In The Name Of The Mother… @ghostwrittenalias - Tumblr Blog

A Forked Path | "A Lovely Dream" pt. 5

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader

✧—Summary: with the trial of seven comes a devastating reminder of mortality, and the push you need to finally fulfill the purpose that brought you to ashford meadow in the first place. but as you struggle to picture what carving out a place for yourself in the world might truly look like, a certain drunken prince seems determined to complicate things further—by carving himself a place beside you. ✧—Content/Warnings: fem!reader, commoner!reader, reader has no physical description, no targcest, pathetic yearner!daeron, jealous!daeron, dunk x reader can be interpreted, love triangle if you squint hard enough, strangers to lovers, slowww burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, alcoholism, follows/parallels the events of AKOTSK season 1 so there will be spoilers ✧—Word Count: 26.6k (goddamn!) ✧—A/N: it's been over 2 months, but here i am, risen from the dead with the penultimate chapter of this series!! i apologize that it's taken me so long to finish it, especially since i left it on a cliffhanger/plot twist for so long! i am so incredibly grateful for your patience, and so excited to finally share this behemoth of a chapter! i sincerely hope you all will enjoy it! HUGE shoutout to @st4rsf0rm4rs for being so kind and supportive, i really couldn't have gotten here without her!

ˋ°•*⁀➷ [ series masterlist ] [ previous part ]

Ser Duncan the Tall had survived the Trial of Seven, proving himself of just cause, but the Heir to the Iron Throne was dead, his head caved in by his own kin.

You never knew Baelor Targaryen, but you were aware of the whispers that he was to make a great king, greater even than Aegon the Dragon.

His dark hair and tanned skin favored his Dornish mother, and such traits were quite refreshing to behold on a Targaryen. Many thought it a promising sign that the mad blood of his dragon house did not flow so fiercely through him. Strangely enough, you had quickly come to realize that you, too, harbored a certain fondness for princes of the realm who did not bear the silver hair of their forefathers—especially if they had cut it clean off or possessed shoulder-length locks the shade of golden sand.

Beyond matters of public opinion or physical appearance, however, there was action, and actions were what truly made a man. The prince had garnered your good opinion when he graciously allowed Dunk to enter the lists when no one else would. He had garnered it further still when he valiantly declared himself for Dunk’s side before the trial, lending his aid to a true knight who protected the innocent.

So, yes, Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen—The Hammer, firstborn son of Daeron The Good, Hand of the King, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—had it in him to make a great king indeed.

Yet the mere makings of a king proved insufficient a shield against the will of The Seven above.

Now the fiery dragon lay cold as ice, and you never got the chance to know him.

You had not even seen the moment he was dealt the fatal blow.

As you watched the Trial of Seven unfold, your focus and favor had been fixed elsewhere, divided amongst three other knights.

The first knight was Ser Duncan, of course. The humble hedge knight with whom you had grown close these past few days at Ashford Meadow.

He had committed no true offense, simply upholding his knightly vows when Prince Aerion snapped an innocent woman’s finger. But in return for his service to The Mother, he bore the abuse of deadly sword and mace in a needlessly bloody, antiquated Andal tradition. Your breath had caught and your stomach churned with nauseating dread in that terrifying moment during the trial when it seemed Dunk would never rise again. Yet he had endured against all odds, besting The Brightflame with perhaps not only your favor but the favor of the gods as well.

The second knight was Daeron Targaryen. The vexing drunken prince with whom you felt inexplicably and unwillingly entangled, despite sense or reason.

He had trembled with immense fear as he donned his helm, shaking like a brittle leaf caught in a restless wind, and such a sight had tugged sorely at your traitorous heart. A plume of bright green feathers sprouted from his helm’s crest, drawing your eye like a beacon cutting through the hazy mist and the chaos that had ensued in the first charge. A strange sense of relief coursed through you when bright green struck sludgy brown and stayed there for the rest of the trial. Daeron had fallen, just as promised, cast into the mud by a lance that dealt enough damage to convincingly unhorse him but not enough to kill him.

The third knight was Lyonel Baratheon. The Laughing Storm. Your father.

As a highborn knight of great renown, he was sure to perform as well in the trial as he did in any other contest of arms. Even so, your body had been seized with deep and unshakable unease, for no man—no matter how great—could ever claim certain immunity from the fickle whims of the gods. If The Laughing Storm perished, then he would leave this world completely unaware of your existence as his daughter, and that regret would haunt you for the rest of your days. Mercifully, the gods had chosen to spare you from such devastating sorrow. Lyonel Baratheon had not perished and lived free to laugh another day.

So, by some profound miracle, all three knights of your favor had survived the harrowing Trial of Seven. But such a brutal demonstration of life’s tragic, fleeting nature proved that any further delay could not be risked.

It was time you finally fulfilled your true purpose in Ashford Meadow.

It was time you finally braved the storm.

You had not known the identity of your father until the day your mother passed. His name had been revealed on her deathbed, delivered in the same breath as the answer to an archaic question from your youth, thus finally unraveling the mysterious origin of the land you called home. But it came as quite the surprise, for you had long since grown out of pondering such a fruitless curiosity, always having been met with brusque deflection whenever you sought its answer before.

Yet for all the ways you had pictured your home’s origins, the truth wholly subverted every single one.

In your juvenile imaginings, you had conjured up an unknown rich relative as the most serviceable explanation. Some faceless lord who died without heirs, leaving his possessions to your mother, his next of kin, through mere chance and blood alone. Clearly, that explanation had missed the mark entirely. Not a single imagining of yours could have ever envisioned a torrid love affair with a great stag from the Stormlands.

Still, it felt profoundly satisfying to finally have the mystery of your parentage and your home solved in one fell swoop. But having learned to live without a father for so long, you saw no need for one anymore. Especially not so late in life.

Your ailing mother, however, had not seen it that way.

In her final hours, frail and fading fast, she expressed her fears of leaving you alone in a harsh world so unkind to solitary women, and—despite your efforts to keep such aspirations hidden—she knew how fiercely you wished to explore the world beyond your little cottage. She believed sending you to your father was the best course left to her, hoping above all hope that it might grant both the safety she wanted for you and the adventure you so desperately desired.

Thus your mother’s dying wish was born, uttered in a hoarse whisper but resolute nonetheless.

Make your name known…

Your name as daughter of Lyonel Baratheon.

Carve out a place for yourself in this world…

A place at your father’s side.

And now here you stood, outside a grand yellow tent at Ashford Meadow, hesitant to step into it and meet the man within.

The Baratheon pavilion was a behemoth, far larger than any of the others in the meadow. It rose proudly like a monarch among them. No doubt its immense size meant to proclaim the great nobility of its house, while also providing ample space for heart feasts and extravagant revelry.

Richly dyed canvas walls stirred in the gentle morning breeze like a rolling sea of gold. Embroidered obsidian-colored fabric lined the ridge of the peaked roof in dagged triangles. Two massive sculpted stag heads perched atop it, one placed on either end of the ridge. Shining banners hung about the grand entrance, depicting the mighty sigil of a black crowned stag against yellow silk. A wide arched canopy swept over the opening, excessively decorated with sharply pronged antlers, a score of them at least, and an ivory skull of a stag at the apex.

