#arryn! reader

Your father pours you a cup of arbor gold, a favorite of yours but you refuse to drink it when he hands it to you. Instead, you place it on the armrest as your nails tap incessantly against the goblet.

“He’s sought after—”

“I know that’s not the reason, father.” No one else could dream of interrupting the lord of the Vale, not even his own sons, but you can without fear. “Why? You know of the whispers surrounding him.”

Your brothers sit in the corner, faces blanketed by silence and the candlelight as they clamp their mouths shut. From their faces alone, they object to the betrothal as do you. No one wants their only sister married off to a prince who is known for violent outbursts. Judging from how your elder brother, Jon, clutches the pommel of his sword, he’s on the precipice of calling the banners to raze King’s Landing for your sake if it comes to that.

“They are just whispers, my love—”

“Why?” You utter with restrained anger, jaw set, a hand tightly wound around the goblet.

Your father sighs tiredly, raking a hand over his face as he sits adjacent to you, using the table as his shield against his daughter. His dark blue doublet is unlaced partly from the blazing heat inside the tent, and his eyes stray away from your own, guilty, even before you would even don the Targaryen marriage cloak.

“Prince Maekar offered me a seat at the small council for your hand.” His tone is small, not a voice coming from a lord who has won numerous battles under his belt. In front of his only daughter, he looks like any father, exhausted, guilt marred on his face. “The hand has approved of the union himself.”

“Well, if the hand himself approves of it.” You sarcastically utter with a bite. Head raised, you lean back in your seat, shoulders taut as you grip the goblet tightly, forgetting the feel of Lyonel’s warmth against your hand. “That’s it then? You’d rather sell me to the Targaryens in favour of more power? Isn’t the whole Vale enough?”

“Sweetling—”

“Does mother know?” Your words strike him like an arrow to his heart. “She would oppose this, you know she would.”

“I have sent a raven.” His eyes finally lock with yours, the mirrored eyes that you have inherited from your mother. And he stares at them like he’s confessing his sins in front of her. “She won’t be pleased, but she will understand.”

Shaking your head, you turn to your silent brothers for help. “And what about you two, hm? I didn’t know that you both had become silent sisters overnight.”

“We know of the prince, sister.” Jon utters with clenched teeth, whilst your second eldest brother, Robert, looks away from you. “If we had any say on the union, we would have you married off to someone more…” his furious eyes glance at the lord of the Vale, for now he isn’t father, who carried you around on his shoulders, who taught them how to ride a horse and wield a sword, the one who gave you a chance to learn how to defend yourself just like your brothers; he is Lord Paramount, and his word is law. “...suitable.”

“He is suitable.” The lord utters above the rim of his goblet, taking a generous sip as he eyes his sons, a warning, before gazing back at you.

“Lyonel Baratheon is suitable.” You don’t glance away from his eyes, nor cower just like you had when you were faced with the scoundrel who tried to take you. “What happened to our match?”

“The princes gave me a better proposal—”

“Marry me to Lyonel, and I swear to the seven above, I won’t ask for anything else.” Your voice snags, eyes glassy as you try to act braver than you are. “His house is of great renown, and he has shown his interest many times over. You prefer him more than any of the matches, you’ve made that perfectly clear. The Baratheons would be your kin, just like you always wanted.”

“A few moons ago you said that you would rather eat rocks than marry him.”

Anger bubbles up in your throat, overflowing as you surge from your seat, goblet tumbling over and wine spilling on the ground. “Fuck what I said!” Your family is taken aback, brows furrowed, eyes gaping at your outburst.

You were never prone to outbursts, your mother taught you better than that, to be a proper lady is your badge of honour, your armour. Even when you were young, you never threw a tantrum over petty jealousy or from a broken toy, you overcame it with quiet dignity like a born princess. Your kin called you an old soul for being wise beyond your age, but now that you’re a woman grown, about to be tossed in the arms of a prince you do not want to marry— fuck quiet dignity.

Your name falls from your father’s mouth, a warning, a chastise ready on his tongue. “Watch your—”

“My tongue, father? I’d rather you cut it off now before the prince does.”

Even your brothers stand up, crossing the small distance as Jon takes your wrist in an attempt to rein you in. Whilst Robert shakes his head, eyes pleading for you to calm yourself.

“Watch it, sister. This is not helping your cause.”

“And what would help my cause, hm? Sweet words? More scheming and plotting so I could perhaps sway all of you?” Your hands shake, and yet you don’t show the way you falter in front of your family. “I am done with that.”

“You are no longer a child,” your father’s voice is unwieldy, eyes steely like he’s about to go out into the battlefield. “I cannot indulge your whims any longer. You asked to be trained with a sword and I obliged because I am your father. You wanted to wait until you’re older to marry, and I waited and now people are calling you an old maid. I have indulged you because I— we care for you.” The lord of the Vale’s voice trembles with buried fury as he says your name. “The matter is done.”

“Of course it is.” Scoffing, you snatch your hand away from your brother’s gentle hold. “As you say, my lord.” Curtsying, you turn away with a sneer, drawling out his title bitterly.

“Where are you going?” The sound of the chair scraping echoes behind you as your father leaves his seat. “You can’t storm off— sweetling!”

Whirling towards him, you let your untethered fury show. “I am heading to my tent to sleep the day off and pray to the seven that I wake up from this nightmare!”

“Good! No more bloody escapades for you! Don't think that I had no idea of your little stroll.” Your heart drops into your stomach. “Stay there for the remainder of the tourney!” Whilst your father lets you go with mirrored anger, your brothers are conflicted, standing in between the two of you like rooted trees. “Until I call for you, you cannot leave your tent!”

“You can’t even give me my freedom one last time before you pawn me off to a mad man?” Salty tears sting your eyes as you see their blurry faces stare at you. “Fine!” If there was a door, you’d slam it, but alas, there are only the leather flaps of the pavilion as you pull it away harshly, surprising the knights on guard, as you storm off into the dawn.

—

“I am sorry, m’lady.” Juniper enters your tent with a tray filled with porridge and a jug of warm milk to calm your stomach.

“You didn’t tell my father anything?” You don’t look at her as you sit in front of your vanity with Lyonel’s cloak folded neatly on your lap, a palm brushing along it for comfort. It still smells like him as you shut your eyes and imagine last night’s events in your head again.

“No, I would never betray you like that.” The tray is slid onto a small table beside an empty flagon of wine. Through the looking glass, you could see her wince at the sight as she takes it in her grasp. “You’ve never been one for drinking, m’lady.”

“I had a change of heart.” You utter as your thumb traces along the stag on the cloak, your words having double meaning. You should’ve said yes to the Baratheon match before any of this transpired. The wine has dulled your anger, for now at least. “How did he know of my departure?”

“I do not know, mayhaps it's your brothers who told him, or someone saw you. All I know is that he’s no fool.” Her voice is laden with concern as she stares at your back. “What happened to you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me, Juniper.”

“I’ll believe anythin’ you say, m’lady, even if you’ve told me that the sky is suddenly green and the narrow sea has turned red.” She takes a step closer, gazing at you softly as the quiet thump of the flagon hits the vanity. “Whose cloak is that?”

Your eyes flick in her direction, a small smile etching on your face. “Lyonel’s.” Her brows knit together in confusion, not at the name, but at the amount of fondness you said it. “He isn’t so bad.”

“Seven hells, did you give him your maidenhood—?”

“What, no! Calm yourself.” Grasping her hand, you hold her gently. “What do you take me for?”

She lets out a deep exhale. “My mind went to the worst thing possible!” Her voice peaks, shaking her head as she calms her breathing.

“And he is not like that. He’s…” Lyonel’s grin flickers in your vision, the way he held your hand, and his laughter echoing in your ears as you chuckle alongside the imaginary laughter. Juniper’s right, you cannot hold your wine well. “He’s nothing like I thought he would be.”

Her eyes sparkled under the candlelight. “He’s kind?”

“He is, and more.” Nodding, a grin spreads across your face. “He’s disarmingly charming! A single night with him isn’t enough to get to know him fully but he is who I want. He’s not a bore, or a coward, or a brute, gods!” Vaulting out of your seat, hugging the cloak against your chest, Juniper staggers at your reaction. “I want him. Is that mad of me to say?” The wine might’ve dulled your fury but it increased your other emotions ten fold.

Juniper’s big eyes blink at you, mouth gaping as she shrugs. “I do not know, m’lady, but you look quite mad.”

“I haven’t slept yet.” Your unhinged giggles and wild eyes has your handmaiden reeling back.

“I think you should sleep on it first, hm? Before declaring disobedience to your father.” With her hands taking your shoulders lightly, she leads you towards the bed. “How about some milk? It will help you sleep better.”

“I am not a child, Juniper.” You utter, plopping down on the bed as you place the cloak beside you. The wine and lack of sleep hinders your senses, making your vision blurry.

“I know, m’lady, but you retched everything you ate and my boots are the victims of it.” She fluffs your pillow and places it behind your back as you lounge whilst watching her pour you a cup of milk. “Your stomach will thank you for it when you awaken.”

Taking the cup tentatively, you watch the milk swirl inside. “Promise me you’ll wake me up before the tilts?”

“Yes, I promise.” With a hand on the goblet, she tilts it closer to your lips, helping you gulp every last drop. “I do not want you gettin’ sick durin’ this, your father would grow suspicious of where you’ve been.”

Licking your lips, you hand her the goblet back. “I am going to sneak out again.” You declare, almost sober–like if not for your fast blinking.

“Is that wise?” She just sighs, and asks it monotonously, or surrendering more like.

“No, absolutely not.” Cracking your neck, you let out a restrained yawn. “If I am to be wed to a monster, I need to have my freedom one last time.”

“I have never seen you so spirited.” Her hand pats your cheek lovingly. “I think the laughing storm has done you some good.”

“I will tell you everything, Juniper, he has no idea who I am!” Eyes shining, you grin from ear to ear. For a moment, you’ve forgotten about the prince. “I even met a hedge knight as tall as a fucking elm tree!” You say with glee as she helps you lie down and tuck you in. “We danced all night and I gave Lyonel my ring—”

“That was your great grandmother’s!”

“It was a favour so I could stay in his pavilion with Ser Dunk.” Shrugging, you simply say as you twist around on the bed to gaze at the cloak resting beside you, giving it a loving pat that has Juniper raising a brow at.

“Who the fuck— never mind, may sleep take you, m’lady. Mayhaps once you’ve awaken, your father would have a change of heart.” Juniper blows out the candle on your bedside as you hear her footsteps thump quietly whilst she gathers the tray and flagon.

“Nothing could change my pigheaded father’s mind.” Face squished against your pillow, Juniper is about to take the cloak to air it out. “Not that one, let it be, I like it that way.”

“It smells of wine and sweat, and it will only get worse.” Nose scrunching, she reels her hands back.

“Not to me.”

“Gods, you’re utterly helpless.” Chuckling, she blows out the last candle as the dark blue tent muffles the sunlight outside. “Sleep well, m’lady. And please don’t go out again, at least without me knowin’.”

“You’ll let me go out again?” You ask the darkness.

“I want m’lady to have her freedom, even for a few days. And perhaps…she could find a way to change her fate.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re a greenseer, knowing that you hail from the north.” Your mindless mumbling echoes around the tent as the meadow awakens. “Mayhaps that is why you sometimes speak in riddles.” When silence prevails, goosebumps prickles your nape. “Juniper?”

—

You sneak out without Juniper knowing this time around. If you were caught, you don’t want her to get in trouble too. You’d get a stern talking to, or even a yell or two, but she’ll get kicked out of the household for it, or worse, and you’d rather bear the brunt of your father’s ire.

It was well into mid-day when you managed to slink away from the Arryn pavilion in a borrowed light blue cotton dress and a new cloak, both courtesy of Juniper. But before you snuck away, you hid Lyonel’s cloak deep inside your trunk, lest anyone that isn’t your handmaiden find it. And it would give you more reasons to sneak away with the excuse of giving it back to him. Getting away with it was much easier than you thought, too easy that you have your suspicions that you got help from someone. But you don't have the luxury of investigating it as you walk around Ashford like one of bloodraven’s little crows that you’ve heard rumours about.

The whole meadow is abuzz. From merchants hawking their wares, to knights roaming around together with the small folk. Some would drink merrily with their brothers, and a few gather around the blacksmiths’ lane, getting their armours and weapons checked before the tilts start.

The clanking of metal against steel reminds you of the forge at the Eyrie, the ever echoing sound rumbling against the jagged stones of your home, and the black smoke whispering past the high walls like rain clouds climbing up to your bedroom window; it’s as if you’ve never left.

You’re still unsure of what to do about your situation, you’ve never met the prince, nor the royal family, even though your aunt is married to one of the king’s sons. It’s a tragedy that you never met her. Mayhaps there’s a chance that the gossips could be untrue, that they were just that, gossips to discredit the Targaryens. There has been a lot of speculation about Blackfyre loyalists lingering around the realm, perhaps those bitter words were from them. Or it could be your wishful thinking, hoping that there’s still a bright future ahead of you where you could be happy and loved just like you dreamed of.

The cloak weighs heavily around you, heavier and far longer than the last one, something you chose for that reason as to not be recognized by your wandering kin. As your feet squelches against trampled mud, the scent of ale and meat wafting through the air, you can’t imagine being found by your family especially after what transpired. Your brothers would try to immediately take you back, you’d kick and scream at them but that would only cause a scene not befitting of a lady from a noble house. And your father, gods, you don’t even want to ponder what would happen. But, that wouldn’t be so unfortunate if he gives you the punishment of breaking the betrothal. Knowing him though, he’d manage to find a willing septon to have you wed to Aerion immediately for the dishonour you’ve caused him.

