Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary : Daeron "sad pathetic wet dog energy" Targaryen. (God he looks sooo hot in this scene).
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Word Count : 4.4k
A/N : I am soo sorry you guys, I was in a bit of a writing slump. Could not write anything for the life of me. Don't worry the next chapter is coming in a few days. Now for this chapter, I was like "What do you mean a big happy targaryen family??? Whaaat??? That dosen't exist in any period of time for this family." Also please anyone has any thoughts about the chapter please comment or drop it in my inbox. I would love to interact with you guys. Anyways enjoyyyy~~
Masterlist
Chapter VI
The Road to King’s Landing
The road to King’s Landing stretched long and familiar, yet it felt strangely altered to Visenya, as though distance and time had reshaped it into something less certain. The wheels of the carriage turned steadily beneath her, their rhythm soft but unrelenting, a quiet reminder that there was no halting what lay ahead. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the road, painting the world in gold and dust, but within the carriage it was dim, the air still and close.
She sat alone.
For once, there was no one to watch her, no one to measure her words or weigh her silences. It should have been a comfort.
It was not.
Her thoughts turned, as they had done more often of late, to King’s Landing and to those who waited for her there.
Her mother would be furious.
Visenya could see it already, as clearly as if she stood before her, Aelinor Penrose, composed and graceful even in anger, her voice quiet but sharp as any blade. There would be no shouting, no display, only that cold, measured disappointment that somehow cut deeper than rage ever could. She would speak of duty, of decorum, of the dangers of recklessness-and Visenya, for all her defiance, would have no easy answer to give.
Her father, at least, would not look at her so.
Prince Aerys had never been one for harsh words, not with her. He would listen first, as he always did, his expression thoughtful, his tone gentle even when he disagreed. There would be questions, certainly-more than she might wish but no condemnation. If anything, he would seek to understand her reasons before passing judgment, and in that alone there was a kind of quiet loyalty that Visenya had always cherished.
And her grandfather-
A faint, almost unwilling smile touched her lips.
King Daeron would not scold her at all, she thought. No, he would look at her with that same knowing, mischievous glint in his eye and ask, Did you enjoy the tourney, my sweet? as though her disappearance, her deception, her wandering among hedge knights and squires were no more than a tale to be savoured.
He would see it for what it was.
Or perhaps for what he chose it to be.
The smile faded as quickly as it had come.
Because not all in King’s Landing would greet her so lightly.
Her thoughts turned, unwilling but insistent, to Queen Myriah Martell and at once, the warmth drained from her entirely.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when that name had not carried such weight. A time when Visenya had sat beside her grandmother without tension, had listened to her stories of Dorne, of sunlit courts and desert winds, and found in them something fascinating, something distant and yet compelling. Myriah had been sharp even then, and proud, but there had been a kindness to her as well-a sense, perhaps, that Visenya had once mistaken for affection.
That had been before.
Before the dinner.
Two years had passed, yet the memory remained as vivid as if it had been carved into stone.
The hall had been bright that night, filled with the easy noise of family gathered together. It was a rare thing, such a gathering, rarer still that it should pass without strain, yet for a time it had seemed possible. King Daeron had presided at the head of the table, his presence steadying, his wit light enough to ease even the sharper tempers among them. Wine had flowed, and with it conversation, easy, unguarded, the kind that did not often survive the weight of the court.
All had been present.
Prince Aerys with her mother beside him, calm and attentive as ever. Baelor, alone since Jena Dondarrion’s passing, though his sons Valarr and Matarys sat near, quiet but observant. Rhaegal with Alys Arryn and their children, a softer presence, though no less keenly watched. Maekar, stern and unyielding even in repose, his children gathered close-Daeron among them, restless even then, though not yet so far gone into wine as he would later become.
And at the center of it all, Queen Myriah.
Already displeased.
It had not been a secret, her unease at court. The lords of Westeros had never embraced her fully, not as they had embraced King Daeron, and their disdain-subtle or otherwise-had not gone unnoticed. They spoke in quiet tones of her Dornish blood, of the peace she represented rather than the power she held, and though few dared voice such things openly, they lingered all the same.
Nor had the court ladies done much to win her favor.
Isolation had wrapped itself about her slowly, insidiously, until even within her own halls she stood apart.
When King Daeron spoke that night, his tone had been casual, almost light, as though the matter were of no great consequence.
“It is time,” he had said, turning his gaze toward Visenya, “that you begin to learn how a court is ruled. You shall serve as my cupbearer during council meetings. You will listen. You will observe. It is past time you understood such things.”
It should have been an honor. It was meant as one.
Visenya had felt it so.
But Myriah had not.
The shift had been subtle at first, a tightening of her mouth, a stillness that spread through her like frost. “And this was decided when, my king?” she had asked, her voice smooth, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable.
“When it needed to be, my Sun,” Daeron had replied, untroubled.
“You did not consult me of this, husband.”
“I did not think it necessary, my dear.”
That had been the spark.
The conversation had turned then, sharp and unyielding, each word striking harder than the last. What began as disagreement had become accusation, and accusation had given way to something far more dangerous.
“It would be simpler,” Myriah had said at last, her voice rising despite herself, “if Baelor had been the eldest. He has the temperament, the sense, qualities sorely lacking elsewhere.”
Silence had fallen.
Not complete, but heavy enough that every man and woman present felt its weight.
Visenya had not meant to speak. But she had.
“As if you would know what makes a king,” she had said, her voice cold and clear. “You were sent here as a peace offering, nothing more. Your duty was to strengthen this house, and yet you speak as though it were yours to judge.”
Aelinor had stilled beside her. Aerys had drawn breath, as though to intervene.
But Visenya had not stopped.
“You speak of Baelor,” she had gone on, “yet the realm does not see him as you do. They see Dorne in him, and they do not love it. And Rhaegal-” she had hesitated only a moment, “-Rhaegal is gentle, yes, but not strong. You favor them, yet you would cast aside the one son who stands as the realm expects him to.”
The words had landed harder than she had intended. Or perhaps exactly as she had intended.
Myriah had risen then, her composure shattered, anger burning plain upon her face. “You dare-”
“That is enough.”
King Daeron’s voice had cut through the hall, sharp as steel.
Silence had followed, absolute this time.
Myriah had turned to him, her anger undiminished. “Send her away,” she had demanded. “If she cannot show respect-”
“No,” Daeron had said.
Just that. No more.
The matter had ended there. But nothing had truly ended.
The days that followed had been colder.
Quieter.
Tension lingered in every corridor, in every glance that lasted too long or not long enough. It was Aerys who had broken it at last, suggesting calmly, reasonably that a change of setting might serve them all. Dragonstone, he had said, held knowledge worth studying, histories worth reading.
He had not spoken of the distance it would place between them and the queen.
He had not needed to.
Within the week, they had gone.
And the court had whispered.
They had said it was Myriah’s doing that her favor, her temper, had driven the heir from King’s Landing. The whispers had spread, and with them her standing had weakened further.
Visenya had not forgotten.
Nor, she suspected, had Myriah.
The carriage jolted slightly, drawing her back to the present.
King’s Landing awaited.
And with it, all that had been left unresolved.
A sudden shift of weight broke her thoughts. The door opened without ceremony, and Daeron-Maekar’s eldest son-half-stumbled inside, the scent of wine arriving before he did.
“Gods,” he muttered, dropping onto the seat opposite her, “I’ve had enough of that saddle.”
Visenya raised a brow, though there was little surprise in it. “You chose it, Cousin.”
“I chose poorly then, Sweet sister.”
He leaned back, exhaling heavily, though his gaze, slightly unfocused settled on her with a strange intensity. “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
He huffed a laugh, though it lacked humor. For a moment, he said nothing, his expression shifting, darkening.
“I had the dream again,” he said at last.
Visenya stilled. “What did you see?”
“A dragon,” he said. “Dead. Broken on the ground.” His voice dropped, roughened by something deeper than drink. “And I knew it meant something. I always do.”
“A dream is not destiny, Daeron.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s close enough, isn’t it.”
She watched him carefully. “You drown them in wine then, Brother.”
“And worse,” he said, with a crooked smile. “You know that well enough.”
“I know you run from them.”
“I survive them.”
There was a difference. Or so he told himself.
“And you?” he asked after a moment. “What do you feel, going back?”
Visenya’s gaze drifted, unfocused. “That nothing will be as it was.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have right now.”
Daeron studied her, then nodded slowly. “Your parents will be waiting.”
“Yes, they will be and not very happy with my recent transgressions, I assume.”
“And our dearest grandmother too.”
At that, something colder settled over her.
“Yes, I assume she will be,” she said again.
He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. “That should be interesting.”
Visenya did not smile.
“No,” she said quietly. “It will not be because it need not be, brother.”
Outside, the road carried them onward. Towards King’s Landing, towards reckoning and toward whatever waited beyond it.
The inn was quieter than the road had been.
After days of movement, of wheels turning, hooves striking earth, voices rising and falling with the rhythm of travel, the stillness felt almost unnatural. Night had settled deep and thick around the structure, the kind that swallowed sound and softened edges, leaving only the occasional murmur from below and the low crackle of fire within the hearth.
Visenya sat beside it, one leg drawn slightly beneath her, her fingers loosely clasped in her lap. The flames danced before her, restless and shifting, casting long shadows across the small chamber. Their warmth should have been comforting.
Instead, her thoughts wandered.
They had done so more often of late.
Duncan.
The name came unbidden, as it had before, though she did not speak it aloud. She wondered, not for the first time, where the road had taken him now whether he still rode beneath open skies, whether Egg walked beside him as always, whether they spoke of Ashford still, or if the world had already begun to carry them elsewhere.
It would, she knew. The road did not linger and yet she found herself lingering.
On the way he had looked at her. On the quiet steadiness of him, so different from the men she had known all her life. There had been no calculation in him, no careful weighing of words or glances, only a kind of simple certainty that had unsettled her more than any courtly intrigue ever had.
He had kissed her.
The thought came sharper than the rest. Brief though it had been, it had not faded. If anything, it lingered still, warm and insistent, like the embers before her.
A knock at the door broke the thought cleanly in two. Visenya stilled, her gaze shifting toward it. Another knock followed, lighter this time, though no less certain.
She rose. The stone floor was cool beneath her feet as she crossed the chamber, drawing her robe more closely about herself before unlatching the door. When it opened, the corridor beyond lay dimly lit, shadows pooling in its corners.
And in their midst,
Daeron.
He leaned lightly against the doorframe, one shoulder braced as though the wall alone held him upright. The scent of wine reached her before his words did, though his eyes, dark, sharp despite the drink were fixed entirely on her.
“Care for a drink, sister?”
Visenya blinked once, taking him in. There was something familiar in the sight too familiar. She had seen him thus before, though rarely so close, rarely so… unguarded.
Behind him, the Kingsguard stood at his post. Still, watchful and uneasy.
Visenya became suddenly aware of herself, of the thin shift beneath her robe, of the looseness of her hair, of the hour. This was not how a princess received company, least of all a man, and least of all one not her husband.
Least of all him.
Daeron followed her gaze briefly, catching the tension in the guard’s stance, and gave a faint, crooked smile.
“What?” he said lightly. “Am I to stand here all night, then?”
His voice lowered, softer, almost coaxing. “Come now, sister. You would not make me beg. Am I not your favourite brother?”
The words were careless, too careless and yet Visenya felt the corner of her mouth lift before she could stop it.
“You are all but a nuisance, brother,” she said.
“Ah,” he replied, straightening just slightly. “But a beloved one, I am sure.”
She hesitated, only a moment, then stepped aside.
“Very well,” she said. “Come in.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The chamber seemed smaller for it.
Daeron moved toward the hearth without waiting to be invited further, settling near it with the ease of someone who belonged wherever he chose to be. Visenya followed more slowly, reclaiming her place beside the fire, though she kept a careful distance between them at first.
It did not last.
Wine appeared, she did not see from where and he pressed a cup into her hand with a familiarity that should have been protested.
She did not protest.
They spoke.
At first of small things, as though circling something neither of them yet wished to name. Of the road, of the inns they had passed, of the dull sameness of travel when one had seen too much of it.
But it did not remain so.
“Your hedge knight,” Daeron said at last, swirling the wine in his cup. “He made quite the impression.”
Visenya’s gaze flickered. “He did what was required of a man of his station.”
“And more,” Daeron said. “Most would not have stood as he did. Especially in front of Aerion of all people.”
“No,” she agreed quietly. “Most would not, I presume.”
Daeron studied her over the rim of his cup, something intent in his expression. “You admire him, do you not, sister.”
It was not a question.
Visenya did not look away. “I respect him, cousin. As one ought to respect any knight in the realm’s service”
A pause.
“Are you sure that it is that all there is to it then?”
She did not answer.
They spoke of other things then.
Of Aerion’s exile, Lys, of all places and the inevitability of it. Of Maekar’s decision, harsh yet measured, and of Baelor, still recovering, his fate no longer uncertain but not yet secure.
Daeron’s tone shifted when he spoke of his brother, though not in the way one might expect.
“He will live,” he said. “And the realm will be better for it.”
“You sound certain of it.”
“I am.”
Visenya studied him. “You dream of him as well?”
Daeron’s lips curved faintly. “I dream of many things.”
“The dragon,” she said softly.
His gaze snapped back to hers.
“Yes,” he said.
There was no jest in it now.
“No bones,” he went on, quieter. “No rot. Only death and something waiting beyond it.” His fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “We are not done, Visenya. Not yet.”
“With dragons?” she asked.
“With fire,” he said.
A flicker passed between them.
“You believe they will return,” she said.
“I know they will.”
There was something in his voice that made it difficult to dismiss.
“And you?” he asked. “If they did, what would you claim?”
Visenya considered that. “A dragon that listens without any command,” she said at last. “Not one that must be forced and broken to do so. Like Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes.”
Daeron smiled faintly. “I am afraid that there are no such dragons, sweet sister.”
“Then I would be the first to have one, my dearest brother.”
The fire crackled softly between them. The space had closed. She was aware of it now, of how near he sat, of the warmth that was not entirely from the hearth, of the way his gaze lingered longer than it should.
“You will be named heir upon our return, won’t you be,” he said suddenly.
Visenya stilled. “You speak boldly, brother.”
“I speak the truth, do I not.”
“Truth is not so easily decided then.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it is seen, is it not, sister.” His gaze did not leave her. “And you are seen, Visenya.”
Something in her chest tightened. “And what would you have me do with that?” she asked.
“Rule, I am hoping,” he said simply. The word hung between them heavy, unavoidable.
“And marry, I suppose,” he added.
There it was. Visenya exhaled slowly. “Of course.”
Daeron leaned slightly closer. “Have you decided yet?”
She let out a quiet breath, her gaze dropping briefly to the fire before returning to him. “Once,” she said, “I thought I had.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“And who was the fortunate fool?”
Her lips curved faintly. “You.” The word landed between them like a stone dropped into still water. Daeron did not laugh, did not deflect.
He only looked at her, truly looked this time, the haze of wine sharpening rather than dulling his focus.
“And now?” he asked.
Visenya felt the heat rise unbidden to her face. “Now,” she said lightly, “you have your cups and your whores to keep you company.”
Something flickered in his expression then something darker, sharper. Something she had not seen before or perhaps pretended not to see before.
“Do I?” he murmured.
The air shifted. “Tell me something, sweet sister,” he said, his voice lower now.
Visenya felt it before she understood it, the change, the pull of it. “What?”
His gaze held hers, unrelenting. “Have you ever been with a man?”
The question struck deeper than it should have. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, “No,” she said. “I have not been bedded yet, if that is what you are asking.” Her voice did not falter. She willed it not to.
“And why do you ask?” she added, softer now. “Do you mean to claim that honor for yourself?”
The words were bold, too bold but she did not take them back.
The distance between them had vanished.
She was aware of every breath, every shift of movement, every inch that no longer separated them. His hand rested near hers, not touching but close enough that it might have been.
Too close.
Daeron leaned in, not quickly, not carelessly but with a certainty that made retreat feel like something distant, something unreal.
Visenya did not move. Her breath caught, just slightly, her pulse loud in her ears as the space between them narrowed to nothing-
A noise shattered it.
Laughter, loud and sudden, from somewhere below. A crash followed, the unmistakable sound of something breaking.
The moment broke with it.
Visenya pulled back sharply, drawing in a breath as though she had been held beneath water.
The air felt colder now, too cold.
“It is late,” she said, too quickly, rising to her feet. “You should go.”
Daeron remained where he was for a moment, watching her.
Then, slowly, he stood. “As you wish,” he said.
He moved toward the door, each step measured, unhurried.
Visenya willed herself not to move. She could feel her heartbeat still, too fast, too loud, her thoughts scattered in a way she did not like.
He reached the door, his hand found the handle and then he stopped.
Before she could speak, he stepped back toward her, closing the distance once more, not as before, not with that same pull, but with something quieter, something deliberate.
He reached out, lifting a single strand of her hair where it had fallen loose across her shoulder.
His lips brushed it, light, lingering.
“I hope I dream of you tonight, Visenya,” he said softly.
Then he let it fall and was gone.
The door closed. Silence followed.
Visenya stood where she was for a long moment, unmoving. Then, slowly, she turned, pressing her back against the wood, her breath uneven, her face warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire.
“No,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “It is the wine.”
It had to be. It was easier that way.
Her hand rose briefly to her chest, as though she might steady the rhythm there, but it did not slow so easily.
After a moment, she pushed herself away, moving through the chamber with deliberate care, extinguishing the candles one by one until only darkness remained.
The fire burned low.
She lay down without undressing further, staring up into the dimness. Sleep did not come quickly and when it did, it did not come without dreams.
The darkness did not bring her peace.
Visenya lay still beneath the covers, the inn quiet around her, yet her thoughts refused to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again, Daeron, standing too close, his voice low, his gaze unwavering. She could still feel the ghost of it, the weight of his attention, the way it had stripped away the careful distance she kept from the world.
Her breath came slower than it should have, uneven. She shifted slightly, though there was no comfort in it. The sheets felt too warm, the air too close, as though the room itself remembered what had nearly passed between them.
Have you ever been with a man?
The words lingered, sharp and intimate, curling through her thoughts in a way she could not quite silence.
“No,” she had said and yet her body did not feel untouched by the question.
Her hand tightened briefly against the fabric of the sheets, her eyes closing as she turned her face into the pillow, as though she might bury the feeling there. But it did not fade. It only shifted, deepened, became something harder to ignore.
Daeron’s voice.
Daeron’s gaze.
The way he had said her name.
A soft breath left her, quieter now, almost uncertain and then it changed. Not all at once but enough because it was not only Daeron who lingered, another memory pressed in, unbidden but no less insistent, a different kind of closeness, a different kind of warmth.
Duncan.
The thought came softer, steadier, and somehow that made it worse. There had been no sharp edge to him, no dangerous pull like Daeron’s but there had been something else. Something honest. Something that had settled beneath her skin without her noticing.
The memory of his hand brushing hers, the way he had looked at her, as though she were not a princess, not a piece in some greater game, but simply… her and the kiss. Gods. Her breath caught. It had been brief, almost uncertain and yet it had not left her. It had stayed, quiet and constant, in a way Daeron’s intensity had not.
Two different fires, one wild and consuming, the other steady, enduring and she did not know which one unsettled her more.
Visenya turned onto her side, her thoughts a tangle she could not easily unravel. The night stretched on around her, long and unyielding, offering no answers, only feeling, only want and beneath it all, something quieter still, something dangerous because for the first time, she was not certain what she wanted more.
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Word Count : 5.8k
A/N : Was going to put that one meme "When your circle's small but ya'll are crazy". But then had one look at this gif and yeahhh. I am half happy with how I wrote this. I am happy with the fight sequence but I don't like the rest of it. English is not my first language so it's quite a struggle sometimes. Also, loads of dunk pov and last scene too (hehe hope you like it) . Anyways enjoyyyy~~
Masterlist
Chapter V
The Trial of Seven
Dawn came cold. Mist clung low to the field, curling around boots and hooves alike, as though the earth itself sought to swallow what was about to be done upon it. The sky above was pale and distant, untouched by what gathered below.
Seven against seven.
Dunk stood with the others, his helm tucked beneath his arm, his shield strapped tight, his sword hanging at his side with a weight that felt heavier than it ever had before. Around him, men adjusted armor, checked straps, spoke in low voices that did little to hide the tension beneath.
Seven.
He glanced along the line.
Ser Lyonel Baratheon stood solid as a keep, rolling his shoulders as though preparing for sport rather than slaughter. Raymun Fossoway-sigil as that of a green apple in response to his cousin’s treachery -stood opposite one another, alike in face if not in sigil to his elder cousin, pale but resolute. The Humfreys lingered quieter, their readiness worn in silence rather than words.
And at the center-Prince Baelor. Already helmed. Already still.
Dunk swallowed. Seven hells, he thought again.
Across the field, the other seven emerged.
Armor gleamed there-finer, brighter. White cloaks among them. Kingsguard.
And at their head-Prince Aerion.
Even from a distance, Dunk could feel the weight of him. The confidence. The cruelty sharpened into something almost eager. This was no game to him. This was sport.
A horn sounded. Low. Long.
The murmurs of the crowd faded into a tense, waiting hush. Dunk set his helm upon his head. The world narrowed. Breath. Steel. Ground. Nothing else.
“Stay close,” Baelor’s voice came, calm and steady beneath the helm. “Break them where they press. Do not die.”
Dunk nodded, though he knew Baelor could not see it.
Another horn. The signal.
And then they moved.
At first, it was not chaos. Not yet.
Seven men advancing as one, measured, deliberate, shields raised, weapons held ready. The distance between the two sides closed slowly, like the drawing breath before a storm breaks.
Dunk could hear it then-the pounding of his own heart. The creak of leather. The distant rustle of the watching crowd. And beneath it all-the soft, almost whispering sound of steel shifting in its grip. Then the lines met. And the world shattered.
The first impact came like a hammer.
Shield slammed against shield, the force of it rattling up Dunk’s arm and into his shoulder. He staggered, recovered, barely in time to bring his sword up as a blade came flashing toward him.
Steel rang. Once. Twice.
He drove forward, instinct taking hold where thought faltered, pushing into the man before him-a knight he did not know, white cloak snapping at his back.
Kingsguard.
Gods.
The man was faster.
Dunk barely caught the next strike, the force of it jolting his grip, sending a sharp sting through his fingers. He gritted his teeth, shoved hard, breaking the rhythm just long enough to swing in return.
The blow glanced off armor. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
To his left, a roar-Lyonel Baratheon crashing into another with the force of a charging bull, driving him back step by step. To his right, the Humphreys fought close, their movements tighter, quicker, blades flashing in short, desperate arcs.
And everywhere-
Steel.
Noise.
Breath.
Pain.
Dunk ducked another strike, too slow to avoid it entirely. The blade scraped along his helm, ringing loud enough to make his ears ache. He stumbled, caught himself, and drove forward again, shoulder-first, slamming into his opponent.
They went down together. The ground hit hard.
Mud. Breath knocked from his lungs.
The Kingsguard knight rolled fast-faster than Dunk and came up on one knee, sword already rising.
Dunk barely managed to raise his shield.
The impact splintered wood.
A crack split through it, sharp and final.
Not good.
He kicked out, catching the man low, unbalancing him just enough to scramble to his feet. No time to think. No time to breathe.
Only move.
Only fight.
High above the field, beneath the shelter of the royal pavilion-Visenya watched. She did not move. Did not speak. Around her, men shifted, leaned forward, called out names and wagers and prayers in hushed, urgent tones.
She heard none of it. Her gaze was fixed.On him. Dunk moved differently than the others. Less polished. Less precise. But he did not stop. Even when he faltered-he rose again. Even when driven back-he pushed forward. There was no elegance to it, no courtly grace. Only refusal. To yield.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides. Below, the fight churned, lines breaking apart now, the order of it dissolving into scattered clashes. And in the midst of it-Aerion.
Dunk saw him too late. One moment he was locked against the Kingsguard knight, straining, breath ragged, shield nearly gone-The next-A flash of silvered steel from the side. He turned-Too slow.
The blow caught him across the ribs, hard enough to spin him half around. Pain flared sharp and immediate, stealing breath, stealing balance. He staggered. Fell to one knee.
Up, his mind screamed. Get up.
But his body lagged behind. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard it-A laugh. Aerion.
“Is this your champion?” the prince called, his voice carrying even through the chaos. “This stumbling ox?”
Dunk forced himself upright, breath coming harsh and uneven. His side burned where the strike had landed, each inhale a knife.
But he stood. “That all you’ve got?” he managed, though the words came rough.
Aerion smiled. “Not nearly.”
He came forward then. Fast. Too fast.
Dunk barely raised his sword in time.
Steel crashed. Again. Again.
Each strike heavier than the last, driving him back step by step. Aerion fought like a man who enjoyed it-not just the victory, but the breaking of it, the slow wearing down.
Dunk’s heel slipped in the churned mud. His balance faltered.
Aerion saw it. Of course he did.
The next blow came sharp and low, knocking Dunk’s sword wide-
And then- A shadow moved between them.
Steel met steel with a ringing clash that split the moment clean in two.
Baelor.
He stood between them now, his presence like a wall made flesh, his blade steady where Dunk’s had faltered.
“Aerion,” he said, and even in the midst of battle, his voice carried command.
Aerion’s smile thinned. “Uncle.”
“Enough,” Baelor said.
“This is a trial,” Aerion replied. “Or have you forgotten?”
“No,” Baelor said. “But you seem to have mistaken it for something else.”
Their blades met again. This time, it was different. Not wild. Not desperate. Measured. Precise.
Dunk staggered back, breath ragged, vision swimming as he watched them-two princes, moving with a skill he could not hope to match, each strike deliberate, each defense exact.
This-This was what true knights looked like. For a moment, he could only stare. Then pain dragged him back. The fight was not done. Not for him.
Not yet.
The field had become a storm. Men were down-some moving, some not. Armor dented, shields broken, blades dulled with blood and dirt alike. The neat lines of before were gone entirely, replaced by scattered duels and desperate clashes.
Dunk forced himself forward again. One step. Then another. His grip tightened on his sword.
Across the field, Baelor and Aerion circled, their clash not yet decided.
And somewhere beyond- Others fought, fell, rose, and fell again.
Seven against seven. Gods against men.
And still-It was not over.
The world had narrowed to fragments.
Steel. Breath. Mud.
Dunk could no longer tell how long they had been fighting-moments or hours, it made no difference. Time had broken apart the instant the first blows were struck, leaving only instinct in its place.
He moved because he had to. Because stopping meant dying.
Across the field, the clash between Baelor and Aerion had drawn eyes-even in the chaos, even in the storm of men and steel. There was something inevitable in it, something that pulled at the fight itself, as though the outcome there might decide all the rest.
Dunk saw it in flashes.
Baelor’s blade-controlled, precise.
Aerion’s-sharp, vicious, eager.
They circled, struck, turned. Again. And again. Neither yielding.
A cry split the air. Dunk turned instinctively-
Too late.
Something slammed into him from the side, driving him hard into the ground once more. His helm struck dirt with a dull crack, his vision flaring white for a heartbeat. Pain followed, slow and heavy, dragging at his limbs.
He rolled, barely avoiding the next strike that bit deep into the earth where his head had been.
Up. He had to get up.
He pushed himself onto one knee- And froze.
Not far from him, Baelor staggered. It was subtle. So slight most would have missed it.
But Dunk saw. A shift. A misstep. And in that instant-Aerion struck.
The blow landed clean against Baelor’s helm, ringing loud enough to carry even through the chaos. The force of it drove him down, one knee hitting the ground hard, his balance broken.
A murmur rippled through the watching crowd. Even from here, Dunk felt it-the turn.
No.
Baelor tried to rise. Aerion did not let him Another strike-harder, sharper-crashed against his helm again. And again. Each one brutal. Each one deliberate. This was no longer combat. This was punishment.
Dunk’s chest tightened. “Stop-” he tried to shout, but the word caught in his throat, swallowed by the roar of battle.
No one was close enough. No one-
No.
He forced himself up, ignoring the protest of his ribs, the weakness in his legs. Every step felt wrong, unsteady but he moved anyway.
Toward them.
Toward Baelor.
Toward Aerion.
High above, beneath the pavilion-Visenya’s breath stilled.
She saw it. The shift in the fight. The fall. Her fingers curled tightly at her sides, nails pressing into her palms hard enough to hurt. Around her, voices rose-shocked, uncertain. But she did not hear them.
She saw only one thing-Aerion’s blade rising again. And Baelor, too slow to stop it.
Dunk roared. It tore from him without thought, without restraint-a raw, furious sound that cut through the clash of steel and the cries of men.
Aerion turned. Just enough. Just in time to see him coming.
Dunk didn’t slow. Didn’t think. Didn’t care. He hit him like a falling wall.
The impact sent them both crashing to the ground, armor slamming together, breath driven from lungs in a violent rush. Dunk’s sword was lost somewhere in the fall-he didn’t notice, didn’t need it.
His hands found Aerion. That was enough.
They rolled in the mud, grappling, striking, no longer knights but something far more primal. Aerion fought back viciously, his movements sharp, desperate now-not the controlled cruelty from before, but something wilder.
Dunk took a blow to the jaw. Another to the ribs. Pain flared, but he did not stop. Could not stop.
Dunk drove his fist into his face. Once. “Maybe,” he said, breath ragged. Again. “But I’m enough for you.” Again.
Mud and blood mixed beneath them, the world reduced to the weight of a body beneath his hands and the need simple, burning to end this.
Aerion twisted, reaching-For a dagger. Dunk saw it. Caught his wrist. Forced it down.
Their strength locked, straining, shaking- For a moment, neither giving. Then-Dunk shifted his weight. Pressed harder. And drove Aerion’s arm into the ground until the dagger fell from his grasp. Silence seemed to fall in that instant. Not true silence-but something close enough.
Aerion lay beneath him. Beaten. Breathing hard. No longer smiling.
Across the field, the fighting faltered. Men stepped back. Lowered blades. The outcome had been decided. Not by perfect strikes. Not by noble form. But by refusal.
Dunk let his hand fall. Slowly. He pushed himself up, unsteady, every part of him aching as the weight of what had just happened settled in.
He turned-toward Baelor.
The prince lay still where he had fallen.
For a moment, something cold gripped Dunk’s chest.
No.
He stumbled forward, dropping to one knee beside him. “My prince-”
Baelor groaned. Faint. But there. Relief hit like a blow.
“He lives!” someone shouted.
The words spread quickly, rippling outward through the gathered crowd.
“He lives-!”
Dunk let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Seven hells,” he muttered softly.
Baelor’s helm had been dented badly, the metal caved where Aerion’s strikes had landed. Carefully, urgently, Dunk reached to lift it-
“Easy there,” came a voice. Steady. Familiar. Visenya. He looked up.
She stood there now, closer than before, though he hadn’t seen her approach. Her gaze was fixed on Baelor, sharp and assessing, but there was something else beneath it-Relief. Well-hidden. But there. “He breathes,” she said quietly. “That is enough, for now.”
Dunk nodded, his hands still trembling slightly as he eased back.
Around them, the field had stilled completely.
Seven against seven.
And it was done.
Dunk sat back in the mud, every muscle aching, every breath heavy.
He looked at his hands. Still shaking. Still, His gaze lifted and found hers. Visenya met it. For a moment, neither spoke. No titles. No distance. Just two people who had seen the same thing and survived it.
“You stood up for good,” she said softly.
Dunk let out a tired, disbelieving breath. “Reckon I did.”
A faint curve touched her lips. “Yes,” she said. “You did.”
The silence did not last. It never did. Sound returned slowly at first-like breath after drowning. A murmur, uncertain and scattered, rippled through the gathered crowd. Then louder voices followed, rising, overlapping, swelling into something that could no longer be contained.
“The prince-”
“He lives-”
“Gods be good-”
Dunk barely heard any of it. He was still on his knees beside Baelor, watching as men carefully removed the dented helm at last. The damage beneath was not slight-blood matted dark against the prince’s hair, his face pale beneath the grime of battle but he breathed. Slow. Uneven. Alive. That was enough. For now.
“Make way, you cunts.” The command came sharp, cutting cleanly through the noise.
Prince Maekar.
He strode across the field with purpose, his presence as heavy as the armor he wore. The crowd parted before him without question, the remnants of battle forgotten in the wake of something colder, more dangerous.
A brother.
Dunk rose instinctively, stepping back as Maekar dropped to one knee beside his brother. For a moment, there was nothing of the prince in him-only a man, rigid with something too tightly held to be named.
“Baelor,” he said.
No response.
Maekar’s jaw tightened.
Carefully, far more carefully than Dunk would have thought him capable-he reached out, pressing a hand briefly against Baelor’s shoulder, as if grounding himself in the simple fact that he still could.
“He breathes,” Visenya said.
She had not moved far, but her voice carried clearly. Maekar looked up at her then. For a heartbeat, something unreadable passed between them. Then- “I see that,” he said. But there was no edge in it. Not this time.
Across the field, Aerion was being hauled to his feet. Not gently. The arrogance that had clung to him before had been stripped away, replaced now with something far less composed. Blood streaked his face where Dunk’s blows had landed, his expression twisted-not in pain, but in fury.
His gaze found Dunk immediately. It burned. “This is not finished,” he spat.
Dunk said nothing. He was too tired for words. Too aware, suddenly, of every bruise, every cut, every place where his body had been pushed just short of breaking. Still- He met Aerion’s gaze. And did not look away.
Prince Baelor was lifted then, carried carefully from the field, his fate no longer hanging by a thread-but not yet secure. The space he left behind felt larger than it should have, as though something vital had been removed from the heart of the moment.
The trial was done. But its cost remained.
Later, the field had been cleared. The wounded tended. The dead… counted.
Dunk stood at the edge of it all, half in shadow, a strip of linen wrapped hastily about his ribs. Every breath still hurt, though not as sharply as before. The worst of it had passed.
He supposed that meant he’d live. Strange thing, that.
“You should be resting.”
He didn’t need to turn to know it was her.
Visenya stepped beside him, her gaze sweeping over the quieted field, now marked by what had taken place upon it. The ground still bore the scars-churned mud, darkened patches where blood had soaked too deep to be hidden.
“Doesn’t feel right,” Dunk said.
“No,” she agreed. “It reckon it would.”
For a moment, they stood in silence. The kind that did not press. Only lingered.
Baelor lives. The thought returned again, quieter now, but no less steady.
Visenya spoke again, softer this time. “You changed it.”
Dunk frowned slightly. “Changed what?”
“The outcome of the trial.”
He let out a breath, shaking his head. “Didn’t feel like it. Felt like I was just trying not to die.”
“And yet,” she said, “you did more than that. So much more, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk glanced at her. “Baelor saved me.”
“And you saved him.”
He hesitated.
That… he did not know how to answer.
So, he didn’t.
Footsteps approached. Heavier. Measured. Dunk turned. Prince Maekar. There was no mistaking the direction of his stride. He stopped a few paces from them, his gaze fixed on Dunk with an intensity that made the air feel tighter.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then- “You struck my son.”
Dunk stiffened. “Aye,” he said. “I did.”
Visenya did not move.
Maekar studied him, as if weighing the man before him against something unseen. “And yet,” he said slowly, “you stood for my brother in the trial.”
Dunk swallowed. “He stood for me first.” A pause. Maekar’s gaze flickered briefly towards where Baelor had been taken. Then back. “You fought well for a hedge knight,” he said.
It did not sound like praise. Not entirely. But it was not condemnation either.
Dunk inclined his head, uncertain. “I tried, my prince.”
Maekar’s eyes shifted then, to Visenya.
“And you,” he said. “You watched from the pavilions, did you not?”
“I did, uncle.”
“You involved yourself unnecessarily in this farce of a trial. niece.”
“I merely spoke when it was needed, uncle.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“And if it had not been enough?” he asked. “If he had died because of all this fuckery?”
Visenya held his gaze.
“Then we would be having a different conversation right now, would we not?.”
The question hung there. Unyielding.
Maekar studied her for a long moment.
Then- He nodded. Once. Not agreement. Not approval. But acknowledgment.
“Rest,” he said at last, his attention returning briefly to Dunk. “Both of you. You both look like you need it. Gods know I fucking do.”
Then he turned and was gone as swift as he came.
The quiet had returned. Dunk let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Does he always do that?” he muttered.
“I’m afraid so,” Visenya said.
“That’s… comforting.”
“It is not meant to be, Ser Ducan.”
Dunk huffed softly.
“I thought you’d be up there,” he said, nodding faintly toward where the royal pavilion stood.
“I was, for a time.” she said.
“And now?”
Her gaze shifted, not toward the pavilion but toward the field.
“Now I am here. With you.”
Dunk looked at her, something in his expression softer than before.
“Reckon I’m glad for that, Princess.”
She did not answer. But she did not look away, either.
The light had shifted by then. Full morning now. The trial behind them. The consequences only just beginning. Dunk exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders despite the protest it drew from his ribs. “Well,” he said, “that was something.”
Visenya’s lips curved, faint but unmistakable.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, It was.”
Morning did not wash the field clean. Ashford still bore the marks of what had been done in its name-trampled earth, broken lances, the faint dark stains that no amount of daylight could quite erase. Men walked more carefully now, voices lower, as though something sacred or terrible had passed through and left its shadow behind.
Dunk felt it. Even as he stood, stiff and sore, near the edge of the camp, every movement pulling at bruised ribs and aching limbs. He was alive. That alone felt… strange.
“You look like death,” came a familiar voice.
Dunk glanced down.
Egg-Aegon-stood there, arms folded, studying him with open disapproval.
“Feel worse,” Dunk replied.
“That’s reassuring.”
Dunk huffed a quiet breath. “How’s your uncle?”
Egg’s expression shifted. “Baelor?” he said. “He’s awake.”
Relief came fast and sharp.
“He is?”
Egg nodded. “Not well. But alive.” He hesitated, then added, “Maester says the blow to his head was bad. He’ll need time.”