What towered before you was no mere tent.

No, it was something far greater.

It was an embodiment of wealth, of power, of legacy—of things you had lived so long never knowing, yet now stood on the very threshold of claiming if this journey to Ashford played out in your favor.

Apprehension swept in suddenly like a freezing riptide.

Was any of that even what you truly wanted?

So far, you had been content to lead a secluded life, safe and untouched by men like Lyonel Baratheon, guided by simple platitudes rather than overreaching ambition. Yet the path set before you—the one leading straight into the storm—was the life your mother wanted for you. Ignoring her dying wish would dishonor her more than anything else.

But what if your father spurned you before you could even get a word out? What if he demanded your tongue for even daring to suggest a kinship to him?

Before you could dwell on it any further, a commotion from inside the pavilion broke your reverie.

“Get out, you oaf!” a frustrated voice exclaimed, loud enough to hear through the canvas. “I cannot stand your incessant blubbering. If you will not tend to my wounds, then begone!”

An elderly, bumbling maester stumbled through the flaps of the entrance, nearly colliding with you in his haste. He mumbled a feeble apology and quickly went on his way, thick black robes billowing about his frail form as he hobbled off into the meadow. You watched the old maester for a moment, then turned back toward the golden yellow canvas before you.

As if by luck or by providence, the great lord you sought was now left completely alone within his pavilion. Such a rare opportunity to gain a private audience with him might never occur again.

Refusing to allow apprehension any further dominion, you took a brave step forward and slipped through the canvas flaps.

Inside the pavilion, chandeliers swayed overhead from the vast canvas ceiling, their frames adorned with antlers just like the ostentatious decoration outside. Candles burned low on the chandeliers and along the sconces of the pavilion’s wooden posts, giving the interior a soft, dim atmosphere with their amber glow. Long oak tables and heavy chairs had been pushed aside, leaving plenty of room for a large, lavish bed of furs at the center of the space.

Atop the furs sprawled Lyonel Baratheon.

His chest was bare and his armor strewn haphazardly upon the floor, likely from being stripped and discarded without care. Though he had not perished in the trial, it seemed he suffered its consequences just as much as any of the other surviving knights. Thin cuts and yellowing bruises littered the expanse of his face and body, while linen bandages wrapped tightly around his hands and torso in crossing strips of white. His right eye was swollen and purple, though not so badly as Dunk’s had been. A deep, bloody laceration ran above his left brow, and his nose looked to have been broken and set right again. Even still, his face remained handsome in that mature, roguish way of men who lived dangerously and reveled in it.

You took a few steps closer, worn leather boots crunching against the gravelly earth below. Lyonel stirred at the sound, roused by its sudden disruption to the hushed quiet he sought. Groggily, he turned his head and peered at the source of it with his unscathed eye.

Once his gaze found your face, his expression shifted immediately. His mouth parted in an open show of confusion. Bold brows drew together tightly as though pulled taut by a string. Deep brown eyes squinted hard, flickering with unmistakable recognition.

Your mother’s name tumbled from his lips in a dazed whisper, steeped in profound disbelief and the kind of raw emotion only felt when something long lost was miraculously found again. Clearly, he had been administered milk of the poppy to ease the pain of his injuries. With his mind gone cloudy under its influence, his senses subdued and perception blurred, he must have taken you to be your mother.

“I am not her,” you clarified evenly, voice stronger than you truly felt.

“What?” Lyonel’s brows drew tighter, the crease between them deepening so far it threatened to rival the valleys in the Vale of Arryn. His gaze searched shrewdly over your plain appearance, catching on your old cloak and likely passing judgement on the tattered state of it. “Then who the fuck are you?”

You drew in a steady breath to calm your nerves and gave him your name. “I am her daughter,” you added.

“Her—her daughter?” he repeated incredulously, as if the very concept was completely foreign to him, like something alien brought across the Narrow Sea.

“Yes.”

“So she is your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she, then?”

“She is dead.”

It was a succinct, painful truth that cut deep, stinging like Valyrian steel against flesh.

Any words Lyonel might have said next died upon his tongue in an instant.

What a strange rarity it was to witness a capricious, indomitable force like him finally fall completely silent in such a way. It felt akin to the sort of uncanny, eerie silence that fell only amidst the eye of a storm. The deep crease between his brows softened and all the muscles in his face went slack, leaving only solemn grief upon its contours. In that moment, he did not resemble The Laughing Storm this realm revered. Instead, he was merely a man who grappled with life’s little cruelties the same way as any other man.

When words finally found him again, his chosen composition of them took you completely by surprise.

“I loved your mother,” he said quietly, with an unwavering sincerity laid so bare it rang as simple a truth as the sun rising each morning.

“Then why did you leave her?” you asked, unable to help the sharp accusation lacing your tone.

A beat of silence fell again. Lyonel glanced off to the side, a faraway look settling in his umber irises as though he were reliving the full length of the past decades within that very moment.

“We were so young when we fell in love,” he replied at last, his drawl low and pensive.

It was not much of an answer to your question, but you said nothing and let him continue.

“Even back then, the realm and all the sorry cunts within it called me The Laughing Storm,” he reminisced, a mildly-amused scoff accompanying the moniker. “And a green Baratheon cannot be contained, least of all at the precipice of his manhood. I was a force to be reckoned with—fuck me, I still am—and I reveled in it. I broke things. I broke men. I broke your mother’s heart time and again. And sure, I loved her… but I also loved war.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Hedonism defines many men in this realm and I found it defined me, too. We hawk about in search of easy pleasure, always wanting to blood each other, have a little bit of fun, seek some glory, lose ourselves in it… and then, in turn, we lose the woman we love.”

“But you did not lose her,” you countered, stubborn and indignant. “You were the one who left. She told me you were summoned to a voyaging campaign by your father, and she waited for you.” A deep frown painted your face. “You never came back.”

“Mm. Yeah,” Lyonel affirmed absently. “The truth of it was I couldn’t really settle down and wed her. I had duties to attend as heir to Storm’s End and foes out in the world itching to meet the end of my blade. I couldn’t give her the life she deserved—but I gave her something else.”

“Yes, I know,” you interjected impatiently. “The land. My home. Throughout my childhood she never told me how she came into possession of it. It was not until the day she died that I learned it was a gift from you.”

“I bought her that land because I knew how dearly she wished to live by the ocean,” Lyonel explained, tone laced with a wistful fondness. “And I made certain to give her a grand view. One not so brutally dull as what I endure at home—dark and stormy, with swells heaving horridly loud against the rocks.” He wrinkled his nose. “No, I gave her one of the Summer Sea—where the sun shone bright, where the sand looked like gold, where the waters were clear and blue.”

Suddenly, you were struck all at once by a deep longing for a home left far behind, forever out of reach. For the peaceful sound of gentle waves and the pleasing warmth of the sun upon water. Only now did its worth fully settle in your bones.

