CHAPTER TWO : Aerion targaryen × OC fanfiction
Lynissa of House Stokeworth—daughter of a dying lord, heir to nothing but her father's hopes—arrives at the Ashford Meadow tourney with her siblings, and a heart still carrying a childhood crush on a prince who doesn't remember her name. Then she meets Prince Aerion Targaryen.one act of honor will bind their fates forever .
You can find chapter One on my profile.
The heat came early to Ashford Meadow, rising from the grass in shimmering waves that made the distant pavilions waver in the sight . By the time the sun had cleared the treeline, the air was thick and golden and heavy with the smell of horses and sweat and the sweet perfume of wildflowers crushed under countless feet.
Lynissa lifted her chin and walked.
Behind her came her siblings. Before them, the tourney grounds sprawled like a small city: tents of every color, banners snapping in the warm breeze, the distant crash of practice swords and the low rumble of a thousand conversations all tangled together.
Music and people having fun all around.
The heat reminded her of Dorne.
The Water Gardens, she thought, and for a moment she was there,a child again, her mother's hand warm in hers, the splash of fountains cooling the air,. She had been happy there. Truly happy. Before her mother closed her eyes in that sunlit chamber and never opened them again.
"Lynissa. Are you listening?"
She blinked. The meadow snapped back into focus.
Agnes was beside her, Her maid—her friend, her best friend, though a lady wasn't supposed to call her maid that—had been chattering for the past hour about flowers and princes and the kind of nonsense that made tourneys bearable.
"I'm listening," Lynissa said, though she hadn't been.
"Who do you think sent them?" Agnes demanded, falling into step beside her as they wound through the press of bodies. The noble boxes were ahead, rising like a wooden wave from the edge of the lists, already half-filled with lords and ladies in their finest silks. "The flowers. The white roses. This morning. Who?"
Lynissa allowed herself a small smile. "Does it matter? Only a coward sends flowers with no name. The boy who delivered that basket to our tent disappeared before I could blink."
Agnes chuckled, her grip tightening on Lynissa's arm as a knight in full plate pushed past them, his squire trailing behind with an armful of lances. "Oh yes. But what kind of coward sends flowers to a lady before she's even unpacked?" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Plus, they were the fancy kind. From the Reach. Those roses didn't grow in some hedge—they came from a hothouse, I'd wager my mother's best silver on it. Whoever sent them has coin, Lyn. And taste."
"Or a steward with taste," Lynissa said dryly. "Are we starting the marriage talk again? We haven't even seen this one, and you're already rooting for him."
They reached the noble boxes, climbing the wooden steps that led to the Stokeworth seats.
Emil had already found his seat, wedged between a portly lord from the Reach and a lady whose feathered headdress kept brushing his cheek. He looked miserable, which was how he usually looked in crowds, and Lynissa felt a familiar pang of sympathy.
Dahlia, by contrast, was leaning over the railing, waving frantically at someone in the crowd below.
"Dahlia." Lynissa settled onto the bench beside her sister, arranging her skirts with practiced ease. "You can't wave like that. It's unladylike."
Dahlia's smile died. She turned to face her brother, who had spoken, and her eyes narrowed. "Leave me be, Emil."
"Children." Lynissa's voice was calm, unhurried—the voice she had used since she was twelve years old to keep the peace between two siblings who loved each other but didn't always like each other. "No fighting in public. We talked about this."
She turned her attention to the royal seats.
They were easy to find—higher than the rest, draped in crimson and black, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen writhing on every banner. And there, in the center, sat Prince Baelor Breakspear himself.
She had seen him at the feast the night before, of course. Everyone had. He was impossible to miss—the crown prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, the man they said was the best of them all. He had his mother's Dornish coloring, dark hair and olive skin, and when he smiled, the whole room seemed to warm with him.
He was her mother's cousin, though she had never dared claim the connection. What was a Stokeworth to a prince? What was a sheep lord's daughter to the man who would one day be king?
Still. She looked at him, and she felt a thread of something—pride, perhaps, or longing—twine around her heart.
