#dornish!reader

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Aerion spends the first few months of your marriage acting as though everyone else at court is suddenly intolerably stupid.

Not because they've changed.

Because now he has a wife he considers worthy of his attention and everyone else suffers by comparison.

"See? Even she understands it. Why is that difficult for the rest of you?"

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Aerion is insufferable about the fact that you're Dornish.

Not because he looks down on you for it.

Because he thinks everyone else does.

The second someone makes a snide remark about Dorne, Aerion takes it as a personal challenge.

A comment that would've gone ignored before their marriage suddenly earns a sharp response.

Nobody understands when exactly the prince became Dorne's fiercest defender.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He secretly loves how different you are from the ladies at court.

Most noblewomen in King's Landing are expected to be reserved and careful.

You aren't.

You're quicker to speak your mind, less concerned with courtly expectations, and far more willing to challenge him.

Aerion tells himself this is irritating.

Nobody believes him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Dornish fashion becomes a point of pride for him.

You arrive wearing brighter colours, lighter fabrics, more jewellery than many ladies at court.

People stare.

Aerion notices.

Instead of encouraging you to blend in, he encourages the opposite.

If they're going to stare, they might as well have something worth staring at.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He becomes absurdly offended whenever someone suggests you should behave more like a lady from the Crownlands.

His immediate response is usually:

"Why would she?"

As far as Aerion is concerned, adapting to everyone else's expectations sounds suspiciously like settling for less.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Aerion enjoys the fact that Dornish customs scandalise people.

A harmless gesture from you can have half the court whispering.

The more uncomfortable the court becomes, the more entertained Aerion is.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Your confidence fascinates him.

Many people at court treat Targaryens as something almost divine.

You—His Dornish wife absolutely does not.

You'll roll your eyes at him in front of other people.

Correct him.

Tell him when he's being ridiculous.

The first time it happens, everyone expects disaster.

Instead Aerion looks amused.

Which is somehow more alarming.

⋮ ⌗ ┆He asks endless questions about Dorne.

Not publicly.

Privately.

He wants to know about Sunspear, Dornish traditions, childhood stories, old family feuds, regional customs.

At first you assumed he was being polite.

Then you realised he actually remembers everything you tell him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Summer heat doesn't bother you nearly as much as everyone else.

Aerion finds this endlessly entertaining.

While half the court complains about the weather, you're perfectly comfortable.

He acts as though this is evidence of Dornish superiority.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He becomes strangely competitive about Dornish food.

The first time you complained that King's Landing food is bland, Aerion takes it personally.

A week later he's demanding cooks learn Dornish recipes.

The results are mixed.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Aerion is fiercely protective of your place at court.

Some lords view a Dornish princess or noblewoman as an outsider.

Aerion takes great offense to this.

In his mind, you're not the outsider.

Everyone else is.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He enjoys watching you make traditional courtiers uncomfortable.

Not deliberately.

Just by existing.

A woman who speaks too freely, laughs too loudly, and refuses to act embarrassed about either.

Aerion finds the reactions hilarious.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He absolutely loves when you switch into your native accent after you get angry.

Especially during arguments.

The stronger the accent becomes, the more he knows he's won himself a lecture.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Whenever you talk about missing Dorne, Aerion listens.

Really listens.

Which surprises people because Aerion rarely cares about anyone else's homesickness or feelings.

But he'll sit there for hours listening to stories about deserts, water gardens, and summer feasts.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ If you visit Dorne together, Aerion becomes even more unbearable.

He's already arrogant.

Now he's convinced the entire principality should admire his wife as much as he does.

By the end of the visit, half of Dorne thinks he's ridiculous.

The other half thinks it's funny.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ The thing Aerion loves most is that you never seem intimidated by him.

Dornish culture has a reputation throughout Westeros for producing people who are bold, passionate, and stubborn.

You embody every bit of it.

Where others see a dangerous prince and lower their eyes, you meet his gaze and argue back.

And Aerion, for all his pride, cannot get enough of it.

