•you practically pounce on him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in the crook of his neck to inhale the scent of him

•he freezes for a second

•then he chuckles and wraps his arms around you, leaning down to whisper in your ear that if you'd wanted his scent, all you had to do was ask

•he grabs the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. Then he raises his other arm, resting his hand behind his head. He grins at you

•and then he presses you forward, smushing your face right into his armpit

•you do your best to maintain your composure, halfheartedly pushing against him, but eventually you take a breath and shudder

•he chuckles again, and it's only then that you realize you've been whimpering and pressing yourself against him

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel, who does scavenger hunt, hare and hounds, or capture the flag in the castle or in the nearby woods. If the game is held inside, he would teach children how to use different ways of communicating, secret messages and ciphering; if it’s outside, along it children would learn how to use maps and terrain cues to find their way, where to find the best place for hiding the banner or how to create a perfect ambush. he just wants to be sure his children will be safe in woods and in case of the worst possible scenario, they’d be able to communicate and defend themselves

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel, who would teach children about Westeros politics, making them draw a kingdom and an objective to fulfil during the game, in any way they want. Making alliances, creating markets, producing goods, using natural resources of the kingdom. Declaring a war? Fine, but who will help you? How do you plan it?

The children both love it and despise it because Lyonel and you would join in the game, not making it easy for them at all.

It usually is held only once a year, as the last game ended with a heated argument when Stormlands and its allies, had to acknowledge superiority of the North after an unsuccessful campaign.

The youngest daughter, refusing to bend the knee, yelled, “The only thing I will be waving is your decapitated head in front of your weeping mother!”

To which you and Lyonel, acting as responsible adults, finished the game, barely holding in the laugh that erupted after children’s departure, “Let’s hope they’d never get involved in politics.”

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel, who takes children camping, close enough for you to see a thin column of smoke back in Storm’s End. usually, you go as well, but sometimes children insist on going just with father to observe the constellations and plan things to surprise you

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel, who, no matter what, has the first dances during feasts in Storm’s End and elsewhere with his ladies. starting with his wife and then daughters by seniority, or the other way round so there’s no squabble between children, and everyone is happy and included. though, the first dance is always for his wife

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel, who enjoys the quiet rambling of his children when they sit with him in the solar as Lyonel works on papers, creating a pleasant distraction from mundane duties.

When younger, they would draw pictures, he has stashed in a special place, when older they’d be writing or reading books, silently enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes asking about a hard word or clarification on the book.

You would join them with some snacks and drinks, reminding to take brakes and rest a little, as you sit and work on your letters.

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel, who would get back from a travel or hunt, dead in the night, dreaming only of sleep, and finds the bed occupied by you and the children, deeply asleep atop. Wondering how all of you managed to squeeze in, he gently takes the book from your hands, which was read to the children as you tried to stay vigilant for his return.

You wake some time later, scrunching nose not remembering when and how you put blanket on yourself, let alone on children. And then you spot him. Complete bundle of misery, asleep in armchair under another cover. No pillow, head lulling to one side. You’d wake him up with soft whisper and careful shake of his arm.

“Are you mad? Come to bed at once.”

“I didn’t want to wake you or children.”

“Most admirable but you know they sleep like a log. Come, I’ve missed you.”

How could he say no to that? He follows you and on the scarce place that is left in bed, you mould yourself into his embrace, tightly pressing your back to Lyonel’s front, slowly dosing off back into sleep as his steady breath tickles your ear.

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel, who, since the birth of his first daughter, is creating her dowry together with you. Each year, usually on the name day, you’d pack things for her. essentials like coin and other valuables and also fine dresses, bedding, fabrics, jewellery etc., some of children’s clothes (in hope of further use in future obv), toys maybe. as family grew, each of your daughters had their own chest that was slowly filling up until the moment of them getting married (even after marriage, Lyonel would still be spoiling his babies with absurdly expensive gifts)

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel, who is a serial collector of trinkets given by or taken from his children. Like above, he’s got a special box, considerably smaller in size than dowry chests, nevertheless full of various objects. You’d find there some flower bracelets, broken wooden stag that didn’t endure the child’s pressure, pictures and cards made by them, locks of hair tied with satin ribbon (for each child, a different colour)

⋆˚࿔ husband!Lyonel, who has got a separate box for things connected to his lady wife like the favour in her house’s colours he got, faded in time, and it’s torn a little on edges; a handkerchief with embroidered stag, she did when he courted her; a small, gold signet ring that was her favourite until it got mysteriously lost; dried flowers, delicate white plant with tiny petals, slightly pink in the middle, that grows only in one specific space in the forest, she likes so much and resembles him of their wedding day

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel, who questions all of the children about his antler crown that mysteriously got broken, gods know how and when since nobody recall a thing… that’s until one of children casts a shadow of suspicion upon another and they start blaming each other, shouting, pointing and almost throwing fists.

the truth being, you did it a few weeks ago and left it, superficially repairing the breaking point, and Lyonel never suspects you. You’re too pure and too good to do something this wretched.

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel, who, once in a while, is causing so much rumble and turmoil across the Storm's End, as he's looking for one particular object, like a dagger or a specific piece of armour that no one has seen in years (some of the family members doubt it even existed), or simply embodying the "neutral chaotic" character of his that children begin to question your sanity and life choices.

"Why do you have him as a husband?"

"I have no idea," you would answer, still reading the book despite the ongoing pandemonium of shouts and running servants, looking for long-gone objects, "Why do you have him as your dad?" you question back, taking a sip of your afternoon tea.

"Well, and whose fault is that, mother?"

dividers by @saradika-graphics ❤️

taglist (🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻): @angstybadger @sarcasticamaleont @serakyla @fuckyeahmoodywhitemen @mossymissy @holdthedorian @pumpkingirl03 @ncdoppalapudi @wordsaresimple-imnot @spiritual-blob-of-anxiety @baugettelord @krazehiveh @zealousdazementality @simonedk @nervouspeanutbread @cupcake710me @yuinno @ginger-n-coco @punk-in-docs @courtney0-0 @fuckyeahmoodywhitemen

if you wanna join 🦌list let me know in a comment 💕

Maekar's fist tightens at his side. You steel yourself for his harsh anger, but what comes out is defeated. Quiet. His purple eyes latch onto you, shadowed by silver eyebrows. "Do not use that word lightly, boy. Do you not use the eyes the gods have given you? Your mother's face. Your lady aunt's face. She wears it as plainly for all to see. Or have you forgotten?"

"No." Aerion's voice is as cold as frostfire. "I cannot."

He finally cuts you with his stare. It is a wretched vision. Grief, hate, betrayal. You do not know how to grapple with the last of it.

Prince Aerion paces the length of the room, hand clutching the back of the chair, dusting along the surface of the desk, circling you, and you twist to watch him, over your shoulder, behind you, back around your other side. You feel his gaze as if waving a torch too close to skin.

He reaches the door. Eyes meet, and you part your lips, the urge to say something coming, but you are not sure what you would've said if you had the chance. Aerion leaves without a second look back, slips into the dark hallway, and then you are left alone.

Left alone with another prince standing across the room. It might as well be half a world away.

You close your eyes slowly, gather your bearings. Placing your hands primly behind your back, you restack each vertebrae in your neck, let them fall into a pillar of which you centre yourself upon. That, you think, is your armour.

"Prince Maekar, I apologize for all that has occurred tonight." The air is warm. You come suddenly aware of it; the subtle scent of beeswax, the smell of old books. It presses against your skin, upon your injuries. Your face pulses. Your fingers ache. It is bone-deep. "Whatever punishment you see fit, I shall take it. But please, do not—"

"Is your father here as well?"

Your gaze knifes to him. "Yes, but I know not what has become of him." The sight of him, still and bleeding, flashes in your memory and you shake your head minutely. "He tried to protect me. To protect us, but they beat him."

The prince lets out a brusque snort. "The greatest swordsman no longer."

"What the father sows, the son shall reap," you inform him angrily. "My father needs not be at his best to beat common swordsmen. He could have killed them, you know. It was out of his love for you that he did not."

"Love. Ha! Of which he overflows with for my brother and I, I'm sure."

"Do you doubt it?"

"I do not doubt the wrath his love has incurred. I face it now. A wraith with my wife's face. With my sister's." Prince Maekar comes close, every step heavier than the last and you see the weariness of his travels better up close. His face is so well-lined, the bags under his eyes swollen and dark. Although he had been protected from most of the elements, bits of windblown and leafy debris and droplets of rain have caught on his sleeves. His fingers brush along your wrist bone and you jolt at the pain in his expression. "A ghost to remind me of my failings."

"A weak one, then," you spit. It dredges out something bordering a sob from the pits of your stomach. "Too weak to protect the people I love. And now my brother will see my father's broken face, see all of this, and wish to kill your son."

Maekar's agony deepens as a thick, drying trail of blood pulls down your chin. "Will you not see the maester, girl? Your blood stains."

"Ser Donnel said that perhaps Prince Baelor would allow a maester to see to my people first. Whatever badges I have are nothing compared to the hurts they endure. Your son broke my cousin's finger. He snapped her livelihood in half. I'm most certain that she will never be able to puppet the same way again. The others—tell me, does Lyam still live? And Aggy, and Leonora, and Garnet. He is not yet even ten, and your men backhanded him to the ground before my very eyes."

