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another bad dream?
𝑨𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 .✦ ݁˖
CHAPTER FOUR : AERION TARGARYEN X OC FANFICTION
Summary : Lynissa of house stokeworth is a minor noble lady attending ashford tourney with her siblings she got entangled in a mess that she never thought about.
Lynissa tossed in her cot, unable to sleep.
The canvas ceiling of the tent blurred above her in the darkness, shapeless and gray. She had been staring at it for hours—through the dying of the torches outside, through the hush of the camp settling, through the distant howl of some animal in the hills. Sleep would not come. Her mind was a cage of wolves, and they were all screaming.
She was far too concerned for her brother.
Emil, who used to hide behind her skirts when they were children. Emil, who cried when their mother died and never quite stopped.
He will fight tomorrow, she told herself. He has to.
But the words felt hollow.
She turned her head on the pillow and looked at Dahlia.
The girl was curled on her side, her face slack with exhaustion, her cheeks still wet with tears she had cried herself to sleep. The little one. Poor girl. Lynissa felt a surge of anger—at Dahlia for being naive enough to walk off with a stranger twice her age, at the Lannister for being what he was, at the world for being the kind of place where a sixteen-year-old's mistake could destroy an entire house.
But she understood her sister.
She understood.
Dahlia wanted a good marriage. That was what noblewomen were trained to do since birth—smile, curtsy, spread their legs for men they didn't love. Dahlia was impatient. Enthusiastic.
This is how Westeros treats those, Lynissa thought bitterly.
She rose from the cot.
Her bare feet touched the cold grass floor of the tent. She pulled her cape from the hook by the entrance and wrapped it around her shoulders, the wool rough against her skin. Then she stepped outside.
The night was fading.
Not yet dawn—not quite—but the sky had begun to lighten at the edges, a thin line of pale gold bleeding into the darkness like a wound healing. The torches had burned low, their flames small and desperate. The camp was quiet. Most of the tents were dark. A few knights still sat by their fires, drinking, talking in low voices, their laughter muted by the hour.
Lynissa walked without purpose, her feet carrying her toward the edge of the meadow where the river ran. She needed air.
"Unable to sleep, my lady?"
She turned.
Ser Marlon emerged, his grey hair catching the last light of the dying torches. His face was lined with years and worry, but his eyes—his eyes were kind. They had always been kind. He had served her father for thirty years. He had taught her to ride a horse.
He was the closest thing to a father she had in here, and she could not look at him.
Lynissa turned her gaze back to the meadow. The river glittered in the distance, black and silver.
"Something like that," she said.
Ser Marlon came to stand beside her. He did not speak. He simply stood there, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm of her thoughts.
After a long moment, he put his hand on her shoulder.
"Emil will win," he said. "Do not worry yourself sick over it."
Lynissa turned her gaze to him—sharp, cold, the look she had learned to wear like armor.
"If Emil dies, we are ruined, Ser Marlon. The house will have no heir. And my little sister will carry the title of whore for the rest of her life."
Ser Marlon's hand fell away.
He looked at the sky—at the slow creep of gold, the fading of the stars, the promise of a dawn that felt more like a threat.
"I will wake Emil," he said quietly. "We can all talk. Together." He paused. "And please, my lady... do not put more weight on him than he can carry. He needs kind words this morning. Not warnings. You already had your share of those yesterday."
Lynissa looked at him—that deep, cold look she had learned from her mother, the one that made servants lower their eyes and lords stumble over their words.
Then she nodded.
Ser Marlon turned and walked toward the tent where Emil slept.
Lynissa remained, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
One minute passed.
Then two.
Then the sound of Ser Marlon's boots—rushing—cracked the silence like a whip.
Lynissa turned.
Ser Marlon was running toward her, his face pale, his mouth open, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"My lady—"
"What?"
"Emil. His horse. They are nowhere to be seen."
Lynissa's blood went cold.
"Are you sure?" Her voice was sharp, too sharp, cutting through the dawn like a blade. "Have you looked behind the tents? Perhaps he went out to—to relieve himself, or—"
"His horse is gone, Lynissa."
Ser Marlon never called her by her first name. Never. He was too proper, too old-fashioned, too aware of the distance between a knight and his lady.
Hearing it now felt like a death sentence.
Lynissa pushed past him and ran to Emil's tent.
She threw back the canvas flap.
Empty.
The cot was undisturbed. The blankets were folded, as if he had never slept in them at all. His saddle was gone. The small chest where he kept his coin was open and empty.
Lynissa stood in the center of the empty tent, her chest heaving, her hands shaking. Then she started kicking.
She kicked the cot. She kicked the chest. She kicked the wooden pole that held the tent upright, and when it didn't break, she grabbed a clay jug from the floor and threw it against the canvas wall. It shattered. Water ran down the fabric like tears.
"Why?" she screamed. "Why would he abandon me? Abandon us?"
She sank to the floor, her back against the cot, her face in her hands.
"Dahlia needed him," she sobbed. "I needed him. I needed him to be brave just once—"
Ser Marlon stood in the entrance of the tent, his old face carved with pity. He waited until her sobs quieted, until her breathing slowed, until she lifted her head and looked at him with eyes that were red and raw and furious.
He sat down beside her on the cold grass floor.
"Let me be your champion, my lady," he said quietly. "Or any younger knight of our household. They will fight for you. Your household men respect you. They would protect little Dahlia's honor in a blink of an eye."
Lynissa shook her head.
"My brother will forever be seen as a coward," she said. Her voice was hollow. Empty. "And so will my house. A house that produced no great knights, no exceptional beauties." She laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "I suppose they were right about us after all."
Ser Marlon looked at her. His eyes begged her to reconsider.
"Can you leave me alone for a moment, Ser Marlon?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"The trial is to start shortly, my lady."
"I am well aware."
Ser Marlon rose. He looked down at her—this girl he had watched grow from a jolly child into a woman who carried the weight of an entire house on her shoulders—and his heart broke for her.
Then he left.
Lynissa sat alone in her brother's empty tent and breathed.
---
She did not know how long she sat there.
