#vvitchcraft

“You’re one to talk, Mir-kar,” she shot back, mocking the herald’s butchery of his name. His ears reddened, and his mouth opened in indignation. Yet another slight against his status as fourth son. A long-suffering sigh from their eldest brother stopped the argument before it started. Baelor had a talent for public appearances; she and Maekar decidedly did not. After so long on the road with family, she struggled to be sociable with strangers. But she was there as Princess Nymeria Targaryen and bore a gift from her mother, Queen Myriah Martell, to the name-day girl…what was her name? Oh gods, she was acting as an emissary of her mother the Queen to House Ashford, and she couldn’t remember the blessed–

“–my daughter, Gwin,” she caught Lord Ashford say as he exchanged pleasantries with Baelor. 

Oh, thank fuck. Nym straightened her shoulders, stepped alongside Baelor, and plastered on her best princess smile. The pretense made her face ache, but Gwin was delighted with her gift: a jeweled necklace in the colors of House Ashford. The hosts moved their guests inside and away from the overcrowded courtyard. Then Nym leaned heavily into Maekar, making sure to knock him into the wall a little bit, and claimed the road had dirtied and exhausted her.

"Shithead," whispered Maekar, resisting the urge to elbow her in the kidney and setting her aright instead.

Young Gwin was all too happy to lead Princess Nymeria to her guest quarters and summon servants. Nym grinned at the younger girl after she’d wiped most of the road-dust from her head and arms. “My hero. I’d been waiting all day for someone to save me from those old men.” Granted, Nymeria was well into her twenties, and Baelor and Maekar were only ten and fourteen years her senior, respectively. But gods, did she get satisfaction from ribbing the responsible elder Targaryens. 

Gwin smiled but seemed too unsure to laugh at two princes' expense. “Are you excited to watch the tilt tonight?”

“Quite.” A servant took her light spring cloak, while she eased herself into a chair. Horseback left her sore. Soreness, however, was preferable to the bouncing hell of carriage rides. “Prince Baelor and I share an interest in jousting. I think he could name every Westerosi champion in the last decade.” A fond smile bloomed on her face, and she began working off her bulky riding boots. “Ser Humfrey Hardyng broke ten lances before unhorsing Ser Donnel of Duskendale in Maidenpool last year. If he rides anything like that this year, he shan’t be moved from champions row. Our master-at-arms recently saw him training in the Vale and says he’s had special stirrups imported from Braavos…” Nym looked up from her muddy boots and saw she'd lost Gwin with the jousting talk. The girl was gazing longingly at Nym's gowns as the servants unpacked them. Nymeria knew she was not what most expected from a princess, so the girl’s carelessness stung her not at all. Nymeria's own mother could not be bothered to listen to her daughter's talk of jousting and melee. That, however, stung.

Nymeria kicked off her boots and joined Gwin at the wardrobe. With an indulgent grin, she pulled a dress out and held it up to the girl. Nym was as tall as her brothers and towered over Gwin. Naturally, the dress was much too long and pooled in front of her feet. “The color looks wonderful on you, but I fear you’d need stilts.” They shared a laugh before Nym leaned down and lowered her voice. “Lady Gwin, I’ve spent days on the road with my family. I need…I need some air. Do you know of a path or an alley I can take for a walk alone? Just to the campgrounds and back. To stretch my legs a bit without bothering the Kingsguard.”

Gwin looked uncomfortable, like a cornered pup. Nym felt bad for taking advantage of her hostess, truly, but she came to this tourney on a mission and would not stray from her path. “Well —I—Father, um. Father says I’m not to go on walks unchaperoned. It isn’t safe for a highborn lady.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Nymeria tried to keep her smile placid. “Your father is quite right, my lady. But this is a tourney!” The girl returned a blank stare. “Why would I need a knight to protect me when the camp is full of knights? It’s perfectly safe!” Understanding bloomed across the girl’s face. Dear gods, I’m teaching this child terrible life lessons.

“Of course, my princess!” Gwin somewhat begrudgingly returned the dress to the wardrobe and took Nym’s hand, leading her to the door. She pointed down the hallway and lowered her voice. “Past the dining room is a low door. It looks like a closet, but it’s for the servants. Take the stairs down; then go all the way down the corridor. It comes out at the front gate.” 

The two made way for porters carrying her largest trunk, heaving and huffing with the mass of oak and iron. She could swear the furniture shook when they set it down. A maidservant moved to open the lid, but a massive iron lock prevented her. Nym’s hand drifted absentmindedly to her breast, where the key rested on a silver chain. Her heart began to hammer behind it. “Thank you for your assistance. I will attend to my remaining belongings myself.”

