#beesbury!reader

“My Prince,” you said, drawing his attention away from the crowd and to you. His violet eyes would have been beautiful if not for the shadows beneath them.

“Yes, Lady y/n?” Daeron asked, his hand twitching towards the goblet that sat between you both.

“I believe you are allowed to call me princess now,” you said without thinking, panic filling you as you hurried to remedy your blunder. “But as my lord husband, you may of course call me whatever you wish.”

“What if I wish to call you by another’s name or simply my property, as some men may long to do?”

You buried your hands in your skirt beneath the table. “I ask only that I am not called something crude or cruel, or by the name of your mistress.”

He snorted. “Mistress? Who would want to spend their time entertaining a sullen drunkard such as myself? Surely only an absolute fool with no prospects.”

You glanced down at your lap. It was an insult, this marriage; you knew that, but it still stung to hear it confirmed from the prince’s own mouth.

Daeron sucked an apologetic breath in through his teeth. “Forgive me, that was cruel; my mother would be disappointed. She tried to instruct upon us all never to be cruel to a woman, especially not one’s own lady wife.”

You did not raise your head. “All is forgiven; I am not unaware of my lack.”

You could feel his eyes on you now. “Lack?”

You nodded. “There are many other women of the realm that possess beauty beyond my own and are from nobler houses, with skills and talents that many envy.”

A hand rested upon yours, and you startled. He had not once touched you without the urging of others since the day you arrived in King’s Landing a few short moons ago.

“Princess, it is not you who the whole of the realm considers to be lacking in this arrangement. In fact, I have no doubt they all feel tremendous pity for the circumstances that have been thrust upon you.”

You looked up at him, taking note of the way his long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. “I do not feel pity for myself.”

There was something in his tone, a faint flickering of light behind his eyes for a moment. “No?”

You shook your head. “No, for you have been kind to me, and I know that does not come so easily in a husband.”

He cracked a wry smile. “We have only been married a few hours; I could turn into a horrid monster by the night’s end.”

You turned your hand so your palm met his. Perhaps the gods had not abandoned you entirely. “I do not fear you, husband.” Then you intertwined your fingers with his. “Not yet, at least.”

He brought your hand to his lips. “I shall endeavor to keep from frightening you.”

“So as not to disappoint your late mother?” You asked, feeling the brush of butterfly wings in your chest at the feel of his lips on your skin.

“So as not to disappoint my wife,” he corrected softly. “Why is he acting in such a way?” You asked Daeron quietly, leaning on his arm as you observed Aerion rant and rage as he paced about Maekar’s receiving room. It had been a year since your wedding, and you found yourself less and less insulted by the arrangement.

“He thinks himself a dragon in human form, or so Egg theorizes,” Daeron replied, eying his brother over the rim of his cup.

You took the cup from him and sipped slowly. “Pity he is not a Fossoway then; we would all be quite safer if he thought himself an apple.”

Daeron snorted and took his cup back. “You have had far too much of this, dear wife. It has loosened your tongue dangerously.”

You raised a brow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, as you leaned closer. Daeron’s eyes flitted for a moment down to your décolletage that was highlighted by a ruby pendant crafted in the shape of a three headed dragon. “Oh? I thought you liked it when my tongue was loosened? You found it quite pleasurable the other night.”

“Enough, no one wishes to hear about your debased acts; keep such filth to your chambers,” Aerion snapped.

“Such filth?” You echoed, sharing a conspiratory glance with Daeron. “My love, your brother considers what we do as lawful husband and wife to be filth. Must we go now to the Sept and repent?”

“Quiet your woman, Brother,” Aerion ordered.

Daeron gave you a small smile. “Fret not, dear one; he thinks this only because he has yet to experience pleasure he has not had to pay for.”

Aerion growled and turned on his heel, his eyes narrowed at the pair of you. “Say that again.”

Daeron held his hands up in surrender. “I was only educating my lady wife, Brother.”

Aerion stormed out of the room, leaving you and Daeron to collapse into laughter before sobering up when Maekar entered the room, asking why Aerion had seemed so angry.

You awoke to an empty bed, the covers pulled up to your chin, the pillow beneath your head soft and perfectly fluffed. He should have returned by now. You could not sleep through the night without him by your side. You grumbled and raked a hand through your hair, cursing Daeron for his tardiness when you heard it. The strangled cries and shuddered breaths that came only after one of his horrid dreams. Two years of this, and still it sent cold fear straight through you.

You slipped from the bed and pulled on your robe, tying it tightly around your form as you crept into your shared solar. You did not want to frighten him; he was far more sensitive in this post dream state.

At first you thought them drunken ramblings. But after watching him attempt to save a scullery maid from falling into the kitchen fire and burning herself horribly to no avail, you realized they were more than concoctions of a drunken mind. They were something different, born of a strange power that still ran in his blood despite his kin having fled Valyria long ago.

“Daeron? My love, are you alright?” You called, spotting him seated in front of the fire, hunched over, his head in his hands, muttered words slipping past his lips in ragged tones.

“Gold and dragons and false kings; he will fail and be sent away, his seat lost,” he said, the words starting to take a more intelligible form as you drew closer.

You knelt beside him, quietly tidying away the empty bottles of wine. “My dearest dragon, tell me what haunts you.”

He shook his head, looking up at you with deep shadows beneath his eyes. “I-I cannot make sense of it; it is jumbled and bloodied, the faces I recognize, but I cannot put name to them.”

You took his hands from his head and pressed them to your lips. “Come, if you remember it still in the morn, I will write it down, then we will try to make sense of it together.”

He let you help him to his feet, his body trembling, his skin slick with sweat. “I should bathe; I would rather not bring this to our bed,” he said, pulling away from you.

“I will call the servants, and you will bathe; then we will sleep,” you reassured him, leading him to the chamber off your shared bedroom before going to the door and calling for hot water to be brought.

Daeron returned to you when he was clean, falling into your embrace as you sat together on the edge of the bed.

You brushed a kiss to the high points of his cheeks. “Better?”

“As better as I can be,” he said, one hand coming to grasp your hip, grounding himself.

You hummed sympathetically in response. “My poor love, if only the gods would allow me to share in your plight, your pain, I would do so in a heartbeat.”

He sighed heavily, his free hand smoothing down your hair. “You are too good for me, y/n. Too good and too beautiful, you should have been given to another, a man worthy of you.”

You cupped his cheek. “I was given to you, and I would not ask for another. You are my husband and my love until the Stranger comes for me.”

He flopped back onto your shared bed. A rarity among royals, but he found his dreams easier to contend with if he could reach for you the moment he woke. “Your ability to lie convincingly has improved in our time together.”

You laid down on the bed next to him. “It is not a lie. Tell me, do you not know that I love you? That I cherish and adore you? That I crave you more than you crave drink?”

His head lolled to the side so he could look at you. “That is impossible; I drink to drown out the terrors; it is self-medication, an undeniable urge, a way to keep my sanity.”

You smiled softly at him. “I would go mad without you by my side, Daeron; only you keep the wolves from the door.”

He stroked your cheek. “The gods are both cruel and merciful. Cruel to you and merciful to me.”

You leaned into his touch, kissing his palm. “They could have given me a brute or a philanderer; instead, they gifted me you.”

“A drunk who is terrified of sleep?”

“A prince who cares deeply, who is burdened with knowledge, who, despite the horrors he sees, still finds it in himself to be kind and caring to his lady wife.”