Beside Baelor sat Lord Ashford and his daughter, both beaming with the pride of hosts who had done everything right. On Baelor's other side, slightly set back, sat Prince Maekar.
She had heard stories about Maekar. Everyone had. The brooding prince, the stern warrior, the man who had been passed over for honors that should have been his. He looked the part—silver-gold hair cropped short, a face carved from granite, eyes that seemed to be looking at something far away that no one else could see.
And then, two seats down from Maekar, Lynissa saw her.
Kiera of Tyrosh. Prince Valarr's wife.
She was beautiful in a way that was almost unsettling—pink hair, pink long curls cascading over brown skin that seemed to glow in the morning light. Her gown was Tyroshi silk, layers of lavender and gold that shifted with every breath, and her jewelry was heavy with sapphire and pearls.
Lynissa's stomach tightened. She looked away.
Agnes leaned in, her voice a whisper. "The young princes aren't in the royal seats. Do you think they'll joust?" She nudged Lynissa's arm, a grin spreading across her face. "Prince Valarr. Your Prince Valarr. They say he's one of Lady Ashford's champions."
"Lower your voice." Lynissa grabbed Agnes's wrist, her grip firmer than she intended. "He's not mine. He's a married man."
Agnes glanced at Kiera—at her pink hair, her foreign gown, her self-possessed smile—and opened her mouth to speak.
The horn cut through the air.
The crowd roared. The lists fell silent. And from the far end of the meadow, riding through the gap in the barriers, came Prince Valarr of House Targaryen.
He was everything the stories said he was.
Tall and straight-backed, with dark hair that fell to his collar and mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—that seemed to catch the sunlight and hold it. His armor was black steel the dragon of his house spread across his chest in gleaming enamel, and his horse was a white stallion that moved like water, like silk, like a dream given form.
The crowd went wild for him. They screamed and pressed against the barriers just to be closer to him.
Lynissa smiled. She couldn't help it.
He looks serious, she thought. He looks like a man who knows he has responsibilities and knows how to live up to them.
She remembered him differently.a young boy with kind eyes who was somewhere under this public mask of the noble prince.
His opponent was a knight from House Rosby—a stout man in grey armor who looked like he had spent a fortune on a horse he couldn't control and armor that didn't quite fit. The two men took their positions, lances raised, and the crowd held its breath.
Valarr's lance struck true—square in the center of the Rosby knight's shield—and the man flew from his horse like a sack of grain, landing in the dirt with a clatter that made Lynissa wince.
The crowd erupted. Valarr circled his horse, raising his lance in salute, and for just a moment, his mismatched eyes swept over the noble boxes.
He was looking at Kiera—his wife, his beautiful Tyroshi wife—and his smile widened as she waved at him and the crowd went wild for the show , valarr helped the rosby knight who looked not bothered one bit after loosing for the golden prince, quite the opposite.
The next pair of knights were announced, and the crowd's attention shifted. A herald in crimson and gold stepped forward, his voice carrying across the meadow like a stone skipping across water.
"Ser Humphrey hardyng Against Prince Aerion Brightflame of house targaryen!"
Dahlia grabbed Lynissa's arm "Prince Aerion," she breathed. "They call him Brightflame. They say he earned the name for being so dragon like"
"They call him other things too," Emil muttered from his seat, not bothering to hide his disdain. "The Monster. The Cruel. I heard he poured boiling oil on a man's face because he insulted the crown ."
"Emil." Lynissa's voice was sharp. "Not in front of Dahlia."
"She's sixteen, not six. She should know—"
Emil fell silent, but his jaw stayed tight.
And she saw him for the first time.
He rode out from the far end of the lists with the easy confidence of a man who had never doubted his place in the world. His armor was black—not the practical black of boiled leather, but the deep, polished black of obsidian, of midnight, of something that drank the light and gave nothing back. His helm was shaped like the head of a dragon, and for a moment—just a moment—Lynissa understood why the smallfolk crossed themselves when he rode past.
He did actually look like a dragon himself. A living, breathing dragon in human skin.