“It’s no trouble, my lady—“

“That will be all for now, miss. I wish to rest before the first tilt tonight.” The maidservant made a hasty curtsy and retreated, and the few remaining staff departed, as well. “Thank you for your kind welcome, Lady Gwin. You’ve made me feel quite at home. I look forward to speaking more tonight.” Dismissed and a little deflated, Gwin mustered a weak smile and followed the staff, politely closing the door behind her. At the click of the chamber door, Nym dashed to the trunk and sank to the floor before it. The flagstones were hard and cold against her knees, and the locked chest loomed like a great beast. With tremulous hands, she pulled the key from beneath her shirt and released the lock. Beneath layers of muffling burlap and leather lay her greatest secret and greatest pride. Black and red emerged from the brown: full plate, fine mail, sword, shield, chamfron, and caparison, complete with all the accoutrements to safeguard both her body and her identity. Nymeria ran a reverent hand across her shield bearing the blazing red sun Nymeria of Ny-Sar, her namesake and foremother. 

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Nym slammed the lid shut. She could scarcely hear herself speak over her pounding heart, “Who is it?”

“Your mother,” deadpanned a distinctly masculine voice, as Valarr invited himself inside. 

“Please, nephew. Come in, and make yourself at home,” she snarked and made no effort to rise. 

He smiled cheerily and deposited himself in a chair. “Thank you, auntie. I will.” He nibbled at a bit of fruit on the table before his mismatched eyes drifted to the chest. “You still intend to go through with it, then?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He had asked a hundred times, and he would no doubt ask a hundred more. Valarr and Kiera were the only people she had trusted with her plan. They’d been her saviors. No one would bat an eye if the Young Prince and his wife were buying tourney gear in Targaryen colors. Nym would hand over sketches, specifications, and a hefty bag of gold dragons, and Valarr always returned with exactly what she needed. She could never commission this type of equipment without Good King Daeron catching word. The King adored his only daughter and indulged her every wish, allowing her to remain unwed and to spend many years of her upbringing training at arms in Sunspear. If he only knew she intended to enter a tourney as a mystery knight…He wouldn’t put her in the Maidenvault, but she’d never know another second without a chaperone. 

“Of course, I’m still going through with it! I am not wasting months of preparation for this,” she gestured to the contents of the chest, “to collect dust.” She frowned and replaced the lock rather violently. “I shan't sit and collect dust in King’s Landing, either.”

Valarr looked conflicted, his youthful face creasing more than it should. Up until now, he had supported his aunt—who was more like a sister—and had gone so far as to support her plan. But as the Targaryen envoy rode past the encampment, they passed knights who fought like devils and relished in bloodletting. He, too, was a Knight of the Realm. Was it not his duty to defend women from the blades of such men? Was it breaking his vows to help his aunt, his dearest friend, do battle? He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. Nymeria had no desire to live her life as a woman of Westeros should, and the happiness of his loved ones had always been of greater import than propriety. “And if Father sees the red sun of Nymeria and realizes who you are? What shall I tell him?”

“The truth. I’d never ask you to lie to your father. I am his little sister, though. It’s my gods-given right to lie to him.” Valarr smiled wryly and took another piece of fruit. “Did anyone notice my lances mixed in with yours?” He shook his head. “And Kiera knows to come after Baelor and Maekar depart?” He nodded. There was another beat of silence between them. “Thank you both.” Her voice was softer and smaller than Valarr was accustomed to hearing. 

She rose and joined him at the table, where he poured a bit of wine for them both. “Why are you so determined to do this? Everyone in our House knows you’re a fine fighter. I’ve seen you put every member of the Kingsguard in the dirt. Why risk your life?” 

Nym propped an elbow on the table and swirled her wine pensively. That familiar pang rose in her chest. She felt it every time she won a sparring match. Every time a “real knight” praised her performance. Every time she emerged from the training yard with nary a scratch, while her opponents nursed their wounds. “No matter my opponent, I know they're always holding back a little. Because I am a Targaryen and because I am a woman. My victories feel false. My achievements feel hollow. I train just as hard as the men in this family. I’m as deft with a sword or lance as I am with the harp or a needle. But there’s no legitimacy granted to my martial pursuits. They are a peculiarity of the spinster princess.”

He looked sympathetic but not wholly convinced. “They hold back with me, too, you know. Everyone’s scared to kick my arse because it will sit the Iron Throne one day.”

This time she did roll her eyes. “And yet you get to show your fucking face on the field.” His brows raised at her sudden vehemence. She still wasn’t sure if she fought like a knight, but she certainly cursed like a soldier. “The other knights still view you as a warrior, as their peer, even if you’re handled with care. When you raise your sword, it is your duty and your right. When I do the same…it’s like I’m doing a trick. They smile and laugh and praise my performance. Then tell me to fuck off back to my bower for embroidery.” Her violet eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m not doing this for the approval of any man, though. It’s for me. I need to know that all my work and all my heartache was worth a damn. Have I spent my life training as a warrior, or have I just trained to play with swords?”