He withdrew his hand for a moment, trembling fingers tracing the curve of your face, his violet eyes searching your face until he seemed satisfied, and he cupped the back of your head, burying his fingers in your hair. “I love you more than anything; I need you to understand that. You must understand that you…you are everything, my love, my light, my anchor, my life; it is you; everything good in this world is you.”

You melted, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I love you too, more than anything.”

He smiled, the tension in his brow slowly fading. “Do not leave me this night, y/n; you keep the wolves from the door.”

You moved closer, pressing yourself to him, legs tangling together until you were not more than a hairsbreadth apart. “I will not leave you, even if you try to push me away. I am yours, Daeron, and you are mine; the gods have willed it as such.”

He smiled, softly, sadly. “I do not deserve you.”

You kissed him gently. “You do not get to decide that; now sleep, my love, or I shall be cross with you.”

His eyelids began to slowly drift closed, and he buried his face in your neck, but you could feel his smile against your skin. “We would not want that.”

Your arms wrapped around him as you settled onto the pillows alongside him. “No, we would not.”

You stood before your looking glass, fastening a clasp of gold bees to your throat. It was a gift from your mother when you were wed, three small bees wrought in amber and gold, a little reminder that though you now bore another name, you had been born of honey and harvest.

Behind you, you heard the familiar rasp of leather as your husband buckled on his sword belt.

“My lady wife looks as though she means to conquer a kingdom,” Ser Humfrey Hardyng said, amusement warm in his voice.

You turned, smiling. “Only a small corner of it.”

He crossed the chamber in three long strides. Even unarmored, there was something of the knight about him always, the set of his shoulders, the surety of his hands. His hair caught the morning like pale wheat, and when he looked at you it was though you were the only banner worth flying.

“You’ve that look,” he said, brushing a curl back from your cheek. “The one that says you have decided something, and I merely have to agree.”

“Is that so? Surely, I do not know what you mean.” you said lightly.

“It is.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your brow. “And I shall and all you must do is ask.”

You laughed, but your fingers found the front of his tunic and held steady to him. “Well, since you mention it. It is the tourney at Ashford meadows.” You began carefully.

His mouth curved. Already knowing where this conversation was headed. “Ah yes.”

“You had meant to ride with Ser Albar and the others. To leave me here. And join the lists.”  You tilted your head. “You did not think I would not protest.”

He pretended to have a wounded look.

“You forget, my lord husband, that I was raised at Honeyholt. I know dust and bees and heat far worse than any tourney field.” My smile softened. “And my brother would happen to be there as well.”

At that his expression gentled fully. “There it is.”

“Humfrey rides in the lists,” you continued. “He wrote to me himself. He swears he shall unhorse half the Reach before supper. I would like to see it with my own eyes. I would also like to cheer for him, and then also scold him after when he boasts too loudly.”

“You miss him you can say it.” Humfrey said quietly.

“Then yes I do miss him.” Your voice thinned just a touch. “The Vale is beautiful my love and I am more than happy here. Happier than I had ever dared hope.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “But he is my blood also and I would like a chance to see him given the circumstances.”

There was no hesitation. None.

“Then you shall come,” he said at once.

You blinked. “Just so?”

“Just so.” He caught your hand and kissed the underside of your wrist. “If you desire to ride to Ashford, then Ashford we ride. If you wish to chase tourneys from Dorne to the Wall, I would have the horses saddled before you finished speaking.”

You narrowed your eyes in a playful suspicion. “You are far too easy.”

“I am,” he agreed solemnly. “Where you are concerned, I am the weakest of men. All because I do love you.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks despite yourself. “You are not weak.”

“No, you are right I am not. I am one of the best knights in the Vale.” He whispered, stepping closer still, his hands sliding to your waist. “But I cannot deny you anything. I have tried. It is impossible. You have bewitched me.”

You laughed softly, resting your forehead against his chest. “You are a dreadful husband.”

“I am devoted. There is a difference.” He corrected.

“Yes, yes. That too.”

He tipped your chin up with one finger. “I shall ride in the lists at Ashford with you watching and I shall win the joust for you.”

You pulled back at once, scandalized. “Oh, Humfrey you cannot.”

His brow knit in confusion, “Why can’t I?”

“You must not,” you insisted, though you could not keep the laughter from your voice. “The tourney is held for Lady Gwyn Ashford’s nameday. The tourney is in honor of her! You must crown her Queen of Love and Beauty. It would be monstrous to not to.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Monstrous you say…”

“Yes. The realm would speak of nothing else. ‘Ser Humfrey Hardyng, so besotted with his wife he forget his courtesy and traditions.’”

“Let them speak,” he said easily. “I would rather place the crown in your hair. Besides I think a crown of blue roses would suit you well.”

You swatted his shoulder lightly. “Hush. You would shame us both. But thank you.”

His grin turned wicked. “Then I shall win the final tilt and, with great earnestness, crown Lady Gwyn and all the while I shall be thinking that it is your name in my heart.”

“That is acceptable and I will allow it.” You conceded.

“Is it?” He bent close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And when I unhorse your brother?”

“You will not.” You said primly.

“You have no faith in me?” he asked.

“I have too much affection for my brother you see,” You returned. “If you break him, I shall be forced to choose between the two of you.”

He drew back in a mock sort of horror. “But what if he does the same to me? And then which would you choose then?”

You pretended to ponder. “Then it would be the one who brings me honeycakes for me to choose.”

He laughed aloud then, the sound rich and unguarded, and pulled you fully into his arms. “Cruel woman. I shall bring you the whole hive then. Honey and victory both.”

“You need only to bring yourself back to me in one piece,” you said softly.

His mirth faded into something steadier now. He pressed his brow to yours placing a soft kiss to your lips. “Always.”

You left for the Vale beneath clear skies, your small entourage winding down the mountain roads like ribbons of steel and silk. The air grew warmer with each league, the sharp bite of alpine wind giving way to gentler breezes.

You rode beside him rather than within the wheelhouse, though he had protested plenty.

“The roads are long,” he had said.

“And I am not made of spun glass. Lest you forget I am still a bee and bees are not delicate.” You replied.

So, you rode together, your horses brushing near enough that your knees sometimes touched. When you passed through villages, smallfolks nodded and children stared wide eyed at the bright cloaks and banners.

At night you shared a modest tent despite having the larger pavilion available. You regaled him tales of Honeyholt and your brother’s boyhood mischief. You told him of how Humfrey once tried to joust a beehive with a broom handle and was stung for his troubles. You had warned him that would happen but as any brother they never listen to their sisters. Your husband laughed until tears shone in his eyes.

“And this is the fearsome knight who will face me? Now that is all I will think if I face him.” he said.

“He has improved,” you assured him. “Marginally.”

As you crossed into the Reach, the land softened. Rolling green fields stretched to the horizons, dotted with orchards and streams that caught the sun like spilled gold. You breathed the air deeply filling your lungs. The scent of growing things and distant blossoms tugging at your memories.

“Does it ease you?” he asked quietly as you rode, the sun sinking red before you.

“It does,” you admitted. “But not because I wish to return.”

His hand found yours where it rested against the pommel of your saddle. “No?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Home is where you are, Humfrey.”

For once he had no clever reply. He only lifted your hand to his lips and kissed it, there in the open road with the banners snapping above you.

“Then Ashford shall see us together,” he said. “And I shall ride well, knowing my lady wife watches.’

“And I shall cheer for you as loud as I can.” You replied, smiling. “Even if I must clap politely when you crown someone else.”

He leaned closer in his saddle. “Polite applause will not be required. I shall see the truth in your eyes and that is enough for me.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That you know,” he said softly. “The crown has long since been yours and always will be.”