"I do not know."

"Could you find out for me? Please."

"Later. When everything is explained to me. Clearly, and without falsehood."

"You think I lie about the abuse my friends have suffered at the hands of your son?"

His nostrils flare. "Do you aim to blame me for your misfortune?"

"Perhaps I do."

Prince Maekar's brow puckers, his tone growing hot. "Then, I would remind you that I favoured you. Had you not insisted yourself that it should be your brother who should be spared—"

"Then you would not have the Sword of the Morning so loyal to your own nephew, my prince. His sworn protector. He is worth more than half the men in the realm. Gods, you are just as my father is. Unable to let old wounds scar as if you like to watch the flesh weep. I do not care about the past, but it is as if that is all you cling to." You dig a finger into his breast. "It must be where your son gets it from. An ego so fragile by design. Was he raised to bully the smallfolk of which he rules over and have them cower in fear? Is that the way of the dragon? Is that what I am to make of this tonight?"

His lip curls into a sneer. "Do not speak of what you do not know."

"Then make me understand, kepus."

"What would you have me say?" He pushes your hand aside. "Aerion is the best of the sons I have left. The strongest warrior. Aegon is unruly. Aemon was shipped to the Citadel. You would think me proud of Daeron? You have not seen what he has become in your absence. That bright-eyed child you knew is no longer. Instead, he wallows in drink. Refuses riding, spurns the sword. Becomes melancholy at the thought of Dyanna which is often. She plagues him, I think, and yet it motivates him not."

You bristle. "Some men are not taken to the blade. Some men are poets. Some till fields. You cannot expect—"

"He is a prince of the realm. He will perform his duties with a stiff lip as the rest of us have." He grabs his goblet and drains it dry. A sniff, a grimace. "Fucking disgusting wine."

"Daeron knew her most and now must keep her alive through what fading memory he has; it is overwhelming the amount of grief that he must bear, one you cannot possibly think to let him carry alone!"

"It is a weakness that our enemies will peck at until it festers. Do you think it so long since Blackfyre that these marcher lords have forgotten that they thought mine own father unfit? That they thought him unworthy of his throne in comparison to him. Because he was not bestowed the sword and that... that bastard was."

"Careful what you say about bastards, kepus," you interrupt coolly. "You might find the ones walking around you more proud than I."

"I would find that impossible, had I not spent my years living with the one-eyed sorcerer my father insists on keeping in court." Maekar's expression: wrought iron and lip curled into a scowl. You, clenched fist, twitching eye. He forces out a restrained exhale, setting his glass down. Tempered, he begins again, "I do not want to quarrel over my son. This should be… a happier occasion."

"Would that I had the patience to pretend it is."

"Gods be damned, Daeron will move on."

"Would you have said the same to me, had I been there when my mother died?"

A low growl, deep in his chest. "She was my wife."

"And she was his mother." A fat blond baby, wide eyes peering and clumsy fingers holding onto your skirts as you walked Summerhall's gardens comes to mind. Your heart turns to stone, heavy and cold in your chest. "It is a wound you do not carry of which I cannot help but envy. How is it that it is the younger flock who had to suffer such injury whilst the elders cannot make themselves understand?"

His eyebrows furrow deeper together, a pained spasm in his cheek. Finding purchase in holding your rags to your own body, you close your eyes and inhale as steadily as you can. It comes, whistling like a flute.

"I cannot sympathize with your plight—in your disappointment in Daeron. No matter how much you do not attempt to make sense of it. You have had your soul cleaved. How lucky you can still yet live. My mother had been my entire world and now I cannot even call her face to memory." You open your eyes and fix them onto the prince who stares at you hollowly. "Do you not look at Cedrick and pity the boy that died that day? Can you not bring yourself to see that in your son?" Silence. You shake your head furiously, cheeks hot and vision blurring. "I cannot believe I thought myself so beset with grief at the thought of you. That I missed someone so cold."

"Then I have failed you as well." The defeat in his voice stuns you. Eyes widening, you feel warm fingers fold over your wrist. Maekar looks down, carefully coaxes your hand in his own scarred one and brings it to hang between them both. You feel the weight of gathering blood, the contusion where the guard had held you down to the stage. His violet eyes catch the candlelight and his thumb is a ghost along your knuckles. "Is it true what Aerion says?" His voice nearly gives from how quietly he speaks. "Did you strike my son?"

"No. No, I was already no match for his guards." Your cheeks warm as you glance about. "What will happen now?"

"I cannot in good conscience prosecute you under the pretense that you are smallfolk. Neither will my brother wish for such."

"The noble Prince Baelor unable to put aside his own personal feelings?" The sarcasm does not please anyone. He lets go and turns to his forgotten wine again and you trail after him, hands traitorously twisting in your bloodied garments. "It would be much simpler to do so. Allow me to remain unremarked. Disregard my demand for a trial by combat to sink back into the mob."

At length comes a suggestion: "Or you could return to court. The matter of succession within House Dayne is settled."

"Return after years away? They would never accept me. Nor do I want it."

"You'd rather live poor and uncertain of your next meal."

"There is honour in what I do, kepus, just as warfare is its own kind of performance." You tent your fingers on the small table, lean sideface beside him, and wait for him to look at you. When he doesn't, you cock your head and force it. "How does it look for Meryn if his older sister returned to his seat just before he came of age? A desperate grasp for power, I should think."

"Or the return of the lady long thought dead." He speaks as if it's a common thing. Your nails dig into the table. "None will care for another bastard from Dorne and her homecoming. Cede your station to Meryn and submit yourself to be his advisor. Would it not be preferred to spend your days doing nothing for your troubles tonight?"

You gawk. "Troubles? Is that how you see it? You speak as if this is some minor inconvenience that you've come upon. Dung on the sole of your shoe."

"What care do I have beyond what my men have done to you?" His tone cuts. Shaking, you turn away. "I cannot remove your bastardy, but I can present you as a highborn on the morrow. A noble of House Dayne and my own niece as you are. It would do better than to have you with the others that have earned Aerion's ire."

Your face twitches and the air grows thick in your lungs. With a quickening heart, you stride back to the desk in search of colder air but everywhere smoulders. You clutch onto the back of a chair as you pass. "I would rather be with those others, my prince. Prince Baelor, I am sure, would agree. My being here complicates things too much."

You hear his scowl. "Damn it all. It should've been he who saw you first."

"Then how unfortunate for you to lay eyes on your niece." He whirls around but you only meet his gaze severely, daring him to rebuke you. Another knock sounds on the door. Maekar barks his allowance and the door swings open, revealing a household guard. The man bows shortly, gaze darting between you and the prince before pivoting pointedly to face the prince fully.

"My prince, Prince Baelor requests your presence in the main hall. He will have the hedge knight brought to him."

Your eyes widen and your head snaps to your uncle. Witheringly: "Your lord Hand summons you. It would be best for you to go."

"Quiet. Tell him I'm on my way." The man does not leave right away. Maekar's lips set into a deep growl as he demands, "What?"

"W-What shall we do with the prisoner, my prince?"

The glower Maekar sends you is just as cold. It gnaws on your heart, but you do not buckle beneath the pain of it. "She is no prisoner. She is a lady of House Dayne and you will treat her as such. Ser Donnel." The knight of silver and white peers through the doorframe. "The maids will know what to do with her. Then bring her to some unused room. Stand guard over her."

"Not back to the gaol?"

Violet eyes cut you. "I will not have you in Ashford's styes."

"Well, of course not. That is why I asked if I would go back to the gaol." You march towards the door. "But I think I shall seclude myself to the gardens. There won't be anyone out there in the black of night."

"And that would be wise to you?"

"It seems you will have Ser Donnel guarding me no matter what I say, so why does it matter if it were out beneath the sky or in some stuffy chamber?" you question sharply, turning to him. Prince Maekar's eyes widen imperceptibly as you tug your costume close to your ribs. "What of Ser Duncan? What will be of him?"

"There will be judges," Maekar reveals begrudgingly. "Lord Ashford, his liege lord the Longthorn, my brother, his son, and I."

"Valarr, as well?"

"Yes. Seeing as you've declared your intention for a trial by combat, we would have to push whatever punishment my son would see fit on the hedge knight overmorrow."

"A punishment for defending the innocent. I hope he, too, demands a trial by combat."

"Is Aerion not of your blood?"

"Aerion had my father beat, my friend slaughtered for all I know. He demanded… that my tongue be taken as his trophy. If I am cruel to wish for some harm come upon him, then he is monstrous."

With that, you complete your journey to the door, to where Ser Donnel, who has grown grey over the years but has somehow retained his kind blue eyes, awaits. You stroll past him and begin your descent down the staircase. You hear a muted, "My prince," before he track you down and you pause, listening to the kingsguard rounds the corner.

You peer up at him, waiting. He merely nods, and you continue down to the landing where there's more space to walk side-by-side.

"My lady. Shall we?"

An offered arm.

"Thank you, ser."

And so your hand comes around his elbow, and holds on tight as he begins to escort you. You are blind to directions, and the pain begins to dull into another facet of the world that you must live with, another stone to your already aching shoulders.

You cannot focus more than putting one foot in front of the other.