Your head still thrums from all the drinking you’ve done, at least you managed to find sleep, even for a few hours. Or else you’d be walking around like a drunkard with your wobbling feet. Feeling the sun bathe your cheek, you pull the hood closer to your face, shielding your eyes from the brightness.

Looking down at the mud below, you almost collide into someone.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” Your hood falls down as you stagger, but you regain your footing from the stranger’s grip around your wrist. Following the hand with your gaze, you end up staring face to face with a strange woman clad in a raggedy hood, lips painted in deep purple, matching the large birthmark on her cheek. Her eyes are hidden by the shadow of her hood, but you could feel her staring right into your own.

“Say your fortune?” She asks in a whispery tone as you take your wrist back from her grip.

“Um,” you look around the busy meadow, a hand already yanking up your hood to obscure your face. “My apologies I have somewhere to be—”

“Your place isn’t here.” Her tone is slow and solemn, like a breeze in a graveyard.

You stop in your tracks as you turn around to face her. “Trust me, I know.”

“You’ll wed and your family will prosper for it,” she abruptly says, a small smile curls around your lips, hopeful. “but the kin you will never meet will be unfortunate for having your blood run through their veins.” Your smile drops like a boulder. “They’ll be kings, and they’ll be kinslayers. Your line will cease to exist like a passing storm. And only a bastard shall remain after the long night.”

“What the fuck.” You curse under your breath, shaking your head with a scoff. “That’s horrid.”

The seer only replies with a shake of her empty tin cup.

Despite the shock to the senses, you drop a coin into her cup, watching her walk away with a limp.

“Seven hells, I just woke up.” Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you stagger away and into the thicket of silk tents and fluttering banners.

Before you know it, your feet take you to the Baratheon pavilion, leather flaps opened fully, a welcoming sight under the sun as the laughter and boisterous voices linger inside.

Shaking your head, you head inside, following the crowd gathering at the back of the opened tent that leads further into the meadows where you see a familiar large form sitting beside a bald headed child.

“Hello, Ser Dunk.” Smiling, your hand brushes along his broad shoulder as he immediately straightens up in his seat. “I am glad to see you again.”

“It’s Ser Duncan.” The child beside him corrects you. He speaks with an intonation befitting of a lord, and yet he’s clad in rags and a cloak that is far too big on his form.

“Right, of course, sorry.” Chuckling, you’re immediately endeared. “And who might you be?”

“No need to apologize, m’lady. And this is my squire—”

“Egg, my name is Egg.” He says matter of factly, chin held up high as he regards you in his sights. “And who are you, my lady?”

Introducing yourself, you find that your eyes have wandered towards a certain boisterous lord clad in Baratheon yellow, curly hair illuminated under the sunlight as he laughs loudly in the presence of his bannermen. Unsticking your gaze away from Lyonel, you look back at Egg. “I didn’t know that the good Ser had a squire. It’s good to meet you, Egg.”

“I recently came to his service. It seems that he needs me more than I thought he would.” That garners an elbow to Egg’s arm from the hedge knight. It’s not a harsh jab or a clout in the ear like how knights are to their squires, it’s more fond and annoyed than filled with ire.

“None of that, he’s not good with words, m’lady.” Dunk apologizes on his squire’s behalf, large hands holding tightly around a goblet that looks small in his hold.

“On the contrary,” you sit beside the little squire, basking with them in the sun as you smile at them both. “I find that he’s quite good with his words. Far too good for a child.” Your own words has you pondering about Egg. “How old are you exactly?”

“Are you here to see Ser Lyonel?” Egg gulps down, looking up at you with his big eyes, words disarming you as you stammer and forget your thoughts.

“What, no—” scoffing, you look around before relenting with a whisper. “how do you know of that?”

“Ser Duncan told me all about you.” The boy says it casually, but his knight looks sheepish beside him with a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks as he hides his expression behind the rim of his cup. “And how you cut a man twice your size.”

“He did, did he now?” Your eyes flick towards Duncan, wondering what else he has told the boy whilst he evades your gaze. “I see.”

“You, hedge knight!” Lyonel’s familiar voice practically carries around the meadow like rolling thunder. He stomps on over to your little group, taking the cup from Dunk’s hand with a grimace. “What is this piss froth?” Tossing the cup haphazardly, you and Egg are left to stare at the wild interaction, like a stag hunting down an unassuming boar. He then takes Dunk by his nape, leaning close while you could feel the hedge knight’s trepidation. “I need muscle. Will you heed my call to war?” His rumbling tone strikes right at your belly, something shakes within you as you find your cheeks are suddenly aflame.

You feel hot under your cloak.

Duncan gapes at Lyonel as the laughing storm guffaws at him, patting his cheek. “Come, we’ll need your strength!” Taking the poor knight by his arm, he heaves him up to his feet while Dunk has no choice but to stand up and lumber up to the rope being prepared up front. “And you!” You almost jump in your seat as Lyonel takes his attention towards you.

Egg side glances towards you before hopping off his seat and following the hedge knight, all the while trying to sneak a glance at the interaction.

“Me?” Hand on your chest, he takes your wrist gently in his hold, finding that he’s still wearing the ring, your ring.

“I told you that the mother would lead you back to me.” His tone lowers softly, a calloused hand holding onto yours tenderly, with longing that you could feel through every caress he gives with a thumb brushing along the length of your palm. “I don’t see my cloak on you. Still, you’re a pleasant surprise.”

“I sold your cloak, my lord, terribly sorry.” You even frown with added effect.

“You’re not a very good liar,” he whispers, face leaning closer as you could practically taste the arbor gold on his tongue. The thought alone has you melting into his touch, a snide remark dissipating on your lips. “It’s very fortunate that you’re quite beautiful.”

“Quite?” Your bite returns as soon as you see his teasing smirk.

“Oh, I didn’t want to inflate your ego…” his eyes narrow, squinting at you, as if trying to read your mind. “Lady Swann?”

“Not even close.” Your giggles has a few heads turning your way. They’re probably wondering who got the laughing storm so charmed.

“Shit.” Straightening up, his hand still on yours, he sucks in his teeth. “I was sure you were from house Swann. Are you a Tarly? Or perhaps, and this one is completely without evidence, a Martell?”

“You’re just naming houses at this point.”

“No?” You shake your head in reply as he scrunches his nose with his head lolling back dramatically. The gods would punish you for how you stared at his neck, and how you gazed at his throat that bops and down as he swallows. Groaning, he turns back to you with the same grin, while you hide the flustering maiden look on your face. “Are you sure that you are not Dornish? Because you are being a pain in my Stormlander ass, my lady.”

“Me, a pain?” You feign innocence with a mocking hand atop your heart.

“Yes, I could not sleep last night with all the pondering you’ve left me.” Tugging you up to your feet, he leads you hand in hand towards the crowd lining up around a long rope. On the way there, he tells his people to get up and they do so enthusiastically as if they’re about to ride into battle with him.

“That is not my fault, my lord.” Suddenly, his hand leaves yours, and there’s a tray with a goblet and a flagon of wine in your arms.

“Yes, it is.” He admires you under the sun, index tapping his beard. “Wine and a pretty lady, gods, I’ve been blessed.”

“Now I’ve been demoted to just pretty. And a cup bearer.” Rolling your eyes, you push the tray back into his arms as he staggers to catch it. “Do you think I was going to stand around and serve wine while you and Ser Duncan have all the fun?” You fold your sleeves to your elbows as Lyonel fails to hide his gawking at your bare arms, glancing back at your face with a wide grin and shining eyes. “You’ve thought wrong, my lord.”

Whirling away from him, you leave the heir of Storm’s End standing there with a tray of wine as if you have just bestowed him the title of a tavern wench.

Passing by Duncan, you see that he’s committed from the way he tied the rope around his waist, acting as an anchor. His eyes are determined, set to win the tug of war as if he’s in line at the tilts.

You chortle under your breath as you stand beside a curious Egg up front, feeling Lyonel’s gaze on your back, probably smiling just as he was when you left him. “Eyes up ahead, Egg.” taking the rope, you lightly turn him away by his shoulder to look upfront.

From behind, you hear Lyonel come to his senses with a clatter of metal, suspecting that he handed the tray to someone else. He guffaws his way to the rope, yelling at his men to dry their hands in a way that is befitting a sailor rather than a knight that has you biting down a laugh. You sneak a glance back, finding that he’s already staring right at you with a raised brow and a shining grin.

Grinning back, you answer him with your own laugh that ripples through the group and over to Lyonel. You could tell that you’re having some effect on him, just like he has an effect on you from the way his eyes crinkle with a smile, a genuine one, not a political smile that you’ve seen your mother and father, even your brothers, don in front of other people of high standing; but it’s a smile that you reserve for people you’re fond of. So you receive it with the same sentiment wholeheartedly, without second guessing yourself from how open you are about your feelings towards him. Gods, only a month ago you scorned his name, now you’re giddy for just being near him. Except now, you know it is not just the wine talking on your behalf.

As the crowd cheers, and you grasp the rope tightly in your hold, Lyonel gestures with his chin for you to pay attention upfront. With a chortle, you turn away and take the fabric of your cloak in between your palms and rope to prevent a burn. You can hide that you’ve been drinking from your father, but you cannot possibly hide a wound on your hands. Wearing gloves could work, but the weather is too hot for it.

“Ready!” The man up front wearing a thick leather doublet with a golden rose embellished on his chest yells, waking you up from your thoughts.

Inhaling deeply, you dig your heels into the mud and pull with all your might whilst the rope is tugged harshly back and forth. “Hold on, Egg!” You yelp as you struggle just like the small squire in front of you.

Lyonel shouts obscenities from behind, at one point he calls his men dandelions. You’d laugh if not for the strain snaking around your hands up to your arms.

“Lyonel!” Duncan screams from behind as you hear the crowd express their disappointment through varying degrees of cursing. “Lyonel!”

“I’ll be back!” You catch a glimpse of Lyonel leaving the line as he walks towards the wine. The rope is pulled closer and closer to the opposing side as Dunk struggles behind. “I’ll be back!” Despite his reassurance, it seems that all is lost. “I’m thirsty!”

Your feet slides through the mud and towards the opponents, as they take the opportunity to pull harder whilst Egg scrambles up to the rope, hoisting himself up, dangling on it tightly just above the muddy ground as Lyonel argues with everyone, citing dehydration.

“Lyonel! Come back here!” Your voice has him quickly gulping his drink down and tossing it over his shoulder.

Duncan pulls through, singlehandedly turning the tides with his strength alone whilst Lyonel returns to the fray. He pats Dunk’s behind before joining you up front.

He looks at Egg then over to you with a teasing shrug that almost has you wanting to kick his shin. Taking the rope, Lyonel screams at his crew. “Fucking pull!”

His added strength was enough for the opposing forces to stagger down onto the muddy ground as you cheer with the others.

“We did it!” Egg shrieks happily, jumping alongside you as you match his excitement.

Half of the crowd hurrahs alongside your crew as Lyonel jumps around before enveloping his arms around your waist, hoisting you up in the air in sheer happiness like he just won the crown.

Your hands hold on tight to his shoulders as he looks up at you with shining eyes that are filled with mirth. You match his grin, laughing alongside him, parading you around proudly. Whilst Ser Duncan tosses little Egg up in the air, you could see that Lyonel got the same idea but you shake your head with a nervous giggle. Instead, he twirls you around and around, until the world becomes a happy colourful blur of smiling faces.

—

After the eventful tug of war, Lyonel brings you inside the growing familiarity of house Baratheon’s pavilion. The place isn’t as crowded as last night as a few of his bannermen loiter around, calling for more wine to be brought with mirrored smiles on their faces. You’ve found that smiles are quite frequent in the presence of the laughing storm.

“To your health, Lady Stokeworth.” Lyonel hands you a fresh goblet of arbor gold before raising his own cup.

“I am not a lamb, my lord.” Chuckling atop the rim of your cup, you ogle him freely whilst he gulps down his drink. A line of pink drips from his lips down to his jaw and neck as you follow the flow with your heavy gaze, forgetting your place.

Lyonel wipes his lips with his sleeve, eyes raking your expression as if he already knew what you’ve been gazing at. “It was worth a try.”

You hide your obvious flustering behind the goblet as you take a sip, letting the sweetness dampen your warm cheeks. “It was a horrible guess.”

“Really now?” The corner of his lip tugs into a smirk, beard damp with wine. “I see it as getting closer to finding your true identity.”

“Just as I said last night, my lord,” Patting around for your handkerchief, you find it missing, instead you take a part of your cloak beside your shoulder, the cleaner side as you take a step closer to him, asking permission with a brief glance at him. To which he answers by tilting his head towards you, eyes never leaving your own as he watches you closely. “I have told you of my true identity.” Wiping his chin gently, you’re surprised that he even let you. The way he gazes at you doesn’t fly over your head.

“Must’ve been the wine, but I don’t remember that.” Before you could pull your hand away, he takes you by the wrist in his careful hold, callouses brushing along your softer skin as he slides his palm under yours, only to then place a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. “I might have been drunk,” his breath fans against your skin. “And yet I remember every detail from that night.”

“My lord…” The snide remark melts on your tongue, as you could barely manage to take a breath.

“Call me Lyonel, my lady.” His tongue drawls out the title sweetly, as if you’re the only one worthy of being called that.

“You’re dangerous to be around, Lyonel.” Breathlessly, you bite your lip, following him with your eyes as he rises to his full height.