Dunk let out a slow breath. “Aye. I figured as much.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Egg glanced up at him, something thoughtful in his eyes. “He asked about you.”
Dunk blinked. “Me?”
“Said you had the look of a man who wouldn’t fall easy.”
Dunk shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “He gives me too much credit.”
“No,” Egg said quietly. “He doesn’t, Ser.”
Word of judgment came before midday. It spread quickly carried from tent to tent, from whispered conversation to open declaration, until no one remained unaware of it.
Aerion Targaryen would not go unpunished.
Dunk heard it standing among a loose gathering of knights and squires, the words passing between them in tones edged with disbelief.
“Exile-”
“Across the Narrow Sea-”
“Sent away-”
Dunk frowned. “Exile?”
“Aye,” Lyonel Baratheon said, stepping up beside him. “Your prince friend won’t be troubling anyone here for a while.”
Dunk let that settle. It didn’t feel like enough. But it was something.
“Maekar agreed to it?” he asked.
Lyonel snorted softly. “He didn’t have much choice. Not after that display. Not with Baelor near killed in the same breath.”
Dunk nodded slowly.
Justice, then.
Of a sort.
Visenya heard it differently.
She stood within the cool shade of the royal pavilion when the final words were spoken aloud, her gaze steady, her posture composed as ever.
“Aerion will depart within the week,” a lord was saying. “Under guard.”
A murmur of agreement followed. Measured. Controlled. Political.
Visenya’s attention drifted not to the men speaking, but to the two who stood apart from them.
Baelor was not present.
But Maekar was.
He stood rigid, his expression carved from something harder than anger. There was no protest in him, no open resistance but neither was their peace. A father did not yield a son so easily. Even one like Aerion.
Baelor would have chosen this, she thought.
Maekar endures it.
Her gaze lingered a moment longer. Then shifted.
She found Dunk where she had expected him.
At the edge of things. Never quite within.
He stood with Lyonel still, though the conversation had lulled into something quieter. There was a stiffness to him now-not just from injury, but from something less visible. Uncertainty, perhaps. Or distance.
Visenya approached without announcement.
Lyonel noticed first, his brow lifting slightly as he inclined his head. “Aaah, My Silver- haired Princess.”
Dunk turned.
There was a brief flicker in his expression something caught between recognition and something else he did not quite name.
“Princess Visenya,” he said.
She inclined her head. “Lord Baratheon, Ser Duncan.”
Lyonel glanced between them, then gave a short, knowing huff. “I’ll leave you both to it then,” he said, stepping away without waiting for reply.
Dunk watched him go, then looked back at her. “News travels fast.”
“It always does,” she said. “You’ve heard?”
“Aye. About Aerion.”
“And?”
Dunk shrugged, though the movement pulled slightly at his side. “Feels strange.”
“Not enough?” she asked.
He considered that.
“…No,” he admitted. “But maybe nothing would.”
Visenya studied him for a moment. “You wanted something harsher.”
“I wanted him to understand,” Dunk said. “What he did.”
A faint pause.
“He will,” she said. “In due time.”
Dunk wasn’t so sure. But he nodded anyway.
“Baelor lives,” she added.
“Aye, I’ve heard.”
“You seem relieved.”
Dunk huffed softly. “Didn’t realize I wouldn’t be.”
Visenya’s gaze lingered on him, thoughtful. “You carry a great deal of things you do not name, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk gave a small, crooked smile. “Reckon that’s most people.”
“Not all, Ser Duncan.”
He glanced at her. “No?”
“No,” she said simply.
Something in that hung between them. Quiet. Unresolved.
Dunk shifted slightly, then winced as his ribs reminded him of their condition.
Visenya noticed.
“You should not be standing so long,” she said.
“Seems to be a common opinion.”
“It is a correct one.”
He smiled faintly. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“You won’t.”
“No,” he admitted. “Probably not.”
For a moment, her expression softened. Just slightly.
There was a pause.
Then- “You will leave, won’t you?” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
Dunk nodded. “Aye. Once I’m able.”
“With him?” she asked, meaning Egg.
“Aye.”
“And after?”
Dunk frowned. “After what?”
“After the road,” she clarified. “After the next place, and the next. What then?”
He let out a breath. “Never thought that far.”
“That is unwise.”
“Probably,” he said. “But it’s worked so far.”
Visenya regarded him steadily. “It will not always work.”
“No,” he agreed. “Reckon it won’t.”
Another pause. Then- “You will remain here?” he asked.
“For a time.”
“And after that?”
Her gaze drifted, just briefly toward the pavilion. Towards where power gathered.
“Afterwards,” she said, “I will be where I am required to be.”
Dunk studied her. “Doesn’t sound like much of a choice.”
“It rarely is, Ser Duncan.”
He didn’t like that answer.
He couldn’t say why.
A breeze passed between them, light but cool, carrying with it the distant sounds of the camp returning to life. The world moving on. As it always did.
Dunk shifted again, slower this time. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m glad you were there.”
Visenya looked at him.
“For the trial, I meant.”
She held his gaze a moment longer than before.
“As am I,” she said.
And there was something in it now. Not just acknowledgment. Something quieter. Deeper.
Neither moved to leave. Not yet. The space between them felt different now. Less uncertain. More… known.
In the distance, a bell began to ring-calling men back to order, back to duty, back to whatever came next.
Dunk let out a slow breath.
“Reckon that’s my cue, then.” he said.
“Perhaps, if one wants it to be.”
He hesitated. Then nodded once.
“Princess Visenya.”
“Ser Duncan.”
He turned, then paused, just briefly, before stepping away.
She watched him go. As she had before. But this time, there was no distance in it. Only the quiet understanding that whatever came next, it would not be simple.
Baelor Targaryen did not summon people lightly.
Which was why, when the message came, Visenya did not delay.
The chamber was dim when she entered, the shutters drawn halfway to keep out the harsher light of day. The air smelled faintly of herbs and tinctures-maester’s work. Baelor lay propped against cushions, his color still pale, though there was life in him now where before there had been none.
His eyes found her at once.
“Visenya.”
There was warmth in it. Always had been.
“My prince,” she said, inclining her head as she stepped closer.
“You came.”
“You sent for me.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Still direct, I see.”
“I find it wastes less time, kepa.”
Baelor let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though it cost him something. “Sit,” he said, gesturing faintly.
She did.
For a moment, he simply looked at her as though measuring something unspoken.
“You were on the field,” he said at last.
“I was.”
“You should not have been.”
“And yet I was.”
His gaze sharpened slightly, though not unkindly. “You involved yourself in matters unbecoming of you.”
“I spoke for the right, uncle.”
“You defied the nature of things.”
Visenya held his gaze. “I ensured the truth was heard.”
Then Baelor nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Yes,” he said. “You did.”
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, only full.
“You changed things for the better. I hope you know that, my sweetest girl,” he added after a moment.
Visenya did not answer that.
Instead, she said, “So did you, uncle.”
His lips curved faintly. “At some cost.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to the bandaging at his temple. “You’ll live, I am sure of it.”
“For now, my girl,” he said lightly.
But there was weight beneath it.
“You trust him, don’t you,” Baelor said suddenly.
Visenya stilled. “Whom?”
“The hedge knight,” he said. “Ser Duncan.”
There it was. Not accusation. Not quite. But not idle curiosity either.
“I trust what I saw, uncle,” she said.
“And what was that?”
“A man who stood when it would have been easier to kneel.”
Baelor watched her carefully. “There are many who stand, my dear.”
“Not like that, kepa.”
“And you?” he asked. “Would you have stood, had it been you in his place?”
Visenya did not hesitate. “Yes, without a doubt.”
Baelor studied her a long moment. Then inclined his head, just slightly. “I thought as much, Visenya.”
Outside the chamber, the world continued-unaware or uncaring of the quiet shifts that took place within stone walls.
When Visenya stepped out, she found Maekar waiting. Of course she did.
He stood near the corridor’s end, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid as ever. His gaze turned to her immediately.
“You were with him, weren’t you?” he said.
“Yes, uncle.”
“And? How does he fare? Has he said anything?”
“He will recover in due time, uncle.”
A flicker of something-relief, perhaps passed through him, gone almost as quickly as it came.
“And what did he say?” Maekar asked.
Visenya met his gaze evenly. “That he lives.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“No,” she said. “Perhaps not.”
A thin line formed at his mouth. “You grow bold, niece.”
“I grow honest, uncle.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“And the knight?” he asked. “Does your honesty extend to him as well?”
There it was. Not jealousy. Not yet. But something close to scrutiny.
“It extends to all things worthy enough of it,” she said.
Maekar held her gaze for a long moment.
Then- “You would do well to remember who you are, Visenya. Lest you forget about it,” he said.
“I do not forget, Prince Maekar.”
“See that you do not, Princess.”
And with that, he turned away.
Dunk was packing. Or trying to. Which mostly meant staring at the small collection of things that were his and wondering how they never seemed to fit together quite right.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
He glanced down. Egg. Of course.
“I’m putting things in a bag,” Dunk said. “Not sure how wrong I can get that.”
Egg snorted, stepping forward to fix what Dunk had already half-done. “You’ll lose half of it on the road like this.”
“Don’t have that much to lose.”
“That’s not the point.”
Dunk watched him for a moment, then said quietly, “You don’t have to come.”
Egg didn’t look up. “Yes, I do.”
Dunk frowned. “Why?”
Egg finally met his eyes. “Because I chose to.”
Something in that settled the matter.
Dunk nodded once. “Right, then.”
They left near dusk.
The camp had begun to quiet, the heat of the day giving way to something softer, something almost forgiving.
Dunk walked his horse slowly toward the outer edge, Egg beside him, unusually silent.
“You forgot something, Ser.”
Dunk turned.
Visenya.
She stood a short distance away, the fading light catching faintly in her hair. For a moment, he simply looked at her taking in the sight as though committing it to memory.
“Did I?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He frowned slightly, glancing down at his pack. “Don’t see what-”
“You didn’t say goodbye to me.”
Ah.
That.
Egg looked between them, then very deliberately-stepped back. “I’ll… check the horses,” he muttered, already moving away.
Dunk watched him go, then looked back at her. “Reckon I was getting to it.”
“You were leaving.”
“Aye.”
A pause.
Then-
“Seems I’m not very good at that part,” he admitted.
“No,” she said softly. “You are not.”
The space between them felt smaller now.
Closer.
Dunk shifted slightly, suddenly aware of everything at once, the fading light, the quiet, the way she was looking at him.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said.
“You may not be back at all. Who knows, Ser Duncan.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“I meant what I said,” he added. “Back there.”
“Which part?”
“All of it,” he said. “About being glad you were there.”
Visenya held his gaze.
“And what about now?” she asked.
Dunk hesitated. Then stepped closer.
“Now,” he said, quieter, “I’m not so glad to be leaving.”
Something changed in her expression. Subtle. But real.
She could have stepped back. She did not. She refused to.
“You will go on your tour,” she said.
“Aye.”
“And I will remain here.”
“For now, Princess.”
“For now, Ser Duncan,” she echoed.
The words lingered. Between them. Unfinished.
Dunk reached out slowly, as though giving her time to stop him. She didn’t.
His hand brushed hers first light, uncertain. Then steadier. Visenya’s breath caught just slightly.
“Dunk-”
He didn’t let her finish. Not with words.
The kiss was not bold. Not reckless. It was careful.
Tentative at first like something neither of them had quite meant to happen, and yet could not stop once it had begun.
It lingered only a moment. But it was enough.
When he pulled back, there was something different in his expression. Softer. Certain.
Visenya looked at him, her composure not broken but altered.
“You should go, Duncan.” she said.
Her voice was steady. Even if the rest of her was not entirely.
“Aye, I really should.” Dunk said. But he didn’t move. Not immediately.
“Ser Duncan!” Egg’s voice came from a distance. Too loud. Too deliberate.
Dunk huffed a quiet breath. “That’s my cue, I reckon.”
“Yes,” she said.
This time, he stepped back. No hesitation. No second glance- Until there was.
At the last moment, he looked at her again.
“I will come back for you, Visenya. Be sure of it.”
“I shall wait for you, Duncan.”
Then he turned and was gone.
Visenya remained where she was. Long after the sound of hooves had faded. Long after the camp had settled into night. Only when she was certain he would not return did she finally move. And even then slowly.
Far off, on the road, Egg glanced back once.
“You kissed her,” he said.
Dunk nearly choked. “Keep your voice down, Boy!”
Egg grinned. “I knew it.”
Dunk shook his head, muttering something under his breath. But he didn’t deny it. Not with red parlour of his cheeks.
Behind them, Ashford faded. Ahead, The road stretched on.
Synopsis: You're to be wed but you refuse to marry a stranger so you sneak out to see your prospects for who they really are during the tourney at Ashford. Whilst trying to evade your family.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Arryn! Reader, a prequel to my first Lyonel fic, CW food mentions, CW alcohol, CW blood and violence, CW suggestive language, canon typical medieval society, first meeting, fluff.
Navigation
Part 1 >>> Part 2
When your lord father was receiving dozens of proposals for your hand, it felt as if you were the prized mare at the stables, just waiting to be sold to the highest bidder.
You wished to not be married to a stranger, or better yet, never be married at all. You could become a septa or perhaps a silent sister. Getting your tongue cut off and spending the rest of your miserable life as a silent sister dedicated to the faith would be far greater than marrying some old lord who would use you as his broodmare. But alas, if you weren’t noble born it would be possible, but your father insisted, and then your mother got involved, and there’s no stopping her when she puts her mind into it. You just hoped and prayed that they’ll choose someone who is at least kind, not because of their name or how ancient their bloodline is.
“And it’s a Baratheon, gods be good.” You could barely take a breath as your hand trembles around the parchment that your father and future husband have signed.
“It’s not set in stone yet,” your mother had said, “the Bracken boy gave your father a good offer too. But the lord of Casterly Rock would give us a patch of land if we choose his heir.” But the paper in your hand cements the former, even if it’s not the marriage certificate as of yet. It’s an agreement that if the heir to Storm’s End could give a better offer than the rest of the flock then your father would honor the agreement. It’s practically etched in stone.
You’ve tried to delay this as long as you could, but there have been whispers of you being sick in the mind as the reason why you’re teetering from becoming an old maid.
“I heard that the laughing storm is…gallant at least.” Your handmaiden utters under her breath as she helps lace your gown. Her lashes flutter as she gazes into the looking glass, staring right at your knitted brows.
“You hesitated.”
“I did not, m’lady.”
“You did, Juniper.” Whirling towards her the moment the gown is all laced up, you raise a teasing brow at your oldest friend.
“Perhaps.” Juniper sighs, hands on her hips before taking hold of your shoulders to turn you back around towards the mirror. Her hands stays on you, chin resting atop your shoulder as she smiles. “But I did hear that he’ll be at the same tourney that your father would be attending at Ashford. Perhaps he could fully convince him there.”
“Or perhaps he could not.” That earns a snicker from her as she sits you down in front of the vanity to fix your hair.
“It’s either him, the Bracken boy or a Lannister. You choose.” Her expert hands weave around your hair, untangling it as she braids it.
“You sound as if I have any choice at all.” Throwing the parchment down into the table beside the vials of sweet smelling perfume, you stare at it as if your eyes could cast a spell on it to light it on fire. “Mother said that I would have the final say, but that doesn’t mean that father will honour it.”
“You have more power than you think, m’lady. You just need to find it.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any fucking sense.” Inhaling deeply, your fingers grip into the silk of your gown tightly, almost tearing it with your nails alone.
“Perhaps the laughing storm is the perfect match for you, I heard that he’s as crude.” She snickers, looking over your head to look at you with a curl of her lip. “Would you prefer him or the dastardly handsome prince Aerion? I heard that he’s also looking for a wife.”
“If I end up betrothed to the prince then I shall fling myself off the moon door.”
She giggles, shaking her head with a grin. “Why not? You’d be a princess.”
“Please, word is that he’s mad. He’s more of a monster than a proper princeling. And our children would be heirs to nothing.”
“Oi,” she lands a slap on your shoulder blade, it’s light enough to not sting but it still had her patting you as an apology. “Watch your tongue, men don’t like a dirty mouthed woman.”
“How would you know?” Tone tilting, you tease her with a smirk as you look over your shoulder. “Did Ser Andros finally talk to you, Juniper?”
Clicking her tongue, she forcefully turns your head back around as your barking laughter echoes around your chambers. “We all don’t have the privilege to have our husbands chosen for us, hm? Some of us have to find one the old fashion way.”
“How could I choose when I know nothing about any of them?” Picking up a small braid, you brush the ends of your hair against your cheek, a nervous tick of yours that is hard to shake off so easily.
An idea pops into your head, and your eyes widen as Juniper takes note of your sudden silence.
“I do not like the look on your face, m’lady.”
“I know nothing of them, then I must know everything about them.” Vaulting out of your seat, hair half done, Juniper tries to match your eager pace, frantic as she follows you out of your chambers.
“Wait, what does that mean? M’lady, don’t do anything reckless!”
—
You burst through your father’s solar like a thundering storm. Eyes boring into him with purpose as he almost jumps off his seat from your abrupt appearance. He looked at you like you were crazed or drunk from mulled wine, but then you straightened your back, shoulders squared as you raised your head up high, looking like a proper lady of your ancient house.
Your father could barely get a word through you as you told him of your plan, not all of it of course, but you gave him an excuse as to why you wanted to attend the tourney with him. Citing that it will show unity amongst house Arryn if you were there beside him, that it would do him some good to bring you and show off the Vale’s joy when your mother detests tourneys, and your brothers would be too occupied by trying to win glory. You even dangled the idea that you could possibly find a husband there, someone who could grant him a bigger plot of land, or perhaps a seat at the small council in King’s Landing if you catch a prince’s eye. Which you only said to help convince him.
You’ve given him something to hook on, an idea that has taken root that you know him well enough that he will bite at. You played well into your father’s pride, and the moment the conversation ended, you closed the door behind you with a gentle click only to then bolt towards the gardens where your mother could always be found. With Juniper hot on your tail, you gather your skirts and run like a dragon was hunting you down. Once you found the lady of the Vale herself, basking in the afterglow of the morning sun, you told her the exact same thing. But this time in a much sweeter tone, playing as her perfect little lady, the one she always wanted, and not a sword wielding girl, who can’t memorize her prayers.
For added sweetness, you even brought her a bowl of fruit, strawberries and oranges, her favorites, before asking her if she could finish your hair as you fluttered your lashes at her. She obliged, heart squeezing at the rare sight.
From her smile alone, your plan started rolling.
—
Your plan was brilliant. Within a day, your father called for you to his solar, telling you to pack your best gowns, the finest ones, all the silks you got from across the narrow sea, and of course the shiniest jewels you’ve inherited.
If you can’t live your life in peace without a husband by your side, you’d be damned to marry one who is dull, or as terrible as Maegor the cruel.
And now as you sit in your family’s carriage, rattling inside as the uneven king’s road brings you closer and closer to your destination, your fingers wring around the silks of your gown, as if you’re in line for the axe.
Juniper’s eyes stare at you, seated adjacent from you as the horses neigh outside.
“Say what you want to say, Juniper.” With a hum, you roll your ring around your finger, trying to keep your mind at ease, trying to keep your hands busy lest you manage to rip your finest gown. It’s not too late for your father to send you home if you do manage to do that.
“You’d have me dragged with you just so you could escape?” Her brow rises to her forehead, lips tucked into a thin line.
“I’m not going to escape.” You scoff, biting the inside of your cheek. It’s not a bad idea, but you have no one else, you’d either get kidnapped and sent to the free cities or worse, married off without you ever choosing your husband. “Where would I go? Get on a ship headed to Lys? It’s too bloody warm there.”
“Then why are we headed to Ashford?” She winces, stretching her back. “My arse hurts from all the travelin’. I am not built for this, m’lady.”
“It was barely a month of travels, Juniper.” You feel for her, but the long journey is a necessary evil. Knowing your father, he might actually talk to prince Maekar about a marriage alliance, based on the whispers of court about his second son, you’d rather marry a brutish bore than him. If you were there with with your lord father, he would have to hear your opinions. You might not be his heir, but you are his only daughter, and dare you say, the favorite.
“A month too long.” She utters under her breath. “Just for a bloody nameday.”
“It will be worth it, I promise.” Leaning forward, you take her hand, gripping it lightly until a soft smile appears on her lips.
“If you would actually tell me of your schemes.”
Sighing, you relent, sitting back down with a sour look on your face. “I came here to get to know each of my prospects. And if I found none that is suitable for me then I shall join the faith.”
“The faith?” She scoffs, chuckling. “M’lady, I don’t even remember the last time you prayed to the seven!” Her laughter fades when she realizes that you’re serious. “M’lady, no.”
“Hush, my brothers could hear you.” You whisper yell, a finger atop your lips as your shoulders sag.
“You will not survive the faith,” her tone quiets down, exhaling deeply as she looks into your eyes. “they eat hard salt beef, and bread as tough as Prince Maekar’s arsehole.”
That manages to get a chortle out of you. “Gods, now I can’t get that image out of my head.”
“Pray that you won’t see the prince in the tourney then. With you being a pious lady and all.” Her teasing has you shaking your head with a subtle smile.
“I might as well start practicing my prayers then.”
Juniper rolls her eyes as the carriage slows to a stop, with nerves crawling on your neck, you take a peek through the carriage curtains as the sunlight breaks inside the carriage.
The sprawling meadow basks in the morning glow, tents and pavilions in different make and colours are raised up high, each having banners of their houses fluttering in the wind. From where you are, you could see the Tully pavilion with their sigil, they’re an old kinsmen of yours, related through your grandmother’s side. Perhaps you could pay them a visit.
Beside them is the Hightower pavilion, greener than the grass below, its hightower sigil is raised up high, dancing in the wind. You always wanted to see Oldtown and look through their vast collection of tomes, but alas, if only you were born with stones then you would’ve preferred to become a maester.
Then a yellow pavilion catches your attention, bold with its stag antlers decorated around its silken walls. Your eyes never caught the fluttering sigil atop the tent, and yet you already know who resides there, a Baratheon. Specifically, the laughing storm, whom your father has taken a shine to since he felt a kinship with Lyonel Baratheon’s lord father after fighting alongside him during the Blackfyre rebellion.
Your nerves are alight at the overwhelming colours of the meadow, and the scent and sounds that come with it. The wet grass, fermented meat, ashes from a forge nearby, and the squelch of mud underfoot together with numerous loud conversations. Merchants bark out their goods, trying to sell steel or armours, some are selling ale by the tankards, and one of them is screaming about some puppet show. Your ears snag onto uttered Tyroshi tongue, and from a few ways ahead, a booming laughter accompanied by cheers.
Besides from your palpable worry, you’re in awe, it’s your very first tourney. The one your father organized for your first nameday doesn’t count when you were just a babe then. A part of you is excited to see the sport, to stroll around the meadows and smell new food from different parts of the realm and possibly enjoy the occasion rather than dread it. But the thought of marrying a stranger and living in their unfamiliar keep looms over you like a dark cloud overhead.
It’s unavoidable, but you still have some semblance of power to choose who you will be shackled to. Even if that power is dwindling with every second that passes by like your father’s patience. Perhaps the laughing storm is tarrying for the same reason as you, he doesn’t want to marry a stranger either.
“Stop gawking, m’lady.” Juniper’s hand readies to open the carriage door, the corners of her lips are curled up, eyes shining under the spilled sunlight. “Shall we go?”
“Is it too late to throw myself out of the moon door?”
Your handmaid’s cackles meld with the sounds of the busy meadow as she opens the door.
—
“Your father would have me beheaded!” Juniper whisper yells, eyes wide as she cradles your silks in her hands. The braziers illuminates the panic in her expression, and the dark blue of your house’s pavilion adds contrast to the warm glow.
“Please! I will owe you my life,” you plead, moving closer to her as you flutter your lashes. “I will grant you land if you do this for me.” You could offer her the whole realm and she’ll still refuse your offer.
“M’lady, my loyalty has an end.” Grimacing, your poor handmaiden, plops herself down on a plush seat, shaking her head as she winces. “This is wrong.” She utters, softer this time.
“Please?” Smiling, you pour her a cup of wine and offer the goblet to her.
“Well if you asked so kindly.”
“Thank you—”
“I am not going to dress up as you.” Your face falls from her words. “This is your big scheme? Sneak about in commoner clothes while I pretend to be you in bed all day?”
“Yes.” Shrugging, your eyes lock onto the simple cotton dress and cloak on the bed that you had to borrow from Juniper. Borrow is a strong word when you were caught digging inside her trunk. Now that she found out about your little plan, you have no choice but to tell her and let her in on it. Not because you want her to get in trouble too but if not she might run and tell your father. She might be your oldest friend, but she’s also right about testing the bounds of her loyalty to her lady. “Please, no one will know, my father would be too busy mingling with the other lords while my brothers would be too occupied with debauchery.”
“Pray tell, what would be your excuse, hm? That you’ve come down with the pox?”
Taking her nervous hands, you look into her eyes as she scoffs. “I would tell them that it’s my moon blood, simply from that they would leave you alone. You could attest to their behavior, they always let me be.”
“I know because it was always up to me to entertain you.”
“Then entertain me one last time, Juniper.” Your cadence lowers into a serious tone, eyes steely as you kneel before her, hands still holding her own. “I refuse to marry a man I do not know. You told me that I have more power than I realize, this is me taking hold of that. And if this is for naught, that my father would still choose someone I disagree with then so be it, at least I tried. At least you let me try.”
When she doesn’t answer, you hold onto her hand tighter, refusing to give up. “Juniper, please. Don’t let me be shackled to a man that would hate me, or gods forbid, hurt me. If you do not want to help me, then please, let me go outside.”
“You could get murdered out there.” Her tone quiets down, filled with genuine worry. “M’lady, I do not want that in my consciousness. It will eat at me, I will never forgive myself.”
“Then I shall bring my dagger, you know that I am decent at it.”
“More than decent.” Cracking a smile, you could see the cogs in her head turning. “The second someone gets too close to you, you flash them your knife.”
Relief is palpable in your bones as you grin and peck her intertwined hands. “Thank you, you won’t regret this, I promise I will do just that—”
“I am not done yet.”
“Yes, of course.” You immediately settle down.
“You hide yourself well with the hood of your cloak, you don’t stop to eat or drink anything, gods know what’s in them.”
“Yes, I understand—”
“And you don’t talk to anyone, especially your prospects.”
“I am not planning on mingling.” You cross your fingers behind your back, you can’t possibly know anything about them when you can’t ask the people around them. “Just observing.”
“You’ll be back here before the sun rises.”
“I will.”
“Or I will drag you back here myself.”
“Yes, understood, drag me if that pleases you.”
“Oh, it will please me.” She lets out a sigh, finally taking a long gulp of the wine you’ve given her. Once she settles, Juniper runs a hand down on her face. “And you will tell your father to increase my pay and bring me with you to Storm’s End or whichever keep you’ll find yourself in once you marry.”
“You want to come with me?” Your eyes glisten over, lips wobbling into a smile.
“Who would keep you in line, hm?” Taking your cheek, she pats you affectionately. “Now stand up, it’s unbecoming for a lady to kneel.”
With her helping hand, Juniper takes you to get dressed in her robes. “Thank you, Juniper, I will do just that.”
“You fuckin’ better.” She unlaces your dress with some annoyance. “I’ll distract the guards so you could slip out. And…” she hands you the sheathed dagger with its embossed falcon right on the leather. “Do not forget this.”
—
Your eyes rake around you like you’re a wanted woman of the realm. You try to keep your eyes peeled for your kin or anyone that could know your face. Getting caught means getting locked inside your tent for the duration of the tourney, and you’d rather not miss out on all the fun. Sneaking out was the easier part whilst the guards were talking to Juniper about your supposed ill disposition in a hushed tone.
As you clutch onto your cloak, hiding your face from the roaming crowd under the cover of the early evening, you walk around Ashford as you try to blend in. Mud squelches underfoot as you look for your first mark, the Bracken pavilion.
You knew it wouldn’t be easy sneaking inside a lord’s tent without someone mistaking you for a woman of the night. And you cannot possibly tap your prospect on the shoulder and ask him questions, you might get a dagger to your throat if so.
The soft ends of your hair tickle your cheek whilst you brush it nervously along your jaw as you stand in front of the Bracken tent, brown and red with their prancing stallion sigil dangling atop it. The braziers heat at your front as you look for a guard or a steward that could answer your questions with the help of a golden dragon inside your coin pouch.
“You lookin’ for work?” A woman asks you from behind, voice high with the unmistakable accent from flea bottom. “You look like a lost deer.”
Whirling around, albeit unsteady as the mud hugs at the sides of your boots, you look at the source of the voice. “No,” clearing your throat, you hug the cloak tighter around yourself, feeling cold on her behalf. “But you might be able to help me.”
Her green eyes roam from your face down to your feet then back to your face again. “I haven’t done anything with a woman in a while, but for a silver stag I’m willing to change that.”
“Oh,” faltering, you cough out, biting your bottom lip. “N–Not that kind of…help.”
“Then why are you loiterin’? You’re gettin’ all the eyes from my customers.”
“What?” Sure enough, you look over your shoulder to see a Bracken guard looking you up and down. “Seven hells.” Uttering under your breath, you cross the short distance towards the red headed woman. “What will a gold dragon get from you?” Whispering, you see the way her eyes shine, painted lips curling seductively.
“For you, sweetling? The whole fuckin’ lot.”
—
“I have to tell you that doin’ it in a forest is uncomfortable.” The red head leans against a tree casually, eyes smiling at you.
“I—” you blink rapidly, clearing your throat loudly. “I don’t want that.”
“That’s a first.”
“I want information about Lord Bracken’s oldest son.”
Her face sours, nose scrunching. “Please don’t tell me that you’re an assassin, you’d have to tell me if you were y’know.”
“I am not, I promise you that.” Stepping forward, you hand her a gold coin. “Please, just information, anything you know.”
Her eyes darts down towards your hip, right where you keep your dagger. “If this was a copper I would have screamed.” She then takes the coin, biting into it to check before humming in satisfaction. “What do you want to know?”
“How do you describe him?”
“In bed?” She scoffs, snorting with a chortle. “Like a crazed horse, but after that he’d cry in my arms for some woman. You didn’t hear it from me but I think it’s his mother.” From the shock on your face, she waves her previous words away. “Shit, are you his lady wife? Oh, I am sorry for you.”
“N–No, gods, no, I hope not.” Shivering, you exhale out the image in your head. “I don’t want to hear how he is in bed.”
Her nose scrunches again, “there is nothin’ much to say, he’s like his father, a brute. After every visit I pay them I bathe immediately, it is as if the scent of horse and ale clings onto them like second skin.”
“Anything else? Is he kind—”
“Kind?” She scoffs without humour. “Only after he reaches his pinnacle. He’s far from kind, m’lady, and they said that the Targaryens are the mad ones.” Her eyes flick towards your flat expression. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Fuck me,” fingers kneading at the space between your brows, you shut your eyes.
“I’d do that for free at this point.” Giggling, she twirls her curls with her index. “Any more questions?”
“Do you know why he’s not part of the lists?”
“Oh, he was.” She scoffs, shaking her head with the roll of her eyes. “He pulled out of it, citing stomach pain in favour of having his younger brother to get into the lists, that fuckin’ coward.”
“Oh,” you didn’t know that your disappointment would get worse. The red head waits for you to ask more questions patiently as the sound of owls hoot in the treetops. “Indulge me,” she tilts her head coyly, making you backtrack. “I mean— I have a particular question.”
“If you’re asking how big—”
“No! Not that.” With your hands up, you stop her as she chuckles at your reaction. “If you were married to him, would you be happy?” Even though you know what her answer would be, you still decide to chance it.
She thinks for a moment, eyes staring at the night sky before returning to look at you. “Yes.”
“Why would that be?” Your voice lowers, gaze searching her face for clarity, you first thought that her answer would be different at first. She’s pretty under the moonlight with her red hair dancing in the breeze. “After everything you said.”
“Anythin’ is better than what I have now, sweetling.” Her tone is steady, not at all with the usual teasing lilt, as your brows furrow worriedly. “I can handle him, you need not worry. He’s dumb as a horse. And if…if he asks me to wed not just to bed me, I would.”
Your brows pinch together with concern. “Someone once told me that you have more power than you think, You just need to find it.” Her lips purse together in contemplation. Nodding, you hold up your hand for her to shake. “I thank you, my lady.”
She looks at your outstretched hand for a moment before taking it lightly. “Red, my name is Red.”
Smiling genuinely, you retract your hand. “I wish you well, Red.”
“You as well, sweetling.”
—
Your talk with Red was disheartening, a strike to your senses. What if your father promised you to the Bracken? What would have happened to you? Surely your brothers would have known of the tales about him, and they would have put a stop to the betrothal. But you cannot always rely on other people to save you, that is why you’re continuing on your journey. This time, towards a gold and red pavilion with its lion sigil floating in the balmy air.
It was easier said than done. The Lannister pavilion is pitched up in the middle of the field, right alongside the houses of great renown. And that means it’s much closer to your house’s tent, which poses a greater risk with you being found while sneaking about. You’d rather have one of your brothers find you than your father.
As you cover your face with your hood, you linger around the Lannister tent. The musky scent of sweat and fermented meat hits your senses from the outside, even as the flaps are closed, you could smell the feast in full swing. Music fills the meadows, each having their own tune from each tent, some are more jaunty, a tune for dancing, and a few are for filling the quiet air. The one you could hear inside the Lannister pavilion is the latter, a song that you’re quite familiar with during usual suppers, just something to infuse the room amongst the clatter of goblets and plates. It’s a direct contrast to the Baratheon tent, whose music and laughter triumphs over the sounds of the meadow.
You’ve been trying to stop attendants and guards for a quick chat, but they either ignore you and continue about their work or throw you a pinched look. It seems to be in vain until the tent flaps open, revealing a man clad in a gold cloak, a red doublet and a head of flaxen hair, as yellow as the gold that they are proud of.
“My lord, excuse me?” You don’t expect him to look at you, moreso to even acknowledge you, but he does both as he turns his sad eyes at you.
“Y–Yes?” He talks as if he swallowed flour.
“Um,” your eyes widen in realization, this man is most definitely a Lannister, you’re sure of that the moment you saw him, but he’s your age, and you know that there are only two Lannister men at the tourney, one as old as your father. And this man is definitely not the lord of Casterly Rock. “You’re Tybolt Lannister…” you say, almost breathless.
“I am.” He sniffs, brows furrowed, eyes glancing at your feet, as if you suddenly grew a head down there.
“I—” you’re at a loss for words. You can’t exactly bribe him with a gold coin when it would just be a copper compared to his coffers. So you swing towards honesty, you’re already face to face with him, might as well introduce yourself. As you curtsy, you give him your true name. “From house Arryn, my lord.”
“Oh,” his eyes widen, gawking at you as he fumbles to return the curtsy with a bow. “I am sorry, my–my lady, I didn’t recognize you.”
“I meant to not be recognizable.” Shrugging, you chuckle at his slight panic that you find quite endearing.
“What—” he whirls around on his heels, possibly looking for your escort. “What are you doing here all alone?”
“It’s a long story. Perhaps I could tell you somewhere more quiet?”
“I—I don’t know.” His hands wring together, twirling his golden ring around his finger.
“It will be quick, I promise. It’s about our potential betrothal.” The word catches in your throat.
“That… I didn’t have a hand with that.” He says it like he has committed something dishonourable towards you.
“As do I.” Stepping closer, you duck to meet his eyes. “I want to get to know you, my lord. In case we do end up being wed after the tourney.” You utter quietly, as if saying it loudly would cause it to come true.
Tybolt looks back at the tent with a slight grimace before looking back at you with some reluctance. “Alright, but we cannot go far.”
You nod, urging him behind the pavilion where a stack of crates and a cart lays unattended. “Thank you, over here.”
The space is sparse with light, save for the muffled candlelight inside the tents, it’s dim and smells of day old fish.
Grimacing, you hop onto the back of the cart, a very unladylike action for you but your feet have been aching from all the walking you have done recently. And the cold mud clinging to your feet makes you want to claw at your legs and dip them in cold water.
The lordling gazes anywhere that isn’t you, blue eyes glimmering as he crosses his arms on his chest, jaw set and back slouched. You can’t tell if he’s afraid of you or disgusted, either way, he looks uncomfortable in your presence.
“I must apologize for meeting this way, my lord.” Your tone falters for a moment before squaring your shoulders, hands atop your lap as you raise your chin, a perfect lady. “But I wanted to introduce myself before my father could decide.”
“What for?” He mumbles, barely heard above the sound of a barking laughter from the Baratheon tent. “It isn’t needed.”
“To see you for myself.”
His eyes glance at you wearily before returning to your mud covered boots. “You have seen me now.”
“Yes, and I…” the awkward air around you two feels stifling. And you wonder if it will be like this forever if you wed him. “I wanted to know the real Tybolt Lannister, not from the whispered words of gossip. I thought asking one of your people would help, but it seems that they fail to notice me in this garb.” You let out a gauche chuckle.
His head is hanging low, staring at the mud as he wrings his hands together. Shadows dance on the side of his face, and he looks small in your eyes, not a future lord of an ancient house. “Mayhaps you should listen to the whispers. They are right.”
“That you’re utterly timid? A lordling with a quiet disposition that prefers inked words than people?”
Wincing, the Lannister tugs at his sleeves, trying to hide his hands as he nods like a child getting chastised.
“I have also heard that you are kind.” Your voice softens, gazing at him empathetically. “And that’s a good trait to have, kindness is rare these days, my lord.”
Even if your future husband isn’t plucked from your fantasy, a brave knight with a heart of gold that makes you laugh, you’d consider yourself lucky if he is kind, most women aren’t that lucky. Tybolt may not don armour and wield a sword for your hand, but you can find it in yourself to love someone like him. He’s not the worst, and you can don the armour and wield the sword on his behalf.
His gentle blue eyes finally look into your eyes, glimmering as he tries to read your expression. “I–I don’t know what to say, my lady.”