They sat in uneasy silence for a minute. The depth of Nym’s heartache was at last revealed to Valarr. His kinswoman was many things: headstrong, fiercely loyal, and dangerously temperamental. Every bit a dragon. But he’d never known her to be insecure. This knowledge saddened him. Then the pity was replaced with a hot wave of anger on her behalf. They were both blood of the dragon, and his favorite dragoness would not be made to feel small. “If you are not a true warrior, there are no true warriors in Westeros,” he answered, suddenly sounding every bit his diplomatic father. “I know that. But if you must find out for yourself, I shan’t stand in your way.”

Nymeria said nothing, but managed a feeble smile and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. The light had shifted to the soft glow of evening, and the soothing chitter of insects drifted through the open window. The calm before the storm. 

Nymeria all but tumbled out of the carriage that bore her from the castle to the tourney grounds. The black of her gown brought out the green in her pallor after the precipitous ride. Lord Ashford had purchased the carriages especially for Gwin’s name-day and had spared no expense. The luxurious suspension system and massive wheels had been no match for the road, churned to a ragged mass of ruts by the great gathering. She planned to ride side-saddle in her gown, but Lord Ashford insisted their party take the carriage. Therefore, Baelor insisted they indulge their gracious host. 

Ser Donnel helped her to the ground and turned to assist Kiera and Gwin. She wobbled a few steps forward in the mud. The orange and white interior of the carriage was still spinning behind her eyes. Gorge threatening to rise in her throat, she turned and crashed into a wall of steel. Before she could careen to the ground, a plate-encased arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her upright. Assuming it was Ser Roland or Ser Willem, she allowed herself to lean on them for a moment. “My apologies, ser.” Her eyes lifted to meet those of a man who was certainly not Ser Roland or Ser Willem. Her previously clammy face turned red hot in an instant, a blush blooming across her olive cheeks and aquiline nose.

“Can’t have our princess falling in the mud, can we?” answered Ser Lyonel Baratheon, brown eyes twinkling mischievously. Nym was frozen, completely out of her element, and Ser Lyonel made no move to remove his arm from her waist. “Especially not looking so beautiful in your tourney gown.” She pulled back. He released her as easily as he’d pulled her in. “You seem a bit unsteady tonight, my princess. Shall I carry you to your seat? It would be my pleasure.” He winked.

Never in her life had she allowed herself to be made so vulnerable in public. Was it pre-tourney nerves, or was he just that damned disarming? She straightened immediately and placed on the mask of a princess, her least favorite face to wear. “Thank you, Ser Lyonel. I can find my own way to my seat.” Ser Willem approached the pair, respectfully silent but visibly irritated with the delay. “Good luck in the tilt tonight, ser.”

“My luck would be better with a lady’s favor,” he replied, bold hands wandering to the red silk ribbon on her sleeve.

She stepped away once more. The audacity! “This tourney is to win Lady Gwin’s honor. Fight well, and maybe you’ll earn it.” He grinned brightly, only encouraged by her biting retort. But she was gone, moving towards her family with Ser Willem on her heels. The roar of the crowd and the ring of steel drowned out anything else he could have said. Nym noticed Ser Roland glaring daggers over her shoulder and spared one last glance that way. Lyonel beamed back at him, waving enthusiastically. She stifled a snort behind her hand and met Maekar at the base of the grandstand. 

“Graceful as ever,” he teased.

“I can find my footing just fine. You can’t seem to find your own bloody children.” She stuck out her tongue like a petulant child and trotted up the steps before he could reply. The only open seats were with her brothers or…she sighed. Aerion. Reluctantly, she took the seat behind her nephew. Aerion could be pleasant when the mood struck him. Maekar, on the other hand, was certain to be unpleasant tonight. Nym could hardly blame him, and she felt a small twinge of guilt for her jab at his feral children. She’d apologize later. For now, she opted for the more manageable kinsman.

A hush fell over the crowd as Baelor took his seat, and the knights took their positions. Nym’s eyes drifted to Ser Lyonel, impossible to miss in his golden armor. The antlers on his helm stuck out further than his already broad shoulders. She expected him to be honed in on his opponent, oblivious to all but the challenge. But he was facing the dais. Her breath caught for a moment. Was he looking at her? The silence dragged on. She stared back at Baratheon and gave a slight nod. He nodded back, and her violet eyes went wide. He was looking at her! Why was he so bloody fascinated–

“LORD ASHFORD FUCKS HIS SHEEP!” a brazen voice rang out across the field. Aerion let out an uncouth snort. Nym swallowed a similar noise and pursed her lips so hard that her eyes watered. The crowd roared with laughter, and the horn rang out behind them. 

The knights were off. She could feel the pounding hoofbeats rattling up the grandstand and leaned as far forward as she could. It was like every tourney before; she was hypnotized. Her eyes took in every movement, every impact, stowing away strategies and combat styles in the back of her mind. It was a lesson as much as an art form to her. No doubt it was Baelor’s influence that sparked her passion for the tilt. She stood and applauded with him as Valarr unhorsed Ser Abelar Hightower. But Baelor’s joy was short-lived. In his attempt to dodge the prone Hightower, Lord Leo Tyrell was thrown from his mount . 