By the time you reached Ashford, the fields beyond the castle walls had become a city of silk and steel.

Pavilions bloomed across the green fields like bright summer flowers. There were gold lions, silver trout, red dragons, and black stags rearing proud against yellow cloth. The air rang with hammering of pavilion stakes, the snort of horses, and the laughter of ladies newly arriving from long days travels.

Your own space had been marked near the eastern edge of the tilting grounds, where the grass lay thick.

You watched as Hardyng men unfurled your banners- red and white diamonds snapping sharp in the wind. The pattern caught the eye at once. It was bold and clean against the sky. When the pavilions rose, its sides striped in the same colors you felt a quiet swell of pride.

“There,” your husband said, stepping back to admire it. “A corner of the Vale set down in the Reach.”

“It is quite handsome just like you.” You agreed. “But I do think the bees of Honeyholt would look well beside it.”

He smiled. “Shall I send for a banner of gold and black then?”

“Oh Gods no. I would not have you mistaken for my father.” You teased. “He might demand you tend to his hives.”

“Do I not already do that though my dear wife? Last I checked I do very well attending to your hive.” He said giving a wicked smirk.

You were taken aback by his wickedness even though he was correct in his remark. He has never once left you unsatisfied in your marriage bed. Another happy perk to your lovely marriage.

You gave him a playful smack to his arm and ran to the inside of your pavilion, your husband now chasing after you.

Later, once the horses were stabled and his armor carefully laid out, you made your way through the tents in search of your brother. It did not take long to find him. You heard his voice before you saw him, bright and brash like a trumpet.

“—and I swear to you, if he thinks to break a Beesbury lance so easily, he will find himself flat on his back”

“Humfrey…”

He turned at the sound of your voice, and for a heartbeat he was not a knight but the boy who once tried to joust a beehive.

“Sweet sister!” he cried, striding forward. He gathered you up in an embrace that lifted you clean off your feet. “You came!”

“Of course I came.” You laughed as he set you down. “Did you think I would miss the chance to see you thrown in the dirt? Not a chance in seven hells.”

He clutched his chest as if you wounded him just like old time. “Oh, how you wound me dear sister.”

Your husband stepped forward then, smiling. “I shall endeavor to do no such thing, goodbrother.”

Your brother grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “If you face me in the lists, we shall see which Humfrey stands at the day’s end. Let the best Humfrey win.”

You slipped your hands into both of theirs, one on either side of you. “If you break each other, I shall be most upset and then how will I go on?”

“Fear not,” you husband said. “I would never deprive you of either of us. Especially me.” He winked.

The rest of the afternoon passed in easy spirits. You walked the grounds together, the two Humfreys exchanging boasts and good-natured jests while you listened, smiling so often your cheeks began to ache. You felt light, the distance your heart had ache from had eased, at least for a little while.

To have them both besides you was rare and precious and you weren’t going to let this moment be forgotten.

That night, as torches flared and music drifted across the fields, you lay awake for a while listening to the outside world and the steady breath of your husband lying beside you. Tomorrow the tourney begins. And you would watch him ride.

Morning came bright and clear.

The stands filled swiftly, bright with silks and summer colors. You took your seat with the other ladies; your brother having pressed a honeycake into your hand before donning his helm on your way to the stands.

“For luck,” he had said.

“For whom?” you asked confused.

 “For you.” He winked.

The first clash of lances set your heart racing.

When your husband rode onto the field, his armor gleaming, the red and white diamonds displayed proudly upon his shield, a buzz rippled through the crowd. He sat his horse like he had been born to the saddle. He sat straight back, calm and assured. You watched him trained plenty in the Vale, but this time it was different.

The trumpet sounded and they charged.

The crack of wood against wood rang sharp as thunder. His lance struck true, like you knew it would. It splintered across his opponent’s shield. The other knight had reeled but he did not fall.

A second pass. This time your husband’s aim was flawless. His opponent toppled from the saddle in a spray of dust.

You rose without realizing it, your breath caught in your throat.

He did it again and again.

Each tilt left your pulse hammering harder. The way he lowered his visor of his helm with such unhurried certainty. The strength in his arm as he embedded the lance. The sheer force of him when the wood shattered and men fell from their horse because of him.

It stirred something deep and molten within you.

By the day’s end he stood among the victors of the days lists, unhorsed by none. But he had unhorsed many.

When he removed his helm at the end of the list and looked up towards the stands, his gaze found yours at once. And the smile he gave was for no one else but you.

That night, when the cheering had faded and the torches burned outside your pavilion, he sat upon the edge of your bed, undoing his clothes with slow care.

“You looked pleased today,” he said lightly.

“Pleased?” you echoed his remark.

He glanced at you over his shoulder as you sat behind him in bed. “More than pleased actually.”

You sat up and moved to break the distance between you two. Your fingers traced the lines where steel had pressed against his skin as his chest and back now lay bare to you. “You were magnificent.”

He stilled.

“I had thought myself accustomed to seeing you ride,” you cooed. “But today… watching you break lance after lance.. watching men fall before you…”

Your hands slid down his shoulders, lightly gripping his muscular biceps. He was solid and warm. Gingerly placing kisses along his shoulder.

“It made my heart race,” you admitted.

His breath deepened. “Did it?”

“Yes.”

He turned then, pulling you into his lap with ease that stole a small gasp from your lips.

“And what else did it do?” he asked, voice lower now.

You threaded your fingers through his hair. “It reminded me,” you whispered, “that I married the bravest knight in the Vale.”

His mouth found yours in answer, not gentle as it often was, but hungry.

 In one easy motion you went from lounging on his lap to straddling him. His hands gripped your waist, drawing you closer to him. You felt his length straining in his breeches beneath you, the heat of him through linen and silk.

Slowly and deliberately, you started rocking your hips against him, the friction  immediate and intoxicating. You felt the hard line of him, trapped beneath you but pressing so perfectly against your core.

“You looked at me,” he spoke against your lips and in between kisses, “as though you meant to devour me.”

“Perhaps I did. Who’s to say I won’t?” you replied.

He laughed softly, then continued your kisses, deeper until your thoughts began to blur between his kisses and grinding against him. You only felt the warmth of his skin beneath your palms, the firm press of his hands against your ass, and the way he said your name as though it were both a prayer and a promise.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as you found a rhythm, dragging the sensitive bundle of nerves against his rigid length. Humfrey’s grip became a possessive anchor as he guided your movements, encouraging you to take what you needed from him.

You leaned forward, pressing your chest against him. The feeling of his bare skin against the fabric of your bodice was electric in a way. Your kisses became more intense; all tongue and teeth and desperate need. He tasted of wine and victory.

Your hips begin to move more erratically; the slow sensual grind Humfrey helped you with was giving  to a more frantic and needy rhythm. You felt the pressure building deep inside you, a coil tension that needed its release.

“Easy my love.” He breathed against your mouth, his voice low.

He noticed. He always noticed. He saw the desperation in your movements. One of his hands left your waist and slide up your back, tangling in your hair, holding you steady. His other hand remained firm at your hip.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his lips brushing up against your ear as he had placed sloppy kisses up your neck, sucking ever so lightly to your pulse point. “Can you feel how hard you make me? Can you tell how much I always want you my sweet?”

You only moaned in response. The friction of his breeches against your now soaked shift had become maddening. Every drag of his clothed cock against your clit sent a jolt of pure pleasure through you. You were so close, teetering at the edge of the precipice.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he growled. “So desperate grinding against me. Is my queen of love and beauty going to cum for me?”

