Chapter Seven : Aerion Targaryen x OC Fanfiction
Summary: Prince Aerion finally found himself a cure to his boredom in the ashford tourney, an independent, stubborn noble lady , how long will it take her to Crack under the dragon's charm.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆Slow burn, the political game in 209 AC in Westeros, tourney arc, Aerion Targaryen x OC.
Chapter 6 Chapter 5 Chapter 4 Chapter 3 Chapter 2 Chapter 1
Lynissa could not stop thinking of whatever had happened between her and Aerion in that corridor.
She had lain awake half the night, staring at the canvas ceiling of her tent, replaying the moment over and over. His hand on her wrist. His breath on her lips.
The afternoon sun was high and unforgiving when she finally rose from her cot. The tourney grounds hummed with distant cheers—the jousting, she assumed. She had not gone. She could not bear to watch men in armor pretending at honor while she was having an existential crisis .
Agnes had taken Dahlia to watch an archery competition, hoping to lift the girl's spirits. Dahlia had blamed herself for everything. No amount of reassurance could convince her otherwise.
"She will come around," Agnes had said. "She just needs time."
Time, Lynissa thought bitterly. Time is the one thing I do not have.
She dressed quickly—a simple gown practical for walking.
Where do I go? What do I do?
She had spent her entire life knowing exactly what needed to be done. The accounts. The lands. The household. The endless, unceasing work of keeping Stokeworth afloat. Now, with all of that stripped away, she felt adrift—a ship without an anchor.
She stepped out into the tourney grounds.
The afternoon bustle was a welcome assault on the senses. Merchants hawked their wares from colorful tents. Children darted between legs, laughing. Knights in gleaming armor strutted past with their squires trailing behind them like ducklings.
And everywhere—everywhere—eyes followed her.
She felt them like a physical weight. The whispers started as soon as she passed.
Despite her sweaty palms and the unease she felt she kept her chin high. Let them look. Let them whisper. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me cower.
She found herself drawn to a large pavilion draped in rich fabrics from Essos—silks and velvets in colors she had never seen in Westeros.
"Ah, my lady! You honor my humble establishment. Please, browse. I have silks from Qarth, spices from the Summer Isles, and—" the merchant inside gestured toward the back of the tent. "Tapestries from Myr. The finest in all the known world."
Lynissa nodded politely, She moved through the tent, her fingers trailing over bolts of fabric.
Until she stood infront of a large finely made tapestry, It depicted a classic, idealized scene of chivalry: a handsome knight leaning down from his great warhorse, his eyes softening as he reached out to a beautiful maiden standing in a field of wildflowers.
Then she felt someone stand next to her . Before she even looked up, the scent found her—expensive Myrish oils, sharp leather, and a faint, distinct hint of woodsmoke.
Her pulse didn't just jump; it hammered violently against her ribs. She looked up.
It was him.
Aerion Brightflame stood less than an arm's length away. He didn't look at her. He kept his piercing violet eyes fixed entirely on the tapestry, his face an unreadable, majestic mask.
Is he fucking following me?
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lynissa forced her spine to stiffen. She gave a tight, perfectly formal nod. "Your Grace."
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said , his eyes never leaving the tapestry "The Myrish are masters of weaving lies."
Lynissa followed his gaze to the knight and his lady. "You don't believe in love?" she said quietly.
"I believe in what I can hold in my hands," he said simply. "Everything else is just words. I believe in power. Legacy. Myself." He looked at her. "The dragon."
She studied the tapestry for a long moment, her fingers hovering near the woven threads. "My parents loved each other," she said quietly. "My mother was a princess of Dorne. She could have married anyone—a lord, a prince, a king. You know my grandfather wanted her to marry Prince Baelor himself." She smiled faintly. "Instead, she chose my father. A minor lord from the Crownlands. She pushed aside royal traditions... for him."
Aerion was silent, watching her.
"They were happy," she continued, her voice softening. "Truly happy. Until she died. And even after—my father never remarried. He never even looked at another woman." She turned to face him. "The smallfolk speak of your father the same way. How he loved your mother so fiercely that he never married again—"
She stopped.
Because Aerion's face had gone very, very still.