“Tell me what you prefer to do inside your keep.” Scooching away, you pat the space beside you, waiting for him. “Only if you want to. And I could possibly tell you something about myself. We would just be talking, my lord.”
Clearing his throat, Tybolt takes a tentative step before sitting down beside you, whilst making sure to keep enough space between you. His head is still hanging low, but this time his eyes glances at you every so often. When he realizes that you’ve been patiently waiting, he tugs at his collar, inhaling deeply before talking.
“I—I wholly prefer being alone in the library.” He utters under his breath, blue eyes flickering towards you before looking away, as if you caught him staring. “And playing the lute.”
You hum in satisfaction, smiling gratefully. “I like reading too. And I could play the lyre, although quite badly.” Chuckling, the sound garners his attention as he cranes his neck to face you.
Lips tugging into a small smile, he lets out an exhale akin to a chortle. “Perhaps…” his head turns away again just as you meet with his eyes. “Perhaps you could teach me.”
“The lyre? Oh, my lord, I am middling at the instrument.”
He lets out a laugh, quiet but loud enough for you to hear. “Or—or I could teach you the lute? If my lady pleases.”
A sigh of relief rattles your bones as you give him a wobbly smile. “That would be lovely.” You could see yourself being happy with him, right? “My hands are calloused from training with a sword, but I am sure that it would give me an advantage.”
“You know how to wield a sword?” His head tilts to the side, brows knitted as he purses his lips.
“I—” perhaps that wasn’t the right thing to say. “I insisted, I was jealous of my brothers but if that bothers you—”
“It doesn’t bother me, my lady.” His expression softens, finally gazing right at you without trepidation. “It is outright…endearing.”
The air feels calmer around the small cart, and you find yourself eased by his presence, smiling at him even. “I—”
The stench of ale and smoke reaches your senses as a looming shadow appears from behind. You’d think it was someone you know, and that you’ve been spotted, but as you look over your shoulder, you see a large unfamiliar man with a sneer that sends shivers down your spine.
“How much?” The stranger asks before harshly spitting out into the muddy ground.
“Excuse me?” Scoffing, you’re immediately on your feet, grasping the dagger on your hip as you stand in front of Tybolt. “I think you’ve come to the wrong place, Ser.”
“I ain’t no Ser,” his dark eyes glance behind you, snickering wildly, as his hand rests on the pommel of his sword. “Do I have to wait for the little lion to be done with you? I’m willing to wait, or even share.” His guffaw has you drawing your blade, flashing it in front of him as you grip it tightly and just like how you were taught.
“Leave us.” You simply say, fire in your eyes as you feel Tybolt shift uncomfortably behind you. “Now. I won’t ask twice.”
“What are you goin’ to do with that, huh? Open my neck?” He takes a step forward, lumbering towards you as you raise the blade higher, right at his heart, and yet he doesn’t stop. “Right here?” His index taps at his throat. “I do like it when they fight back.”
“You fucker—” there’s rapid footsteps from behind, retreating away as you whirl around to see Tybolt scrambling away in a panic. “Seven hells. Tybolt!”
You’re yanked back by the scruff of your cloak, getting dragged around as the slippery mud has you slide around. “No!” Muscles aflame, you slash blindly behind you, until you land a solid slash right at his wrist. Blood splatters out, dripping down your cheek.
The world turns around itself as you’re tossed to the side as the large man groans in pain, and you land harshly right into the crates, breaking one as you feel splinters puncturing through your cloak. “Fuck!”
“You—!” Thundering footsteps race towards you as you blindly pat around for your dagger.
But the pain doesn’t hit you, nor the cold kiss of a blade right at your neck, instead, you hear bodies fall into the mud just a few ways beside you.
Opening your eyes, squinting in the dark, you see another large man wrestle with your assailant right on the muddy ground.
“Are you alright, my lady?” Another man appears, clad in a red doublet, smelling of apple cider as he reaches a hand out towards you.
“I think so.” Taking his helping hand, he pulls you up to your feet gently. “Thank you, who—”
Fists meet skin as the sound garners your attention. The assailant now lays under the larger man with sandy hair, his bloody fist raised up high, as if waiting for the other man to stand back up before putting him down again.
His chest heaves, eyes wild as he grits his teeth. The shield on his back is faded and worn down, you could barely see the sigil on it from the cover of darkness. You walk towards him slowly, trying to get a look at the man who tried to take you, only to find him unconscious, nose completely broken and bleeding.
Anger bubbles up in your throat as you hiss a curse at him. “Serves you right.” You’d spit at his face if it weren’t for your mouth being dry so instead you kick up more mud at his face, pretending it to be horse dung.
The unfamiliar knight inhales deeply, fist coming down to his side as he licks the cut on his lip. “Are…” he then turns to you, big blue eyes staring at you worriedly. “Are you alright, m’lady?”
“I am, Ser. I owe you a great debt. Come.” Giving him a hand, he slides his large calloused palm into yours, he feels like a furnace, all the while staring at you with the same worry.
He stands to his full height, and you find yourself craning your neck up to face him. “You owe me nothing, m’lady, I just–just wanted to help.”
“And help you did.” Your gaze flicks down to the unconscious man with his wrist still bleeding. “I am grateful.” Smiling up at him, you note his raggedy clothes, a cloak that has seen better days and the sword at his hip held up by his side with a belt of rope. He didn’t even need to unsheath it to get the upper hand. “You’re a hedge knight?”
Head bowing, he bashfully looks at you. “The name’s Dunk, Ser Dunk, and this is—”
“Raymun Fossoway.” The one smelling like an orchard smiles at you, “I believe this is yours, my lady?” He hands you your dagger, muddied and bloodied. “It’s fine work.”
“It is.” Clearing your throat, you take the dagger and sheathe it immediately. “It was my brother’s.”
“Your brother has an eye for good craftsmanship.” There’s suspicion in his narrowed eyes as he stares at you, trying to place your face.
“Aye.” You say in an attempt to throw him off your scent, whilst pulling up your hood and rubbing away the caked blood and mud on your cheek. Turning back towards the hedge knight, you take some gold coins from your pouch and offer it to him. “For your help. I feel as though I should pay you, Ser. It would be a disservice not to.”
“Oh,” Dunk shakes his head, staring at the gold dragons in your palm. “No need, m’lady, helping the innocent is why I am a knight.”
Raymun stares at him in the corner of his eyes, not so subtly nudging the hedge knight’s shoulder.
“Knights still need to eat and tend to their horses.” Taking his wrist, you place the coins into his hand. “Please take it, I would feel horrible if I don’t give you anything in return.”
“Um,” if not for the dimness of the space, you think you could see a slight dusting of pink on his cheeks. “If it pleases you, m’lady.”
“It would please me.” You say softly, smiling at him genuinely as you let go of his hand for him to tuck the coins in his pockets. “For you—”
“No need, I barely did anythin’” The Fossoway boy shakes his head with a scrunch of his nose. “I have no need for it.”
“Oh, very well then, thank you, really. I owe you my life, Ser Dunk. Same to you, Raymun Fossoway.”
With his hand on the pommel of his sword, Dunk once again bows his head. “It was my honour, m’lady.”
The moonlight catches on his face, and something about this hedge knight has you endeared. That he’s genuine, a true knight. Gallant, someone who honours his vows without a single doubt, a rare sight to see.
“I should head…home.” Your hands are clasped together, a finger twirling around your ring.
“I should escort you, m’lady, there could be more after you.”
“Oh I’m sure that the lady lives nearby.” Raymun mumbles.
“I—” your eyes catch sight of Dunk’s split knuckles, gasping with worriedness. “This needs to be tended to.”
“It will be fine—”
“This could get corrupted. Who knows where that man has been.” You look down at the still unconscious stranger with disgust.
“I know a place.” Raymun gestures for you to follow.
—
The said place is the Baratheon pavilion. You stare at it with a dumbfounded face, rooted in place as you grimace and pull your cloak closer to yourself. The antlers around it seemingly makes the tent more intimidating, as if it’s ready to barrel through you and stab you with its horns.
“Ser Raymun—”
“I’m not a knight, my lady. Just a squire.” He simply says, the side of his face is illuminated by candle lights from within the pavilion. “C’mon then, let us not tarry any longer.”
“Oh,” you share a worried look with Dunk as Raymun enters the fray. “I don’t think this is proper—” you were staring at him one second and then you’re talking to nothing but the cold night air when your large companion has found himself tugged inside. “Gods be good.”
Looking over your shoulder, where the fluttering banners of your house peeks over the raised tents, you consider your options. But the night is still young, and you couldn’t possibly abandon your plan when you’re right in front of the very place you were about to walk into.
With the deepest of inhales, as if you’re about to take a dive into a deep pond, you push through the leather flaps of the Baratheon yellow pavilion and enter your marriage prospect’s abode.
The scent hits you like a wounded war horse crashing into you. The air is filled with the smell of mulled wine, ale that clings to your nose and cooked meat that has your stomach grumbling. It would have you salivating if not for the stench of sweat and burning tallow from the candles that fills the whole pavilion with warm light. Despite that, the atmosphere is calm, and nowhere near what you thought it would be.
You find your new found acquaintances in one of the long tables. Following suit, you dodge serving folk whilst hiding your face from the noble born that could possibly recognize you.
“Is this alright?” Sidling beside Dunk, you’re unsure whether to sit beside him or not.
“It is perfectly fine, my lady.” Raymun asks you to settle down simply with his eyes as he hands you a fresh goblet of wine.
Dunk seems to share the same sentiment as he looks and feels like he’s out of place, eyes raking around unsurely, not knowing what to do with his hands.
“If you say so.” With unsteady feet, you sit with your back turned away from the main table up front, refusing to look towards your future husband lest he recognizes you. He hasn’t met you just yet, but in your mind, somehow, he would recognize you in common robes.
A cackle echoes from behind you, and you immediately know it came from him.
“Lyonel Baratheon, the laughing storm they call him.”
“I thought he’d be taller.” Just from Dunk’s words, you resist the urge to look behind you.
Taking your handkerchief, you dip the clean end of it into the wine as Dunk watches you with furrowed brows whilst you ignore the nagging feeling of curiosity, wanting to look behind you to see him for yourself.
“What are you doing?” Dunk asks tentatively as Raymun snatches a plate of a whole turkey for him.
“Cleaning your wound, come closer.” In a come hither motion, you wait for him to lean closer as your index and thumb grasp onto his chin gently as if you’re taking care of your own. “We can’t let this fester, Ser Dunk.”
He slouches, big blue eyes blinking as you feel him swallow thickly with a staggered breath. From the candle light, you could see the blush on his cheek, a pinkish hue that reminds you of a young squire you used to fancy when you were still a child yourself whenever you would greet him with a toothy smile.
With so much care, you dab the wine stained cloth into the cut on his lip. “It’s the least I could do. I’ve seen simple scrapes turn into large gashes if left untreated.”
“I have a profound thought!” You stifle a chuckle from the drunken words of Lyonel as the pavilion quiets down for him.
“You’ve tended to a lot of wounds before, m’lady?” He tries to talk without moving his bottom lip as you hear Lyonel Baratheon speak about the origin of jousts, something that goes over your head in favour of treating Dunk’s wound.
“Superficial wounds.” You whisper back. “My brothers were prone to scrapes when they were younger and afraid of going to the maester.” Satisfied, you move to dip the fabric into wine again before taking him by his wrist and dabbing at his split knuckle, doing the same thing with gentleness. “They would rather have their younger sister tend to them than some old sod. They’re lucky that I’m well read.” Finishing your handiwork, you turn your eyes up towards him, finding that he’s already staring right at you warmly. “And please refrain from calling me my lady so much, I prefer you call me by my name.”
Leaning close you tell him your name, without saying your house of course. You trust Dunk, for some odd reason, you just feel that you could trust him wholeheartedly, but you can’t trust the wandering ears of the folk around you.
He tests your name on his tongue, pulse jumping from underneath your touch before fully letting him go. His fists open and close, wincing from the dull ache. “I thank you, my— thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, Ser—”
“Fuck it!” The sudden booming voice has you instinctively looking at the source. “A hundred gold to the man or beast that sticks me best!” The crowd cheers as Lyonel Baratheon tosses a bag of heavy coins onto a table.
You shouldn’t have looked. His carefree smile strikes you first, dark eyes shining under the warm candle light as his salt and pepper curls brush along his temple. A gold earring dangles from his ear, like a pirate that has sailed the seas. His trimmed beard reminds you of the knights that you used to read before bed, something out of a maiden’s fantasy that you had Juniper smuggle inside the keep. The thought alone stirs your belly. With a golden cloak on his shoulders, it makes him seem like he’s dripping in molten gold over a deep green doublet.
The stag crown takes your gaze away from his handsome yet rugged face, a crown fit for a Baratheon. It enchants you, just like the falcon crown that your father refuses to wear for he sees it gaudy. But you like it, it shows how mighty and ancient your house is with falcon wings spreading along its sides, just like how the antlers open along the side of his crown, intimidating for its enemies, and yet welcoming all the same for its allies.
If the Brute and the coward isn’t meant to be your husband, mayhaps the mighty stag could be.
Your thought has your nerves bubbling to the surface, gods, you feel utterly ridiculous, a blushing maiden falling to the whims of her fantasies.
It would just be that, a fantasy, until you lock eyes with Lyonel himself, and his grin stretches wide, a warm glow on his face, eyes crinkling in the corners as he tilts his head curiously at you, or at your presence.
You should leave. And yet, you find yourself raising your goblet at him, with a smile no less, not at all cowering under his eyes, like someone meeting an old friend on a battlefield.
A chortle leaves his lips before taking a generous sip of his wine whilst keeping his gaze on you. You turn away before you could capture his attention again, not out of fear of him, but you’re too afraid to be recognized, your reputation would be even more sullied otherwise.
Dunk, mouth full of roasted chicken, furrows his brows. “Where did Raymun go?”
You could only hear the tail end of Lyonel’s words. “...so we could dance!”
—
The tables were moved to the side for people to dance at the center, but you quite prefer it that way since you could observe Lyonel better from the sides without garnering his attention once again. Dunk has found his own rhythm by the dessert table, munching on a tart as you finish your own plate of bread and cheese. With the jaunty music, you feel more at ease, letting the warmth of wine flow through you as you watch people dance along to the rhythm.
You have a deep curiosity to get to know him, but your last encounter with an heir didn’t go well, so for now, you prefer observing from a few ways away, lest he reads your intention and calls you out.
Lyonel doesn’t seem so bad from afar, he smiles like he lives to grin and laugh and love life itself. He smiles with purpose, and it’s a welcoming sight from all the darkness in the realm. He’s loud, and arrogant like any other lord but he’s not like the Bracken boy, too green to actually have an achievement under his belt, all bark without real action to make up for his hollow words. Lyonel is arrogant and boastful for a reason because he has proven himself many times over. He didn’t get the title for nothing, and if your father’s praises were truthful, the laughing storm is a force to be reckoned with, a thundering hurricane on horseback.
Your older brother had the fortune or misfortune, according to him that is, to joust against Lyonel once during a tourney at king’s landing celebrating the birth of young prince Valarr. Even though your father and the whole Vale has boasted about your brother’s skills, he was unhorsed by Lyonel in just two lances. You would have killed to have seen it for yourself. He’s still sour about it, and your brother might be the reason as to why you’re skeptical about Lyonel when he has said nothing but bitter words about the heir to Storm’s End. They were both young then, but perhaps Lyonel could still unhorse your brother in less than that.
While watching Lyonel over the rim of your goblet, you see movement in your peripheral. Dunk lumbers over to the main table, and your heart rate immediately spikes.
From the music, you could barely hear their conversation, but from the way Dunk shuffles his feet, bouncing on the heels of his boots, it doesn’t seem to be going so well.
Lyonel puts his fist against his cheek, mocking a punch to his face as Dunk shakes his head, his hand trembling around the half eaten tart.
When the laughing storm points a dagger right at your new friend, you find yourself vaulting from your seat, feet taking you over to his side.
“I–I don’t slouch.” You hear Dunk say, tone getting caught from nerves.
“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” Lyonel laughs as his eyes flick towards you. He raises a brow, craning his neck towards you as he plays with the sharp end of an ornate dagger. His eyes don’t rake up and down your form uncomfortably, it seems that he’s studying your face, trying to place you from his memory, or questioning your identity.
Dunk doesn’t realize that you’ve sidled up beside him. “I meant no disrespect, Ser, honest. Where I grew up, you learn to go unnoticed, is all.”
You feel for him as you curtsy properly, lips pursing together as you feel Lyonel’s heavy gaze on your face. “Whatever he has done, he only meant well, Ser.” Gazing right into his dark eyes, you act braver than you really are. Hands clasped behind your back, chin raised and shoulders squared, but your hands wring together, fingers tangling with each other as you let out a shuddered breath. Because if you learned anything from being a lady, you cannot show fear.
Lyonel hums, tilts his head and sucks in his teeth as he regards you in his gaze. “Who might you be? His wife?” There’s a slight disappointment in his last comment.
“No.”
“N–No, my lord.” Dunk is quick to answer just like you had.
He hums again, the corner of his lips curling into a subtle smile, earring dangling as it catches the candle light. “Who are you then? His companion?”
“We recently just met, my lord.” Looking up, you give Dunk a reassuring smile. You know how to handle pigheaded lords, or at least you know how to when you’ve seldom interacted with them that aren’t your kin. “The good Ser here saved me from a thief.”
“Did he now?” There’s a lilt in his tone, grinning as he shifts his gaze back to the hedge knight.
“But— she managed to stab him first, my lord.”
A grin spreads across Lyonel’s cheeks, impressed, as if seeing you in a new light, looking at you as you are. “It’s true.” You take pride in yourself, and it seems that he approves of your arrogance.
“And yet your hero is slouching when he could be taller than the whole room.” He snickers, teeth flashing from in between his curled lips. The dagger is once again pointed at him, threatening, but you find no threat in his next words. “The seven above gave you tallness. So, be tall.” His hands gestures dramatically around him with the dagger in hand before settling down his grin and a scowl replaces it. “Or I will name you a heretic and burn you. Drown you, drop you off a tall pl– I don’t know what do they do to heretics?” Or so you thought that there’s no ire in his words, but you understand the meaning under it, in Lyonel’s own way, he’s encouraging Dunk to have confidence in himself. But the same message doesn’t seem to register that quickly to the hedge knight.
“Burn them, my lord.” His companion drawls his answer.
“Fine.” Lyonel tosses the knife on the table, gaze glancing from Dunk over to you every so often as if trying to get a read of you through the haze of wine in his veins. “What have you brought me?” Now you’re the one panicking.
“Uh, Ser I— beggin’ your pardons. I didn’t realize.” You could just feel the palpable panic in Dunk.
“You wish to curry my favour some. Yet you come with an empty hand.” Lyonel’s tone turns dangerous, jaw clenching as raises a brow at the two of you. “Lord Cafferen, the smug bastard in red,” he gestures to a man dancing behind you. “He is scarce to pay his rents. Yet even he shinied up this…” picking up the dagger again, he haphazardly tosses it on the table as it lands with a clatter. “bauble from his family’s coffers, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head.” His cadence lowers, dark eyes staring at Dunk like a hunter. “You’ve come for my head then?”
“What? No, no.”
With quick thinking, you rip off your ring and place it on the table right in front of Lyonel. “Will this suffice?”
His eyes dart to you, glinting against the light as he leans towards it, taking it carefully in between his index and thumb. “Presenting me with marriage already, my lady? I must apologize but I am already promised to an Arryn.” The people around him snickers, whilst he studies the simple silver band of your ring. For a moment you thought that he’d refuse to take it because of his honour and yet, he puts the ring on his pinky, admiring it in the light. “Yes, this will suffice.”
Dunk exhales with relief, shoulders easing until he realizes that he’s slouching again only to straighten his back once more.
“What of your hedge knight?” Lyonel’s words send shivers down poor Dunk’s spine. “This is her favour, not yours. Will it be your sword or your head, hm?”
Shit. “The favour is from the both of us, my lord.” You answer with your head held up high.
Clicking his tongue, Lyonel shows his teeth at Dunk, and not in a happy way. You wonder if it’s the wine talking or this is all from your future husband. If it’s the latter, you have no idea how to make of him after his senseless threat. The shadows elongate the antlers on his head, looking like he’s about to collide and butt heads with the hedge knight.
“I–I didn’t bring anything, m’lord.” Dunk lowers his head in apology, as you run out of ideas on how to save him.
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?”
“S–supper.”
There’s a heavy pause, tension rising until Lyonel laughs wholeheartedly. And the heavy air subsides as you and Dunk give each other a relieved smile.
“Supper.” Dunk says more steadily now, lifting his pastry as evidence.
“Alright, actually makes sense.” Shrugging, Lyonel chuckles, sitting back on his chair as the light catches in his eyes when he captures your gaze. “You don’t feed your men, my lady?”
“I would but we found ourselves in your tent and it was too late to leave when we found you so…welcoming.” It’s a jab towards the heir that he recognizes quickly. His eyes crinkle in the corners, amused by your bite instead of meeting you with ire.
“What is your name?” He asks, giving you a curt nod, eyes warm and hearty with daze from the wine.
You tell him of your name, of course without your family name. “I’m a blacksmith’s daughter, from Lannisport.” You’re too good at lying, a new found talent of yours.
Of course you’d lie to keep your identity a secret so you could observe him closely without him changing his tune only because of your change in status. You’d prefer for Lyonel to interact with you just as he is, normally, how he’d usually talk to others, without your title getting in the way of his judgement. You want to know the real him. From your first meeting, he’s an enigma to you, he’s hot and then suddenly cold, not just to you but at Dunk too. He’s still got the pride of a noble lord of course but he is genuine about it, unabashed with confidence. And with your morbid curiosity, you find him interesting, someone you’d like to keep observing, not just because you are to be wed to him, but to satisfy your curiosity that the whispered gossip you’ve heard of him won’t be able to get close to.
Your name falls from his tongue like thick honey, “huh, curious, you have the same name as my Arryn.” Sniffing, he then turns to Dunk as you try to hide the way you stiffened from his words, hands hidden behind your back as you hide the warmth on your cheeks. “What about you, man?”
The man beside you straightens up even more. “Dunk, Ser Dunk.”
“That’s ridiculous.” His nose scrunches, pointing at him while staring at you as if to say, ‘do you believe this man?’ while you stifle a chuckle. “And you, you weren’t paying attention earlier.” Lyonel addresses you with the same arrogance he showed Dunk.
“Yes, I was.” You answer with mirrored arrogance. “You were talking about the origins of jousts through stags. But you didn’t finish.” Eyes glinting, you take a deliberate and brave step towards him, regarding him in your vision just like has done.
“I’ll have you know that I always finish, my lady.” You continue to stare at him with a teasing glint in your eyes before he surrenders, leaning back on his chair further. “I blame the wine.” Clearing his throat, you could see him thinking as he rubs at his beard.
“I’m sure it was wholly profound.” You utter, drawling the last word, victorious for now at least as Lyonel chortles under his breath.
Leaning over the table, cloak draped upon his shoulder, earring dangling, his eyes shimmered mischievously, accompanied by a smirk. “Do you like dancing?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Dunk sounds more sure of himself this time, albeit wobbly at the end.
Lyonel grins, turning his attention back to you with the same mirth. “What do you say, my lady? Care for some revelry?”
Fuck it, maybe it’s the wine or the warm atmosphere but you find yourself smiling at him genuinely. “I would love to join the revelry.”
—
You’ve gone dizzy in the fog of wine and blurry candlelight as you spin around and around, arm in arm with an awkward dancing hedge knight. The tune crescendos, strings playing a jaunty tune that you cannot lie makes your blood rise as a giggle rises up in your throat.
With a hand hiking up your dress, you watch Dunk dance with the grace of a large tree, or a goose. Whilst Lyonel dances atop a table, carefree, throwing his head back flamboyantly to the music. He looks like Garth the green as he dances over to you and Dunk with his dark eyes illuminated by the warm candlelight.
The laughing storm barrels towards the two of you, colliding against you and Dunk, breaking you apart with his plucky dancing.
As you twirl away from the pair, your eyes are glued onto them as you dance arm in arm with another lady, getting passed down from stranger to stranger whilst you keep an eye out on them just in case things go sour between the two.
Lyonel stomps on Dunk’s foot, making the bigger man wince. And yet it doesn’t seem to be an accident when Lyonel tries to stomp on his foot once again, only this time, Dunk dodges his attacks again and again, until the hedge knight steps right on his foot back with the same force he felt, making Lyonel yell like a wounded stag.
You’re afraid for Dunk.
For a second you thought that you’d see your new friend punished for what he has done, and Dunk looks like he’d lose his head come the morn. Whilst he thinks of his choices, Lyonel lifts his head with a grin cracking across his face. Dunk eases up with a light laugh, pushing the heir of Storm’s End as the said man retaliates with his own push. They dance together, with Dunk’s less awkward dancing and Lyonel’s plucky drunken dance as he moves around him like a falcon circling around a field. The leather hose of his doublet dances alongside him like a whirlpool of molten gold, twirling around him, enticing you, calling for you to join.
Laughing with relief, the sound garners Lyonel’s attention. He takes you by the arm, looping his around yours, as you feel his warmth seep through his sweat soaked doublet, twirling you around and around until you don’t know where your right and left is. Your giggles follows the two of you, and his laughter melds with yours in perfect harmony.
Arms floating by your side, he stops your whirling with a warm hand on your waist, keeping you still, not squeezing nor roaming his hands all over your dress, just holding you there, gazing right at your face with the brightest grin you’ve ever seen. His eyes swirl with thoughts, a softened gaze, something that you’ve only thought possible to see in your romance books. For a moment, it feels as though it’s only you and him in the tent whilst his eyes remain on you and only you.
For a beat, he stares warmly, until he turns away with a booming laugh that could rival the thunder before taking Dunk by his arm whilst you in the other, making a circle as the dancing continues wildly. You feel like a carefree child of the forest dancing in the woods.
He seems to have embodied Garth the green fully, full of mirth, sweetened wine in his belly, a woman in one arm and a man in the other, a man born for feasts and spread the same mirth around him. But according to your house’s maester, Garth was a warchief and a king rather than the god of revelry and fertility. For you though, you believe both. And Lyonel seems to embody both, a force to be reckoned with when faced with adversaries, and someone you’d love to break bread with and share a drink with during peace time. You hate to admit it but, Lyonel seems to have crawled right out of your fantasies.
Although, you feel that once you get a good read on Lyonel, he does something to make you reassess what you’ve learned. He’s unpredictable, like lightning that doesn’t strike the same place twice.
You have found something about him that you like, something that is utterly dangerous that would turn into fondness if left unchecked— his confidence that teethers on sheer arrogance. It’s a quality that most would be annoyed of, and yet, you like that about him, his unabashed confidence that you find infectious. It’s exhilarating to be around him, although exhausting, but it’s the good kind of fatigue, as if you just flew on dragonback over the realm and your knees have gone wobbly, and yet a smile stays on your lips despite it.
He’s not a bore to be around with, and you’d like to keep being around him.
A hazy dream like air fills your senses as you twirl around with him and Dunk arm in arm. You hate a part of yourself for becoming so pliant to Lyonel’s smile and charms.
It goes on for some time, your legs hurt from all the dancing, jaw aching from all the smiling and laughing. The night draws to a close as some of the lords and ladies have left the Baratheon pavilion. The musicians have gone home, and the food has gone cold, and yet you find yourself sitting at the head of the main table beside Lyonel as he gives Dunk some wise words for the tourney that you just now forgotten from all the dancing.
Juniper’s going to kill you.
His golden cloak is now draped on your shoulders, heavier than you thought it would be as it weighs you down on your seat. It smells of wine and grass after a downpour as it warms you, whilst you watch the couple in front of you dance together sweetly.
A piece of ham is suddenly beside your face, stabbed into the other end of a war hammer as Lyonel offers it to you wordlessly with a glint in his eye.
Shrugging, fatigue and wine dulling your senses, you take a bite of the cured meat as you thank him with an approving nod, letting the savoury meat coat your wine tinged tongue. Lyonel looks satisfied, smiling softly, eyes glancing away from your lips as he turns his attention back to Dunk whilst taking a bite of the same ham.
“Oh, you have no chance.” Lyonel leans back in his seat, stroking his beard before plucking the antler crown off of Dunk’s head. “And I am quite drunk.”
Dunk sighs, jaw tight as he looks down at his feet.
“I am sure that you’ll do well at the joust, Ser.” Your words slur together as you take a generous sip of your goblet, only to find it empty, disappointment is prevalent on your face. Lyonel then slides his own goblet over to you so you could wet your dry lips. “After what I’ve seen you do, you’d win by sheer strength alone.” You utter above the rim of his cup, taking greedy sips of the Dornish wine.
“It seems that the lady is as drunk as I am.” Lyonel hops off his seat, vaulting over the table with the grace of a sober man as he puts on his crown. “If you’d do me the honour of taking you back home.”
“All the way to the Va—” you feign a hiccup to distract him from the slip of your tongue. “Lannisport?”
“If only,” the corner of his lips tugs into a smile, a hand dramatically reaching towards you with a flair. “The night is full of terrors, my lady.”
“So I’ve heard.” Your eyes meet with his as you take his helping hand. His hand is warm and calloused from the lance and sword, dotted with battle scars that you’d like to ask him about. Standing up, you glance at a solemn Dunk. “Be tall, Ser, I will be toasting on your name when you’ve won a tilt. The gods know that a knight like yourself is rare, they would favour you as I have.”
“T–thank you, m’lady.” The side of his face is shadowed, jaw tight and yet he still finds it in himself to smile at you.
“Up you go.” Lyonel helps you onto the table, lifting you off it gracefully with his hands on your waist before respectfully letting go without lingering. A part of you wants his touch to linger, a drunken part of you it seems. Holding out his arm, he waits for you to loop yours with his. “Where to, my lady?”
“You would actually take me home?” Through haze filled eyes, you narrow your gaze at Lyonel as he guides you outside of his tent. “I thought it was a farce.”
“Ser Dunk isn’t the only noble knight around here.” He sends you a wink, but in his state, both of his eyes blink at you wobbly, making you chuckle.
As he pushes away the leather flaps of the pavilion, the cold air hits your cheeks first. Letting out a sigh, you could feel his gaze upon your face. In his antler crown and with you in his cloak, the two of you look like a perfect pair, two halves made full. The glimmering pavilion standing beside you acts like the seven pointed star with its seven antlers dotted along the silk, whilst the moon above is the septon. You could be happy with him, you thought.
“May I at least know your true name?” His head tilts, as you bite your tongue. How could he know what you were already thinking about before you could say it?
“I’ve told you my true name, my lord. There’s nothing false about it.” Technically not a lie on your behalf.
His head leans back, studying every inch of your face as he raises a brow, lips curling up as his beard tugs up on his cheek. “I know you’re not just some blacksmith’s daughter. Or from Lannisport.”
You blame the wine for what you’re about to do. Stepping closer until the toes of his boots kiss yours, you flutter your lashes at him, a palm placed right on his heart. “I guess I’ve underestimated you, my lord.”
“That’s dangerous, underestimating me.”
Head tilting, your thumb traces the intricate embroidery on his doublet. “You just have to find the answer yourself.”
“Is that a challenge? A wager perhaps?” His eyes twinkled with amusement and excitement as the braziers beside the tent fans the flames inside him.
“It is.”
“You will lose.” Lyonel answers steadily, chest puffed out as he watches your hand dance along his doublet.
You hope so. “Or you will.”
“What do you propose?”
“It depends, what does the heir of Storm’s End desire the most?”
“Right now?” His eyes flick upwards, blinking out the wine in his senses before gazing down at you, a hand bracelet around your wrist, holding you there gently as his thumb draws circles around the inside of your wrist. His voice lowers an octave, leaning closer to you. “I think that is between me and the seven.” But you have a feeling of what he wants.
Sucking in your teeth, you lean away to his disappointment. “Maybe that’s for me to figure out then.” Hands tucked behind your back, you walk backwards while keeping your eyes on him.
“That’ll be your challenge!” Arms raised to his side, his booming laughter echoes around the meadow. “Or I can take you home just like I promised.”
“So you could get your answer? Absolutely not!” Chuckling, you shake your head as you turn away from him.
Lyonel laughs, watching you go in his golden cloak draped on you. “Mayhaps I will just have to wait for you to return my cloak!”
You’re a few ways away from him now and yet he still watches you walk away, as if to make sure that you’ll get home safe. “If you see me again.”
“Oh, my lady, I pray to the mother that she’ll lead you back to me!”
“Better pray harder, my lord! Your cloak suits me more than you!”
“Finally we agree to something!”
Twirling to face him again, you flash him a genuine sweet smile. “I bid you farewell, Lyonel Baratheon!”
“And I, you… whoever you are!” That has you chuckling before turning into a corner and out of his sight.
On wobbly feet, still smiling and head filled with thoughts of Lyonel and recent events, you hit a familiar chest, and you feel as if you’ve come face to face with the stranger. “Juniper!”
“Your brothers have been going up and down the bloody meadow looking for you!” She takes you by the arm, fury rolling off of her in waves. “Where have you been?! You smell like a tavern!”
“Just out—”
“Your father has found you a husband! Come, before he cuts my head off.” Juniper drags you back to the Arryn pavilion by the scruff of your neck as you feel your stomach turn.
“He what—!” Bile rises up your throat as you start retching out right on the muddy ground.
Her hand pats your back and holds your hair as you could still feel her steaming with anger and annoyance beside you. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing :- Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Summary : The evil labubu lowkey looses his marbles mid tourney.
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Word Count : 8.6k (Hell yeahhh babyy)
A/N : This scene did something to me. God. Look at that toungue. Bet he is munch. UMHH ANYWAY- I thought since majority of us have already watched the show, we know what dialogues are there n all that jazz. Soo, I changed the dialogues a bit, altered a few things (don't worry everything is still following canon) so that reading the same thing again and again dosen't become boring. After this, only one more chapter left of ashford tourney. Then we move on to Visenya's journey completely. Thinking about having dunk's pov in b/w. Anywayss enjoyy~
Masterlist
Chapter IV
The Cruel Prince
Dawn came grey and reluctant. The mist lay thick upon the meadow, clinging low to the ground like a thing that did not wish to be disturbed. Pavilions rose from the haze in pale shapes, ghostly towers of silk and canvas while the banners above them stirred faintly in the morning wind. Somewhere a horse whickered, sharp and impatient, the sound carrying strangely in the damp, heavy air.
Visenya woke before the others. For a moment she lay still beneath the elm, listening to the world stir. The camp did not sleep as common folk did, even at this hour, the air was filled with the dull ring of a distant hammer, the creak of stretching leather, and the low murmur of men already moving about their duties. A tourney was not merely spectacle, it was labor, pride, and ambition, all bound together in steel and silk.
She rose quietly. Dunk still slept, sprawled upon his cloak with one arm flung across his chest, his sword within easy reach even in slumber. There was something almost boyish in the way he slept, despite his size, as though some part of him had never quite learned the ease of safety. Egg, however, was nowhere to be seen, and that alone was enough to stir suspicion.
Wrapping her cloak about her shoulders, Visenya moved away from the tree. Her boots were soon dampened by dew as she followed the faint impressions left in the grass. They were not difficult to track small, uneven, and determined. She found him at the edge of the camp, where Thunder stamped and tossed his head as the boy struggled with the reins. The warhorse was all muscle and temper, black as a storm cloud and twice as volatile, his breath steaming in the cold morning air.
“Easy,” Egg muttered, though there was little ease in the way he held himself. “Easy now, you great stupid beast-”
Thunder reared, but Egg held on. Not well-but not badly, either. Visenya stopped a short distance away, watching in silence. That is no stable boy’s seat, she thought. He commanded the horse with more instinct than training, marked by a stubborn refusal to yield. There was no grace in it yet, but there was no fear, either. When Thunder came down hard and snorting, the boy remained his grip on the saddle.
“Again,” Egg said under his breath, as though to himself more than the horse.
Visenya’s lips curved faintly. Most stable boys knew better than to challenge a warhorse before sunrise, then again, most stable boys had something to lose.
“You there.”
A voice cut through the mist. Ser Robyn Rhysling emerged from the haze like a man conjured from it, his mail glinting dully in the pale light. His gaze moved from horse to boy, sharp and measuring. “That animal,” he said, “is no plow beast. Nor is it the sort given to wandering.”
Egg stiffened, his grip tightening. “It belongs to my knight.”
“Does it?” Rhysling stepped closer, his boots dark with damp. “And which knight might that be?”
“Ser Duncan the Tall.”
The name seemed to settle nothing. Rhysling’s eyes narrowed as he looked the animal over once more. “A hedge knight, then. Strange he should come by such a mount.”
“He won it,” Egg said, his chin lifting defiantly.
“A likely tale.”
Visenya stepped forward then, her presence quiet but deliberate. “Strange things happen at tourneys, ser,” she said lightly. “Men win more than they deserve, and lose more than they ought.”
Rhysling turned toward her. For a heartbeat, his gaze lingered on her face, her hair, the pale suggestion of silver beneath what remained of the ash she used to hide it. It was not recognition, not quite, but it was not indifference either.
“Perhaps,” he allowed.
Thunder snorted again, impatient for the dawn. Rhysling studied the horse a moment longer, then gave a short shrug before turning back into the mist as abruptly as he had come. “See that it is not misplaced again.”
Egg let out a breath he had been holding. “That was close.”
“It was careless,” Visenya replied.
Egg shot her a look of pure indignation. “I had him.”
“You nearly lost the horse.”
“I didn’t.”
“You nearly did.”
He hesitated, then scowled, looking away. “Well… I didn’t.”
Visenya said nothing to that. Instead, she stepped closer to Thunder, resting a hand lightly against the animal’s neck. The horse stilled beneath her touch, though his ears flicked with restless energy. Egg noticed the change immediately.
“You’re good with them,” he remarked.
“I have known better horses,” she said, her voice distant.