—

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

This was super fun to do :3 maybe I'll write a fanfic... Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Dornish reader

Dorne is the most beautiful part of Westeros, you think to yourself, shifting uncomfortably in your saddle. At least Dorne had the sun, and clear blue skies, and friendly people who were more than willing to allow a noble lady the opportunity to observe their parties and songs without being an active participant.

And Dorne has my books, you think, miserably, whereas Storm’s End has rain and air that stinks of the ocean and burly men with no respect.

Your father studies your face, etched in a scowl, and he smiles at your misery.

‘Cheer up, my daughter, it is but a week or two in this part of Westeros before you can return to your sisters.”

My sisters, you lament, again silently, because your father doesn’t deserve to hear your voice at the moment, have been left in Dorne because my eldest sister refuses to claim her throne and instead would prefer to be an academic, leaving me as heir. I’m going to murder her in her sleep.

Despite your murderous thoughts, you really do love your sister and could never fault her for forgoing the duties of an heir, especially when that is exactly what you want to do at times. She’s never been one for any of it, she’s never had the social energy to do what you do, even if you hate it all the same, however, you would rather suffer the horrors of diplomacy and meetings than leave your younger siblings to the wolves by abdicating, which is something you’re absolutely not bitter about your sister doing to you. Besides, your mother might go into hysterics if you were to renounce your inheritance, too. 

You scowl again, pressing closer to your horse in some attempt to keep warm against the winds that seem to batter you. The weather at Storm’s End is…temperamental, as your books say. Sometimes, it’s rain and winds angry enough that they can pull a rider fully off the saddle, others with a sun that shines with favour upon the land, and some days, the fog will settle upon the earth like a living being and block out everything from sight.

You hate it here. 

You hate your father for bringing you here, the way a teenage girl hates to be dragged around like a lapdog, especially by her parents.

You have a feeling that you’ll hate the tourney too, being the only lady of noble birth close in age to the jousters and still unwed. You just hope that you’ll be able to fade into the background as much as you can.

Your jewellery, heavy earrings that you’re accustomed to, bangles and rings, all jingle as you move, your entire party’s accessories making the same noises as the wind pushes the metal around.

You drag the hood of your cloak up higher, pinning it more securely beneath your chin.

“Besides, we might even find a match for you here,” your father continues, brushing past your silence as if it’s something he’s used to, which he very well might be, considering how many times your sister would do the same when talks of her inheriting the title would arise. Honestly, you think he might just be relieved your silence is not as angry or intense as hers. “I hear Lord Baratheon’s son is quite charming. What was his name?’

One of your escorting guards cuts in- a Ser Doral who has served your father with loyalty since they were children, training together in your home’s grounds.

“Ser Lyonel, I believe.”

Your father clicks his fingers, precious jewellery and armbands on his hands and forearms clinking together with the movement.

“Yes, Ser Lyonel Baratheon.”

You try to stop your grimace, though it doesn’t seem to work if the amused look your father gives you is any indication. Ser Lyonel Baratheon is a rogue, an animal, a brute, and frequents the whorehouses if the rumours you hear are to be believed. Besides, it’s not as if you’re in possession of any famed Dornish beauty, like your sisters. You’re far too tall for the men in Westeros, and your body is packed with hard muscle from training with the men, at your mother’s protests, your face is soft, not angular, and your canines are sharp and pointed. You’re not especially pretty in Dorne, and you’re likely even less so in Storm’s End.

You doubt that any of the men here in Storm’s End for Ser Lyonel Baratheon’s Nameday tourney will take any passing notice of you at all.

“Ah yes, wed me to a man I’ve never met, father. I thought our family wasn’t in the business of selling our daughters,” you snark, finally breaking your silence, making your father grin. He knows you don’t really have any heat behind your words when you snipe at him.

“There’s that sharp-tongue of yours. ‘Sides, you needn’t worry; I have no intentions of marrying you off before your sister is to wed.”

You roll your eyes.

“How many times is she to refuse before you will believe her rejection of a husband?”

“Up until her next nameday, I’d think.”