His dirty words were the final push you needed. And just like that the coil inside you snapped, and your orgasm crashing through you. A sharp cry tore through you as waves of pleasure pulsed in you. You buried your face in the crock of his neck as you rode out the last few moments of intense pleasure.

As the last tremor wracked you, you felt Humfrey tense beneath you. A deep guttural groan escaped him and the grip on your hip almost bruising. Through layers of fabric you felt his own release, his own orgasm triggering him at the end of yours. He pulsed beneath you, his body shuddering slightly and his hot seed soaking through his breeches.

For a long moment, you both remained still, the only sound in the tent were your ragged breaths. Slowly you lift your head from the crook of his neck. Humfrey looked at you his face flushed and eyes set with satisfaction.

“If I ride so well again on the morrow, will I earn another such reward?” he said.

“If you ride like you have you may find yourself very well reward. More so than today.”

You two stayed in the moment not wanting the minute to end till a sharp knock on the wood of your pavilion broke the silence.

“Hardyngs!” your brother’s voice rang out. “You two had best not be abed already. The Baratheons are pouring wine enough to drown a horse! Be a shame if you both missed it!”

You burst into laughter, and your husband groaned.

“We are summoned.” You declared.

“But we were only just getting started. I’m sure that stag is no doubt half-drunk already. What difference would it make?” He mused, though he was smiling. But he relented. After tidying and cleaning yourselves up you decided it would be best to go.

You made your way to the Baratheon tent arm in arm. Even from a distance you could hear the ruckus from the tent. The great black stag banner loomed overhead, and inside the pavilion the air was thick with heat, sweat, and merriment.

Your brother spotted you at one. “There they are! The terror of the lists and his fair lady!”

You were handed cups upon entry before you could protest. Laughter rolled like thunder. A bard attempted a song and was roundly shouted down in favor of a bawdier tune.

As the night went on you found yourself seated between your two Humfreys, wine warming your cheeks, and you felt light with joy.

Your brother to your right, boasting loudly about how well he we do on the morrow and then to your left, your husband. Who’s arm laid securely at your waist, his thumb tracing patterns against your hip.

He joined you on the iron wrought bench you were seated upon, and you glanced over at him, your fingers carding through Daeron’s hair as he slept on, oblivious of the revelry around him, his head in your lap. “Before what, sweetling?”

Aegon’s face was turned up toward the sky as he watched the clouds. “Before he was sad all the time.”

You looked down at Daeron; he looked so peaceful, the lines around his eyes and in his forehead vanished, his body still except for the rise and fall of his chest. “I do too, but I love him as he is now, and I would love him still if he suddenly changed and became as joyful as the day.”

“He was happy when we were younger; even when he got your letter, he was still happy then.”

You tilted your head curiously. “My letter?”

He nodded. “Before he visited you in Honeyholt, he got your letter a moon or two prior, and he smiled so big I thought he would never stop.”

You smiled down at your sleeping husband. “Oh really?”

Aegon nodded again, swinging his legs, still far too short for his feet to touch the ground.

“I did not know that. Your brother was quite alesick when we first met, so we did not have a chance to truly talk.”

“He was so nervous, Aerion made fun of him all the way up till when he and Father left.”

“Why was he nervous?”

He gave you a look, as if the answer were obvious. “Because a pretty girl was to be his wife, and before he was sad all the time, he was shy and did not talk to girls ever.”

You stifled your laugh with your sleeve. “He did not even know me, and yet he thought me scary?”

“He said he dreamed of you, but it was after he got your letter, so he was not sure if it was a dream dream or a regular one.”

Your laughter faded, and you paused your ministrations, switching to tracing Daeron’s facial features gently. “I wish I had known he was struggling so back then. I would have tried harder to speak with him.”

“What child of three and ten could know such a thing?”

“He did, and you will, when you turn that age.”

His head fell back petulantly, and he dragged out the syllables of your name. “It is different for us.”

You poked him in the side, wrinkling your nose at him to make him laugh. “Tell me more about Daeron’s infatuation with me.”

Aegon smiled and nearly turned his whole body to face you. “He had your letter memorized, and he would sleep with it by his pillow; I saw it once. Then when your portrait came in,” he glanced around and lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper, “Daella said she saw him kiss it once.”

Your eyes widened, and you could not contain your surprised laughter.

He threw his hands up in an admittance of innocence. “I normally would not believe her about such things, but Daeron chased her out of his room while swearing at her on the very day she said she saw him do it, so I think it lends her credibility.”

You smiled and returned to carding your fingers through Daeron’s hair. “Do you want to hear a secret?”

Aegon nodded excitedly.

You leaned in closer and glanced around as he had done. “I used to practice accepting dances from Daeron’s portrait, and I would try out topics of conversation on it in preparation for our meeting.”

He gasped with the high drama of a practiced mummer. “You two are perfect for each other; you both did embarrassing things with each other’s portraits!”

You pressed a hand to his mouth. “Do not say it like that! It makes it sound as if we committed unspeakable acts instead of normal childish things.”

His brows furrowed, and his legs stopped swinging. “But I am a child, and I do not do such things?”

You smiled softly at him. “That is because you do not have someone you care for yet.”

“Not true! I care for you, and our family, and the smallfolk, and I cared greatly for my cat, but Aerion threw him down a well.”

“Let me correct myself,” you said, hoping to cut his rant about his cat off at the head; you could not bear to hear the sorrowful tale again. “You do not have someone you care about romantically.”

“Oh,” he said, settling back down. “That is true. Should I find one?”

You shook your head frantically. “No, no, you are far too young.”

He swung his legs a bit more, staring at his boots in silence for a while, and you believed the conversation to be over. So, you relaxed against the bench, debating if you should wake Daeron so he could go inside or wait a little while longer. You hated to wake him when he was sleeping peacefully, but you hated just as fiercely the way the nobles would whisper and stare when they saw him passed out in the open.

“Y/N, what if I want to find someone to care about romantically?”

You fought the urge to pinch Daeron until he woke so you could pass the conversation off under the guise of brotherly advice. “Well, you could ask your father to find you someone. That is the easiest and most typical route.”

He swayed side to side in thought. “What if I want to marry for love as you and Daeron did?”

You choked on air, pressing a hand to your chest as you regained your breath. “Egg, we did not do exactly that. It was arranged for us, and we happened to fall in love, but we did not actually know each other at first, remember?”

He frowned. “Is it not possible then?”

“Smallfolk do it all the time,” you told him.

“But I am not a smallfolk.”

“No, but there are nobles who marry for love, and it is possible for you since you are low in the line of succession.” You smiled and bumped your shoulder into his playfully. “We can start by looking around and seeing if there are any girls you find pretty.”

Aegon looked intently around the garden, then his shoulders slumped. “No one, I will never find love.”

“Oh sweetling,” you cooed, pulling him into a one armed embrace. “This party does not contain every girl of an age with you. There will be plenty more events, with plenty of other girls for you to see.”

He leaned into your embrace. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

“What are we promising?” Daeron asked groggily, shifting in your lap.

You smiled at him and ran your finger down the bridge of his nose. “That we will find a pretty girl for Egg to fall in love with.”

Daeron caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. “Ah yes, that is doable enough; just have a look around the garden and see what you find.”

“I already tried that,” Aegon informed him promptly, his arms folded over his chest.

Daeron dragged a hand down his face, slowly working his way up to leave his reclined position. “Apologies, I am coming in late to the joust, as one might say.”

You came to his rescue. “My love, I told Egg not to be discouraged and that there will be plenty more events with lots of other girls his age for him to see.”

He nodded. “Y/N is right, plenty more.”