“That one’s not so bad,” Egg muttered. “Just… spirited.”
Visenya huffed a quiet breath. “That is one word for it.” She withdrew her hand and turned back toward the camp. “Come. If Dunk wakes and finds both of us gone, he may think we’ve run off to join a circus.”
Egg grinned at the thought. “You’d like that.”
“Perhaps.”
By the time they returned, the meadow had begun to stir in earnest. Fires were being lit, sending thin blue lines of smoke into the pale morning sky. Men shouted, laughed, and argued over the day's prospects. Somewhere a minstrel was already tuning his instrument, though the sound of it was lost beneath the growing noise of the camp.
Dunk was awake, sitting near the fire pit and rubbing sleep from his eyes as he struggled into his boots. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, glancing between the two of them.
“Walking,” Egg said quickly.
“Before sunrise?”
“Best time for it.”
Dunk frowned, clearly unconvinced, but he let it pass with a heavy sigh. “We’ll need food. And I’ve to see if Tanselle’s finished the shield.”
“I’ll come,” Visenya said, and though Egg opened his mouth as if to protest, he thought better of it.
The market stretched along the edge of the tourney grounds, a riot of color and sound. Spices hung heavy in the air, pepper, cinnamon, and strange eastern scents that clung to the back of the throat. Meat sizzled over open flames while merchants shouted over one another, hawking everything from fine silks to dented helms. Visenya moved through the chaos with quiet ease, her gaze taking in the Dornish traders with their sun-browned skin, the Reachmen in green and gold, and the loud, laughing Stormlanders.
Dunk walked beside her, careful not to lose sight of her in the crowd. “You’ve been to places like this before?” he asked.
“Something like it.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers enough.”
He scratched at his neck, half-smiling. “You’re a strange one.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
They found Tanselle near the edge of the market, her work laid out before her. Paints, brushes, and the half-finished shield rested upon a low table. She looked up as they approached, a small smile playing on her lips. “Ah. My knight returns.”
Dunk shifted awkwardly, his ears turning red. “Is it done?”
“By evening,” she said. “A shield should not be rushed. It carries a man’s honor.” Her gaze moved then to Visenya and lingered with the sort of curiosity artists possessed in abundance. “You’ve a striking look. Rare.”
Visenya tilted her head slightly. “Do I?”
“Old, almost,” Tanselle said softly. “Like something from a story.”
“Stories are often exaggerated.”
“Not always.”
For a moment neither spoke, the air between them thick with unspoken observations. Finally, Dunk cleared his throat, shifting the conversation back to safer ground. “We’ll return this evening,” he promised. Tanselle nodded, but as they turned to go, Visenya felt the woman’s gaze lingering still. Artists saw too much.
They had nearly left the market when a small, plump man in fine but travel-worn clothes approached them. His expression was pleasant, but in a way that did not reach his eyes. “Ser Duncan,” he said. “A moment, if you would. Privately.”
Visenya’s gaze flicked toward the man. There was something about him she did not trust. Dunk hesitated, then nodded to her. “Go on ahead,” he told her. She did not argue, but she did not go far, either. Instead, she lingered at a nearby stall, close enough to hear the man’s lowered voice.
“Tourneys are costly affairs,” the man said. “Far more than most realize. And sometimes, one must… find ways to recover such costs.”
Visenya’s expression stilled. Ah. Now she understood.
“A tilt,” the man continued softly. “A simple one. You and Ser Androw Ashford. A fall at the right moment. Nothing too obvious.”
Dunk stared at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You want me to lose?”
“Gracefully,” the man said.
“Why would I do that?”
“Coin. More than a hedge knight is like to see in a year.”
There was a long pause. Then Dunk said, slowly and firmly, “That doesn’t seem right.”
Visenya almost smiled. Of course it does not. The man sighed faintly, as though disappointed by a stubborn child. “Right and wrong are matters for septons. This is a matter of necessity.”
Dunk simply shook his head. “No.”
There was no hesitation, no bargaining, and no understanding of the game being played. Visenya watched the man’s expression tighten for a heartbeat before he smoothed it over, turned, and vanished into the crowd. When Dunk returned to her, he looked troubled.
“What did he want?” she asked.
“Nothing worth having.”
Visenya studied him quietly. He did not know how to bend. That might save him or it might destroy him. “Come,” she said at last. “The day has only just begun.” And already, she thought, it was beginning to turn.
The sun had climbed by the time the first tilt began. Mist burned away beneath its rising warmth, leaving the meadow bright and exposed. The pavilions no longer seemed ghostly but gaudy-silks of red and gold and blue snapping in the wind, banners cracking like whips above the lists. The crowds pressed closer now, thick along the barriers, voices rising in eager anticipation.
Visenya stood among them, her hood drawn low. Dunk had gone to watch from nearer the rail, Egg slipping easily through the bodies to follow him. She remained where she was, half-shadowed beneath the edge of a merchant’s awning, content to observe. It was always better to watch before being seen.
The knights rode out one by one, armor gleaming and plumes dancing from their helms. Lances were handed up, and horses stamped and snorted beneath the weight of steel and expectation. Trumpets sounded, and the first passes were clean enough-splintered wood, cheers, and the dull thunder of hooves pounding packed earth.
And then came Aerion.
Prince Aerion Targaryen rode onto the field like a blade drawn too quickly. Even at a distance he was unmistakable. His armor was finer than the rest, chased with pale designs that caught the light like flame. His helm bore the likeliness of a dragon, wrought in red and gold, and his horse moved with the restless arrogance of its rider. The crowd shifted not quiet, not yet, but wary. Visenya felt it as well, a tightening in her chest. She had known men like him all her life.
He saluted lazily, as though the form bored him, and lowered his lance. Across from him, Ser Humfrey Hardyng sat his horse with rigid composure, his grip steady though not without tension. The signal came and they charged. The first impact cracked like thunder, wood splintered, clean and sharp, and the crowd roared its approval. They wheeled for another pass, faster this time, with more force. Aerion leaned low in the saddle-too low-his lance dipping not toward shield or helm, but lower.
Visenya’s breath stilled. No.
The blow struck. Not armor, but flesh. The horse screamed a terrible sound, high and broken, filled with a kind of confusion that twisted something deep in the gut. The animal stumbled, legs buckling beneath it, blood dark against its flank as it crashed to the ground. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then the noise came. Not cheers, not this time, but a murmur, low and uncertain, rippling through the crowd like wind through dry grass.
Ser Humfrey was thrown clear, rolling hard in the dirt as his mount thrashed, dying. Aerion sat tall in the saddle, watching and smiling. Visenya’s fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. This is what becomes of dragons when no one dares leash them.
A judge rode forward, shouting something lost to the rising noise. Men rushed to tend the fallen knight and to end the horse’s suffering. Aerion turned his horse in a slow circle, as though admiring his own work. The crowd did not cheer as it had before, something had shifted, a fracture, small but growing. Even kings could not rule what they broke. The match ended and another began, but the noise that returned was thinner now, and strained. Visenya turned away. There was little more to see.
She found Egg not long after, seated cross-legged beside a weathered old woman near the edge of the camp. The woman’s tent was small and crooked, its faded cloth patched with mismatched scraps. Charms hung from its entrance-bones, feathers, and bits of colored glass that caught the light. A fortune-teller.
Visenya slowed her steps. Egg did not notice her at first, leaning forward with intent as the old woman took his hand in hers. Her eyes were clouded, milky with age, but her grip was strong.
“Hmm,” she murmured. “You’ve a curious line here, boy.”
Egg shifted. “What does it mean?”
The woman traced his palm with a crooked finger. “Fire,” she said softly. “I see fire.”
Visenya stilled. The air seemed colder suddenly.
“Fire?” Egg echoed.
“And a crown,” the woman went on, voice thinning. “Not one you are born to… but one that will brush your brow all the same.”
Egg frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Few truths do.” Her thumb pressed harder into his skin. “You will stand close to power-close enough to taste it, close enough to bleed for it. You will try to wake what sleeps in ash.”
Egg let out a short laugh, uneasy. “You say that to everyone.”
“No.” Her head tilted slightly, as though listening to something only she could hear. “Not to everyone.” Her fingers tightened. “You will chase fire, boy… and in the end, it will take everything from you.”
Silence followed. The sounds of the camp seemed distant for a moment, muffled and strange.
Egg pulled his hand back. “That’s not funny.”
The old woman only smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “Truth rarely is.”
Visenya turned away before he could see her. Fire follows our blood. It always had. It always would.
She did not see Dunk again until later, near the lists once more. This time he stood beside Raymun Fossoway, the two of them watching the tilts with shared attention. Raymun looked every inch the young knight-armor polished, posture easy, though his eyes held more thought than most. Visenya lingered nearby, close enough to hear.
“…don’t like it,” Raymun was saying. “Not the way he rides.”
“Aye,” Dunk agreed. “There’s something wrong in it.”
Raymun snorted softly. “There’s something wrong in all of them. The dragons. Too much power, too long. Makes monsters of men.”
Visenya’s gaze shifted to him. Careful.
Dunk shifted uncomfortably. “Not all of them.”
“No? You saw what he did.”
“I did.”
“And you still defend them?”
Dunk hesitated. “I don’t know them,” he said at last. “Not truly.”
Raymun gave a short, humorless laugh. “Count yourself lucky.”
Visenya said nothing, but she did not move away. Let them speak. Let them think her no more than another face in the crowd. Still, each word settled like a stone.
By the time the sun began its descent, the air had changed again-cooler now, and sharper. The crowds shifted toward the outer edges of the meadow, where performers had begun to gather. Music drifted through the camp-pipes and drums, laughter, the murmur of men seeking distraction after the day’s unease.
Visenya followed the sound. She found Egg there already, seated near the front, his attention fixed upon the small wooden stage that had been hastily assembled. Tanselle stood upon it, her dark hair bound back, her hands moving deftly as she prepared her puppets. Painted wood and cloth-simple things, yet crafted with care. A dragon. A knight.
The crowd quieted as she began. Her voice carried, low and rhythmic, telling a tale older than most who listened of beasts and bravery, of fire and steel. The dragon danced and the knight advanced. Laughter rose, then cheers. The knight struck and the dragon fell. The crowd roared its approval, and Egg laughed with them.
Visenya did not. She saw it a heartbeat before the rest, the stillness, the shift. Prince Aerion stepped forward. The laughter faltered. Tanselle hesitated only briefly before continuing, but it was too late. His gaze was fixed upon the fallen dragon.
“Again,” he said. His voice was soft, but it carried.
Tanselle swallowed hard. “It is only a story, my lord-”
The crowd had gone quiet now, truly quiet. Even the wind seemed to still. Tanselle’s hands trembled as she lifted the puppet once more. The dragon rose, the knight struck, and the dragon fell. Aerion smiled. Then he reached out too quickly, too suddenly. His hand closed around hers.
There was a sharp sound, a crack, and Tanselle cried out. The puppet fell, forgotten, as she crumpled to her knees, clutching her hand. The silence shattered into gasps, shouts, and movement, but no one stepped forward. No one. Visenya felt something cold and sharp settle in her chest.
Egg was on his feet. “Stop it!”
Aerion looked down at him, amused. “And what will you do, boy?”
Egg did not answer. He turned and ran. Visenya watched him go, watched the fury in his stride, and watched the moment everything began to unravel. And somewhere, deep beneath the rising noise and chaos, she knew the night would not end quietly.
The cry spread quickly, though no one seemed to move at first. Tanselle knelt upon the trampled grass, her puppet cast aside, her body bent inward as she clutched her hand to her chest. The pain in her voice had been sharp, but what followed was worse the stunned silence of a crowd that did not know whether it dared to react. Men shifted where they stood, glancing at one another, at the prince, and at the guards who lingered at the edges of the gathering like shadows given form.
Prince Aerion regarded the woman with mild interest, as though he had broken not bone but some trifling object of little worth. His fingers flexed once, thoughtfully, and then he wiped them upon his cloak, as if to rid himself of something unpleasant.
Visenya felt her jaw tighten. There it is, she thought. Not anger, not even cruelty in the way lesser men understood it, but something colder. Something that did not see others as fully real. A dragon without restraint.
The crowd might have dispersed then, might have swallowed the moment and pretended it had not happened, but before that silence could settle, a disturbance broke through the edge of the gathering. Dunk.
He came like a storm poorly contained, shouldering past men who cursed at the jostling, his height making him impossible to ignore even before the force of his movement drew every eye toward him. His face was flushed, his mouth set hard, and there was no hesitation in his stride as he crossed the space between himself and the prince.
“Why?” he demanded, his voice cutting cleanly through the murmurs. “Why would you do that?”
Aerion turned his head slowly, as though only just becoming aware of him. His lips curved, not quite into a smile. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“A hedge knight,” Aerion said, tasting the words as if they amused him. “And you think to question me?”
Dunk did not falter, though the air itself seemed to tighten around him. “You broke her hand,” he said. “She’d done you no harm.”
“She insulted me,” Aerion replied lightly. “She made a mockery of dragons.”
“It was a puppet show,” Dunk said, incredulous. “For children.”
Aerion’s gaze sharpened, just slightly. “I am no child.”
“No,” Dunk agreed, and there was something in his voice now that had not been there before something steadier, heavier. “You’re worse.”
Visenya drew a slow breath. There it is. The moment a man chose who he was.
Around them, the crowd recoiled, a subtle shifting backward as if distance might shield them from what would follow. The guards were moving now, their hands drifting toward sword hilts. Aerion tilted his head, studying Dunk as one might study a curious animal. “You would do well to remember your place,” he said softly.
“My place?” Dunk repeated. “My place is to stand against men who hurt those who can’t defend themselves.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Aerion laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “And you think that is you? A hedge knight with a borrowed horse and a painted shield?”
Dunk’s hand moved before thought could catch it. Visenya saw it clearly the tightening of his shoulders, the shift of weight, the sudden, inevitable decision. His fist struck Aerion across the face. The sound of it cracked through the clearing like a breaking branch.
Aerion staggered. For an instant, no one moved. Then the world rushed back. Guards surged forward, steel flashing as swords were drawn. Hands seized Dunk, dragging him back even as he struggled. Voices rose in shouts and curses.
Aerion straightened slowly. Blood darkened his lip where it had split, and for a moment his expression was unreadable. Then the smile returned, thinner now, edged with something far more dangerous. “Well,” he said, almost pleasantly, “that was unwise.”
He took a step forward as the guards forced Dunk to his knees. Even so, Dunk’s gaze did not drop. Visenya felt something twist sharply in her chest. He does not yield.
Aerion’s hand drifted toward his sword. “Shall I take your hand for that? Or perhaps your tongue. You seem fond of using it.”
“Stop.”
The word cut through the chaos with startling clarity. It was not loud, but it carried. The guards froze. Aerion’s head snapped toward the source.
Egg stood at the edge of the clearing, no longer the boy who had laughed at puppet shows. Something in him had revealed itself. His posture had straightened, his chin lifted, and in his gaze there was a steadiness that did not belong to a stable boy. “I said stop,” he repeated.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Aerion’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What concern is this of yours?”
Egg did not hesitate. “Because he is mine. My knight. And you will not harm him.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Aerion’s expression shifted to a sharper curiosity. “Your knight? And who are you to claim such a thing?”
Egg met his gaze. “Your brother.”
The word fell like a stone into still water. True silence followed, heavy and absolute. Aerion stared at him. “Aegon,” he said at last. “I wondered how long you meant to play at being a stable boy.”
The whispers began then, spreading outward: A prince... Targaryen... the boy. Dunk had gone very still. Visenya watched him, saw the moment the truth settled upon him heavy, unwelcome, and terrifying. Egg did not look at him, his attention remained fixed upon Aerion.
“You will release him,” Egg said.
Aerion smiled again, though it did not reach his eyes. “You presume much, brother.”
“I speak with our father’s voice,” Egg replied. “Will you defy it?”
The question hung in the air. Aerion’s gaze lingered on him, then shifted to Visenya. She felt the weight of his attention settling upon her, sharpening as recognition stirred. The fading ash had done its work poorly, the silver of her hair showed through in the light now, pale and unmistakable.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said softly, “it seems we are surrounded by hidden things.” He took a step toward her, and the crowd parted. “Another dragon. Hiding in the dirt.”
All eyes turned. Visenya did not move. There was no point in denial now. For a moment longer she remained as she was, one figure among many. Then she reached up and brushed back her hood. The light caught her hair as it fell free no longer dulled by ash, but silver where it showed, bright as pale flame. A hush fell. She stepped forward.
“I had thought,” she said, her voice calm, “to pass this tourney in peace. Clearly, that was a mistake.” Her gaze moved from Aerion to Egg, then briefly to Dunk.
Aerion’s smile was satisfied. “You do not deny it.”
“No,” she said, lifting her chin. “Princess Visenya of House Targaryen.”
The reaction was immediate. Men dropped to their knees as though pulled by strings. Whispers surged, disbelief and awe mingling in equal measure. Two dragons, revealed at once. Dunk did not kneel, he simply stared, his face caught in a mask of realization and horror.
For the briefest of moments, she almost smiled. Then the moment passed, and the weight of what had been set in motion settled fully upon them all. Nothing, Visenya knew, would be simple after this. Nothing at all.
For a long moment after the words were spoken, no one seemed certain how to breathe. The meadow had fallen into a strange and brittle stillness. Dunk was still on his knees, though the guards no longer forced him there. He simply stared as if the ground beneath him had shifted and he had yet to find his footing.
Visenya did not look at him, she watched Aerion. He had gone very still, but with a sharpness that suggested the game had finally become interesting. “Well,” he said at last, “this grows complicated.”
“It need not be,” Egg said. “Release him.”
Aerion’s gaze flicked toward Dunk. “You place much value on this one.”
“He is my knight.”
“And hers?” Aerion asked, tilting his head toward Visenya.
Visenya answered before Egg could. “He is a knight who did what others would not. That alone sets him apart.”
Aerion gave a soft, humorless laugh. “How fortunate for him that two dragons see fit to favor him.” Dunk flinched at the words. “Favor has nothing to do with it,” Egg said sharply. “You were in the wrong.”
“Was I? Shall we ask the realm to judge it, then?”
Before either could answer, another voice cut in firm, controlled, and carrying the weight of command. “That will not be necessary.”
Prince Baelor Targaryen stepped forward. Authority sat upon him as naturally as breath. His gaze moved from Aerion to Egg, and finally to Visenya, lingering there with a thoughtful air. “This matter has gone far enough,” Baelor said.
Aerion inclined his head slightly. “On the contrary, uncle, I believe it has only just begun.”
Baelor’s expression did not change. “Ser Duncan struck you. That is plain.”
“He did.”
“And you would see him punished.”
“I would see justice done,” Aerion replied smoothly.
Baelor turned his attention to Dunk. “What say you, ser?”
Dunk swallowed, his voice rough. “I struck him. Aye.” There was no attempt to deny it. Visenya felt something tighten in her chest, a trace of reluctant admiration for the fool.
“And why?” Baelor asked.
Dunk lifted his head. “Because he hurt her. And no one else would stop him.”
Baelor’s gaze flickered. “You speak boldly for a hedge knight.”
“I speak true,” Dunk said.
For a moment, the two simply regarded one another. Then Aerion laughed. “Truth does not place him above the law. He struck a prince of the blood. That is no small offense.”
“No,” Baelor agreed. “It is not.”
The silence that followed was heavier now. Visenya could feel it settling like stones being laid into place. This would not end simply. It never did.
“What would you have of him?” Baelor asked at last.
Aerion’s smile widened. “I would have his hand. The one he used to strike me.”
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Dunk went pale, though he did not look away. Visenya felt a flicker of heat rise. Before she could speak, Egg stepped forward. “You will do no such thing.”
“You forget yourself, brother,” Aerion snapped.
“No,” Egg said, iron in his voice, “it is you who forgets. We are not above justice.”
“Justice? Then let us have it.” Aerion turned to Baelor. “I accuse this man of assaulting a prince of the blood. Let him answer for it.”
Baelor’s jaw tightened. “And how would you see that done?”
Aerion’s eyes gleamed. “By trial. Trial by combat. Or do you lack the courage for that as well, ser?”
Dunk straightened slowly, the movement heavy and deliberate. “I don’t lack courage,” he said.
“Good. Then we shall see how far it carries you.”
Baelor exhaled slowly. “You understand what you ask. This is no small matter.”
“I understand it perfectly,” Aerion said.
Silence stretched. Then Dunk spoke. “I’ll answer him.”
The words fell into the space between them, simple and unadorned. Visenya’s breath caught. He does not even understand what he has agreed to. Baelor studied him, searching for hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he inclined his head.
“So be it,” he said. “You may choose trial by combat.”
A flicker of satisfaction passed across Aerion’s face. The trap was set, and the hedge knight had walked straight into it.
“Not so fast,” Aerion said, his voice slick with a sudden, dark inspiration. “A simple duel would hardly suffice.”
Baelor’s gaze hardened. “What would you propose?”
Aerion’s smile widened, revealing a flash of white teeth. “A trial of seven.”
The words struck harder than any physical blow. A murmur surged through the crowd once more, louder now, edged with something close to fear. A trial of seven was no common thing, it was the judgment of the gods made manifest, an ancient clash not merely of men but of causes.
Dunk’s confusion returned, plain upon his face. “Seven?” he echoed, the number sounding foreign on his tongue.
“You and six others,” Aerion said lightly, as if discussing the rules of a children's game. “Against me and mine.”
Visenya felt the ground shift beneath the moment. This was no longer a matter of one man’s courage or a single hedge knight's error. This was war in miniature.
Baelor’s expression had gone grave. “That is a heavy demand.”
“And a just one,” Aerion replied.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The wind seemed to hold its breath. Then Baelor nodded, once. “It shall be as you say,” he said. “At dawn.”
The decision settled over them like a closing door. Visenya turned her gaze, at last, back to Dunk. He stood now, though unsteadily, the enormity of what lay before him only just beginning to take shape in his eyes. Seven knights against princes. Against the Kingsguard, perhaps. Against the weight of the realm itself.
And still, he had said yes.
Fool, she thought again. Brave, stubborn fool.
For the briefest of moments, their eyes met across the clearing. Something passed between them then, unspoken, uncertain, but real all the same. And for the first time since revealing herself, Visenya felt not the weight of her name, nor the burning danger of what lay ahead, but something far more troubling. Fear.
They did not take him roughly. That, more than anything, unsettled Dunk. The guards who led him away no longer gripped him like a criminal to be dragged and displayed. There was a hesitation in them now, a careful distance, as though they feared to lay too heavy a hand upon a man who had, somehow, found himself under the notice of dragons. Still, they took his sword. That, at least, remained unchanged.
The tent they placed him in was neither cell nor comfort, canvas walls, a wooden stool, a narrow cot. Outside, he could hear the distant murmur of the tourney grounds, quieter now, but not silent. Word would be spreading. It always did. A hedge knight strikes a prince. A prince demands a trial of seven. Two hidden dragons revealed.
Dunk let out a slow breath and sat heavily upon the cot, his hands resting on his knees. They felt strange-too large, too clumsy. These were the same hands that had swung a sword in a dozen petty skirmishes, that had carried armor and shield and all the weight of a life lived hard and low. Those same hands had struck a prince of the blood.
“What did you do, Dunk?” he whispered to the empty air. The answer came easily enough. What no one else would.
He thought of Aerion’s smile, of the way the man spoke as if cruelty were a game, and of Tanselle’s cry. His jaw tightened. “No,” he muttered. “I’d do it again.” The words settled in the quiet of the tent, firm and unyielding.
A rustle of canvas drew his attention. The guard outside shifted, then stepped aside without a word. Someone entered. Dunk rose at once, instinct more than thought guiding him. It was her.
Visenya.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. She had not changed her clothing, but the way she carried herself had shifted, subtle yet undeniable. There was no longer any effort to seem small, no attempt to blend into the edges of the world. She stood as she was straight-backed, composed, every inch what she had named herself to be. A Targaryen.
Dunk felt suddenly, painfully aware of the dust on his boots. “My-” he began, then stopped. He had never been taught what to call a princess.
Visenya seemed to notice his hesitation. “Visenya will do,” she said, her voice soft.
“Yes, m-Visenya,” he corrected quickly, stumbling only slightly.
For the briefest moment, something flickered in her eyes. Amusement? It was gone as quickly as it came. “You have a talent,” she said, stepping further into the tent, “for placing yourself in impossible situations.”
Dunk huffed a quiet breath. “Didn’t feel like much of a choice.”
“No?” she asked.
He shook his head. “He broke her hand.”
“I saw.”
Silence followed, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things unsaid. Dunk shifted his weight. “I didn’t know,” he said at last. “About the boy. About… either of you.”
“No,” Visenya agreed. “You did not.” There was no accusation in her voice, which somehow made it worse.
Dunk let out a breath. “Seems I’ve made a fool of myself proper, then.”
At that, she did smile faint, but real. “On the contrary,” she said, “you are perhaps the only man here who has not.”
He blinked. “Doesn’t feel that way.”
“Feelings are often poor judges of truth,” she replied.
Dunk considered that, then gave a small, crooked shrug. “Still doesn’t change what’s coming.”
“No,” she said quietly. “It does not.” Her gaze moved over him then, more deliberate, as if measuring something unseen. Resolve, perhaps. Or the lack of it. “You agreed quickly.”
Dunk frowned. “Didn’t seem right to back down.”
“A trial of seven is not a matter of pride, Ser Duncan,” Visenya said. “It is a matter of survival. Seven knights chosen by a prince who does not lose. You will face men trained from birth for war, men who have killed in earnest.”
Dunk met her gaze. “So have I.”
“Not like this.”
The words hung between them. Dunk did not look away. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I won’t run from it.”
Visenya studied him for a long moment. There was something almost frustrating in his steadiness, in the way he did not seem to grasp the full weight of the tragedy and yet refused to yield all the same. “You could have chosen differently,” she said.
“Could you?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. Dunk saw the slight flicker in her eyes. “If it’d been you,” he went on, “standing there. Watching him hurt someone who couldn’t fight back… would you have done nothing?”
Visenya did not answer at once. The silence spoke enough. “No,” she said at last.
Dunk nodded, as if that settled something important. “Then I reckon I chose right.”
She exhaled slowly. “You chose as you are. That is not always the same thing as choosing wisely.”
“Maybe not,” Dunk said. “But it’s all I’ve got.”
Visenya stepped closer, stopping just within arm’s reach. Up close, the difference in their height was even more apparent, and yet it did not feel as though she stood beneath him. If anything, it was the opposite.
“You will need six men,” she said.
Dunk gave a humorless huff. “Aye. Thought about that. Don’t suppose you’ve got six knights tucked away somewhere?”
“No,” she said. Then, after a brief pause, “But I may stand for you.”
Dunk blinked. “What?”
Her expression did not change. “A trial of seven requires seven champions. It does not require them all to be men.”
He stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“I would not say it otherwise.”
Dunk ran a hand through his hair, utterly thrown. “You’re a princess. You can’t just fight in something like this! It's dangerous.”
A faint, almost incredulous look crossed her face. “Yes,” she said. “That is rather the point.”
Dunk let out a breath, half frustrated. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” she replied. “You stood when others would not. That carries weight.”
He shook his head. “Not enough to risk your life over.”
A flicker of something sharper passed through her gaze then. “Do not presume to decide what my life is worth,” she said, her voice low but firm.
Dunk stilled. “…Right,” he muttered.
After a moment, Visenya’s expression softened. “You will need allies, whether you wish it or not.”
Dunk nodded slowly. “Aye. Thank you. For offering.”
“For standing,” she corrected.
She turned to leave, then paused at the edge of the tent. “For what it is worth,” she added, without looking back, “I do not think you a fool.”
Dunk blinked. “Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.
There was the faintest hint of a smile in her voice as she stepped out into the night. “Yes,” she said. “So, it would seem.”
Dunk had not been alone long.
He had barely settled back onto the cot when the canvas stirred again, more abruptly this time, and voices followed before the figures themselves appeared.
“Dunk?”
Egg’s voice-no, Aegon’s now-though it still sounded like the same boy.
Dunk looked up.
The boy entered first, quick and restless, his face tight with something that hovered between guilt and determination. Behind him came another figure, slower, looser in his movements, with a half-lidded gaze that seemed at odds with the sharpness hidden beneath it.
Dunk frowned.
“I know you,” he said slowly.
The man gave a crooked sort of smile. “Most do, once they’ve shared a drink with me.”
“The inn,” Dunk said. “You were-”
“Drunk?” the man supplied. “A fair assessment.”
Egg shot him an annoyed look. “This is my brother. Prince Daeron.”
Dunk stared.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh if there had been anything funny about it.
“Of course you are,” he muttered. “Why not? Seems I’ve been traveling with half the royal family and didn’t know it.”
Daeron gave a small shrug. “Happens more often than you’d think.”
“It shouldn’t,” Dunk said flatly.
“No,” Daeron agreed. “It really shouldn’t.”
Egg stepped forward then, more urgent. “Ser, listen-”
“No,” Dunk cut in, rising to his feet. “You listen.”
The sharpness in his voice startled them both.
“You lied to me,” he said, looking at Egg-Aegon properly now. “All this time. You let me think you were just… just a boy from nowhere.”
Egg flinched. “I didn’t mean to-”
“You didn’t mean to?” Dunk echoed. “You shaved your head, called yourself Egg, followed me like-like-”
“A squire,” Egg said quietly.
Dunk stopped.
The word landed harder than anything else.
For a moment, the anger faltered.
“I was your squire,” Egg continued, softer now. “That part wasn’t a lie.”
Dunk looked away, jaw tight.
Behind them, Daeron shifted, then spoke, his tone lighter but not careless. “If it helps,” he said, “he lies to everyone. It’s not personal.”
Egg shot him a glare. “You’re not helping.”
“I rarely do.”
Dunk exhaled sharply and dragged a hand over his face. “Gods,” he muttered. “A prince. I’ve been cuffing a prince round the ear for talking back.”
Egg almost smiled at that.
“You can keep doing it,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
Dunk looked at him again, searching his face-really searching, as if trying to separate the boy he knew from the prince he had been told.
“I should,” he said. “Mind, I mean.”
“But you don’t,” Egg said.
Dunk hesitated.
Then, grudgingly-
“No,” he admitted.
Something eased, just slightly.
Daeron cleared his throat. “As touching as this is,” he said, “we do have a trial looming at dawn.”
Dunk’s attention snapped back. “Aye. That.”
“You’ll have trouble,” Daeron went on, almost conversationally. “My father will fight. And the Kingsguard. Aerion won’t lack for steel.”
“I gathered,” Dunk said dryly.
Daeron studied him for a moment, then added, quieter now, “I won’t be much trouble.”
Dunk frowned. “What?”
“I’ll fall,” Daeron said simply. “First pass, most like. Wouldn’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
Egg looked at him sharply. “You can’t just-”
“I can,” Daeron said. “And I will.”
He met Dunk’s gaze then, and for the first time there was no humor in it.
“Aerion is… what he is,” he said. “I won’t help him be more of it.”
Dunk said nothing.
There was something strange about the man-loose and careless one moment, sharp as a blade the next.
“You came to tell me that?” Dunk asked.
“Partly,” Daeron said.
He hesitated, just briefly.
“I dreamed of you,” he added.
Dunk blinked. “What?”
“A dragon,” Daeron said, his voice quieter now, distant in a way that made the words feel heavier. “Dead. Spread across the meadow. And you beneath it. Alive.”
The tent seemed smaller suddenly.
Colder.
Dunk shifted. “I don’t put much stock in dreams.”
“No,” Daeron said. “Most don’t. Until they come true.”
A silence followed that.
Egg broke it, stepping forward again. “We’ll find you men,” he said quickly. “You won’t stand alone, I swear it.”
Dunk gave a slow nod. “You’d best hurry, then.”
“We will,” Egg said.
He hesitated, then added, quieter-
“I’m sorry.”
Dunk looked at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Dunk sighed.
“Aye,” he said. “So am I.”
The air was cooler here, shaded by heavy canvas and guarded by men who did not flinch or whisper.
Visenya did not wait to be announced. She entered as though she belonged. Which, in truth, she did.
Prince Baelor stood within, speaking quietly with another man-broader, harder in feature, his presence less warm, more unyielding.
Prince Maekar.
Both turned as she approached. For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Baelor inclined his head, courteous. “Princess.”
Visenya returned the gesture. “Prince Baelor.”
Her gaze shifted. “Prince Maekar.”
Maekar did not bow. His eyes moved over her, assessing, sharp and unwelcoming. “You traveled alone,” he said. It was not a question.
“I did,” she replied.
“A foolish risk.”
“Or a calculated one.”
His jaw tightened. “There are dangers on the road.”
“There are dangers everywhere,” Visenya said evenly. “The road merely makes them honest.”
Baelor’s mouth twitched, just slightly, though he said nothing.
Maekar stepped closer. “You are of the royal blood,” he said. “You do not wander the realm unguarded like a common girl.”
“I was not aware,” she replied, “that my blood made me incapable of travel.”
“It makes you valuable,” Maekar said sharply.
“And yet,” she said, meeting his gaze without flinching, “here I stand.”
The tension between them sharpened.
Baelor stepped in then, smooth and measured. “You arrived at an… unfortunate moment.”
“So, it would seem,” Visenya said.
His eyes searched her face, thoughtful. “And yet you involved yourself.”
“I observed,” she corrected.
“You revealed yourself.”
“Circumstances required it.”
Maekar gave a short, humorless laugh. “Convenient.”
Visenya turned her attention back to him. “Would you have preferred I remain hidden while your son mutilated smallfolk?”
The words struck clean. Maekar’s expression darkened.
“Choose your tone carefully, niece.”
“Then choose your sons more carefully,” she replied.
Silence. Heavy. Dangerous.
Baelor exhaled slowly. “Enough,” he said. His gaze moved between them, steady, commanding. “This matter is already set on a path that will end in blood. Let us not hasten it further.”
Visenya held Maekar’s gaze a moment longer. Then, slowly, she looked away.
Baelor regarded her, quieter now. “You intend to remain?”
“I do.”
“For the trial?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“And after?” he asked.
Visenya tilted her head slightly. “Does it concern you?”
“It may,” Baelor said. “You are… unwed.”
The implication lingered.
Unspoken, but clear.
Maekar watched her closely now, his earlier anger cooled into something more measured. Calculating.
Visenya felt it. The shift. Not just a princess. A possibility.
“I am also not without will,” she said calmly.
Baelor inclined his head, accepting the answer for what it was. Maekar said nothing. But his gaze did not leave her. And in that silence, something subtle and dangerous took root-Not of war. But of politics. Of blood. Of marriage.
The night did not bring rest.
It lingered, heavy and watchful, as though the world itself knew what dawn would demand of it.
Dunk had not slept. He had tried lying back upon the narrow cot, staring up at the dim curve of the tent’s roof but sleep would not come. Every time his eyes closed, he saw it again, Aerion’s smile, the flash of steel, the word seven echoing louder each time it returned.
Seven men. Seven lives. And somehow, all of it resting on him.
He exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright just as the tent stirred once more.
Egg.
He slipped inside with less urgency than before, though there was nothing easy in his face. The boy-no, the prince looked tired, but determined in that stubborn way Dunk had come to recognize.
“Well?” Dunk asked.
Egg nodded quickly. “We’ve got some.”
“Some?” Dunk echoed.
“More than some,” came another voice.
A large figure ducked through the tent flap, filling the space in a way few men could.
Ser Lyonel Baratheon.
Even without armor, he carried himself like a man accustomed to battle, broad-shouldered and solid as a wall. His dark beard framed a grin that seemed almost out of place given the circumstances.
“Heard you needed men,” Lyonel said. “Thought I’d see what sort of fool I’d be riding beside.”
Dunk blinked, then gave a short, uncertain nod. “Ser.”
Lyonel studied him a moment, then chuckled. “Aye,” he said. “You’ll do.”
Behind him came others, one by one, each stepping into the dim light of the tent as though crossing some unseen threshold.
Ser Raymun Fossoway, tense but resolute.
Ser Steffon Fossoway-newly made, by all appearances, his red apple badge bright even in the low light.
Ser Humfrey Hardyng, quiet and watchful.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury, older, steadier.
And last-
Prince Baelor.
The space seemed to still around him.
Dunk rose at once.
“My prince-”
Baelor lifted a hand, stopping him. “No titles here,” he said. “Not today.” His gaze met Dunk’s, steady and unwavering.
“I will stand with you.”
Dunk stared at him. For a moment, words failed him entirely.
“You don’t have to,” he managed at last.
“I know,” Baelor said.
That was all. And somehow, it was enough.
Dunk swallowed, something tight in his chest loosening just slightly. “Then… thank you.”
Baelor inclined his head.
Seven. They were seven now.
The weight of it settled differently than before-not lighter, not truly, but shared. Carried across shoulders broader than his alone.
Lyonel clapped a heavy hand against Dunk’s shoulder. “Try not to get us all killed, eh?”
Dunk huffed a breath that might almost have been a laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
“See that you do.”
The men began to speak among themselves then-quiet words, practical things. Armor. Position. Who would face whom.
Dunk listened, though not entirely. His gaze had drifted. To the edge of the tent. To where the faintest shift of movement had caught his eye. She stood just beyond the entrance. Visenya. She had not announced herself this time. Had not stepped forward or spoken. She simply watched. For a moment, Dunk hesitated. Then he moved. The voices behind him faded as he stepped out into the cool edge of pre-dawn, the sky still dark but beginning to pale at its farthest reach.
“You’re not sleeping either, then,” he said.
Visenya glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “It seemed… unnecessary.”
Dunk huffed softly. “Aye. That’s one way of putting it.”
Silence settled between them, quieter than before, but no less full.
“You found your seven,” she said after a moment.
“Looks that way.”
Her gaze flicked past him, toward the figures within the tent. “Strong choices.”
“Mostly chose themselves,” Dunk admitted.
“They would not have, if you were not worth choosing.”
Dunk shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of that. “Still don’t see why.”