Minutes. An hour. The whole lifetime of a girl who had just learned that the brother she loved was a coward.
But eventually, she rose.
Her legs were steady. Her hands had stopped shaking. Her face was dry, though her eyes still burned.
She walked , opened the wooden chest where her brother's armor lay—the armor he had abandoned, She stared down at the pieces.
Grey steel. The Stokeworth lamb etched into the breastplate. A helm that would be too big for her, but not by much.
A Stokeworth must protect their house's honor. She was a Stokeworth.
She remembered the words of her master-at-arms, the day he had brought a squire twice her size to the practice yard. She had been fifteen, already taller than most girls, already stronger than anyone expected.
"It is not with your size that you win, Lynissa," he had said. "It is with how you move. How smart you move. How precise you strike."
Her brother was not a large man. His armor would fit her well enough.
She began to dress.
Piece by piece. Greaves first, then breastplate, then vambraces. The steel was cold against her skin, but she did not shiver. She pulled her brown hair into a messy braid and tucked it beneath her collar. The helm she tucked under her arm.
She rose and sighed.
This is it, Lynissa, she thought. Either you live with the consequences of not protecting your siblings well enough—or you fix it yourself.
She had always blamed herself. Her father's illness. Emil's cowardice. Dahlia's naivety. She carried them all, these weights, these failures, these children she had raised when she was barely more than a child herself.
She stepped out of the tent.
The tourney grounds were already filling.
Word had spread. Of course it had. Who would miss the chance to watch a Lannister crush a Stokeworth boy? The noble boxes were half-full. The common folk pressed against the barriers, their faces bright with the hunger for blood. Bets were being placed. Laughter rang out across the meadow.
Lynissa walked through the crowd with her helm on.
No one recognized her. They saw the grey steel of House Stokeworth, the modest size of the figure beneath it, and they assumed—as she had known they would—that it was Emil. A few men clapped her on the shoulder as she passed. "Good luck, boy." "Don't die too fast."
She said nothing.
She led her mare—Nightshade, steady and loyal—to the edge of the lists. The horse had carried her since she was fourteen. She had never asked for more than what Lynissa could give.
Today, she would ask for everything.
Lynissa mounted and rode onto the field.
Lucion Lannister was waiting for her.
He sat on his grey stallion at the far end of the lists, surrounded by a cluster of knights in crimson and gold. He was laughing—head thrown back, mouth wide, the laugh of a man who had already counted his winnings. His men laughed with him. They saw the small figure in grey steel approaching.
"There he is!" Lucion called out, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "The little sheep lord, come to be slaughtered!"
More laughter.
Lynissa rode to the center of the field and stopped.
She reached up and removed her helm.
The crowd gasped.
"A girl?"
"That's not Emil Stokeworth—"
"That's the sister—"
Lucion's smile faltered. His eyes narrowed.
"You," he said.
"I," Lynissa said.
She dismounted. Her boots sank into the soft grass. She stood before him glaring.
"I am Lynissa of House Stokeworth," she said, her voice carrying across the silent field. "Daughter of Princess Rhea Martell of Dorne. And I will answer for my sister's honor."
Lucion stared at her.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Where is your brother, girl?" he roared. "Is he hiding behind your skirts? I would expect nothing less from a house of sheep-herding cowards!"
The crowd laughed with him. A few—a very few—did not.
Lynissa held her ground.
"You heard me, Ser Lucion. I am your opponent."
He stopped laughing.
His face hardened.
"I will not fight a girl," he said coldly. His eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate, like a merchant assessing damaged goods. "Besides. It would be a shame to ruin that pretty face of yours. Could be put to better use."
He dismounted.
"I am leaving," he announced to the crowd. "When a real champion declares himself—or when the little whore's sister admits the truth—then I will return."
He laughed.
His men laughed.
The crowd began to murmur, to shift, to disperse—
And Lynissa's feet began to move.
She did not think. She did not plan. Her body moved the way her master had taught her—smooth, fast, precise.
She lunged.
Her fist connected with Lucion Lannister's face—square on the nose—and blood exploded across his lips, his chin.
CRACK.
The sound echoed across the field.
Lucion staggered back, his hand flying to his face, his eyes wide with shock.
"You bitch—"
He wiped his nose. Blood smeared across his cheek. His men surged forward, but he held up a hand.
"No," he snarled. "She wants to fight? I'll give her a fight."
He lunged.
Lynissa dodged—barely—and punched him again. Her fist caught his jaw. He grunted but did not fall. He was bigger than her. Stronger. He had been fighting since he was old enough to hold a sword.
So did she...
He caught her wrist. Twisted. She gasped as pain shot up her arm, and then she was on the ground, the grass cold against her back, his weight pressing her into the mud.
One punch.
Then two.
She twisted, kicked, lunged—her fist connected with his throat—he choked, swore, and struck her across the face.
Her head snapped to the side. Her vision blurred.
And then she felt it.
Cold steel against her cheek.
A dagger.
He was holding a dagger to her face.
"I changed my mind." he said, his voice low and wet with blood, "I will carve myself a lion on those soft cheeks, Lady Stokeworth. So you will foreverremember this"
She struggled beneath him. His weight was too much. His knee pinned her sword arm. The blade pressed closer—
Closer—
And then a voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk.
"Enough."
The crowd parted.
And Prince Aerion Targaryen walked onto the field.
He came slowly. Leisurely. As if he had all the time in the world and the world was not, at this very moment, holding its breath.
His silver-gold hair caught the morning light like spun metal. His eyes—pale purple, cold as winter stars—were fixed on Lucion Lannister with an expression of absolute, devastating boredom.
Lucion's hand froze.
The dagger hovered half an inch from Lynissa's cheek.
"My prince—"
"I said enough, Ser Lucion."
Aerion stopped beside them. He looked down at Lynissa—at the blood on her face, the mud in her hair, the fury in her eyes—and something flickered across his face. Something quick and sharp and almost imperceptible.
Then he looked at Lucion.
"I suggest you get off the lady."
Lucion did not move.