Nymeria cheered even louder and winked at Baelor. She had 50 dragons on Lord Damon Lannister, Tyrell's opponent. Fortune was a fickle mistress on the tourney grounds, though. Nym’s jaw dropped as Lord Leo turned to Lord Medgar Tully’s horse, now unoccupied and racing down the lane, and pulled himself to the saddle. In full plate. The roar of the crowd was ear-shattering. Tyrell swung his massive body down and scooped Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s discarded shield from the ground to replace his own. The princess was gawping like some country maid, as Tyrell took a fresh lance and knocked Lannister to the dirt. Baelor laughed victoriously and looked to her, tapping his hip where his coin purse rested. To him, his sister appeared shocked at losing her bet. Inside, though, Nymeria was panicking. Tyrell, a man older than Baelor himself, had recovered from losing his saddle, his shield, and his lance and won. She was to face him tomorrow! She was going to die!

Nymeria gracelessly plopped back to her seat and tried to return her focus to the tilt. Her blood was racing. It sounded like she had cotton in her ears. Was she in over her head? She was certainly in over her head.

Nymeria woke just after dawn. The light filtering into her room was still rosy and soft, but the voices coming from the courtyard were harsh. Curiosity overwhelmed her desire to stay abed, and she crept to the window, opening it just a crack. Her brothers were in the courtyard. Maekar was mounted and shouting down at Baelor.

“I don’t fucking care if he doesn’t want to!” she overheard Maekar bellowing. He looked haggard. Baelor’s hand raised to mollify his youngest brother, but Maekar was beyond any placation. “I’ll drag him back by his prissy blond head, if I have to. I’ll be back tonight, brother. There can’t be that many taverns between here and Summerhall.” He rode out without another word, accompanied by Ser Willem. Nymeria smiled tiredly. Good. One fewer Kingsguard to keep an eye on her today.

Her stomach lurched, and she leaned heavily on the windowsill. Today. Her knees felt like jelly. Baelor turned and stormed back into the keep, and she scrambled back into bed. A couple minutes later, there was a gentle rap at her door. “Come in,” she called, only half-faking the sleep in her voice. Baelor entered, followed by a few maids with breakfast. Nym smiled blearily but made no effort to rise.

He came to the edge of her bed, eying her curiously. “Maekar is gone, off to drag Daeron and Aegon back to civilization.” Nym only snorted in response. Good luck and godspeed, she thought. If there was one skill Daeron practiced to perfection, it was avoiding his responsibilities. She doubted Maekar would catch sight of him before the tourney was over. “I’ll be heading to the field for first challenges within the hour. Join me?”

“Not this morning, brother. I’m not feeling well at all. Perhaps this evening?” she mumbled, half to her pillow and half to him.

His eyes went wide, and he leaned down in concern. He placed a hand to her forehead like a parent checking for fever. She petulantly batted him away. “You’ve been talking about this tourney for months! Shall I fetch Maester Yormwell?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t bother yourself.” She tried to turn back over and tried to rebury herself in the blankets. The faster he departed, the sooner Kiera could come help her into her armor and out of the castle.

“It is obviously not nothing, Nymeria. This is unlike you. Did something happen?”

“My blood came,” she answered flatly.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. “...ah. Shall I leave Ser Roland to keep watch?”

“Gods, no. The man can’t fight a damned cramp, Baelor.” Her brother grimaced. She delighted in making him uncomfortable. “And he would never forgive me, if he missed the tourney of the year for my moon-blood.”

She felt a reassuring hand pat between her shoulders. “I will hold Maekar’s seat for you, should you wish to join me later.” His footsteps receded. She grinned into the downy pillow. Nothing got the men-folk running like blood that wasn’t spilled in violence. As she dismissed the maids, she could hear Baelor’s retinue departing outside. Kiera would be on her way, as soon as the Prince arrived on the grounds. Nym arose and flitted about the room in a frenzy, stuffing breakfast into her mouth and shimmying into the lower layers of armor. Underclothes, chausses, gambeson, coif, and mail, she could handle alone. The plate was a different story. Kiera had quick hands and years of practice with Valarr’s armor, thankfully.

Half an hour later, there was another knock at the door. Nym stiffened, stuck with her hands in the air and her mail hauberk halfway down her chest. “Who goes there?”

“Kiera.” The door opened and shut without any invitation. Kiera erupted into peals of laughter, and Nym felt her kinswoman’s practiced hands begin to work the mail the rest of the way down.

“It isn’t bloody funny! I think it’s in my hair!”

Kiera continued laughing. “I told you to put the coif on first.” Nym made a few mocking noises, then yelped as Kiera yanked it the rest of the way down along with what felt like half her hair. Her kinswoman moved quickly and calmly. Despite her pink hair and candy-sweet personality, Kiera was a rock. A steady hand and steady mind. She would be queen one day, and she lived every moment preparing for that duty. 