Visenya turned to him fully then. “You stood alone,” she said. “Men remember such things.”
Dunk rubbed the back of his neck. “Reckon I’d have preferred they remembered me for something less likely to get me killed.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But that is not the sort of man you are.”
He let out a breath, half a laugh. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“I say it as a true thing.”
That silenced him. For a moment, they stood there with the faint sounds of preparation behind them and the quiet stretch of dawn before them.
Dunk glanced at her. “You won’t be in the stands,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Visenya’s gaze shifted toward the horizon. “No.”
“Royal pavilion, then.”
“Yes.”
Dunk nodded slowly. “Safer there.”
She looked at him again, something sharper in her expression now. “Do not mistake position for safety,” she said. “There is no such thing today.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But I’ll know where to look.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. For a moment, neither spoke.
Visenya held his gaze, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface. “Why?” she asked quietly.
Dunk frowned. “Why what?”
“Why would you look?”
He hesitated. Then shrugged, a little awkwardly. “Reckon… if I’m going to fight princes and kingsguard, might help to remember there’s someone watching who doesn’t think I’m completely mad.”
A faint breath of something-almost a laugh, almost something else-escaped her.
“That is a rare distinction,” she said.
“Didn’t say you thought I was sensible,” Dunk replied.
“No,” she agreed. “Only that you are not entirely a fool.”
“That’s comforting.”
Another pause. Softer now. The first hints of light began to creep along the horizon, pale and cold. Dawn. It was coming.
Dunk straightened slightly, as if feeling it too. “This is it, then.”
“Yes,” Visenya said.
He looked at her, searching her face as though committing something to memory. “If it goes poorly-”
“It will not,” she cut in.
Dunk huffed. “That’s not how this sort of thing works.”
“No,” she said. “But it is how I choose to believe.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded once. “Fair enough.”
A horn sounded in the distance. Low. Calling. The moment had arrived. Dunk took a step back, then another, toward the tent and the men waiting within. He hesitated once more.
“Visenya.”
She looked at him.
“Thank you,” he said. “For… all of it.”
Her expression softened, just barely. “Stand well, Ser Duncan,” she said.
He gave a small nod. Then he turned and walked toward the dawn.
Visenya watched him go, her hands still at her sides, her posture composed as ever.
But her gaze lingered. Long after he had disappeared back into the tent. Long after the horn sounded again. And when at last she turned away, it was not toward the safety of the pavilion. But toward the field where men would soon bleed and break beneath the judgment of gods. Her place was not among them. But she would witness. Every moment. Every choice. Every fall.
Hi, i love you're story with Visenya but i must ask, if she's daughter of Aelinor and Aerys how is she heir to Baelor it would naturally go to Valarr (and Matarys) it makes no sense for Daeron to risk a succesion war (and we saw what happened when Viserys tried to have Rhaenyra be Queen, and now it's even worse as Baelor his main heir has his own heirs) when Baelor has sons, and let's be real nor would Baelor allow his sons to get passed over it makes no sense, when Aerys ascends she would be Queen anyway as she is the only child of Aerys and by Andal law that Westeros usually follows daughters come before uncles so when Aerys I dies she would be Queen.
That’s a really fair point and you’re absolutely right about how Andal succession usually works. In this AU though, Aerys being the eldest already shifts the line of inheritance quite a bit. Visenya’s position as heir is intentional and tied to some political decisions that will be explored later in the story especially regarding Daeron’s reasoning and the dynamics between Baelor’s line and Aerys’s. I promise it’s not being overlooked, just revealed gradually!
Aerys in this AU is the eldest brother instead of baelor ( Aerys -> Baelor -> Rhaegal -> Maekar). So, in this fic Aerys is the heir to the throne and after him Visenya. Baelor is not the heir in this fic. So, Visenya is not Baelor's heir nor is Baelor the main heir.
I think mentioned the family tree and birth year in chapter II notes if you want to check it out!!
Thank you for reading my fic 🫶🏻🫶🏻
Love youuu 🥰🥰
(Sorry for my corny ass this is my first ask so I am very happy about it)
I am soo sorry gurll is the dynamics getting confusing ? 😭😭
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Word Count : 6k
A/N : Two more chapters based on Ashford tourney. Then, Visenya will return to King's landing. And boy oh boy if that's not a battle in itself. There is a LOT of history there. Also, I think I am gonna follow canon for some characters end (don't worry nothing is happening to our glorious king Baelor). But just so yk when she returns to king's landing the fic will have plenty of smut so any minors here please don't read that (I am not responsible for the media YOU consume). I am saying this because there is gonna be smut in every chapter after that. Anyways enjoyyyy~~
Masterlist
Chapter III
Ashford Meadow
Morning came slowly to the meadow below Ashford Castle. Mist still clung to the grass when Visenya woke, pale ribbons of it drifting between the rows of pavilions like ghosts reluctant to depart. The tourney grounds stretched wide across the meadow beside the river, an unruly city of canvas and rope that had sprung up in the shadow of Lord Ashford’s walls. Everywhere there were banners stirring in the early wind, lions and roses, towers, trout, lightning bolts, and stranger sigils besides. Armor flashed where the rising sun struck polished steel, and the air was thick with the mingled smells of horses, damp earth, woodsmoke, and roasting meat.
The sounds came next. Hammering from the smiths’ tents. The shrill laughter of squires chasing one another through the grass. The whicker of horses and the creak of leather harness.
Visenya lay still for a moment beneath the elm tree where she and Dunk had slept, watching the sky grow pale above the branches. The ash she had rubbed into her hair two nights past had mostly washed away with sweat and rain. When she lifted a loose strand between her fingers it gleamed faintly silver in the morning light. That would not do.
She sighed softly and twisted the braid tighter, tucking it beneath a worn hood. From a distance it might pass for pale flax or dirty blond. Close enough to see its true color… well, close enough meant trouble.
Beside her, Egg was already awake. The boy crouched near the firepit, breaking a crust of yesterday’s bread with a solemn concentration that might have suited a maester studying his scrolls. His bare scalp caught the sunlight like polished ivory.
“Morning,” he said without looking up.
Visenya sat up, brushing grass from her cloak. “You’re awake early.”
“Ser Duncan says a squire must rise before his knight,” Egg replied. “Else the knight will rise first and give him a clout in the ear.”
“And does Ser Duncan clout you often?”
Egg grinned at that. “Not yet. But he threatens.”
Across the meadow Dunk himself was nowhere to be seen. Visenya spotted him eventually among the pavilions, towering over the crowd like a walking siege tower as he moved from tent to tent with hesitant determination. He had been doing the same thing since dawn. Seeking someone anyone who remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree. So far, none had.
Visenya watched him for a while, silent. Dunk looked very small despite his height when he stood before the great lords. His patched cloak hung awkwardly over borrowed armor, and the sword at his side seemed almost too fine for the rest of him. Knights in bright surcoats and plumed helms barely spared him a glance before waving him away. Twice she saw him bow awkwardly. Twice she saw him leave empty-handed.
The sight stirred an old anger in her chest. Ser Arlan had been no great lord, true enough, but the old knight had been honorable. Kind, even. A better man than half the peacocks strutting about this meadow in gilded armor. Yet no one remembered him.
“Does he do that often?” she asked quietly.
Egg followed her gaze. “Oh, that.” He shrugged. “Ser Duncan thinks someone must remember Ser Arlan. Knights remember other knights, don’t they?”
“Sometimes,” Visenya said. Sometimes they did not. Kings forgot their sworn swords often enough. Lords forgot men who bled for them. That was the way of the world.
Dunk returned at last looking troubled. “No luck?” Egg asked. Dunk shook his head. “Lord Leo Tyrell never heard of him. Nor the Mallisters. Nor the Lannister knight I asked.” He rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. “Seven save me, maybe I ought not to have come.”
Visenya studied him. “You buried Ser Arlan yourself,” she said quietly. “That means something.”
“Does it?” His blue eyes held a wounded confusion that reminded her strangely of a boy scolded for breaking a toy.
“He served men who cannot recall him. That is not his shame.”
Dunk blinked, clearly unsure what to make of that.
Before he could answer, a sudden commotion rippled through the tourney grounds. Trumpets. Voices shouting. Knights scrambling for their horses.
Egg sprang to his feet. “What’s that?”
Visenya already knew. She felt it before she saw it the way the crowd parted, the sudden hush that fell across the meadow like wind across tall grass. Then the banners appeared. Three-headed dragons black on red.
The Targaryens had arrived.
They came riding through the morning mist like figures out of some half-remembered dream. First rode a tall knight in the white armor of the Kingsguard, his cloak snapping bright as snow behind him. Behind him followed two princes clad in steel and crimson.
Visenya’s breath caught.
Prince Baelor Breakspear rode at their head with his eldest son Prince Valarr. She had not seen her uncle in nearly two years, yet she knew him instantly. No man in the Seven Kingdoms looked quite like Baelor, tall and broad, his dark Dornish coloring setting him apart from the pale silver-haired riders beside him. Wisdom lived in Baelor’s face, and kindness too.
Behind him rode Prince Maekar, stern as iron, his pale eyes sweeping the crowd like drawn blades. And last came Prince Aerion. Even from a distance Visenya could see the arrogance in the tilt of his chin.
Her fingers curled slightly. Family. So close she could have called out to them. Yet she did not move.
Dunk watched the riders with open admiration. “Look at that armor,” he breathed.
Visenya said nothing. Maekar’s gaze passed briefly across the crowd where she stood. For one terrifying heartbeat she thought he might recognize her. But the prince rode on without pause. Good. Better so.
Still, something twisted painfully in her chest as the riders passed. She had not expected it to hurt so much to see them.
“Best stay back,” Visenya murmured.
Dunk glanced at her. “Why?”
“Because princes draw trouble like flies to honey.”
That was reason enough. She nudged egg gently toward the trees where their camp lay hidden beyond the edge of the meadow, for he seemed greatly hesitant and avoidant all of a sudden. “Come. Ser Duncan will find us later.”
Egg hesitated only a moment before following. Behind them the trumpets continued to sound. The dragons had come to Ashford. And the game had begun.
They left the noise of the tourney grounds behind them slowly. The farther they walked from the pavilions, the softer the sounds became until the clatter of armor and neighing of destriers faded into a distant murmur carried on the wind. The little grove where Dunk had chosen to camp lay quiet beneath the shade of tall elms, the grass flattened where they had slept and the embers of the morning fire still smoldering faintly in the pit Egg had dug with a stick.
Egg dropped onto a fallen log with a sigh. “Gods,” he muttered. “So many knights.”
Visenya leaned against the trunk of the elm, folding her arms as she watched the boy. Without the noise of the meadow around them the morning felt strangely still. “You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed,” Egg protested. “Just… thinking.”
“That can be dangerous.”
Egg snorted. “You sound like my sister.”
Visenya lifted an eyebrow. “Your sister?”
He blinked, realizing the slip too late. “I mean-well-not my sister. I don’t have one. Just something someone once said.” He rubbed the back of his bald head awkwardly. “Anyway.”
Visenya let the matter drop. The boy had nearly given himself away, but that was hardly surprising. Egg had spent years among princes and maesters, not hedge knights and campfires. Lies came less easily to him than he thought.
They sat in silence for a moment. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. Egg picked up a twig and began scratching idle shapes in the dirt.
“You saw them, didn’t you?” he said after a while.
“The princes?”
He nodded. “They looked impressive,” he admitted grudgingly. “Aerion especially. Though he’s a right bastard, if you ask me.”
Visenya’s lips twitched. “And who asked you?”
Egg shrugged. “No one. But it’s true.”
He hesitated, glancing sideways at her. “You’ve got the look of them, you know.”
“The look?”
“The pale hair,” he said matter-of-factly. “And the eyes. Valyrian, I’d wager.”
Visenya met his gaze calmly. “Half the ports of the Narrow Sea are full of such folk.”
“That’s true,” Egg admitted. “Still… when the sun hits your hair just so…” He trailed off.
Visenya said lightly, “Perhaps my mother had a fondness for sailors.”
Egg grinned at that. “Could be.”
He poked the dirt again. “I’ve heard stories about the royal family,” he said after a moment. “From stablehands mostly. They talk when they think no one important is listening.”
“I imagine they do.”
“There’s one princess they mention sometimes.”
Visenya stilled very slightly. “Oh?”
“They say she’s the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” Egg continued earnestly. “And fierce besides. A dragon in a dress, one man said.”
Visenya forced herself to remain still. “And what is her name?”
Egg shrugged. “Visenya, I think. Or something like that.”
Something like that. The irony nearly made her laugh.
“She lives on Dragonstone, they say,” Egg went on. “Some claim she can ride better than half the knights in King’s Landing. Others say she studies war maps with the king’s counselors.”
“Do they?”
“Aye.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Funny thing though. I’ve never met her.”
“No?”
“No,” Egg said. “But if half the stories are true she must be terrifying.”
Visenya smiled faintly. “I shall try not to cross her path.”
Egg chuckled. “Good idea.”
For a time, they sat listening to the wind in the branches. Then Egg spoke again, more quietly. “You think Ser Duncan will manage it?”
“Manage what?”
“Finding someone to vouch for him.”
Visenya considered that. “Perhaps.”
Egg frowned at the ground. “I hope he does.”
“So do I.”
“He deserves it,” the boy insisted. “Ser Duncan is a good knight.”
Visenya watched him carefully. “Do you truly believe that?”
Egg looked up. “Don’t you?”
She thought of Dunk standing awkwardly before lords who barely glanced at him. Thought of the way he had buried Ser Arlan with reverence. Thought of the way he had taken in a ragged bald boy who had nothing but bold words and stubborn pride.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do.”
Egg nodded, satisfied. For a while neither spoke. Then footsteps sounded faintly beyond the trees. Egg sprang up instantly. “That’ll be him.”
It was. Ser Duncan emerged from the meadow path looking both exhausted and bewildered. But there was something else in his expression as well. Relief.
“Well?” Egg demanded.
Dunk ran a hand through his tangled hair. “I found someone,” he said slowly.
“Who?”
“Prince Baelor.”
Egg’s eyes widened. “The prince himself?”
Dunk nodded. “He remembered Ser Arlan.”
Visenya felt warmth stir unexpectedly in her chest. Of course, Baelor remembered. Her uncle had always possessed a sharper memory and kinder heart than most men who wore crowns.
“He says he’ll vouch for me,” Dunk finished, sounding as though he could scarcely believe the words himself.
Egg let out a triumphant shout. “I knew it!”
Dunk laughed softly. “So did I. Eventually.”
Visenya stepped forward, studying him. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Near enough,” Dunk admitted. “Talking to princes does that to a man.”
“Only if he thinks himself smaller than they are.”
Dunk glanced at her uncertainly. “Well… they are princes.”
Visenya smiled faintly. “And you are a knight.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then he nodded slowly. “Aye,” he said. “I suppose I am.”
For a little while the three of them remained beneath the elm, the quiet of the grove settling easily around them now that Dunk’s worry had lifted. The tension that had clung to him since dawn seemed to have eased at last.
Egg was nearly vibrating with excitement. “A prince remembered Ser Arlan,” the boy said again, as though the fact itself were some small miracle. “Imagine that.”
Dunk shook his head in wonder. “I didn’t think he would. There were so many knights in the prince’s company that day… and Ser Arlan was never much for glory.”
Visenya studied him thoughtfully. “Some men are remembered not for glory, but for goodness.”
Dunk looked faintly embarrassed by the notion. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “Ser Arlan always told me a knight should try to be good.”
Egg grinned. “Then he chose the right pupil.”
Dunk snorted softly at that. “Seven save me from squires with big tongues.” Yet he smiled.
After a time the distant noise of the tourney grounds began to call them back. Trumpets sounded again somewhere beyond the trees, and the murmur of the crowd had grown thicker, louder. The meadow was waking fully now.
“Best we see what’s happening,” Dunk said at last.
Egg was on his feet in an instant. They returned toward the pavilions together.
The tourney grounds had grown twice as crowded since morning. Knights in bright armor strode between the tents while squires hurried after them carrying helms, shields, and lances. Merchants had set up makeshift stalls along the edges of the meadow, hawking roasted capons, honeycakes, and cheap wine to the swelling throng of smallfolk who had come to watch the spectacle. Banners snapped overhead in the strengthening breeze.
Visenya moved quietly among them, hood drawn low, her eyes drinking in every detail. She had attended tournaments before great ones at King’s Landing where the pavilions gleamed like jewels and the stands overflowed with silks and perfumes. Ashford was humbler. But in some ways, it felt more alive. Here the knights laughed louder, drank deeper, and argued more fiercely over the merits of horseflesh and swordplay. The smells were stronger too, sweat, leather, roasting meat, horse dung baking in the sun.
Egg seemed delighted by all of it. “Look there,” he said suddenly.
Ahead of them a crowd had gathered around a small wooden stage erected beside one of the larger pavilions. Children clustered at the front while squires and camp followers pressed in behind them.
Dunk craned his neck curiously. “What’s that?”
“A puppet show,” Egg declared.
Visenya had already spotted the puppeteer. She stood tall among the crowd-taller than most women and many men besides her long limbs moving with practiced grace as she guided the painted figures dancing above the stage. The puppet dragon breathed curls of red silk flame while a wooden knight clumsily attempted to strike it down. The children roared with laughter.
“Seven hells,” Dunk murmured softly.
Egg glanced up at him. “What?”
Dunk seemed not to hear.
Visenya followed his gaze to the puppeteer. Tanselle. Even from across the crowd the woman’s beauty was difficult to miss. Her skin was warm brown beneath the sun, her dark hair braided with ribbons that flashed when she moved. But it was not only her beauty that held Dunk’s attention. It was the way she smiled as she worked. Easy. Bright. Untroubled.
Visenya hid a faint smile. Poor Dunk.
Egg noticed too. “Oh,” he said, far too loudly. “I see.”
Dunk blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” Egg replied innocently.
Visenya folded her arms, watching the show. The puppet knight had now mounted a wooden horse and was charging the dragon again while the crowd shouted encouragement. It was a simple performance. Yet there was skill in it. Tanselle’s hands moved swiftly among the strings, bringing the little figures to life with surprising charm. Even Visenya found herself drawn into the small story unfolding before them.
When the dragon finally toppled from the stage amid exaggerated groans, the children erupted into cheers. Tanselle bowed gracefully. Coins began to clink into the small wooden bowl beside the stage.
Dunk lingered even after most of the crowd had drifted away. Egg nudged him. “You should talk to her.”
“What?”
“About the shield.”
Dunk frowned. “What shield?”
Egg rolled his eyes. “The one Prince Baelor told you to make.”
“Oh.” Dunk scratched his head. “Well… I suppose…”
Visenya watched him struggle with the idea for a moment before finally stepping forward toward the stage.
“Excuse me,” Dunk said awkwardly.
Tanselle looked up. “Yes?”
Up close she seemed even taller. Dunk nearly had to tilt his head to meet her eyes.
“I was wondering,” he began, “if you might paint something for me.”
Tanselle smiled curiously. “A knight’s shield?”
Dunk blinked. “How did you know?”
She laughed softly. “Because knights are always asking.”
Visenya remained a few steps back with Egg, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. “Ser Duncan is smitten,” Egg whispered.
“Perhaps,” Visenya murmured. Though she suspected it was less love than simple admiration.
Tanselle listened patiently as Dunk explained the matter of his sigil. When he finished, she nodded thoughtfully. “An elm tree,” she repeated. “And a falling star.”
Dunk nodded eagerly. “Yes.”
“It can be done.”
Relief flooded his face. “Thank you.”
As Tanselle began preparing her paints, the crowd behind them suddenly erupted in a new burst of laughter. A booming voice rolled across the meadow like distant thunder.
“Come now, you miserable lot! Is that the best you can do?”
Visenya turned. Across the grass a massive man stood at the center of a tug-of-war rope surrounded by roaring knights and squires. His black hair tumbled wildly about his shoulders, and his laughter seemed large enough to shake the tents themselves.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon.
Even from a distance his presence was unmistakable. Visenya felt a flicker of recognition-and anticipation. It seemed the Storm Lord had found new amusement. And before long, she suspected, he would find them as well.
The laughter carried across the meadow long before the man himself came fully into view. It was a booming, careless sort of laughter the kind that belonged to a man who had never learned to fear the world and saw little reason to begin now. Knights and squires clustered around him in a wide circle, their boots digging trenches in the grass as they hauled upon opposite ends of a thick hemp rope.
At the center of the chaos stood Lord Lyonel Baratheon.
Visenya recognized him instantly. The Storm Lord looked much as he had the night before at his feast-broad as a castle gate and twice as loud, with black hair falling untamed about his shoulders and a grin that seemed permanently carved into his bearded face. Even among the assembled knights he towered, a bull of a man with arms thick as oak branches.
The rope jerked suddenly as Lyonel leaned back with a roar. “Pull, you cravens! I’ve seen washerwomen tug harder than this!”
His side of the rope lurched several feet backward. The opposing team collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs and curses. The crowd burst into delighted laughter.
Lyonel released the rope with a triumphant bark and clapped one of the fallen knights hard enough on the back to nearly send him face-first into the grass. “Well fought!” he boomed. “Though not well enough.”
Visenya folded her arms, watching. The man possessed a kind of reckless joy she had rarely seen among lords of the realm. Most noblemen guarded their dignity as jealously as their gold. Lyonel Baratheon seemed content to fling his to the wind.
Egg was staring openly now. “Gods,” the boy whispered. “He’s enormous.”
Dunk had noticed the commotion as well. “That’s Lord Baratheon,” he said.
“Aye,” Egg replied. “I guessed as much.”
Lyonel wiped sweat from his brow and glanced around for new challengers. His gaze swept across the crowd lazily-then stopped.
For a moment Visenya thought he might have spotted Dunk. Instead, his eyes settled squarely on her. Recognition flashed there at once.
“Well now,” Lyonel said loudly, his grin widening. “If it isn’t the silver-haired girl from my feast.”
Several nearby knights turned to look. Visenya did not flinch. “Good day, my lord,” she replied calmly.
Lyonel stepped forward through the crowd with the unhurried confidence of a man accustomed to having the world make room for him. “I wondered whether you’d survived the night among my drunken friends,” he said. “Stormlanders can be a rough lot.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And yet here you are.” His dark eyes glinted with amusement. “Still traveling with giants, I see.”
He jerked his chin toward Dunk. Dunk shifted awkwardly beneath the attention. “My lord.”
Lyonel studied him briefly. “Ser Duncan the Tall, wasn’t it?”
Dunk nodded uncertainly. “That’s me, my lord.”
“Well met again.” Lyonel slapped him lightly on the shoulder, a gesture that would have staggered a smaller man. “You arrived just in time.”
“For what, my lord?”
Lyonel gestured toward the rope lying coiled in the grass. “For glory.”
Egg perked up. “Glory?”
“Tug-of-war,” Lyonel said grandly. “The finest sport in the Seven Kingdoms when knights are too drunk for proper fighting.”
The Storm Lord bent to scoop up the rope. “You there,” he said, pointing at Dunk. “With the shoulders like a siege tower.”
Dunk blinked. “My lord?”
“You’re on my side.”
Before Dunk could protest Lyonel thrust the rope into his hands. “And the boy,” he added, nodding at Egg. “He’ll do.”
Egg grabbed the rope eagerly.
“What about you?” Lyonel said suddenly. His gaze returned to Visenya. The question hung in the air.
Visenya raised one pale eyebrow. “You mean to say you fear a girl might tip the balance?”
A few of the surrounding knights chuckled. Lyonel threw back his head and laughed. “Fear? Not likely.”
He stepped closer, studying her with open curiosity. “You’ve got spirit though. I like that.”
Visenya met his gaze evenly. “And you’ve got a loud voice.”
That drew a louder laugh from the watching crowd. “Well said!” Lyonel boomed. “Come then, let’s see if that spirit carries through your arms.”
He thrust the rope toward her. Visenya hesitated only a moment before taking hold. The hemp bit rough against her palms.
“Ready?” Lyonel called. Knights scrambled to form the opposing team. Egg planted his feet firmly beside Dunk. “Pull hard,” the boy whispered. Dunk nodded nervously.
Across the rope the rival team braced themselves. Lyonel flashed Visenya a grin. “Try not to embarrass me, silver-hair.”
Visenya smiled faintly. “I’ll try not to embarrass you, my lord.”
Then Lyonel roared, “Pull!”
The rope snapped taut. Boots dug into the grass. For a moment neither side moved. Then Dunk leaned back with all the weight of his towering frame. The rope lurched. Egg whooped with delight.
Visenya tightened her grip and pulled. The opposing knights shouted and strained. Lyonel laughed like a thunderclap. “Harder!”
The rope jerked again. Another step backward. The opposing line wavered. Then suddenly one of their knights slipped. The entire line collapsed.
The rope came flying backward as half the men tumbled into the grass. The crowd erupted in cheers. Egg nearly danced with triumph. “We won!”
Lyonel dropped the rope with a satisfied grunt. “Of course we did.”
He turned toward Visenya, his dark eyes bright with amusement. “Well pulled,” he said.
“You seemed worried.”
“I’m always worried when strangers take my rope.”
Visenya laughed softly. Lyonel studied her a moment longer than necessary. “Where did you say you were from?” he asked.
“I didn’t.”
His grin widened. “That explains it.”
Nearby Dunk was still catching his breath. Egg looked ready to demand another round. But Lyonel’s attention remained on Visenya. And for the briefest moment the noise of the crowd seemed to fade around them. Storm lord and silver-haired girl regarding one another across trampled grass. Two strangers. Yet somehow not entirely.
The laughter lingered even after the rope had been dropped. Knights still clapped one another on the shoulders while the fallen men hauled themselves back to their feet, grumbling good-naturedly and brushing grass from their cloaks. A few squires were already arguing over who had slipped first.
Egg looked as though he might burst with pride. “Did you see them fall?” he said excitedly to Dunk. “Seven save me, we dragged them half the field!”
Dunk gave a modest shrug, though the corners of his mouth had crept upward. “Well… there were six of us.”
“And half of them,” Egg insisted.
Lyonel Baratheon only laughed again. “That’s how battles are won, boy. A strong pull at the right moment.”
The Storm Lord flexed his broad shoulders before turning his attention back to Visenya. “You handled the rope well,” he said. “Most ladies prefer embroidery.”
“Embroidery rarely wins wars.”
That answer pleased him greatly. He threw back his head with another booming laugh that turned several nearby heads. “I like you,” Lyonel declared. “You speak plain.”
Visenya inclined her head slightly. “And you speak loudly.”
Dunk nearly choked trying to hide a laugh. Lyonel noticed and grinned wider. “Well then, Ser Duncan the Tall,” he said, clapping the hedge knight on the shoulder once more, “if you find yourself needing honest work after the tourney, come to Storm’s End. I could use men who pull as well as you do.”
Dunk blinked in surprise. “My lord, I-”
“Think on it,” Lyonel interrupted easily.
But even as he spoke a trumpet sounded somewhere near the tilting field. A deep murmur rippled through the crowd. The first jousts would begin soon. Knights began drifting toward the lists, drawn like iron to a lodestone.
Lyonel followed their gaze. “Well then,” he said, dusting his hands together, “I suppose the real sport is about to begin.”
He glanced once more toward Visenya. “Try not to disappear before I see you again.”
Visenya met his gaze calmly. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you win any tilts.”
For a moment Lyonel simply stared. Then he laughed again, louder than ever. “Gods, I hope I do.”
With that he strode away through the crowd like a storm breaking across the meadow.
Egg watched him go with open admiration. “He’s magnificent,” the boy said.
Dunk rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s loud.”
Visenya said nothing. But she found herself watching Lyonel’s broad figure until the crowd swallowed him completely.
It was sometime later when Dunk made his decision. The tilting field had begun filling with spectators while knights assembled near the lists, polishing helms and tightening straps beneath the shade of their pavilions.
Dunk stood beside their small group of horses with a troubled look upon his face. Visenya noticed it immediately. “What troubles you?”
Dunk hesitated. “Well… armor.”
Egg frowned. “You don’t have any.”
“That’s the trouble.” Dunk scratched his head awkwardly. “I could borrow some perhaps, but a knight ought to ride with his own. And proper armor costs coin.”
He glanced toward the horses. Visenya followed his gaze. Sweetfoot. The gentle palfrey had carried Dunk faithfully across half the Reach, her chestnut coat gleaming warmly in the sunlight.
Egg seemed to understand at once. “No,” the boy said quickly.
Dunk sighed. “I have to.”
Egg looked stricken. “But she’s your favorite.”
“Aye.” Dunk rested a hand against the horse’s neck. Sweetfoot nudged him softly as though sensing his mood. “But a knight without armor is no knight at all.”
Visenya watched in silence. She had seen lords wager entire castles over a tilt without blinking. Yet for Dunk this small sacrifice weighed heavily.
“How much?” she asked quietly.
Dunk shrugged. “Whatever the smith will give me.”
The blacksmith’s tent stood near the edge of the meadow where the smell of hot metal hung thick in the air. A large man worked the forge there, sweat streaming down his bare arms as he hammered glowing steel upon an anvil.
Steely Pate, someone nearby muttered.
Dunk approached him with hesitant steps. Visenya remained a little distance away with Egg, watching. The bargaining was brief. Too brief.
Pate examined Sweetfoot’s legs, her teeth, her saddle. Then he named a price. Dunk hesitated only a moment before agreeing.
Egg stared at the ground while the reins were handed over. When Dunk returned, he carried a small sack of coins. But he did not look pleased.
Visenya stepped closer. “You did what you had to.”
“Aye,” Dunk said softly. Still his eyes lingered on Sweetfoot as the smith’s apprentice led her away.
Egg kicked at a stone. “I didn’t like that.”
“Nor did I.” But the world rarely asked whether a thing was liked. Only whether it was necessary.
By midday, the Ashford tourney had begun in earnest. The tilting field shimmered beneath the summer sun, while banners snapped proudly above the stands where lords and ladies gathered to watch. Trumpets sounded, and the first pair of knights rode forth. Visenya found herself standing beside Dunk and Egg among the watching crowd. Across the field rode Prince Valarr Targaryen, his armor gleaming like polished silver beneath a cloak of crimson. The sight stirred a strange ache in Visenya’s chest. Family again. So nearby. Yet so distant.
Beside her, Egg leaned forward eagerly. “Look at that armor,” he whispered. Dunk nodded. “A prince rides well.” The lances lowered. Horses thundered down the lists. Wood shattered. The crowd roared. More knights followed-lords and hedge knights alike-each seeking glory beneath the watching eyes of the realm. Yet, as the afternoon wore on, Visenya noticed Dunk growing quieter beside her. At last she glanced toward him. “You should be pleased.”
He shook his head slowly. “I was thinking about Ser Arlan.” Egg looked up. “What about him?” Dunk watched the knight’s riding past with a troubled expression. “No one remembered him this morning.” The words hung heavy in the warm air. “He served lords and princes,” Dunk continued quietly. “He fought in their wars… took wounds in their service.” Another lance shattered across a shield. The crowd cheered, yet Dunk only watched. “And still no one remembered.”
Visenya felt something tighten in her chest. Egg said nothing. For a moment, Dunk looked very young despite his towering height. “Maybe that’s how it goes,” he said softly. “Maybe a man lives and fights and dies… and the world forgets him all the same.” Visenya turned toward him fully. “Not always.” Dunk frowned. “No?” “No.” The wind lifted a loose strand of her silver hair. “If a man is remembered by even one person,” she said quietly, “then he is not forgotten.”
Dunk considered that. Slowly, he nodded. “Aye,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s true.” But Visenya’s thoughts lingered elsewhere-on the old knight buried beside the road, on the young hedge knight standing beside her now, and on the strange feeling that Ser Arlan’s legacy had not ended with his death after all. It had merely changed hands.
The day died slowly over Ashford. The last of the tilts had ended an hour before, yet the tourney field still breathed with noise and color. Lanterns flickered to life one by one along the pavilions, casting warm pools of gold upon silk banners and trampled grass. The smell of roasting meat drifted through the evening air, mingling with horse sweat, woodsmoke, and the faint copper tang of blood left behind from the day’s sport.
Visenya stood upon the low rise above the camp, where the elm tree leaned crookedly toward the sky. From there, she could see the whole field. The pavilions of the great lords glowed like jewels in the dusk-green and gold for the Tyrells, storm-black and gold for the Baratheons, the red sunburst of the Martells snapping proudly in the breeze. And above them all, higher than the rest, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen rippled dark against the evening sky. A dragon banner. Her banner. Yet tonight it did not belong to her. Tonight, she was only Nyra Waters, a bastard girl in a plain cloak.
The wind stirred her hair, and pale strands lifted against the dimming light. The ash she had rubbed through it two days past had mostly faded now, washed away by rain and sweat and travel. What remained only dulled the silver somewhat. Anyone who looked too closely would see it for what it was. Valyrian silver. She wondered how many eyes had already noticed. Below the hill, Dunk knelt beside the elm tree with a whetstone in hand. The rasp of stone against steel carried faintly upward as he worked the edge of his sword, moving with the slow patience of a man who had been taught that good steel deserved care.
Thunder cropped grass nearby, lifting his head now and again to snort at passing horses. Sweetfoot was gone. Dunk had sold the mare that afternoon, and Visenya had watched the bargain from a distance. The big knight had tried to hide his reluctance, but she had seen the way his hand lingered against the horse’s neck before he led her away. Men always believed they hid their hearts well. They seldom did. Egg sat cross-legged in the grass beside Dunk, gnawing at a crust of bread as if it were the finest feast in King’s Landing.
“Will you win tomorrow?” Egg asked suddenly. Dunk stopped sharpening. He looked down at the sword for a long moment before answering. “I’ll try.” Egg snorted. “That sounds like a no.” Visenya almost laughed. Dunk scratched at the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Well,” he said slowly, “there’s many better knights than me here. Princes. Great lords. Men with armor worth more than I’ve seen in my whole life.” “Armor doesn’t win tilts,” Egg said.
“No?” “No. Courage does.” Visenya glanced down at the boy. There was something in the way he said it-so certain, so calm-that made her wonder again who this strange child truly was. Dunk gave a doubtful grunt. “If courage was enough,” he said, “Ser Arlan would have won every tourney in the realm.” The words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, none of them spoke. The sounds of the distant feast drifted across the field-laughter, music, the deep booming roar of Lord Lyonel Baratheon’s voice carrying even this far across the grass.
Visenya found herself smiling. The Stormlord had laughed when she backchatted him at the tug-of-war. Few men laughed when they were challenged. Most glowered. Most sulked. But Lyonel Baratheon had thrown his head back and roared with delight, as if challenging pleased him as much as winning. He was dangerous, she decided. Men like that always were.
“Ser?” Egg said softly. Dunk looked down. “What?” Egg gestured toward the sky. Visenya followed his gaze. A streak of silver fire tore across the heavens, bright as dragonflame, vanishing behind the dark line of the distant hills. A falling star. For a moment, the whole camp seemed to pause beneath its passing. Then the night swallowed it. Egg grinned. “That’s good luck,” he said. Dunk squinted upward. “If you say so.”
Visenya folded her arms against the evening chill. A falling star. In the old stories, dragons were born beneath falling stars. She wondered what the maesters would say of that. The wind rose again, tugging at the dragon banners over the tourney field. Somewhere below, a horn sounded the call for the evening watch. Dunk finally set aside his whetstone and lay back against the roots of the elm tree, folding his hands beneath his head. Within moments, his breathing slowed. Already asleep.
Visenya watched him for a long while. This great, awkward hedge knight who called himself Ser Duncan the Tall. He was no prince. No lord. No hero sung of in halls. Just a man with a patched cloak, a borrowed shield, and a sword sharpened beneath a tree. Yet tomorrow he would ride against princes. Against legends. Against history itself. Visenya felt a strange stirring in her chest. Perhaps the boy was right. Perhaps courage did win tilts. Above them, the dragon banners stirred again, whispering in the dark.
Soon enough the realm would remember who she was. Soon enough the game of crowns and blood would begin again. But tonight, she was still Nyra Waters. Just a girl beneath an elm tree, watching the stars, and wondering whether the hedge knight sleeping below her might change the fate of kingdoms.
Summary : In the weeks following the heavy blow to House Targaryen, you find yourself faced with the torn endeavor of giving in to the position you are set in, or spending your life refuting it - with the issue of your lord husband Maekar becoming one you can no longer ignore. You instead find yourself faced with an overarching question that could define your household for the rest of your life, are intentional actions what destroys a marriage? Or is it unintentional words?
General CW! heavy angst | heavily implied/mentioned sex, emotional-ish sex, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, missionary, creampies, & emotional infidelity (?) | as always lmk if I missed a tag
Word Count : 16.3k
Notes : This one took a wee bit longer than I promised, and I should probably stop stating exact day and times because I always end up working past them, - I'm sorry, BUT, this chapter is really good AND LONG! It sets up a lot of the groundwork of their fallout next chapter, so stick around to get double ruined after the ending of this!! :>
Side Notes : Also I made the grave mistake of putting on the muppet movie while writing this, and then proceeded to lose it at the end of when they sing the magic store. like ouuu, life's like a movie, write your own ending? ok now I'm sad now kermit thanks. Oh, and then I put on Hamnet afterwards not knowing what I was walking into, and was heave sobbing for like an hour after it ended. oh my god that movie destroyed me.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───
A dark veil fell over the household in the weeks following the tragic news from Kingslanding, dimming any sliver of happiness that had the gall to exist anywhere near Summerhall, and while it plagued you, it felt right. Everyone fell into their comforts as the days progressed, and ravens from the capital swarmed in the rookery; each and every lord that so happened to remember the existence of the fourth brother and his household, had sent letters, desperate to be in Maekar’s good graces by offering their condolences.
It would never be enough, you knew this, you felt it. No amount of flowers or letters would ever right the wrongness of their deaths.