“You are no help; you are just repeating what y/n says.” Aegon pouted. “I should have expected as much from a portrait kisser.”

Daeron shot straight up, nearly colliding with your chin, and narrowed his eyes at Aegon. “That was a vicious lie of Daella's, and you know it.”

You bit back a laugh watching as they dissolved into bickering, with Aegon chanting portrait kisser, portrait kisser, while Daeron declared it a boldfaced lie.

After a few minutes, they began to draw looks, so you grabbed Daeron’s chin and kissed him. “There, now you are a wife kisser.”

“While I am quite fond of that title, there is no need, for I was never a portrait kisser." He directed that part towards Aegon, who stuck his tongue out at him and hopped off the bench, disappearing into the crowd.

“Little bastard can die alone for all I care,” Daeron grumbled before turning back to you. “Sweet wife, I can assure you whatever lies my brother told you were simply that, lies.”

You smiled fondly and straightened the collar of his tunic, looking up at him through your lashes. “So, you did not memorize my letter and sleep with it beside your pillow? Because I thought that was very sweet.”

He swore under his breath but brushed a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I will admit to that, but nothing more.”

You turned ever so slightly so your lips met. “Of course, my love. I know better than to believe a child.”

He smiled into the kiss. “Thank you, y/n, finally someone with sen—”

You pulled away suddenly and then pushed off the bench with a mischievous gleam in your eye. “But I will be confirming this information with Daella.” Then you darted off in search of his sister.

“Seven hells,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair before he got up and gave chase.

Honeyholt was beautiful, lush, and sweet smelling, full of contented smallfolk, gently grazing livestock, and apiaries filled to the brim with the honey your home was known for. Any prince of the realm would be lucky to gaze upon its tranquil beauty, and you had written as much in your introduction letter to Daeron. Your mother thought it presumptuous, but your father said a girl of ten and three could get away with such things.

First Meeting, Lie, and True Apology:

You were excited; royalty was to come visit and stay, and you would finally meet the poetic prince your father had filled your head with tales of.

Your mother had laid out your finest gown, and your eldest sister helped you lace it up; the maids made sure your hair was perfect before you dotted a small amount of perfume to your exposed collarbones and wrists. Everything was to be perfect for the arrival of the princes, and as the hour grew nearer, you could hardly contain your excitement.

You reread his letter once more, holding it to your chest and sighing dreamily.

Lady Y/N,

I find myself quite excited to meet you; it is not so often another of an age with me has a mind to match my own. I only hope I do not disappoint you. If I do, allow me to make up for it by saying it is fascinating, your view on things, and that I shall be your faithful shadow the entire visit. I long to hear your thoughts on each and every subject presented. You will forgive me if I follow too closely, will you not? Your portrait was sent a fortnight ago, and if I might be so bold, I have taken to setting it on my bedside table so that it is among the first I see when I awaken. I do not always sleep well, but your beauty gives me comfort. Soon I will be able to gaze upon it in person, and we will have much to discuss, I am sure.

Your betrothed, Prince Daeron

You stood inside the gate with your father and mother, hands folded primly in front of you, as you went up on your toes every so often, trying to see if they were any closer than before.

When the royal wheelhouse finally passed through the gates, your mother had to place a hand on your shoulder to keep you from bounding forward. The door opened, and Prince Maekar stepped out.

Your family bowed, and your father welcomed him, but you saw no sign of Daeron. Then came a shuffling inside the wheelhouse, and he emerged, squinting against the sunlight. Your heart fluttered, and you could not contain your smile. You rushed up to him, drinking in the sight of him. He was more handsome than his portrait, far more handsome than any of the other boys you knew, but he seemed a bit pale, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. He seemed young for such shadows; he was only a nameday older than you.

“My Prince, are you well? Did the wheelhouse ride not agree with you? My brother is the same; he can only ride horseback, or he is sick as a dog, poor thing,” you said, raising your hand to shade his eyes from the sun.

“Apologies, who are you?” He asked, his words slightly slurred.

It felt as if you had the wind knocked out of you, but you shook it off. If he was disoriented from the ride, he may not be fully settled in his mind. It was not personal; no need to get upset.

You laughed softly and beamed at him, so he knew you were not upset. “My Prince, it is I, y/n, your betrothed.”

His eyes widened, and his head snapped up. “Y/N?”

You nodded, clasping your hands in front of you once more.

He smiled, and your heart leapt in your chest; then he took your hand in his and pressed it to his lips. “Lady Y/N, you are far more beautiful than your portrait. The journey was well worth it now that I have set eyes upon you.”

You started to tell him you had the exact same thought when he suddenly dropped your hand, doubled over, and vomited right onto your finest dress.

Prince Maekar apologized for Daeron many times over, or so your father said. You were far too busy being escorted back into your home as you tried not to track bile and whatever Daeron had eaten that day on the stairs up to your room.

The maids all but ripped you out of your gown, and you buried your face in your hands trying not to cry as they took it away to be washed.

“Sweet sister, it is alright; it is not as if you threw up on him. The shame is not yours,” your eldest sister Bethany said as she fanned you with her ornate folding fan.

“He did not even recognize me, and then—was my portrait that ugly?”

“Well, if it was, then he fell for a ghastly version of you, so now you know if you grow fat and ugly from childbirth, he will still care for you,” your elder sister Janna said.

You burst into tears. “Am I going to grow ugly from childbirth?”

“Not helping, Janna,” Bethany hissed.

Janna waved her arms frantically. “No, no, y/n, you will be a beautiful mother. I mean only that now you do not have to worry if you lose your looks.”

“Why would I lose my looks?” You asked, panic filling you. “Oh gods, what if I lose my looks and I am uglier than the portrait and then he does not care for me anymore?”

“Janna, enough, get out,” Bethany said, pushing her out of the room as you sobbed into a nearby decorative pillow.

“Y/N, come now, dry your eyes; your prince is still here. You do not want him to think you still a weeping child, do you?”

“No,” you sniffled.

Bethany smiled and smoothed down your hair. “Good, now let us dress you in another gown, and then we shall see if your prince is feeling any better.”

“Forgive me, I am usually not so unsettled by the road, but the wheelhouse has a loose wheel on the left side, and the rocking mixed with my nerves created an unfortunate concoction in my gut,” Daeron said, his head low, his arms folded behind his back.

You fiddled with your fingers and glanced at Bethany, who was your chaperone. She nodded encouragingly.

“It is quite alright, My Prince, I was nervous for your arrival as well,” you said.

Daeron raised his head. He looked a little better now, but the shadows remained. “Your mercifulness rivals your beauty.”

You smiled shyly. “Thank you, My Prince.”

It would be the last time you smiled at that visit or at least smiled at Daeron. His father told your family he had caught a summer cold, that he was not well, needed to be sequestered away, and was devastated he could not spend more time with you. You believed it; you believed it until you turned ten and six, and it was time for you to join your betrothed in King’s Landing. Then you learned the truth.

First Kiss:

You stood at the altar between the statues of the Father and Mother, your bride cloak draped over your shoulders, a magnificent work of art, decadent and dazzling; you felt truly like a princess even though your prince looked as if he wished to be anywhere but with you.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep your expression as joyfully neutral as possible and continued to try and catch Darron’s eye. He smelled of wine, as he did most times you saw him, but at least he did not smell of a brothel as well. You guessed he had learned his lesson, considering a fortnight ago his father had allowed your father to yell at him for his actions the night you arrived at the Red Keep.