"My prince," he said, his voice tight, "this woman attacked me. In front of half the tourney. Do you expect me to simply—to stand aside and let her insult a lion of Casterly Rock?"
Aerion tilted his head.
"Yes. What kind of knight strikes a lady infront of the public eye , a highborn nonetheless"
The crowd gasped.
Lucion's jaw tightened.
"With respect, my prince, this is not your affair—"
"It is now." He smirked that deep sly smirk of his that decorated his face when he finally something to amuse himself with .
Something worth the attention of the dragon.
Aerion looked at the crowd—at the lords and ladies in the boxes, at the smallfolk pressing against the barriers, at the knights and squires and servants who had come to watch a lamb die.
When he spoke again, his voice carried across the meadow like a bell.
"Ser Lucion Lannister wished for a champion. A real champion." He smiled. It was not a kind smile. "I, Prince Aerion of House Targaryen, declare myself Lady Dahlia Stokeworth's champion."
The crowd erupted.
Lucion's face went white, he certainly did not want to face aerion the monsterous. Everyone knew how fearless and violent the prince was in combat.
"You cannot—"
"I can." Aerion's voice was soft. Deadly. "I am a prince of the blood. I can do whatever I please." He stepped closer. "Now. Get. Off. The. Lady."
Lucion rose.
Slowly.
He backed away from Lynissa—still on the ground, still in the mud, still staring up at Aerion Targaryen with an expression she could not name.
Aerion extended his hand.
"My lady."
She stared at his hand.
What the fuck is actually happening
End of Chapter
The fact Maekar refers to a 13 year olds birthday party as a miserable circus right in front of her father is reason 495402 why I'm in love with that man. I love a vocally grouchy older man who doesn't give a fuck who he offends 😘😘
Chapter three : Aerion Targaryen × OC fanfiction
Summary: 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 .
⋆✴︎˚。⋆Slow burn, the political game in 209 AC in Westeros, tourney arc, Aerion Targaryen x OC
Lynissa sat alone at the Baratheon feast, nursing her cup of wine.
She had positioned herself at a small table near the edge of the hall—close enough to see the entertainment, far enough to avoid the tedious conversations that bloomed like weeds around the high lords. A dancer from Dorne had taken the floor, her movements all fire and fluid grace, her bells chiming with every turn. Lynissa found herself cheering along with the crowd.
That was when she noticed the man walking toward her.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A smile on his face so wide and confident it seemed to announce his arrival before he spoke. He carried his goblet like a scepter, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
He took the seat beside her without asking.
"You look lovely, my lady," he said. His eyes never left her face.
"Thank you," she replied, offering that controlled smile she had perfected over years of unwanted attention.
"Darcy Tully," he said, extending his hand.
Tully? She thought. The Riverrun heir.
She placed her fingers in his palm. He lifted them to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, slow and deliberate.
"Pleased to meet you, my lord," she said. The same smile. The same control.
He chuckled. "Are you? If I remember correctly, you declined my marriage offer last summer." His eyes dropped to her hair. "And you're not wearing the flowers I sent to your tents. You love putting flowers in your hair, if I recall. Did they not live up to your fine taste, my lady?"
He inclined his head like it was a challenge.
Oh. Now she remembered.
Last summer. King's Landing. Another tourney. They had spoken briefly—politics, nothing more—and he had made an offer through a intermediary. She had declined without a second thought. She had no intention of marrying a man she didn't know, even a highborn lord. Especially a highborn lord. She had learned to be wary of their intentions. And she had every right to be.
"The flowers were lovely, my lord," she said carefully. "But they arrived with no name. And I do not wear a stranger's gift in public. A lady wearing a lord's gift is an acceptance of his claim, is it not, my lord?"
She smiled and hoped her words were sharp enough to make him take the hint.
She felt uncomfortable around him. Truly uncomfortable. And she couldn't explain why.
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he laughed.
"Indeed, my lady." His eyes glittered. "I see the people were not exaggerating when they called you a clever woman. That is why you run your father's lands instead of your brother, is it not?"
His tone was challenging. Burning.
"I counsel my brother, Lord Tully," she said, her voice cool. "As any good sister should. Now, if you will excuse me—"
She gave him a nod and a forced smile.
He took her hand again—slowly, deliberately—and kissed it once more. Then he stood and walked away.
Lynissa sighed, turning back to her wine, relieved to be rid of him.
And then she looked up.
Her eyes met a pair of pale purple eyes across the hall.
Aerion Targaryen.
Was he watching her?
His face was unreadable. Still. Cold. Another predator watching one circle his prey.
She scoffed and looked away,she definitely did not want his attention , the monsterous scary prince, but then again , he wasnt so scary in the woods today.., she ignored him scanning the rest of the crowd. The feast continued around her—laughing lords, dancing ladies, the clink of goblets and the swell of music. Everyone was enjoying themselves.
And that was when she realized.
She hadn't seen her sister in over an hour.
Dahlia had been talking to one of Lord Tarly's daughters earlier—a girl whose name Lynissa couldn't remember. They had agreed not to leave until they all left together.
Where is she?
Lynissa rose from her chair, her eyes sweeping the hall. She spotted Emil in the middle of a conversation with some squires. She crossed to him quickly and grabbed his arm.
"Have you seen Dahlia?" she whispered.
"No?" Emil's brow furrowed. "What's this about?"
"She's not here. She didn't tell me she was leaving." Lynissa's voice was tight. "I'm going to look for her."
Before he could reply, she was already walking out of the tent.
The meadow had transformed since sunset.
Torches burned in iron sconces, casting flickering orange light across the grass. Musicians played on a wooden platform, and couples danced in the open space before it. Jugglers tossed flaming brands. A fire-eater from Volantis drew gasps from a ring of onlookers. Everywhere she looked, there were people—drinking, laughing, living.
Lynissa pushed through the crowds, her eyes searching every face.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
She entered the larger tents one by one, scanning the clusters of nobles, the groups of servants, the shadows at the edges.
Dahlia was nowhere.
And for some reason—some deep, animal reason—Lynissa had a very bad feeling about this.