He’s teasing but it irks something inside you, like he doesn’t truly see you or your sisters as capable of making decisions for your future. It’s a feeling that you’re depressingly used to; your own feelings being overwritten by parents who hover too close by for you to truly be independent. It comes from a place of love, you know this, but sometimes you wish that they’d loosen their hands from the reins.

“She’s very firmly set in her ways, father.” you know this song and dance, you hear it most days; putting your sister down to make your parents acknowledge her wishes and sometimes your own. It never makes you feel better, because your loyalty has always been to your sisters first, no matter how they may see it.

Your father hums, non-committal, and you decide to drop the subject for the moment.

“When will we be stopping to rest?”

“Not until we arrive at the fortress, nearly there now, maybe ten leagues or so.”

You groan and press your cold fingers to your horse’s fur, trying to warm them.

“I joke with you, daughter. You can see the fortress now, I bid you look up.”

You do, and see the towering fortress loom above you, even from miles away, it’s large and all-encompassing. Impenetrable, if the whispers are to be believed, with walls imbued with spellwork and home to great warriors.

“You remember where you have to stand?” Your father asks, looking towards you again.

“Behind your chair.”

“As is expected of the heir to my title.” 

You look at him, searching, but his face has already turned back to look forward to the fortress. Your father is curious, or rather, mercurial, and changes his words with the wind, when it suits him. You’re his heir sometimes, and not, at others. He doesn’t want to give up hope that your sister will change her mind and take the title, though you know it's impossible. It has brought your mother’s ire many a time, and, though you loathe to admit it, yours too. He changes his mind on who his true heir is, on his approval or disapproval of your sister's choices, on your build and body.

The only constant, your mother has said, whilst braiding your hair or feeding you fruit that tastes of angry tears and salt, is that he loves you, and he wants the best for you.

“I’m not the heir.”

“Yet. Your sister will not take it, you and I both know that. She will likely join the Septas on her next Nameday and I cannot fault her for that, I think.”

“You cannot,” you agree, neutrally, looking back towards the fortress, getting closer and closer. Too much support for her choices will risk his ire, and you are not willing to do that right now. You are not used to having open conversations about the future. You’re not used to talking about your sister without her knowing, either.

“Which means that you are heir to my title,” he glances back at you, before smiling again, easily, “unless you too, decide to leave me for the Septas.”

You snort. Impossible. You’d go insane with all their rules and rigidity, and drive many of them to insanity too, with your incessant curiosity.

“An offer that seems more and more compelling the more time I spend doing my duties.”

He laughs, boisterously, throwing his head back, and for a moment, you’re reminded of when you were a child, playing games and telling jokes with him.

There’s silence for another moment, broken only by your guard’s murmurs and the blood rushing in your ears as the fortress becomes larger and larger. You take a breath in and hold, like your handmaids taught you when you were curled up inside the space between your closet and bookshelf, shaking, trembling, crying. You shiver, and you’re not sure whether it’s from apprehension or from the cold.

Your father speaks once more, guiding his horse a little closer to yours, forcing you to straighten up and listen closely as his voice drops lower.

“Daughter, I want you to listen to me. These men will be bigger, stronger and louder than you. You will likely be in their presence most of the time, as the heirs tend to socialise together away from the lords, but you mustn't let them overpower you,” distantly, you hear your breath hitch at the thought, from fear, from the curdle of anxiety in your stomach, like milk before it rots, “You are an heir in your own right. You are my daughter. Dorne’s daughter, and you have her sun and strength flowing in your blood. You will stand behind me, as is expected, and when your duties are done, you will have to prove yourself, over, and over, and over again, because they will always see you as inferior.”

The words choke you, vines crawling up your neck and latching around your throat, and your stomach rolls and something pools in the deepest hollow of your body- dread.

“You are not inferior. You are not weak. You are my daughter and you will prove it, armoured or not.”

You try not to think about the suit of armour you’d stashed in one of your trunks, covered by nightgowns and underclothes- your father’s old set that you had resized for your measurements and a sword that you had the pommel readjusted for your fit.

