for hugging the one person in this world who understood Aerion’s cruelty just as well as you did.

You didn’t always think that Aerion was such a monster.

Much like everyone else, you were once fooled by the princely mask he donned like a second skin, not at all unlike the infamous Faceless Men of Braavos, who changed their faces just as easily as you change clothes.

Ultimately, it was your cousin, Aegon, who made you see the truth.

It happened last summer, only a few weeks after Aemon had left for the Citadel.

You were asleep in your bedchambers dreaming of dragons and knights in shining armor, when you were startled awake by the sound of the door opening and the frantic pitter-patter of naked feet running against the hard stone floor. 

Matarys again, you thought, snuggling back into your pillows, unalarmed by the familiar presence crawling into bed with you.

Your little brother was too old to be sneaking into your bed, but after your mother died only a few short moons ago, your brother often sought comfort in your bed.

Only the body curling around your waist was too small to be that of your brother’s. The arms were too skinny, and the frame was too short to be anyone else but your second-to-youngest cousin.

“Egg?” you asked sleepily. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

Your cousin didn’t answer. Instead, he buried his head into your stomach and cried, his sobs muffled by the fabric of your nightgown.

“Shh. It’s alright. I’m here,” you said, pulling him close.

Aegon squeezed your waist tighter in response, holding onto you like a piece of driftwood in a raging storm, and you combed your fingers through his silver hair, comforting him like you had Matarys in the nights after your mother’s death.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, but after a while, your cousin’s sobs faded into the occasional sniffle, and he finally spoke. 

“It… it was Aerion,” Egg said, hiccupping. 

“Aerion?”

“He… he…”

And then Egg told you what had happened. About how Aerion had snuck into his bedchambers, unaware. How he had held a knife between your little cousin’s legs, and how he had threatened to turn Egg into a sister so he could marry him… 

It made you sick.

You wanted to go to your father right away, but Aegon refused with a vehement (and rather frightened) shake of his head.

“No one will believe me,” he said. “Father never believes me, not when it comes to him. Besides, telling will only make it worse.”

After promising not to tell and agreeing to let Aegon stay in your room for the night, you rubbed the dried tears from your cousin’s face and watched him sleep, protecting him from the nightmares haunting his dreams, while you hatched a plan.

The next day, you confronted Aerion yourself.

He was in the gardens, as usual, lazing about with his companions, boys just as cruel as your cousin, but not as good at hiding it.

Aerion smiled at your approach. It was the kind of smile that almost made you forget why you were angry with him in the first place.

Almost.

“Cousin, what a lovely surprise,” Aerion said upon your approach, his expression demure and eager to please. “Would you care to join us?”

“I’ll pass, thank you. Cousin, may I have a word? In private,” you added glaringly.

“Of course,” Aerion said agreeably, standing from his chair while his companions whispered and jeered at him.

You did not wait for him to follow before making your way to a secluded walkway.

“You know, cousin, if you wanted to spend more time with me, all you had to do was ask,” Aerion teased, a boyish grin splitting his face. “You must be lonely without Valarr around as much. How is that new wife of his?”

“I’m not here to talk about my brother,” you said, crossing your arms across your chest. “I’m here to talk about yours.”

Aerion groaned.

“What has Daeron done this time? He’s not still lamenting over your broken betrothal, is he? Surely, he’s learned by now that prostrating himself before Uncle won’t do him any good—“

“It’s about Aegon,” you interrupted. “He told me what you did.”

His smile fell, and the charming mask he painstakingly wore dropped faster than a pot of burning oil down a murder hole.

“That little rat needs to learn to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps I should visit him again tonight and cut out his tongue instead.”

“You will do no such thing. Aegon is your brother. He’s not some toy you can pull and pick apart, and I will not allow you to torment him any longer. You best leave him alone or—“ 

“Or what?” he asked, looming over you.

“Or I’ll tell my father,” you said haughtily, and with more confidence than you felt.

Aerion said nothing, his violet eyes burning with unspoken fury, but you did not care. 

Let him be angry, you thought. Better for him to be angry at you than at Aegon.

Having said your piece, you left without another word, and by the time you snuggled into bed that night, you’d forgotten about the conversation entirely. 

You woke up in the middle of the night when you felt the bed dip behind you. Groaning, you scooted over to make room in your bed, not bothering to open your eyes. You figured it was Egg sneaking into your bed again, or maybe even Matarys, but you were wrong.

Horribly wrong.

A large hand—much too large to be that of a child’s—covered your mouth to keep you from screaming while another arm snaked around your waist, trapping you against a hard chest.