The silence grew heavier, and the pit in Nym’s stomach threatened to evict her breakfast. She stood on once-again jellied knees and wrapped a heavy cloak around herself. Years of training had accustomed her to the armor’s weight. Today, though, its weight was crushing. Kiera tucked her destrier’s chamfron and caparison beneath her own cloak and urged Nym forward. “Get a move on, girl. You think too long, and the nerves will win.” They clattered forward, Nym’s armor horribly loud despite her careful movement. Kiera peeked out of the chamber door and smiled back at her kinswoman. “Don’t worry. Nearly everyone is down at the grounds, and there’s no servant who won’t keep quiet for a few coins.”

The two women clattered down the hall, following Lady Gwin's instructions, and emerged in the stables by the front gate. Kiera tucked herself into a corner and watched for prying eyes, and Nym attended to her horse. Kiera was a practiced hand with knights, but she had no desire to handle their temperamental steeds, especially Nym’s. The mare pranced and pulled and flicked her head, until Nymeria had her fill of nonsense. She grasped the reins, met the wily mare's eyes, and growled, tinny and low inside the helmet, “Vhagar, sit fucking still, or I’m going to give up on this joust and have you made into glue.” The horse quieted immediately. 

Kiera watched in anticipation, as Nymeria finally mounted Vhagar and bundled her heavy cloak behind the saddle. “You look terrifying!” Kiera chirped, looking over the glimmering black and red armament. She mounted her own palfrey and would be following shortly behind.

A soft spring breeze filtered into the stable, cooling Nym’s sweating forehead and gently fluttering Vhagar’s caparison. She tried to think of something significant to say, something confident. She didn’t. “I’m going before I vomit.” Nymeria was never able to fully recall her ride to the tourney grounds. Her helm and nerves dulled her senses. Vhagar did most of the navigating. Time folded in on itself, and she was approaching the gates. The horn blew to announce the arrival of a knight. The herald called out to get a name, but Nymeria rode by silently, jaw set and muscles bowstring-tight. She continued past Champions’ Row, currently occupied by Ser Lyonel Baratheon, Ser Tybolt Lannister, Lord Leo Tyrell, Ser Humfrey Hardyng, and Prince Valarr Targaryen. 

A hush had fallen over the crowd, save for a growing murmuring of the words “Mystery Knight!” If she’d looked more closely, she would have seen a head of pink hair bobbing through the crowd, urging them into a frenzy for the new challenger. Nymeria came to a halt before the grandstand, bowing low for Crown Prince Baelor but never raising her visor. Baelor inclined his head in return. He tried to appear passive, but Nymeria knew her eldest sibling was giddy at the appearance of a mystery challenger. “Greetings, ser knight. I do not believe I know you or your heraldry.”

She remained stoic. Wait him out, Nym. A much louder cry of “Mystery Knight!” rang out. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her helm like a war drum. No spring breeze could cool her burning face now. 

“The privilege of first challenge,” continued Baelor, “is typically reserved for knights of noble birth or great renown.” Don’t be a fucking pedant, Baelor. Not today! If he refused her right to challenge, she wasn’t sure if she’d have the courage to come back tomorrow. More likely, she’d go wade into the Cockleswent and hope the gods-damned armor helped her drown.

A chant began among the smallfolk. “Chal-lenge! Chal-lenge!” The lords and ladies in the grandstand joined in after a moment. They wanted a show. Who was Baelor to deny them?

He smiled the easy-going smile that endeared nobility and smallfolk alike. “It seems our friends have made my decision for me. Who do you wish to challenge, ser?” Nymeria raised a gauntleted hand, praying it wasn’t shaking, and pointed at Ser Lyonel Baratheon. The crowd roared; the Laughing Storm was a fan favorite. Baelor nodded in affirmation. “Very well. Seven blessings upon you both.”

Nym turned and rode to her end of the lane. A page met her as she took position. He was a small thing, about Aegon’s age with a shock of bright red hair. He must have been one of Valarr’s Dondarrion cousins, perhaps one of Manfred’s massive brood. “Your lance, ser.” He raised the weapon with spindly arms, standing on tiptoe to reach her. She took it from him and inclined her head in thanks. 

At the other end of the lane, Ser Lyonel was laughing and goading on the crowd—likely goading his opponent on, too. But she could not hear a thing save for her blood, her breathing, the creak of leather, and the scrape of steel. She couched her lance and readied her shield. There was comfort in bearing the red sun of Nymeria, an ancestral blessing. Another spring breeze crept into her visor. She exhaled. The horn blew. Vhagar flew forward, and Nymeria’s mind shut out everything but her lance and her target. Then there was a mighty crash, followed a loud but fading “Fuck me—” from Baratheon. She reached the end of the lane, traded her shattered lance, and spun Vhagar once more. 