She left another tent and found herself facing a wall of spectators gathered around a puppet show. The crowd was too thick to push through, so she circled around the back of the tent, taking the emptier path along the edge of the meadow.
The noise faded behind her. The torches grew fewer. The shadows grew longer.
And then she heard it.
A muffled cry. Somewhere in the distance.
She moved toward the sound.
It was stupid. A woman alone at night, walking toward a cry in the dark. She knew it was stupid. But her legs were already moving, and her heart was already pounding, and she could not stop.
She pushed through a thicket of alder trees
And she saw them.
A blond man—thirty, maybe older, broad-shouldered and drunk—had her sister pinned against a tree. One hand covered Dahlia's mouth. The other held her wrist above her head. His mouth was on her neck. Her sleeve had been pulled down, exposing her collarbone, her shoulder, the delicate curve of her throat.
Dahlia's eyes were wide and wet and screaming.
Lynissa didn't think.
Her legs moved. Her hand flew to the garter at her thigh, where her dagger was hidden. She crossed the distance in five strides, grabbed the man by the back of his collar, and yanked.
He stumbled back, drunk and off-balance, crashing into a tree on the opposite side of the clearing.
Dahlia fell to the ground, sobbing.
Lynissa stood over her sister, dagger raised, her chest heaving.
"You will leave," she said, her voice low and shaking with fury. "And you will not speak of this again. Do you hear me? Or I will kill you myself."
The man straightened. He was tall. Blond. His eyes were the color of summer grass, and they were fixed on her with something that looked like amusement.
"Your sister?" He smiled. "You're the older Stokeworth, aren't you a sight darling. You look more Dornish than your little sister over there."
He took a step closer.
"How about I have you both?" he said. "It would be fun. Exotic, even. And then I promise—I will not say a word of it. Or I tell the whole realm that your sweet sister was throwing herself at me."
"Then I will tell them you are a liar," Lynissa said sharply, raising her dagger higher.
"And who would believe a Stokeworth over a Lannister?"
Lannister.
The word hit her like a slap.
This was bad. This was very bad.
She glanced back at Dahlia—still crying, still shaking, still clutching her torn sleeve with trembling fingers.
"Lyn—" Dahlia whimpered.
That was when a small group of people emerged from a nearby tent, drawn by the commotion. They stopped at the edge of the clearing, staring at the scene before them.
The Lannister man raised his voice.
"Here we have the Stokeworth whore!" he announced, gesturing at Dahlia with a grand, drunken sweep of his arm. "Throwing herself at a Lannister for gold. Is that not pathetic?"
More people gathered. Whispers rippled through the growing crowd.
Lynissa looked around and lowered her dagger, not wanting them to see her hand shaking.
"And now comes her cunt of a sister," the Lannister continued, his smile widening, "attacking me. Calling me names."
"Liar!" Lynissa shouted.
The crowd murmured.
"This man," she said, her voice ringing across the clearing, "had my sister pinned to that tree. He was forcing himself upon her."
A figure pushed through the crowd—Ser Marlon, her household knight, grey-haired and grim-faced. He knelt beside Dahlia and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders, lifting her gently from the ground.
"I am no liar, my lady," the Lannister said in a mocking tone.
"Then you will answer to my brother," Lynissa said, her voice cold as winter steel, "in a trial by combat. At dawn tomorrow."
The crowd gasped.
The Lannister's smile widened.
He knew he could crush Emil Stokeworth like an ant.
"I accept," he said.
Ser Marlon caught Lynissa's arm. "My lady. We should leave. Now."
The crowd was growing. The whispers were spreading.
The tent was too small for the storm inside it.
Ser Marlon stood by the entrance, his arms crossed, his face carved from stone. Agnes sat on the edge of Dahlia's cot, stroking the girl's hair as she wept into her pillow. Emil paced back and forth across the cramped space, his boots wearing a path into the grass floor.
And Lynissa stood in the center of it all, her arms wrapped around herself, her mind racing.
"I cannot do this, sister." Emil's voice cracked. "He is a Lannister. A lion from Casterly Rock. The nephew of the Grey lion Even you could fight better than me. How am I supposed to face him?"
He stopped pacing, turning to her with desperate eyes.
"We could name one of our household knights as champion. Ser Marlon could—"
"No."
Lynissa's voice was quiet. Final.
"It is a matter of honor. A Stokeworth—the heir of Stokeworth—must answer for his house. That is you, brother. Have you forgotten?"
Emil's face went pale.
"Listen to me." Lynissa crossed to him, grabbing his shoulders, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You will answer that filthy rat tomorrow. And you will win. Or our house will be ruined. Do you hear me?"
Emil stared at her.
His mouth opened.
No words came out.
---
END OF CHAPTER
⋆✴︎˚。⋆𝙰𝐞𝚛𝐢𝚘𝐧 𝚋𝐫𝚒𝐠𝚑𝐭𝚏𝐥𝚊𝐦𝚎 𝐢𝚗 𝐥𝚢𝐬⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
-❀- You're a paradox, Lynissa of Stokeworth. Your father's blood the first men who bent the knee to my ancestors when they conquered westeros But your mother's? The Martell never bowed.You're exactly that beautiful ambiguous mix _ Aerion Targaryen
I'm so aerion content deprived to the point i started generating my own lol , I think such costumes would've looked good on him.
CHAPTER TWO : Aerion targaryen × OC fanfiction
Summary:
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."
"I'm just saying—"
"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."
They both fell silent.
Lynissa sighed.
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.
Bwooooooom.
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.
The horn blew again.
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.
Lynissa looked up.
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.
He was beautiful.
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.
And his mouth.
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.
The horn blew.
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.
But he wasn't Aerion.
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.
The third pass:
Aerion's lance dropped.
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.
The horse collapsed.
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.
The crowd went silent.
Aerion circled his horse.
Slowly.
Casually.
He wasn't looking at the fallen knight or the dying horse. He was looking at the crowd. At their faces. At their horror.
And he was smiling.
A serving girl ran forward with a cup of wine. Aerion took it, drank it slowly, and handed it back.
Then he rode away.
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.
He just... left.
Like he'd swatted a fly.