You tried to break free, flailing your arms and legs and clawing at the arm cinched around your frame like a winch, but then the intruder pressed a knife between your ribs and you froze.

“You really should lock your doors at night, cousin,” Aerion whispered, his breath hot and wet against your ear. “Otherwise, anyone could sneak in.” 

Aerion slid the knife up between the valley of your breasts, poking the tip of the blade at the delicate point between your sternum and throat.

“I must thank you, cousin, for making me see the error of my ways,” Aerion said. “I don’t need to make Aegon my wife when I can have you instead.”

He trailed the knife down your body and beneath your nightgown, slipping it between your legs.

“Did you truly think you had me cowed earlier? Threatening to tell on me to Uncle Baelor. Did it make you feel powerful? Wielding his authority like it was your own.”

Aerion lowered his hand from your mouth to grip your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat.

Tears fell unwillingly from your eyes, marking a trail down your cheeks and onto the back of Aerion’s hand.

“Aerion, please—”

“Funny, that’s exactly what Aegon said last night when I held this same knife to his cock.”

You pushed back against his hold, trying to break free, your fear igniting into anger at the mention of Egg and what Aerion had done to him, but then Aerion pressed the knife to the delicate blood vessels in your thigh and any fight you had left fled from your body like a rat from a sinking ship.

“Stop this,” you begged him. “Stop this or else—”

“Or else what? You’ll tell your father?” Aerion mocked. “Your father isn’t here, cousin. It’s just you and me now.”

“Please, just leave. Just leave and I… I won’t tell anyone about this. I swear.”

Aerion laughed, low and cruel.

“Aegon said that too, and look where that got us.”

You swallowed back a sob. 

“What do you want?” you finally asked.

“I thought I already made that clear—I want you, my sweet cousin.”

He kissed the corner of your jaw, then your cheek, lapping up your tears with his tongue. You turned your head away before he could kiss you, his lips just grazing the corner of your mouth.

“Valarr is a fool for marrying that Tyroshi whore instead of you,” Aerion said, groaning into your neck.

He then bit at the sensitive skin behind your ear, causing you to yelp.

“The gods made you to be his wife, grew you alongside him in the womb, but instead, Valarr’s chosen to taint our ancient blood even further than it already is. He’s a fool, and Daeron’s an even bigger fool for not claiming you while he had the chance. They may be the blood of Old Valyria, but they are no dragons. The Dragon does not bow or wait to be gifted his prize—he takes.”

Aerion pressed the knife to your core, the metal cool against the sensitive skin, and dragged the flat of the blade along your folds in a perverse caress, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch but not enough to draw blood.

“I could cut you open right now if I wanted to. I could drive this knife into your cunt and ruin you for any other man.”

He tilted the point of the knife at your entrance, threatening but not breeching you through your small clothes. You closed your eyes, waiting for the pain, but then the weight of the blade disappeared. 

“But I think I’ll wait until after you’ve born me a son or two,” Aerion said, caressing your stomach with the knife still in his hand. “And then you won’t need it anymore.”

Aerion lowered his hand from your neck to grope your breast; the fabric of your nightgown a thin barrier between him and your virtue. 

You didn’t bother trying to hide your sobs this time. His touch felt like a brand against your skin and every nerve in your body rebelled against the feeling of his body against yours. Just the thought of him inside you made your heart stop and your breathing ragged.

“Don’t worry,” Aerion crooned. “I won’t be taking you tonight. I can wait until I make you my wife, but you still need to be punished for defying the Dragon.”

He squeezed your breast, pushing the plump flesh up towards your collarbone, and slashed at the skin hidden beneath it.

You opened your mouth to scream, but Aerion covered your mouth to muffle your cries.

“Go ahead and scream,” he said. “It won’t do you any good. You belong to the Dragon now.” 

He licked at the blood trickling from the knife, lapping it up like a kitten with a bowl of milk. You didn’t even move when he kissed you, his lips sleek and salty with your blood. You felt as if you were frozen, paralyzed with fear and disgust and forced submissiveness. He could have done anything to you in that moment and you would have been powerless to stop it.

 Then finally, after what felt like an eternity, he let you go and rose from the bed.

“I’ll see you soon, little dragon. The next time we kiss, it will be as husband and wife.”

“You’re insane. My father… he will never agree to the match,” you said, finally finding your voice. 

Aerion smirked, his expression knowing and vicious.

“We shall see about that.”

You waited until the door clicked shut behind him before leaving the bed. You first thought to go to your father immediately and tell him what Aerion did and threatened to do, but doubt overwhelmed you the moment your hand touched the door handle.