Your uncle, once the man you could run to and trust to lift you into his arms, has been someone you dreamed of reuniting with. You're not sure which setting you liked best when you thought it—before the Iron Throne or perhaps in the gardens of Summerhall, along the river where he once brought you fishing with Daeron and Aerion and Cedrick, all ducklings in a row and you their proud leader. Maybe somewhere else entirely. Sometimes, Dorne. At Starfall. And in your fantasies, you had been welcomed, and all your cousins had missed you, even the ones you never knew. Matarys would run up, and he and Meryn would be fast friends and trailing after little brothers would be their older ones. Valarr and Cedrick, who have grown closer in your absence. You had hoped they could rely on one another, and Valarr would come to you. Valarr, older, perhaps married, perhaps not. You hoped—

You stop.

So rarely is life as sweet as what the mind creates.

The weight of Ser Donnel is heavy and dependable, the subtle clink of his armour and the scratch of his scabbard filling the silence as you rouse from your thoughts. They walk a long corridor now that spans the length of the training grouds to your left, blue-silver moonlight stretching gentle fingers through the windows. It makes the kingsguard beside you glow and you glance at him admiringly, reaffirming your grip on his arm.

The shift makes him look at you and you return it with a thin smile.

"You look well, Ser Donnel. The kingsguard befits you."

"Befits me well to stand about," he agrees teasingly. "It has been a long time, my lady." His own smile comes faintly. "You've grown into a beautiful young woman. I could not have foreseen that this is how we meet again."

"So regrettably?"

"No. Never. It was unavoidable with your perchant for trouble."

"My mother's disregard for consequence seems to run thick in our family," you mumble, touching your chin absently. "Compounded with my father's abhorrence for the princes."

"Not unwarranted."

"No." You drop your hand. "It just makes everything so complicated." A silent exhale leaves you before you clutch onto him with your other hand. "You have no idea how relieved I am it was you that came, Ser Donnel. I am… I am very happy to see you. I hope you know that."

The kingsguard's swallows, blinking down at you. In the moonlight, his blue eyes seem like glass. His gaze flickers across your face before he procures a white handkerchief and offers it to you. "You would do well to have the maester look at you."

"I have no need him. He has others he must care for."

"Would it not be better to save yourself some grief and numb the pain?"

"I don't care," you insist. "What of my cousin?"

The soft line of the kingsguard's mouth calms you and he pats your hand. "Confused, no doubt, but she only asked for you. Ser Pol was already instructing them to pack when the maester arrived but he had given pause enough to allow him to bind her finger and leave a poultice. Come, my lady."

As you traipse through the halls, you watch with fatigue the quiet bustling of servants in the halls. Some replenish candles, scraping off the wax that has pooled. Others come with baskets of linen and laundry, preparing for the morning no doubt before they too must retire for the night.

You cannot help the tendril of unease. The corridors are cold, and the night does little to ease the isolation that bites at the fringes of your nerves.

A third pair of steps rounds the corner behind you. You glance over your shoulder, tensing, just as Ser Donnel settles his other hand on your knuckles and you glance at him.

"Worry not, my lady," he murmurs. "Ser Roland!"

"Ser Donnel." The approaching kingsguard grins, his hand firm on the pommel of his sword. He, too, has pale eyes which flit from his sworn brother to you. When you don't look at him fully, he frowns in confusion. He stops before them both, easing his weight back on a foot, lifts his nose to you. "What has the prince charged you with this time, old man?"

"The escort of this lady here, ser." Ser Donnel bows his head, rocking back and forth on his heels. Sneaking a glance at you out of the corner of his eye, he continues on, "The daughter of Lady Della, may she rest."

"Lady Della?" The look that scrutinizes you this time is sharper. Ser Roland takes in your scrappy clothing, the blood and bruising. "By the gods, girl. The princeling's made a hard bed to lay in this time. Does the Hand know of this?"

You shake your head. "No, ser." A gentle tugging of Ser Donnel urges you forward again and the three fall into step towards their destinations, your padded steps a mere backdrop against their heavier ones. "No one knows except Prince Maekar and Prince Aerion." A grim smile. "And you as well now, I suppose."

"And you?" intervenes Ser Donnel swiftly. "You were to be with Prince Baelor for the night."

"Once he caught wind of what had happened, he ordered me to wake the prince for that business with the hedge knight."

Your ears prick. "The prince?"

"The Young Prince. It will not be long before all of Ashford hears of this farce." A hard sigh. "That damned princeling. I knew we should have chained him to the bed when his father wasn't looking."

"Do you value your life?" Ser Donnel asks amusedly.

Ser Roland retorts but you don't pay attention. Your fingers tighten against your escort's arm as you resolutely turn forward again. To wake Valarr. Just a minutes' walk away. Valarr. Only ever a figment of my memories and now. Valarr. Valarr. Valarr. Could I see him? No, I shouldn't. But he will know. No, he won't. He won't recognize me. He won't even remember me. Who am I to think he would? Who am I to assume he would still—

"Here is where I leave you both. The prince and his lady wife might not take to so many late night visitors," Ser Roland announces with a tired half-smirk. You start, blinking. They had gone down an entirely different hall, this time with tapestries hoisted upon a wall—weavings of rich harvests and bountiful rivers and dragons—and as you step closer to Ser Donnel beside a modest staircase, Ser Roland sends you an ironic smile. "Watch yourself around Ser Donnel. As it were, he's terrible at direction."

Then, with a final, shallow bow, he begins his ascent.

It's some time before you think to remember where you are. Your mind buzzes unpleasantly, and you can't get a good grasp on what you want to do or say or think as Ser Donnel's breath warms the crown of your head.

"My lady." He offers you the handkerchief again. This time, it is not for the blood. "Please."

You lift your chin and swallow down the ache. You hope it hits the deeper pain that balls up in the pits of your stomach and somehow dislodges it so this, too, will pass and become past. With a swift brush of your fingers along your cheek, you shake yourself and continue on. "It is no matter. Let us continue, Ser Donnel."

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

THE YOUNG PRINCE

It is by entire happenstance. A largesse from the gods, perhaps, or the most terrible of retributions.

A stray glance as he walks along an open corridor outside. The air tastes of coming rain, the moonlight blotted by incoming clouds. Valarr had turned to look, wondering if he would be sparring in mud come the morning.

And he sees her. A woman he thought he noticed before but a vision he could not place. It had made him think of Cedrick, for some reason, but even now he knows not why.

Presently, that mystery woman trots after a white cape. Ser Donnel, a voice in his mind supplies as he pauses by a pillar, frowning. He reaches up to pull a branch of a fruit tree down, and from this distance, he feels her smile more than sees it.

From the shadow of the walkway, he observes her plucking one of the fruits, turning it over in her hands. Over the quiet buzzing of mosquitoes and other bugs, he hears the murmur of her voice. The lilt of someone Dornish. The chime in her laugh when the branch whips back into place with a leafy thrash.

Something out of a fable, the image is. A knight and a maiden and a midnight stroll. The knight takes the fruit and cuts it apart for her, and so the maiden thanks him with offering him the first bite.

He declines, and she pulls away, walking in spots of lunar light. It catches in her plain dress, casts her skin to marble. Illuminates her face. Her hair. The curve of her smile so blurry in his dream. The wrinkle of her nose.

The sun that lives just bursting beneath her skin.

It is an eclipse of a moment—she breathes, shifts, and the illusion shatters, the veil falls away and the realization comes to him the way lightning strikes. A precision spark into the depths of his mind—a key that had fumbled against the lock for so long before slotting in and as quickly as the dregs of his dream had fled his memory, it comes back to him in shattered pieces.

She is real. She is here. Well, and truly here. The girl from the dream is no stranger. How had he been such a fool to hide her even from himself? Had that ever been the only way to numb the pain?

Valarr had only ever wanted one person to be his queen.

"Ser Roland, you must do something for me," he says, not tearing his eyes away from her walking figure, so lovely as Ser Donnel trails her. She carves a winding path, flitting from one side to the next of the well-trodden road, further away from him and towards the hedge maze. How the juice must dribble down her wrist just as it smears her lips.

A harsh and hardy craving for blood oranges fills his dry mouth.

"My prince?" Ser Roland prompts.

Valarr does not even blink. "Tell my father that I cannot join him on his council. That I send my apologies, but there are more important matters to attend to." And he begins his walk forward again. The woman grows smaller and smaller the longer he waits. He must go now.

Now, now, now.

However, Ser Roland's boots do not carry him away immediately. Instead, hesitantly, he protests, "Lady Dayne, I mean, the Sand girl, is not to be spoken to. Ser Donnel watches her. She will not harm another of the royal blood again."

She reaches the corner. Enters the maze. The fleeting, frantic hummingbird heart in his chest erupts and he shakes his head minutely. No, he wants to call. Do not leave until I can see you once more.

"My prince. I urge you to turn away. It would not be wise to be seek justice now."

"I do not care for wisdom, ser," says the man-turned-boy and he walks into the garden air. The kingsguard, with no choice and no trust in the dragon, follows.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

THE BASTARD

The gardens are no match for those you have seen before: the Water Gardens of Dorne and its many-coloured pool, the Red Keep and its godswood and white bark and red, red leaves.

Still, it is adorned with Reach flowers blooming well and fragrant, even in the moonlight and arching high above your heads with vines guided through the fence hatching and trellises that serve as guides for a path through the maze.