---
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."
"Oh?"
"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.
Prince Aerion.
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.
Her, he thought.
He remembered that face.
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.
"My lady."
He nodded. Too polite, she thought, for a man so dishonorable.
"My prince," she said.
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"
"Now you know."
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.
Then he looked away.
"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.
It made her nervous.
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?"
He met her gaze again.
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."
He just looked at her.
Then: "I hope to see you again, my lady."
She nodded.
"And I you."
She turned Nightshade and rode away.
She did not look back.
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.
End of Chapter two
My AKOTSK OC introduction
Started writing a fanfiction about Aerion Targaryen × OC (my first time trying to write, lol) and I haven't really given her a proper introduction yet. So might as well introduce you to the world I created for her to fit into the lore.
Meet Lynissa of House Stokeworth.
She was born as Lady Lynissa, firstborn of Lord Aster Stokeworth — the joy of the house, the servants called her. Always a jolly, curious child, she was raised in Stokeworth castle within a loving home. House Stokeworth was never one for politics or ambition. Her father, Lord Aster, was a merchant first — generous, diplomatic, and entirely uninterested in being a social climber. He adored his children. He adored his wife even more.
Princess Rhea Martell of Dorne.
Princess by every meaning of the word. Graceful. Beautiful. Proud of her lineage. Never in her life raised her voice at a servant. She was the youngest sister of the Prince of Dorne — which also made her niece to Queen Myriah Martell, wife of King Daeron the Good.
She met Aster in King's Landing while visiting her most beloved family. It started as courtly companionship. It ended as a sweet love story.
By their lenses, at least.
The realm saw a princess stooping low for a minor lord. The court whispered. The Martells did not approve. But Rhea Martell had always been stubborn beneath her grace — and Aster Stokeworth had a gentle heart that proved worth more than any title.
They married for love.
And Lynissa? Lynissa was born from that love. Dornish fire and Stokeworth simplicity, woven into something neither court nor country had ever seen before.
Her brother Emil came three years after her. He was a quiet boy , better with ledgers than lances, more comfortable in the library than the training yard. Lynissa loved him fiercely, but even as children, she sensed the weight he would carry. He was the son. The heir. The one who would one day be lord. And he was not built for it. Not yet.
Dahlia arrived two years after Emil. A surprise. A tiny, golden-haired thing who was probably the most interested in the westrosi court , when visiting king's landing she was always watching the higher born lords and ladies behave, convinced she will one day marry into an important house. Their mother used to say Dahlia would love the world until the world gave her reason not to . And she was right..mothers are always right after all aren't they?
The three of them were a strange trio. The heir who feared his own shadow. The beauty who saw no danger. And the eldest sister who held them both together.
when Lynissa was seven and begged to join Emil's lessons with the master-at-arms, he did not laugh. He watched her. He considered. And then he asked the master a simple question: "Can she learn?"
The master said yes. Reluctantly at first. Then with genuine surprise.
She was not the strongest. She would never be. But she was fast. And she was smart. She learned to read an opponent before they moved. She learned that a sword was not about power — it was about angles, patience, the breath before the strike.
By fourteen, she could beat every squire in Stokeworth's modest training yard. By sixteen, she could beat the master himself — twice in a row, though he would never admit it.
To the world, Lynissa Stokeworth was the picture of a well-behaved noble lady. She navigated court with grace, smiled when expected, and never once let her composure crack—even when the hurtful whispers followed her through the halls.
"Dornish blood."
"Her mother lowered herself for a merchant lord."
"Look at her skin. She doesn't belong here."
Nearly twenty years had passed since King Daeron the Good brought Dorne into the realm through marriage, but the court nobles and common peasants alike still chose to hate. They hated Dorne. They hated anyone who carried the look. And Lynissa, with her olive skin and her mother's expressive eyes, carried it in every bone.
She grew used to it.
She had spent enough time in King's Landing as a child when her mother was still alive, and she had learned early that words could sting only if you let them. So she didn't let them. She smiled. She nodded. She was graceful—her mother's daughter in every way that mattered in public.
But in private? In Dorne?
That was where she came alive.
Her mother first brought her south at three years old. The moment little Lynissa's feet touched the warm sand of the Water Gardens, she acted as if she had finally come home. She splashed in the pools with her cousins. She ate with her fingers at the low tables. She learned to curse in Rhoynish before she learned to curtsey properly.
Her uncles—especially the Prince of Dorne himself—adored her.
"She has more Dorne in her than half my own children," her uncle once said to rhea smiling
And he was right. Even now, as a woman of one-and-twenty, she visited Dorne whenever she could. The red mountains, the hot wind, the taste of blood oranges in the morning sun—it called to her in a way the green fields of Stokeworth never could.
That love of Dorne made her a gem in the eyes of greedy Westerosi courtiers. Men hungry for a Dornish alliance circled her like vultures. They whispered promises. They spoke pretty words. They looked at her and saw a bridge to Sunspear, not a woman.
Lynissa hated every single one of them.
The shallow highborns who collected bloodlines like trophies. The knights who always had the right words for ladies of her kind—sweet and hollow as a drum. She had grown up watching her parents love each other truly, recklessly, across the divide of station and kingdom. She refused to settle for less.
Her father had been patient through her teens.
But now she was one-and-twenty. And Lord Aster Stokeworth's health was declining.
The sickness had come slowly at first—a cough that lingered, a weakness in his limbs, days when he could not rise from bed. The maester called it a wasting illness. Something in the lungs, he said. Something that fed on a man until nothing remained.
That was three years ago.
Now, Lord Aster could barely manage the stairs. He spent his days in a chair by the window, wrapped in furs even in summer, watching the lands he loved slip through his failing grasp.
So Lynissa stepped in.
She learned the ledgers first. Then the harvest schedules. Then the names of every farmer, every shepherd, every cook and groom who kept Stokeworth breathing. She rode out to inspect the wool yields—Stokeworth lambs were prized throughout the Crownlands—and negotiated with merchants at the local markets. She knew when to be generous and when to hold firm, a skill she had learned from watching her father her whole life.