“Armoured or not.” You agree, easily, the half-lie sitting on your tongue like ash.

They give you an hour to freshen up before you and your father have to join the Stormlords for some kind of introductory dinner. It’s not something that you’re looking forward to, which your father knows, evidently, by the way he’s looking at you.

Gently, he places his hands on your cheeks and forces you to meet his gaze.

“Listen to me. I will do all the speaking. Do not be nervous. If you are asked a question, answer it. They will likely not address you. You just have to stand behind my chair. You’ve done this before, remember?”

“Not like this! I’ve never done this outside of Dorne!”

“You’ll be fine,” he promises, “they will not eat you like a pack of wolves. And if they do, well, you’ll have nothing to worry about, then, right?”

You smack his arm lightly at the joke, though your dread eases minutely.

“Made you feel better, no?”

You nod and grasp the silk that acts as a shawl a little tighter in your hands. He brushes a stray hair out of your face and plants a kiss on your forehead.

“You’ll be fine. If you need a moment, tap my shoulder.”

You nod again, feeling a little bit like you might puke. Your father pushes open the doors and steps inside, stopping just inside the entryway.

“I was not aware that the King and his heirs would be joining us for the tourney.” He says, finally, and your heart drops into your feet.

The King.

The Princes.

King Daeron the Good and two of his sons, Lord Baelor ‘Breakspear’ and Lord Maekar ‘Anvil’.

You very well might puke. 

Your father bows and you drop into a curtsy after a moment, stepping out from behind him. You can practically hear the Stormlords’ eyebrows raise at the gesture. The sound of yours and your father’s jewellery clicking and ringing sounds too loud in the silence of the room. There are only four heirs here, you realise: you, the princes, and Ser Lyonel Baratheon. The other Storm heirs must be in their tents or training already.

“If I had known that the royal family would be here, I would have brought more gifts,” your father says in jest, and it seems to fall flat for all of a moment before the king laughs softly.

“No matter, Lord Dalt. It was a spontaneous decision that led me here for Ser Lyonel Baratheon’s Nameday alongside my sons. Present your gifts to the Lord of Storm’s End.”

Your father nods, straightening from his bow and you do the same, trying to discreetly wipe your clammy palms on the silk of your shawl. He waves in three of your guards, two carrying heavy boxes and one with a sheathed dagger laid flat in his palms.

“For the Lord Baratheon, we bring desserts and sweet puddings, for your tastes.” The box opens and the sickly sweet aroma of Rasmalai and Barfi permeates the air, before settling.

You say the next line, as is customary:

“For the Lady Baratheon, we bring jewels and jewellery to earn her favour,” you smile, trying to be polite, but worry it comes out slightly more impishly than you’d like. Your father takes over, and you try to melt into the background.

“For Ser Ser Lyonel Baratheon, we bring a dagger forged by the royal blacksmith, with your initials and the stag of your house on the hilt.”

Servants step forward to take the boxes, though Ser Lyonel steps up himself to take the dagger from the guard beside you. He’s taller than you, which is not something you’re used to, considering the way you seem to tower over your sisters and most others in Dorne. His hair is curled, pressed into locks painstakingly arranged and pressed to his forehead. 

“Thank you, Lord Dalt. The craftsmanship is beautiful. I’ll cherish her forever.” 

You meet eyes with him, for a moment, and he winks, in some secret, private moment meant only for the two of you before you cast your eyes over to your father, who’s grinning like a fool as he claps Ser Lyonel on the shoulder and heads to his seat, leaving you to follow dumbly behind. Ser Lyonel is attractive, you suppose, in some kind of boyish, rogueish, charming way.

You settle yourself behind your father when he sits down, falling into the easy cadence of fading into the background and listening and observing rather than being an active participant in conversations you wish to have no part in. This is not Dorne, where you know the nobility, have sparred with them, have grown up with them. This is Westeros proper, and you feel ridiculously out of your depth.