Even better than its beauty is its quiet and how small it is—an insular world if you had ever been in one. Ser Donnel makes for a well companion as he had in your youth. He walks an appropriate distance apart but he stays by your side, not behind, smiling when you pause to hold something to moon, commenting on bits that have piqued his own interest. Torches and braziers are lit, by they are few and far between.

You suppose Lord Ashford had not anticipated such late night visitors, nor had his staff thought they'd be forced to house another unexpected guest.

The maids and apprentices had been of good help earlier—giving you shoes, clean clothes, and tending to the dried blood all over your face—but you feel terrible for the extra work you've put upon their plate tonight. The seamstress had taken your measurements as the others flocked around you like hens and promised you a new dress in the morrow. You had tried to refuse, but what would your word mean to that of a prince's order?

Ser Donnel counseled you to be amiable. So amiable you were, thanking profusely, complimenting most genuinely their tenacity, their artistry, and of course, apologizing from the marrow of your bones for the trouble. The seamstress would not have it, asking you to step up onto a block so she could measure the length of your legs.

You did not tell her you meant more than just keeping her up late this night.

Still, when she had finished, she had showed you a chest, and you did not resist.

"For now, take what we have" she had insisted. "Old ones girls have grown out of or have left behind. They do naught but gather dust, and would welcome a body to shelter once more. Oh, be comfortable. Don't grab that one—horribly stiff. No, that has a tear. Something cotton. Yes, that. It would not make you feel any better sitting in soiled clothes. We will have a bed made in one of the guest chambers, as well, my lady. Oh, and shoes. Cobb, fetch the crate of shoes!"

You sigh, pulling the garish sleeve of orange back away from your wrist to touch a low-hanging branch of flowers, tossing the pit of the peach you had eaten aside into a bush. A summer bug flits past drowsily as you turn to Ser Donnel.

"My cousin," you tell him softly, "would appreciate everything here much more than I. She loves many things girlish and sweet."

"I'm sure she would, my lady," he murmurs, bending down to lean next to you and look up at the branches that bow to your fingers. "A sprig of it would not go unnoticed, though I'm not sure the climate would agree well further south with a young sapling."

You feign a scandalized gasp. "Ser Donnel!"

He answers only with a shrug and straightens up again just as something catches your attention.

Humus breaks beneath soft, even steps. Your knight companion hesitates not, gripping his sword but you raise a hand, just enough to stall his unsheathing. Stepping closer to the kingsguard, you watch through the moonlit hedges as a shadow falls on the maze corridor behind you. It is joined by another swift and approaching mass of masked features and a stern, steady gait.

There is a gleaming flash of silver and flowing white. You relax.

"'Tis Ser Roland." A relieved smile nearly surfaces on your face before every bone in your body freezes. Your heart begins to rattle, as if your body betrays you to danger. Ser Roland who was tasked, you realize too late, to fetch Valarr.

You retreat into the chest plate of Ser Donnel, the curve of it digging into your back. He steadies you with a hand on the flat of your shoulder as you jerk your gaze to the ground and it swims beneath your vision, your slippered feet somehow moving without you walking any which way. Squeezing your eyes shut, you dip into a curtsey. Your damned knees don't even shake despite how boneless you feel.

"My prince. Ser Roland."

"Ser Donnel." So crisp, so warm. The softness of him submerges your heart in a deep lake, drowns it. An overwhelming tide of panic rises to meet it. "My lady." A considerable moment. Valarr shifts on his feet. Then: "Your prince stands before you. I would ask you most generously to allow him to gaze upon your face rather than your crown."

The muscle in your jaw tics. "Would that please His Grace?"

"Most ardently."

"My prince," censures Ser Roland. "I—"

"Leave us."

"Prince Valarr."

"Not out of sight," he amends. "But far enough that what I wish to say to this lady cannot be heard by prying ears."

"But your father—"

The prince cuts him off measuredly, "My father will understand. Ser Donnel. You as well."

The glove on your shoulder shifts, and there is a comforting squeeze before it falls away. "We are sworn to you, Your Grace," Ser Donnel says. You glance back at him but his blue eyes do not deign to meet yours. He only dips his head again and you clasp your hands before yourself, staring down at the toes of Valarr's boots. "Come, Ser Roland."

Grumbling: "If that is His Grace's wish."

The night comes to life in the retreating footsteps of the knights. You can hear the subtle rush of the river so far away, the winds playing the leaves and brush like chimes, the rustling symphony overlaying the crackling torches as they gnaw away at their woodfuel and send embers up to the black night. In the shade of the purple flower tree, you barely see Valarr's expression.

You look away. It is of no use to try. To pretend you know how to read your childhood companion still after years away—you are no fool.

A soft utterance of your name and it brings you head snapping back to him. It is a fragile, secret thing, so long since it has been said so wondrously, so achingly that it sends your heart sputtering. No, you are the greatest fool of all.

"My prince," you begin but whatever else you had to say is strangled out of you by the rush of Valarr's body colliding with your own, with his arms shooting around you, binding your arms to your sides. Your eyes wide with shock, you let out a choked gasp. "What are you doing? Your Grace!"

"I will not have that from you. My sweetling." His cheek against your pulse. "My heart."

My heart, you think as he adjusts his hold on you. The entire world begins to grow warm and hazy and you yourself dizzy with how full you feel as you force yourself to release. It comes easier than you imagine. It is all at once that you stop fighting him. The Young Prince had been a gangly boy in youth, but now, despite his slim frame, his is a body of honed muscle and thick dragonbone. His arms are too hot, too starving for touch as they twist and grasp. A mirrored and raw hunger erupts in the pits of your stomach and despite your struggle for the reins of it, they slip away when he cradles the back of your head and burrows his nose into the crook of your neck. His breath whispers over the sensitive skin there so gently that you shiver in his clutch, finding purchase at his waist, holding him tight. Close. Enough that you are two beings coiled around one another, eyes shut.

"I thought I had seen a ghost at the tourney," he murmurs, a mere vibration against your throat. His hand twists your hair, the pads of his fingers a constant, pleasant pressure against your skull. You could sob at the feeling of it. "A woman grown who boasted the beauty you were sure to possess. Then I turned and she was gone, and I had been convinced… the gods were here to mock me."

"The gods? No, my prince. It was real." Squeezing your eyes tight, you curl your fingers against his back, handfuls of thick cape rumpling into your fists and you breathe in the smell of him—of horse and candle wax and cloves. "It was me."

They stand like that for time that stretches into eons. An eternity in which his chest rises, and bows to your own chest rising to meet it. So they work in this push and pull, in such a steady rhythm. Even the tucking of Valarr into your neck, and the plush press of your cheek into his crown.

You’re reminded again of your childhood. Humid days burning in the sun. His hand threaded in your hair. The twist of his sleeve in your tight fist.

When they part—when he unwraps himself from you, when you disentangle your arms from the folds of him—Valarr stares at you under his long eyelashes, a disbelieving, small curve to his mouth. He looks a boy again. The prince whom you've been delivered to again, and you cannot help the choked noise that comes out of you.

Your knuckles rest against his pale cheek. "I'm here, now," you whisper. Valarr flinches away from your touch, and your heart drops, snatching your hand back towards yourself. An apology is well on its way to spilling out of your mouth when he takes hold of your fingers and presses his mouth to them desperately, eyes slipping shut. As he does, his thumbs stroke at your skin. Your heart rends.

"I knew it. Sweetling, I knew." Said like a prayer answered. So overflowing with grief and wonder. He keens over, his brow to your knuckles. "Despite the insistence of my father, the king's lies, I knew you could not be dead."

Your blood is ice.

"Dead? Dead? Is that what he told you? No… No, I was never… My prince…" Stepping closer, your eyes begin to burn and you card a hand through his hair. He leans into it, his breaths coming shorter, faster, and you crouch before him. "I was never dead. I left. I had to, but I thought—Valarr? Valarr, are you—Valarr!"

He collapses to his knees, into your arms, and his hand, pale and shaking, reaches for your face. A tear, unbidden, shoots down your face and you blink in shock at the sensation of the fire it leaves before it is smothered by his cold palm, his thumb against your cheekbone.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist and with every word spoken, your lips tough the veins along his thumb. Taste iron. "Valarr, please. Please understand. If I had known that was the lie they had told you, I would have written to you… I… I, no, I wouldn't have; too much laid in my disappearance, but perhaps I could have somehow told you. Left you some sign of my cruelty, but it has been so long. And I had wanted to tell you but I had thought you'd forgotten me. I had convinced myself that it would be better that I was gone."

"You thought."

"I had hoped."

His hand falls away at your words and you stare at him beseechingly. Please, you beg him silently. Don't hate me. He looks down where his own hand clenches at nothing but warm air. "How could I forget the grief that has carved your name into me?"

More tears well and run down your face. "It was just so very long ago and… and I am a bastard. Did they tell you that? My mother was Lady Della, but my father; it was never Lord Jory. I was not worthy to be—" You cannot bring yourself to say the words. Instead you stare at the red trails you've left on him, the racing blue tracks of his veins. "I just… I could not stay."