You had been hoping to see him, to finally speak with the boy, now man grown, who had written you such a lovely letter, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead, you ran into his younger brother, Aerion, who promised to take you to him. You did not know any better, so you followed your soon-to-be goodbrother through the tunnels beneath the Red Keep. Then the winding streets of Flea Bottom into what you now knew to be a brothel, where Aerion proudly pulled back a curtain exposing his drunk and undressed brother atop a whore.

You, being newly six and ten and sheltered the whole of your life, stood there frozen, waiting for Daeron to either notice you there or for Aerion to stop laughing and take you back to the safety of the Keep. Neither happened quickly enough for your liking, nor did you have the ability to withstand the shame. You ran out of there, not stopping until you found a gold cloak, and begged him to escort you back to your father.

It had taken much convincing from your father, mother, and Prince Maekar, along with a series of apologies you did (Daeron) and did not (Aerion) believe, plus a very sweet letter from Daeron to keep you in agreement with the marriage.

The High Septon’s words drew you out of your memory, and you repeated after him, binding yourself to Daeron, daring any who sought to separate you to challenge the gods themselves.

His hands were in yours, and they shook slightly. You searched his face to find he was already searching yours, then he did as the High Septon said and kissed you. He tasted of Arbor Reds and cinnamon, not a wholly unpleasant taste but not what you expected. His lips were soft, a bit chapped but warm, and he lingered, his lips a hairsbreath from yours.

“You taste of honey, just as I dreamed,” he whispered, and for a moment your heart fluttered once more.

“You may taste me again if you would like,” you whispered back.

He pulled back, a flustered expression on his face, pink tinting his cheeks, and you smiled.

Victory, a small one but a victory, nonetheless.

First Bedding:

You did not remember much of your first time with Daeron; you drank heavily on the advice of your sisters and Daeron himself. It was pleasant; he was kind and gentle; he kissed you like he was drowning and lavished you with praise. You remembered feeling good; whatever he had done was good, very good, and you woke the next morning with a pleasant ache between your legs and a not-so-pleasant ache in your head. Daeron took care of you and told you all the gossip that would soon set the court abuzz.

He laughed at the word abuzz and asked if it was too on the nose considering your previous house. You told him it was not and imitated the buzzing of a bee before booping him on the nose. He fell back with a dramatic groan, claiming a bee of unusual beauty and grace had felled him. You followed him down, giggling when he pulled you atop him, your headache vanishing as he smiled up at you and told you to look in the drawer beside his bed. Tucked away carefully was your portrait, your old portrait, of course, but still, he kept it, just as he said in his letter years ago.

You kissed him then, beaming, your portrait clattering to the floor, your hands burying themselves in his hair. “I am here now; you may gaze upon me each morn.”

He smirked and raised a brow, his hands sliding to your hips. “And taste you each night?”

You booped his nose once more. “My lord husband may taste me whenever he wishes.”

Then you were hit again, and a strangled whimper reached your ear. That was not Tomas.

You rubbed your eyes, looking around groggily. Where were you? This was not your chambers back home, nor was it your chambers at Summerhall. Then you remembered, and your heart soared. You were in Daeron’s chambers spending the night for the very first time since your wedding. Your parents slept in the same bed, so you had always believed you would do the same with your husband. Daeron had been resistant at first, though he caved a moon after your wedding on a night he was drunk and wrapped in your arms.

How excited you had been when he said yes, how excited you still were now.

Then there was another strangled sound, and your excitement fled. “Daeron?” You whispered, sitting up slowly.

You looked over at Daeron, and your heart plummeted into your stomach. He was pale and sweat soaked, his face twisted in agony as he fought the grip of the sheets.

“Daeron?” You called, shaking him gently, afraid to harm him if he were ill.

He did not wake, mumbled words and curses slipping from his lips.

You shook him again. “Daeron, wake up.”

No response, and then he screamed, his voice hoarse, the sound akin to a man tortured and tormented for decades on end.

You jolted back in fear, wondering if you should run and fetch the maesters before gathering your courage, grabbing his shoulders, and shaking him hard. “Daeron, wake up! It is me, y/n, your wife; you must wake up!”

He shot up, eyes wild, and pushed himself out of bed, staggering to the wall, his breathing harsh and ragged as he leaned against it.

You slid from the bed and approached him cautiously. “Husband?”

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face before sliding down the wall, his back pressed to it, his head thudding against the wall as he leaned it back, his expression one of guilt and anger.

You knelt in front of him, hands hovering in the air between you, the chill of the stone floor eating through your thin nightshift. “Daeron? Are you alright? Should I fetch the maester?”

He shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “No, no, I am fine; just leave me.”

You frown and shift your weight. “B-But you are not well; I can see it plain as day.”

“I drank too much; I am a drunk y/n, it is in my nature; now leave my chambers,” he said firmly, refusing to pull his hands from his face.

You shook your head, though you knew he could not see it. “No, I am your wife; it is my duty to care for you. I will not leave.”

“Gods, woman, get out! I do not wish to hear your childish ramblings,” he snapped.

You bunched your hands in your nightshift, trying to ignore the sting of his words. “You are not feeling well, so I will forgive your harsh words.”

He removed his hands but did not look at you, his voice like steel and twice as cold, piercing you to the core. “Get out; I do not wish to spend another second in your presence. It is pathetic how you cling to me.”

You bit your lip, tears welling in your eyes. “Fine, I shall leave you then.” You got up, trying to hide your sniffle, your shoulders already shaking. You had always been sensitive, but you thought Daeron enjoyed that; he said he did; he told you he found your soft heart to be endearing.

He called your name, his voice no longer as cold, but you fled the room and wept as a servant escorted you back to your own chambers with a sympathetic look and a warm hand on your back.

You lay in your bed, the blankets pulled up to your chin, and sobbed into your pillow, cursing yourself for being so foolish. Words were wind, and princes were cruel; you should have known better. You reached underneath your pillow and pulled out your stuffed bear, Bee, stitched in the colors of your maiden house, that had been by your side since you were a babe. You held it close, burying your face in its soft head.

A child, he thought you a child, and mayhaps he was right.

You stood outside Daeron’s door with a teacup and saucer in hand, your chest tight with confusion and sorrow. He did not want to see you; he had made that clear, and as much as his words had wounded you—especially compared to how kindly he had spoken to you at your wedding feast and in the weeks following—you would still do your duty as his wife. You would bring him the tea, wish him well, and then go seek out his siblings and see if they were in need of help with their lessons.

The guards outside his door let you in, and you saw Daeron slumped on a chaise lounge, half dressed, his hair and the room in disarray.

“Princess Y/N Targaryen,” one of them announced before closing the door behind you.

You crossed the room quickly, your eyes downcast as you held the teacup and saucer out to him, your bottom lip trembling despite your promise to yourself that you would not cry in front of him again. “I apologize, My Prince.”

“Apologize?” He asked, getting up from the chaise lounge.

You kept your arm outstretched and eyes down. “I only became a woman a few moons ago; I have not yet unlearned all my childish ways and speech. Please forgive me, My Prince. I will strive harder to do so in order to not embarrass or annoy you again.”

Daeron took the cup and saucer from you gently. “Y/N I—”

“There is milk thistle, golden root, lemon balm, and honey from my father’s own apiary in there. All that I have read says it will help your ale sickness,” you said, cutting him off before he could admonish you as you thought he would. “I will leave you now, My Prince, and send a servant to collect my things so I do not bother you at night any longer.”

You curtsied and hurried to leave, trying subtly to wipe the tears from your cheeks before anyone spotted them when Daeron caught your arm.

“Please, wait,” he said softly, his hand shaking slightly around your wrist.