He removed the helm as he approached the center of the lists, tucking it under his arm.
She hadn't expected that.
She had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had.
She had imagined someone twisted. Someone ugly, inside and out.
But the man who rode into the lists was beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful—sharp, gleaming, made to cut. He had the classic Valyrian look: silver-gold hair pulled back from his face its short ends had a neat spiky like curl ,His eyes were the color of pale amethyst almost wrong in a face that was otherwise too perfect.
His mouth was curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
He looked over the crowd the way a hawk looked over a field of mice.
"Gods," Agnes whispered beside her. "He's lovely. And terrifying. How is that even possible?"
Lynissa didn't answer. She was watching the lists, watching the man who sat on his horse like he owned the earth beneath it.
And Aerion Targaryen charged.
He was terrifyingly good. That was the first thought that cut through Lynissa's shock. He moved like water, like wind, like something that had been born in the saddle and would die there. His lance didn't waver. His seat didn't shift. He was perfect—the kind of perfect that came from years of practice and a complete absence of fear.
The hardyng knight was good too. Lynissa could see that. He was strong, skilled, the kind of knight who won tourneys.
The first pass: lances shattered. The crowd roared.
The second pass: Aerion's lance struck humphrey's shield so hard the man swayed in his saddle.
Not lowered. Dropped—aimed at the horse's neck.
The crack of impact was a sound Lynissa would never forget. The horse screamed. It was a sound that was almost human, a cry for help.
Humphrey hardyng went down with it, his leg trapped beneath the falling animal, and the crack of his bones breaking was even worse than the horse's scream it was a man's leg snapping like a twig,his voice joining the animal's in a duet of pain.
Aerion circled his horse.
He wasn't looking at the fallen knight or the dying horse. He was looking at the crowd. At their faces. At their horror.
A serving girl ran forward with a cup of wine. Aerion took it, drank it slowly, and handed it back.
He didn't look back. Not at the horse—still screaming, still thrashing, still dying—and not at the man whose leg was bent at an angle that made Lynissa's stomach turn.
The crowd erupted in protest. shouts and curses.
Kingsguard appeared. Three of them, white cloaks streaming, their hands on their sword hilts. They formed a wall between Aerion and the furious men.
Dahlia had buried her face in her sister's shoulder.
Emil stood up so fast he nearly knocked over the lady with the feathered headdress. "What a fucking monster," he spat, his voice shaking with fury. "Sister, we should leave. It's dangerous."
She looked at her brother's extended hand then back at the crowds , the house Targaryen was truly loosing its spot these days she thought, she never thought about seeing smallfolk trying to attack a Targaryen prince.
She took Emil's hand and just like that the Stokeworths left the jousting lists.
Evening came slowly to Ashford Meadow, the crowds retreated to their tents, the knights to their cups, the servants to their gossip.
Lynissa sat on a stool in the Stokeworth tent, her hair loose around her shoulders, her gown discarded for a simple linen shift.
Agnes stood behind her, brush in hand, pulling through Lynissa's chestnut hair with long, even strokes. It was a ritual they had.
"What a day," Agnes said calmly.
"What a day indeed," Lynissa replied. She was staring at the canvas wall of the tent.
Agnes's brush paused. "The Ashford handmaiden told me something interesting. During the afternoon."
"There was a big fight. In the royal chambers."
Lynissa turned her head slightly. "I can only imagine how mad Prince Maekar was. I mean, only a fool would think Aerion didn't mean to aim at the horse's neck."
"The maid said he told Aerion to give his stallion to Ser Hardyng. And to send him his own gold as compensation." Agnes resumed brushing, her strokes slower now. "Aerion was furious. They say he loves that jousting horse more than his own brothers." She laughed
"I wouldn't be surprised, though," Agnes continued. "He looked like he'd dedicated his life to being as perfect in the saddle as he was today. The way he moved"
Lynissa twisted on the stool to face her friend.
"Let's not give him credit for anything, shall we?" she said. "He literally almost killed a man just to avoid losing.he's a coward"
"Alright," agnes laughed. "No credit for the monster."