"And you would not allow me to follow." You hear the dragon in his lungs, the way it curls and waits with gleaming eyes in the pits of his ribs. When he stands, aids you to as well, his grip hurts with the strength of that great beast. Then, he lurches as if you burned him. You flinch, wiping away the wet from your face with a hand.

His own flexes hard against his thigh. He mutters, to the ground, to himself, you are not certain. "To be here now. Now, of all times, and not before when I could have done something."

You let out a hoarse mournful sob. "And what would you have changed?"

They stare at one another, a slice of moonlight filling the ground where they had parted. You don't dare breathe too heavily in case it spooks your already thudding and panicky heart. You wonder if Valarr feels the same.

It is very, very chilly. You realize it quite immediately now, despite the long sleeves of your servant's attire. Beneath the ostensibly clean spring air, the promise of a much colder winter seems on a distant horizon. Not this year, perhaps—they have summer and then autumn to get through—but soon.

You hope to be somewhere warm when it happens.

Wiping away the last traces of your weakness with your sleeve, you half-turn away. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. It was what was best for the realm." He answers you only with a singular ironic chuckle and you continue on tiredly, "It would be best if we returned. Even at the height of spring, the night grows cold."

"Perhaps a sign of an oncoming winter," remarks Valarr, inspecting the cloud-strewn sky. He rubs at his cheek, turning his face into his forearm. It leaves a red mark. "It seems an ill omen."

"I hope not. Travel is already slow when snows freezes the roads. Oft it blankets entire sections of it and the detours bring us into wild territory. The horses get panicky."

"Along the kingsroad?"

"Sometimes. Whatever way lead to Dorne quickest."

"And that is where you hid."

"Sometimes," you say again. "Only in the winter. Only…" You falter and chance a glance in his direction. "Lord Jory is not so kind as to welcome my father and I so warmly. I've learned it best to make myself scarce in such occasions, even in Starfall."

But Valarr has already turned away from you himself. You barely see the side of his nose as he admires the same branch of flowers you had earlier with a hand. He swallows visibly. "He does have… a certain pride to him."

"He'd rather I be dead. I'm sure that if you had asked him where I had gone, he was more than happy to insist that a bandit slashed my throat."

"Perhaps." The crooked twitch of his finger against a petal betrays his calm. "What of Meryn? Does he know who you are to him?"

"He's a smart boy. When he was a child, we explained it away as Cedrick and I being childhood friends and I a daughter of one of the scullery maids, but I know the older he gets, the less it satisfies him. I'm sure soon, he will wish for the truth I've hidden for so long." You think of Tanselle and her broken finger. The sound of it snapping reverberating in your skull makes you shiver. You pinch the bridge of your nose but hiss when it only shoots more pain deep behind your eyes. "Ah!"

"Are you alright?" Your eyes are anvils in the centre of your skull as you traverse your fingertips to your temples, rubbing them in a vain attempt to soothe the ache. Out of the corner of your vision, Valarr takes a step toward you.

You shift half a step back away, and the moon illuminates a face you rather not have seen. Anguish paralyzes the Young Prince, contorting his expression so painfully you have to look away as he takes in the contusions blooming across your head. The blood crusting your lips.

Perhaps it is the exhaustion that outweighs the pain now, but your heart beats in two pieces.

"I'm fine," you mutter bitterly. "Fatigued… but fine."

"I know it does nothing to ease your worries, but Kiera had insisted that our personal maester be sent to the puppeteers to aid Maester Yormwell, along with a generous sum of gold as a show of good will. I'm sure he is tending to Ser Pol most diligently. To whomever else you care for."

"Ah, then." Kiera. And as sudden as the bitterness comes, it leaves you hollow. "I will have to thank her somehow."

"She would not accept whatever you give. My lady wife is…" He quietens. "…most charitable with what resources we have."

"A good queen in the making, to be sure."

"Yes." Valarr's cloak sways as he turns to walk towards the centre of the path, and you cannot read his expression. "And a good woman."

Weakly: "More important than anything, I think."

"Yes," says Valarr again, his mismatched gaze flitting to you then darting away again. "I agree."

Without any motion or command from either, they both turn to walk to the castle.

It is some silent agreement between you and Valarr—a means of communication that has unearthed itself in this brief moment where no walls with all-seeing eyes and curious ears can spy on them both.

As you make your way down the path back to the kingsguard, you watch your step just so you have a reason not to watch him. Perhaps it is the only way you can get the words out.

"I'm happy for you, Your Grace."

"Thank you, my lady."

The grains of time slip between your fingers and sweep into the current.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

The gathering dark clouds block the moon. Another omen. It seems, as of late, that it is all you see.

As you, the prince, and the kingsguard walk down one of the corridors of Ashford Castle, you consider this. Ser Donnel's stray comment on the effects of rain on the tourney fields makes you glance out the windows as you pass, gaze skirting the sconces and portraits and fixtures on the wall to soak in the black fields of the Reach. Even the Cockleswent, a shiny silver eel slithering through the gentle crests and valleys, has darkened.

But something catches your eye. You stop by one of the open windows, ignoring the winds that buffet and make you squint, and what you see makes your heart drop. Behind you, Ser Donnel pauses as well, and Valarr, ahead, is already turning around and making his way back towards you as you lean out the window.

"My lady?" Valarr restrains himself to touching your elbow in gentle warning, and you ease back onto flat feet, turning away. "What is it?"

"See for yourself." Valarr sidles in close beside you. By his soft hum, you assume he sees it: the men cloaked in pale purple and white, tying the boat to the small dock down the hill of Ashford. The banners they raise; a sword and a falling star.

"Men ahead to assure his gifts and supplies did not fall under bandits, I am sure. He will not be far behind." Valarr draws back, and his gaze, pale and unsettled, nettles into the bruise on your chin. "Nor will his vengeance, I am sure."

"He shall have it as my champion."

If the prince is shocked, he does well to conceal it. "Naturally. What good are his skills for if he cannot protect his sweet sister? He would not wish to lose her."

But it is the resentment that you catch easily enough.

"Have I offended you, my prince?"

Valarr watches the men at task. The moon makes a pale man paler, and his hair seems waxy as his eyelashes dust his cheeks, his lips part and a soft exhale leaves them. Your eyes train on his pink mouth for a moment as, distantly, he comments, "I always knew he kept something from me."

"Your Grace?"

"Cedrick hid secrets from me," he repeats. "Especially after Meryn was born, and he relinquished his position as heir, he would not tell me all that would plague him. Not like before. We went hawking and rode in the kingswood and sparred one another and tussled to the dirt, and it was all the same except... he would not say who held his attention when he was with me. His mind would take him to some place I could not follow and I would watch him, lost as to how someone could be with me in body but so rarely in mind. I always thought it some fancy of his that controlled him, and his mood swung with her. As if I knew when they had fought. When they made merry. And I bore witness as the years weathered my companion to stone for her. I knew he loved her dearly." Valarr's gaze is a spear and it guts you in the crevasse of your ribs. "Yet, it was you. All this time…"

Quietly: "I never asked him to lie."

"No, you never ask people to do anything for you." His fingers twitch for a moment as if they want to stretch and touch yours resting barely an inch or two away on the stone window ledge before falling still. "They just do it anyway."

And there—there comes the distinct feeling of the years lost. Of something you will never snatch back. Your heart wrenches against your ribs as he shakes his head to himself and turns, walks. Ser Roland, as always his pale shadow, goes with him.

"Your Grace." You begin to walk after him but Ser Donnel takes your arm. "Valarr. Valarr, wait."

He halts nearly a quarter of the length down the hall and his voice is cold, bouncing against unfeeling walls back towards you. You shake at the sound of it.

"It would be best you return to your chambers, my lady. And I to mine. I shall see you on the morrow."

He continues the rest of the way. You do not move long after Ser Donnel has let you go.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

LYONEL

The news spreads like flame to oil once the morning breaks.

The ash has not fully settled when one of Lyonel's pages, young Trevor Selmy, burst into his tent, gasping for air. Behind him, the stampeding of many a pair of legs, disorderly shouting, rushing to and fro, fully rouses him to attention as his page catches himself on a table.

"Ser! Ser! We've just heard! A host—" and here, he sucks in another painful breath— "from House Dayne shall arrive posthaste and th-the princes, well Prince Maekar, a-and Prince Baelor, he, I mean they—"

Lyonel sits up, frowning. "Slow down, boy. Drink. Tell it slow and tell it true."

Nine-year old Trevor Selmy draws himself up. His little chest rises and falls. Then, trembling but still calmer than before, he announces, "Prince Aerion attacked the puppeteers last night. The Sword of the Morning rides for justice."

Lyonel's mouth goes dry. He instructs young Selmy to get him dressed. Have his uncles been told? How many injured? What of her? Of Sweetling?

Yes. I don't know. I don't know.

I don't know.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

The gathering of the lords and ladies staying in the meadow causes a tremulous but quiet thunder. Lyonel wades through the thin crowd, his uncles and cousins following suit and they fetter out like a wide fishing net, keen on catching snatches of information.

His gold-woven cloak tucked tight around himself, he submerges into the murmurings of the court. There seems to be no clear organization—many young squires and fair girls sit on fences and giggle to one another as further down the road, around a bend or two, standards of purple and white fly. The smallfolk cheer loud enough as they pass and make their way up the hill. The nobles mutter amongst themselves, sending furtive glances up and down.