No one will believe me. Father never believes me, not when it comes to him. Besides, telling will only make it worse. 

Aegon was right.

Telling only made it worse.

Just look at what happened tonight.

Aegon told you about Aerion, and you confronted him, and now… 

Now Aerion wanted to… what? Marry you? Claim you? Ruin you?

You thought you were making things better by protecting Egg, but you just made things worse.

Aerion’s already hurt you for trying to defy him, and even worse, he’s now made you feel unsafe in your own rooms, so what would he do if he found out that you told your father?

Would he sneak into your rooms again? Or would he throw your cat down a well like he did to Aegon’s? Or worse, maybe he would push Aegon down the well next time, or Matarys.

You hugged your shoulders, tucking your chin into your chest, and you hissed with pain when your arm brushed against the wound under your breast.

The sting from the cut brought fresh tears to your eyes. You didn’t want Aerion to hurt you again, but the thought of Aerion harming you or the people you loved was not what scared you most.

What if he doesn’t believe me?  

What if you told your father about Aerion and he didn’t believe you?

You’d been alone with him in your bedchambers (even though he'd snuck in without you knowing). He’d touched you beneath your nightgown (with a knife). He’d fondled your breasts (and then cut them with said knife). You left the doors unlocked (for Matarys, not him). You were seen talking alone with Aerion earlier that day (protecting Egg, not making plans for a secret rendezvous).

And Aerion was such a skilled liar. He could twist every horrific deed in his favor, and then your father would have no choice but to marry you off to preserve your honor.

Shame snaked around your chest and squeezed, trapping you inside your body.

The thought of telling your father everything was mortifying enough, but you weren’t sure you’d survive his disappointment.

Doubt crept into your brain, invading your thoughts and dominating your fears.

What if he thought it was your fault?

And then there was the incident with Daeron…

Growing up, you always knew that marrying Daeron was a likely possibility—the first grandson and the first granddaughter united by blood, love, and marriage. Because you did love Daeron, in your own way, but you learned a long time ago that Daeron would always disappoint you.

 A fortnight ago, at your engagement feast, you snuck off with Daeron and a flagon of wine.

Alone.

There was nothing romantic about it; the act was more reminiscent of your childhood days when you often ran off with your brother and cousins in search of freedom and adventure than anything else.

The two of you found an empty room and drank the night away, laughing like you used to before the dreams started, and simply basked in each other’s familiar company.

You’d meant to return to the party before your father noticed your absence, but you drank more than you should have and passed out on the bed, Daeron lying on top of you and drooling on your dress.

Your father had been furious when he found you both. You tried to explain that you had only been drinking, but you knew the only reason he did not summon a septon to marry the two of you then and there was because you were both still fully clothed.

Still, your father could not forgive Daeron for this latest transgression and called off your engagement.

The daughter of the future king could not marry a drunken whoremonger, or so he said in not so many words.

But as angry as he was at Daeron, he was just as mad at you. 

It may have been Daeron’s idea to sneak away, but you agreed to go with him.

Daeron may have provided the wine, but you drank it.

He blamed you for embarrassing him just as much as he did Daeron, so what if he also blamed you for what happened with Aerion?

No… you wouldn’t tell him.

You couldn’t tell him.

You couldn’t bear disappointing him again, so instead you changed your nightgown, hiding the ruined one in an old flower vase, cleaned and dressed your wound, and returned to bed, eyes wide awake and burning, waiting for the sun to rise.

Aerion did not return that night, or any night since.

But while you were cowering in your room, debating whether you should tell your father or not, Aerion was professing his undying love for you in front of your father and grandfather and begged for their permission to marry you. 

You should have told your father about Aerion from the very start, but now it was too late.

Aerion was your betrothed now, and in a few short moons after the tournament, you would be his wife.

You traced the scar underneath your breast, the motion a memory of the slice of the knife Aerion used to mare your skin. 

No one—not even your handmaidens—knew about the scar. It was easy enough to conceal, hidden beneath your breast, so no had ever seen it, or at least not until now.

Ser Lyonel had seen it.

He must have seen it, but he called you beautiful anyway.

“Princess?” a muffled voice called from outside the door, startling you. “Is everything all right?”

“Just a moment!” you answered back.

You grabbed the towel soaking in the basin in front of the mirror and cleaned yourself up, scrubbing the traces of last night from your body before your handmaidens could see.

Afterwards, you called them back into your room to help you dress and fix your hair.

“Princess, there’s something you must know,” said Laena, your eldest handmaiden. “The princes have gone missing. No one has seen them since they departed from Summerhall.”