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve and turned to face him, trying to summon your composure. “If you wish to chastise me, please know that I have already spent the night doing so myself. I ask you spare me any further reprimand if you do not wish to see me in tears.”

His face crumpled, and he swore under his breath. “Y/N, I…forgive me, please.”

You blinked at him owlishly.

He chugged the tea you had brought him, wincing slightly at the heat, then set it down and pulled you into his arms. “It is my fault. I am a wretched husband, a man only of two years; I am still childish as well, and I was cruel. Cruel, just as I said I would try not to be when we married.”

You stood frozen in shock. You had not expected him to apologize to you.

He buried his nose in your hair. “Forgive me, I—this is why I did not want to share a bedchamber. I have these dreams, these awful dreams that I cannot make sense of. They plague me; they do not let me rest soundly, and in my shame at you witnessing my weakness, I spoke harshly and falsely to you.”

A sob worked its way past your lips, and you clung to him, hiding your face in his chest. “I was so frightened for you, and you were so mean!”

Daeron held you tighter, his voice shaking. “I am sorry; I am so very sorry, my sweet.”

You cried into his chest as he shushed you gently, whispering how sorry he was over and over again until you raised your head enough to look at him. “You could have told me; I would have understood. I would not have judged you; I am your wife, Daeron; I will always stand beside you.”

He shook his head. “You are so wonderful, so kind, and filled with such joy; I did not want to drag you down to the depths with me, did not wish for you to see me in such a state.”

Your voice was soft, tear stained. “What do you dream of that is so awful?”

He sighed, his eyes red rimmed, the circles beneath them dark and deep. “I do not know, and sometimes I do. But they always come true, and they have never been good except for when I dream of you.”

You taste of honey, just as I dreamed.

“You dream of me?”

He nodded and brushed the hair back from your face, looking as if your sobs had pained him more than they pained you. “Those dreams are wonderful. I wish I dreamt only of you; I would be the happiest man in the kingdom.”

Your cheeks warmed, and your grip on the back of his sleep tunic tightened. “Do you mean it?”

He pressed the ghost of a kiss to your forehead. “I do.”

You smiled shyly. “Then perhaps I am not selfish for saying I hope you dream of me more often.”

Daeron’s lips curled upwards. “You are not, though I may be selfish with my request”

“Request?”

“Well, I have two if you would permit your wretched husband such kindnesses?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I will hear my husband out.”

He caressed your cheek reverently as if he could not believe you were real, then cupped it, threading his fingers in your hair. “First, I ask that you forget my vile words last night and never cease clinging to me. Your touch is a balm to my soul.”

“I will gladly grant that request,” you said, feeling your chest lighten as you leaned into his touch.

“Second, I would like for you to stay with me again tonight, provided, of course, you wish to.”

You mulled over his words for a moment. “I do, but you must promise me that you will tell me of your dreams and allow me to share the burden with you.”

The tourney had been absolutely thrilling so far; never would you have believed that so many skilled knights would come to celebrate your marriage to Daeron, but your mother told you it was to be expected. It was a royal wedding after all.

Your champions were much of the expected as well, both your Uncles Humfrey, your goodbrother Tybolt Lannister, Abelar Hightower, the son of your liege lord, and of course your newly wedded husband.

You had been told Daeron was not much of a jouster, even by Daeron himself, but surely he was being humble; he was the son of the Anvil, a great warrior, and the nephew of Baelor Breakspear, a noted tourney champion.

Cheers rang through the crowd as one by one your champions lined up along the sidelines, horses saddled, lances steady, and shields held firm. Daeron was to go first, your favor tied around his wrist. It was a snippet of ribbon from the laces of the corset you wore on your wedding day that you had neatly stitched you and Daeron’s entwined initials onto with crimson thread. You had presented it to him this morn, and he had kissed you so gently afterwards that you thought you might melt into a puddle.

He was against Ser Corwyn Velaryon, who was young and had only competed in one tourney before this; an easy victory for Daeron, you thought.

You leaned over the wall of the dais, catching Daeron’s eye and waving to him. Your heart skipped a beat when he waved back, much to the delight of the crowd.

Your mother hissed at you to return to your seat, and you did as she bid, excitement building in you as the joust was called to begin.

Daeron lowered his helmet and shifted in his saddle; his lance was held straight, but you wondered if his gloves were ill-fitted as he kept adjusting his grip. You cheered loudly for him, confident that he would open the joust with victory and defend your title. His armor was simple but sturdy, and you ignored your sister Janna when she pointed out that the design was very like a barrel of ale. You thought the simple style better suited him. It was also not frightening like Aerion’s armor, which looked as if he had just climbed out of the depths of the Seven Hells.

They took off, lances lowered, shields ready. You watched with bated breath as Daeron and Corwyn approached each other, and then crack, Corwyn’s lance glanced off Daeron’s side, bypassing his shield as if it had never been there at all. You thought it would be nothing, that he would keep upright, but then Daeron fell from his horse and onto his back with a sickening thud.

You bit your lip to keep from crying out in fear as he lay there unmoving in the dirt, your heart in your throat, your mind screaming for someone to go and help him. It must have been a fluke, or Ser Corwyn had cheated somehow; there was no way your prince, your husband who was so kind and courageous, would have fallen so quickly.

“Fuck me,” Maekar groaned from behind you. “I should never have let this tourney progress.”

“Now, now, Brother, it is not right to deny your gooddaughter a celebration like other brides of her status would receive,” Baelor said quietly, mindful of your seat right in front of them.

“Goodfather, that must have been a mistake; surely there was a problem with Daeron’s helm,” you said, turning in your seat to face Maekar, desperate for an answer.

Maekar snorted and took a long drink from his cup.

Baelor in turn gave you a kind smile. “Do not fret, Lady y/n; he may not be a skilled tourney knight, but Daeron has many other redeeming qualities.”

“Do not lie to the poor girl,” Maekar said from behind the rim of his cup.

“Y/N, they have come to retrieve your groom,” Janna said, bringing your attention back to the tourney field.

A few squires and a kingsguard hurried out, helped Daeron up, and carried him to the maesters’ tent.

Worry seized you, your heart pounding in your chest. Was he badly injured? You had only just been married; you did not want to be a widow so young, nor did you wish to marry another. You liked Daeron; he was handsome, kind, well-read, and he would write you the most beautiful notes and poems throughout the day.

Ser Corwyn rode up and took his helmet off to address you. “Princess y/n, I know I am young and untested, but I am honored to now be among your champions, and I will not see any other take your title from you.”

It felt as if all eyes were on you, and you wanted to curl inwards, embarrassment flooding you. Instead, you gave him a smile and thanked him, tears pricking the backs of your eyes, your hands twisting the fabric of your skirts. The silk now felt as if it were sticking to you, confining you, your corset preventing air from entering your lungs.

You sat straight and stiff as an arrow, the shame an ever-burning fire beneath the skin of your face, growing only hotter when Ser Corwyn was immediately defeated by Aerion in the very next round.

Aerion did not even wait for his opponent to push himself out of the dirt before calling up to you, an expression of twisted glee on his harsh but beautiful face. “Dearest goodsister, it seems it is now I who is honored to join your champions. But do not fret; I shall defend you far better than my elder brother.”

You could not even speak, or perhaps you did and you did not remember doing so, for Aerion rode away looking quite smug, and your eldest sister, Bethany, was subtly dabbing at your face with her handkerchief while the crowd was focused on the jousts.