"A gathering for a Dornish lord. Even we were not welcomed with such pomp."

"'Tis for Prince Maekar's own nephew. Perhaps that is why."

"I heard it was because of what happened the night prior. Whilst we slept, the prince got into a bit of Dornish entertainment himself and soiled one of the women."

A quick investigation alerts Lyonel to lords standing not too far from him. More specifically, Lords Bracken, Penrose, Tarly. It had been the Brute to speak first to Lyonel's own bannerman perched low on a chair, sharpening a belt knife; the Lord Penrose, youngest of his mother's sons and the only survivor of Quentyn Ball's massacre in the Rebellion, lifts the blade to the sun and squints. The sunken scar that tears down his face and had nearly claimed the boy's eye over ten years ago stretches at the motion.

"Did he now?" he says, bored. He lowers the knife back down and runs it along whetstone again. "Well, what the prince wants, the prince gets."

"He razed everything he could not lay his hands on," says Lord Tarly. He inspects his nails. "We all smelt the woodsmoke, but if you think that Lord Dayne rides for some burnt cotton, you are fools. No, one of the women the prince attacked was a highborn bastard. House Dayne rides to claim her. They dined at Highgarden last, but missed Lord Longthorn, so the Sword of the Morning sent word that he would come here, anyway, but 'tis regrettable that the princeling assaulted her of all he could. A thinly veiled insult to his noble cousin."

Penrose arches an eyebrow. "And how would you know?"

"I have my sources," says the Reach lord smugly. "Besides, it seems the only logical conclusion. Is it not obvious? Maekar always inferior to his brother, a poison that has spread to his sons as well. How can that cruel bastard compare to his cousins?"

Lord Caron, who stands near Lyonel, shakes his head and calls over. "To be outstood by a Dornishman is a shame to His Grace. He would not let that happen."

As if every prince in the realm is not even a little Dornish, Lyonel thinks.

Penrose shrugs dispassionately. "They have good swordsmen."

"And good women!" cows Lord Bracken. "Sly as snakes but gods their poison burns so sweetly. To chain a vipress and drink the venom from her cunt would be more precious than any wine or gold!"

"If only one could choose his death," murmurs Lord Caron consideringly. "As it were, Lord Bracken, the wench would seduce you, marry you, then lash you with the tail of a scorpion. And as you died and she claimed your seat, the king would turn his back simply for her name being Sand. Just as he did when the Vulture King rose and fell."

Lord Tarly nods emphatically. The Brute of Bracken scowls. Lord Penrose does not deign to answer.

Lyonel, however, can do nothing but let out a laugh. He brushes an iron curl out of his face and snakes an arm around Caron's shoulder, grip firm. Guiding him over to the others, he asks benignly, "Must we talk of past slights? Especially since it is the family of the prince's late, and might I add, very beloved late wife. What would he say? More importantly, what would Prince Aerion think? He already has such an unfathomable temper as of late…"

The mirth begins to fade in their eyes. Lyonel watches it and a strange curl of satisfaction coils around him.

Lord Bracken, though, undaunted, clears his throat. His coarse dark hair gleams like fish scales as he puffs up his chest. "I heard you've tasted Southron fruit yourself, Ser Lyonel."

He arches an eyebrow. "Have I? They do have sweet wine, but I must confess, I am most inept at determining whether something is Reach grown, or Dornish."

"Oh, you know that's not what Lord Bracken means." Lord Tarly smirks. "Which of them have you had? The tall one? Or the pretty one with the eyes?"

Lyonel laughs. "You seem interested in what I stick my cock into. For my next trick, I shall stick it into your mother."

"Ser Lyonel!" Tarly sputters. "Why, it is only a nasty accusation should the great and noble House of Baratheon be compromised by such treason. The Dornish have staked their claim upon everything we've ceded to them and still, they want for more."

"More than the Iron Throne?" Irritated. "The children of Dorne will sit there long after King Daeron dies. His children are Dornish—your noble Breakspear, your bitter Anvil. Better to make peace with our neighbours when they've already won. And," he continues with a disinterested glance towards the group of men. Penrose, at last, perks up, "as it happens, I wouldn't be interested in fighting another war over such things if I fought on the losing side of the Redgrass."

Lord Tarly's mouth pops open. Without another word, he reaches for his sword at his hip but Lord Caron swoops to stop him, hand on his chest. He mutters quick and low beneath his breath, words that escape Lyonel's hearing. He flickers from eyeing the Reach lord to his own bannerman, wrinkling his nose at the nightingales fluttering across the back of his jerkin.

A small, savage smile comes as Tarly reddens, teeth flashing in a snarl. Stepping forward, Lyonel's hand finds its place on Caron's shoulder again. The man's eyes flash wide and pale blue as the heir to Storm's End turns the smile to him, squeezes tightly. "My old lord father forgave those who rose against him when he declared for the Targaryens," he murmurs lowly. "Trusted that the men who fought for the pretender realized the… error in their way. But I have not forgotten. Peace is so fragile these days. I would hate to have it broken over a tourney meant to encourage us to make merry."

"Of course not, my lord," Lord Caron mutters, dipping his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Lyonel glimpses someone slipping through the crowd, and for a moment, his heart tugs his gaze to the woman making his way towards him. He lets go of the old man and straightens, shoulders rolling back and chin lifting.

Something hangs gold on along her throat and around her waist, but a second, clearer blink reveals his hope had been blind.

"Good morrow, my lords," Lady Jeyne says upon arrival. "Ser Lyonel."

"Good morrow." Lyonel extends a hand, going through the motions of kissing the woman's hand. She quickly comes to his side, not quite touching him, but close enough and angled tightly towards him that an expectant air clouds the silence. "And I hope that I am able to make it clear that I am not in the interest in siring bastards, or partaking in nightcaps. I would have you cease such talk before my betrothed. Drinking to oblivion, yes, but I am entirely chaste."

"Your betrothed?" Bracken grunts, eyeing Lady Jeyne. "Since when."

"Oh, Lord Otho, how you charm me unrelentingly," she comments. "Negotiations had finished only yesterday between House Darry and House Baratheon. Be welcomed to the news."

Lord Penrose stands. "My sincerest congratulations, my lord."

"Thank you."

"My love, I'd like a moment alone to discuss more… personal matters." Lady Jeyne smiles and Lyonel's heart burns painfully as he feels himself nod, the echoes of another woman asking him for the same favour and how that had costed him.

His mind flashes wildly back to that night—wonderful and full of revelry until it wasn't. Until he had been standing outside a tent before it burnt to ashes, and the woman had told him all the ways he had failed her and had, by all accounts, told him never to bother her again.

Who challenges him beyond measure, who nips and soothes, who has been attacked—attacked and he had not been there and his blood roils at the thought of her injured somewhere, couriering herself back to Dorne on that sand steed while cradling a broken arm. A shattered nose.

Why had he not chased her farther? Why had he—

Fingers cinch on his elbow. When did he offer it? But then he is walking away, and against the growing current of people trying to catch a glimpse of the rapidly approaching household.

"It would seem that I will be making a habit of saving you from political mishaps," she replies smoothly.

He pats her hand, and she seems to flourish beneath it. Not in a girlish way, just in a way that seems determined and proud. With as much genuine appreciation as he can muster, he replies, "I am in your debt, Lady Jeyne. Apologies for my brashness in announcing our marriage."

"It was the correct move. It would not bode well to have them question the future of your house. Best to settle those doubts now. Even better to have an heir."

"So I've been informed."

"I apologize if it's a subject you have no desire to approach," she says, and she looks like she means it, "but we must. We only need two children. An heir, and if the spare is a girl, so be it. Her sons shall inherit if anything comes to pass. After that… we need not share a bed. Nor even a room, but it would be best if we can agree on what is best for our children in terms of discipline and education. I do not wish for stupid children."

He frowns. "You do not want for a true marriage?"

"I had that once," says Jeyne, brushing dark brown hair out of her face. In the light, it shines like wild honey. She would've made a lovely bride, he thinks absently. Just not mine. "Now, I wish only that we can treat each other with enough respect that perhaps my companionship, no matter how undesirable it seems now, can become more tolerable."

"It's not that I find it untolerable," he says at length with a half-smile, guiding her into the shadow between two tents. Her eyes, the colour of garnet—orange and red and brown, autumn in all its essence—peer at him. A thin eyebrow rises in challenge. Heaving a sigh, he dips his head and takes her hands gently, thumbs tracing over the ridges of her knuckles. "It is not untrue. Jeyne, I do not wish to slight you nor dishonour you in any way. If this betrothal is what our families require, I shall do what is required of me. Everything else is left to another's whims." He throws up a hand in a flippant gesture. "The gods, maybe."

The corner of her mouth twitches. "You would love our children?"

"I could." Lyonel doesn't realize it until the answer comes out of him, but he nods to affirm it. "It might even satisfy me."

"But you want love."

His frown deepens. "Do you mistake me for a maiden in a song? I want a good drink and to sail the seas. To be... fulfilled."

"Happy."

"Well." He cocks his head. "Doesn't everyone?"

Jeyne nods to herself, looking down at where their fingers interlace. She is silent against the backdrop of rising cheers, and the thundering of galloping hooves comes like a wave.