"You have a head for this," he told her once, his voice thin but proud. "Better than any son I could have asked for."
Emil, despite his youth and his shyness, was a genuine help. He was eighteen, quiet, wise beyond his years .
That was Lynissa's role. She was the spine. He was the mind. Together, they kept Stokeworth standing while their father faded.
Lord Aster's worry grew with his illness.
Not for Stokeworth—Lynissa would never let it fall. Not for Emil—the boy was smarter than half the lords in the Crownlands. His worry was for her.
She had declined good match after good match. A knight from the Reach. A younger son of a respectable house. A wealthy merchant from King's Landing who promised her silks and jewels. She turned them all away with polite smiles.
Good matches for a Stokeworth were limited. Even with royal blood in her veins—her mother a Martell princess, her aunt by marriage the queen herself—she was still the daughter of a minor house. A house of sheep lords. A house that had never produced a great knight or a famous beauty.
Until Lynissa.
But beauty and blood could only take her so far. And her father would not live forever. He wanted to see her settled before he went. He wanted a son-in-law who could take the burden off her shoulders, who could get her out of Stokeworth—away from the endless work, the sleepless nights, the selfless way she had given every part of herself to keep the family afloat.
"You deserve to be happy," he told her once, his hand trembling over hers.
Even her closest friend had begun to urge caution.
Agnes was the steward's daughter, a girl of the same age who had grown up in the Stokeworth household. She had hair like burning copper and skin pale as milk—a true daughter of the Crownlands, nothing Dornish about her. But she loved Lynissa with all her heart.
They had been inseparable since childhood. Agnes knew about the sword. Agnes knew about the coin beneath the bed. Agnes knew about the lingering crush on Prince Valarr that Lynissa had never quite outgrown.
And Agnes was worried.
"You can't keep saying no forever," she said one evening, as they sat together in Lynissa's chambers. "Your father won't—" She stopped, unwilling to say it. "You need to think of your future."
"I am thinking of it," Lynissa replied, not looking up from her mending.
She rarely spoke of Valarr. Not because the memory had faded, but because naming it would make it real—and she had spent years convincing herself it was nothing. Yet she never forgot his mismatched eyes and his warm smile
A child's fancy. A kind word from a stranger. That was all.
He was married now. Prince Valarr, heir to the Iron Throne, wed to Kiera of Tyrosh. She had heard he was a good husband. Dutiful. Distant, perhaps, but never cruel.
She should have been happy for him.
Instead, she felt a quiet ache every time his name was spoken. Not jealousy—she was not foolish enough to believe a prince could ever love a sheep lord's daughter.
Agnes knew, of course. Agnes knew everything.
"You're thinking of a fairy tale." Agnes's voice was gentle but firm. "The kind of love your mother had doesn't happen twice. And even if it does—" She reached out, covering Lynissa's hand with her own. "It won't find you while you're buried in ledgers and harvest schedules."
Lynissa said nothing. She just kept sewing.
But Agnes's words stayed with her.
And when the announcement came of the great tourney at Ashford Meadow—a gathering of lords and ladies from every corner of the realm—Lynissa saw an opportunity.
Not for love. She wasn't foolish enough to hope for that.
But for air. For a few weeks away from the weight of Stokeworth. For her siblings to see something beautiful before their father's illness took everything.
She convinced her father to let them go.
He was too sick to accompany them. That was the price.
"Be careful," he told her as she kissed his cheek goodbye. "And come back to me."
"Always," she promised.
She did not know, as she rode out of the gates with Emil and Dahlia and Agnes beside her, that she would not return the same woman.
That Ashford Meadow would burn away everything she thought she knew about herself.
---
Let me know if you are interested in reading more about the story , I posted chapter One already ♡
Chapter One: The arrival at Ashford Meadow
The morning light spilled over the hills of the Reach like honey poured from a jar ,slow, golden, thick with the promise of summer. The road from the Crownlands had been kind to them, dry and firm beneath the wheels of their modest wheelhouse, and now, as they crested the final rise, Ashford Meadow opened before them like a tapestry unfurled.
Lynissa of House Stokeworth pressed her palm flat against the window frame and held her breath.
The meadow stretched for miles, a sea of emerald grass rippling in the gentle breeze, dotted with pavilions of every color imaginable. The sigils of a hundred houses flew from tent poles and banner posts,the golden rose of Tyrell, the silver trout of Tully, the black stag of Baratheon, and there, nearest the castle walls, the three headed dragon of House Targaryen in crimson and black, snapping in the wind.
"Oh," breathed Dahlia from beside her, pressing so close that her cheek nearly flattened against the glass. "Oh, Lyn, look at it. Look at it."
Lynissa looked.
She saw the lists already being prepared, saw the wooden barriers gleaming with fresh paint, saw the tiers of seating rising like a great wooden wave around the tourney grounds. She saw the merchants' tents forming a makeshift village to the east, their canvas roofs striped in bright colors, and she saw the Ashford castle itself rising behind it all ancient stone weathered to silver-grey, its towers catching the morning light like the prongs of a crown.
It was beautiful. It was overwhelming. It was everything she had promised her father it would be.
"A festival," her father had said, his voice thin with the cough that had plagued him all winter, "for princes and lords and knights. You think you can hold yourself on your own, child?"
She had kissed his brow,still warm with fever, still lined with worry "I have been taking care of most of the land business for long enough, you think navigating a tourney on my own would be harder?"
That had made him smile, his face was pale , sickness has stripped away alot from his once lively face,and it worried her which had made her linger at his bedside for another hour before she finally, reluctantly, took her leave.
Now, looking at the Meadow, she felt the weight of that decision settle in her chest. She was not her father. She was not her mother, either though she had her mother's blood, her mother's coloring, her mother's stubborn heart that had fallen in love with a sheep lord when she might have had princes.
She touched the silver pendant at her throat a stylized sheep, of all things, the sigil of their house and breathed.
