#spinsterwithattitude

Prince Maekar Targaryen was seven-and-forty years of age, a gruff man with grown sons of his own and no need of another wife. Lady Emma Ashford was in her late twenties, already whispered of as a spinster—too old, too sharp-tongued, too willful for the marriage market.

In a last, desperate effort to see his eldest daughter wed, Lord Ashford called for a grand tourney to mark his younger daughter’s nameday. The expense was staggering—new banners unfurled, fresh armor commissioned, feasts laid fit for royalty. Though the girl’s six-and-tenth year was the given cause, the true purpose was plain enough: Emma Ashford was to be seen.

Emma Ashford thought the entire thing a farce.

She had little care for marriage after spending the better part of her life raising her younger brother and sister. Since the day her mother died in the birthing bed—Emma only two-and-ten then—she had become nurse, governess, and shield all at once. It suited her. Responsibility was easier than hope.

But hope, it seemed, had returned uninvited—wearing a dragon on his breast.

Ashford came alive with the tourney. Horses thundered through the grounds, men drank and boasted of glory yet to be won, and banners snapped sharply in the wind. Emma spent her morning as she did most mornings: ensuring her siblings were properly dressed and sent where they ought to be.

“Emma, my dress is too tight.” “Emma, I don’t like this hat.” “Emma—Emma—Emma.”

It had been this way for years, and she did not resent it. Their need for her had been her shield against unwanted suitors. But now her youngest brother had turned ten, and her father’s patience had worn thin. The cost of the tourney alone had sunk House Ashford into dangerous waters.

Emma felt the rage simmering beneath her ribs. She was nothing more than a bargaining chip to her father—used no differently than her mother had been. Very well. If she was to be shown off, she would do it on her own terms.

She hurried her siblings toward the doors. The younger ones were claimed by the septa, but her sister remained close, wringing her hands as they stepped into the open. The weight of watching eyes pressed in from every side. Her sister’s nameday should have been a precious occasion, yet nerves clung to her like a shadow. With whispers of Emma’s long-delayed marriage finally stirring, the girl knew—once Emma was wed, her turn would soon follow.

“Sister,” her younger sister whispered, suddenly small, “are you not afraid? We are to meet princes.”

Emma stopped and gently took her sister by the shoulders, forcing her to look up.

“No,” she said firmly. “They are only men. This day is for your honor, sweetling. We shall hold our heads high, and before you know it we’ll slip away to the market and be free of all this mess.”

The horns sounded just before midday.

A hush rippled through the tourney grounds as the banners of House Targaryen appeared on the road—black and red cracking sharply in the wind. The smallfolk pressed closer, craning their necks, while the knights straightened in their saddles.

Trumpets flared again, bright and brash, as the Ashford herald stepped forward, voice ringing across the field.

“House Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable Prince Baelor Targaryen—firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”

The fanfare swelled. Horses stamped and snorted.

“And… ah,” the herald hesitated, glancing down at his parchment. “His brothers. Prince Aerion Brightflame, resplendent in silver and arrogance, his dragon helm gleaming cruelly in the sun, and Prince Valarr Targaryen—the heir of the heir, young, solemn, and already carrying the weight of expectation.”

Prince Baelor Breakspear rode at the fore, broad-shouldered and steady, his presence commanding without effort—the very image of a king yet to come.

And then— Prince Maekar Targaryen.

He rode a dark, thick-necked horse, his armor plain by comparison—scarred, practical, worn by use rather than display. His helm bore no needless ornament, only the three-headed dragon worked simply into the steel. His face was hard-hewn, his mouth set in a permanent scowl, as if the world itself had personally wronged him.

He dismounted with stiff efficiency, boots striking the earth like a challenge. His gaze swept the grounds, sharp and measuring, passing over knights, banners, and lords alike—until it found her.

It did not move on.

Emma felt the weight of it and lifted her chin at once. If she was to be stared at, she would not shrink. Maekar’s brow furrowed, as if her defiance surprised him—then irritated him.

“Hmph,” he muttered, half to himself.

Lord Ashford hurried forward, all smiles and stiff courtesy, ushering the princes toward the main hall. Emma followed at her father’s insistence, gently pressing her sister’s hand and murmuring for her to go on ahead. The girl obeyed reluctantly, casting one last anxious glance back.

Inside the hall, as servants scurried and wine was poured, Lord Ashford clasped his hands together.

“The spring rains have swollen many of our streams,” he said carefully. “Perhaps the younger princes have simply been delayed?”

Maekar snorted. “Fuck me. Delayed.”

Baelor shot him a warning look. “Do not curse our gracious host.”

“I said fuck me, not fuck him,” Maekar snapped. “It is not our host’s fault Father bade us attend this miserable circus. Might we discuss this another time? I say we go hunting.”

Baelor sighed, rubbing at his brow. “Daeron has done this before. You should not have commanded him to enter the lists.”

“You’d be more concerned if it were your son,” Maekar shot back.

“They have only been missing a day,” Baelor said evenly. “No doubt Ser Roland will turn Daeron up—and Aegon as well. When the tourney is done, perhaps.”

He paused. “Daeron belongs on a tourney field no more than Aerys or Rhaegel.”

Maekar scoffed. “By which you mean he’d sooner ride a whore than a horse.”

“That is not what I said.”

“I do not need reminding of my son’s failings,” Maekar growled. “He can change. He will change. Gods be damned—or I’ll see him dead.”

The room fell into a brittle silence.

“—You,” Maekar snapped suddenly. “Who are you? And what do you mean by spying on us? Show yourself.”

A towering hedge knight shifted awkwardly from the shadows.

“Ah—my lords,” he said, clearing his throat. “I beg pardon for the interruption. I asked Ser Manfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so I might enter the lists. He refused.”

Maekar frowned. “Who?”

Emma listened with only passing interest as talk turned to knighthood, honor, and some hedge knight of Pennytree. When the man finally bowed and retreated, Maekar looked more irritated than ever, while Baelor’s mouth twitched with poorly concealed amusement.

Lord Ashford hurried to smooth the moment. “The tourney grounds are at your disposal, my princes. We are honored by your presence.”

Maekar exhaled sharply. “Honor,” he muttered.

Emma met his eye then, unable to stop herself.

“If it displeases you so, my prince,” she said lightly, “you are free to leave.”

Baelor glanced between them, intrigued.

Maekar turned fully toward her, gaze narrowing. “And you are?”

“Lady Emma Ashford,” she replied, unbowed. “I helped see the arrangements made—though the day itself belongs to my sister.”

Something like reluctant amusement flickered across his face.

“Hmph,” he said. “Then you have my sympathies, my lady.”

She smiled—sharp, unapologetic. “Careful, Prince Maekar. Pity is a dangerous thing to offer a woman who has endured too much of it already.”

Baelor laughed softly.

Maekar did not smile—but he did not look away.

Emma inclined her head, already stepping back. “If you will excuse me, my princes—and Father. I tire of listening to men argue. I hear quite enough of it in my embroidery circle. I shall take my leave before you begin bickering in earnest.”

As she passed Maekar, she slowed just enough—close enough that her gaze caught his, close enough that the brush of her gown grazed his hand.

If they were to invade her halls, she thought, then at least it will be fun.