“Better than being dreary, hm?”

“Yes… definitely better.” Under his gaze, you melt. A part of you hates you for being so pliant from his sweet words. And that same part of you makes you take your hand back from his gentle touch, swallowing thickly as your eyes wander outside.

“Perhaps we should see the sights, fresh air could do us some good.” Taking both goblets, he rests them on a table, head tilted as he waits for your answer. “What do you say, Lady…” his eyes squint at you dramatically, turning your pursed lips into a small smile. “Redwyne? I am running out of house names.”

“Very clever, we just had wine therefore I am from the house that produces it most.”

“You are a breath of fresh fucking air.” He utters with endearment, not a lie weaved through his tone. “I’m starting to think that you are not from Westeros.”

“You’re right, I hail from Essos.”

“No, you’re not. You’re still shit at lying.” With a bright grin, he sucks in his teeth with a shake of his head, eyes never leaving yours as if you’re the only person in the whole realm.

You suddenly feel the need for air. “I thought you wanted to promenade? Or was that an excuse to leave you be?”

Brows raised in offense, Lyonel scoffs. “And leave you all alone with these fiends? Absolutely not, come.” He offers his arm for you to take, which for a moment you hesitate, before deciding to wrap your fingers around his bicep whilst he smiles, as if he became the champion of the whole tourney. “I shall buy you a drink.”

“You have a lot of drinks here, Lyonel.”

“Yes, well, I only said that as an excuse for you to stay with me.” Guiding you outside the tent, Lyonel tugs you closer before your shoulder could collide against a stranger heaving a heavy crate. He does it subconsciously, the subtle protection came so easily to him that it’s second nature for him. “These people bore me.”

“I thought you’d be sick of my presence.” It’s not a lie, you have doubted that his targeted attention and affection would have wavered by now. Perhaps that is the reason why you still keep your true identity from him, because once he finds out who you really are, he’d lose interest. Your heart squeezes at the thought.

“No, my sweet, I just met you.” His hand pats your own that holds onto his sturdy arm. And it stays there, just resting atop your hand. “When you pluck a flower from your garden do you neglect it right after?”

“No, I take care of it.” You watch as the sunlight drapes upon his handsome face like a cloak, as the heir to Storm’s End basks under the sunshine.

“Exactly, Lady Tyrell.”

“Not a Tyrell.” Chuckling and biting your lip to stifle a laugh, you two pass by a puppet show, where you take a quick sneak peek inside, finding a giant dragon puppet that intrigues you.

“Oh, the gods have forsaken me.” Lyonel follows your line of sight, pausing by the entrance as the roar of fire and applause echoes inside.

“So bloody dramatic.” Gazing at him, you’ve found that he’s staring right at you and not at the show. “Again, that wasn’t a very good guess.”

“I am quite happy that I’m shit at this, it gives me a reason to get to know you better, my lady.” You hope that he can’t feel your sweaty palm on his sleeve. His head tilts towards the puppet show, and lowers his voice for you to hear him better. “Do you want to stay and watch?”

“I…” looking over your shoulder, you find that the performer is already taking their bow. “I think we’re too late for that.”

“Next time then, hm?” Gently tugging you away, grass crunching under foot, you smile at the prospect of seeing him again. “Have you ever tasted the sweet drink from Essos?”

“I don’t think I have. What is it?”

“It’s best that you get a taste of it yourself.” His smirk alone excites you.

As the two of you pass by numerous stalls, from merchants selling geese and chickens, to various trinkets from beyond the narrow sea, you can’t help your wandering eyes from roaming around the market. It’s a good thing that Lyonel keeps you on track, weaving around folk and keeping you close when the crowd thickens the further you walk. He’s so close that you could feel his warmth, and smell the faint rain on his doublet and see the wine staining his bottom lip into a pinkish hue.

You stop in front of a stall with Lyonel in tow, there’s something sweet wafting through the air coming right from the bubbling pot that they have on a steel stove. People are lined up around it, holding onto wooden cups filled with the same brown concoction as they blow into it.

“Is it stew?”

“Now who’s shit at guessing?” With a teasing grin, he flags down a stranger who recently bought two steaming cups. “You there! I’ll give you a stag for those.” The poor man almost spills the drinks from his fright.

“Lyonel, we could get in line—”

“Of course, my lord.” Without hesitation, and despite the initial shock, there’s a small smile on his lips, the man then hands Lyonel the cups.

“Ah, it smells just how I remember it.” With his hands full, the man waits for his payment. Lyonel notices and curses under his breath. “Fuck, hold on—”

“Here.” You pull out two silver stags and place it in his waiting palm. “Sorry about that.”

“It is my honour, m’lady.” Nodding curtly, he scrambles away with his head down before going to the back of the line, two stags richer.

Lyonel looks at the side of your face, smacking his lips together. “Rich and kind, you are definitely not a Lannister, or maybe a cousin of theirs. A Reyne perhaps?”

You hide the brief shock on your face before you turn to face him. You’re technically of house Reyne on your mother’s side, and her mother was Lady Reyne before she wed. Lyonel is actually good at the game you’ve accidentally created.

“I am of house Reyne.” Shrugging, you take the cup daintily as its warmth ebbs through your palm. “Well met, Lyonel.”

He then takes a sip before shaking his head, face contorted. “No, you’re not. I’m a bad influence on you, you’re getting better at lying.”

“Or perhaps you got it right this time.” Smiling behind the rim of your cup, you blow on the warm drink before taking a cautious sip. The sweetness rivals arbor gold as the exotic taste coats your tongue in a film, striking your senses as you take a more generous gulp.

Lyonel chuckles at your reaction. “I take it that you like it?”

You lick your lips as his gaze falls on how the tip of your tongue swishes back and forth over your lips. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever had.” Once you look upon him, his eyes flick up to your own. “What is it?”

“Cacao, it grows aplenty in the free cities.” His gaze softens at your blissed out expression.

“Whoever invented it deserves their place in the seven heavens.” Distracted by your drink, you almost spill it when a tall form bumps into you. If not for Lyonel’s quick reaction, pulling you out of the way at the last second, you would’ve spilled gold.

“Come, let us find a quieter spot.” With a hand on your back, he leads you away, throwing a glower at the one who bumped into you. “There are more delicacies like that across the narrow sea.”

“How many voyages have you been on?” You ask with wonderment as the two of you make your way towards the edge of the market where the tents and stalls thin, same for the folk as they congregate more in the center of the meadow; and where a small hill rolls downwards as you stop by the short stone walls.

“Half a dozen. Each plentiful and joyous than the last.” Lyonel answers proudly, earring shining as he tilts his head at you. “You’ve got something… stay still for me.” Leaning close, he uses his sleeve to wipe at your upper lip carefully. “I apologize for the lack of clean fabric, I must’ve left it in my tent.”

“You don’t have a single square of handkerchief anywhere, my lord.” Heart beating loudly in your ears, you manage to say a teasing remark despite the sudden warmth in your cheeks.

“Who carries a handkerchief these days, hm?” Moving away, his brow raises at you, a hand right on his hip.

“I do.” Chin raised, you chuckle. Patting your sides, you remember that you left your handkerchief with Duncan last night when you tended to his wounds. “Sometimes.”

His nose scrunches with endearment. “Mayhaps I should carry one on my person then, you never know when a fine maiden would need it.”

“This maiden doesn’t mind it.”

“I shall keep using my sleeve to wipe any grime off your face, my lady.”

Your laughter echoes around the clearing. “How…gallant.”

“I am a knight after all—”

“You!” A booming voice sounds out from behind, awfully wrought, awfully familiar, as Lyonel instinctively pulls you back to stand in front of you.

Lyonel tosses his cup at the hill as it rolls downwards and brandishes his blade with stag antlers as the handle. It glimmers in the light as you grimace at the hulking man from last night. There’s a blade in his closed fist, seemingly coated in animal fat.

“Walk away.” The laughing storm shows his teeth.

“No,” he shakes his head defiantly with a sneer. His injuries twist his face, eyes blackened, nose crooked and he’s missing a few teeth up front, courtesy of Ser Duncan. “You keep finding men to defend you, huh, bitch?”

“Who is this man?” Lyonel doesn’t waver, stance steady as his eyes never leave the assailant.

“He was the one Ser Duncan and I met last night.” With quick movement, your dagger joins Lyonel’s, raised side by side. “He tried to take me.”

He hums, a deep rumble of thunder in his chest, restrained anger swirling inside. “I’ll add to the cut you gifted him, my lady, as courtesy.”

“You think I’m scared of you, little man?”

“Little man!” Lyonel laughs, as if the man isn’t pointing a blade at him. “Tell the stranger I bid him good fortune—”

Before the stag could make his move, the falcon swoops in. You lunge at him, blade at your side.

The larger man tries to swipe at you, but you abruptly duck down, crouched as you cut his ankles in one swing of your dagger.

The scream he lets out boils your blood, and you quickly stab at the side of his knee for good measure, scrambling away just in time for Lyonel to dive right at him and push him over the side of the rocky fence, sending him flying down the hill tumbling.

Standing up, you watch as he hits a tree in a sickening thud.

“Well, nothing makes the blood pump more than some light murder. That and another activity.” Sidling up beside you, Lyonel watches the side of your face with a hint of concern weaved through the folds in between his brows. “You did not hesitate.”

“Hesitating means getting the both of us hurt, or worse.” Your eyes don’t stray too far from the stranger’s unconscious body, waiting for him to get up as you heave, feeling the familiar feeling of fury roll inside of you. “I should’ve killed him— no matter.” Shaking your head, you turn to him when you deem it safe. “Are you alright, Lyonel?”

“Am I alright?” Hand on his chest, he sneaks a passing glance at the man to check his state before looking into your wild eyes. “Are you alright?” His tone softens.

Swallowing thickly, trying to disperse the past gnawing inside your head, you take a beat, counting to ten. Lyonel waits patiently without a word, keeping watch of you. “I’m fine.” You finally say, wiping the blood on your cloak as if you’re a seasoned warrior. From the look of Lyonel’s eyes, he takes note of this and sees you in a new light.

“That is great,” his relieved sigh flutters a strand of your hair. “because you just made me an accessory to murder, my lady.”

The man groans from below, and you clench your dagger tightly. “I don’t think it’s murder if the corpse is still breathing.”

Lyonel briefly glances down below. “I could finish the job. I’d be delighted to finish the job.”

“I don’t think lord Ashford would be delighted by that.”

“You’re right, we should’ve done this in the cover of night.” Sheathing his dagger, he looks around, cheeks puffed. “I’ll call a guard.” He says disappointedly with a huff. “And see to it that he’s rotting in the Ashford dungeons.”

Lyonel whistles at someone from behind, but you could only hear your blood rushing in your ears, bloody memories flashing in your mind. He could’ve gotten hurt, and it would have been your fault, again.

“Ah, a knight of the Vale.”

The mention of your home wakes you up like a bucket of cold water on your head. You quickly pull your hood up and sheath your dagger before the sound of clanking armour comes near.

“My lord.” You could just feel his eyes on you, and judging from his voice, you know this exact knight as Ser Andros, Juniper’s lover. “My lady.” He tries to peek under your hood but you turn away, feigning shock from the events that transpired.

As Lyonel describes what happened, he adds some flair to the story, making sure that the assailant will never hurt you or anyone else ever again.

“Will you see to the matter yourself?” Lyonel commandingly utters.

“Yes, My lord. He shall be brought to justice.” The sound of clanking armour fades away as he goes down the hill.

“A falcon knight, now they’re quite reliable—” When he turns back towards you, he finds that you’re already scampering away, cloak tugged around you like a blanket.

A part of you wishes that he won’t follow you, and yet, your heart calls for him to take you in his arms.

Everything suddenly overwhelms you, the sweetened lingering taste on your tongue that is now forever tainted by what you had to do, the noise around the meadow, people incessantly talking, the sun blindingly in your eyes, metal clanking against metal, the smell of a furnace from somewhere— the burning, ash in your throat, the heat of flames kissing your cheeks. Your breathing staggers as your fingers twist and harden into curved branches around the fabric of the cloak.

“My sweet,” Lyonel managed to keep up with you from his longer strides. “Where are you going?”

“I— I don’t know.” You hug the cloak closer, covering your nose, trying to tamp down the phantom burning smell. “Anywhere but here.”

“Come,” Lyonel’s hand hovers just above the small of your back, guiding you somewhere calmer. When you don’t move, he looks down at your feet planted right into the muddy ground, refusing to go. He says your name with the gentleness of someone that cares for you deeply, as if he has for years when that is far from the truth. “Please, let us go.”

“I don’t want to go to the tent.” You sound small, you’re back to being that child again.

“Then we shall not, there is somewhere I know that is calmer.” He whispers gently, worry marred on his face. “No walls, no stuffy bannermen, just us.”

Craning your neck to face him, his expression turns solemn. Anywhere is better than here. “Please get me out of here.”

—

The large elm tree’s leaves whistles in the wind, dancing as the breeze waves past. It’s quieter here, calmer, as if time is frozen in this silent patch of land.

You pay no heed to the three whinnying horses hitched at the tree as Lyonel gives them a pat. Walking by them, you sit beside the babbling brook, dress hitched around your knees as you unclasp your cloak and let the hood fall from your shoulders. Yanking your boots off, you dip them into the cool water, letting it ease the burning embers within you.

There’s a groan beside you as the grass shifts under Lyonel’s weight. He sits on your right, dappled light dancing on his cheek as he perches his leg up and rests his elbow atop it casually. His curls sways in the wind, dark eyes staring right ahead and into the stream, watching the waves go over the pebbles and the tiny fish swimming upstream.