Daella became quieter, often remaining in her chambers with her many books and shelves. Rhae had cried, and became absorbed in a baby doll gifted to her by her uncle, Prince Rhaegal, when they were last in the capital. Daeron fell into his cups, often in a drunken stupor for long hours at a time everyday. Aerella had cried just as Rhae had done, and while you tried to provide her with the comfort of a stuffed animal, she would often seek you out just to curl up against your side silently.
Maekar was quiet as well, quiet in the way a man with such a large presence as he had, had accepted the fact that he could never truly disappear within himself to grieve. You knew he was grieving in his own way, in between the constant duties of the realm and duties he had to his family. You would not ask him about the increase in his whiskey consumption, or the restless nights when he would lie in bed awake all night, his eyes closed as he feigned sleep so you could rest.
He began disappearing during his rare free days to hunt, gone for hours at a time while you stayed back with the children, trying to mediate a castle that seemed anything but willing to listen to you. You supposed that at least when he utilized his outlet of hunting, it brought the increase of venison and duck to the dinner table.
Things came to a quiet calm within the castle, though it was unlike the kind of peace you wanted. Hardly anyone spoke to one another outside of the polite greeting that was expected of you all. Dinners dwindled from the six of you sitting around the long table, to soon enough four. Daeron hardly ate, often in his chambers or off in a corner of the gardens where no one would bother looking for him in. Daella began taking her dinner in her chambers after the second week, no longer able to stand the stillness at the table. Rhae and Aerella could easily be sated by tarts and toys, their voices quiet as they talked across the table. It was not the same, nor was it what you wanted for your household.
It was agitating, and you felt angry each time you sat down at your seat at the dinner table, the table half bare, your daughter and niece either quietly picking at their food, or whispering amongst themselves. The home was not the picture of a family at peace with one another when you’d arrived, no, but you had worked to make everyone get along in some ways. You felt at a loss, and yet you could not confide in Maekar about these things; you could not confide in anyone.
As if to knock you down further, a letter from Mya’s mother arrived at the castle some days following the deaths of your step-sons and father-in-law, detailing the passing of her grandmother and sister. You’d seen in her eyes the complete shut down you’d felt the night you found out; her grief and the dimness in them almost tangible. You felt wrong to try and seek comfort by speaking about what you felt to her, so you simply said nothing at all.
“I can do it.” You spoke out into the echo of the bath chambers, sitting back against the back of the tub. Olive paused in her efforts of rubbing the washcloth down your arm, blinking at you with mildly surprised eyes. You took the cloth from her gently, shaking your head at her as you asked her politely to let you bathe alone.
Maekar was off hunting, to no surprise. You’d awoken that morning completely alone, his side of the bed cold as you spread your hand out over it. The least he could do if he was going to disappear on you, was let you know the night before, you thought. Brows furrowed and a frown pulled at the corners of your lips as you washed your body rigorously, spreading the soap and bath oils over your skin. At least the youngest children were down for their afternoon naps, then you wouldn’t have to worry about cutting your soak short.
Your hand paused as you brought the cloth up your thigh, the skin around your hips tender still from the bruise Maekar’s thumbs had worn into them three nights prior. He had been frustrated, you knew that, as were you, but you’d held your tongue as he murmured things in High Valyrian into your ear. Most likely complaints of the last three weeks you’d all had, or maybe even vents of his grief, you did not know; you didn’t exactly excel in catching onto the language in the years you’d been wed to Baelor.
Baelor… you thought of him now as you set the cloth aside over the edge of the tub. Your hands fell into the warm water again, and you crossed your arms slowly. Baelor would've known what to do at a time like this, he wouldn’t have taken off and left you to handle everything on your own. You closed your eyes thinking about it, about him, his kind smile and gentle eyes. It had scarcely been ten months since Baelor had passed, and yet to you it felt like a lifetime.
You thought about the first time you met again, the memory flooding your mind with senses. The music that had played when you met was something you scarcely remembered the name of anymore; you’d been so entranced by him when you first met, that you had felt breathless. His voice was warm and velvety, his smile light and demeanor both solemn yet open. You remembered that he’d smelt like firewood and leather when he’d first pulled you in for a dance, his hands gentle despite the natural roughness that came with years of mastering sword and lance.
He’d danced with you so gently yet firmly, his voice quiet as he sought to ask you about yourself. Questions of your interests, talents, and even preferences. In all ways, he was perfect. And when your dance concluded, he’d escorted you back to the high table where your families sat. You’d half expected his friendly conversation to end, but he’d entertained you the entire way back across the Great Hall. He jested in earnest, a mellow expression on his face as he folded his arms behind his back and walked with you slowly.
When you’d approached the table with him, you were laughing, a smile pulled upon your face, though you did not remember the quip in which Baelor had told to you. You only recalled approaching the table and giving your polite greetings, and then Baelor being ever the more personable Targaryen of the lot, walked you over to the other end of the long table, and introduced you to Maekar. You’d only known Maekar to be the youngest of all of the King’s children, and that he was a proficient warrior, or else the namesake of ‘The Anvil’ would be all for naught.
Maekar did not smile when you two were introduced, but he did acknowledge you, in the way a man of such a demeanor did. His gaze had been somewhat stoic when you approached, and you’d twisted the small gemmed ring upon your right hand in fidget as he’d tipped his head and set down his wine chalice, his body half slouched as if he were bored in the chair. You’d intended on walking back to your seat after all pleasantries were exchanged, but when Baelor had addressed you by name, and asked you to entertain his youngest brother to a dance so he would not appear as glum as he looked to the guests, you could not help but agree.
You were at first surprised by his great height when the fourth prince stood from his seat, as the way he’d been slouching gave you the impression he would be a man of average height. That was not to say there was anything wrong with a standard attribute, but you came to learn that Maekar was everything but the standard kind of man. Despite being a prince, he’d made a poking comment about the likeliness of some of the people in the crowd dancing as wildly and inaccurately as weasels. You’d laughed in both surprise at the freeness in his judgement and the quickness of his wit.
The dragon prince had taken your hand that evening firmly in the way that reminded you of his brother, yet he was more stiff. You’d assumed it to be his personality when his muscles tensed beneath your fingers when you placed your hand against his back. There were surely a great deal of lords at the feast who were restricting their movements as they danced with the ladies, but it felt different with Maekar. There was an unnerving way he looked at you as you started off your private conversation on the dance floor. You’d asked about his travels and if he was fairing well in the rooms your house had prepared for them, and he’d unsurprisingly said nothing. He’d been quiet as he looked down at you, not quite displeasure in his lilac eyes, but anything but close to satisfaction.
The look had flustered you that night, and while Maekar eventually replied to your questions, it felt as rigid on his end as it had been on yours. When the dance finished, you’d been quick to pull away, your hands beginning to clam up from the embarrassment that was being examined so intensely under the ire of the realm’s prince. The two of you were quiet as you returned to the table, the air of relaxation that Baelor had made, suddenly awkward.
Maekar had escorted you back to your end of the table, exchanging a greeting with your brother as you sat back down, your hands clasped on top of the table. Your brother had turned to you when the prince took his seat again, a smile pulled upon his lips as he asked if your evening had been enjoyable. You’d agreed with a nod and a twinkle, and finished your dinner while chatting amongst the guests at your table.
You’d remembered how sad you’d been when the night ended, when the realization that your hand was lighter and barer, your ring having disappeared from your person. The guests were all filing out, and you’d commented on the missing piece of jewelry, to then be met with the sympathetic smile from a girl cousin of yours who confided that she too had lost something, a gold bracelet embellished with deep red garnets. Do not feel bad cousin, perhaps we have a thief afoot. She’d said.
While you were about to accept the loss with a frown, Prince Baelor made a comment as he stopped in passing you two, his brother standing beside him with a look of disinterest. He’d promised to either catch the thief who’d made off with your jewelry, or find wherever the pieces had slipped off to. It felt, in earnest, romantic almost, although you knew that the comment had been made to address the both of you out of a place of chivalry, you’d had some hope in the actions being fueled by more than that.
That night, you were sure, would forever be remembered fondly for you, and you wondered at times now that Baelor was gone, if he felt the same way. Surely he must have, for just three weeks after the events of the feast at your ancestral home concluded, you’d received the proposal from the capital.
The joy you’d felt that day, felt bittersweet now as you sat in the bath. Baelor, your Baelor, was the kindest man you felt you would ever know. The thought brought a sigh to your throat, and you blinked away the heat pooling behind your eyes. Now, your Baelor would only live on in but the illusion of your dreams, memories dancing betwixt vividness and haziness every time you closed your eyes for sleep.
The water had cooled to a lukewarm sometime between your thoughts, and you sank yourself further into the bathtub to escape the chill prickling over your arms. You were shoulder deep in the bath now when a soft tapping came from the door, no doubt your hand-maid asking if you were ready to come out from the soak.
“I’m fine, Olive. Although I want to remain in the bath for a while longer, would you mind bringing some hot water? The water has cooled some.” You called out as you tipped your head back against the rim of the tub, bringing your hands up to smooth water across your neck and chest. It was nice being alone, somewhere quiet where you could gather your thoughts. You could hardly remember the last time you’d been allowed personal time, often occupied by either your affairs as Lady of the house, or the children. You supposed you could always call out and tell Olive to cancel the request and leave you unbothered until you got out and rang her, but the door opened before you could do so. Swift was she?
“Do you intend on sitting in there until the water becomes a block of ice?” The gruff, very male voice announced as you looked at the door, surprised to find not your kind faced hand-maid, but your Lord husband instead. You blinked at Maekar with a mildly owlish look, obviously surprised to see him standing in the threshold of the bath chambers as you sat in the tub while being as naked as a babe.
The expression on your face shifted from a dropped shock, to one of a reddening embarrassment, which would be quite comical if you could see it yourself. Instead you wrapped your arms around yourself quickly, scrunching in on your own body as Maekar regarded you with a raised brow. “What the fuck are you doing?” He said with a twitch of his lip, his face shifting minutely. He stood there in riding clothes, his surcoat shorter and less bulky, his breeches a dark and durable material, and his leather boots thicker soled. You assumed he must have already removed his black leather gloves, though the sight would've surely been one to cause an indulgent flutter in your mind.
“Shielding myself, what else does it look like?” You exclaimed, furrowing your brows at him as he continued to stand there. “Do you not know how to announce yourself?” You huffed, waving your hand at him for him to turn away, but he did not budge. Instead Maekar stepped further into the bath chambers and closed the door halfway. “Is my presence standing here not an announcement in itself?” Maekar quipped back, giving you an unhidden twice over.
“You know what I meant.” You tutted back, sighing as you shifted in the bath closer to the end where the stool had your towel. You could see now the dirt stuck to the edges of the toe box of his boots, his pants somewhat smeared with mud, was the horse riding that bad? “Why are you here?” The demand was half well… demanding, your expression the picture of a tired agitation. Maekar met your gaze with a tight one of his own, his feet shifting as he planted himself there, hands curled at his sides. “You know we are husband and wife, I need not make an excuse to interrupt your leisure time.” Your husband said bluntly, watching your face twist again.
“No, but it is polite.” You exhaled, reaching your arm out slowly to grab the edge of the soft white towel.
“And when have you ever known me to be polite?” Maekar said with an unhidden roll of his eyes.
“Never, but it would be a nice change. Now turn around, I am naked.” There was more conviction in your tone that time, and you frowned at him fully. Although you swiftly regretted the plainness of your statement by the subtle twinkle in his eye. “You realize I have been inside of you more times than I can count anymore.” He deadpanned, your face swiftly pinkening. There were days when you were unsure if your husband would ever regain his ease of making satirical comments, now was clearly not one of them. “Maekar.” You hissed, watching his brows raise in slight humor before he shrugged and turned his head away.
You got out quickly, frowning and muttering under your breath about the respect for decency as you dried yourself off. Wherever Olive was, you wished she would surely come to save you now. But it appeared from what you could hear, that the only other servants in the chambers were Maekar’s valet, who spoke quietly to another about preparing the prince’s change of clothes.
“Were you not out hunting?” You asked naturally, a suspicious look on your face as you tied close your silken robe. Your husband finally looked at you again, his lips pursed in a way that reminded you of the focused face he would make when sparring with Ser Alyn Connington of the Kingsguard on his off days. “I was out riding.” He said with certainty.
“You say it like it was an endeavor..” You hummed lightly, glancing at him as you stepped into your slippers and wrapped your arms around yourself. His upper lip tightened as you glanced back down at the mud on his breeches and boots, his hands tightening against his sides. You’d never thought it was possible for your Lord husband to be so far from what you would consider a reluctant composer, but it appeared that new things were going to become a constant in your lives. “I needed to think.” He said simply.
“A first.” You replied quietly, catching his ire as he furrowed his brow at you. Though Maekar only acknowledged the comment with a low grunt, moving to hold the door open to the bath chambers for you. You did not press further with any more comments after that one, walking past him into your bed chambers to find it empty once more. His valet must have gone.
You approached your vanity nearer to the door leading into the bath chambers, grabbing your comb off the top of the table as you sat down on the cushioned stool in front of it. Olive must have gone, or forgotten about her duties being ever the wandering minded girl, but you could very well handle getting yourself dressed in something simple. He stood behind you, watching as you combed your hair quietly, a pensive look on his face when you glanced at it in the mirror.
There was a seriousness to him that you often only witnessed when he got to be around the late King. It made you feel uncomfortable almost, his face hardened in a way you knew meant he was thinking over how he would say something to you. It was a kind of thoughtfulness you were not used to, seeing as when he was formerly your brother-in-law, he said everything to you as plain as day. Even now his delivery of things could be rather blunt or coarse, but it was when you could tell he was actually thinking over his words, it meant that he was communicating the news to his Lady Wife, not you. There was a distinction between the two roles, and Maekar had made that rather clear in the last four months at your side.
Many times when the two of you were in private, you were simply you, but when you were in the presence of others, even the children, you took everything as the Lady of the household. Maekar practiced the same in himself, often more crude when you were in the comforts of your chambers, or in the quiet of a sitting room when Rhae and Aerella had disappeared to run up and down the halls of the east wing. When you acted as his Lady Wife, you were quieter, more receptive, even polite. Naturally, when Maekar was playing in his role as your Lord Husband, he was… dialed back to a certain degree, civilized, if you could describe it with a word.
You supposed you two played those roles more often than you thought, a kind of learned tolerance between the two of you when you were navigating the switch between both parts. The Lord and Lady of Summerhall dined together every night in the Great Hall, whether the children accompanied them or not, and got along in the public eye, smiling to the best of their abilities no matter the feeling. But when it was simply you and Maekar, things were vastly different. The two of you threw barbed comments at each other with ease when one or the other was in a foul mood. You would sit far across the room from one another if you so pleased it, and you could go all day without so much as speaking a word to one another if you did not venture outside of your apartments.
It was ideal, in some ways. The comfortability you both shared for the dynamic meant your duties to the realm scarcely ventured into your chambers at all; a small luxury many women in positions of yours alike were not given. Women of your status, wed to a prince or not, were expected to act subservient, meek, or even spineless, whereas you, in your stubborn values, often butted heads with your own Lord Husband without much repercussion. He needed the enrichment, you figured, and while some wives were pushed around like brood mares and yard dummies, you were quite lucky to be stuck with a husband who would rather fuck you silly for the plain sake of it, than do any of those things.
“What is it?” You spoke as he stood there, glancing over your shoulder at him as he continued to stare at the crown of your head. Maekar raised a brow then, inspecting your face as you inspected his; a commonality you found the two of you shared, was observation. “I am to leave for Kingslanding in a month.” He said with a measured simplicity that meant he’d been weighing the options in his mind, despite his better judgement to pick a choice and stick with it.
You said nothing after he said that, looking back into the mirror as you paused in grooming yourself. You allowed yourself to sit with the information, the words turning round in your head as you ran through the possibilities of what a change in the position of the head of this household would mean for the rest of it. Of course, you already knew Aerys’ coronation was to take place in a few weeks, six to be exact, and with that would be the time in which the new king could choose to replace anyone on his Small Council, namely the empty position of The Hand that had been previously held by your step-son, Valarr.
Thinking back on it now, you recalled that in your time at court with Baelor, you did not see much of the Prince Aerys, and you’d come to learn that the prince was a rather bookish man and was not one to concern himself with court in any way. Additionally, the younger Prince Rhaegal was rather meek and much preferred the quiet company of his Lady Wife Alys Arryn.
While Prince Rhaegal was the heir now, you highly doubted Aerys would name him Hand, for he needed someone willing for the role, and assertive - and Maekar was the obvious choice. Even if you did not like some of what the man considered fair and just, he was perfectly capable of helping his elder brother maintain the realm.
“Should I prepare the children and I to accompany you?” You asked.
“That won’t be necessary.” He said simply after a while, catching your confused gaze in the mirror.
When you turned your body in the stool again to get a look at him over your shoulder more clearly, Maekar looked away, suddenly finding the painting of a sunset field upon the wall more interesting. You squinted at him silently. “So you intend to go alone.” You spoke matter of factly, your face twisting as he looked back at you. Sometimes you wondered if you were a maiden girl again, bickering with a green boy your father was making you be friendly with simply because he was friends with his sire. It surely felt like it at times, despite the fact you were no more a maiden, and Maekar no more a green boy.
He raised a brow as he looked back at you, your deadpan trained on him, and his hands clenched at his side awkwardly, a low huff escaping him as if you were inconveniencing him for requiring an explanation. You were his wife, you were entitled to explanations for almost everything. “I will send for you after I have gotten settled at court.” Maekar grumbled, his brows furrowing as you stared at him silently. Truly, Maekar could not make heads or tails of you at times, your face drawn in a calmer expression after just having your eyes narrowed at him..
“Alright then.” You replied after a silent moment, nodding your head in reception as you brought the comb back up.
Maekar stared at you for a second, taking in the offer of your acceptance with his same furrowed expression. He was like a bear, face always drawn menacingly despite the sometimes softness of it. The beard surely had to be it. “Right.” He replied simply, staring back at you as you raised your brows.
The eye contact was awkward after a second longer than you two usually allowed yourselves, your hand slowing in its ministrations of detangling your damp hair. Baelor would usually give a soft easy laugh when things got to be awkward, that was a quality about him that you missed. Nowadays, if things got awkward with Maekar, they remained that way. You wondered sometimes if it was because he wanted you to feel the shame of it.
Finally, after the prolonged moment, Maekar stepped forward with a sigh, the kind of sigh that he often gave when he lay down in bed at the end of a long day and felt his muscles relax. You recognized it for two things, one of which compelling you to set your comb down on the vanity, receiving your husband as he leant his taller body down, your lips meeting in a way the two parts of a metal button clasp did.
His large sturdy hand supported the bend of your neck as you tipped it back to meet him as he kissed you, your own hand coming up to cup the side of his face. The physical affection was akin to you like the way someone would press a stamp to paper, you thought. Though the ink between you two was not something colorful, rather it was the minute sharing of saliva as the kiss broke slowly and met again firmly several times until Maekar felt it sufficient enough. Then there was a silent exchange between the two of you when Maekar pulled away, a subtle shared gaze as he lingered before you.
You’d meant to say something as he turned from you, but found yourself voiceless as he walked towards the wardrobe to peel his riding clothes off. He could be twice as vexing with his silent facial expressions than he could be with his blunt comments, and for that you hated him. His face obscured from you as you turned back towards the mirror, breathing out silently as you set the comb back on the table and quickly wiped away the lingering saliva from your mouth, lips still tingling from the scratch of his facial hair.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Another week tilled by of Maekar disappearing each day between dawn and a quarter after noon to ride or hunt before you finally grew sick of it. He’d announced at dinner in front of the entire household of his plans for Kingslanding the same day he’d told you; which by comparison of how he told you and how he told the family, it sounded like a stated fact rather than an informed decision. You figured he must’ve had the time to think about his approach for it, because if it did not sound sure, his children likely would have talked him in circles with questions until he forewent the choice altogether.
Now there were only three weeks left before Maekar would leave, and instead of spending that time with the children, he made off with his horse for hours before returning to complete his duties in his study. It was a grievance you had felt stewing for quite some time since when he first began these kinds of indulgences, and although you were quite privy to letting him do whatever he liked while he was out of your way, it did not mean the stresses that came from managing his children and your own day to day did not build.
It was a losing game you caved to first despite yourself.
You woke up early on the eighth day following the news of Maekar’s travels, the light from outside still blue with the beginnings of dawn. He was sitting up on the edge of the bed when you turned your head from where you’d opened your eyes up to the ceiling. The duvet pulled back, he was still as he stared ahead. Perhaps it was because he was usually so swift about getting out of bed in the mornings that you did not wake, but there was something about his silence that told you he’d been sitting there for longer than you’d been awake.
Blinking at the broad shape of his shoulders, your eyes traced the faint scars across his pale skin. Your arm moved before your lips could move to make sound, your hand outstretched as it felt across the cooling sheets. It was an unconscious gesture, one cultivated in your time wed to Baelor - the primitive human nature to seek warmth that did not cease to end just because your life and love was gone.
The whisper of his name drew Maekar’s attention away from the hearth he’d been gazing at, his head turning slowly towards the other side of the bed that was your own. His eyes were vivid in this kind of lighting, you thought first, before your focus shifted away from the capturing periwinkle hue. Maekar was staring at you with a silence much different that the one that had been draping his body before, a kind of quiet you could attribute to the stillness that would blanket the both of you after being intertwined. You become accustomed to this kind of hushed feeling, when the brilliance of your unification with him faded away like morning dew beneath the Sun, and his body detangled from yours like seeds blown away from a dandelion, his body so close yet so far away as he lay down on his side of the bed.
It was a kind of tension you could not, or rather refused to understand. You’d never felt those kinds of things with Baelor, and you hated yourself for it. You hated yourself for feeling as though the distance that would resume between the two of you after you’d existed in such togetherness, was wrong. Baelor was never that way with you, and you’d never known a night when he made love to you and lay apart from you afterwards. Now, that was all you knew.
It was only instinctual to crave a closeness after your most vulnerable, and yet with Maekar it was not awarded to you. However, that was not the part of it that made you despise yourself, it was the fact that you relished in the feeling of separation and strain that lay between the two of you afterwards. It felt almost as if the tension that grew between you both made you crave each other more, like the madness of the Moon and its possession of high tide and low tide.
You felt a warm love like the Sun with Baelor, and yet with Maekar your feelings lay between the line of a tree's cold shadow and the reach of the Sun’s rays. You could not understand it, and yet you thrived in it.
“You’re awake.” He said simply, staring at you and then your hand where it lay unfurled on the bed towards him. You replied with a tired hum, eyes still heavy with the remnants of sleep, your legs shifting beneath the covers as your body became aware of the new day. “Are you leaving?” You managed after a moment, a quiet yawn escaping you as he slowly stood up. Maekar did not reply with anything verbal, a simple grunt filling the quiet air as he walked away from the bed.
You really hated when he did that, half ignoring your question while simultaneously giving somewhat of a response so you could not nag about it. A light agitation bloomed within you as you stared out at the space he’d just been occupying, your head turning as you looked back at the ceiling again. You should’ve gone back to sleep, but you saw no reason to when you were already so awake, so you willed your limbs to comply without fatigue, peeling away the covers as you got up.
He was out of sight, around a turn of the wall and the folds of one of the screens throughout the room, but you could hear him clearly as he got dressed, the sounds of fabric as he pulled his nightclothes off and pulled his riding clothes from where they’d been cleaned and put away in the wardrobe. Your own riding clothes were folded up in the wardrobe as well, away on the top shelf unused for at least a year, but you did not let that deter you. The wood of the floors were cold under your feet when you stood up, the hem of your nightgown falling into its rightful place above your ankles as you walked towards the other end of the chambers.
Maekar was pulling on his breeches when you made the corner, your arms crossed in a natural self comfort as you appeared beside the end of the wood screen. He turned away from the mirror when your presence became known by the glimpse of the white of your nightgown in the reflection. His brows were furrowed, as always, his hands busy with the buttons and his linen small clothes tucked into the dark pants.
“Hunting?” You questioned with a relaxed raise of your brows.
“No.” He replied, turning his face back towards the mirror.
You stood there quietly after he looked away from you, your body acclimating to the cold chill that lay within the room like a quest uninvited. Maekar would’ve been warm if you hugged him, you thought, his body heat would’ve done the work to warm the both of you. The thought was fleeting, yet all in the same searing across your mind.
“Then I shall come along.” You said as he pulled on his dark undertunic, your feet shifting as you stepped past him and opened the second door of the wardrobe. He made a scoffing sound from behind you as you pulled your riding clothes out from the depths of the top shelf. You pulled out your more durable under and overgown, and set it upon the table beside the wardrobe, turning on your heel to fetch your stockings and boots.
“Why do you feel the need to invite yourself?” His voice resounded gruffly when you returned to the area he was changing in, setting your boots down as you pulled your stockings up to your knees. You swiftly tugged off your nightgown once you readied your shift, pulling on the light colored item as he put on his surcoat. “I want to see what it is that has been drawing you away everyday.” You answered simply, looking back up at him as he began wrapping his belts around the thick clothing.
He went quiet after you said that, looking away from you again as you smoothed out your undergown and reached for your overgown. There was nothing but the sound of your breathing and clothes ruffling for a while, the light of yellow dawn slowly chasing away the blue of the night as the both of you finished dressing. Maekar looked annoyed when your faces met again, your hand flexing as you pulled on your leather riding gloves. It was a stubborn choice, yes, but it was a necessary one.
The wind was calm when you two finally got outside, hues of yellow and orange painting the sky as you walked across the yard towards the stables where two of your stableboys were bringing out your mounts. Yours was a borrowed horse from the stables - Daeron’s, you reckoned, seeing as the gelding was far more conscious of its movements compared to that of Maekar’s stallion. His horse was confident in its gait of course, approaching your husband with an assured likeness. Conversely, Daeron’s horse, whose name evaded you as you met him halfway across the yard, was more aware of its surroundings, shifting on his hooves as the stableboy handed you half a green apple to feed him while he went to grab the mounting block.
The gelding took the apple from your hand carefully when you held it out to him, his jaw moving as he swiftly chewed and ate it. You supposed the horse was rather used to being extra cautious around its riders, seeing as his main one, Daeron, was often quite drunk each time he rode the horse himself. The thought brought a slight frown to your lips, your hand rubbing along the horse’s snout slowly.
When the boy returned you quickly mounted the beast, taking the reins in your hands as the stable yard gates were drawn open. Maekar led his stallion ahead of yours of course, confident in the path he was leading you two down once the road from the gate faded out. The route was scenic at least, a silence enveloping you both as you rode for twenty minutes.
“You are upset.” Maekar spoke into the air around you, his stallion snorting as the path began down a slight incline. You were watching his back as his arms shifted with the reins, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his thick surcoat. “Rightfully so, I believe.” You replied, looking back at the trail as your gelding walked around a large rock in the path.
Your husband sneered ahead of you, muttering something in High Valyrian before he glanced over his shoulder at you. You could see his light eyes trained on you when you looked up from the path, his brow creased as the corner of his lip curled down. “You believe?” He scoffed as he turned back towards the path. The question was barbed like most of his comments were, his agitation quite palpable the longer you two rode.
“You think your absences aren’t deserving of my attitude?” You tutted, frowning down at your hands as you adjusted the reins in your grip.
“I am not absent.” Maekar spoke ahead of you firmly, shaking his head as if the entire conversation were ridiculous.
You tapped your foot lightly against the gelding’s side, bidding him forward as you aimed to close the distance between you two. The horse, Spirits, you remembered now, after the alcoholic drinks, sidled up against Maekar’s side with ease. You were riding side by side now, and you watched through the corner of your eye as your Lord husband made no effort to conceal his eye roll. So much for being the mature one.
“You are.” You huffed at him as Maekar bid his stallion to the left off trail, the sound of a stream within earshot now. Spirits followed without the need for you to tug on your reins, snorting as he followed closely behind. The morning sun was still gentle in the sky where you finally came to a stop, the stream just ahead as you rode past tall ferns and wild berry bushes, mature trees shading a small grassy patch that Maekar led you towards.
He dismounted his stallion first before grabbing both horses’ leads and guiding them towards an older tree, his hands expertly moving to tie the leads around it. Then he approached you, an aggravated expression on his face as he lifted his arms and outstretched his hands. You were almost tempted to remove your foot from the stirrup and kick him as he stared at you like that, but you figured you would need him not to be infuriated, lest he leave you to find your own way home. That was not something Maekar would ever do of course, to you, his daughters, or his niece at least, part of you unable to doubt the idea of Maekar leaving Daeron on a trail.
You said nothing about that idea, grabbing the horn of your saddle as you wiggled back on the seat, allowing yourself enough room before you turned towards Maekar. He still had that mildly irritated expression, of course, but you paid it no mind as you leant down and wrapped your arms around neck, his arms following suit in circling your waist before pulling you off the gelding. He set you down gently without any trouble, his hands spreading out over your back as you pulled your arms from his nape.
“Pray tell how I am absent, wife.” Meaker spoke lowly as he held you against him, his hands pressing into the small of your back as you looked up at him. He was staring down at you as you looked up, expression between both agitation and something else you feared that if you recognized, you would lose all composure. “There is no explaining absence.. You are simply not there. I cannot take care of this household by myself.” You grumbled back, planting your hands against his solar plexus before pushing away from him.
Maekar released you without protest, allowing you to step away from him towards the stream. Your leather boots were at least durable against the wet rocks as you walked along them to get space from your husband, your arms crossing as you awaited his most likely smug and agitating reply. “You can be infuriating, do you know that?” He exhaled slowly, that exact response igniting a frustrated fire within you. Did he ever take you seriously? Was he ever going to?
“This has nothing to do with me.” You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face as you stood beside the edge of the stream. There was silence for a moment before you heard footsteps on the rocks approaching you, the footfall heavy. You were accustomed to the sound now, despite how much you hated to know the man’s patterns and habits, you knew them.
You braced yourself when his hands fell upon your arms, the grip relaxed as he stepped close until there was only a breath between your back and his chest. “It has everything to do with you.” He was muttering now, the drawl of his voice like a melody in your head.
There were levels in your heart that spiked when he whispered that against your ear, his head shifting as his nose nudged your temple. There was a great leap in your heart when his chest hit your back, followed by a deep plunge as the wrongness of what you were doing set in. You pulled away as his nose brushed the side of your neck, your body stretching itself away from him.
“I won’t live like this.” You spoke bluntly, your heart still racing in your chest as Maekar’s hands fell limp at his sides. He regarded you with a strange look, his head tipping back as he looked down his nose at you. Yes, you knew that you were rejecting his attempt at affection, but it did not matter to you - not anymore. It was not just about the absences, and Maekar knew that, his brows creasing as you stared at him with barely hidden contempt.
He watched your mouth open with a breath, a familiar sound formed by the pressing and parting of your lips before the rest of the word died on your tongue. Baelor wouldn’t have done this. Belor wouldn’t have allowed his grief to lead him away from those who need him. Baelor wouldn’t allow you to lie in bed practically alone after sharing himself with you. It was Baelor you needed, not him.
Yet even still you sucked in a breath sharply, bringing the back of your palm to hover in front of your mouth as you blinked away the rush of heat in your face. Maekar stood there as tears glossed your eyes, a subtle break, and then a shift in your usual composure with him. Your hand fell away from your mouth and you smoothed at the fabric of your overgown as a half exhale rang from deep within your chest.
It was not the kind of crying you’d experienced the day Baelor or your other goodkin passed, this cry was shorter and quieter. You stood there swaying on the balls of your feet as tears dribbled out of your eyes without apology. Maekar did not speak, and he did not move for a long while as the initial possessions over your body regulated into subtle bursts of memory and grief. You were angry, yes, but there was also still a heartache that lingered.
With Baelor, he would’ve found what exactly was ailing you and set it right, a gentleness to him when it came to understanding his family. Yet you could not find that in Maekar, and though you knew he loved his children deeply, there was a kind of distance between the two of you that felt like the opposite sides of a valley. Everything between you two was as tense as rocks scrubbing across rocks, the silence between you two almost palpable as it lingered.
Maekar reached out to you first, closing the gap between you as soft hiccups heaved in your chest. He wrapped his arms around you stiffly, pulling your face against his chest as you grabbed the material of his surcoat. It was vastly unlike the ways you’d come to know his embraces in bed, though his body was stiff, it felt closer than the radiance the unification brought. Perhaps it was because he was your only comfort now, or rather because as you buried your nose against his chest, the morning light outside ceased to exist, and only darkness enveloped you as you listened to your husband’s steady breathing and strong heartbeat.
With your eyes closed and arms slowly crawling around him, you could faintly picture Baelor in Maekar’s stead. His shortly cropped dark brown hair that had begun peppering with soft whites and grays, his beard which felt softer than it looked, and his beautiful mismatched eyes. For just a moment that was who you imagined you were embracing again, his back strong like a shield as you spread your hands out over it.
You wished to remain like this forever, in the subtle bliss of pretending your love had never lost his way home, but like all good things, it came to an end. Maekar held you within his strong arms until your tearful breaths ceased, and then he pulled away enough to look down upon you, his brows creased as you looked up, the sunken expression upon your face obvious enough to anyone that his face was not one you had wanted to see. He would never be good enough, and he knew that well enough in some capacity, a notion you were making quite clear in all of your time together. Whether he chose to accept it or not, he was not sure.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The dreams of Baelor had strengthened in the days after that morning with Maekar, like the Sun breaking through dark storm clouds on a Summers day. They were fond dreams always, sweet memories swirling around your head as you slept, the kind of dreams that you reached out as you awoke, not entirely sure of what was real. They plagued you in the way a bee buzzed around a flower, insistent on collecting nectar and unintentionally pollinating it without the consideration of where the plant was growing.
You oftentimes felt as though you were a flower sprouting from in between rocks, your environment desolate and lonely, but your view of what was around you beautiful. It was a kind of feeling you confided in only Mya about when your conversations came with ease again, and she being your closest confidant, would smile and tell you that you were not alone in the feeling.
That brought you some kind of comfort you guessed as she prepared you for bed, her skilled hands rubbing over your shoulders as she looked at you through the mirror. You were grateful for her endlessly, a smile pulling on your lips as she bid you goodnight before leaving. At least if you were going to suffer with the memory of your past love, it would not be alone. That thought was bittersweet as you crossed the room and made yourself comfortable in bed, the duvet pulled up to your chest as you lay there.
Maekar was busying himself in his study with work no doubt, and while the night was still young, you shut your eyes, eager to find Baelor’s face behind them.
The ceiling was painted when you blinked open your eyes again, a vision of soft mixed hues and shapes melting together. It was familiar, yet also everything but. There was light filtering in through the window as you looked over, the sun’s rays glimmering as it shone into the room. It must have been dusk by the looks of the color, and you glanced around the room as your ears remained plugged. It felt like the kind of pressure that occurred after a long swim, when water remained in your ear after you emerged from whatever lake or river you’d been in.
Things were muffled, and even your body felt tingly, like the feeling of being so close to sleep that your mind was having trouble keeping up with your body. You figured out that you were coming to your senses rather than losing them when the sights around you sharpened and became clearer, your mind processing the waves of thrill washing over you. It felt both overstimulating and relaxing, the muscles in your stomach flexing as a sudden clarity hit you.
The deafening silence fell away from your ears sharply, the sounds of the world outside of your head invading your senses. You recognized your own voice first, and then the feel of your own body trembling, tears running into your hair as your back arched against the featherbed. It was a melodic moan that escaped you after you came to, your lashes fluttering as your hands slid down the expanse of your stomach, finding the crown of a head and short soft tufts of hair.
You could feel it better now that you were completely aware, the feel of a mouth against you, a tongue exploring you expertly, and a strong arm wrapped around your leg to hold you still. The feeling was as maddening as it was muddling, your mind falling into a haze again as your hips jerked against the hand teasing you. You were nearly close to a glorious finish when the sensations pulled away from you, lips pressing against your inner thigh as you finally looked down.
The eyes staring back at yours were mismatched, their colors splendid in the moody lighting. Baelor muttered your name softly into the air as he kissed your skin, his hand supporting your outer leg as he held it against his face. You blinked quietly before opening your mouth, a smile spreading easily on your face.
“Baelor.” You sighed happily, your legs shifting as he lifted himself away from where he lay between them.
“My love.” He replied, his gentle voice hoarse with desire as he lifted his head.
He was smiling at you sweetly, and you returned the gesture with a soft laugh, sliding your hands up his shoulders as he slowly crawled up your body, his hips nudging between your legs. There was sweat along his brow, and his cheeks were flushed in a soft pink hue as he brushed his nose against yours. The feeling was more intimate than anything you’d had in a long time, your hands resting against his back as he leant down on his forearms, his dominant hand disappearing between your bodies as he aligned himself with you.
You awaited the feeling with a giddy want, your body raising against Baelor’s as he pressed his forehead to yours, his brows creasing from their relaxed state as he pushed into you. He did it in the slow way he always did, allowing you to feel the stretch of him inch by inch, his lips finding yours as you gasped quietly.
It was gentle, as it always was, and you allowed your eyes to flutter shut, reciprocating his kiss happily. His lips worked against yours slowly, your tongues dancing as Baelor bottomed out. The kiss broke as Baelor moved his hips against yours, the both of you lingering within the space of peace as Baelor made love to you. You allowed yourself to feel him press into you at the beginning of a pattern before you cracked open your eyes.
You could hear him as his movements sharpened, a low pant escaping him as you sighed, and when you finally opened your eyes, you found not Baelor looking back at you, but Maekar.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
You sat up quickly in bed, panting softly as you registered your surroundings. It was Summerhall. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, the dark blue of dawn still blanketing the warm golden sun that had yet to come up yet. It was frigid in the room, but you were sweating. Perspiration on your forehead quickly wiped away as you felt your face. You were very much awake now.
Just what on earth had you dreamt? Was your imagination so wild as to conjure up things of the past and twist them? You wondered it quietly, allowing your panicked breaths to calm, deep gulps of air slow to fill your lungs. That was awful. Terribly, terribly, awful.