Perhaps therein lay the unvarnished truth: the ability to completely appreciate something only ever surfaced once that thing was completely gone.

“So, yes,” Lyonel conceded with a sigh, “I left her and did not return once my campaign on the Narrow Sea ended. But it was a far greater kindness to leave her with the ocean than to come back and prolong what would only end in heartbreak.”

Hmph.

He considered the way he abandoned your mother a kindness?

You bristled and gave a low snort of disbelief, though it went unnoticed while Lyonel shifted upon his bed of furs with a wince and a pained groan.

“I suppose, over the years, I might have glutted myself on the beautiful joys of combat and sailing and tourneys just so I would forget your beautiful mother. But I did quite well at bloodying other men, so why not continue?” He threw his palms up with a small wheeze barely passing for a laugh. “You see, any knight with skill like mine was born into this world for one purpose only—to use the gifts given to him by The Warrior. To do otherwise would be a waste. The act of a heretic blaspheming the gods.”

He spoke lightly, as if simply commenting on the weather, yet there was an intensity simmering under the surface—the conviction of a man who worshiped the art of war with his entire being. Certainly, for him, he was not uttering a mere opinion but rather an irrefutable principle. One he had come to know after living through the height of battle countless times and thriving off the scars it left upon his body.

“In any case,” he went on, “I find it best not to agonize over a thing of the past. We Baratheons drive on into the storm and we do not look back.”

“My mother was not merely a thing of the past,” you shot back at him, arms crossed in irritation. “You would do well to speak better of her memory.”

Lyonel cocked his head, a curious smirk curling at his lips. How bold of you to contradict him, a great lord of House Baratheon. He often threatened to geld men for far lesser offenses. But anger did not take root in that moment. Instead, he found himself rather amused by your open defiance. Perhaps even impressed. It was a well-known convention that one must tread lightly around The Laughing Storm, yet here you were, trampling all over it. Few were brave—or foolish—enough to do so.

His curiosity piqued even further at the way you reminded him so vividly of her. The vexed expression on your face resembled one he treasured receiving many years ago, one he proudly earned whenever he teased and provoked your mother. Your features so very plainly favored her, which pulled strangely at the vicious heart beating beneath his—thankfully unbroken—ribs.

But there was something else in you, too. Some quality about you that felt innately familiar. Though he couldn’t quite place it just yet, especially when his mind was still addled by the milk of the poppy.

You were quite the enigma, it seemed, one he meant to solve.

“Alright, so why are you here?” He squinted at you suspiciously, for he was well-accustomed to visitors coming for his head if they were not coming to curry his favor. “I suspect, before she died, your mother sent you here to taunt me with how I failed her.” He leaned forward, voice lowering. “Have you come to twist the phantom dagger that’s been in my side since the day I left her?”

“No.” You shook your head. “That is not why I am here.”

“Where is your father, then?” Lyonel asked, upper lip curling in a poorly-masked sneer. “Where is the lucky bastard who stuck her with his longsword and gave her a daughter?”

Your nose wrinkled at the crude euphemism.

“Tell me,” he pressed again, veering on the edge of something rueful, “where is the man who got to live a life with her when I could not?”

“There was no other man,” you supplied bluntly. “She bore me soon after you left her.”

“Oh.” Lyonel stilled, a vague look of relief washing over his face. The true meaning of your words dawned on him a heartbeat later. “Oh.”

“She sent me here to this tourney to reveal myself to you,” you explained finally. “She hoped my father could grant me a favorable place in this world.” Your voice dropped to a soft murmur. “A place beside him, I think.”

Lyonel’s expression darkened then, much like how the heavens above darkened when ominous clouds rolled in to herald a brewing storm. His umber eyes, the ones that had seen so much blood and death, swirled with the kind of danger you had feared would accompany him. The kind of danger that had kept you from revealing yourself to him these past few days.

“So your mother,” he said slowly, voice rumbling low like thunder, “sent you here to me… in hopes I would provide for you? In hopes I would take you—a bastard daughter I never even knew of—as my own? To sit at my court?”

“Yes,” you answered steadily, attempting to keep your composure despite the unease rising in your gut. “It was her wish before she died.”

“Then she died a fool.” Lyonel’s voice went cold, utterly detached. “There is nothing I can do for you.”

All at once, your face drained of color and your chest ached with an pain you had never felt before.

His refusal, the pure apathy of it, dealt a fatal blow deep to the very core of you, striking with a severity greater than you had ever braced for. It shattered something fragile lurking in the long-forgotten depths within, something so painstakingly buried you had never even allowed it to be given a name. Perhaps it was the foolish fantasy you harbored since you were small. Perhaps it was the wish you pushed deep down because you knew it would never come true. Perhaps it was the dream of finally having a father.

Lyonel let out a loud, uncouth groan and rolled onto his side.

“Away with you, girl,” he muttered. “I just fought in a Trial of Seven and it feels like my arsehole has been turned inside out. I have not the patience for this trifling conversation anymore.”

Then, without even turning to look at you, he gave a dismissive flick of his hand over his shoulder to shoo you away.

The gesture was careless and absolute. All that was needed to shatter what was already broken into even smaller pieces.

Before you could comprehend it, your feet were moving, carrying you swiftly across the pavilion and toward the yellow canvas flaps without protest. The sensations of turning away from the storm, from your own father—presumably for good—completely escaped you, as if your mind had skipped over it to save you the heartbreak. You had become merely a hull devoid of consciousness, drifting in a daze of grief, shame, and rejection.

Suddenly, the dim candlelight disappeared, replaced by the harsh brilliance of the morning sun, and the crisp scent of dewy grass cut through the cold open air. Yet despite the stark shift in surroundings, everything felt muted now. Like you had stepped out into something dull and bleak instead of the lush green meadow that had once offered so much delight. Still, your feet aimlessly carried you onward, further into the cruel world beyond.

It was only a distant call of your name from somewhere behind you that finally pulled you back to the present.

The call came again, clearer than before, less like it was muffled through thick cotton. Whether its newfound clarity came from increasing volume and closing distance alone, or from the fading effects of your mournful stupor remained uncertain. Fortunately—or perhaps, unfortunately—the voice to which it belonged was devastatingly familiar. Low and breathy. Pleasing and velvety. Wrapped perfectly around your name in a way that felt sacred. In less than a single heartbeat, a visceral, unerring intuition took hold of who you would behold once you regarded it.

And sure enough, when you finally turned around, you saw him.

Daeron Targaryen.

He was still half-dressed in his armor—cuirass, pauldrons, plackart, fauld, rerebraces, tassets, and cuisses all still strapped to his body. The other pieces he lacked, his helm and gauntlets among other things, were those stripped most easily without aid. A coat of plates formed the armor on his torso and tassets, composed of nearly ten score vertically segmented metal panels. Each panel had been meticulously etched to mimic the texture of wood grain and lacquered in a deep scarlet enamel. Decorative bands embellished the steel pauldrons and rerebraces, lining their edges in engraved rings like the iron hoops of a cask. With the texture and the bands, the armor distinctly evoked the image of a wine barrel, thus making it rather fine-fitting for the drunken prince within it.