His violet eyes were fixed on her, but something had shifted behind them. Something cold and wounded. His eyelid twitched. Once. Twice. A violent, involuntary flutter.
He blinked rapidly, as though trying to shake off a fly.
"The joust," he said abruptly, his voice laced with irritation. "Why weren't you watching the joust today?"
The change was so sudden, so jarring, that Lynissa blinked in confusion.
"I... I was not feeling well," she said slowly.
"You were not feeling well." His voice was irritated now—was he angry with her? "Or you were avoiding me?"
"I was not avoiding you," she said, her pride flaring. "I had no reason to avoid you."
Aerion grabbed her wrist.
His grip was firm ,his thumb pressing against her racing pulse. She could feel the heat of his skin against hers, could feel the calluses on his fingers from years of sword work.
"There's no escaping me, you know," he murmured, his voice dropping to that dangerous, quiet register . "Soon enough, you will be always under my watch. In the Red Keep."
His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, featherlight.
Lynissa closed her eyes.
Even her breathing was audible now—shallow, rapid, betraying every ounce of composure she was trying to maintain. And there it was again, those sensations she had never known before him. When other lords tried to push, she always was the fiercer, the stronger, the one who stood her ground. She had never been the one to yield.
But with this dragon prince and his intoxicating smell and touch, she was putty in his hands.
He took her chin, tilting her face up towards his.
"When you are in the Red Keep," he said softly, his eyes burning into her delicate features drinking her in "you shouldn't look for love, Lady Stokeworth. To play the game there, you have to be smart.Or else you will get tossed away too soon."
His thumb traced the line of her jaw gently.
"And I would be very sad," he murmured, "if my favorite new distraction was out of the game way too soon."
She opened her eyes, met his.
They looked at each other—really looked. Her lips parted, a breath caught between them, the air thick and heavy with something unspeakable.
And then—
A single sound. The merchant, moving in the back of the tent, arranging his wares.
Lynissa snapped out of it like a drowning woman breaking the surface. She snatched her hand away, pulling back and clearing her throat.
"Well noted, Prince Aerion," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
She raised her chin, refusing to look at him.
Aerion smiled—that satisfied, infuriating smile of his. He realized he was breaking this fierce, impossibly strong woman's composure, and he was enjoying every moment of it. After all this was a fun game for him.
"If you have nothing to do," he said casually, "I would love if you accompanied me on a stroll through the other tents."
Her head snapped toward him. "I would hate to take the precious time of the prince who clearly thinks himself above all men." She glared at him.
He shrugged, still smiling. "I have no better thing to do." He paused, his smirk widening. "Plus, having the favor of the dragon will get you a good match and cut your misery."
She looked at him, studying his smug face.
The words burned in her chest. He was doing it again—playing with her, baiting her, treating her like a piece on his board. And the worst part? He was right. The court would see her differently if she was seen with him. They would whisper, they would wonder, they would fear her—and fear was power in King's Landing.
She hated that he was right.
"Very well!" she snapped, and she started walking out of the tent.
A surprised Aerion followed her.
"Lady Stokeworth," he called, his voice tinged with amusement. "I believe the stroll was meant to be together."
She didn't slow. "Then keep up, Your Grace."
his strides lengthened, catching up to her in three quick steps.
"You are impossible," he said, falling into step beside her, that same smirk on his lips.
"And you are insufferable," she shot back.
He glanced at her, his violet eyes glittering with amusement.
They walked through merchant tents, the afternoon sun beating down on them. Lynissa kept her chin high, ignoring the whispers that followed in their wake. Aerion walked beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of studied nonchalance.
"Here," he said, gesturing toward a smaller tent draped in rich fabrics of deep purple and gold. A wooden sign hung above the entrance, painted with words in a script Lynissa didn't recognize. "I find myself in need of a refreshment"
"Your Grace," the merchant said, bowing low. "What an honor. What can I offer you today?"
Aerion waved a dismissive hand. "Surprise us. Something strong. Something that will make my lady loosen up a little."
She crossed her arms. "I do not need to loosen up."
" You walk around like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."
"Perhaps that's because I am."
"Exactly." He turned back to the merchant. "Surprise us."
The merchant nodded, He reached for a bottle of dark liquid and poured two small glasses. The liquid was almost black, with a faint greenish sheen. He gave aerion the glass first.