But Baratheon was sprawled in the dirt, his antlered helmet slightly askew. The spectators were deafening, some cheering the mystery knight, some enraged that their favorite had been unhorsed. Coins flashed as they passed between hands. Ser Lyonel stood and leaned heavily on the fence. Nym rode closer, and he raised an accusatory finger. “You!” Her heart picked up again. Don’t cause a scene, Seven’s sake. He began to laugh. “You strike like a fucking ballista, good ser.” More cheers. She was lightheaded with joy, as Baratheon strode back to his pavilion, wobbling a bit. 

“Finely done, ser,” called Baelor from the grandstand. “Remove your helm, so you may be recognized and rewarded for your skill!” Ah, shit. She shook her head. Baelor’s brow furrowed, and Lord Ashford looked greatly displeased at the uncouth response. “If you do not desire recognition, what is it you seek?” Nymeria raised her lance, pointed it at Ser Tybolt Lannister, and then gestured to the remaining champions. “You wish to challenge them all?” A nod. Again, the crowd cheered from the grandstand to the gathered masses. Baelor pursed his lips, mulling over all his knowledge of tourney etiquette and weighing it against the spectacle of a skilled mystery knight. “Very well. I will allow it. But should you be unhorsed, you will reveal your identity, or relinquish your horse and arms like any other knight.” Nymeria nodded in agreement and bowed low over Vhagar to show her gratitude. 

Once again, she took her position at the end of the lane, and Ser Tybolt took his. “Baratheon had half a cask in him by dawn, mystery knight!” he bellowed. “Try some steel that isn’t wine-soaked!” Ser Lyonel made a rude gesture from his pavilion, and Nymeria couldn’t help but snicker. The horn blew, and they were off again. Ser Tybolt held his horse better than Ser Lyonel, withstanding two lances to his shield, and breaking two against Nymeria’s. Her teeth chattered with the impact, and she feared Vhagar would stumble. The mare kept her footing, though, as reliable as the tides. On the third tilt, though, Ser Tybolt missed her with his lance, and hers struck home. He fell from his horse and landed atop his shield, splitting the Lannister lion down the middle. The knight stormed back to his pavilion, ever the picture of chivalry. “Bloody. Fucking. Sun. Knight,” he gritted out, tossing his broken shield at some poor page. 

Nymeria preened beneath her helm and accepted a fresh lance. The Dondarrion boy was small but lightning fast, living up to his house sigil. Lord Leo Tyrell was her next opponent. She tried to straighten her back and quell the terror in her chest. This could very well be where she was unmasked, but so be it. She had defeated two knights of the realm and would feel no shame if she lost to such a worthy opponent. The clamor of the crowd pulled her from her ruminations just in time to hear the horn and charge. 

She missed. Badly. Her lance barely even tapped Lord Leo, as he twisted in his saddle and planted his lance squarely in the middle of her shield. All the air left her lungs and stars dotted her vision. One foot slipped from its stirrup. She fell sideways in her saddle, smothered by the weight of her armor. Summoning every scrap of her strength, she curled in her core, dug her fingers under the saddle, and heaved herself aright. Another lance was thrust into her hand, and she was racing back towards Tyrell. They both struck this time, rattling each other’s skulls in their helmets. They repeated this three more times before both spurred their horses to dig in with all their might. 

A great gasp went up from the spectators. Both Lord Leo and the mystery knight were flying through the air. They landed hard and were both still for a few seconds. Nymeria was still blinking the dirt out of her eyes when a shadow passed over her. Lord Leo was straddling her, raising his sword in a mighty arc. Her own sword lay in its scabbard, pinned beneath her hip. She could only bring up her shield. Mercifully, it withstood the blow, but the force rattled deep into her bones and numbed her entire arm. Her helmet would have been a crater had she not blocked him. Tyrell was still bent low from his swing, and she struck out with her shield, bashing it twice against his helm. The Reach Lord reeled backwards, head ringing like a bell, and she arose to unsheathe her sword. They set upon each other with rabid fervor, steel sparking and wood splinters flying.

The onlookers were chanting, “Bloody Sun! Bloody Sun!” With another surge of confidence and manic energy, Nymeria disarmed Lord Leo, and continued to beat against his shield, driving him to kneel and cry,

“I yield! Seven fucking hells, I yield! You fight like a madman.” Panting like a plowhorse, Nymeria sheathed her sword and extended a hand to help Lord Leo to his feet. 

“Had your fill of fighting the drunk and the elderly, Bloody Sun?” called Ser Humfrey Hardyng.

Biting back a string of curses and threats at Hardyng, she remounted Vhagar. This time, the page offered her a skin of water before the lance. Her throat was parched, her mouth like cotton, but she could not risk raising her visor. She waved off the water and took the lance. 

“Bet you’re some green fucking boy under there. Did mummy paint your shield for you?”

Nymeria’s blood was boiling. I’m going to make this little man cry, she promised herself. The two rode at each other hard. Foolhardy, Hardyng shifted in his saddle to prepare his strike. A small strip of his breastplate was left uncovered, and Nymeria’s lance struck home. Hardyng was driven backward so forcefully that she heard the air leave his lungs in a great wheeze. When she rounded with a fresh lance and renewed anger, he lay gulping for air like a fish. His squire and pages hauled him into his pavilion.