He was drenched in mud, cold sludge caked thick on his body and already drying in cracked patches. It clung to the ends of his hair as well, matting the sandy blonde strands into stiffened locks of brown. But mud was not the only thing that coated him. An alarming crimson substance marked him, too. A deep gash carved across the left side of his face, stretching under his cheekbone and up to his ear, weeping heavily with blood. The blood ran down his jaw and neck, dripping and spattering crimson across his armor. As he strode up to you, his gait was stilted and uneven, favoring his left foot likely due to an injury sustained on his right.

No doubt he bore the consequences of the trial quite plainly. But the pain did not deter him. He had already become intimately familiar with misery and affliction anyway.

Upon beholding your face, Daeron instantly felt a certain heaviness expel from his chest—perhaps the profound tension that had been sitting there since the first charge was heralded by a blare of horns loud enough to rattle bone, or perhaps an uncontrollable sigh of reverence at such a stunning sight before him. Most like, it was both. But he felt the effects of the latter with great intensity as his eyes roamed hungrily across your pleasing features illuminated by the bright morning sun.

Oh gods.

What a lovely, lovely dream you were.

A beautiful reminder that his lungs still expanded to take in air. That a heart still beat fiercely in his chest. That blood still flowed hot through his body rather than spilling in grisly abundance into the mud puddles of Ashford Meadow.

Once the Trial of Seven had concluded, Daeron had not bothered to find a squire to unbuckle his armor nor a maester to tend to his wounds.

No, the very first thing he had sought most desperately amidst the chaos was you.

You were all that occupied his mind. Everything else—the pinching discomfort of steel, the cold grittiness of mud, the throbbing pain underneath his cheekbone—fell away to irrelevance. After brushing so terrifyingly close with his own mortality and surviving when the visions of his haunting slumber had suggested otherwise, he needed, above all else, to revel in the privilege he had feared lost to him forever the moment he donned his helm.

He needed to see you.

And now that he found you, well… there was certainly another thing that would help settle the stubborn tremor beneath his skin.

“What say you to sharing a cup of wine with me?” Daeron proposed smoothly.

“You need a maester, not wine,” you rebuffed as you pointed at his glaring injuries, voice firm as unforgiving stone.

“No, I need you,” he replied lightly. “And the wine. But I think I should prefer you.”

He needed you?

“Do not be ridiculous,” you scoffed, though your heart fluttered traitorously.

Daeron absently flicked a clump of mud off his shoulder. “I am not.”

Still, you refused to entertain the notion any further, for it likely had no substance at all. They were merely words too easily given, costing him absolutely nothing to utter and meaning just as much to him, too. Daeron Targaryen was a wayward prince, a man defined by hedonism like so many men of this realm were. No doubt his true desire lay only in indulging in his habit of drinking and chasing skirts—skirts that just so happened to belong to you at present.

He seemed wholly oblivious to your reservations, however, and continued on with his bold proposal.

“I feared this day was my last for this world,” Daeron said, tone laced with a wry levity unbefitting his words. “Yet it was not. I am alive. That is cause for celebration enough.”

“Yes, but your uncle is dead,” you huffed curtly. “I believe you have more pressing matters than clinking cups with a common woman.”

Then you swiftly marched away without another word, leaving him far behind.

It was a rejection almost as cold as your father’s. Cruel and undeserved perhaps, but you were completely exhausted, body and mind wracked by the violent brunt of emotions far too heavy to bear. The events of the past day had finally taken their toll; the anguish of witnessing so much death and bloodshed, the strain of overwhelming stress.

You had not the will nor the strength to deal with princes or lords any longer. Only deep, profound pain came from such entanglements. Your mother was a clear example of that.

And admittedly… a selfish, uglier part within the darkest depths of you had hoped that lashing out at the vexing prince, at a higher power, might lessen the insufferable sting in your heart.

But it did not. No, it did not at all.

Nevertheless, there were other matters to attend.

Where had your tall hedge knight gotten off to?

You wandered about in search of him, wits quickly returning with the commotion of your surroundings.

Activity in the meadow had pressed onward with startling indifference.

The chattering crowd that gathered to watch the Trial of Seven had already departed the tourney grounds, bustling to and fro in search of the next great amusement. Children darted across the dirt paths, skirting past rickety merchant carts and giggling gleefully as they went, as though blood had not been spilled aplenty within the past hour. Knights and squires added to the din, carrying out their duties as they would on any other day—polishing armor, sharpening swords, grooming horses, exchanging blows in training. Birds flitted happily through the clear blue sky, oblivious to how the shining sun above them had ushered in a morning full of misfortune.

How strange it was that the world did not pause, that it did not halt altogether to mourn a great loss. A prince and two formidable knights had died. Good men had bled and broken before the eyes of the realm. Yet the sun still rose, the meadow still bustled, and life still went on—like nothing had even changed at all.

Alas, that was simply the harsh way of the world. It did not stop for anything, so neither could you. You had to keep moving forward, despite it all.

Eventually, you found Dunk in the same place you had left him, where the great dragon had fallen.

He sulked alone, knelt on the ground within the narrow passageway beneath the tourney viewing stands. It seemed, in your absence, Maester Yormwell had heeded the fallen dragon’s final request and tended to Dunk’s grievous injuries. The wound in Dunk’s side was now cleansed, cauterized, and crusted with blood and the tangy remnants of boiling wine. His head hung low and his broad shoulders sagged with the weight of something far heavier than physical pain. He fixed his gaze down at the ground, his expression bleak and morose as if he still saw Prince Baelor lying there in his arms.

All his armor had long since been removed, no doubt with the help of Steeley Pate. But the stocky armorer was nowhere to be seen now, nor was anyone else who had been at Dunk’s side when you snuck away to the Baratheon pavilion. Raymun Fossoway and Egg were gone; the green apple off tending to his own wounds most like, and the bald boy surely swept away by his father.

You took soft steps closer to Dunk, worn leather boots stopping right in front of him, just as they entered his field of vision.

“Where’ve you been?” Dunk asked without looking up, voice slurred and gravelly.

“I went to see Lyonel Baratheon,” you replied.

Though Dunk’s face was marred and swollen, the features that could still move under all the bruising pinched tight together in confusion. He didn’t know you to be acquainted with Lyonel, and he’d never seen you interact with him, not even once. He couldn't imagine you keeping company with such a man. Yet it seemed you must have found some dire reason to face The Laughing Storm, for you would not have slipped away so abruptly after the trial if you did not.

“What need did you have of him?”

“He is my father.”

“What?” Dunk finally looked up from the ground, bewildered blue eyes meeting yours through swollen purple lids. “Your father?”

You nodded in silence and said nothing more on the matter. Crouching down, you hooked your arms under his and pulled him upward—though not by much, given his great mass.

“Come on, Dunk,” you urged. “Get up. Let’s get back to camp.”

Get up.

The command seared into Dunk’s very being like a blistering burn.