He doesn’t ask anything of you nor say anything before you could. He waits, like a storm cloud waiting for the right wind to bring it over a flower that needed its rain.

“Do you think that they’d call for me?” Your voice cuts through the comfortable silence as Lyonel hums a reply before turning towards you with a raised brow. “For what I did.”

He shakes his head. “You did nothing wrong, I don’t see why they would.”

“I…” the wormy feeling of sparkling nerves teeters you over the edge as you take the end of your braid and brush it along your cheek to tamp the crawling emotion down. “He didn’t strike first, I did.” Your words has him turning his head towards you. “I know he threatened us with a blade, but he didn’t strike first.”

“Does it matter?” He says casually, unlacing his boots one by one as he rests his chin on his knee. “You acted first, but he provoked us. You saw the advantage and you took it.”

“I thought seeing us both would be enough to stop him,” with clenched teeth, anger bubbles over you once again. “but he kept pestering, aiming the knife right at you—” Taking a deep breath, you focus on the cold water on your skin instead. “What I did wasn’t honourable.”

“Even if you didn’t strike first, he would have.” Tossing his boots beside him, he copies your movements as he sighs when the water hits his skin. “You acted upon first, that doesn’t make you less honourable, that’s called being fucking smart. He wouldn’t have granted you the same honour, my lady.”

Looking back at it now, the stranger’s foot moved forward, and that’s what prompted you to strike. But did it really? Or did you let your emotions get to you? The want, the *need to protect Lyonel right there and then pushed you over to the edge because the last time you were faced with a man like him, you couldn’t strike first, a regret you would carry your whole life.

Shutting your eyes and pressing the heels of your palms over until you could see spots behind your eyelids, you feel Lyonel shift beside you. Inhaling deeply, the sunlight almost blinds you as you turn your gaze at him.

“Would you have waited for him to move before striking first?”

“You were with me,” his tone lowers, softer this time as he rolls the hem of his drenched trousers. “I wouldn’t have waited if it meant risking you.”

“But if you were alone?”

“Dwelling on what could’ve been will eat at you, it’s best to live in the present.” His dark eyes turn to you, sunshine flickering in his eyes, now a shade lighter as his curls fall over his face. “The stranger would take you to an early grave worrying that much.” Index reaching for you, he presses gently into the crease of your brows. “You did us some good, my sweet, who knows what the fuck he would’ve done if you were out here alone.” Grimacing, Lyonel couldn’t fathom the thought.

You give him a ghost of a smile. “Yes, it’s probably for the best.”

“It is.” Lyonel reassures, elbow nudging your own. “Where did you even learn how to fight like that?”

“Was it obscene?” Letting out a humourless chuckle, you thought that he finally lost interest in you now that you’ve shown him the other side of you. “Most men don’t like it when women could possibly out duel them.”

“Well, I’m not most men.” Tilting his head, lounging casually, Lyonel rests his cheek atop his shoulder, smiling at you genuinely, gently, as if it was reserved for your eyes only. “On the contrary, all women should know how to fight, it’ll double our numbers when war breaks out. And I’d duel you, I wouldn’t hold back, my lady.” His slow blinking and genuine smile makes his words true.

“I’d rather not injure the heir to Storm’s End.” You can’t help but mirror his expression, heart thudding loudly in your chest, but unlike the previous feeling, this one is kinder, tender, something that feels familiar and yet foreign at the same time.

“Cocky and brilliant.” He lets out a chortle as he lolls his head back, relaxing and basking under the dappled light. “Are you from house Dayne?”

“As much as I want to wield the sword Dawn, no, I am not.” Just seeing him ease up has you slouching and letting out a breath you’ve been holding on.

“Who trained you then? A knight from your house? I’d give him my compliments if you’d tell me who you are.”

“My father, he taught me.” With a staggered exhale, body keeling over from the fury that now ebbs out of you, the soft grass hits the back of your head as you lie down. “I insisted, and my father granted my whim.”

“Not a lot of fathers would have their daughters wielding a sword,” you could feel his eyes on you as you stare at the branches of the elm tree. “more so train her himself.” With another groan coming from him, he lays down beside you, hands on his stomach, eyes tracing your face, as if he looks upon a mystery that he needs to solve. “Perhaps you’re from Braavos, I heard that they train assassins as soon as they can walk. Are you here for my head, hm?” His hand nudges your elbow fondly.

“Not even close, Lyonel.” The snort that rumbles your throat delights him, as he chuckles along with you. “And you’re right, not all fathers would want their daughters wielding a sword rather than an embroidery needle. They’d rather have us pliant to their will.”

“But he’s not like any father, I suppose?”

Your venomous words at your father echoes in your head like city bells. “No, I suppose he isn’t.” There’s still the anger towards him that lays like a stone inside your stomach, but there is some truth in his words, you have realized that he did grant every whim of yours, coddled you, gave everything you ever wanted despite the whispers. You hate him for what he has done, but there is still some love that you bear for your lord father. However cruel his decision was. “Training was the only thing that calmed me when I was a child.” You blurt out, and you find yourself confiding with your former betrothed.

“Were you a petulant child?” Amusement shimmers in his eyes just as you turn to face him.

“Worse, I was a somber child.”

Leaning towards you, he places his head on his palm, waiting for you to elaborate further. “You don’t seem like you were.”

“When I was young,” clearing your throat, you turn your gaze away lest you falter in his presence. “my uncle brought me and my little cousins out of the keep to go fishing. It was during the rebellion, and my father and brothers were out fighting.” You could see him smile fondly in your peripheral. “We brought nothing but fishing rods and bait, and in our simple robes, we rode out for an hour before we reached a lake tucked in between the mountains where no one else could find us.” You could still remember the cool water lapping at your legs, just like today. “It was our slice of peace amidst all the death and despair that the war left.”

“I see where you got the scheme of dressing up as commoner.” He adds, intrigued by your story as you smile faintly and play with the ends of your braid.

“We went there every month or so, catching carps, trouts, but I only caught smaller ones that I had to toss back in, so I resorted to picking flowers.” Your hand feels for the grass beside you, touching the petals of a wild dandelion. “Then one day, I was bored and I asked if we could go. I pleaded and stomped my little foot until he relented. We went to the same spot, we fished like any day before. I made flower crowns for every kin as gifts for when they get back, but as we were about to leave, men found us. Cutthroats, looking for easy coin.”

“Sweetling—” His face falls as you bravely face him. Lyonel looks like he already knows the end of your story.

“T–they lined us up, placed a dagger against my uncle’s throat and asked him which one.” The question still haunts you, still said in that gruff voice. “Which one to kill. And he chose me.” Your once bright eyes turn dark as he sits up. “I didn’t blame him, I wasn’t his child, but I pleaded anyway, and yet they killed my little cousins instead as they laughed.”

Lyonel’s smile dies as he takes your hand in his, hoping that it’ll be enough to ease your mind. “You don’t have to continue.”

“I want to.”

The simple yet brave words gives him an understanding that you’re not just some pretty face he wants to conquer. You’re someone that deserves more than becoming his conquest. You’re tougher than he thought you were. He feels for you, cares more for you than he thought he would.

“They burned my uncle as he wept for his children, and I watched the flames eat at his flesh.” Your fingers curl weakly around his as you continue. “When it was my turn to be burned, I managed to take hold of a knife at the man’s hip and plunged it at his throat.” The intertwined hands mock the bloody warmth you felt that day.

“The knights found me in time before they could toss me with my uncle’s ashen body. When my father came home after the war, I wasn’t the same glad child, he had a killer for a daughter.” You spit out the words that have plagued your mind for years, never spoken, never uttered, leaving to rot inside your head. “I was as silent as a mouse, never talked, rarely ate, never laughed again. The training was the only thing that helped bring me back, but I know he never saw me the same again. And– and my family never spoke of that incident to anyone.”

The taste of ash coats your tongue and teeth, but when you feel the faint squeeze of his hand, you go back to the present. “Do you see me as weak for it?”

Lyonel remains silent for a beat, before shrugging and shaking his head whilst his earring dangles from his ear. “Lady Arryn,” your heart leaps in your chest as you sit up, water dripping from your feet. “broke our betrothal, I found it shit when I was already ready to marry an utter stranger only to be turned away at the last moment. But no matter, I’ll live.”

“What?” You had to even out your breathing when you thought that he had finally found your true identity.

“What? I thought we were talking about unfortunate things that we have already overcome? Granted mine isn’t as horrid and fucked up as yours, but, it is not a weakness when you have already came out of it alive.” He takes a breath before letting his thoughts out again, unabashed, genuine words. “You survived it, not everyone in the realm could say that, some buckle and go over the edge but you didn’t. You took up a fucking sword and said fuck you to anyone who said otherwise. You stood tall and didn’t let what happened to you rot your insides. That’s called strength.”

Lyonel says your name, and again, until his hand cradles your nape, fingers digging into your hair, but not hurting, for emphasis and comfort. His eyes look deep into yours as he utters your name with clenched teeth. “You are not weak, I have seen weak and this is not it.”

“Lyonel…” Your hands gravitate to his chest, a palm pressed atop his heart as you blink away the tears. Whilst he watches the sun illuminate your face, wishing that it was him kissing your cheeks and not the warmth.

“Promise me that you’ll spar with me at least once.” The grin on his face appears, the same one that you are growing quite fond of.

The corner of your lips tugs into a smile, nodding as he presses his forehead atop your own.

“I want you to say it.” His breath fans your cheek that you could practically taste the cacao on his tongue.

“I’ll spar with you one day, and perhaps cut you.”

“Good, that’s my stormy petrel." Guffawing, he releases you from his hold, takes your shoes and places it beside you before leaping to his feet, and puts on his shoes. A hand appears in front of your face as he stretches his fingers. “Come, I have a joust to win.”

Taking his outstretched hand that have grown familiar, you stand up as he lifts you up back on your feet.

“Watch me become champion? I’ll name you the queen of love and beauty.” His brows dance, hand still naturally clasped around yours whilst you push your feet inside your shoes with him helping you stay up.

“How presumptuous of you to think that you’d become champion.”

“You have no faith in me.” He mocks hurt, a hand right on his heart. “Please? Hm, I have probably said that word to you more than I have in my whole life.”

“I’ll see, Lyonel, but no promises.”

“That’s good enough for me. I’ll show you my fighting prowess and charm you with my long girthy lance!” Your shared laughter echoes around the clearing as the horses neighs a goodbye to you both.

He leads you back into the meadow with his hand clasped around yours until it was time to reluctantly part for him to don his armour and for you to sneak back to the Arryn pavilion.

Her eyes flick towards the looking glass, gazing at you briefly before taking the jeweled clips and placing it into your hair wordlessly.

“Will you please talk to me? Your silence is eerie.”

“You know what is eerie, m’lady? Going inside your tent to only find your bed empty and my trunk raided once again.” Sighing, her jaw clenches as she faces you through the foggy looking glass. “I protected you, pretended and told the knights that you are still asleep. I lied to Andros, lied to your father,” she stops for a breath as guilt marred your face, “and I would do it again for you but all I got in return was m’lady missin’. Out galavantin’ with some hedge knight and the laughing storm.”

“I’m sorry,” twisting around in your seat, you look up at her through your lashes as your hand rests atop her own on the back of the chair. “I did not want you getting involved any longer. This is my own scheme, my own plight to face.”

She shakes her head with a click of her tongue. “I’m your handmaiden, I’m already involved with you no matter what it is.” Brows folded together, she winces at the memory of you coming home bloody, eyes staring off into the distance. “I almost lost you when we were nothin’ but little girls, I cannot let that happen again.”

You take her hands in yours, giving her a tender squeeze. “You won’t lose me, and whatever happens to me is no fault of your own. It would be mine, you mustn’t concern yourself too much about me. I’m in control of this, I promise you.”

“I cannot help my concern for you. You shut me out– everyone out for years until I finally saw a glimmer of my friend again.” She lets out a shuddered breath, looking upon you through sad eyes. “I only want you to be safe and happy.”

You give her a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “If only it was still possible with the future ahead.” Lyonel’s words still echo in your mind, living in the present is better, more carefree, but you cannot help but dread what your future might bring. “An Arryn never fared well inside the house of the dragon.”

Pursing her lips tightly, she shudders at the thought. “I’ll be coming with you to King’s landing and Summerhall whether you like it or not. If…” Squeezing your hands back, she stammers, her usual demeanor cracking at the edges. “If the whispers about the prince are correct, you would need me there more than now.”

“What about Ser Andros?”

“It would hurt for a little while, but I cannot just stand idly and accept your fate when you deserve a man that would treat you kindly, to love you just like what we used to talk about while we played in the gardens.”

“You deserve that too.” Shaking her hands as you blink away the tears forming in your eyes, you see her smiling softly at you. “You cannot come with me to the capital, or to Summerhall, I want you to be happy too.”

“I cannot leave you, no matter how much you keep slinking away from me.” That garners a light chuckle from you. “Whoever you marry, I shall follow you to their keep, not because I am your handmaiden, but because you are my friend. If Aerion, or the laughing storm, or a bloody Lannister hurts you, I shall gut them like a fish.”

“Spoken like a true northerner.” Smiling, you give her hand a chaste peck. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, I promise to never leave you out of my plans ever again.”

“You fall, I fall, understand?”

“Completely.” Matching her gentle smile, the tent flaps open as the sunset spills inside the abode.