Fucking Daeron.

You were going to kill him if he didn’t drink himself into an early grave first.

This wasn’t the first time Daeron had done something like this, so you weren’t really worried about him, but Daeron had Aegon with him this time. Aegon, your favorite little cousin. Your very small, very Targaryen-looking cousin.

A Targaryen alone was a dangerous thing.

Anything could happen to him on the road, and Daeron was likely too drunk to stop it. You only hoped that the Kingsguard found them before any harm could come to Aegon. But your cousin was also a remarkably resourceful child. He’d find a way to make it to the tourney on his own if he could.

Your poor Uncle Maekar must be worried sick though, not that he’d ever admit it, which means he’ll be in a right foul mood at breakfast.

You hurried down the hall towards Lord Ashford’s solar, passing a young girl wearing a light yellow dress with glowing suns embroidered on the bodice. She bowed when you passed and then scurried off in the opposite direction.

The girl must be Lord Ashford’s daughter, the one who’s name day you’d come to celebrate. Which meant that you must be heading in the right direction.

You stopped before the threshold of the door when you heard your uncle’s voice.

“How can you possibly remember some fucking hedge knight who chanced to unhorse Damon Lannister sixteen years ago?” Uncle Maekar sneered.

Hedge knight? Could he possibly mean—

“I make it a practice to learn all I can of my foes,” your father answered.

“And why would you deign to joust with a hedge knight?”

“It was many years past, at Storm’s End. Lord Baratheon held a hastilude to celebrate the birth of a grandson. The lots made Ser Arlan my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before I finally unhorsed him.”

“It was seven,” Ser Dunk said.

You covered your mouth with your hand to keep yourself from giggling.

“I be-believe,” Ser Dunk stuttered, the back of his ears tinged pink, which you could see from your hiding place.

“Tales grow in the telling, I know,” your father said patiently. “Do not think ill of your old master, but it was four lances only, I fear.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Ser Dunk said, dropping to his knees. “I-It was four. I do apologize. The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say that I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.” 

“No harm was done, ser. Rise.”

The floor creaked with the motion of Ser Dunk rising to his feet.

“You gave him back his horse and armor and took no ransom. Ser Arlan often told me that you were the soul of chivalry—”

Your uncle groaned.

“—and that one day, the Seven Kingdoms would be safe in your hands.”

“Not for many years yet, I pray.”

“No, I-I did not mean that the King should—”

“You wish to enter the lists,” your father interjected. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“The decision rests with the master of the games, but I see no reason to deny you.”

“As you say, m’lord.”

“Your Grace—”

“Very well, ser, you are grateful. Now, fuck off!” your uncle growled.

You took that moment to make your presence known, striding into the room as if you had only just arrived.

“Now Uncle, there’s no reason to take your frustrations out on the poor man,” you jested, coming behind him to kiss him on the cheek.

“Good morrow, Father,” you greeted, kissing his cheek in kind.

He squeezed your hand on his shoulder, his mismatched eyes both surprised and grateful for your sudden affection, before helping you into the open chair next to his.

Ser Dunk’s eyes widened with recognition when he saw you, his mouth gaping in surprise, and you gave him a knowing look. You did not dare nod a greeting towards the hedge knight. Otherwise, you would have to reveal to your father and uncle how you two were acquainted, which would only lead to more questions about last night.

The less they knew, the better, for both you and them. 

“You must forgive my brother, ser,” your father said. “His sons went astray on the way here, and he fears for them.”

“Of course,” he said. “I trust they will not be found dead.”

Your uncle sat forward in his chair, his expression torn between rage and utter confusion, but before he could shout at Ser Dunk (no doubt telling him to fuck off again), your father cleared his throat, defusing the tension. 

“Ser, may I introduce you to my daughter, Princess Viserra.” 

“Oh, we’ve already met, Your Grace.”

Your face fell.

Fuck.

“You have?” your father asked, brow raised in surprise. “And when would that have been?”

You tried subtly shaking your head at Ser Dunk, your eyes a silent plea not to say anything about—

“Last night, Your Grace. In Ser Lyonel Baratheon’s pavilion.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

You tilted your head back and pursed your lips, sighing in defeat. You were so close to getting away with it, but despite your best efforts, it was not Aerion or your brother who gave you away, but the stupid, well-meaning hedge knight.

“Surely you must be mistaken, ser,” your father said cooly. “My daughter was with me last night. We stayed at a local inn on our way to Ashford.”

“I’m not mistaken, Your Grace. Forgive me, but your daughter,” he coughed. “The princess… she… she is too beautiful to be mistaken for another.” 