He had heard it many a time now—grunted gruffly by his late master Ser Arlan, screamed high and shrill by his little squire during the trial—and he had heeded those two simple words at every single instance. But the moment the command finally found its way onto his own tongue and left his own mouth, he had not been given the same obedience in return. He had whispered it, shouted it, cried it, begged it countless times in heart-wrenching desperation at the Heir Prince, at the dragon who had fallen on top of him just as prophesied.

Yet the prince had not heeded it, and he would never get up again.

The blame could find only one place: in Dunk. In a stupid hedge knight—thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs, just as Ser Arlan had always said.

And now? Practically a princeslayer.

It was all his fault.

But you were here with him, offering him gracious aid, and you deserved more than his sinking guilt and gloomy self-wallowing. So he obeyed your command to get up, just as he always did. Perhaps that was all he was ever going to be good for.

Once upright and standing, he swayed on sore, fatigued long legs, but you steadied him and allowed him to lean on you. Then you anchored your arm around his waist and he carefully braced his around your shoulders. Ever mindful of his size, he endeavored to put as little weight on you as possible, so as to spare you from any strain.

Together, you slowly departed from the tourney grounds, making the laborious trudge back to the elm tree. Passersbys stared curiously at the sight of a battered hedge knight from the trial and a lone maiden adjoined, hobbling in effortful, strenuous movements along the meadow’s dirt paths. You both paid them no mind.

The sun rose ever higher in the sky, eager to welcome the height of day. Its blazing heat beat down mercilessly, but a cool breeze helped to offer some relief. Merchants called out their wares with renewed vigor and commonfolk milled about the stalls and pavilions with a frenzied buzz, as if the Trial of Seven had never even occurred at all.

“I never knew my father,” Dunk offered after a long moment while you both pressed further on, rough voice rumbling so deep in his chest the vibrations could be felt at your side.

You remembered he had said as much yesterday in the market, before the puppet show—before everything had taken such a dire turn for the worse.

“I never knew mine either,” you murmured.

It was an echo of your response to him in that simpler time, though the words were not necessarily true anymore.

“Not till now,” you added quietly.

Dunk gave a low grunt in acknowledgment.

“It does not matter anyway,” you sighed, bitter and broken. “He does not want me.”

The cool breeze dwindled, leaving only agitating humidity.

“I do not know why I even bothered to come all the way to this damned meadow.”

By late afternoon, the heat had loosened its harsh reign over Ashford.

The sun’s golden rays slanted in scattered beams through the looming branches of the elm tree, bringing a pleasant glow rather than a sweltering blaze. The air was still warm, though not unbearably so, thick with the musky scent of soil and shrubbery. Wispy clouds had begun to streak across the cerulean sky in thin white ribbons similar to strips of frayed linen bandages. A gentle wind swept through the forest clearing now and again, rustling the green grass in a quiet, whispering lull.

However, despite all the peace nature provided, an uneasy stillness had settled amidst the camp in the hedges just as densely as the ominous fog had settled amidst the Trial of Seven. The frantic urgency of the dreadful morning had long gone extinct—cries of battle, whinnies of destriers, splintering of lances, clashing of steel, shattering of skulls all swallowed by the oblivion of time. But left in its place was something haunting and heavy, the kind of oppressive exhaustion that turned the bones of men to weary, roughened stone.

Thunder, Chestnut, and Old Lady were tied down to the hedges once again, but they made no sound—no whinnies, or snorts, or brays—save for the occasional flicking of tails and shuffling of hooves. It almost seemed as though they meant to remain silent in some sort of solemn respect for the dead.

Only you and Dunk sat beneath the shelter of the elm tree now.

Egg was gone, and his absence was felt most sorely in the silence—in the spaces left void of quick wit, eager chatter, and bold proclamations. Who would have thought that a scrawny, bald little prince could possess the unlikely ability of making the hedges feel more like a home than any other accommodation? Without his youthful spirit and brazen attitude, everything was just that tad bit emptier, that tad bit dimmer, and the uneasy stillness continued to grow thicker because of it.

Dunk sat beside you, long legs stretched out before him and broad back braced against the great trunk of the elm. His head tipped forward slightly, chin nearly meeting chest, as if the simple act of holding himself upright demanded too much effort. Even with the worst of his wounds seen to, deep pain still lingered plainly in the clenching of his jaw. You sat beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched whenever either of you shifted, and weariness clung stubbornly to you all the same.

Neither of you spoke for a long while, resigned to silence.

There was comfort in that, at least—in the steady presence, in the easy companionship. You were both low in spirit and worn raw by the day’s events, but the burdens were slightly staved in sharing the quiet space together. Between you and the hedge knight there were no expectations, questions, duties, or disparities. There was only gratitude, respect, loyalty, and trust—things that held meaning, things that you could truly count on, unlike the acceptance of a long-lost father or the affections of a drunken prince.

Your gaze drifted out across the scenery, lazily scanning the glittering stream and the lush thickets.

Perhaps this was the life meant for you. A life that thrived in quiet moments spent in the hedges. A life that promised shelter beneath a leafy canopy, warmth from a campfire, a bed of soft green grass, and nights spent under the stars.

Perhaps you could simply just… stay on with Dunk after the tourney.

After all, there were certainly far worse fates out there, and with your father’s rejection it seemed the only path that lay ahead. The hedge knight, at least, would not spurn you so coldly, for he had failed to do so on your very first night in Ashford. He was a steady, solid rock of a man whose commitment to honor nearly cost him his life, but proved him in possession of a goodness this cruel world so often lacked.

And if you were to carve out a place for yourself in this cruel world, as your mother had wished, then perhaps it did not truly have to be among great lords and ladies at all. Perhaps it could be something simpler instead. A place in constant motion. A place beside a humble hedge knight.

A dull scraping sound broke through your musings.

Dunk had taken up a thick, sturdy fallen branch of the elm tree and a small knife. In slow, careful motions, he whittled the wood of the branch, carving away at it with firm resolve.

There could be only one motivation behind this newfound hobby of his.

“A crutch?” you asked him gently.

Dunk gave a wheezed grunt. “Aye. Figured I ought to make myself useful somehow. Can’t expect to walk around without one.” His voice was rough and there was a distinct stubbornness in it.

You watched as he worked, a deep furrow set at his brow in concentration and large hands surprisingly precise despite their size. Curl after curl of pale wood fell away, gathering upon the grass. The branch slowly began to take shape beneath his efforts, smoothed and narrowed where it needed to be. The work was not as easy as it seemed, however, for the strain made itself known in the way his shoulders tensed or the way his breath hitched ever so slightly with each push of the blade. Yet the hedge knight kept at it, jaw tightened and lips pursed.

“Dunk…” you began cautiously, “you should rest.”

“I am restin’,” he insisted, though his tone was more defensive than convincing.

Right then, the knife slipped and his arm shot forward with the momentum, pulling his body at an awkward angle in a sudden jerking movement. A deep, pained groan escaped him as he reflexively curled inward, one large hand pressing hard against the wound at his side.

“Fuckin’ gods,” he hissed under his breath.

You leaned over to assess him. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he muttered quickly, though his face had gone pale beneath blood, bruising, sweat, and dirt. His breath came uneven, shallow and shaky. “Just pulled at it wrong, is all.”