Your father walks in his regalia, dark blue with silver embellishments of a falcon and a crescent moon. He interrupts the sweet moment as he clears his throat, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Leave us.” He utters commandingly as Juniper curtsies before ushering outside. When the orange light and pink hues darken and the tent closes behind her, he once again stiffly clears his throat. “You look wonderful, sweetling.” His tone softens, apprehension laced within them, like a green hunter approaching a doe.

You hum a reply, pretending to fix your already immaculate hair as you glance along the light blue of your gown with its intricate embroidery of feathers and a moon with a falcon taking flight at the center. You’re dressed like an Arryn through and through, which means you cannot possibly see Lyonel tonight, or else he’ll know who you are immediately. You wonder what he would do if he suddenly knew about your identity, would it be indifference based on what he told you at the riverbank? Or would he fight for your hand now that there is some affection harboured between the two of you? The former would hurt you more, while the latter opens a box of chaos along its wake. Baratheon men are known for their thunderous fury, quick to temper like lightning, and loves fiercely like the sea loves the moon. Would he even care for you if he found out the truth? Even if you have lied?

“Jon is joining the tilts today, opposite Damon Lannister.”

“So I’ve heard.” You answer monotonously.

“It’ll be good to have you there to see him joust. Let the realm see that our house is united.”

“Why do you think I’m dressed, father? To have tea with the ladies?”

His feet shuffles as he walks closer to you with trepidation. He’s always been like this since that dreaded day, always walking on eggshells when it comes to you. “I am giving you an invitation.”

“As if I have a choice on the matter.”

“You always have a choice, sweetling.”

“If that’s the case,” you twist in your seat to face him, letting your ire shine through your sneer. “Then I choose to not marry Aerion Targaryen.”

“It is not that simple.”

“You contradict yourself, father.” Scoffing, you stand up to retrieve your cloak from the bed, a simple black fabric with dainty blue embroidery as you place it over your shoulders and clasp it with a silver feather to secure it around you.

“Sweetling, I only did it to benefit our house, our family—”

“I am part of that family too, or have you forgotten that with your ambition clouding your decisions?”

He stays silent, something that is uncharacteristically like your father. Between your mother and him, he was the talkative one, always prattling about, making allies, sometimes enemies too because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Your uncle used to say that your father runs his mouth too much that one day someone will sew his lips shut out of annoyance. But it has benefited the family too, House Arryn wasn’t as powerful back before the rebellion because of a string of idiotic decisions from past Arryn lords and several wars, now it could rival the rest of the great houses by itself from its army and riches because of your father and his golden words. He is called the wise falcon for it. If only he knew the limits of his words, but the men of the realm are never satisfied with the power they hold. Even if it means sacrificing their own daughter for their own desires and ambition.

“Did the hand make you master of coin?” You ask, eyes steely as you meet with his eyes, never wavering because you are your father’s daughter, a falcon that he let soar above, now chained and tethered after tasting freedom.

“He did.”

“We’ll see if it’s worth it then.” You walk past him without looking back. “Or if this marriage will clip my wings just like it did your sister.”

Hurt flashes on his face, brows furrowed deeply at the mention of his dear sister, whom he hasn’t seen in years. “Prince Rhaegel cares for her—”

“Will Aerion be the same, father?” Head held up high, you don’t look over your shoulder, driving the blade further into his heart as you leave the tent and out into the cold evening air. Leaving the question to hang over him like a storm cloud.

—

Your brother, Robert, accompanies you towards the tilts as wet grass crunches underfoot. A hand looped around his arm, you could feel his gaze harden as the lord of the Vale walks up front. The falcon knights surround your family, armours clanking with the sound of excited chatter from the small folk.

“Do you still remember our aunt?” You bluntly ask Robert, the spare, you always teased him as whenever he acts petulant in the training yard.

“Which one?” He scoffs, eyes darting from the lord of the Vale’s back then over to you. “We have a lot of bloody aunts.”

“The one left in the dragon’s den.”

“Ah, her.” Sucking in his teeth, he tugs you closer to avoid a large rock in the middle of the trail. “I barely remember her, she was married off before you were even born.”

“That is why I am asking.”

He sighs, lips pouting as he shakes his head. “Why do you even want to know? You’ll soon meet her once you wed— ow!”

Your pinch on his forearm garners a satisfied look on your face. “Because I am curious, how was she before and after she wed? And what of her husband?”

Robert bites the inside of his cheek as he leads you closer to the lanes, where squires of the knights are running around like chickens without their heads, trying to ready their knight’s horses and lances. You could see Lyonel’s squire, clad in the same yellow Baratheon as you recognize him from the tug of war. You pray to the seven that the younger Baratheon doesn’t ruin his knight’s armour or mess up when he has to give him his lances once the joust starts.

The gates are still closed for the small folk as the Ashford stewards let the noblemen and women inside first. The air grows crisper into the night, fluttering your lashes as you toy with the ends of your braid. Flames from the braziers dance along the wind, an orange glow illuminating the field.

“She had the same fire as you.” Robert finally utters, eyeing the neighing horses, watching Jon’s squire fumble with the clasp of the familiar steed’s armour. “Gods, that child is hopeless.”

“He’s but five and ten, brother.” You give the struggling boy a reassuring nod when his eyes catch yours. “Wait, had?”

“I remember that she was thrilled for her wedding at King’s landing.”

“And then?”

“Do you remember the queen’s funeral?” His voice lowers once the two of you turn a corner into a flight of stairs leading up to the royal box.

“No, I do not, I was still teething if you remember.”

He lets out a chortle. “You hid behind mother’s skirt the whole evening, hiding from prince Valarr because you were smitten with him.”

“I was a child, Rob.” Rolling your eyes, you situate yourself at the very back of the seats, hiding in the dark, afraid of being seen by Lyonel from below. “What of the funeral?”

“I scarcely recognized our aunt.”

His saddened tone makes you turn his way, as you hug the cloak tighter around yourself. “How so?”

“She looked…exhausted.” He simply says, moonlight shining in his eyes as you see your father’s shoulders tighten in your peripheral whilst he sits just below you. “She hasn’t had the twins yet, but it seemingly felt like she had been a mother already.”

“What do you mean?”

Leaning closer, he whispers, in case someone else could catch wind of it. “You know of the rumours? That the prince is touched by madness? But unlike his nephew, he’s more…” he thinks of a suitable word, jaw clenched as he thinks of a word that wouldn’t be considered traitorous. “Gentle, sickly, and…” he then looks around briefly before saying the next words. “Feeble-minded.”

“Oh, that’s…”

“I’d like to think that she was happy for a time like how she was during her wedding. But I have heard that the prince has his days where madness would strike him the most.”

“I understand.” Your hands wring together at the thought of your poor aunt left alone to fend for herself and her family all alone in a keep full of dragons. “She must love him still, for her to stay.” You utter more to yourself, a simple reassurance that bears no evidence whatsoever, only to help ease your mind that there must be days where the prince is lucid, where your aunt sees glimpses of the husband she married. “Mayhaps we could visit her someday in King’s Landing, so she could meet the children. And perhaps we could bring gifts to our cousins?”

The lord of the Vale stands up abruptly, turning back towards the stairs wordlessly as you and your brother give his retreating form a raised brow.

“That would be nice, sister.” Robert gives you a gentle smile and a pat on the back of your hand. “We get to visit you and your husband as well, two birds with one stone, hm?”

“You’re horrid, Robert.” Tone flickering in the evening air, it’s not a jest or a teasing remark, your eyes says it all. “Why would you say that?”

“It is true, you have to face it soon enough.” His face hardens, eyes shutting for a breath before clearing his throat and clasping your shoulder. “There is nothing else we could do. We all have our duties, sister. Jon and I have done ours, it’s your turn.”

Jaw clenching, you glower at him and shake his hand off of you. As you turn your cheek away from him, you grip at your skirts tightly. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

“What do you propose then? Running away?” He waits for a snide remark from you, but you stay silently seething beside him. “I could help you with that.”

“What?” Your head turns to him abruptly just as he utters the words. “You’d help me get away?”

“Do you think that we’d let our only sister marry a madman?” Eyes softening, he smiles solemnly. “There would be consequences, but we’d rather be disinherited or even whipped for it rather than see your light dim just like our aunt.”

You search his face for any lies, but you find none. Your hand reaches for his own with a gentle squeeze. “This is my own battle, brother. If it reaches that, then I shall face it on my own.”

“He’ll burn you, I know he will.” There’s hurt in his voice, struggling as he takes a staggered breath.

“Then I shall learn to tame him, let his fire feed mine. I won’t let him burn me.” Giving him your best smile, you squeeze his hand again before letting go. “You’re a good brother, you and Jon, I promise you, I will survive this, just like I had before.”

“This is different from that.” Robert doesn’t say it upfront but you know what he meant, what he’s pertaining to.

“It is. The only difference is that I get to share a bed with this one, but the flames are the same.”

“Now you’re the one being horrid.” His words are laced with affection whilst he rolls his eyes. “Just say the word, Jon and I will whisk you away.”

“Thank you.” Giving his cheek a chaste pat, more nobles start to congregate in the royal box, just as your father walks in and settles himself in the same seat as before.

You stare at his back, wishing that you could change his mind, persuade him. But it’s not that simple when the betrothal is set in stone. It didn’t feel that way a moment ago, until the trumpets sang, and their names were announced, like a death knell that rings inside your ears, pounding at your head, gnawing at your future.

The princes passes by as everyone stands up to greet them. Lord Ashford grins at the attendants, waving graciously at the small folk clamoring near the fences to get a better place to watch the chaos of the tilts unfold. Prince Baelor is unmistakable beside his younger brother, Maekar, in his platinum hair that is combed neatly atop his head. Compared to the heir to the throne, your soon to be lawful father looks like he’d rather be anywhere in the realm than be here. The hammer and the anvil they call them, ferocious together out on the battlefield that even the most hardened warriors acknowledge their skills.

Right behind them is the Targaryen you don’t want to glance at.

You tried not to look his way, you really did, but Aerion managed to grab your attention with his silver hair that seemingly glows under the moonlight, making his cropped hair lighter. He looks princely, attractive in his elegant black and red robes. If it wasn’t enough to show off his lineage, the three headed dragon clasp on his cloak would. From where you stand, he doesn’t seem to be stricken with madness, he does look like he’s furious about something, or he just ate a bad clam.

There is one thing that the whispers have confirmed just by looking at him, and it’s how handsome he is. His Valyrian features strike you, it’s as if he clawed out of the old Valyrian history tomes that the maester had you studying to practice your high Valyrian.

Aerion is a stark contrast to Lyonel, where Lyonel is big and bold, brazen and spontaneous, always with a laugh in his throat, the life of every festivity, always abuzz and effortlessly charming. But with the prince, it’s as if he’s on top of a tower, unreachable, closer to the gods than men. And something dark seems to slither underneath his princely robes, you cannot see it for yourself, but you can sense it, like fire licking at your feet. His purple eyes scan around the crowd, and yet it feels like he doesn’t see them unless they have the same blood as him. Perhaps it’s a good thing that dragons are extinct.

Robert hums beside you as everyone sits down the moment the royals sits. “He doesn’t seem so bad.”

You side eye him with a sneer. “You marry him then.”

“I am just saying that what if the whispers aren’t true?”

“Say one more word and I’ll push you off and make a spectacle out of you.”

He glances backwards at how high the box is. Surely you wouldn’t, right? “I am just reassuring you, like any brother—” your narrowed eyes are enough to have him clamping his mouth shut.

Turning your attention towards the field, where the knights get on their horses, armours clanking, voices calling for their squires to bring their lances. From above, you could make out who is who from their heraldry, your brother is facing Damon Lannister in his gold and red armour with a roaring lion on the breast plate. If last night was any indication, and if he’s anything like his son, then there’s no cause to worry for your elder brother.

It’s a whole spectacle, with Leo ‘Longthorn’ Tyrell riding his prancing horse sideways, and with the knights running around on their horses, kicking dust and riling the crowd up.

“For the old gods and the new!” Your Tully kin screams from below before biting a trout’s head clean off. The crowd goes wild for it while you and your brother grimace.

Despite the rousing entertainment, you find yourself turning your attention towards the one in stag heraldry. Lyonel’s stag helmet is impossible to miss as it protrudes from the side of his helm, mighty and tall, menacing on the field. He looks ready, lance raised high as his Baratheon yellow enamel armour shines underneath the torches. Gods, he looks good in his armour, If only you could take a better look at him.

“Oh, the love of your life is here.” Robert chuckles under his breath, chin raised towards the field.

“What?” Your heart almost stops.

“Prince Valarr, remember? You couldn’t keep your eyes off him back then.” Smirking, his teasing remark, and the unintentional heart attack earns him a proper smack to his bicep from you.

“Stop, you’ll create a scandal, Rob.”

“You can look at him all you want, sister, but remember that he is already married.” Snickering, Robert gets a punch to his thigh, keeling over as he fakes a pained groan.

“Prick.” You mutter with a smile.

Your eyes hone in on Lyonel again, his head swivels around on his horse, as if looking for something, or someone. Heart thudding loudly, you pull your hood up over your face, hoping that the distance and the darkness is enough to obscure your identity from him.

When Lyonel settles on his horse, giving up on looking for you, you let out a breath.

“Why are you hiding your face?” Robert’s voice is starting to irk you. “How would everyone see the flower of the Vale?”

“I am cold.” You simply say, chin raised high as you side glance at him. “Would you quit staring?”

“You are acting peculiar, sister.” Shaking his head and leaning against the seat, he finally eases his teasing.

The silence permeates around the field, as the crowd waits for the trumpet with bated breath.