Your father turned his head towards you, but you refused to meet his gaze lest he see the guilt shining in your eyes.

“Indeed, she is,” he said. “Tell me, ser, what was my daughter doing when you first made her acquaintance?”

“Father—”

“She was sitting with Ser Lyonel at his table. I accidentally mistook her for his lady,” Ser Dunk said with a shy chuckle.

“And what the fuck gave you that impression?” your uncle sneered.

Ser Dunk blushed and sputtered, probably feeling as panicked as you did right now. Still, you glared at Ser Dunk, who at least had the decency to look away from your heated stare, while your father pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

“Leave us,” your father ordered. 

“At once, my lord.”

Lord Ashford bowed, followed by his master of the games, who then frantically tried to usher Ser Dunk out of the room before he said anything stupid (again).

“Ser,” your father called after Ser Drunk. “You are not of Ser Arlan’s blood?”

“No, I am not.”

“By law, only a trueborn son is entitled to inherit a knight’s arms. You must needs find a new device, ser. A sigil of your own.”

“I will. Thank you again, Your Grace. I will fight bravely. You’ll see.”

He made to leave, but he walked in the wrong direction, heading towards a dead end instead of the exit. He quickly changed direction and pointed towards the stairs.

“It’s this way,” he said by way of explanation, and then he was gone.

“Fuck, I thought he’d never leave,” your uncle grumbled. “These backwater tourneys always draw out the worst sort of rabble.”

“Do not speak ill of a fellow knight,” your father chastised, to which your uncle just rolled his eyes.

Your father leaned back onto his chair, rubbing at the veins in his temples. You could not tell if he was angrier with you or his brother.

“Viserra.”

“Yes, Father?”

“What were you doing in Lord Baratheon’s tent?”

You swallowed.

“Supper,” you said, settling on an answer.

“Viserra.”

Clearly, your father did not find that answer nearly as amusing as Ser Lyonel did.

“What were you doing there?” he asked again.

“It was just a bit of fun, Father,” you said. “I just wanted to have one last night to myself before… before the wedding, that’s all.”

“And Ser Lyonel?” your uncle asked. “Was he just a bit of fun, too?” 

“Nothing happened, Uncle. Yes, we drank. We danced. We even flirted a little,” you said, a blush adorning your cheeks. “And... and we kissed. But that was all! I swear!”

Your father sighed, and your uncle cursed in High Valyrian.

“Viserra, we’ve been through this before,” your father said. “Daeron—”

“Was a mistake,” you said, glancing at your uncle sorrily. “But nothing happened with Daeron, and nothing happened with Ser Lyonel. I would never do anything to dishonor myself or my… betrothed.”

“But it is not our intentions that are judged—it is our actions, and how they appear to others.”

“You’re right, Father. I’m sorry,” you said, head bowed apologetically.

You looked up at him through your lashes, praying to all the gods, old and new, that he wouldn’t see through your lies. You also thought of your brother, and the promise you made not to anger your father any further. So you swallowed your pride and lied threw your teeth.

“I know that I’ve been rather difficult these past couple of days,” you began. “And I’m truly sorry, Father, for all the trouble that I’ve caused. I promise that I’ll do better. I’ll even go visit Aerion at the tourney grounds, if that’s alright. I’m sure he’d be… thrilled to spend some more time together.”

 This was a lie, of course. You had no intentions of visiting Aerion, but your uncle perked up at the suggestion, his usually dower expression filled with hope. Of all your family, your uncle probably wanted this marriage the most. 

“Alright,” your father said. “You may go, but only if you promise to behave for the rest of the tournament. Have your brother go with you. I will not have you sneaking off like you did with Daeron.”

You nodded. “Thank you, Father.”

He twisted the ring on his third finger, his lips pressed into a thin line, thinking.

“Do I even want to know how you got away this time?”

“Not unless you’d like some more grey in your beard,” you teased. 

He smiled fondly and tucked a loose stand of your hair behind your ear.

“Sometimes I think war was easier than raising a daughter,” your father said, but not without affection.

“Perhaps the Blackfyres should armor their woman then next time,” you laughed.

Your father huffed with amusement.

“The war would be lost before it ever started, Seven forbid. Now let’s break our fast before I change my mind,” he said.

You smiled, probably the first smile you’d given him since he sprung your betrothal on you.

“Viserra?”

“Yes, Father?”

“If I catch you sneaking off again, I’ll watch you for the rest of the tourney myself.”

“Of course, Father. I promise not to slip away with my betrothed.”