Your body hadn’t yet registered the warm weight beside you, your knees pausing in their movements of bending upwards as you leant forward to curl in on yourself, a soft groan sounding next to you, the sound husky and rough. You looked over to see Maekar, facing you, still very much asleep. The sight was bewildering to you, seeing as you were awake before him, and hadn’t been this close to him since when he’d embraced you almost a week ago near that stream.
You two still hadn’t talked about that day, and you still weren’t even sure that you were ever going to. You only knew one thing for certain as you sat there and took it all in: you’d gone to bed much earlier than your husband, dreamt of Baelor and Maekar, and here Maekar was now instead of Baelor. You wanted to let the facts of it all unsettle you, but the feeling of his warmer body so closely beside you was all but strangely... normal. If normal was being surprised that your husband was lying so close to you in bed. So you did nothing, watching his body as he breathed slowly for a long while before looking up at his face.
He was pleasing to look at when he wasn’t glaring at you, his face relaxed and his hair ruffled. He was but only in his night trousers, his torso bare. You could make out the darker scars on his body a lot clearer when he was close like this, and where some of his scars were faint, others were jagged, decorating his light skin so often kept concealed under his royal clothes. You even supposed that without the thick materials on his body, he was just shy of hitting a slight bulk, his notably toned biceps and veined forearms relaxed as he slept heavily.
The muscles of his body drew your ire as you sat there, your eyes tracing over the qualities of your husband as he slept. It was a somewhat pleasant thing for you, and you found that Maekar was.. somewhat nice to be around, to look at, even poke fun at sometimes. Sometimes - you concluded.
A sigh drew from your lips as you looked away from Maekar, your head falling limp against your palms as you brought them up to your face. You didn’t know why it was you dreamt that, or why your mind chose to conjure Maekar into your dream, you only knew that you hoped it would never happen again.
For a while you sat there with your head in your hands, rubbing your eyes with your palms as you allowed your heart to settle into a soft beat. You were too awake now to lie back down and go back to sleep, and there was a part of you that feared that when you closed your eyes, the dream would begin again with Maekar. Your stomach flipped at the thought of imagining your husband like that, with him making love to you in the way Baelor would.
There was a wave of a nauseous heat that bubbled within you as you lifted your head and looked back at Maekar, his chest heaving with a heavy sigh, his lips parted as he breathed out the air he’d sucked in. There was an inkling of something blooming within your mind that you did not want to entertain, but your brain focused on it the more you tried to forget it.
Did he ever dream of you in the way you just did? Had he ever accidentally thought of you within a dream about his lady love? Surely her face was somewhere within his mind, and in the same ways you yearned for Baelor, you were almost certain he yearned for Dyanna. You would not blame him if he did wish at times that it was she who was around instead of you. You certainly did not keep at bay the wanting for Baelor.
However, this was different. You’d had dreams before recounting the many times you and Baelor had made love to one another, but none of them had twisted in such a way. It contrasted against the very feelings you asserted yourself on. You did not love him, and you were almost certain that you hated him.
When Maekar sighed again in his sleep you moved, brows furrowed as you pushed away the duvet and furs. You swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, glancing back at Maekar as he shifted again. Some of you wondered what he was dreaming of, most of you hoped he would never wake up.
Making your way across the cool wood floor, you grabbed your robe from where it usually hung, slowly pulling the garment on as you approached the armchair furthest from the sight of the bed. The chair was plush as you sat down, angled towards the window it was set by, the table beside it only decorated by a porcelain vase.
The white flowers within the vase were from the garden, you knew because you’d been in them the day prior and recognized the buds. You stared at them for a long time, your eyes trained on the petals as they brightened under the rising sun, the plant perking with a kind of happiness that you envied.
Would there ever be a day in which you felt that way about the sun’s rays again? You did not know, resigning yourself to relax as much as you could against the cushioned back of the chair. You sat there until the sun rose and the familiar knock came from the chamber door, the door opening up quietly.
Mya peeped her head in as she always would, her eyes finding yours as you looked away from the window. A confused expression lit across her face before she entered the bedroom completely, her hands steady as she carried your tea tray over to where you sat. You listened to the clink of the tray against the side table, watching Mya’s hands move to pour your tea into the familiar porcelain cups.
“Did something happen?” Mya questioned as you took the teacup from her, the hot tea warming your clammy hands through the glass. You could see an almost worried look on her face, her brows drawn as she glanced between you and the bed across the room where Maekar still lay. You did not answer at first, your eyes focusing on the hue of the drink. “Just a bad dream.” You murmured when you looked back at her.
She took your answer with a short nod, her eyes flicking across your face. She did not believe you, and you did not blame her for it - you could hardly believe yourself at times. Neither of you said anything after that, with Mya walking off to begin laying out your clothes for the day.
You left your chambers after you dressed and allowed Mya to fix your hair, leaving as Maekar was in the middle of getting dressed himself. It was unlike you to be so hasty with your exit, but it felt right, your feet guiding you downstairs towards the Great Hall where breakfast was being prepared.
The children, not including Daeron, were already sitting at the table, chatting amongst themselves as you entered. Aerella looked up first, smiling at you as you took your seat at one end of the table. “Where is uncle?” She chirped as you shook out your napkin and set it over your lap, bouncing in her seat to your right, with Rhae beside her.
It was probably unusual to all of them as their eyes trained on you and you alone. Normally you and Maekar would arrive at breakfast together, seeing as you two shared a room and it was only proper for the Lord and Lady of the house to wait on one another in the mornings. However, that notion was not one you cared for anymore. Maekar had disrupted that pattern with his weeks of absence in the mornings, and just because he’d returned to the morning routine for a week did not mean you had to honor anything.
“Well good day to you too, my love.” You hummed almost sarcastically, grabbing your glass of water from beside your empty plate. Your daughter replied with a simple giggle, shifting impatiently in her seat as you all waited for breakfast to be served. “Is my father well?” Daella asked as Rhae and Aerella fell back into their conversation about the pregnant cat that lived in the garden, wondering if Maekar would allow them to keep the kittens.
“He is well, Daella.” You spoke quietly, blinking at her as she blinked at you. She seemed to be thinking something when she looked away from you, her ever perceptive eye shifting onto the silverware set on the table. You knew she must have been deducing something about the look on your face, her fingers fidgeting with the end of her napkin. Daella did not say anything after that, going back to chiming in on the girls’ conversation.
Daeron arrived sometime afterwards, rubbing his eye as he sat down in his usual seat to your left. He slouched against the wood of the chair without much care, sighing as he drummed his hands against the table. It became apparent to you that the time was running later when Maekar usually liked to arrive at breakfast, and when you turned to a serving girl with a question about the food, your Lord husband arrived. He had a look about him, as he usually did, his gait firm as he found his seat at the other end of the table from you.
The food came out quickly when Maekar sat down, plates set down in front of you all as two serving girls took on the task of pouring out the morning's drink. He stared at you from across the table as the children began eating, his hand still as he held his silverware. You couldn’t exactly tell what his gaze meant, your eyes flicking away from his as you began on the food set before you.
“Kepa, when the garden cat has her babies, can we keep one?” Aerella hummed as she craned her neck to look around Rhae who sat to her father’s left. Maekar looked up from cutting up smoked salmon on his plate, his pale eyes focusing on both your daughter and his as they looked to him expectantly. You had to admit, even for the lack of him being present, he was trying.
Daeron and Daella continued to eat, though you could tell they were listening, glancing up from their plates and at each other when Maekar took a deep breath. “What do you need a cat for company for when you have your cousin, lēkianna?” He replied, glancing down at his place as he dragged the cut of salmon through the yolk of a broken poached egg.
Both girls shared a look before beginning on their reasoning as to why keeping a kitten in the house was justified, talking over each other as Maekar brought the bite of food to his mouth. He could be so refined when he was in the company of others, and yet you knew when you two would end up alone at the end of the night, he would devolve into his attitudes.
“You don’t think a kitten would be cute, Kepa?” Rhae asked once the girls deliberated amongst themselves, Aerella at her side eating a piece of cantaloupe as the older of the two took over in their convincing. You could see Maekar’s lip twitch as he looked over, setting his goblet down as he blinked at the youngest of all his children. “Cute how?” He spoke gruffly, clearing his throat as he gestured for the serving girl to top off his cup.
You could see Rhae huff as her father dragged the conversation along, her body leaning towards him as she pouted. Aerella paid no mind as Rhae continued on in their case, stabbing at a piece of egg on her plate. “Cute like…” Rhae began and swiftly ended, thinking to herself as she tapped her fingers against her chin. “Cute like a babe.” She exclaimed after her time thinking, her body lurching in her seat as she smiled wide at Maekar.
The word brought a quiet amongst the table, the other three children glancing up and around at each other. Maekar stared at his plate and you stared at him, something settling over you all. You knew very well the unspoken expectations of both of your positions as Lord and Lady of the house, and even your children knew it. You were both still young, with Maekar’s six and thirtieth nameday some three months away, and your own eight and twentieth sometime after that, you were both in your prime to bring forth one if not more babes to Summerhall.
“You may have one, no more.” Maekar replied stiffly, setting down his fork and knife, his hands clenching upon the dark wood table. The children began again on their breakfast after a moment, with Rhae and Aerella turning to each other to discuss potential names for the future royal cat of the castle.
With the end of the morning meal the family dispersed, each member heading their respective ways for the day. Daeron and Daella disappeared down the west hallway towards the libraries, with Daeron headed wherever he pleased, and Daella on her way to her lessons with her septa. The younger of the four children, Rhae and Aerella, took off with Rhae’s nanny, skipping off in the direction of the gardens where the mother cat was usually seen.
You stood there for a moment, flexing your hand at your side as you stared in the direction your daughter and niece went. As you stood there in wait of something you did not yet know, you thought about the silence at breakfast, about your dream, and about the finality of your marriage closing in.
It was approaching the mark of eleven months since your Baelor had died, and within those months, you’d been married for almost five. You thought, as you followed in the direction the youngest children had gone, about the fifth month of your new marriage to Baelor. That memory was distant, yet still fresh as it filled your mind.
Baelor had brought you a gift in the first week of your fifth moon phase together, a fine expensive ring that had been encrusted with pearls and garnets. It had been a surprise to you when he had found you sitting in your shared apartments fiddling with your needlework. You’d not expected him so soon after his small council meeting, sitting on the loveseat in front of the hearth, an extra cushion beneath you as you shifted to set your embroidery hoop down and stand.
Your husband had regarded you with a sweet smile and bade you to keep within your seat as he approached you, his body gentle as he sat down beside you, a ringbox in his hand. You were astonished when he presented it to you, completely blindsided by the sight of it when he opened up the ringbox and showed it to you. The ring was a commissioned piece apparently, Baelor’s voice soft as he took your hand and pushed the ring onto your finger.
It had made you nervous when he’d done it, and although you were completely taken with your new husband, there was an air about him that was different from the night you’d danced together. It was a more intimate feeling, a quiet comfort to you as he squeezed your hand. The ring was meant to be a present for your first anniversary, but the jeweler he’d commissioned had been fast in his service, and Baelor received it two weeks prior to the time he’d gifted it to you.
The gift was in celebration of the quickening that had occurred within your womb some days before then, the event a great milestone in the pregnancy you were quickly begotten with following your wedding. And although you had doubted any great sentimentality within Baelor in the short time you knew him, the gesture was one of great thoughtfulness and romance. You still remembered how flustered you’d become when Baelor explained his reasoning for the gift to you, one of his steady hands holding yours while the other felt along the curve of your belly. That day had been the day you’d fallen completely in love with Baelor, and even thinking about the memory now, your heart was aflutter.
Now, you were approaching your fifth month with Maekar, and any feeling you’d felt with Baelor at that time, evaded you. As sad as the thought was, you chose not to dwell on it, choosing to look at the bright side of such a bittersweet revelation. And while you could not say for certain if your late husband would have wished for you to find love again, but you knew in your heart that even if there came a day when you would allow yourself a romantic love once more, that it would never amount to the feelings you’d harbored for your Baelor.
You shook the thought away from your head as you sat down upon a bench in the garden, some distance away from where Rhae and Aerella settled to play. You watched as the girls squealed and chased one another, chattering in mostly their father’s language of High Valyrian. At least if you were not going to get along completely with your own marital companion, your daughter would be fine with her familial one.
Some time before supper, you returned to your chambers, already worn by the day of spending time with your daughter and nieces, and managing the household’s accounts after Maekar had balanced the ledgers for the month. There was ink on your hand, you noticed it when you returned to your apartments, a dark stain already dried over the pommel of your hand and beginning of the inside of your wrist. You sighed seeing it, rubbing your temple with your other hand as you walked over to the area near the bed where the bell pull was.
You rung it with three lazy tugs, letting go of the roped cord as you turned towards the other side of the room. Perhaps a long soak in the bath would help to aid at least the ache in your back. You made your way towards your vanity with a tired sigh, relieving yourself of your shoes and jewelry, already working on taking your hair down when one of your handmaids entered your chambers.
It was Olive, already ready to be at your service as she gave you a short bow. You voiced your request to her and she gave you a swift nod, and it took exactly forty-five minutes before the bath was ready. You waited until the other maids left before you allowed Olive to help you undress, her hands expert in their unfastening of your buttons and clasps. You were left in only your shift as you made your way towards the bath chambers, your skin singing with relief as you pulled the garment off and sank into the hot water.
The soaps and oils were quite fragrant as you leant back against the end of the tub, a soft exhale leaving you as you relaxed. You sent Olive away so you could wash yourself, your hand moving as you scrubbed the ink away from the other. You finished washing yourself after a long hour, taking time and pauses in between your efforts of scrubbing down your body and washing your hair.
You sat in the bath until it began to cool, waiting before you finally stood up from the water and stepped out. The air within the bath chamber was cold as the sun began to set in the spring sky, your skin alight with gooseflesh as you dried yourself off and stepped out of the bath chambers in your robe. You walked quickly over to where your things had been set out for you, discarding your robe for the silk shift you wore beneath your evening dresses.
The main chambers were warm, the hearth crackling softly as you took your seat at your vanity. You grabbed your comb from its place upon the surface of the wood, staring at yourself as you gathered some of your hair and began in detangling it. The efforts were lazed at best, your limbs heavy as you pulled the teeth of the comb through your hair. You weren’t sure of the time when when the chamber doors opened again, perhaps it was Olive come again to help you dress, but if the heavy bootsteps said anything, it was that it was not your light footed maid.
The familiar footsteps drew your gaze away from the mirror, your body shifting in your seat as you looked over your shoulder. It was Maekar of course, his face flat as he walked in, his hand resting on the pommel of his dagger. You figured he must have come from council by the look on his face, a kind of subdued irritation behind his eyes as they focused on you. His brows raised upon seeing you, his lip tightening as he walked towards the wardrobe and began removing his belts and dagger.
“You’ve not spoken a word to me the entire day.” He huffed as he tugged loose the knot in his belt, your eyes taking their turn in training on him. You could see beneath his shoulderblades move beneath his surcoat, his arms flexing as he pulled away the last belt from his body. “Is the word of your council not enough?” You quipped back, staring at him as he shot you a scowl through the mirror near the wardrobe.
Maekar shook his head to himself, returning to removing his surcoat with forced movements of his hand. He was agitated and you were doing nothing to quell it. Whatever it was that had frustrated him, you almost wished had compelled him to remain far away from you. “Have I done something?” He grumbled as he tossed his surcoat aside over the wooden chair.
You almost wanted to laugh hearing him say that, a certain crease to his brow that told you that his agitation now directed at you, was not simply born because of what had happened at his council meeting. Whatever this was, it was a festering issue that you were otherwise surprised he was willing to confront you with. “Do you need to have done something for me to take issue with you?” You replied, standing from your seat at the vanity. “Can’t I be set in my ways without causation?” The words were barbed, and while you were usually one to allow Maekar to offend you first before reciprocating his attitude, the feeling within you to provoke him was higher than your reason.
“Do not make a fool of me.” Maekar said with a raise of his voice, turning towards you as you approached the bench in front of your bed. You stared at him as he stared at you, his hands working out the ties of his tunic. “I cannot make what has already been made.” You said with a humorless laugh, rolling your eyes as he glared at you.
You watched him closely as he pulled off his under tunic, left only in his trousers and boots. He was staring at you in the way you’d watched the castle’s hunting hounds stare at fresh game brought back from a hunt, both a predatory instinct and selfish desire pooled in the backs of his purple eyes. “Do you mean to test me with foolery, wife? Because I can assure you my patience has already been run thin for the day, and I am not in any mood to be badgered into a reaction.” Maekar was sneering at you now, his hand flexing at his sides as he slowly toes off his boots.
The shoes made a soft thud upon the ground as your husband picked them up and set them aside, the fine Dornish leather in need of a buff and shine. You stared at him as he looked up, your tongue pushed against the inside of your cheek before you opened your mouth. “We both know you won’t do anything, my words intentional or not.” You scoffed, looking him up and down before shaking your head and turning away.
Behind you, Maekar laughed to himself, a kind of dry humor within it that he only ever expressed when he was pissed off about something. And this something was so outrageously offensive, that he could hardly believe what he’d heard. You paid it no mind however, shifting towards the hearth where you aimed to take a seat at the couch. The hearth was closer to the wardrobe than the bed, and despite your better judgement, or perhaps an underlying attempt at manipulating the only thing you could in this household, you approached it without foreseeing the quick heavy steps Maekar would take to close the distance between you.
He grabbed your arm before you could step in front of the couch, pulling you against him with a tug. His breath smelt of tobacco and whiskey when he took a deep exhale, your lashes fluttering as your free hand braced against his bared navel. The skin was soft under your palm, your fingers pressing against the firmness of his stomach as he glared down at you. “Do you think me some half-wit to pursue games with?” He spoke lowly, frowning as you stared up at him.
Maekar was even nice to look at in this angle, your head craned up as he huffed through his nose at you. It was maddening the fire that sparked to life in your belly, his tired and angry countenance like kindling to the flames of your desires. “I do not know what you speak of.” You muttered back, swallowing as his hand tightened its grip around your bicep.
“Do not act the fool now.” He growled, voice rising as he pulled you closer. “You are a shameless vixen, do you know that?” Now you felt like the lamb to a dragon’s slaughter, your eyes trained on his lilac ones as he lowered his face towards yours, the tips of your noses a hair's width away. You were attempting to hold your ground, though you could swiftly feel it washing away beneath you as your insides lurched with fettered needs.
“And yet my offenses go unpunished still. Tell me lord husband what that makes of you?” You laughed, the corners of your lips twitching into a smile. Maekar was sure to be infuriated now, his pale purple eyes dimming into the color violet. For a moment you stared at him, your head shaking as you shrugged. Your husband was silent for a second, and then his lips were smashing into yours.
It took you a moment before you were reciprocating his kiss with the same conviction he bore, your hands grasping at him desperately as he let go of your arm and wrapped his own tight around you. You felt lightheaded, your tongue struggling to keep up with his as he kissed you breathless, your hands finding purchase on his back as he groped you in return. Maekar pinched your ass as he broke from your kiss, drawing a soft gasp from your mouth as he closed in on your neck.
You could feel him running his teeth along your skin in between the kisses he was pressing against your clavicle, his beard tickling you as he walked you backwards towards the bed. The affection felt good in a way you hadn’t felt in a while, your fingers brushing up his spine as his mouth settled on your shoulder, pressing softer kisses against it. You gave a surprised breath when he swiftly bent down to tuck his arms under your bottom, lifting you with ease only to drop you against the bed.
The featherbed gave under your weight as you sat there for a dull moment, watching Maekar step back to quickly rid himself of his pants, his linen small clothes the only thing he had on left when his attention returned to you. Your body moved before you could process it, dragging itself back upon the bed until you were upon it fully. You were leaning back on your elbows, watching him as he watched you, a subtle twitch in his face as you slowly bent your legs and spread them, your shift hiding what lay between them.
He approached with a swiftness that made your stomach lurch again, your hands clutching the fabric of the duvet as you lay on top of it. You watched as Maekar climbed upon the bed at a lower angle, his hands finding your ankles as he tugged your down to meet him. Maekar knelt before you, watching you as you moved your arms and reached down to pull the silk of your shift up your body. You did it with a deliberate slowness that was maddening to your husband, your hands sliding up your thighs until you had it bunched at your ribs, your fingers tucking under the fabric before you pulled it completely off.
You lay there watching as Maekar’s eyes went wide eyed for a moment, staring down at your breasts as your nipples pebbled in response to the cool air of the room, and then your glistening cunt when you flowered your legs open slowly. It was like a game between the two of you, a smug look on your face as you shifted your hips, lifting them off the bed in a way to goad him. And spur him on it did.
A sharp half laugh escaped his chest as he stared down at you, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards before he leant down and grabbed the backs of your knees, pushing your legs up and then over his shoulders. It was unlike any experience you’d ever shared with him before, your eyes blowing wide as he made himself comfortable on his stomach before tucking his face between your legs. You’d expected a lot of things, but this was not one of them.
Maekar’s tongue slid up your cunt the way a snake slithered on the ground, a sharp gasp escaping you as you lay back against the bed and reached down to grab at his soft white hair. He mouthed against you slowly, deliberate in the way he licked against your folds, his aquiline nose brushing against your clit as you jerked your hips against his face. It was almost like the dream you’d dreamt that morning, only very very real.
A whimper squeaked out of you as Maekar traced his tongue around the rim of your hole, your back arching as he wrapped his arms around your arms and pressed your thighs against the sides of his head. In a way it felt so good you wanted to escape it, your fingers tightening in their grip of his hair as he pressed the tip of his tongue into you, your thighs trembling against his ears as you whined. There were hot tears welling in your eyes when he pulled one of his arms away from you, your belly tightening as Maekar replaced his tongue with his hand.
His mouth found your sensitive bud of nerves as he scissored two fingers inside of you, your walls tightening around the digits as he curled them upwards. You were about past trying to withhold the sound of your own voice when he gave your clit a blow of cool air and then a harsh suck, a deep moan reverberating off the walls of your chambers as you clenched your legs around his head. He didn’t seem to mind it much when you tugged on his hair either, a low grunt from his throat against your cunt making your body sing.
“Maekar.” You managed through a gasp as the beginning of an orgasm made itself known with the tremors of heat passing through your stomach and down your legs. He gave a low hum in response to his name, not quite looking up as he focused on swirling his tongue around your clit. “Seven hells, Maekar, I’m going to..” You began and stopped, panting softly as you pushed the pommel of your hand against his forehead, your thighs trembling as you bit your bottom lip.
You wanted him to both stop and continue on forever, your body tensing as Maekar pulled his finger out of you and slid his tongue back down to replace their position. You didn’t last much longer when he flattened his against your entrance, finishing with an almost manton moan, your hand flying up to press over your mouth as you gasped in small breaths.
It took Maekar a moment before he pulled away from you, his cheeks a flushed pink that stood out against his pale skin, and his hair ruffled where you’d pulled at it. You would’ve taken a moment to relish his state of rumple if you weren’t almost completely limp, your head flopping ahead the bed as you stared up at him, still trying to catch your breath as he grabbed your legs and hooked them around his hips, a triumphant smile on his mouth as he pushed his linens down.
“What was it you were saying about your deeds going unpunished?” He chuckled to himself, glancing down at you as you frowned, your brows drawn as your heartbeat settled. You did not reply, your eyes flicking down to watch him give his cockstand a few strong jerks before aligning his cockhead against the slot between your legs. You sucked in a breath as he pushed in, feeling the stinging stretch as he grabbed your hips and sheathed himself within you slowly.
Your cunt quivered softly around him, squeezing tight as he bottomed out deep enough to make you both sigh with content. You could feel the tip of his cock snuggled against your cervix as his hips pushed against yours rhythmically, a nice feeling, one that made your brain foggy as you arched your back in encouragement. Maekar grunted in response, hunching over you as he got comfortable on his forearms, his body not yet moving to chase the end of your confrontation just yet.
“Tell me why you’re upset.” He muttered, stroking hair away from your forehead before running his knuckles down your cheek. You couldn’t tell him the real reason you’d been avoidant of him all day, for fear of exposing yourself and your true desires. Desires for his Baelor to be the one fucking you like this and not him, your brows creasing as he stared down at you. “I shan’t.” You whispered, jerking your hips against his.
His brows furrowed with your denial, his hips still rocking against yours as he moved his hand, his thumb stroking over your bottom lip. “You will.” Maekar said simply as he pushed his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad of his finger down against your tongue. You raised your brows in mild surprise, your cunt fluttering all around him as you squeezed your thighs against his hips, your mouth closing around the digit as you in turn swirled your tongue around the digit.
For a moment Maekar paused, watching you as you stared back at him, his hand shifting as he pulled his thumb away from your mouth. Then Maekar gave you a small raise of his brows, and you watched his face set before pulling his hips back and dropping them back down against yours, he did it slowly and with great measure, watching your face contort as he thrust into you again and again. He was looking at you, watching your brows knit and your mouth drop open, and it was all that he needed before he found himself comfortable with a quicker pace, the chambers singing with the tempo of your open mouthed pants and his sack slapping against your perineum.
You’d be lying if you said the sex was bad with Maekar, because in truth it was anything but, your hands finding his shoulders, holding onto him tight as he reached down to grab and lift your hips easily to fix your position. His face barely budging as you dug your nails into his skin, spreading your legs as wide as they could go so you could make room for him to bully your cunt with his cock freely. Your breaths soon enough evenly matched, drawn girly gasps escaping you as he beat against a sensitive spongy spot within you.
Maeker listened to them and took your quivering cunt all as declarations of praise for what he was doing, his eyes flicking as he glanced down at your legs on either side of him, supple thighs squishing against his hips in an attempt to close around him instinctively when he brushed your g-spot. You felt lovely. More than lovely even. Your insides throbbing all around him, your soft panting intertwining with his even deeper ones as the wood of the bed creaked harder.
You looked up at the ceiling, your vision dazed as your eyelashes fluttered. It was a plain ceiling, that would've been better with the hues of oil paints to decorate it. Perhaps after a year here, you could make the request with your husband. But that was a milestone still far away.
Maekar broke you from your thoughts when his fingers found your clit again, brushing the pad of his thumb over the bundle of nerves gently, before pressing it down. Your eyes widened and you shuddered as you managed out a girly moan, your brows furrowed as you looked down between the both of you. He was toying with your clit as he continued to fuck into you, your arms stretching to hold him against you when his lips found yours again.
The kiss was drawn, its pursuits soft yet eager as he pushed his tongue into your mouth, and you found it quite a strange thing as he was kissing you, being able to taste yourself, the sweetness of his mouth having everything to do with you. You moaned against his mouth at that thought, your fingers digging into him as he switched the angle of his hips.
Your eyes were shut when Maekar pulled away, unable to fight to keep open as he tucked his face into your shoulder, his arms tucking under your body as he pressed his belly to yours, fucking downwards with the roughness of a blacksmith pounding iron against an anvil. You could barely keep down the strained cry forced out of you as you held him close, body rocking with his movements, listening to the wood of the bed groan in protest of your husband hammering his hips against yours.
The approach of your second orgasm was finer than the last one, an awareness filling you as you reached up to run your fingers through the back of his hair. You could hear him muttering in High Valyrian again, the translation lost on you as you kept your eyes tightly closed. Your thought centered again as best you could as your belly tightened, the familiar sloppiness of your husband’s movements letting you know his time was near.
And yet, you could only think of one thing. All of it.. All of this was playing out like it had in your selfish dream, and part of you wondered if this was the world making a mockery of you, with Maekar playing out the role Baelor rightfully deserved to have. Tears welled in your eyes as his face filled your mind, his mismatched eyes and kind smile, his dark hair peppered in tufts of white. Baelor, your Baelor, you thought as you panted, arching your back as you pressed your belly to the navel of the man on top of you.
Would your mind play tricks on you again and fashion Maekar’s face over Baelor’s like it had in your dream? Would you somehow wake up from a dream within a dream and find yourself in the Red Keep once more, with your rightful husband at your side? If not, would you somehow manage to be able to live with the constant dreams of Baelor? You weren’t entirely sure, your senses dulling as the tempo of your body strum like a plucked cord, your muscles shuddering as a wave washed through you.
Baelor you thought as Maekar jerked against you, finishing with a guttural grunt in your ear, cum spurting inside of you as he moved his hips to a slowing rhythm, all while your orgasm thrummed like the crescendo of a song. Your lips parting as you kept your face tucked against his neck and shoulder.
“Baelor.” You moaned through the chorus of your climax.
The word was singular in its delivery, yet yearning all the same. You felt Maekar go still against you instantly, a tenseness in his body that was not akin to the reaction caused by coming down from a high, but more alike to the sound of a chord plucked wrong within the ending of a fine song.
You realized it after he did, your eyes opening finally as Maekar began pulling away from you. Neither of you spoke, and you resigned to letting your husband push your limbs away before pulling out of you completely. He wasn’t looking at you when you pushed yourself up on your elbows, his face flat as he cleaned himself off and pulled his linens back up.
“Maekar.” You breathed out, your chest tightening as he removed himself from the bed, his back to you as he grabbed his pants and swiftly pulled them on. He was walking away before you could explain yourself, your breath catching in your throat as you sat up completely. “Maekar.” You said it again, watching him gather his tunic and shoes.
“Maekar, please.” You called out, your voice wavering with shame as he made his way towards the chamber doors, swiftly pulling it open and slamming it closed before you could call his name again.
You felt nauseous as you stared at the doors, heat searing through your chest as tears pooled in your eyes and dribbled down your face. Your face fell into your hands as you curled in on yourself, a gasping breath escaping your throat as you cried over what you did.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───
High Valryian translations :
Kepa - Father/Paternal Uncle
Lēkianna - Fraternal niece
Notes : I was really emotionally tapped in with this one if you guys couldn't already tell, which can only be in correlation of the muppet movie, the fact that I watched Hamnet while editing this (which I'm still crying about), and some other things. which was all effectively akin to a planetary alignment in my mind, which cooks it up into the right state it takes to torture you guys! :)
Anyways, let me know what you guys think! Personally as the author of this, I think it's only going to get worse!! :D
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Word Count : 6.2k (lesssgooo babyy)
A/N : Lyonel my glorius baratheon king be mineee. Also, Since the Ashford Tourney happens in 209 AC, Visenya (born 189 AC) is as of now 20 years old. Valarr (born 190 AC) and Daeron (born 191 AC). So, Visenya is eldest of the grandchildren. Also, Damn those were some happy years back to back children being born n all.
Masterlist
Chapter II
The Road from the Sea
The wind off the Narrow Sea smelled of salt and rain when the small trading cog slipped quietly from the shadow of Dragonstone.
Dawn had not yet broken, though a pale grey light had begun to gather along the eastern horizon. Behind the ship the black towers of the island fortress rose like jagged teeth against the sky, their dragon-carved battlements half swallowed by drifting sea mist. To most men aboard the vessel it was only another departure from the harbor, no different from a dozen others that week.
Only one passenger watched the island with a heavier heart.
Visenya Targaryen stood at the stern rail with her cloak drawn close about her shoulders, the damp wind tugging softly at the edges of her hood. Beneath the rough wool her silver-gold hair had been braided tightly against her head and darkened with a thin dusting of ash, dulling its bright Valyrian sheen to something closer to pale grey. It was not a perfect disguise, nothing could truly hide the violet eyes or the fine bones of her face but it was enough, she hoped, to turn curious glances aside.
She wore the clothes of a traveling girl now, plain riding leathers, sturdy boots, and a faded cloak that might once have belonged to some merchant’s daughter. No one aboard the ship had called her princess.
No one had bowed.
For the first time in her life, she was simply Nyra Waters.
The island grew smaller as the ship pushed westward across the narrow stretch of sea toward the mainland of the Crownlands. The sailors moved easily about their work, hauling ropes and adjusting sails with the steady rhythm of men long accustomed to wind and tide. A few glanced at her now and again, though none lingered overlong. A quiet girl traveling alone was hardly the strangest sight these waters had known.
Still, Visenya kept her hood drawn low.
By midmorning the mainland coast had risen from the haze ahead of them, low green hills sloping gently toward a narrow harbor where fishing boats bobbed lazily beside a weathered wooden pier. It was a small place, little more than a cluster of cottages and storehouses gathered along the shore, the sort of village that seldom appeared on any map worth owning.
Which was precisely why she had chosen it.
The ship docked without ceremony.
Crates of salted fish were unloaded, barrels of grain rolled ashore, and within the quiet confusion of trade and chatter one more traveler stepped onto the worn wooden planks of the pier without attracting much notice.
Visenya paused only once to look back at the sea.
Dragonstone had already vanished into the distant haze.
Good, she thought.
If she hesitated now, she might lose the courage to continue.
A stableboy led her horse from the ship soon after a sturdy bay mare purchased quietly two days before her departure. Visenya thanked him with a small coin and swung into the saddle with the easy confidence of someone who had ridden since childhood.
The road south awaited.
And somewhere along that road lay Ashford, where the great tourney would soon gather half the knights of the realm beneath its banners.
She turned her horse inland.
The village disappeared quickly behind her as the narrow coastal track wound through fields of barley and low stone walls that divided one farmer’s land from another’s. The day grew warmer as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last traces of morning mist until the sky stretched wide and blue above the countryside.
Travelers moved steadily along the road.
Wagons creaked beneath the weight of trade goods bound for the Reach. A band of hedge knights rode past in bright cloaks, their shields painted with proud sigils meant to impress tourney crowds. Farmers trudged beside stubborn mules pulling carts of turnips or firewood.
Most paid her little attention.
A girl traveling alone was not uncommon in these parts, particularly during tourney season when half the realm seemed to take to the roads in search of spectacle and opportunity.
By midday the road had grown busier still.
Visenya guided her horse beneath the shade of a stand of tall elms where a narrow stream crossed beneath the path, intending to rest for a moment and water the mare before continuing on her way.
She had just dismounted when the sound of hooves approached from behind.
Three horses appeared around the bend in the road.
The first was a tall brown warhorse, broad-chested and powerful, its movements slow but steady beneath the weight of travel gear strapped across its back. Behind it plodded an old swaybacked chestnut ridden by a man whose long legs seemed almost too large for the weary animal beneath him. The third horse-a gentle palfrey with a soft white blaze-followed behind with the quiet patience of a creature well used to long roads.
The rider was impossible to miss.
He was the tallest man Visenya had ever seen.
Even seated upon the horse he seemed enormous, his shoulders broad enough to block half the sunlight filtering through the trees above. His cloak was patched and weather-stained, hanging loosely over plain traveling clothes that had seen better days. A shield dangled from the saddle beside him, its paint worn but still visible: a winged chalice in silver upon a brown field.
The man noticed her watching and quickly pulled the chestnut to a halt.
“Begging your pardon,” he said politely, his voice deep but gentle. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Visenya studied him quietly beneath the shadow of her hood.
So, this was one of the hedge knights bound for Ashford.
The man scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, as though uncertain whether to continue.
“Road’s been busy today,” he added after a moment. “Seems every knight in the Seven Kingdoms is headed to that tourney.”
“Ashford,” Visenya said.
“Aye.”
He glanced toward the road ahead, then back to her.
“You riding that way too?”
She hesitated just long enough to make the answer seem natural.
“I am.”
“Well… it’s a long road for anyone traveling alone,” the man said. “Especially a lady.”
Visenya almost smiled at that.
If only he knew.
“What is your name, ser?” she asked.
The big knight shifted slightly in the saddle.
“Ser Dun-Dunkan,” he replied.
He stuttered it simply, without pride or flourish.
Just a name.
Visenya dipped her head politely.
“Nyra,” she said. “Nyra Waters.”
For a moment the hedge knight studied her face as though weighing something unspoken, but whatever thought passed through his mind quickly faded.
“Well met, Nyra Waters,” he said.
Behind him the old chestnut horse snorted impatiently, stamping one hoof against the dirt.
Ser Duncan patted its neck fondly.
“This here’s Chestnut,” he added, gesturing toward the weary animal beneath him. “The big fellow is Thunder. And the palfrey’s Sweetfoot.”
The horses regarded Visenya with mild curiosity.
“So,” Dunk said after a moment, glancing once more toward the road stretching south, “if you’re bound for Ashford… you might ride alongside me for a time.”
He spoke the offer with quiet sincerity.
“Three horses make slower going than one anyway.”
Visenya considered him carefully.
A hedge knight with patched clothes, worn horses, and a shield inherited from a possibly dead master.
Yet there was something honest in his eyes.
Something steady.
She placed one foot in the stirrup and mounted her mare once more.
“For a time, then,” she said.
And together they rode south toward Ashford, neither knowing how greatly that meeting would shape the days to come.
They rode together for the better part of an hour before either spoke again.
The road wound gently through low fields where farmers bent over rows of young barley, their backs glistening with sweat beneath the warm afternoon sun. A pair of crows watched the riders pass from the branches of a leaning elm tree, cawing loudly before taking flight across the open sky.
Ser Duncan rode easily upon the old chestnut horse he had called Chestnut, though the animal moved with the slow patience of a beast that had seen many roads and many years. The tall brown warhorse Thunder followed behind with steady steps, while Sweetfoot trotted quietly at the rear.
Visenya noticed the way Dunk often glanced back to make certain the horses remained together.
A careful man, she thought.
Or perhaps simply a poor one.
A knight with fine stables and servants would never need to manage his own mounts.
“You ride well,” Dunk said suddenly.
Visenya turned her head slightly.
“My father taught me.”
“Must’ve been a horseman then.”
“A sailor,” she replied smoothly. “From Driftmark.”
It was the story she had prepared before leaving Dragonstone.
Men of House Velaryon often carried Valyrian features-silver hair, pale eyes and bastards from their ports were not unheard of along the Crownlands coast.
Dunk nodded thoughtfully.
“That would explain the look of you.”
“The look of me?”
“Well…” he said, clearly unsure how to phrase it politely. “The hair and such.”
Visenya almost laughed.
She had spent her entire life hearing courtiers praise the beauty of House Targaryen.
Yet here the great hedge knight struggled simply to describe it.