You take the opportunity to close your eyes and utter a short prayer to the seven to protect your brother and Lyonel. Jousting has its risks, and you’ve heard of splintered wood from lances hitting eyes, and horses falling atop their riders and crashing them. You pray that isn’t the case for Lyonel and Jon.

“Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!” It seems that someone else took the silence as an opportunity to say something so poignant.

Laughter echoes around the meadow as you stifle a chuckle.

Seeing the knights in their armour and heraldry atop their armoured horses has you feeling some kind of longing. On some days you’ve dreamed of becoming a knight, joining tilts, swearing oaths and gaining glory with every swing of your sword, today is one of those days. You’re jealous that the men have all the fun in their armour when you could possibly be down there in your own lance and shield. But alas, you weren’t born with a tower and stones.

Wringing your skirt, palms sweaty and breathing uneven, the trumpets sing, and off the knights go.

Your eyes drift from Lyonel to Jon, unable to keep your attention away from the people you care the most about.

The whole joust is a blur, with dust and mud kicked about by the horses, lances broken into pieces, wood splintering. And knights showing off and gaining more renown to their names. You can clearly see how the crowd loves it all when you find yourself grinning wildly with every felled knight. It is violently entertaining.

Jon crashes into Damon Lannister’s lance in a shattering of wood, but he manages to stay on his horse. You then dart your eyes further away, and towards Lyonel’s familiar laughter that rings around the field amongst the sound of splintering spears, clattering steel, and the crowd’s cheers.

He clashes lances with Ser Robert Ashford a couple of times before the younger knight is unhorsed, landing harshly upon the muddy ground with a pained groan.

Your legs move before you could register what you’re doing as you vault from your seat and clap enthusiastically. But you catch yourself before you could yell out Lyonel’s name. Clearing your throat, you sit back down with slight embarrassment as your brother looks at the side of your face with a scrunched expression.

“That was riveting…” You act as if your skirt needs smoothing down whilst you bite your tongue from grinning proudly at the laughing storm. He made it look easy, and as he thrusts his lance out into the heavens, head swiveling around with a guffaw, your stomach tumbles, chest warm as you ogle him with pride in your gaze. You’d give anything to meet him below and tell him how he fought well, and perhaps share his victory in his personal pavilion.

“Yes! Jon!” Your brother jumps up his seat, whilst he clasps your father’s shoulders with a grin. They rejoice when Jon is champion over the older Lannister.

You confess that you weren’t paying attention to him when your eyes were on Lyonel whilst he took off his helm, revealing his damp curls clinging to his flushed skin. His grin alone makes you want to come downstairs and congratulate him.

Robert sits down, smile ebbing away as he follows your gaze. “Where— where the fuck are you looking at? Did you see Jon’s feat?” He’s offended on his behalf.

“Hm?” You hum, blinking and unsticking your gaze away from the laughing storm before Rob could realize. “I–I did, yes, of course, I did.”

“Hmm?” He mocks you, “I swear, sister, your head is in the clouds these days.”

If only he knew that your mind is on a certain stag all this time.

—

As you go down the steps, hood tucked on the side of your face, you can only see what’s in front of you. Maybe hiding under the cloak of shadow isn’t a well thought of plan when the place is almost completely shrouded in darkness. You almost miss a step, but thanks to Rob’s hold on you, you live for another day. The landing is packed with chattering noblemen and women as they head towards the castle whilst you tarry behind the crowd where the knights and their squires lead their horses.

You get a glimpse of Lyonel’s antler helm out on the field, thankfully, he doesn’t go with the rest of the knights as he guffaws into the night with his bannermen, probably out to celebrate his win in his own pavilion rather than spend it with everyone else. Gods, you’d give an arm and a leg to come with him. As he leaves the tilts, helm tucked under his arm, you see him give the field a final once over, eyes flickering towards every face, perhaps looking for you.

Your heart cinches at the simple act, and yet you hide behind a pillar, hood tucked over your face as he finally leaves with disappointment that is evident on the slouch of his shoulders. Or mayhaps you’re just being delusional, and he was just looking at his opponent that he unhorsed rather quickly with a strong sense of pride for himself. The poor knight is limping away thanks to Lyonel’s expertise with a lance.

Robert heads out first the moment the crowd thins out, enough for him to run across the tilts, making a beeline towards Jon as he grins. He jumps up and clasps him on the shoulder, congratulating him in the middle of the tilts.

“Gods, they’re inseparable, and they said that women cling more.” You think loudly to yourself as your father chuckles under his breath beside you. Your face hardens as you notice him.

“Come, let us head to the feast.” Your father holds out his arm for you, but you just stare at it with a steely gaze.

“I have forgotten my handkerchief in my tent.” You utter rather coldly. “You go ahead, father.” Hitching your skirts, you give him a tight-lipped smile. This is your chance to sneak away again, to quickly change your Arryn silks to a simple cotton and pay Lyonel a visit.

“I’ll have Ser Andros watch over you.” He answers commandingly, calling forth the said knight as he waits just a few ways behind you. Your plans are foiled. “You cannot miss the feast, do you understand? The princes wants to meet you.”

You nod reluctantly, “yes, I understand.” Relenting, you watch your father walk away towards your brothers. You just have to settle with tarrying. “The others fucking take me.” Cursing under your breath, you start to walk away with your armoured shadow right behind you.

But with your hood obscuring your peripheral, you accidentally bump into someone lithe yet sturdy, whose annoyance ebbs out of him as he clicks his tongue.

Andros is immediately by your side, taking hold of your elbow to keep you upright as your hood falls away from your face.

“Watch where you’re fluttering your wings about…” his pale hair shines underneath the torch lights. Purple eyes scan your features, from your silks up to your face that twists into a grimace. He doesn’t look at you with hunger in his eyes, but he stares at you like he’s trying to see if you’re worth his time. “My lady.”

“Pardon me, my prince.” Despite your polite words and respectful curtsy, your tight jaw says otherwise. “It is quite dark here.”

Andros watches the interaction under his watchful eye, a hand never leaving the pommel of his sword. The knights of the Vale are sworn to protect your family, and if prince Aerion does something untoward, prince or not, Andros will surely defend you. If you don’t get to strike first that is.

“Hm,” he hums, the hinges of his jaw tightening as he regards you in his sights. “Mayhaps you should carry a torch with you at all times.”

“Or mayhaps the prince should watch where he is heading.” The words fell out of your mouth before you could stop it. Fuck, you’re doomed. “I’m—”

Aerion’s eerie smile sends shivers down your spine. “The falcon has talons, I see.” It sounds like you have impressed him. You don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He then takes your hand, a thumb running along your palm before he places a chaste kiss atop it, whilst his violet eyes gazes right at you. He doesn’t bend to kiss your hand, he stands there, pin straight, equal, or above you. “A pleasure to meet my bride.” He utters in high Valyrian, perfectly pronounced as your name rolls off his tongue like untamed wildlife.

“Likewise, my prince.” Chin held up high, looking upon him over your nose, you don’t falter as you answer in his mother tongue. You cannot show fear in front of a man like him, royal and arrogant with a touch of darkness in his ancient blood.

A wicked grin spreads across his chiseled face, amusement flickering on his expression, chuckling as his fingers brush along your palm before letting go. “I think we shall have some fun together, hm?”

“We shall see.”

Aerion takes another good look at you, despite his wandering eyes, you don’t hide yourself underneath your cloak. His violet eyes are intense, almost dark as he stares at you, as if one is studying an ancient rune, like you’re someone to be studied underneath a concave looking glass, someone to be poked and prodded, chest opened, cavity exposed to the elements as he digs inside up to his elbows.

There’s darkness lurking underneath those eyes, ancient and defiant like dragon flames just waiting to be let out. Or perhaps forced to be restrained, chained, just festering above the surface.

You don’t yield, nor bend the knee. If escaping the life that was chosen for you is dishonourable, then you shall let it be when you can learn from his ancestors and tame the dragon instead. Your house words are ‘as high as honour,’ and you shall live by those words by soaring high despite the hand that you were dealt with. You grew up on that virtue, taught, molded by it. Nothing is more honourable than doing your duty, even if it means forgetting the sound of Lyonel’s laughter and how he held you tenderly.

With Aerion leaving without fanfare, you could finally let out a breath as the knight beside you gives you a look.

“What do you think, Ser Andros?”

“The truth?” You nod as he shrugs and rests his hand on the pommel of his sword. “You’ll survive him yet, my lady.”

“Gods, I hope so.” You tarry, waiting for the prince’s form to fade further into the castle before heading towards the gardens.

—

The Ashford gardens are beautiful, filled with flowers from all over the realm. There are some fruit trees along the large garden, looming over the whole feast as its leaves rustle from the cool evening breeze. Lord Ashford didn’t pinch his coffers from the looks of things. Food runs aplenty, wine and ale flows freely as if it simply fills the realm’s rivers.

The flaming braziers placed all around heightens the heat, from the amount of people feasting and chatting, the cool evening air dissipates before it could reach your cheeks. It feels eternally warm in the garden, and yet you refuse to take off your cloak, acting like your sworn shield.

Mindless chatter falls in your ears as you pick at your food. You’ve had your fill already, not just of food but with all the pomp and circumstance of the feast that feels like a bore compared to what you have experienced with Lyonel and Duncan. It’s a dull affair. Even the music is a bore, too polite and slow for your taste when you have gotten used to the heart pulsing music from the Baratheon pavilion. Not even the wine nor the food could satisfy you when your eyes are always looking around for a familiar head of curly hair, accompanied by laughter that you are most fond of. Your fork stabs at a piece of ham repeatedly, slaughtering it for the second time. Dejected, lost, and utterly alone.

You sit a few ways away from the Targaryens, but close enough to see Aerion grimace at his own plate. You cannot believe that you’re going to marry a man that doesn’t eat his vegetables as he pushes carrots away like some spoiled little lordling.

Your eyes wander around the feast once again, and the gods seem to be good to you when Lyonel is nowhere to be seen. Or perhaps cruel when they have kept you apart from him too long. You would’ve seen him immediately anyway when the feast is suddenly brought to life the moment he’d walk in. But it’s still awfully dreary, almost reminiscent of a funeral.

A part of you wants Lyonel to be there so that you could dance with him again, and make merry whilst ignoring all the stuffy lords, including your father’s ire, even for a brief moment of reprieve. But if Lyonel was here, he would see you in your fine blue silks, clad in your family’s sigil, and he’d confront you for the affront of lying to him. He’d lose interest when your little cat and mouse game abruptly ends simply because of the circumstance that he found you in. It would break your heart. It would shatter you, his hatred would hurt you more than the awful betrothal with the Targaryen prince.

“It was thrilling!” Jon announces to practically everyone at the feast as his hand clasps upon his younger brother’s shoulder. “Rob, if only you were down there with me, we would’ve unhorsed everyone by ourselves.”

“Mayhaps I could even challenge the laughing storm himself when it is my turn.”

“Or he could unhorse the both of you.” Muttering to yourself, you lean on the table, index kneading at your temples, looking miserable as you spot your father talking to the same Tully knight that ate raw fish. You’re not jealous of your father from how the man’s breath probably smells like.

“What was that, sweet sister?” Jon raises his brow, a hand occupied with swishing his wine.

“May I retire back to my tent?”

“Ask father.”

“This is why you’re not my favorite.” Nose scrunching, you roll your eyes at the heir of the Eyrie.

“You don’t favour anyone.” Jon scoffs above the rim of his goblet while Robert’s smile deflates. “You should be happy that I have avenged you by unhorsing a Lannister.”

“And why do I need to be avenged exactly?”

“Because of Tybolt the coward.” Sneering, he spits out the name. “We wouldn’t have known of your little adventure if it weren’t for Ser Andros questioning him. The cowardly lion should’ve gone to us the moment he saw you.”

“Wait, he’s the one that told father?” You’re leaning on the table towards them, eyes narrowing in the direction of the table with the Lannister banner fluttering behind it. The Lannisters are nowhere to be seen, on the account of losing to your brother. You guess the grey lion would rather miss the feast than face scrutiny for losing to a knight younger than him.

“What do you think, sister?” He asks with a lilt in his tone.

“What— what else has he said?” Clearing your throat, you bite down at the inside of your cheek.

“Is there anything else other than that?” Brows raised, your brothers look almost identical under the light of the braziers as they both look at you with the same expression. Sometimes you have forgotten that they took after your father more than you have.

“No,” you shake your head and hide your lying tongue behind the rim of your goblet. “Nothing more, I was just out on a walk.”

Jon hums, staring at you over his nose before chomping down on a turkey leg. Whilst Rob glances between you and the eldest with obvious suspicion.

You could sense that both brothers want to question you more, and they would have if not for your father crossing the distance back to the table with a slight grimace. His Arryn robes flutter in the wind as he moves, a sweat dribbling on his brow as he smiles politely to every lord and lady that chances upon him.

“How are the Tullys, father?” Robert asks, a tease etched in between the question.

“The same, mayhaps you should ask him yourself.” The lord of the Vale teases back, a smile flitting across his face for a moment.

“Later, I haven’t finished my supper yet.” Rob gives the perfect excuse as he gestures over his filled plate.

“After I introduce your sister to the princes, you two shall meet with your kinsmen.” Your brothers grimace at the thought. With a hand reaching for you, your pulse suddenly picks up, chest heaving as you stare at his open palm. “Sweetling, come.”

“Right now?” You ask, fingers digging into your skirt as you stand up and hitch it.

“Yes, right now.” He looks almost disappointed when you don’t take his hand. “Prince Maekar has been asking for you.”

“Why?” Your question has your brothers snickering in their seats.

“Because you will be his daughter by law soon.”