"From the Summer Isles," the merchant said. "Very strong. Very... acquired taste."
Aerion picked up his glass, examining it with exaggerated interest. "Acquired taste. I like the sound of that."
He raised the glass to his lips and drank.
Lynissa watched as his eyes went wide, his face contorting in a way that was almost comical.
"Seven hells—" he choked, slamming the glass down on the counter. His eyes were watering. "What in the name of all the gods—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. He was coughing, sputtering, his composure utterly shattered.
Lynissa laughed.
It was a surprised laugh, a genuine laugh, pulled out of her before she could stop . her eyes crinkled, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to try to stifle the sound.
But she couldn't stop.
The horrified merchant hurried to give the humiliated prince water, he was familiar with the brightflame's temper after all he didn't want to lose his head.
Aerion drunk until the taste died in his throat as he set the goblet down he found lynissa smiling observing him.
"You are enjoying this way too much " he said annoyed like a child who just lost a game , he put a silver coin in the merchant's and walked out not even bothering to wait for her , she nodded politely to the merchant and followed aerion.
They found themselves examining Dornish silks next, their colors so vibrant they seemed to glow in the afternoon light. Aerion moved through the stall , his fingers trailing over bolts of fabric with practiced familiarity. He would lift a piece, hold it to the light, examine the weave with the critical eye of a master artisan.
"This one is poorly dyed," he said turning his head to look at her.
She blinked at him. "You know about fabrics?"
He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "I wear the finest clothes in the Seven Kingdoms, Lady Stokeworth. Did you think I simply... stumbled into them?"
"I thought you had servants for that," she admitted.
"I do," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But I also have eyes. And a very particular sense of what suits me."
" A man's appearance is his first weapon. Before he speaks, before he acts, before he draws his sword—his appearence tell the world who he is." He explained.
She considered this, looking at him with new eyes.
"And what do they tell the world now?" she asked
He smiled—a slow smile. "That I am a dragon. That I am not to be trifled with. That I have the wealth and the taste to look like i do."
She nodded slowly. "That is... remarkably strategic."
He held up a bolt of deep forest green, studying her with those piercing violet eyes.
"This one," he said. "This would suit you."
She stepped closer, examining the fabric. It was beautiful—rich and deep, with an almost liquid sheen. Her fingers brushed against it, feeling the quality of the weave.
"The green brings out the warmth in your skin," he continued, his voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur.
She looked up at him, surprised by the observation, he was too caught with the fabrics to notice her.
He was standing close, the afternoon light catching his silver-gold hair. His doublet was deep blood-red silk, expertly tailored to his lean frame. The embroidery was subtle but exquisite—silver thread tracing the outline of a dragon along the shoulders. The fabric moved with him like water, clinging to the lines of his chest, the taper of his waist.
He is beautiful, she realized. He is absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
Her eyes traced the line of his shoulders, the way the fabric hugged his chest, the lean strength evident beneath the fine fabric. She imagined what it would feel like to press her palm against that chest, to feel the heat of his skin—
"You are staring," he said, not turning around.
She snapped her gaze away. "I am not."
"You are." He turned to face her fully, that infuriating smirk firmly in place. "I do not mind. It is flattering to know that even the fierce Lady Stokeworth can be distracted by a well-tailored doublet."
"I was simply... curious."
"Curious about your choice of fabric." He stepped closer "About the fabric? Or about what lies beneath it?"
She looks at him for a moment before snatching the fabric he chose for her and pushing past him moving towards the merchant to pay, she wasn't going to let him pay for her after all.
The afternoon sun was beginning to wane as they made their way through the final row of tents.
Lynissa had lost track of how long they had been walking—but somehow, the time had passed like a dream. She had not thought about her father's illness, or Emil's cowardice, or Dahlia's guilt. She had not thought about King's Landing,or the uncertain future that awaited her.
She had simply... been.
They reached the edge of the tourney grounds, where the Stokeworth pavilion rose in the distance. Aerion stopped walking, turning to face her.
"This is where I leave you," he said quietly.
She looked up at him " have a good evening prince Aerion"
"Rest well" he smiled
She nodded and entered the tent and he stood there until she was out of sight.
End of chapter Seven.