It’s a while before you speak again, and that’s out of habit- your father makes an offhand comment about crop yields in your jurisdiction of Dorne and you correct him, quietly, almost absentmindedly. You’ve always had a sharp mind but you know things, facts, objective truths, even better. The table goes silent for a moment before continuing, a lapse in the conversation caused by a woman speaking out of turn, which is not what they’re used to.

I am not in Dorne, you remind yourself, over and over again, Westeros is not like Dorne.

The king’s eyes haven’t left you since your interruption, which unsettles you, but you meet his gaze, stoic. He studies you, and you feel a little like the bugs your youngest sister likes to pull out of the dirt and examine.

“Why don’t the heirs leave us be,” he says suddenly, holding eye contact for a moment more before making eye contact with the rest of the lords, “Lord Baratheon, perhaps your boy could take them on a tour of the grounds?”

Lord Baratheon nods and Ser Lyonel steps back from the chair, the other heirs following suit. Your father catches your wrist and gives you a meaningful look, and you understand. You always understand, even without words.

Armoured or not.

Most definitely not armoured, though you’d give your life to at least have your sword with you at the moment. ‘The moment’ being sat on the walls of the battlements with the other heirs all scattered similarly around you. Ser Lyonel seems bored, lounging atop the bricks with his antler crown beside him. You had sat down gingerly, unwilling to get your silks wet or dirty, but the nerves you’ve been experiencing keeps you quiet.

You shift slightly and the combination of that and the wind forces your jewellery to knock and ring out, making all the other heirs turn to look at you.

Unfortunately, you feel like a doe in front of a hunter, or, well, several hunters. 

The wind blows again and your earrings jingle sharply in your ears, making your eye twitch.

“Fuck this,” you mumble, as low as you can, thanking every god above that your darker complexion doesn’t show your embarrassment that easily, as you tear them out of your ears, along with the bracelets stacked and lining your arms. You leave only the armbands and two of the rings you wear still on your person, which you fiddle with.

Ser Lyonel stands and ambles towards you, his lanky, not quite grown into, frame coming to rest beside you whilst he picks up one of your earrings, the ones with the small, minuscule bells on them. He says nothing, rolling the gold in his hands.

“So.” You start when it becomes clear that no one else is going to do it.

“So,” Lord Baelor agrees, seemingly just as lost for words as the rest of you seem to be, which is, weirdly reassuring, actually. The Heir to the Iron Throne is just as unsettled as you are in this unfamiliar environment. 

You sigh, resigning yourself to your fate

“I’m not used to talking with other nobles,” you explain, halfway trying to reason with yourself and also perhaps halfway trying to start a conversation, “I only really converse with my sisters or the heirs from noble houses close to mine. This is… well, quite honestly, this is new territory for me.”

Lord Baelor nods and nudges his brother to get him to stop glaring at the sea.

“It is unfamiliar to us, too, Lady Dalt. We’re not used to heiresses joining us as equals.”

You wrinkle your nose at the title, and maybe a little bit at the content of his words.

“That’s my mother’s title, I’d really just prefer it if you all called me by name.”

He nods and obliges, rolling the syllables of your name around his mouth like he’s saying it for the first time.

“Let’s stop with the diplomatic shit,” Ser Lyonel butts in, a little rudely if you were to say so, “you know we have questions. We’d like to ask them.”

You think for a moment, weighing your options before shrugging and simply wrapping your shawl a little more firmly to protect against the winds.

“Go ahead. I will try my best to answer as many as I can.”

“You’re the heir to your father’s title?” Lord Maekar, surprisingly, starts.

You nod.

“That is true, yes.”

“But you’re a woman.”

“That is also true, yes,” at his unamused look, you sigh and continue, “Dorne does not have such rigid expectations of women as you do in your kingdoms. A woman is allowed to inherit. I am allowed to inherit.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you’re the second child of Lord Dalt, are you not?” Lord Baelor asks the next question, “so why are you the named heir and not your sibling?”