As lilac pennons and standards bearing the falling star whip in the wind, Lyonel sees a flash of white. In between the heads of the crowd, a stallion of pure snow and a long braided mane tacked with silver and amethyst chains leads the procession, its rider tall and straight-backed and helmeted.

“The white horse will come to you thrice, armies crushed under the strength of its hooves. Each time, you must welcome it, and lose the heart’s desire.”

"You weren't wearing this ring yesterday," she observes, touching the stag head upon his ring finger. Blinking, Lyonel's gaze darts between the disappearing phantom and his betrothed and he is torn between staying and going.

But of course, and damn him to the seven hells if it comes down to it, Lyonel chases what he wants.

"Yes, I… I thought to put it on only this morning." He gathers his wits and refocuses himself. I'm sorry, Jeyne. We will discuss this later, but I…" Words fail him. He kisses her knuckles and shakes his head. "Excuse me."

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

Lyonel is not the only one with the same idea. He finds his uncles and cousins standing on the balcony above the courtyard and quickly climbs the stairs to join them. Olyvar greets him, Jonnel ignores him, and he does not deign to even glance at Uncle Orrym just in case some barb slips from his tongue. Uncle Androw begins to shift and make room for him, muttering low and quick all that he's missed when there! His eyes snag on his moving target.

The white sand stallion again, cantering circles with a rallying whinny. When he shakes his long, slim head, the colours of his mane seem to shift from white to sea blue to a soft pink before returning white again and the chains tinkle with tiny bells that adorn each braid.

The rest of the men, not many but not few either, flood the courtyard and form a half-circle. The rider of the white horse draws to the centre, and on the side of the saddle sits a long scabbard, riveted with silver dragons and winking gemstone eyes and an inscription that Lyonel cannot read from his height and distance. 

"Our lord of Ashford welcomes the brave and ferocious Cedrick Dayne, firstborn son of Lady Della Dayne, the Blazing Star, Defender of the Torrentine, and the Sword of the Morning."

Olyvar lets out a tiny gasp, grasping onto the railing and leaning forward. Jonnel grabs his young brother's shoulder, but he, too, steps closer to the edge of the balcony just as another rider canters in on a most magnificent creature, its tail and mane made of hair so black and silky it ripples like spilt ink and a pelt so dark and red it might've been blood. Dark haired and noble-faced, the boy—for it is a boy—pauses close to the armoured rider of the white and the two share a look as the herald continues on.

"He welcomes the young and noble Meryn Dayne, secondborn son of Lady Della Dayne, Lord of High Hermitage and Lord of Starfall."

And no sooner than the herald ends his announcements the Lord of Starfall, with a gentle nudge of his heels and a tug, urges his horse into a walk along the line of nobles gathered outside the castle, his gaze two honed shards of amethyst, piercing each of those orange men. He may be slender and willowy at first glance, but he wields authority like a blade honed, and the Lord of Ashford nearly shits himself. Lyonel, perhaps, could have laughed. "Enough with this. I come for the puppeteer. Bring her to me."

"My-my lord…" Lord Ashford begins, "that is simply not possible. The princes have said that none must be allowed to see to the prisoners until justice is meted out. We have prepared rooms for you and your retinue, should you wish to rest after such a long journey, but I cannot allow anything more."

"You deny me my own citizen?" Meryn asks, stopping right in front of him and looking down. The crowd erupts into murmurs as the sand steed dips her head low, tongue flickering out to lick at her lips. "I wish not to abuse your hospitality when you find yourself already so overwhelmed with your tourney, my lord."

"'Twould be unwise to challenge a greater lord than you, Lord Ashford," another voice adds through the silence. Lyonel's gaze darts to where the man sits atop his horse, removing his steel helm before tucking it beneath his arm. Then, he crosses his arms over his shortsword hanging at his hip. "My lord wishes not to overstay our welcome. Release her as he commands."

Ashford flushes purple. "My lords!" he admonishes again, weaker than before. "You honour me with your presence, truly, but what happened last night was the most tragic of circumstances under my own home. Any charges laid against her must first be reviewed by the jury. That is what the princes and the Paramount of the Mander have both agreed to!"

Meryn seethes. "The Prince of Dorne shall see that justice had been sought and justice had been found for his own people."

"Own people. Prince of Dorne," Orrym mutters. "Even they still think themselves a separate kingdom."

Androw shakes his head. "Hush."

"Is it true that it was Aerion who attacked them?" continues the Lord of Starfall. The crowds murmur rises in volume as an uneasy shifting that ripples through them. "Where is he so I may interrogate him myself?"

"Stand down, my lords."

Prince Baelor appears at the archway into the castle, a warm and reserved expression sitting upon his features. Despite his softly spoken words, the tension in the air seems to break, the lightning-like stickiness dissolving as people make space for the Prince of Dragonstone to approach. At his side, the Young Prince walks with a similar expression to his sire, and they are flanked by only two of three kingsguard. The young lord retreats back to where the elder brother dismounts before following suit and the Sword of the Morning whispers something quick and curt into the boy's ear before they face the princes who stop mere lengths away, expectant.

Cedrick Dayne must have stepped out of some Westerosi fable when he had become a man—tall, handsome, with thick curling hair pushed away from his face, shorn and tapered to his neck and disarming lilac eyes, his chin bristling with fine travel stubble, and good strong hands. They're crossed with a litany of white scars, long-healed training wounds, but there is power there. Power, and finesse. Meant to wield a tool, and now wrapping around the grip of the greatsword Dawn.

Six feet long and sharp enough to kill from a tickle, it slides out of its scabbard with an unhuman song. Cedrick Dayne holds it up lightly in his hand, turning it over in his grip as if inspecting for blemishes before bending down to one knee and hoisting it into his other with an easy flourish, presenting the milk-white metal to the princes. The day's light teethes the edge of the sword in pure white.

"Gods be good," Jonnel hisses as below, Meryn sinks to the ground, head bowed. "The boy is strong."

"That is no boy," Orrym answers, turning away. "That is what Prince Maron Martell thinks is justice."

Ser Cedrick Dayne dips his head. "Your Grace."

But it is not Baelor who answers him. Valarr steps forward, touches the man on his pauldron. Softly, he orders, "Rise, and return to my side."

He tilts his head up before glancing at Meryn. Then, he does as he is commanded.

Prince Baelor smiles wanly. "Come, and be welcomed. We have much to discuss between our two houses."

“My sweet, wild wife,” he took carefully measured steps approaching you, faced toward the window, “What is it?” he inquired stilling right behind you, close enough for you to feel his impending frame, yet leaving just enough distance if you decided to flee.

You pursed your lips tightly, arms crossed on your chest, not speaking, not reacting to his questions.

“You are angry,” he stated the obvious to which you scoffed mockingly.

“Yes.”

“So, the real question is are you fight angry or fuck angry, my love,” his purr sent shivers across your skin but you remained unyielding in your act.

You chewed on your cheek but you remembered why you felt that way.

Three days of observing Lyonel talking, laughing and entertaining everyone around him except for you. Sometimes, you envied how easily it was for him to be the eye of the party or any meeting he was involved in. Truthfully, any space Lyonel invaded with his presence was usually knocked on its knees in front of boisterous nature of your spouse.

You on the other hand, though enjoyed a good party or loud celebrations from time to time, you were less extraverted. But you usually had him by your side, checking on you, returning to your presence or giving you a gaze across the room, when he heard you laughing at someone else’s jokes.

Not this time.

Not during the diplomatic travel you had taken to Dorne as a part of Lyonel’s appointed duties by his father. You tried to reason that all he actually did was an act to ease the conversations that would later occur on tougher topics than weather or dancing. That it wasn’t leisure trip but one of your first formal events as married couple.

You told yourself over and over again to be above it, to endure it, to focus on other pleasantries you could partake in far from the hurtful view. You took your time, indulging in anything and everything Dorne had to offer, its colourful markets with fragrant spices and ripe fruit, horse riding to admire dornish technological genius of irrigation systems, or simply burying yourself in a vast library with a cup of cooling drink escaping midday’s burning sun.

Others may call it avoiding your husband, you called it a strategic pause.

Despite your efforts, it was not what you have imagined. Especially the ugly feeling of jealousy that settled itself right in the middle of your ribcage, beating along the rhythm of your heart. You felt abandoned in your role of being his wife, just to talk and smile when it was needed.

You left him without a word, walking towards a training room your dornish residence had on a lower level, hidden from scorching sun of the south. Lyonel followed your footsteps diligently, awaiting any words from you.

He felt your absence. Your presence restrained only to late evenings and early mornings, when you laid together in silence, savouring cool air after tiresome day. You spoke none and Lyonel didn’t try to break it, feasting upon scarce moment’s alone. Watching you asleep, softened by your slumber molten in his arms. His lips close to your forehead begging to be kissed. He obliged, leaving tender pecks across your skin. Careful to not wake you. Thinking of you as a doe, which is sure to run if startled.

The door squeaked quietly under your push, allowing you in the spacious, yet secluded area, decorated with suns and spears across the openwork walls, hugged by luscious garden from one side and sheltered with light canvas on the other side.

“No training blades?” he cocked his eyebrow in a slight surprise, watching as you ponder upon which sword to choose.

“No. I intend to draw blood, husband,” your response stopped him in his tracks, a realisation finally setting in.

“I am the reason of your ire,” he sounded almost taken off guard.