“Bloody Sun” was the only name on the crowd’s lips now. At last, Nymeria could take a moment to bask in her victory.  She had bested four knights of the realm. She had secured a true victory. But she could not linger in the public eye much longer. Valarr took his position at the end of the lane, and she knew her time was done. 

With a bone-deep sigh, Nymeria tossed her lance to the dirt and trotted towards her nephew. The chanting fell to a hush as Valarr did the same. They met in the middle of the lane, and Nymeria unsheathed her sword, presenting it to him hilt-first.

“Do you forfeit, ser?” asked Valarr, as if he did not know the answer already. She nodded solemnly. He took the sword and laid it across his lap. “Very well. I accept your sword as ransom for your horse and arms. Seven blessings upon you.” They clasped hands briefly, then she urged Vhagar onward and fled the field at a full gallop. Whatever outcry she caused fell away quickly, as Vhagar bore her out of camp and towards the wood. 

Her face was damp with sweat and tears of joy. Her heart soared. She was victorious.

Once they were far enough into Ashford Wood, Nymeria tied Vhagar to a low branch and removed her bit to graze. The princess was reeling. She could scarcely believe that after the months of planning, she had gone through with it, and she had won! A manic laugh left her lips. She was settled at the base of a tree in an ungainly sprawl, still fully armored, and still quite dazed, when Lyonel Baratheon found her.

“Quite the spectacle you made out there.”

“Shit!” Nymeria gasped, her helmeted head snapping upwards and knocking into the tree. “Shit!”

“Ah, you save all your grace for the tourney grounds, I see.” He was still in his armor, sans helmet, and strutting around like this was Storm’s End. She groaned and slumped back again. Of course, the antlered fool had to be the one to find her. He took a long drink from his wineskin and extended it to her. She remained stock still. “Someone take your tongue? Are you the Tongueless Sun?” He was smirking and shifting about, prodding at her like a boy would poke an anthill.

She sighed in exasperation. “For the love of the Seven, would you kindly fuck off?”

He barked out a laugh. “You do have a tongue! And no, I shan't fuck off. I want to know who handed me my own arse. And then I want to get blind drunk with you! Where’s the downside, Ser Bloody Sun?”

Nymeria rose in a rage and stormed towards him. Had she not earned a moment’s peace? “Leave. Now.”

He smirked and closed the space between them. “Or what? You’ll beat me again? I’ve survived it once. I think I’ll survive it twice.” Nymeria reached for her sword and felt her fingers close around nothing. Shit. “Oh, that’s right! You gave your sword to Prince Valarr. How unfortunate.” He raised his fists and quirked his brows playfully. “Are we going to tussle?”

Nymeria sighed, and her shoulders collapsed in resignation. This was not worth the fight. She gave their surroundings a quick once-over and found no one. It seemed safe enough. She let out another curse and yanked the helmet off, meeting him with defiant eyes and a steely jaw. His eyes went wide and his mouth even wider. Nymeria was almost proud to render the Laughing Storm silent for a few blessed seconds. 

“Princess Nymeria?” he spluttered.

“The same,” she deadpanned and tossed the helmet down, returning to her seat by the tree.

He searched for words, and she searched for her last shred of patience. “How did you—Where did you—What princess knows how to fight like that?”

“This princess. Give me that wine.” Lyonel sank down in the grass next to her, close enough for their legs to touch. She took the skin from his hand and drank deeply. “Oh, that’s good wine.”

Lyonel smiled and drank after her. He settled a little more against the tree, digging his armor against hers and making it apparent he intended to stay. She sighed and rolled her eyes, but he chose to ignore her. “I take it your brothers didn’t know that baby sister was entering the tourney?”

“Gods, no. Learning to defend myself is one thing. But this…” She trailed off and tried to resituate herself on the hard ground. Her muscles were starting to ache, and bruises from the melee were no doubt blooming all over her body. Her hip popped loudly. “Fucking ouch.”

Lyonel laughed delightedly. “Such language for a princess!” She glared, and he held his hands up in defense. “I like it.” He knocked his knee against her leg, knowing she’d landed on it after the joust with Lord Leo. She let out an indignant yelp. “You’re going to have a hard time hiding all those bumps and bruises. And you’re going to hurt like the seven hells come tomorrow.”

Nymeria eyed him suspiciously and took back the wineskin. That, at least, would ease the pain. “Any advice on that? Since you’re such an expert at getting knocked on your arse.”

He had the audacity to laugh again! Try as she might, Nym couldn’t get a rise out of the man. Her brothers were always so easy to irritate and run off when she wanted them gone. Lyonel Baratheon seemed to luxuriate in her barbed words. The wineskin passed back to him, and he drank, eyes beginning to roam the curve of her jaw and neck. Her face heated. He leaned even closer. “I can think of quite a few pleasurable ways to relax your muscles, princess,” he drawled into her ear.