"We're late," came a voice from the bench opposite, and she did not need to look to know that her brother Emil was frowning. He was always frowning lately, as though the weight of their house had already settled on his shoulders before it was truly his to bear. "The royal procession arrived already. Father said we should arrive before—"
"Father said many things," Lynissa said mildly, withdrawing her hand from the window and smoothing the skirts of her gown. It was the finest she owned a deep green wool, dyed with woad from their own lands, trimmed with bronze thread at the cuffs and collar. Simple, by the standards of the court. But its simplicity made her beauty shine even more. "Father also said we should travel with an escort of twenty men, but we have twelve, and the roads were safe, and we are here now. That is what matters."
Emil's frown deepened. He was eighteen, with their father's square jaw and their mother's dark hair, but none of her fire. He was a good boy kind, dutiful, careful and Lynissa loved him fiercely. But she watched him sometimes, watching the world, and saw a man who had been told too often that he was not enough. Not brave enough. Not strong enough. Not enough.
The words of their aunt, Lord Stokeworth's younger sister, who had never forgiven Aster Stokeworth for marrying a Dornish princess and producing children who looked more Dornish than Crownlands. And she made it her duty to remind them how much she despised their mom and her origins at any given chance.
"You did well, Emil," she said, softer now. "You led us here without incident. Father will be proud."
He looked at her—really looked—and some of the tension eased from his jaw. "You think?"
"I know."
Emil wasn't a fool he was always so smart so fast to learn as their maester said but he lacked the courage it took to be a great lord.
Dahlia the youngest , a young lady of 16 years made a small sound of impatience. "Can we please stop talking about Father and Emil and look? There's a Baratheon banner. Do you think Lord Baratheon is here? Do you think—oh, is that a Tyrell pavilion? Lyn, do you think we'll be presented? Do you think—"
"Breathe, Dahlia." Lynissa caught her sister's hand and squeezed it."We will be presented when we are announced. We will be gracious. And we will hold up to our name."
Dahlia's smile flickered. "Stokeworths. Right." She glanced down at her own gowna pale blue wool, simpler than Lynissa's, but pretty. "Do you think they'll laugh at us?"
The question was small. Vulnerable. And it cut Lynissa more deeply than she wanted to admit.
She thought of the court at King's Landing, where she had spent a year as a girl while her mother was still alive. She remembered the whispers that followed her Dornish blood, you know, her mother was one of them and the way the high lords' daughters had looked at her wool gowns and her sheep pendant and her olive skin.
She remembered being ten years old, lost in the Red Keep, terrified that she would never find her way back to her mother's chambers. And she remembered a young prince with brown hair a silver streak and kind mismatched eyes who had stopped, asked her name, and led her by the hand through the twisting corridors until she was safe.
Valarr. Prince Valarr, who was surely here somewhere, with his Tyroshi wife and his dragon blood and his golden prince's smile.
She had been a child with a child's crush. That was all. And she was a woman now, one-and-twenty, with better things to think about than a prince who had likely forgotten her entirely.
"They will not laugh," Lynissa said firmly, releasing her sister's hand. "We are of an ancient house. Our wool is known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the finest this side of the Reach. And we carry gifts from our lands gifts that Lord Ashford himself requested, as I recall. We have nothing to be ashamed of , just because the court still doesnt sit right with our mother's people doesn't mean we will be automatically dismissed."
Dahlia's smile returned, brighter this time. "The finest wool in the Seven Kingdoms?"
"Finest this side of the Reach," Emil corrected, but there was warmth in his voice now. "We don't want to start a war with the Tyrells over sheep."
The wheelhouse lurched as the wheels found level ground, and through the window, Lynissa could see that they had reached the outskirts of the Meadow. The tents were closer now close enough to hear the distant clash of practice swords and the shouts of men at arms.
A rider appeared at the window, one of their escort Ser Marlon, old and grizzled and loyal as the hills themselves.
"Lady Stokeworth," he called, reining his horse alongside. "Lord Ashford's steward approaches. They're to show us to our tents."
Lynissa inclined her head. "Thank you, Ser Marlon. We'll receive him."
She took a breath. Adjusted her posture. Became, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, the lady her mother had raised her to be composed, gracious, a Stokeworth in blood and bone.
The wheelhouse door opened. Sunlight flooded in, warm and golden, and with it came the sounds and smells of the tourney horses and grass and roasting meat, the distant laughter of a crowd, the snap of silk banners in the wind.
Lynissa stepped down first, her hand light on Ser Marlon's arm, her skirts pooling around her ankles like a pool of green water. She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust, letting herself see and be seen.
The steward approaching them was a thin man in Ashford colors—orange and silver—with a long face and the efficient air of someone who had done this a hundred times before. He bowed, exactly as low as her station warranted and no lower.
"Lady Stokeworth. House Ashford welcomes you to the Meadow. Your tents have been prepared in the northern field, near the Crownlands encampment." A pause. "Your house was... not expected until tomorrow. The arrangements are somewhat modest, I'm afraid."
Lynissa smiled. It was the smile her mother had taught her pleasant, untouchable, revealing nothing.
"Modest is all we require. House Stokeworth thanks Lord Ashford for his hospitality." She turned, gesturing to the wheelhouse. "My brother, Emil, heir to Stokeworth. My sister, Dahlia. We've brought gifts from our lands wool and cheeses and a cask of ale from our father's own stores. A small token of our appreciation."
The steward's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Wool and cheese. Not gold or jewels or fine wines. Gifts from a minor house that knew its place and offered what it had.
He bowed again. "Most generous, my lady. I'll have the gifts conveyed to Lord Ashford's steward directly. If you'll follow me-"
Another man leaned in whispered something in the steward's ear suddenly the man was more agitated than he already was
"If you will excuse me my lady an urgent matter, I will send you servant to show you to your tents in a moment"
And just like that the man disappeared into the castle.
Lynissa looked at ser Marlon surprised "why is it everyone so agitated " she looks around in the courtyard servants are running from all directions.
Ser Marlon nodded at the targaryen banners.
The sigil of the three headed dragon was everywhere "the royal party has arrived not long ago I assume"
Lynissa said nothing. She was watching simply observing their surroundings, chin held high.