But that was not all. That much was plain to see. The wounds had been treated, yes, but that did not mean they were healed. And there was nothing here at camp to ease the pain, stave off infection, or aid in the mending process. The realization struck like a bolt of lightning.

“You need proper medicine,” you said, more firmly now.

Dunk let out a humorless huff. “And where do you suppose we’ll find that?”

“The market,” you replied simply, already rising to make for it. “I will go.”

Dunk shifted, moving to follow you.

“Stay here,” you ordered, pointing at him. “Do not move.”

Dunk blinked up at you, mouth opening to protest, but whatever strength he had for it faltered. There was simply no use in arguing. Your persistence was enough to rival that of Egg’s.

“If it please you,” he grumbled with a single nod. “But you’d best be back by sundown, else I’ll—”

“Yes, I know,” you chuckled softly. “You’ll hunt me down with dogs.”

That brought a small, reluctant smile to the hedge knight’s face and you offered a reassuring one in return before finally heading off.

The walk back to the meadow was quite a familiar one now, a trek across uneven terrain made countless times over the past few days. Instinct guided every step through the thickets in an effortless weave between thorns and branches that threatened to catch on clothing. The sun continued to cast the world in hues of gold and amber, while shadows began to stretch longer across the ground. Dirt paths bore the evidence of frequent travel, powdery earth packed flat by a myriad of footprints, hoofmarks, and wheel ruts.

The market thrived with movement and noise as always, but the earlier frenzied bustle had softened into something more languid in the late afternoon hours. Crowds milled about the merchant stalls and wagons at an unhurried pace, their actions marked by easy leisure rather than deliberate direction. In contrast, you walked briskly amongst them with purpose, eager to find something that might help Dunk. Yet even with all that determination, an inescapable feeling of uncertainty began to set in.

What did one even buy for such wounds?

The only remedy you knew by name was milk of the poppy, but the market’s supply had long since run dry. All the knights present for the tourney had bought it out, hoarding the potent medicine for injuries they sustained in the training yard or the lists. It surely would have demanded too high a price anyway, given what little money jangled sadly in the coin purse at your side.

You browsed the wares of the market, completely and utterly clueless. There were dried herbs with names so complicated your tongue stumbled over trying to pronounce them, along with mysterious jars of salves and questionable stoppered vials of tonics. How were you to tell if they were truly the product you needed? Simply trusting the word of a merchant would not do, for there was no way to discern whether they offered good bargains or dishonest ones.

Finally, you slowed to a stop at a random stall, hovering quietly by the end of its table. Its display looked promising enough, and the air around it smelled somewhat earthy and medicinal. You peered down at the offerings laid out below, eyes narrowing into piercing slits. Perhaps, if you stared hard enough, the answer might simply reveal itself.

Alas, the answer did not come.

Before despair could take root, a sudden visceral feeling seized your entire being.

A feeling that you were being watched.

Upon lifting your eyes, you were startled to instantly find another pair avidly fixed on you. They possessed irises of an icy blue, their edges tinged with a subtle hint of violet. Once meeting and settling on yours, the violet color only grew deeper, swallowing the blue whole like a moon eclipsing the sun.

Seven Hells.

What irony. You had desperately searched this very market for those very same eyes just the other day, and had come up sorely empty-handed. But now, without even looking for them, you finally found them. Oh, how the gods loved to play their little tricks.

Across from you, at the other end of the table, stood Daeron Targaryen with a smirk so charming it was quite honestly unfair.

“Hello, my lovely dream,” he greeted, voice low and breathy.

A soft gasp slipped past your lips.

He looked so…different from the disheveled drunk you had come to know—so polished and distinguished in a way that you were not used to.

Instead of the tangled, unkempt mess that usually defined him, his hair was clean and pulled back from his face, tied up loosely with a few stray golden strands falling free at his temples and the nape of his neck. His pale skin looked slightly healthier now, less sallow, and bone-shivering cold sweats no longer seemed to plague him. Gone were the thick cloaks, the crusted mantles, and the wine-stained tunics as well. Pristine, well-tailored garments now replaced them, giving him sharper, harder angles to match that of the attire worn by his father, The Anvil.

A black sleeveless surcoat fitted his frame, cut to fasten asymmetrically down his torso with small golden clasps—though he carelessly left it undone at the top, the lapels of the collar falling open to expose his neck and collarbones. Decorative piping ran up the right side in textured stripes while red crushed velvet spanned the left, crossing downward to compose panels of the surcoat’s skirt. A thin trimming of gold lined the armholes, where shimmery sleeves of the fine black tunic he wore underneath emerged. The sleeves were ruched, forming intricate pleats and ripples along his upper arm, and narrowed at the cuffs, which were studded with gold. A thick black sash cinched his waist, subtly embellished with a gold three-headed dragon on one side in a quiet nod to his house.

He was already handsome before, but this was something else entirely. This was the striking regality that befitted the grand title of a Targaryen prince. This was a sight that sent molten heat spiking through your core, settling somewhere low and foreign.

How strange. You had never felt such a heat like that before.

You took a few steps back from the stall, allowing space for other patrons to browse its wares, and perhaps also because his dashing appearance had sent you slightly reeling.

Daeron followed suit, coming to stand right in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, puzzled and a bit winded.

“The stock in the cellars of the castle is abysmal,” Daeron explained dryly. “Lord Ashford has quite the poor taste in wine, so I thought it a clever idea to search the meadow for something sweeter.” He paused and leveled you with a widening smirk and a cheeky tilt of his head. “It appears I have found it.”

Smug bastard.

Your stomach fluttered like the delicate wings of a butterfly, but you decidedly elected to ignore his words and the feelings they stirred entirely.

“I see you finally got a maester to tend to your wounds,” you observed, pointing at the rough stitching under his cheekbone.

“Mm, yes.” Daeron gave a slight nod and lightly grazed his fingers over the stitches. “Maester Yormwell did all he could.”

If he thought his vanity wounded by the damage to his face, he did not show it. Though it seemed more likely that he possessed no sense of vanity at all, given his characteristic indifference. With his hair pulled back, however, the mangled state of his left ear was put on full display, the lobe nearly torn clean off.

Your heart clenched at the sight. You had not realized how truly gruesome his injury was. Not until now.

“How are you faring?” you inquired, voice softening with the compassion that so often defined you. “I pray it does not hurt too much.”

“So long as I am not at the end of Ser Robin Rhysling’s lance anymore, I am fine,” Daeron replied airily with a shrug. “And I find my mood steadily improving now that I am finally receiving the pleasure of your company.”

With a faint cringe, you remembered your cold rejection of him that morning.

“I am sorry that you bore the weight of my temper earlier,” you admitted quietly. “I regret that I let it rule me.”

Daeron’s brows furrowed. He was not the kind of man that deserved apologies. Especially not from you—you who had saved him in more ways than you could ever know.

“You’ve no need to apologize to me,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ve borne the weight of dreams far worse than your temper.”

Weight of dreams? What could that possibly mean? A small frown came to your face. Sometimes it felt like this drunken prince spoke only in riddles.