“My mother was from the mainland,” she added.
“Ah.”
Dunk seemed satisfied with that.
They rode on.
The sun climbed higher as the road bent slowly southward, and before long the travelers ahead of them began to grow more numerous. Knights in bright cloaks passed from time to time, their shields painted with lions, flowers, griffins, and other proud sigils meant to win glory beneath the tourney banners of Ashford.
One particularly splendid rider thundered past in polished armor chased with gold.
Dunk watched him go with quiet admiration.
“Must be a great lord’s son,” he murmured.
“Or a man deep in debt,” Visenya said before thinking.
Dunk blinked.
“Begging your pardon?”
Visenya realized her mistake at once.
Court politics had taught her that many knights spent fortunes simply to appear powerful at tourneys.
It was not the sort of thing a common traveler should know.
She shrugged lightly.
“My father used to say men with too much gold on their armor were trying to prove something.”
Dunk considered that.
“Huh,” he said after a moment.
“Never thought on it that way.”
He scratched thoughtfully at his jaw.
“Ser Arlan used to say a knight’s worth shows best in battle, not paint and polish.”
At the mention of the name Visenya glanced toward the shield hanging from Dunk’s saddle.
The winged chalice gleamed faintly where the worn paint had not yet faded.
“You served this Ser Arlanfor long?” she asked.
“Half my life,” Dunk said.
His voice softened slightly.
“He knighted me before he died.”
Visenya felt a flicker of sympathy.
The big man spoke with simple loyalty, the sort that came from years of shared hardship rather than courtly duty.
“And now you ride to Ashford?”
“Aye.”
Dunk straightened slightly in the saddle.
“Thought I might try my luck in the lists.”
Visenya studied him openly now.
“You intend to compete?”
“Why not?” he said.
“Ser Arlan always said a hedge knight’s fortune can change with one good lance.”
The idea seemed absurd at first glance.
Dunk’s cloak was patched.
His horses looked weary.
His purse was surely light.
Yet something about the quiet determination in his voice made her believe he truly meant it.
“And if you win?” she asked.
Dunk laughed.
“If I win?”
He shook his head.
“Well… then I’d be the luckiest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, wouldn’t I?”
They rode on together beneath the warm afternoon sun, two travelers bound for the same distant tourney.
A wandering hedge knight with patched cloak and borrowed shield.
And the hidden dragon princess who would one day inherit the Iron Throne.
Neither yet knew how greatly their paths would become entwined.
By late afternoon the road had begun to change.
Where once only farmers and wandering traders had passed, now the kingsroad thrummed with travelers bound for Ashford. Wagons creaked beneath bright banners, squires rode beside armored knights, and the occasional minstrel strummed a harp while perched atop a slow-moving cart. Word of the tourney had spread far across the Seven Kingdoms, and it seemed half the realm had taken to the roads to witness it.
Ser Duncan watched it all with open fascination.
Each new knight who passed earned a curious glance, though Dunk never stared long. A true knight, Visenya noticed, never appeared overly impressed by another’s finery.
Even if he possessed little of his own.
They had ridden together most of the day now, speaking only now and again as travelers often did. Dunk was not a talkative man by nature, but when he did speak his words were plain and honest.
Visenya found that refreshing.
Courtiers in King's Landing spoke in circles, hiding meaning beneath layers of courtesy and careful phrasing. A single conversation in the Red Keep might conceal three different arguments and two quiet insults.
Dunk, by contrast, said exactly what he meant.
It made the world seem simpler somehow.
The road dipped gently toward a shallow stream not long before sunset, and Dunk slowed his horse.
“Best stop here for the night,” he said, glancing toward the fading light.
Visenya followed his gaze westward.
The sun hung low above the distant fields now, painting the sky in deep shades of gold and crimson. Soon darkness would fall, and even a busy road grew dangerous once night settled across the countryside.
“A sensible place,” she agreed.
Dunk dismounted heavily from Chestnut, stretching his long legs with a faint groan. Up close his size seemed even more impressive. He stood nearly a head taller than most knights Visenya had seen in court, his shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway.
Yet there was something almost boyish in the way he moved, as though he had never quite grown accustomed to his own height.
Thunder and Sweetfoot were led to the stream first, the horses drinking eagerly as Dunk loosened their tack. Chestnut followed soon after, lowering its greying muzzle into the cool water.
Visenya tied her mare nearby and watched the tall hedge knight work.
“You care for them well,” she said.
“They carried me this far,” Dunk replied. “Least I can do is see they’re fed and watered.”
He knelt beside one of the saddlebags and began pulling out a small bundle of oats.
“You eaten today?” he asked after a moment.
“A little.”
“Well, I’ve got bread,” Dunk said. “And some hard salt beef.”
He held up the wrapped bundle with a hopeful expression.
“Not much, but enough to share.”
Visenya smiled slightly.
“A generous knight.”
Dunk looked faintly embarrassed.
“It’s nothing.”
They sat together near the stream while the horses grazed among the tall grass. The bread was coarse and the beef sharp with age, but after a long day of riding it tasted better than many feasts Visenya had endured in the great hall of Dragonstone.
Dunk spoke little while they ate.
He seemed content simply to watch the road and listen to the sounds of evening settling across the fields.
At length he nodded toward the horizon.
“Should reach Ashford tomorrow if we make good time.”
“So soon?” Visenya asked.
“Aye.”
He leaned back on his elbows.
“Whole place will be packed by now. Knights, merchants, singers… every sort you can think of.”
His expression brightened slightly.
“Never seen a proper tourney before.”
“You haven’t?”
“No,” Dunk admitted.
“Ser Arlan and me never had the coin for it.”
Visenya studied him thoughtfully.
“You sound eager.”
“Well…” he said slowly, “a hedge knight doesn’t get many chances to make a name for himself.”
He scratched at his jaw again.
“Maybe I’ll break a lance or two.”
“Or win,” Visenya said lightly.
Dunk laughed at that.
“If I win, Nyra Waters,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ll buy you the finest meal Ashford has to offer.”
Visenya raised an eyebrow.
“Will you now?”
“Well… assuming I still have my purse after the entry fee.”
The honesty of that answer made her laugh.
Night fell not long after.
The sky deepened into velvet darkness scattered with stars, and the road gradually emptied as travelers sought camps of their own. Dunk built a small fire beside the stream, careful to keep it low and contained.
Visenya wrapped herself in her cloak and settled beneath a nearby tree.
For a time neither spoke.
Somewhere in the distance an owl called softly through the dark.
At length Dunk cleared his throat.
“Don’t mean to pry,” he said carefully, “but… you said your father was a sailor.”
“Yes.”
“You heading to Ashford for the tourney too?”
“In a way.”
He nodded slowly, though it was clear he did not fully understand.
But he did not press the matter further.
True to his reputation, Ser Duncan was not a man who spent much time puzzling over mysteries.
Soon enough his deep, steady breathing told Visenya he had fallen asleep beside the dying fire.
She watched him for a long moment.
Dunk the Lunk, they would one day call him.
Thick as a castle wall.
Yet there was something comforting about the quiet strength of the man sleeping only a few steps away.
In a world of scheming lords and whispering courtiers, such simple honesty felt rare.
Visenya leaned back against the tree trunk and gazed up at the stars.
Tomorrow they would reach Ashford.
And tomorrow her quiet journey as Nyra Waters would grow far more complicated.
For the tourney would bring together some of the greatest knights of the realm.
And somewhere among the wagons and tents outside the tourney grounds, a stubborn bald-headed boy would soon appear-one who would change Ser Duncan’s life forever.
The boy the world would one day know as Aegon Targaryen.
But that meeting had not yet come.
For now, the night belonged only to the road, the quiet fire… and the hidden dragon sleeping beneath a borrowed name.
The camp below Ashford proved even larger up close than it had appeared from the distant hill. Tents sprawled across the fields in every direction, bright silks and painted banners snapping in the warm breeze. The smell of roasting meat drifted through the air, mingling with horse sweat, leather, and the faint tang of steel.
Ser Duncan reined in Chestnut near the edge of the lordly pavilions and stared.
“So many of them,” he murmured.
Visenya followed his gaze.
Tall pavilions marked with noble sigils dominated the center of the field. The golden roses of House Tyrell fluttered proudly beside banners bearing lions, towers, falcons, and suns. Squads of squires hurried between the tents carrying shields and lances while armored knights strode through the camp as though the ground itself belonged to them.
For Visenya the sight stirred memories of court and ceremony of the crowded halls of King's Landing, where lords and princes gathered beneath the red stone towers of the Red Keep.
Yet here, among the dust and noise of a tourney camp, those same noble banners seemed strangely smaller.
Dunk cleared his throat.
“Best wait here,” he told Visenya as he gathered Thunder’s reins and tied the horses to a low rail beside the path. “Won’t take but a moment.”
Visenya inclined her head and remained beside the animals while Dunk made his way toward the largest of the nearby tents, where Lord Ashford’s steward was said to be taking the names of knights who wished to ride in the lists.
Inside the pavilion it was dim and smelled of parchment and sweat. A thin man sat behind a rough table cluttered with scrolls and inkpots. His narrow face was pinched with irritation, as though the entire business of the tourney offended him.
“Name?” the steward asked without looking up.
“Ser Duncan, ser,” Dunk said. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”
The steward’s quill scratched across the parchment. “And the knight who made you?”
“Ser Arlan of Pennytree.”
That earned Dunk a glance at last.
The man’s eyes traveled slowly up his patched cloak, his plain swordbelt, and the battered shield slung across his back. The winged chalice of Ser Arlan of Pennytree looked small and lonely upon the faded wood.
“Ser Arlan,” the steward repeated thoughtfully. “And where might this knight be found?”
“He died,” Dunk said simply. “Three days past.”
The quill stopped.
The steward leaned back in his chair and studied Dunk more carefully now.
“A pity. Then who will vouch for you?”
Dunk blinked.
“Vouch?”
“A knight must stand witness that you are truly what you claim to be,” the steward explained impatiently. “Such are the rules of Lord Ashford’s tourney. Without a lord or knight to confirm your knighthood, I cannot place your name among the challengers.”
Dunk felt the weight of those words settle heavily in his stomach.
“There must be someone,” he said after a moment. “Ser Arlan rode in many tourneys. Surely-”
“Find a lord who remembers him,” the steward said with a dismissive shrug. “Then return.”
Dunk left the pavilion feeling far less confident than when he had entered.
Visenya looked up as he approached.
“Well?” she asked.
Dunk scratched the back of his neck. “Seems I’ll need a lord to vouch for me.”
“A lord?”
“Aye. Someone who knew Ser Arlan.” He sighed heavily. “Or says they did.”
Visenya studied the tourney grounds thoughtfully.
“There must be many knights here who remember him.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Dunk untied the horses and led them deeper into the maze of tents.
The first pavilion Dunk approached bore a purple lightning bolt upon its banner.
“That’s Manfred Dondarrion,” he said hopefully. “The lord hosting the tourney.”
If any man might allow a hedge knight to ride, surely it would be him.
Two women sat outside the tent upon a wooden bench.
One was small and red-haired with a sly smile that suggested she had seen half the world’s mischief. The other was dark-haired and round-faced, her laughter loud enough to carry across the nearby tents.
They looked up as Dunk approached.
“He's napping, ser,” the red-haired woman said, eyeing the enormous knight with open amusement. “Wake him for a stag”
"I,uh…", Dunk stammered.
"I don't-I don't have a stag."
“What kind of knight don't got a stag?”
"It's a hedge knight, ain't it?"
"What?"
"It's like a knight, but sadder."
Her companion giggled.
Dunk flushed slightly.
“No, I'm- I'm not sad-,” he said.
"He's gotta sleep in hedges' cause no lord'll have it."
"Aww that is sad," The other red-haired woman drawled out almost dismissively, "And Ser Manfred's fucked it's wife too."
"No, I- I don't have a wife." She almost felt pity for him then. Being incessantly mocked wherever he goes.
"Well, um, when do you expect Ser Manfred to wake, then?" Dunk somehow got out in between their laughs about Ser Manfred turning the whole world red. Whatever that meant.
The red-haired woman-Red, as the others soon called her-said to him again.
“It might wanna try back at evenfall.”
“Goodbye,” the second woman added with a wink.
Visenya stood quietly nearby, observing.
She recognized the easy confidence of women accustomed to the company of soldiers and knights. Such women often served great camps during tourneys and wars alike.
Dunk nodded awkwardly, walking in the opposite direction.
“Arse.”
They had just left the pavilion of Manfred Dondarrion, where the women called Red and Beony had laughed at Dunk’s ragged appearance before softening enough to offer sympathy.
Dunk looked troubled as they walked away.
“Why would she say that?” he muttered.
“Say what?”
“That we looked sad.”
Nyra glanced at him.
“Are we?”
“Certainly not rising to the level of a comment sad,” Dunk said stubbornly.
He shifted Ser Arlan’s shield upon his shoulder.
“Besides, Ser Arlan always said a hedge knight was the truest kind of knight. We ride where we will, answer to no lord, and fight for our own honor.”
He gave the shield a small pat.
“When we win our first tilt, we’ll have the loser’s armor and horse-or his gold. Won’t be sad then.”
Nyra said nothing, though the corner of her mouth twitched slightly.
They had nearly reached the next row of tents when a sudden crash rang out ahead of them.
A young man came tumbling backward through a wooden railing, landing hard in the dust. The bannisters splintered beneath him, drawing the attention of several nearby squires.
Another young knight stood within the practice ring beyond the railing, sword still raised.
“You useless rat,” the older knight snapped. “Can you not hold a guard for half a breath?”
The fallen youth scrambled to his feet in sudden fury and rushed forward, swinging wildly. The attack was clumsy, all anger and no skill. The older knight turned aside the blow with ease and shoved him backward again before striking him sharply across the face with a gloved hand.
The younger man fell once more.
Only then did the victor notice Dunk standing there.
“What are you gawping at, you blue-eyed cunt?” he began before stopping short.
His eyes had settled on Dunk’s sword.
“That a longsword you wear?”
Dunk shifted awkwardly. “Uh… yes. It is mine by right.”
“That’s an odd way to say it.”
The knight grinned.
“Ser Steffon Fossoway,” he said, tapping the red apple embroidered upon his cloak. “And you are?”
“Ser Duncan.”
The younger man still sitting in the dust spoke suddenly.
“Try him,” he urged. “Go on, ser.”
Dunk turned toward the voice.
The speaker was a slender youth with auburn hair and sharp green eyes. Though younger than his cousin, there was something lively about him that Dunk liked at once.
“I may not be ripe yet,” the young man added cheerfully, “but my cousin’s rotten to the core. Knock the seeds out of him.”
“Quiet, Raymun,” Steffon snapped.
Steffon rolled his shoulders and pointed his practice sword toward Dunk.
“Well then, Ser Duncan. Come try me. My cousin here isn’t ready for a proper beating yet.”
Dunk shifted uncomfortably.
“I-I thank you, ser,” he said at last, “but I have matters to attend.”
Steffon laughed harshly.
“What matters could a hedge knight have, I wonder? Look at the bloody size of you.”
He shook his head in mock disappointment.
“Stupid bastard.”
With that he turned away, apparently finished with his sport.
Raymun gave Dunk an apologetic smile before following his cousin back toward the practice ring.
Dunk watched them go for a moment.
Then he glanced down at Nyra.
“Perhaps we should search for quieter accommodations,” he said.
Nyra nodded.
And together they moved deeper into the crowded maze of tents and banners beneath the summer sky of Ashford.
By now the afternoon sun had begun to sink toward the western hills, casting long shadows across the fields. The noise of the camp only seemed to grow louder as evening approached.
Dunk stopped walking at the edge of the tents.
“Well,” he said after a long silence, “looks like I’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
Visenya glanced back toward the sprawling pavilions.
“You have nowhere to stay tonight?”
Dunk shifted uncomfortably.
“Tents cost coin.”
He gave a sheepish smile.
“And I’m not exactly rich.”
Instead he turned his horse away from the camp entirely, guiding the small procession of animals toward a patch of woodland rising beyond the fields.
The noise of the tourney faded behind them as they climbed a low hill overlooking the valley. At its crest stood a tall elm tree whose wide branches cast a long shadow across the grass.
Dunk removed his cloak and spread it beneath the tree.
“This’ll do.”
From their hilltop perch the entire camp of Ashford stretched below like a small city of fire and banners. Hundreds of lanterns flickered to life as dusk settled across the fields, while distant music drifted upward on the evening breeze.
Visenya lowered herself to the grass beside the elm.
It was a far cry from the stone halls of Dragonstone.
Yet as she gazed down at the glowing camp below, she felt an unexpected thrill.
Tomorrow the lists would open.
Princes would ride.
Knights would break lances.
And somewhere among those crowds fate was already drawing nearer.
Evenfall came slowly to the tourney grounds of Ashford. The golden haze of afternoon faded into long purple shadows as torches were lit between the rows of pavilions. Smoke drifted lazily from cookfires, carrying the scent of roasting meat and strongwine.
Dunk and Visenya walked their horses along the outer paths where the crowds were thinner.
“Ser Manfred’s pavilion should be somewhere along here,” Dunk muttered.
Visenya said nothing. Her pale hair had been hidden beneath a plain hood since they arrived at the tourney grounds. Too many eyes watched strangers here, and Valyrian looks were not easily forgotten.
At last Dunk spotted the sigil he sought.
A black tent trimmed with purple lightning bolts.
“There,” he said.
Visenya caught the reins of the horses as Dunk approached.
“I’ll wait,” she said quietly.
Dunk nodded and pushed aside the pavilion flap.
Inside, two women lounged beside a small table cluttered with wine cups.
One had hair the color of copper flame. The other was darker, with sharp eyes that studied Dunk like a cat watching a wounded bird.
“He's napping still,” said the red-haired one.
The darker woman laughed.
“You lost, big knight?”
Dunk flushed slightly.
“I came to see Ser Manfred.”
“Did you?” the red-haired woman said lazily.
“Then you came too early.”
“Ser Manfred is otherwise occupied,” added the other.
“Occupied doing what?” Dunk asked.
“Not you,” the red-haired one replied sweetly.
They laughed again.
Dunk shifted uncomfortably.
“I wished only to speak with him.”
The women exchanged a look.
“He’s not here,” the darker one said at last. “And if he was, he’d not see the likes of you tonight.”
Dunk thanked them stiffly and left.
Outside, Visenya waited beside the horses beneath the growing dusk.
“Well?” she asked.
Dunk sighed.
“He’s not there.”
They had gone scarcely a hundred paces when music drifted through the evening air.
It was a lively tune, played upon a fiddle somewhere ahead, and it drew a small crowd toward a lantern-lit wooden stage set between two rows of tents.
“What’s that?” Dunk asked.
Visenya tilted her head slightly, listening.
“A puppet show.”
Curiosity pulled them closer.
The performer was a tall Dornish woman whose long limbs moved with graceful ease as she worked the strings of her puppets. Her dark hair had been tied back with bright scarves, and the lantern light painted warm bronze tones across her skin.
This was Tanselle Too-Tall.
Before her danced a painted dragon puppet with scarlet wings and snapping jaws. It roared across the stage while a wooden knight brandished a sword against it.
Children laughed. Men cheered. Someone tossed a copper coin that clinked against the stage.
Dunk watched with boyish wonder.
“Seven,” he murmured softly. “Never seen one done so well.”
Visenya’s attention lingered on the dragon.
Its wings were wrong.
Too short. Too stiff.
“A poor likeness,” she said quietly.
Dunk glanced at her.
“You’ve seen better?”
Her lips curved faintly.
“Once.”
The dragon puppet lunged again before the knight struck it down in a shower of sparks from a hidden pouch of powder.
The crowd erupted in applause.
As the spectators began drifting away, a young man approached them with an easy grin.
He wore a cloak embroidered with a bright red apple.
“Well met,” he said cheerfully. “You enjoyed the show?”
“Aye,” Dunk said. “Very much.”
“I am Raymun Fossoway.”
“Ser Duncan.”
Raymun blinked up at him.
“Seven save us,” he said with open delight. “You’re enormous.”
Visenya hid a small smile.
Raymun leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“If you’ve nowhere better to be tonight, you ought to come with me.”
Dunk frowned slightly.
“Where?”
“To the pavilion of Lyonel Baratheon.”
The name alone seemed to carry weight.
Raymun grinned wider.
“The Laughing Storm throws the finest feasts in the camp. Wine enough to drown a septon and food enough for a small army.”
He gestured toward Visenya.
“And your companion?”
“She goes where I go,” Dunk said quickly.
Raymun laughed.
“Then both of you are welcome.”
The Baratheon pavilion stood larger than most, its great canvas roof stitched with black stags that seemed ready to leap from the cloth itself.
Laughter rolled from within like distant thunder.
Inside, the air was thick with heat and noise.
Knights crowded the long tables, shouting over one another while squires carried platters of roasted boar and trenchers soaked in gravy. Wine sloshed from overflowing cups. Somewhere a singer attempted a ballad but was drowned out by drunken cheering.
At the center of it all sat a broad-shouldered man crowned with antlers of gold.
Lyonel Baratheon.
The Laughing Storm indeed.
Dunk had barely stepped inside when the great lord’s gaze fell upon him.
The laughter stopped.
Lyonel squinted across the crowded hall.
“Well now,” he boomed.
“Seven hells. You’re enormous.”
The pavilion erupted with laughter.
Dunk shifted awkwardly under the sudden attention.
Lyonel rose from his seat and strode forward with the confidence of a man accustomed to commanding every room he entered.
But when he reached Dunk, his eyes moved past him.
And settled upon Visenya.
For a heartbeat the noise of the pavilion seemed to dull.
The Baratheon lord studied her with open curiosity.
Her hood had slipped slightly in the heat of the tent, allowing strands of pale silver hair to catch the torchlight.
“Now that,” Lyonel said slowly, “is not something one sees every day.”
Visenya met his gaze without flinching.
“A traveler, my lord.”
“A traveler,” Lyonel repeated thoughtfully.
His eyes lingered on her hair, then her eyes.
Valyrian features were rare, but not unknown along the Narrow Sea.
Still…
“Not from around here, I think.”
“Few are,” she replied calmly.
For a moment Lyonel simply looked at her.
Then he laughed again, loud enough to shake the rafters.
“Well said!”
He clapped Dunk on the shoulder hard enough to nearly topple him.
“I like your company already.”
Soon enough Dunk found himself dragged into the center of the pavilion where Lyonel attempted to teach him a drunken dance. The sight of the enormous hedge knight stumbling through the steps while the Laughing Storm stamped enthusiastically at his feet sent waves of laughter through the gathered knights.
Visenya watched from near the table, amused.
Lyonel noticed.
Midway through the dance he turned and beckoned.
“You there!”
Visenya raised an eyebrow.
“Come,” Lyonel insisted.
“A lady who watches a dance must join it.”
“I would only slow you down, my lord.”
“That,” Lyonel said cheerfully, “would make two of us.”
When she stepped forward the noise of the pavilion softened again.
Lyonel offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry.
Up close he smelled faintly of wine and smoke, but his presence carried an undeniable vitality.
“Tell me something, traveler,” he said as the music resumed.
“What would a girl like you be doing wandering into a tourney camp?”
Visenya regarded him thoughtfully.
“Looking for a story.”
Lyonel grinned.
“Then you’ve come to the right place.”
For a moment their eyes met.
Something unspoken flickered there curiosity, perhaps… or recognition of a spirit not easily tamed.
Across the pavilion Dunk watched them uneasily.
Raymun walked with them partway through the torchlit rows of pavilions before turning toward his cousin’s camp.
Dunk and Visenya had gone only a short distance when a burst of loud laughter rang out nearby.
Three figures emerged from the glow of a lantern.
Between two women staggered Manfred Dondarrion, flushed with drink.
Red and Beony clung to his arms.
Dunk stepped forward quickly.
“Ser Manfred!”
The knight stopped and looked him over with open disdain.
“Yes?”
“Ser Arlan of Pennytree served your father,” Dunk said earnestly. “I hoped you might remember him.”
Manfred frowned.
“I know nothing of your penny knight.”
“But he took a wound in your service.”
Manfred snorted.
“We have forgotten men who reaped far more than wounds for us.”
Dunk swallowed.
“I need someone to vouch for me in the tourney.”
Manfred shrugged.
“And what is that to me?”
Then he turned away, taking the women with him as their laughter faded into the darkness.
Dunk stood there for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
“Come,” he said quietly.
Their camp lay beyond the tourney grounds beneath the same elm tree where Dunk had slept the night before.
But this time the fire was already lit.
And someone sat beside it.
A small bald boy looked up as they approached.
“About time you came back.”
Dunk blinked.
“You again?”
The boy grinned.
“You said you needed a squire.”
Dunk groaned softly.
“I said no such thing.”
“You will,” the boy said confidently.
“Every knight does.”
Dunk studied him for a long moment.
At last he sighed.
“Very well then.”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“What shall I call you?”
Dunk thought of Ser Arlan of Pennytree.
He straightened his shoulders.
“Ser Duncan the Tall.”
At that very moment a shooting star streaked across the dark sky above Ashford.
The boy pointed upward with delight.
“Good luck,” he said.
Visenya watched the fading trail of light across the heavens.
Dragons, she thought.
The gods were fond of sending signs in fire.
And somehow she suspected this one had not fallen for Dunk alone.
Summary : Introducing the exiled royals of Dragonstone.
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Word Count : 2.5k (short & sweet starting tbh)
A/N : Also, In this fic Aerys (born 170 AC) is eldest son and Baelor (born 172-177 AC) is second son, then Rhaegal (born 173-178 AC) and Maekar (born 174-179). Just for the whimsy of it. No seriously tho we need our girl to heir and to be the eldest grandchild of Daeron sooo here we are.
Masterlist
Chapter I
The Dragon’s Last Freedom
The sea grew darker as the afternoon waned.
Clouds had begun to gather above the waters of Blackwater Bay, turning the sky the dull color of forged steel. From the terrace of Dragonstone, Visenya could see the sails of three ships approaching the harbor, their banners snapping sharply in the rising wind. Somewhere below, men shouted as ropes were hauled tight and gangplanks lowered against the stone docks. Dragonstone had always been a fortress of quiet routines, but in the past few days it had begun to stir like a hive struck by a careless hand.
Every corridor buzzed with preparations.
Horses were being shod in the lower yards. Armor was polished until it gleamed like silver fire beneath the torchlight. Servants hurried through the halls carrying bolts of cloth and chests of travel supplies while stewards argued over the endless details of a royal journey.
All of it for a single destination.
The Ashford Tourney.
Visenya had heard the servants whispering about it for weeks now. Some spoke eagerly of the knights who would compete in the lists, recounting stories of famous champions as if they were heroes from old songs. Others spoke more quietly, with the cautious curiosity that always followed the movements of the royal family.
For this would not be merely a tourney.
It would be the last gathering of the realm before the king made his declaration.
Before Daeron II Targaryen named her the heir to his heir.
The princess turned from the terrace and walked slowly back through the archway leading into the castle. The interior corridors of Dragonstone were dim even during the day, their walls carved with dragons whose twisted bodies seemed to writhe in the shifting torchlight. The Valyrians had shaped the fortress in their own image centuries ago, long before the Doom had consumed their empire, and even now the place carried a strange sense of age and power that no other castle in Westeros quite possessed.
Visenya had always loved it.
Yet lately the halls felt smaller than they once had.
As she passed through the gallery overlooking the inner courtyard, the sounds of training drifted upward from below. Knights and men-at-arms were drilling beneath the watchful gaze of the castle’s captains, their wooden swords cracking together in steady rhythm. She paused for a moment at the stone railing, observing them with mild interest.
Knighthood fascinated the realm. Songs praised their valor, their honor, their shining armor beneath bright banners.
But Visenya had read too many histories to believe the songs.
Knights were men, and men were rarely as noble as the singers claimed.
Her thoughts drifted briefly to the stories she had heard of the coming tourney. Lords from the Reach and the Stormlands would attend, along with champions from the Vale and the riverlands. Even the king’s sons would ride to Ashford.
Prince Baelor Breakspear, the realm’s most celebrated knight, would certainly compete in the lists. His victories were the stuff of legend already, though he wore his fame with a quiet dignity that many found admirable.
His younger brother Maekar Targaryen was a very different sort of man.
Where Baelor’s reputation rested upon chivalry, Maekar’s rested upon steel.
The prince had earned renown during the First Blackfyre Rebellion, where his fury in battle had broken the rebel lines more than once. Some called him a hard man. Others called him a dangerous one.
Visenya suspected both were true.
Their sons would also attend the tourney. Baelor’s heir, Valarr Targaryen, had already begun to make a name for himself among the knights of the court, while Maekar’s children Aerion Targaryen and the younger princes were said to possess tempers as fierce as their father’s.
The princess wondered briefly how they would regard her once the king made his announcement.
Some might accept the decision.
Others might not.
The history of House Targaryen had never been kind to questions of succession.
Her fingers brushed the dragon pendant resting against her throat again. The cold metal pressed lightly against her skin, a reminder of the princess who had once challenged the realm for her crown.
Rhaenyra had believed the throne was hers by right.
So did Visenya.
Yet believing a thing and holding it were not always the same.
The sound of footsteps approached from the far end of the gallery, drawing her thoughts back to the present. A servant bowed hurriedly as he passed, clutching a stack of folded cloaks that nearly obscured his face.
“Your Grace,” he murmured.
Visenya acknowledged him with a small nod before continuing down the corridor.
She did not return to her chambers immediately. Instead, her steps carried her through a series of narrow staircases and winding halls until she emerged upon the outer battlements overlooking the sea.
From there she could see the long road that wound down from the castle gates toward the harbor village below.
That road would carry her away from Dragonstone in two days’ time.
Away from the familiar safety of the island.
Away from the quiet life she had known as simply a princess.
After Ashford, nothing would be the same.
In King's Landing, before the assembled lords of the Seven Kingdoms, the king would speak the words that would bind her future forever. Once the realm knew that Visenya Targaryen stood next in line for the Iron Throne after her father, every glance directed toward her would carry a new weight.
Every smile would hide calculation.
Every alliance would become a question of power.
And every man who approached her would do so with ambition in his heart.
Visenya rested her hands upon the cold stone of the battlements and stared toward the distant horizon.
A strange restlessness stirred within her.
All her life she had been told that the realm loved her. The smallfolk called her gentle and kind, their princess who listened when others would not. Yet those were only stories carried to Dragonstone by travellers and messengers.
Stories were not the same as truth.
If she were to rule one day, she wanted to see the Seven Kingdoms with her own eyes.
Not from the seat of a royal procession surrounded by guards and banners.
But as the people themselves saw it.
The thought came quietly at first.
Then it settled in her mind with a growing certainty.
Visenya straightened slowly, her gaze still fixed upon the road leading away from the castle.
The royal party traveling to Ashford would be large and carefully organized. Knights, servants, guards, banners-an entire procession that could be seen for miles across the countryside.
But roads were unpredictable things.
Travelers were separated from their companions every day.
Horses stumbled.
Paths forked.
Storms scattered caravans.
It would not be impossible for a single rider to lose her escort… for a time.
The princess felt a faint smile curve across her lips.
Just long enough to see the world without the weight of her name.
Just long enough to learn what the realm truly looked like beyond the walls of castles and courts.
She turned from the battlements at last and began to walk back toward the castle’s inner halls.
Somewhere deep within Dragonstone, the bells were ringing for the evening meal.
Servants would soon come searching for her again, and her mother would no doubt scold her gently for wandering the battlements alone.
Visenya did not mind.
Tonight, she would dine with her family, listen politely to the discussions of the coming journey, and allow the castle to believe she would travel to Ashford exactly as planned.
But before the tourney began…
Before the realm placed its expectations upon her shoulders…
The dragon of Dragonstone intended to fly free.
Night came slowly to Dragonstone, creeping over the island with a cold wind that carried the scent of salt and distant rain. One by one the torches along the castle walls were lit, their flames flickering against the black stone so that the carved dragons seemed almost to stir in the shifting shadows. From the harbor below came the dull groan of rigging and the slap of waves against the hulls of anchored ships, while high above the fortress the clouds gathered thick and heavy, swallowing the last light of the evening sky.
Within the castle, the great hall was alive with noise.
The long tables had been laid with roasted fish, black bread, and bowls of steaming stew, while servants moved swiftly between the benches filling cups with wine. Men spoke loudly over one another, discussing the journey ahead with the excitement that always accompanied a royal progress. Dragonstone had grown accustomed to quiet routines, but the coming tourney had filled the castle with restless energy.
At the high table sat the royal family.
Princess Visenya listened to the conversation with polite attention, though her thoughts wandered elsewhere. Her mother, Aelinor Penrose, spoke with one of the stewards about the provisions being prepared for the journey, her voice calm but firm as she questioned him on the number of wagons and the condition of the horses.
Aelinor had been raised in the stormlands, and there was something of that land’s quiet strength in her. Where her husband often seemed lost in books and contemplation, Aelinor possessed a practical mind and a keen understanding of the world beyond castle walls.
She noticed more than most people realized.
Which meant Visenya would need to be careful.
Across the table, Aerys Targaryen ate little, as was his habit. Instead, he spoke quietly with one of the castle’s maesters about a manuscript that had recently arrived from Oldtown, their conversation drifting into obscure references to ancient Valyrian prophecies that few others in the hall could follow.
Visenya allowed herself a faint smile.
Her father’s fascination with lost knowledge had long been a source of gentle amusement within the court, though those who underestimated him because of it often discovered too late that his mind was sharper than they imagined.
“Your thoughts are far away tonight.”
Her mother’s voice drew her attention back to the table.
Aelinor watched her with mild curiosity, her dark eyes perceptive.
“Are they?” Visenya replied lightly.
“They usually are when you stop eating your supper.”
Visenya glanced down at her untouched bread and laughed softly.
“I suppose the journey occupies my mind.”
“That is natural,” Aelinor said. “It will be the first time you have travelled so far without the king or your father beside you.”
Visenya nodded, though the truth was more complicated than that.
“Do you look forward to the tourney?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Visenya answered honestly. “I have read about such gatherings all my life. It will be interesting to see one with my own eyes.”
“Tournaments are loud, crowded things,” Aelinor said. “Knights breaking lances and squires shouting for their masters. I imagine your uncles will enjoy it greatly.”
At the mention of them, Visenya thought again of the men who would soon gather at Ashford.
Prince Baelor Breakspear, noble and admired throughout the realm.
Prince Maekar Targaryen, stern and formidable as a drawn sword.
They had always treated her with kindness when she visited the court in King's Landing, though both of them knew that the king’s decision would soon place her between many competing ambitions.
Family did not always remain simple when thrones were involved.
“Your grandfather believes the tourney will unite the realm after the troubles of the past years,” Aelinor continued, referring to the recent First Blackfyre Rebellion.
“Perhaps it will,” Visenya said.
Or perhaps it would simply remind the realm how many powerful men existed who might someday prefer a different ruler.
The thought did not frighten her.
If anything, it made her more curious.
The meal continued for some time after that, filled with ordinary conversation and the clatter of cups and plates. Eventually the hall began to empty as servants cleared the tables and the household prepared for the night.
Visenya excused herself quietly.
The corridors beyond the great hall were dim and peaceful compared to the noise she had left behind. Torches burned low in their brackets along the walls, casting long shadows across the carved stone dragons that lined the passageways.
She walked slowly toward her chambers, listening to the distant sound of the sea echoing through the fortress.
When she reached her rooms, the maid assigned to attend her had already prepared the bed and laid out the garments she would wear on the following day. The girl curtsied nervously when Visenya entered.
“Will Your Grace require anything else tonight?”
“No,” Visenya said gently. “You may go.”
The maid bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Silence settled over the chamber.
For a moment Visenya simply stood there, listening to the wind moving against the tower walls. Then she crossed the room and opened the large wooden chest at the foot of her bed.
Inside were the garments prepared for the journey to Ashford fine-riding clothes embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, cloaks trimmed with silver thread, and other garments suitable for a princess traveling in royal company.
Visenya looked at them thoughtfully.
Then she reached deeper into the chest and removed something very different.
The clothing was plain and practical, dark riding leathers, sturdy boots, and a cloak of rough brown wool that bore no sigil at all. A traveler’s attire, the sort worn by countless riders along the kingsroad every day.
No one looking at it would see a princess.
Visenya folded the garments carefully and set them aside upon the table.
Her heart beat a little faster now.
By dawn the castle would believe she had departed with the royal party on the road to Ashford.
And in a sense, she would have.
Just not in the way anyone expected.
She moved to the window and pushed it open, letting the cool night air sweep into the chamber. The dark waters of the bay stretched endlessly below, reflecting faint starlight where the clouds allowed it through.
Somewhere beyond those waters lay the mainland.
Beyond that, the roads of the Reach and the villages of the smallfolk who called her their princess.
Soon she would see them herself.
Visenya closed the window again and extinguished the last of the candles in the room.
Tomorrow, before the sun rose over Dragonstone’s towers, she would slip quietly from the castle and ride toward the road like any other traveler bound for the Ashford Tourney.
And if the Seven were kind, she would reach the kingsroad long before anyone realized the dragon had flown.
Far away, though she did not yet know it, a hedge knight named Duncan the Tall was already riding toward the same gathering.
Soon enough their paths would cross upon the dusty roads of the Reach.
But when that moment came, he would not meet a princess of House Targaryen.
He would meet only a young woman traveling alone beneath a borrowed name.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing :- Baelor Targaryen x oc, Maekar Targaryen x oc, Lyonel Baratheon x oc, Valarr Targaryen x oc, Daeron Targaryen x oc, Aerion Targaryen x oc, Ser Ducan The Tall x oc
Can u make dividers/ welcome to my diary
with the theme: red , black dragons and blood?
( daenerys targaryen inspired )
hiii thank you for the request @xnadiahxx!! i dont really know what daenerys targaryen is so ive done my best. clearly i got a bit carried away and made that header but i hope u like ittt!! lmk if you want any details/colours changed or added <3