Head turning towards your older brothers, their playful smiles fade away as you ask them for salvation with a simple solemn expression. That usually works to get them on your side.

“The night is still young, father.” Robert is the first to speak on your behalf. “Perhaps that can wait.”

“No, it cannot.” He utters in the same commanding tone, frustration rolling off him. “The prince is about to depart to look for his other sons.”

“What happened to his sons?” Jon asks before you could.

“I fear that they are…tarrying. They must’ve gotten lost on the road.” When your father only got stifled silence from the three of you, he gestures fully, insisting that you take his helping hand this time around. “No more words, you shall not gossip about it.”

Jon nods, whilst Robert shrugs and pretends to be interested in his food. While you relent and take his hand as you go around the table to be led towards the front of the feast, where the main table is.

Lord Ashford sits on prince Baelor’s right as they talk about some possible trade routes, whilst his son, the young prince, talks to the Ashford lord’s son that was unhorsed by a Hardyng knight. The seat beside the Lord is empty, probably reserved for the nameday girl, who is dancing with young lordlings. She smiles and giggles at every turn, at least someone looks happy and satisfied at the feast.

Maekar looks disinterested by everything and everyone around him, while his son notices you approaching first, his blond head turning to face you with a growing sneer, as if he already sensed your blood boiling.

“Your graces, my princes. Lord Ashford.” Your father bows respectfully as everyone on the table has their eyes on the both of you. Your skin crawls from the attention. “May I present my lovely daughter.” He introduces you with a smile, palm hovering on your back to usher you closer to the table.

You curtsy properly, as elegantly as possible whilst bowing daintily. Not too low that you start to look like you’re about to kiss their feet. But not too high either that they might take it as an affront. A curtsy that is just right, like how your mother taught you, showing that you are an equal to them. You’re the image of a perfect lady, someone that lords would want their heirs marrying. And yet you feel bile rise up to your throat as you stand there like a statue that holds their gazes.

“Your grace,” as customary, you greet Baelor first with a gentle smile, “I am honoured to be in your presence.” Your grip on your skirt tightens as you straighten up, resisting the urge to roll your eyes from your own words. He acknowledges you with a curt nod and a brief smile that you find genuine. “Your grace, prince Maekar, a pleasure to finally meet you.” You then turn towards Maekar, who nods in your direction, a tepid reaction, but better than Aerion’s as there is already a smirk playing on his lips before you could even turn your gaze at him. But you’re petty, and stubborn, so you face Valarr first instead with a sweetened smile that could rival arbour gold. “My prince, you fought well today, my congratulations.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The heir’s heir regards you with a friendly nod and a smile as the silver streak on his hair glimmers underneath the torches.

You completely understand younger you for being so smitten now that you stand closer to him. Seeing his pretty mismatched eyes makes you regret not putting in your hand as a marriage prospect years ago when you remember your father pushing you to do so. Or trying to at least when your stubbornness made him surrender. But if you did, then you wouldn’t have met Lyonel. And that simply wouldn’t do.

Aerion raises his chin at you as you slowly turn to regard him like an after thought. “My prince, the news of our betrothal has brought joy to our entire house.” Your tone is almost monotone, a cadence that could only be seen as annoyance if not for the sweetened smile on your face.

“I am as glad as you are, my lady.” It seems that your emotions towards the betrothal aren’t missed by the prince. “I cannot wait to spend my life with you.” A convincing performance, but as his purple eyes shine, and the slight uptick of his lips turns into a silent sneer, you can see that he is not remotely excited for the union.

Prince Maekar shuts his eyes as if he just stubbed his toe. It looks like you’re not the only one who could see through Aerion’s veiled emotions and princely words. “Mayhaps it is best that you two grow acquainted with each other.”

The gods hate you.

Aerion likes the idea as he smiles in his own way, a smile that actually reaches his eyes and yet eerie all the same, like a mischievous cat that is about to pounce.

“How about a dance, my lady?” Aerion is already standing up from his seat as it scrapes loudly against the floor. He’s crossing the short distance immediately, a hand reaching out for you to take. He urges with a brow raised as your father stands aside.

“Of course, my prince, I would be delighted to.” Your hand slides atop his own, and you feel his skin sickeningly hot against your own, like fire is brimming just underneath the surface as he takes you down the small steps and over to the dancing space.

From wandering eyes, you two look like any other couple courting the other, but for you, it’s as if he’s circling around you, waiting for you to turn your back and strike. He looks dangerously handsome, intriguing, like dancing embers that beckons you over.

His hand isn’t as smooth as you thought it would be, it’s calloused, scarred by sword and lance, like someone you know. Unlike Lyonel, Aerion runs extremely warm, whereas the laughing storm’s warmth is comfortable, a reprieve from the chill, like a warming stone during winter. But Aerion’s warmth is searing, heated like a blazing fireplace.

“You are not very good at lying, little bird.” Aerion utters in high Valyrian as he takes you by your waist, whilst the other grasps at your hand in a tender grip that is enough to throb, as he twirls you around the dancefloor in practiced calculated steps.

“So I have been told.” You answer in the same tongue, gripping his shoulder back with the same ferocity as something dark passes by his eyes from how you hold him. “I do try my best, but sometimes my lies fall through the cracks, Brightflame.” The title tumbles out of your lips with a snicker. And it’s not missed by the prince as he turns you around abruptly to the beat, his heated chest pressing on your back as he brings his lips close to the shell of your ear. Your arms are spread wide alongside you as he holds them there, like a bird taking flight, or a dragon soaring and cutting through the clouds.

“Why the cloak? Who are you hiding from?” His lips brush along your ear, something so scandalous that you had to twist your head to look at his face. Better to face him than have his lips near your skin, and yet, his face is mere inches away from yours, a miscalculation on your part that he seems to be amused at from the way his chuckle rumbles his chest. “Such a pretty face shouldn’t be hidden.”

“Can’t I just be cold?” You utter with an unflinching gaze into his deep purple eyes as your breath staggers in your throat. He smells of ash and wine, warm and cold at the same time.

“No,” he shakes his head before placing your arms over to your chest with his own arms embracing your form. You feel like you’re burning up, heat crawling up your neck, suffocating in his heat. “You lie again.” His lowered tone sends shivers down your arms. “And you’re just another spoiled lady like the Ashford girl who thinks the world is hers to keep.”

“Oh, is that so?” A playful lilt escapes you as you tilt your head. “I didn’t know that she’s a Targaryen.”

His jaw clenches, chin properly resting atop your shoulder. “When we are wed,” he says it as truth, and you almost falter. “I’d like for you to be honest with me, it’ll do you some good when you’re shit at lying.”

Glaring, you pull yourself apart from his embrace with a twirl that has your dress and cloak spinning around you. Blue fabric twirling around smoothly as you feign dancing, with you still holding onto his hands to keep up the façade in front of everyone.

Aerion didn’t like that as he glowers, pulling you back against him, as you almost stumble into his chest. The number of people who are dancing increases as the music picks up, whilst the ladies drag their knights and husbands to the space, giving you a shield to hide behind, obscuring you both from your father’s and the princes’ gazes. You swear that you saw a flash of familiar yellow going up to the main table before the crowd closes in further.

The prince seems to know that the sea of nobles shut you both out into the middle, as he becomes less stiff, less bound to gallantry, less of a prince and more of a man who shows his teeth at you. “You keep baring your talons at me,” his eyes wander down to your lips before flicking back to your narrowed eyes. “I quite like it.”

Exhaling, annoyance, frustration and fury rolling inside you, you then have your palms sliding to his torso, an act that could be seen as affection until your fingers dig into his collar as you bring him closer to your face. The prince stiffens underneath your touch, eyes widening for a second before shining with intrigue, or something else that could be described as hunger.

“I am not like the ladies at your southern court that bows and bends to your will.” You face him with the same intensity, knuckles shaking. “When we are wed, I will not be pliable to your whims, and I shall bite and scorn you if I deem it right. Which I know that I will when you act like some dragon reborn before we could even stand before a septon.” Inhaling, you could smell the wine on his lips. “I will draw blood with my talons, my prince, that I could promise you.”

“Do it then.” He utters truthfully, chest heaving as his eyes turn wild, he looks like he’s starving, craving your touch as he leans into your steel grip, his cheek rubbing along your closed knuckles. “Draw blood. Carve your name if it pleases you.”

“What? You—You jest.” You find yourself laughing like a mad woman. Eyes growing wide when he takes out his dagger for you to hold, kept in between you, and your laughter dies in your throat. He answers in the only language he seems to understand, violence begets violence, so you let him go, recoiling away, lest you do on his command. “Not today.” Clearing your throat, you try not to show your true emotions. Conquering Westeros wasn’t done overnight you suppose.

No one seems to have noticed the two of you locked in heavy gazes, too busy with their mingling and drinking. You can’t even see the main table anymore from the crowd. The dancing bodies around you whirl around in a cacophony of colours as the two of you stare each other down in varying degrees. With you perturbed, and with him looking at you like a dragon sees meat.

“Taming the dragon requires patience, my lady. And blood, it needs it.” Aerion shudders, fists opening and closing, holding the knife at the blade as he offers it to you openly. “Come and take it.” He croons as you flinch.

“You are not a dragon.” Your patience has worn thin for the prince. The simple utterance seems to strike him where it hurts though as he tilts his head dangerously, eyes darkening despite the blazing braziers around.

You curtsy, not saying another word to the prince. But you fear that the conversation isn’t finished yet.

Aerion is done playing as you turn away from him. You’d think that it would be the end of it, but as you dodge bodies and push through the crowd, you could sense his heat following you.

You poked him too much, and madness comes after you with knuckles closed as fire licks at your feet.

Dress hitched in your tight hold, your feet takes you away from the feast. The space opens up to you as you head further into the sprawling gardens and away from Aerion.

As your heels sink into the grass, you hear his footsteps thump behind you. Despite that, there’s only silence coming from the prince, no furious screams or curses hurled at you, just a quiet fury that could be felt through your marrows. It was somehow less terrifying when he was uttering something mad.

“Seven hells.” It’s a mistake for you to turn around, but you did, and you don’t see anger in his eyes, you see something else— desire, and it terrifies you even more.

Aerion bounds after you with purpose.

As you turn the corner into some bushes with yellow flowers growing alongside it, you hide amongst the leaves as the branches prick at the fabric of your dress. The footsteps quiet down, and you could finally breathe.

When you thought that he let you be, you hear him chuckle in the dark.

“I quite enjoyed that.” Of course he did. “And I thought you could handle the fire, my lady.” Aerion sighs disappointedly.

“I could!” You answer back, hand to your heart as you heave.

“We’ll see, I would like to see you try better next time, hm?” He laughs coldly as it rings around the garden, and yet, it seems as though that he’s willing to see you tame him, to take him by the throat and face him with equal fire. “It was a jape! Did you really think that I’d ask you to strike me?”

“It seemed like it!”

“Oh, I’m not that mad.” Aerion sounds like he has calmed down. “I’ll see you at the sept. Don’t forget to sharpen your talons.”

His footsteps finally recede, and you let out a breath before keeling over on the grass as your dress pools around you like the sea. You run a hand down your face as you chortle at your own plight and listen to the crickets and muffled chatter.

The moon seems particularly bright tonight as you stare up at it with exhaustion rolling within you. Tucking your legs, you rest your chin atop your knees as you shut your eyes close.

It feels as though you’ve been in hiding for quite some time before you hear the rustling of leaves from behind.

Sniffing, you stretch your legs in front of you, covering yourself with your cloak as you lay your head against the bushes. “I’m fine, Robert. Let me be.”

“Who the fuck is Robert?” Lyonel’s familiar tone has your worries easing up almost immediately, like finally getting a thorn plucked from your fingertips. “Are you seeing a lord other than me, my lady?”

Chuckling, you poke your head out from the side of the bushes, making sure that your Arryn silks are still hidden behind the thick leaves and cloak. Your head snaps over your shoulder, the smile you give him comes easy the moment your eyes land on him.

He looks utterly handsome in his finest robes. The familiar Baratheon yellow is prominent in the silky sash around his torso, partnered up with a dark green doublet with intricate stag embroidery as the yellow and green hose of his doublet drape around his hips. It suits him, from the gold on his wrist, the familiar earring, and the post battle adrenaline that flushes his cheeks pink. He looks like someone you could love wholeheartedly, or you probably already have when he could wear anything in the world no matter how ghastly it is and your heart will still leap in your chest. His smile is his best accessory anyway.

“Good evening, Lyonel.” You smile sweetly, kindly, a smile reserved only for the laughing storm. “You look cold, where’s your cloak?”

“A siren pinched it from me.” His mouth curves with a slow hearty smile as his steady gaze doesn’t waver against your own. Seeing you sitting prettily on the grass whilst a yellow flower brushes along your cheek as the moonlight shines upon you— Lyonel thinks that you’re a radiant light amidst the dark. “How proper of you to greet me this way, hm?” He gestures around you with amusement.

“I got tired of all the dancing.”

“You were up to some revelry without me?” Hand on his chest, he feigns hurt.

“If it’s any comfort, it didn’t feel the same without you, Lyonel.”

“It does bring me some comfort.” His eyes twinkle with a smile. Stepping close, grass crunching underneath him as you stop him with a raised hand. “What? Did you lay bear traps around you?”

You scoff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “No, it’s just that our game will end if you see me in my finest silks.”

“The game you pulled out of your ass?” With a raised brow, his hand rests on the pommel of his sword whilst you laugh. “I thought that we’re well past that.”