“I have one older sister who has made it clear since, well, since I was a babe, that she did not want to inherit. Her heart has always laid with academics, and it is practically in stone that she will join the Septa’s on her next Nameday. This, obviously, makes her ineligible, and since then, I’ve been groomed to be the heir.”

You wave your hands a little bit, in an awkward motion that just has the heirs staring at you even more awkwardly.

“Apologies, I’ll- sorry.”

The tension dissipates then, at least between you, Lord Baelor and Lord Maekar. Ser Lyonel is still beside you, examining your abandoned jewellery with careful hands, setting down earrings to pick up rings, abandoning those in favour of the bangles.

As you converse casually with Lord Baelor, he touches your arm lightly, holding up one of the earrings you set down.

“I’ve never seen a design like these before,” he holds them up and the small diamonds glitter in the light, the sun finally making an appearance.

“Oh, they’re only made in Dorne. We call these Jhumka, which kind of translates to ‘little bells’.” You take them from his hand and jingle them lightly, letting their soft tone ring out, “these are the formal, less ceremonial ones, because they’re smaller and lighter. The ones I’ll be wearing whilst watching the tourney will be much heavier and much larger.”

Ser Lyonel grins, handsomely, and you fight the urge to scream.

“You won’t be competing, my lady?”

Oh, he’s mocking you. Or…teasing? You’re not entirely sure, but you bristle anyway.

“I would if I were allowed to.”

Ser Lyonel laughs again, voice booming and almost drowning out the sound of the waves below.

“I jest, Lady Dalt. Though you’d be a fine competitor, I think.”

“Ser, I insist you call me by my name.”

“Then you, me,” he leans closer, and your name falls from his lips like honey. You lean back, intimidated, and feel as if you’ve lost some sort of game he was playing. He holds up the earrings again, this time to his ears, as if seeing how he’d look with them.

“Do they suit me?” He’s asking Lord Baelor and Lord Maekar now too, though they look decidedly less amused than you do. You smile, and your natural mischief bleeds through as you start to feel a little more comfortable with the three of them.

“Undeniably so.”

He smiles at you again, all teeth, like some wolf, and looks down at the earrings again, as if trying to figure out their secret.

“How do you put these on? My mother rarely wears ear pieces and I’ve never seen her actually do herself up with them.”

You snort and take the earrings from him, unscrewing the back as you do.

“I had holes put into my lobes when I was a babe. Small, tiny cuts, and for the first few years of my life I had a baby set of small ear pieces that did not leave those holes, after I mastered dexterity, and stopped crying anytime someone would try, I was able to change out the earrings in my first piercing.”

You take the sharp end of the earring and push it through, showing all three of them the exit hole on the other side of your lobe. Ser Lyonel leans in even closer to study the jewellery, breath ghosting over your skin, and your eyes widen slightly with panic before he rocks back on his heels.

“They’re pretty. The colours… they suit your complexion well,” he tells you, and for once, you feel earnestness in his words.

“I’d offer to gift you them, but you don’t have the hole for it.” You joke with him, taking the earring out again and rubbing the aching lobe between your fingers.

“Do you know how they did the piercing?” He asks you, eyes lighting up.

You nod.

“It’s a simple procedure. A needle, poppyseed milk, a citrus fruit-“

Before you even finish describing the procedure, he’s already bolted off into the fortress proper, confusing both you and the princes. Lord Baelor shrugs.

“Ser Lyonel has always been eccentric. Mad, sometimes, some say.” It would be hypocritical, coming from any other Targaryen, the Noble House of incest and insanity, but Lord Baelor seems… in control of himself.

“You can just say that the man’s fucking crazy,” Lord Maekar grumbles, the profanity shocking a laugh out of you.

When Lionel comes back, he’s carrying a jar of what just be poppyseed milk from the look of it, and several citrus fruits. He sits beside you and uses his new dagger to cut open one fruit.

“Can you do a piercing for me?”

You stare at him, bewildered.

“Me? I-I’m not a maester- I can’t-“

“But you know how to do it.”

“In theory! I’ve never physically done one! Besides, the risks are high! The wound can fester, or close, or I could cut entirely through your ear-!”