“It comes as no surprise to me that you haven’t thought about it earlier,” you vilified picking up armour you were satisfied with.

He bit down on the response of being unable to read your mind, especially since you were masterfully avoiding him. It took him a moment to work out a solution for your withdrawal.

A simple smallsword held in your dominant hand, easy to manoeuvre with quick attacks and ripostes, paired with a dagger in your second. Nothing fancy but a kind of steel you were used to train and felt most comfortable with.

“Ready yourself, husband” you said coldly, moving to a practice circle drawn on the floor.

“Any rules?”  

“No,” you adjusted the gloves, watching him closely, choosing similar weapon to yours, favouring a small buckler over second blade. This move draw a small smile on your angered face.

Maybe you were married to the house Baratheon but during your bouts, training or not, it was you who wielded fury to your advantage. Lyonel learnt that hard way.

The room stilled with two figures in the middle, quietly assessing their opponent. Your husband’s eyes never left your frame and you could see his calculations how to begin the duel. You had to admit the view was quite distracting. How he held himself straight with one extended arm, blade pointing at you. Firm and steady. The thrill of fight painted all over his face, especially eyes radiant with excitement, even though it was all his doing for the two of you to end up here.

Lyonel took his time analysing your focused frown with a small wrinkle between your eyebrows, visible only when you were brought to the point of boiling. He felt proud as your footwork was impeccable due to his teachings, even if it meant a tougher opponent to defeat. He observed how taut your neck and shoulders were, a mannerism you had just before—

Attack, a posed one but still you were able to cross the blades with loud cling. Then another, and another not giving Lyonel a moment to respond properly to any swing you threw at him, slowly building the upper hand and growing anger as he did not make any mistake you were hoping for. Simply parrying your hits with occasional riposte, remaining composed, which only fuelled your anger.

To further trigger you to the point of losing control, Lyonel started commenting on your small mistakes, a misstep, a too highly pointed dagger he easily deflected or mismanaged distance of a push.

“That is not a fucking fencing lesson!” you roared after another remark throwing yourself at him with new wave of assault working in unison two blades you held, “Do you think this is funny?” you weren’t sure what to dislike more the way he treated you as his usual opponent, laughing straight in your face or that you saw yourself slowly losing.

“Your lack of composure is funny. If you want to fight me, do it properly,” he challenged you with a wide self-satisfied grin.

This fucking…, you thought, though amid his best efforts you came to your senses refocusing on everything he taught you, listening to the litany of uncivilised words leaving your lips in one breath.

That was until one particularly bad advance-lunge getting caught in your dress.

“Fucking skirt,” you mumbled almost tripping over the material.

“You can always take it off, sweetling,” he snorted, yet gave you time to readjust your clothing.

You rolled your eyes, picking up the hem and bucking it up behind the belt, shortening the fabrics to your liking.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” you graced him with reply, once again assuming the position.

“Very much aware, aye,” he laughed loudly, parrying your attack with change of his position to your left. Circling around like an annoying wasp waiting for a perfect moment to bite.

You followed his dance, taking steps along not allowing for even one move of advantage. You knew it that was all he needed to win and you just couldn’t allow it.

You set your attack to knock the buckler out of his hand, alternately advancing with a blow and feinting subsequent moves. Once with the smallsword, then again with the dagger. Quickly progressing around the ring, switching side to side patiently searching for a way to reach the palm of the hand protected by metal. Methodical and steadfast. You worked your way to finally stung tip in his flesh, earning a cut on your arm along it. Beads of blood formed, tingling mercilessly.

You retreated, giving him more space for next manoeuvres and yourself a short break for breathing. Readjusting grip on your weapon and shaking off the pain in your hurt arm, you didn’t notice Lyonel’s worried glance at crimson blooming on your sleeve. Utterly remorseful in his creation, damning his own hand for what it did. Cursed it be.

He set his mind solely on defence, much more careful and reserved in the movement. That you have noticed, scrunching your nose. Unforgiving in your pursuit of win.

Lyonel took one step back under your pressure and slipped on the shield lying behind him, losing steady footing.

“Fuck,” was all he managed to curse, falling hard on stone floor, for sure bruising his buttocks and dropping the remaining weapon.

“You made me jealous, Lyonel, and I hate that feeling,” you finally admitted, panting heavily, with the upper hand and the tip of your blade at his neck.

Laboured breaths ripped through your chest almost painfully. You deeply wished to be freed from the corset hugging tightly on your waist.

“Then I have failed you as a husband, even if you felt like that for the shortest moment,” you hovered above him before straddling him, “I do not deserve you, wife.”

You dropped the sword, toying with dagger, settling it upon Lyonel’s collarbone.

“Should have thought of it before,” you mutter, “First, you make me jealous, then you offend my fencing skills and now you think a sorry ass apologise will do?”

In his quietness, Lyonel’s hands began careful exploration of your bare skin, hidden under the silk of your skirts pooling around his middle, mercifully hiding his growing bulge from peeping eyes, but not from you.

Your hips rocked lazily on the aching member, drawing a shaky moan from him, “Seven hells, woman.”

“Is this how you end your duels?” you mocked, tugging on his earlobe with teeth, “On the floor, stirred up and panting?” another strangled noise escaped him as you pulled fist full of his hair, “Take off your breeches,” you ordered.

You hiked your skirt up, letting him work the lacing with unsteady hands moving the material just enough to free his throbbing cock with sigh of partial relief. He moaned loudly, completely intoxicated by the raw feeling of your hand working him, spreading precum on his shaft and massaging the leaking slit. His propriety was long gone the moment you guided him in your soft and warm core as you gradually lowered yourself until your hips met again with a wet noise.

“Something tells me, I wasn’t the only one stirred up,” he rasped, franticly searching for a good grip on your hips, gathering delicate fabrics between fingers. Not daring to guide you.

“Shut up, Lyonel,” you cooed, moving your hips back and forth eliciting more of his delicious, little mewls lost in your kisses, dissolving into building pleasure.

You straighten, digging fingers into white linen of his shirt, dampened with sweat, clinging to his muscles tightening with each and every roll of your body atop of him. The friction worked heavenly on your wrecked nerves, teasing just enough to make your head spin and lull back. Lips apart, relieving ever so gentle gasps in unison to deepening intrusion of his dick, hitting that sweet precious spot.

“Yes, ye- seven hells, use me for your pleasure. Don’t stop, make me yours,” he encouraged his further ruin.

Your hitched breaths mixed with sinful sounds of coupling travelled across the stillness of the training room as you felt a familiar coil pooling low in your abdomen, clenching on his cock relentlessly. Memorising the veins, throbs, gasps for your use in future.

You heard him uttering apologises and pleadings of behaving in future woven in between high praises and whorish huffs of how well you took him in that tight cunt of yours, but these were just words. Produced by the very same tongue that caused this scenario. The more you observed him the more your inner voice was convincing you there was another level to his antics.

He didn’t look sorry, not even remorseful. His whole physique was beaming with unmistakable gleam of smugness. You narrowed eyes and stopped all movements, looking down at him.

“You fucking cunt…” you hissed leaning in just enough for your mouth to hover above his, in a tease, “you made me jealous on purpose, so I’d fuck you angry?”

You were astonished. It was exactly where he wanted to be and he played you like a fiddle for the past three days to get here. He made you feel that way for his own gain. Then again absolutely in line with Lyonel’s character.

In that moment your lips slowly formed a cruel, mischievous smile that didn’t go unnoticed by Lyonel, whose eyes for a glimpse of a moment exhibited raw fear. Which only invited you to let out a short humourless bark of a laugh.

“You sire, are in a trouble,” your murmur so exciting moments ago, draw out a shiver that unpleasantly settled at the back of his neck, “so much trouble, you can’t even imagine it.”

“My love, it’s just–“ you silenced him abruptly with a tip of the training dagger on his mouth.

“You don’t get to talk your way out of it, my love,” you sithed moving the weapon under his chin, lifting it up, “and I can’t just make you jealous back because you’re into this shit. Because of that I have to get creati– Lyonel, I feel you’re getting harder,” your paused, voice condescending now, feeling how his member still deep in you, was twitching as you spoke.

“I can’t help it, love,” he really tried to convince you about his impuissance.

“You’re not going to fuck your way out, either,” your tone got even more icy already punishing him for his devilment, “What am I to do with you?” your sigh met his lips before you crushed them with a passionate kiss, “Such a waste, truly,” Lyonel gasped for air as you parted, you mourning the loss of the good fuck it could have been.

You swiftly stood up, much to his strained groan as his cock was suddenly freed from your warm core with loud plop, “What are you doing?”

“I am going upstairs, to my chambers, to finish what I’ve started here alone and then decide about your fate,” you stated, resting your slippered foot on his chest.

“Can I come and watch?” his hands slowly captured your ankle, caressing soft skin as fingers began to move higher, resting amid your calf. Drawing lazy patterns, trying to silently apologise and soothe your temper.

You knew better than to simply indulge in his touch. You knew if you allowed yourself to let him in this, he won’t learn a damn thing.

This time you were set to teach him a lesson to remember.

“Only if I blindfold you, Lyonel,” you laughed in his face, rearranging your skirts, “Dress up, love. Any handmaid will get a heart attack from the sight of you.”