Lynissa held her gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. The fire in her chest dimmed, replaced by something heavier—something that felt like shame, though she couldn't have said why.
Lynissa rose from the stool, crossing to the wooden chest at the foot of her cot. She knelt, unlatching the lid, and began shifting through the folded clothes inside—her riding leathers, worn soft from years of use, smelling faintly of saddle soap and the Stokeworth stables.
"I'm going for a ride," she said. "Before the sun sets. I need air."
Agnes set the brush down on the small folding table, her forehead creased with concern. "Don't take long. We have to attend the Baratheon feast tonight"
"I know," Lynissa said, pulling her leathers from the chest. "I'll be back before the first course. I promise."
Agnes watched her for a moment, then nodded. "Be careful."
Lynissa smiled—a small, genuine thing—and began to dress.
The afternoon was gold and honey and the kind of soft light that made liars of old faces and angels of plain ones. Lynissa rode out from the tourney grounds on Nightshade, her beloved black mare, the horse she had raised from a foal and loved more than most people.
The path followed the river, the tourney noise faded behind her—the laughter, the music, the endless low murmur of a thousand voices—until all she could hear was the rhythm of Nightshade's hooves and the soft rush of the river beside her.
She let the mare pick her way, her reins loose, her mind churning.
She thought about her father, alone at Stokeworth, too sick to travel. The fact that she is loosing him slowly killed her.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't hear the hoofbeats until they were almost on top of her.
She almost rode directly into him.
The horse came around the bend like a shadow given form—black as pitch, black as ink, black as the heart of the man who rode it. Its rider wore dark leathers and a silver dragon at his throat, and his hair was the color of molten gold in this light.
He pulled up sharply. His horse reared—just enough, just precisely enough to show he was in complete control. Nightshade shied beneath her, and Lynissa steadied her with a hand on her neck and a soft "Easy, easy," because she would not be thrown from a horse in front of this monster.
For one long, terrible, electric breath, they stared at each other.
The sun was behind him. It haloed his silver-gold hair like a crown on fire, like the stories of the Conqueror, like something out of the old songs.
And she had watched him kill a horse for no reason.
The silence stretched for a long moment before he cut it with his controlled voice.
He nodded. Too polite, she thought, for a man so dishonorable.
She did not lower her gaze.
"You should watch your step," he said.
"If I recall correctly," she replied, her voice cool as river water, "it was your horse that cut my path. Riding much too fast for a gentleman."
"I didn't realize I was in the presence of a lady with a sharp tongue"
He looked at her coldly. Nothing in his face was readable—no anger, no amusement, no recognition of the morning's horror. Just... stillness. Like a beast waiting to strike.
"Well," he said, his voice clipped, "I would suggest you do not ride in the woods. It's not precisely safe for a lady to ride alone while the sun is setting."
He was definitely annoyed. And it was definitely a threat ,She could hear it in the tightness of his words.
But it wasn't showing on her face.
"Why does His Majesty assume I'm of noble birth?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or even important enough to be attacked, if I may ask?"
And their horses began to circle.
She hadn't noticed it happening—hadn't seen who moved first, him or her or the horses themselves. But suddenly they were moving, slow and deliberate, around and around on the narrow path, the river glittering beside them.
"No common lady carries herself like that," he said. "I might say. And no noble or common lady talks back to me. Or forget to bow for her prince for instance "
She looks at him ignoring his comment and making one of her own.
" is it the fact that i interrupted your rage full ride, thats why you re annoyed with me your grace ? " she said
"You have a death wish, my lady?"
"Not at all. But i suggest you ride slower listening to the river while riding is much more calming in my opinion "
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and bright as drawn steel.
They made eye contact in silence for another moment. The horses had stopped circling.
"If you'll excuse me, my prince," she said sharply, holding her reins, not breaking eye contact. "I should return to my tents before the sun sets."
Then: "I hope to see you again, my lady."
She turned Nightshade and rode away.
But she felt his eyes on her the whole way—burning, watching, wanting,and she did not breathe easily until the tourney lights appeared through the trees.
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