“Or it could go perfectly fine and I can adorn myself with jewels gifted to me by the honourable Lady Dalt.”

“But-“

“I’m prepared to prostrate and beg, lady.” He shifts, as if he truly intends to fall to his knees and beg you to put a hole in his ear.

“I-what- fine!”

He cheers and does a little celebratory dance around the perimeter of the tower you’re on, which is…it’s kind of endearing, if you’re being honest. Lord Maekar rubs the bridge of his nose like it will stave off his headache but Lord Baelor smiles at you, all comfortable and peaceful.

“I hope you’re ready.”

“For what?”

“For his utterly insufferable he’s gonna be when he realises you’re not immune to his… charms.”

“What? I’m not-“ you sputter, “he’s not-“

“I jest with you, lady. You haven’t grown up around him, which means his abnormalities and quirks are so alien to you that you simply don’t know what to do.”

He’s teasing you, which you’d appreciate in any other moment but now.

Ser Lyonel comes down to sit beside you again, brushing his curls out of the way so you can start the process.

You hesitate, hands hovering over your supplies. You wrest a pin free of your clothing, leaving your shawl with a little less structural support. You stab it into the citrus fruit and hand Ser Lyonel the jar of poppyseed.

“Rub this into your ear.”

“Why?”

You shrug.

“This is just how I’ve seen them do it. When I got the rest of mine done,” you pull some of your hair back to reveal the multiple holes in your ear, “they had me rub poppyseed juice over it to make it hurt less.”

He nods solemnly and drops a little bit of the juice onto his fingers, rubbing his earlobe between his fingers until you move forward and take the pin out of the lemon, working it into his ear and waiting for the pop of an exit wound. Once you manage that, you take the earring, also left in the citrus fruit, and press it in just after taking the pin out.

He hisses out in slight pain at the sting but obediently turns so you can do his other ear, repeating the process.

Once it’s done, he looks absolutely delighted by the new weight on his ears, making you laugh.

“I have less gaudy ones in my trunk I can give you if you don’t want these.”

“My lady, when has a Baratheon ever shied away from gaudiness?” He stands on the brick of the parapet, making you tilt your head up to look at him, “Baratheon’s are stags, our crest is a set of antlers, like the stags, who use them to fight and to attract mates! These jewels will be my antlers, my lady, and I will wear them with pride.”

You open your mouth to reply, a jest, a joke, something teasing to feel more at ease, but one of your guards arrives at the entrance to the tower the four of you are at, out of breath.

“My Lady, the king requests that the heirs return to the councilroom.” 

Your stomach rolls again into a knot that you don’t particularly want to acknowledge.

“Thank you, Ser Jon. We’ll go now.”

Ser Lyonel pushes open the door to the council chamber with one hand, bidding you go first, which you cede to the princes, who cede back to you, in a rotation that keeps on going until Ser Lyonel simply walks in himself and lets you, Lord Baelor, and Lord Maekar make your own way inside.

Lord Baratheon stares at his son with a blank face, making your stomach clench even harder, and your own father meets your eyes with something akin to horror in his own.

“My boy,” Lord Baratheon starts, “are those… earrings?”

Ser Lyonel simply nods.

“And who- how did you- who put the holes in your ears?” To your relief, Lord Baratheon seems confused, not angry, which is a small mercy, you suppose.

“Lady Dalt. I begged her to do it after seeing how compelling she looked with them on.”

Your father grabs onto your wrist, resting on the back of the chair, as Lord Baratheon (and most of the other lords) turn to stare at you. 

Once again, you feel as if you’re a doe being watched by hunters.

“Don’t look at her with such accusations in your gaze. I asked her to do it for me, and she, so graciously, gifted me a pair of her own ear pieces.”

Your father’s head snaps towards you and he pushes your hair away from your ears, seeing one of the many piercings in your ears empty. His expression is one of bewilderment.

You shrug back at him.

“He really liked them.”

“So you just gave them to him.”

You nod.