“Though consider my curiosity piqued,” he added, “as to what could have invoked your ire in such a way. I’d rather like to avoid making the same error.”

“It is no matter now,” you bristled, quick and blunt. “It is nothing.”

Daeron quirked a thick brow at your deflection, but he let it slide off him easily and instead turned your earlier question unto you. “What are you doing here?”

“I am looking for medicine for Ser Duncan,” you responded. “He has no maester to look after him or tend to his recovery, so it is up to me.”

Suddenly, Daeron vaguely felt something green and ugly rear its head within him. Something a bit unreasonable—like jealousy.

“Hm,” he grunted flatly. “Your kindness knows no bounds.”

“I am embarrassed to admit I am not quite sure what medicine to get him,” you murmured, unaware of the drunken prince’s inner turmoil. “I have never dealt with wounds like his.”

“Well, allow me to aid you, then,” Daeron offered lightly. “If memory serves me well, I might be able to recall something that may help your hedge knight.”

“And here I thought you were a prince known for indulgence, not charity,” you teased, mimicking his words from the night before in the courtyard of Ashford Castle.

You flashed him a cheeky smile of your own and resumed your stroll through the market, which now felt less daunting and dire than it did before.

Daeron remained rooted in place for a moment, disarmed by your quick wit and the radiance of your smile. He briefly basked in the warmth they kindled within him, then followed right at your heels before you could get too far. His gait was slightly uneven like it was earlier that morning, hampered by a subtle limp that favored his left foot. But with his long legs and wide strides, he still managed to keep in step with the idle pace you set.

“So the Heir Prince of Summerhall is versed in medicine,” you remarked amusedly, turning a corner into another lane of merchant stalls. “How did that come about?”

“When Aerion was a boy, he would often get into trouble and drag me into it,” Daeron reminisced, a fond grin taking phantom shape on his lips. “Not much has changed, clearly.”

You hummed low in agreement.

“My other brother, Aemon, would join in the fun, too—even if he was already quite taken with his books by then. But whenever Aerion got his way, it led to far more than just scrapes and bruises. On such occasions, we would steal medicine from the maester’s rookery in Summerhall and secretly tend to ourselves, just so our father wouldn't find out and give us all a footwhipping for our idiocy.”

The story elicited a soft chuckle from you, and Daeron found himself rather pleased by the melodic sound.

“Such a formative experience bodes well for Aemon,” he mused idly, then sidestepped a wagon threatening to crush his already injured foot.

You tilted your head. “How so?”

“Our grandfather sent him to the Citadel to become a maester,” Daeron replied, and his expression turned somewhat somber. “It seems he will make the most useful son of us all. The realm knows I am an utter disappointment, and Aerion turned out to be quite the monster.”

“Hm, well do not count Egg out just yet,” you countered smoothly. “You have not seen him wield an axe.”

“You are right.” The corner of Daeron’s lip tugged upward. “I have already underestimated that boy enough.”

Shared amusement and small smiles lingered for a moment longer, before tapering off into a serene lull. The calling of merchants and chatter of commonfolk occupied the companionable silence, while a certain tenderness settled in the sliver of space between you. The idle stroll through the winding lanes of the market continued, footsteps of a woman in green linen and a drunken prince falling into a natural, easy rhythm beside one another.

Daeron stayed right at your side, his pace unconsciously adjusting whenever needed just to remain near. The steady warmth of him next to you quickly became an ever-present comfort, and he played the role of your dutiful escort through the bustling crowd quite well. The propriety of his proximity, however, might have been questionable, for he was a great deal closer than truly necessary.

Now and again, his arm just barely brushed against yours, but neither of you commented on it nor made any effort to prevent it from happening again. The moments of contact were fleeting and light, hardly even felt at all through the fabric of your sleeves, yet secretly treasured every single time.

Still, you kept your focus fixed ahead—on stalls, on offered goods, on anything that might help Dunk—while Daeron kept his focus fixed on you, as if nothing else mattered in the world. He made no effort to hide how his expression had softened into something reverent and enamored, something so uncommon on a prince like him, and his regard only deepened as he keenly observed every little thing about you.

Oddly enough, it was the smallest details that captivated him the most.

The way your nose wrinkled when strands of your hair, ruffled by a passing breeze, tickled your face. The faint streak of mud on your chin that you had not noticed, or had not bothered to wipe away. The patches you had skillfully sewn into your modest garments. The gleam in your eyes when they caught on trinkets that looked simple to others but fascinating to you. The subtle divot between your brows and the pursing of your lips whenever you saw something unfamiliar, revealing how intently your mind worked to discern whether it might prove useful. The deftness of your fingers as they hovered over certain wares without quite touching, testing their worth by instinct alone. The pure determination worn plainly on your face despite your uncertainty with a task you had so graciously taken upon yourself.

Through all these little things, one truth became devastatingly apparent:

You were so stubbornly sincere, and you were trying so hard… yet nonetheless it was clear that you would never try to be anything other than yourself.

You moved through the world simply as you were.

And that struck Daeron deeper than any lance ever could, piercing a place in his chest no physical force could ever hope to breach.

With the constraints of his status, he had become accustomed to the hollowness of performance and posturing, and had begun to think it the only thing that defined the people around him. Where women were concerned, he had known only the calculated allure of whores draped in provocative silks who warmed princes’ beds, or the polished pleasantries of ladies in court dripping in glittering gold, each and every one of them trained to charm, flatter, and play their roles to perfection.

Yet here beside him was a woman whose beauty revealed itself most in the quiet, unassuming displays of her fierce spirit and earnest curiosity, and not a single seductive performance he’d seen throughout his entire life could ever hold a candle—not even a meager ember—to you, stripped of pretense, unknowingly tearing him apart piece by piece through the mere act of walking the dirt paths of a common marketplace.

You looked so…different from everything he had come to know—so unapologetically human in a way that he was not used to. A welcome reprieve from all that had worn him thin and weary, from a world that pressed too heavily upon him. Seven help him, he found it all so blissfully intoxicating. More so, even, than the wine he desperately drowned himself in.

Eventually, Daeron slowed to a stop at a large wooden table with a display of herbs and ointments. Despite your enchanting effect on him, he still retained enough of his wits to remember he was here to provide expertise, so he gestured for you to come closer. Among the enticing spread, he pointed out Myrish Fire, Kingscopper, and Sourleaf.

Myrish Fire, an ointment used to clean wounds and burns, and Kingscopper, an herb known to stave off rot and aid in healing, were medicines he recalled stealing most often from the maester’s stores. Sourleaf, however, had no place in the rookery at Summerhall. He had discovered the herb on his own many years ago, hoping its property to dull pain might also dull his dreams as well. Alas, it had done nothing of the sort, only leaving his teeth and fingers stained red for a few days.

He reached out and brushed his fingers over the ointment and bundled pouches of herbs as he explained each of them to you in low tones. When you leaned into his space to inspect them more closely, his eyes flicked down to you and he caught a pleasant whiff of your scent—intoxicatingly sweet, just as he had suspected, to match everything else he had discovered about you thus far. His speech faltered briefly as he savored your sweetness, but it was so quick you had not even noticed.