“Well, you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Shrugging, Lyonel sits down behind you with the bush acting as a wall in between the two of you. “I’m not sure I want to know now. Either way, it won’t matter.” He looks comfortable with his arm resting upon his raised knee.

“Oh,” your grin falls as you lean back, feeling his soft warmth from behind. “Why is that?”

“You look exquisite, my darling.” He utters tenderly, voice full of endearment despite the obvious pivot. “Have I told you of my time across the narrow sea? Your beauty reminds me of the scenery.”

“No, you haven’t.” Shaking your head, you see the side of his face in between the throngs of branches and leaves of the bush. “But I want to hear it all.”

“All? Where to start?” And so he does with a chuckle waiting in his throat. “There was once a Braavosi merchant who thought I was a pirate and wanted to plunder his wares.”

“It’s not too far-fetched when you look the part, my lord.” Giggling, he matches your soft laughter.

“Rakishly handsome?”

“You said it, not me.” But you agree wholeheartedly.

“But you have thought of it.”

“I have.” You confess, and his heart beats in the rhythm of your name, almost calling for you. “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

“Wherever you are.”

Your breath hitches, heart almost stopping from the simple words that he uttered with his whole chest. “Oh.” Is all you could say as you fluster, fingers digging into your chest to calm your heart.

Running a hand down his hair, he simmers in your presence, smelling your sweet perfume that lingers behind him whilst he could not get rid of the lopsided smile that seems to have wiggled on his face from your flustered expression.

He then clears his throat, stretching his legs out. “So there I was, stuck between the devil and the sea…”

Lyonel has told his stories numerous times in front of an adoring crowd, voice boisterous, cadence filled with emphasis as he retells his grand stories. But it doesn’t feel the same when it’s with you, with you, he doesn’t dress up his tales to bolster his ego and make the story more interesting. No, he tells you of the times when there was a lull in his journey, where he would sit on the high crow’s nest and just look upon the calm blue sea.

You laugh alongside him as he retells a story where he rode an elephant and almost trampled over a fruit stall. And you shed a tear when he recalls the atrocities he has witnessed.

You listen with an open heart, and he gives space for you to say your piece whenever he senses that you have words waiting on the tip of your tongue.

The two of you go back and forth for what seems to be hours. He sits there with you, not even to stand up to grab a cup of wine to wet his lips. Never a lull in the conversation, a banter that comes so easily for you both.

Your shared laughter echoes around the cool night as the night goes on. Even without the wine addling both of your senses and making your stomach warm, the conversation comes easily, you both don’t need the liquor in between the two of you to make things more interesting when his presence is enough, you’re enough. And he lets it known as his stories grow more personal, more intimate, something that he has told no one else.

As the blazing braziers dim, and the gardens grow colder under the moon’s gaze, he pauses after a beat, as if he’s second guessing his next words, opening up his chest slowly, as if baring his heart to you is the hardest thing he has ever done. But then he sees your eyes and how they gaze at him with adoration, how you look at him and see him for who he is and not just for his title.

“I had a good friend,” he utters with a stuttered breath that you almost miss. “from Tarth. We grew up together, his father was my own father’s steward. We did everything together, trained, drank, everything.”

“He must’ve been a force to keep up with you.”

“Yeah, he was.” A morose expression flickers on your face, and yet he smiles at you still. “Don’t, don’t do that, darling. It was a long time ago.”

“This is empathy, Lyonel, not pity.” Voice tender, you contemplate touching his cheek, as he did to you when you opened your heart to him.

“Good,” he sniffs, stretching his shoulders. “because I don’t need nor want your pity.”

“You are anything but pitiful.” Cheek resting along the curve of the bushes, you hug your cloak tighter around you to conceal your dress just to get closer to him. “What was his name? This force of a man from Tarth.”

“Brandon.” He utters the name with fondness, not sadness. “You would have liked him, he was quiet until you break down his walls with a good banter. He was a huge fucking bastard too, with a steel stomach for anything. I once saw him eat a beetle during our time in Braavos, just to see if he could.”

You chortle. “He didn’t get sick?”

“Fuck no, he ate two more. Said it tasted like chicken.” His guffaw is contagious as you laugh along with him. “That got a few of us trying it too, that fucking bastard, and it didn’t taste anything like chicken. Tasted like warmed over cow pie.”

Lyonel blinks for a moment, tongue curling inside his mouth after his crude words. He thought that he crossed a line after saying it in front of a maiden, until you laugh so hard, a real untethered laugh, that you keel over on the grass with your forehead thumping on the grass below. He grins, and slides his hand under your forehead and in-between the ground to shield you.

“Gods!” Giggles subsiding, you sit up, eyes warm as you look at him. “I could imagine it.”

He looks proud of himself. “I’ve got more fucked up stories about him. Gods, we were a force to be reckoned with. If only the sea didn’t take him.”

His hand slips from your forehead, landing onto the grass with a quiet thump. Whilst your jaw tightens, inhaling deeply, resisting the urge to take him in your hold. Instead, you listen, just like he did for you.

“We were sailing back home to Storm’s End, then Ship Wrecker Bay proved to us how it got the name.” His eyes gaze at the moon before taking in a breath. “He was there then he was gone. Whenever I go sailing, I look over the edge of the ship and try to look for him in the water. I know he’s long gone, but it’s blind hope, I suppose.”

With a faint smile, he turns back to you. “I’d like to think that he’s out feasting with the drowned god underneath the tides. Frankly, I’m a little jealous.”

You mirror his smile, a hand finally reaching up to his cheek after much trepidation. He does the unexpected, and leans against your touch with a hum. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

“But we’ll live, no use lamenting over it now when we could toast to their names and live to the fullest with them in mind.” Lyonel raises an imaginary glass.

“Just like you said, dwelling on the past will only have the stranger take us to an early grave.”

Eyes shining, he takes your palm that rests upon his cheek and then presses a quick kiss on the back of your hand with his beard brushing along your knuckles briefly. “Look at that, you learned something from me.”

“Fuck you.” You utter with affection, feigning offence when you snatch your hand away from him.

Lyonel guffaws into the night, and yet he finds himself staring at your hand then over to your lips with every beat of his heart. “I need to tell you more about Essos, my sweet.”

“Then tell me more.”

Lyonel then tells you of the days where he would drink and be merry with his crew, where the food was aplenty. And yet, through his stories, he lets his words convey something that was well hidden. That he’d always be craving something more even when the sunrise shines on him that its warmth couldn’t fill his need; yearning for that same warmth from something else, or from someone that would help him come alive without the blood boiling heat of battle or the alcohol that singes his tongue. That despite the loyal folk around him that are willing to do anything for him, he craves something tender, something real, something he can call his, a warmth that he chose, not given.

After all the stories, the two of you stay in silence, refraining from leaving, stretching the time spent together when either of you could’ve left ages ago. You let the breeze kiss your cheeks as he rests beside you, pinky brushing alongside your own, not holding, just feeling your warmth.

“I looked for you at the tilts today.” He bluntly says into the night. The shining ring on his pinky finger garners your attention as his hand lays atop the grass.

“I was there, I promise you. And I saw you searching for me. It was quite sweet.” You contemplate holding his hand, gaze narrowing at it. “And I was rooting for you, I saw how you unhorsed the young Ashford with ease. Brilliantly done.”

“If I had seen you I would have asked for your favour.” He glances at you in the corner of his eyes with a teasing glint. But he tells you the truth and nothing else.

“You already have my favour, Lyonel.” The pads of your fingertips brush along his hand tentatively before taking a leap and holding him, just laying there, waiting for him to hold you back or push you away. “You still have my ring.”

Lyonel doesn’t waver nor flinch from your touch as he twists his hand over to properly grasp your palm, fingers weaving around your own affectionately. “I guess you have.”

The touch is electrifying, a thunderbolt to your skin that has you both craving for more.

“Lyonel,” he hums in reply, eyes watching how your softly calloused hand fits perfectly right around his palm. “I don’t want to sound rude but, what are you doing here? I thought you’d have your feast in your pavilion.”

“I came to fetch you.” He simply says, squeezing onto your hand tenderly while his hand stays on yours, as though he’s stuck with you, and very happy that he is. “Is that out of the question when you’re in your house robes?”

“I—”

His question has you doubting yourself. He has proven himself good company, kind, better than the other prospects you’ve met. Lyonel may be brash, crude and spontaneous, but he’s genuine. He doesn’t shy away from his real self, nor hide his true self from everyone, and he does not care for what others might think of him. It’s endearing, how he talks with purpose, never doubting himself, always so sure when you have been the opposite. You doubted everything, your brothers’ intentions, your father’s love, and your place in the world. With Lyonel, you live in the present, everything just falls into place without a doubt. With him, you’re at ease, knowing that he’s right there beside you, not in front of you— a wall to climb, or from behind— a shadow that looms over you.

He doesn’t expect anything from you and you don’t need to worry about the flames within him when he has tamped it down to flickering embers. But it’s there, ready to feed it when he calls for it, when there is need for it, he tamed it himself.

There is no madness to be afraid of, no flinching away from his grasp, and there’s no fear of him, just utter devotion for the stag before you.

And he’s there for you, whether you’re the perfect lady or someone who strikes first, and you love him for it.

“You asked why earlier, why I don’t care for our little wager anymore.” He holds his breath for a moment, something akin to fear when he has faced worse. “The reason is that it wouldn’t matter much to me. Because I fear that I have…You’ve grown on me like some fucking mushroom on a tree stump. Or like horns on a stag.”

“You’ve got a way with words, my lord, a true poet.”

He shrugs with a chortle and runs a hand over his beard. “I don’t usually prefer mushrooms, they’re ghastly in stews, but I’ll let it stay because I like it there. I like seeing you here with me.” Your heart threatens to spill over as you couldn’t find the right words to answer him. Lyonel takes your silence in stride. “I am stone cold sober by the way, or at least just two goblets deep into the night.”

Doubt crosses your mind, how could it be true when you are just you? When you’ve shown your true self and nothing more? There’s nothing exciting about you nor anything intriguing that doesn’t pertain to the violence you experienced. He’s everything, and you’re just you.

“Was it the chase that intrigued you most?”

“It was you that intrigued me.” He answers immediately, completely, and undoubtedly.

“What did I do to intrigue you, my lord?” Your hand wrings your skirt as the hesitation gathers in your chest. But he senses your nerves, and instead of telling you to calm yourself, he runs his thumb across the back of your hand tenderly, like a lover would.

“You didn’t hide away when I met your eyes.” Lyonel’s voice sounds closer now that he pokes his head closer to the side of the bush, yet still facing away from you. “Do you remember?”

“I do, I raised my glass at you, as courtesy.”

“When some women and men would cower under my gaze, you didn’t.” The joined hands atop the sea of green takes his attention, for a moment, he sees them joined in front of the sept. “You locked horns with me, and you simply enthralled me from that alone.”

“I couldn’t find a reason why I should cower. And I thought you needed your ego knocked down a little.” There’s a growing smile on your face.

“I am glad for it.” Lyonel chuckles under his breath, his hand warming your own. “One day I shall bring you across the Narrow sea and show you everything I have seen.”

“Sounds like a command, my lord.” It’s everything you have wanted in your wildest dreams. A man that adores you as you see more of the world together with him. A few days ago, you never thought it would be with Lyonel Baratheon of all people.

“No,” he corrects immediately. “It’s an invitation, if you’ll have me.”

You want to, you desire it most, more than anything you wanted. But it’ll all be a lie when he doesn’t know all of you, that you’re an Arryn, the one who was promised to him, the one you should be betrothed to.

So with a deep breath, you decide right there and then that you shall reveal yourself.

You turn to face him, eyes tracing along the curve of his jawline, the way the corner of his eyes crinkle, and the slight curl of his lips whilst he stares at the joined hands.

“It’s a grand invitation, I would be happy—”

“My lady!” Ser Andros’ frantic call from somewhere makes you stumble over yourself before you could even reveal your Arryn silks underneath your cloak.

Then somewhere in the gardens more footsteps arrive, probably from other nobles wanting a reprieve from the feast. Whilst the knight’s calls for you increases, it would only be a matter of time before your brothers would join him, or worse, your father.

“Damn it.” You utter under your breath as Lyonel could sense your shock from how you grip his hand. “My apologies, Lyonel.”

“Go,” he utters softly, still holding onto you. “I shall see you in the morn, yes?”

Heart pulsing quickly, you make a drastic decision and bring his hand to your lips. Andros’ call grows louder, but Lyonel seems to have fallen silent. The storm quiets down to a drizzle as he gazes at how your lips kiss his warm skin.

“I shall, I promise you.” I promise to reveal everything to you. Your eyes meet with his briefly, intensely, fervently with want as he holds your gaze. “Don’t have too much revelry without me, my lord.” And with that you leave him sitting there, awestruck, eyes staring at the back of his hand.

“Without you? Impossible.” Lyonel says to himself, watching your retreating back with longing. His hand that held you flexes around the ghost of your touch. “Gods, I need a fucking drink.”

When you make it to Andros with a pep in your step, his eyes stare at where you came from the dark. “My lady, were you alone?”

“I was getting some air.” You shrug, walking ahead of him and away from the dwindling feast. “Come, Ser, I grow tired.”

“I swear I saw Lyonel Baratheon in there.”

“Oh, I didn’t see him.”

You could feel his suspicious eyes stare at the back of your head.

Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.

But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.

Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.

As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.

Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.

“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”

Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”

“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”

“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.

“She looks the most like you, my love.”

You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.

“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.

Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.

“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.

“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”

“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”

“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”

“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.

“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”

Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.

“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.

Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”

“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.

“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.

You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”

Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”

“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”

Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.