The rest of the jests were a blur, and in the end it was your Hardying uncle who felled the final opponent and defended your title, ensuring the crown of flowers was placed upon your head and no others. You stood and smiled, waving to the crowd as you had been taught to do, letting them cheer for you and your champions. You placed a kiss on the cheeks of your uncles and goodbrother Tybolt, who patted you atop the head—still seeing you as the young child you were when he and Bethany were first betrothed—before sweeping Bethany into his arms. You thanked Ser Abelar for his prowess and moved to do the same to Aerion when he bent down, his cheek turned toward you.

“Do I not get a kiss as well?” he asked, his lips curling up into a smirk that made your stomach turn.

“It would not be proper; I grant it only to my kin,” you said, hoping your goodfather or Prince Baelor would swoop in to save you. But alas, they were both far too occupied with making their way off the tourney grounds and back into the Keep.

“I am your goodbrother now; we are kin,” Aerion said.

You could not refuse him, not with all eyes on you, so you kissed his cheek quickly, your voice sweet to avoid offending him. “Thank you for defending me this day, goodbrother.”

He smiled, sharp and delighted, and grabbed your chin hard, then kissed your cheek, lingering far too long. “You are more than welcome, dearest goodsister. I will always be here to step into the breach. Especially when it is of Daeron’s own making.”

You stepped back into the waiting arms of Janna. “That is very kind of you, but I am sure Daeron will not leave such a gap again.”

“Oh, how adorable you are,” he laughed, the sound following you and Janna back to the Keep, a shiver running down your spine at the pure mockery in it.

You curled up with your back against the headboard of your bed, and began to cry the moment Janna left your chambers, promising to collect you for dinner. You hugged your knees to your chest, staring down at the painstakingly embroidered details of your outer skirt with blurry vision.

What had happened? Why did Daeron’s kin all act as if what had occurred was normal? Why did they look at you as if you were a fool for believing that something awful had happened to Daeron to cause such a loss? You knew he was not as proficient a knight as Aerion, but he had been knighted, and he was strong. He had carried you out of the Great Hall and into his chambers when the court called for a bedding, saving you from being pawed at by lecherous lords.

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve, another wave of tears bursting forth when you saw how your cosmetics smeared across the silk.

The whole court and all those who had traveled to King’s Landing for your wedding had been watching. Watching as Daeron fell, as you had to smile at those who took his place. They were all looking at you and laughing; you were sure they were laughing as Maekar and Aerion had. They were laughing at you because your husband had fallen during the first tilt. But what if he were injured? How could they laugh at him? How could they laugh at your poor, injured husband?

With that thought, you worked up the resolve to stop crying and go to the maester to check on Daeron; it was your duty as his wife, after all. And if it had been an accident or a devious act of foul play, then surely he would be upset and need you to comfort him. You nodded to yourself and wiped your eyes once more. Yes, you would go and comfort him; he needed you. You were good at being needed; you would be the best for him.

Right as you went to sit up and make plans to seek Daeron out, there was a knock at your door, and then he was stumbling in, beelining for you fully unharmed as far as you could tell. You sat up and moved to the end of the bed, relief palpable in your chest.

“Daeron, oh thank the gods, I was so worried for you,” you said, pulling him to sit on the bed the moment he was close enough and searching him for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt? Why did it take so long for you to return?”

Daeron smiled sheepishly and sat across from you, his hands finding your own. “I may have been dragging out my recovery.”

Your brows furrowed. “I…do not understand.”

He let his head loll to one side, not meeting your eyes. “You had nothing to fear; I threw the match.”

You blinked at him. “You threw the match?”

“Yes, I am no knight; I would not have done any good in the jousts, so I threw the match and let others far more skilled than I take my place.”

You slowly withdrew your hands from his. “You threw the match because you are not a skilled knight. The match that was the opening of the joust, in a tourney held to celebrate our wedding.”

“Yes?”

You took a moment to turn his words over in your mind, searching them for any sign of malice or falsehood.

“Y/N?” Daeron asked softly, his voice tinged with apprehension.

You took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You could not lose your temper; you had only just been married, he could petition the king to annul your marriage, and you would be cast out in shame. “Husband, were you not aware of how your actions would reflect upon me?”

“The shame is mine, not yours.”

You shook your head. “We are married; your shame is mine.”

A mirthless, dismissive laugh slipped past his lips. “I have far too much shame to ever be cast upon you; do not fret over my actions; they will soon be forgotten.”

“Everyone was looking and laughing at me!” The words spilled out before you could stop them, all thoughts of remaining calm thrown to the wind. “This tourney was for our wedding. What if I had not had other champions of greater skill than yours? Some other girl could have been named Queen of Love and Beauty at my wedding tourney!”

Tears burned in your eyes, the realization that you had been made a fool of, making you feel sick. “You are awful, awful. How could you do that to me? I had to thank Aerion in front of everyone and kiss his cheek, then he grabbed me and kissed mine! How could you leave me alone to suffer the shame? To be put in such a position?”

He hung his head and mumbled something you could not hear.

“What?”

“I said I am selfish, and I am sorry.”

You waited for him to continue.

“I am not skilled at jousting; I am not a great knight by any means, and I wished to spare us both the embarrassment by taking myself out of the tourney early. I thought you might come to check on me in the tent, and then we could return to the dais together, but then I realized you could not do that since you are the lady of the tourney, and then I found I could not gather the courage to face you there.”

“I…that does not make sense. Why did you not simply send a servant to come fetch me? You are still the prince and my husband; I would have come if you had called.”

Daeron dragged his hand through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. “Because I am an idiot.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to rein yourself back in. “It does not take the Crone’s wisdom to see that.”

“Yes, well, I never claimed to be the wisest or smartest man in the room.”

You began to fiddle with some of the pearls sewn onto your outer skirt, not sure what to say next.

He sighed heavily and leaned against the towering bedpost, his head bumping into the intricately carved wood. “I did not think of calling for you; I was nervous that you would think me a coward, and so I thought it best you believed I was injured.”

“I would have accepted an excuse,” you said, voice small. “If you had made an excuse, then you could have sat by me the whole time and told me more fantastical stories and made me laugh and held my hand while my uncles were competing.”

“I wanted to; I did,” he said.

You looked up at him; his sandy hair was still disheveled from his helmet, and his violet eyes were searching your form.

“I am a lousy husband; only a few days in, and I have already made you cry, and not in a pleasurable way.” Then he raised a brow. “Unless it is not too late?”

You tossed a pillow at him, heat flaring in your cheeks. “A degenerate, that is what you are.”

He laughed. “I seek only to apologize, sweet wife.”

You bit back a smile; you could never be angry with him for long, not even when you first met as children and he threw up on your most expensive gown.

Daeron crawled over to you—quite ungracefully, you might add—and took your hands in his, pressing them to his lips. “I am a fool, a coward, a degenerate, the worst of husbands, and much more, but I am sorry, y/n.”

You swayed from side to side, mulling over his words. “I want a new gown and earrings to match.”

“Done,” he said instantly.

You smiled and pulled him closer, turning your cheek to face him before tapping it with your finger.

He gave you a strange look. “You want me to slap you?”

You reared back. “No! I want a kiss, to rid my skin of Aerion’s.”

His whole body visibly relaxed. “Good, because I do not think I could hit you, even if you desired it.”

Your sisters would be happy to hear that.

You shook your head, then presented your cheek again, smiling when you felt Daeron’s gentle fingers grasp your chin to hold you steady. His warm lips brushed against your cheek once, then twice, then three times before he turned your head and did the same to the other cheek. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, a giddiness filling your veins.

“Am I worthy of a kiss as well?” he asked softly, his fingers still holding your chin gently.