She jerked away, though she made no move to get up. “Go fuck yourself, Baratheon,” she spat.

“Aye, that’s one of them!” Letting out a furious growl, she snatched her helm from the ground and made to untie Vhagar. “Wait, wait, wait!” he spluttered, rising gracefully for a man who had been drinking since dawn. “Don’t go! We were having such fun!”

She turned on him, looking every bit a dragon, and his composure faltered for a moment. “I was having fun jousting! I was enjoying my victory in peace! I was getting five fucking seconds when I’m not treated like the porcelain doll princess!”

Lyonel’s face had fallen. “I'm sorry, my princess. Truly." He raised his hands in surrender. "I came here to meet the knight who tore down Champions’ Row and left without a word. I should have shown more respect. Forgive a fool?”

She turned and looked at him hesitantly. How did this menace of a man manage such a sad puppy look? She took a breath and calmed herself, letting the sweet air and golden light of the wood sink in for a moment. “You are forgiven, Ser Lyonel. But I beg you, tell no one else of my identity. It may be revealed eventually, but I would like to make it home without any more family theatrics.” Her mind wandered to Maekar, who was likely turning some inn upside down and cursing the heavens themselves.

Lyonel knew about the situation with Maekar’s boys. Of course, he knew. The private business of House Targaryen rarely stayed private. “I’ll take it to the grave, my princess.” She doubted that very much but smiled at him, nonetheless. “You know, I was serious last night about wearing your favor. I didn’t have it today, and I was unhorsed!”

She finally let out a genuine laugh but did not relent. “And I was serious that I won’t insult Lady Gwin by giving it to you!”

He paused, stroking his beard like he was mulling over something very serious. “What about a kiss for good luck?”

“...excuse me?”

“Only if you want to, of course!” He was trying—and failing—to seem aloof. “It isn’t lucky at all if you don’t actually want to—!”

Nymeria had grabbed him by the gorget and hauled him forward, slamming his mouth against hers. The impulse had been as fast as it was overwhelming. The wineskin fell from Lyonel’s fingers, which found their way to the nape of her neck, weaving into her dark hair. His other hand fell to her waist, bringing her even closer in a clash of armor. She opened her mouth to breathe and felt his tongue slide between her lips. He was devouring her, and she was happy to be devoured. She pulled his lower lip into her mouth and nipped, earning a low groan from him. After a few moments, she broke for a breath. He trailed his lips along her jaw and neck, which he’d been eyeing so hungrily. Nym threw her head back, tangling her fingers in his salt-and-pepper hair. He forced himself to pull back before he could work a bruise into her skin. 

Lyonel took a moment to hold Nymeria by the back of her neck and admire his handiwork. Her violet eyes were glazed, and her parted lips kiss-swollen. He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers. “Can’t lose now, can I?” She laughed and smiled bashfully, stepping away. His brows furrowed, and he rapped a knuckle against her armor. “How do you plan to get back into the castle with all this?”

Oh, no. She hadn’t planned this far. In all honesty, she was sure she would have been unmasked. Making it off the grounds and back into the castle undetected never crossed her mind. “I…I suppose I’ll have to hide it up a tree. Or I brought my cloak. That should keep it covered until I’m in my chambers.”

“You’ll end up on a pyre, if you try to sneak into that castle in full armor. It’s a bloody miracle you made it out.” She blushed, feeling horribly naive. “Can’t leave it out here. Why don’t you send it with me? I’ll keep it in my tent, and you can retrieve it later.”

Her face was positively aflame. “You want me to take off my armor for you?”

“Just the plate! And your horse’s barding. That should be enough to keep you unnoticed.” 

Nym gnawed at her lip, weighing her options.  In for a penny, in for a dragon, she supposed. She had gotten herself into this situation, and Lyonel was offering to get her out. “I cannot reach all of the ties,” she admitted. “A friend helped me don it this morning.” Lyonel nodded and took to the knots behind her back and at her shoulders, looking quite serious for a change. He moved with such deftness that her armor was falling away before she could catch it. Eventually, she gave up and let him remove it like some squire. She removed her testy destrier's equipment, though. Together, they wrapped the evidence of her sins into a tidy bundle behind his saddle. She knotted her cloak around her neck and turned to the knight once more. “I cannot thank you enough, Ser Lyonel.” Her voice was breathy, unsure, wholly unlike herself.

He smiled. This time it was gentle and warm, not all flashing teeth and bravado like before. “I’m very skilled at cleaning up my friends’ shenanigans, princess. Years of practice.” His eyes drifted back to her mouth, obviously tempted. Instead, he helped her onto Vhagar and grasped her hand. Holding her stare, he pressed a kiss to her palm. “Until next time.”

“Until next time, Ser Lyonel.” She spurred Vhagar on and rode back to Ashford Castle, her heart aflutter.