Not long after another steward showed up a younger man who was clearly running around all morning bowed respectfully and ushered them to follow him. And they did.
---
The courtyard of Ashford Castle was a storm of silver and crimson.
Prince Aerion Targaryen sat astride his grey destrier, suited to his mood. The beast stamped and snorted, sensing his rider's restlessness, and Aerion let it. Let the horse dance. Let the servants scatter. Let them all see that he was not in a mood to be kept waiting.
He pulled his gloves off with his teeth—one, then the other—and tossed them to his squire, a boy of twelve named Alyn who fumbled the catch and nearly dropped them in the mud.
"Careful," Aerion said, and the word was soft, almost kind, which made it infinitely more terrifying. Alyn's face went white. He clutched the gloves to his chest like a shield.
Aerion had no interest in the boy's terror. He had no interest in the castle, or the tourney, or the endless stream of lords and ladies who had been bowing and scraping since they arrived. He had no interest in his father's stern silences or the way Valarr moved through the world as though the sun itself rose and set at his command.
He was bored. He was annoyed. He was twenty-four years old, a prince of the blood, a dragon in a field of sheep, and he had been riding for seven days to reach a tourney he did not wish to attend.
His uncle baelor targaryen, breakspear they called him , was talking to lord ashford, his uncle was very loved a prince of the people.
"and of course we've prepared the eastern pavilions for the royal household, Your Grace"
Lord Ashford was a short man, round in the belly and red in the face, and he had been talking nonstop since they arrived His father, Prince Maekar,his face carved from stone, his attention fixed on the great hall where he would no doubt spend the evening in tedious councils.
"and the lists have been widened to accommodate the size of the royal party, and we've arranged for fresh horses to be"
Aerion turned to his squire with the same bored cold face not even trying to mask his foul temper since they left king's landing.
He needed wine. He needed a woman. He needed to be anywhere but here.
"Wine," he said, and Alyn scurried forward "and a pretty wench , preferably a quiet one"
Alyn nodded so fast his head might have fallen off, and Aerion turned away from him.
He was removing his gloves the second pair, these, fine doeskin when she appeared.
She came from the direction of the castle's eastern gate, walking beside a thin man in Ashford colors. The young steward, Aerion assumed, or some minor functionary leading the small party behind him he saw the Stokeworth banners.
Aerion looked.
The sun was behind her, setting her hair alight—chestnut, he saw, dark and rich, the color of good wood. She wore a gown of deep green, simple in cut but fine in make, and she walked with the easy grace of someone who knew who she was and did not need to prove it to anyone.
Her skin was olive and her face was turned toward the steward, so he could not see all of it. But he could see her profile: the high cheekbones, the full mouth, the dark hair curling at her temples where it had escaped whatever pins had once held it.
She was not looking at the castle. She was not looking at the royal party, or the crimson and silver banners, or the dragon prince standing in the mud in his fine boots. Her eyes were fixed on the Meadow beyond the gate, on the tents and the lists and the river that ran silver through the grass.
She was focused entirely on where she was going, and she had not seen him at all.
She walked past him, past his horse, past the servants and the grooms and the whole storm of Targaryen crimson, and she did not turn her head.
Did not look at the dragon
And Aerion, who had seen beautiful women in every court in Westeros and half the Free Cities, who had taken his pick of them and discarded them without a second. Was hooked with her beauty, she looked somehow similar his late mother, the same coloring , the same grace.
The mother Aerion had faint memories of since childhood.
One of his few happy moments in court in fact.
His mother was at some point the center of his world he was held,loved, appreciated "you re going to be an amazing prince aerion just like your father" his mother's voice echoed in his head.
And suddenly at 6 years old lost all the warmth he knew.
He watched her until she reached the gate, until she stepped out of the shadow of the castle and into the golden light of the Meadow, and then he watched her until she disappeared among the tents.
He was still watching the empty space where she had been when Alyn returned
"My prince." The boy held out a cup, trembling slightly. "Your chamber is ready they are preparing your bath."
Aerion did not move. He was not sure he could.
Who was that?
The question burned in his throat. He should not care. She was nothing—a minor lady, a minor house, a face in a crowd. There would be a hundred women at this tourney, a thousand, all of them eager to catch a prince's eye, all of them hungry for the favor of a dragon.
But she had not looked. She had not looked.
And he had never seen anything prettier in his life.
Alyn blinked. "My prince?"
"The woman. The one who just passed. Green gown. Dark hair." He could see her still, in his mind's eye, the curve of her cheek "Who is she?"
Alyn looked helpless. Behind him, one of the Ashford stewards, eager stepped forward.
"The Lady Stokeworth, my prince," the steward said, bowing. "Lynissa of House Stokeworth. Her father is Lord Aster Stokeworth. They arrived this morning."
Stokeworth. He knew the name a minor house in the Crownlands, known for their wool and their loyalty. Not important enough to remember.
Lynissa
"The Stokeworths," he said, and his voice was light again, controlled, the voice of a prince who was amused rather than moved. "Sheep lords, aren't they?"
"Yes, my prince," the steward said. "Though they are an ancient house, and loyal to the crown. Lady Lynissa's mother was—"
"I didn't ask for a history," Aerion said, and the steward's mouth closed. "I asked who she was."
He did not wait for a response. He dismounted his horse and walked toward the great hall, eager to get out of his riding clothes and get some proper rest before the feast.
End of Chapter One
Some loves begin with flowers. Theirs began with blood on silk.
At the Tourney of Ashford Meadow in 209 AC , a proud young lady of a minor house crosses paths with a dangerous Targaryen prince and one act of honor binds their fates to scandal and court politics.
Lynissa of House Stokeworth is no court ornament. Raised between Crownlands duty and Dornish pride far enough from the capital's pressure for a 21 unwed young lady, trained with a blade and sharper wit, she arrives at Ashford Meadow seeking nothing more than a summer tourney and perhaps a glimpse of a prince she once admired as a child, little did she know she will get entangled with a far more complicated prince.
"In the songs, knights saved maidens. In Ashford Meadow, maidens learned to save themselves."
Let me know if anyone is interested in reading more about this storyline ♡