Thoughtfully considering his advice, you scanned over the display once more.

Dunk would have no need of Myrish Fire—his wounds were already cleaned and cauterized.

After only a moment’s hesitation, you finally turned to the merchant behind the stall.

“How much for the Kingscopper?” you asked, taking on a courteous and measured tone.

The merchant, a rotund man with more grease in his hair than actual strands of it, named his price in a gruff grunt.

You balked at the price immediately. You had not the coin to pay such a high sum. Not even a mere fraction of it.

“And the Sourleaf?” you tried, hoping it might be more affordable.

“Same price,” the merchant answered tersely. “I charge a flat rate for all my wares.”

Heat rose to your face, painting it red in flustered embarrassment for your lack of wealth, and you opened your mouth to politely refuse the transaction.

But before any modest words could tumble out, a loud thud suddenly erupted on the table below.

You startled instinctively, looking toward the sound and the culprit behind it. The Targaryen prince beside you had slammed a single golden dragon down on the wooden surface with decisive force. The coin glinted bright against the dull grain, its outstanding worth made known by its gleaming luster and the fierce three-headed creature embossed upon it. Without sparing even half a breath, Daeron quickly snatched the pouch of Kingscopper and sauntered off with all the careless irreverence of a drunken prince, silently motioning for you to follow him with a gentle tilt of his head.

He had not looked the merchant in the eye even once, nor had he deigned to exchange so much as a single word. The matter was already settled, and coin spoke loudly for him enough. The merchant, wisely, made no move to protest. A golden dragon more than generously covered the price of the herbs. With such a fortune, his expenses would be paid for at least two months.

You hurried after Daeron, steps quick to match his longer stride. Thankfully, he had not gotten far, and slowed just enough to allow you to catch up. Once you were at his side again—where you belonged, he thought faintly—he came to a stop and offered the pouch out to you.

“That man was practically trying to rob you,” Daeron remarked, upper lip curling slightly and irritation simmering under his otherwise careless tone. “I have bought Sourleaf before—for the dreams, obviously—and it has never warranted so high a price. No doubt he inflated the Kingscopper, too. I figured it best to shut him up with gold than to waste my breath haggling over it.” He huffed sharply out his nose in wry amusement. “Funny, is it not? How coin has the ability to silence even the most insufferable of men where words or even sharpened steel cannot.”

His hand remained outstretched, the pouch dangling from his loose grip. You had yet to take it from him.

“I cannot accept this,” you refused, shaking your head. “I have no way to repay you.”

“You have shown me far greater kindness than I deserve,” Daeron said, voice softer now, wavering out of its usual flippancy. “Allow me this in return.”

His eyes bore into yours, intense and imploring, and that same strange phenomenon unfolded once more. They flickered in the golden sunlight, glinting with a luminosity unmatched by anything else in the Seven Kingdoms. Icy blue deepened until a rich violet bled through, like dark ink swirling in clear water.

You wondered, briefly, if his eyes only ever did that for you.

And if they did, then they truly ought not to.

In a way, you resented them, those frustratingly beautiful eyes. No matter the occasion, they never failed to be any less captivating, any less profoundly breathtaking. All manner of sense and self-preservation dictated that nothing should hold such power over you or command your soul in such a way. But alas, those enigmatic eyes did. And it seemed you were to be the victim of their irresistible spell once again.

You hesitated for a moment, then, slowly, you yielded to the wishes of the dragon—despite the fact that it practically burned you the last time—and reached out to take the pouch.

Unintentionally, your fingers brushed against his.

It was only a slight contact. Barely anything at all. Yet, in an instant, the intimate feeling of his skin against yours sent a spark tingling up your arm. The sensation felt contradictory in nature; soft and warm like a well-loved wool cloak, but also fierce and overwhelming like lightning tearing through your body.

Daeron felt it too.

It coursed through him like a concentrated dose of whatever had passed between you in that field at dawn, before the Trial of Seven, when your hand had wrapped around his so perfectly and your touch had felt bestowed upon him like a lady’s favor. Quite honestly, he had half a mind to throw the pouch to the ground, completely forgotten, just so he could lurch forward, lace his fingers through yours, pull you in close to his chest, and taste the sweetness promised by your lips right here in this dusty market. But alas, he did not. Instead, he only indulged in letting his fingers rest against yours a second longer than necessary, before reluctantly releasing the pouch into your grasp rather than into the dirt below.

You drew your hand back and held the pouch close to your chest. Though the moment had been extinguished, snuffed out like a flame, the consuming heat of his touch lingered all the same in the warm imprint his grip left upon the pouch’s fabric. His dragonfire had not burned you this time, but it seemed it still left its mark. And here you were, cradling its scorched remains dangerously close to your heart.

Seeking a distraction from the drunken prince and his dizzying effects entirely, you averted your eyes and looked toward the world beyond.

The sky above bled with vibrant oranges and pinks and purples, while the sun steadily descended, its amber rays sinking low and kissing the horizon. Servants scurried about the meadow lighting torches in preparation for the darkness of the coming evening, which crackled and popped with bright embers. Fireflies flickered to life in a slow, floating dance while crickets chirped a gentle, percussive symphony.

It was sundown now, which served as a much-needed cue to head back to camp, lest a certain hedge knight wrack himself with worry.

You chewed at your bottom lip and rocked on your heels, still a bit dazed from the persistent tingling in your fingertips.

“Well…” you began awkwardly, “I should return to Ser Duncan, now that I have his medicine.”

“I shall see you to your pavilion, then,” Daeron suggested, as if it were merely a formality and not truly a desperate bid to extend his time with you for as long as possible.

“No, that is quite alright,” you declined, your firm resolve quickly returning. “We have no pavilion but the leaves and trunk of an elm tree, and it would surely upset Ser Duncan to see you. You’d best return to your cups, my prince.”

But Daeron did not want his cups. He wanted you.

By the time he might have voiced the sentiment, you had already walked off, leaving him to stare lamely after your retreating figure—a beautiful silhouette bathed in the golden glow of sunset.

Your last words lingered in his mind.

My prince.

Before the Trial of Seven, in the burgeoning light of dawn, he had allowed you the privilege of addressing him by his name. However, you still had yet to use it, remaining steadfast in propriety and addressing him by a perfunctory honorific instead. Profound disappointment washed over him at that, for he so desired to hear his name fall from your lips. Two syllables in its truest form, unchained from his disparaging moniker “The Drunken,” unlike how you had uttered it last night in the courtyard of Ashford Castle.

For now, it seemed “my prince” would simply have to suffice.

After all, this prince already felt a great deal like he was yours.

The next morning crept forth slowly, carrying with it the silent proclamation that the day of the Trial of Seven had finally passed in its entirety, left only to decay into a thing of history.

However, Ashford Meadow hung suspended in the aftermath, between what had been and what came next. As of yet, not a single soul was privy to whether the trial would have any lasting effects on the knights and princes who survived it, or on the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms itself. But that ambiguity could not endure much longer. Lines were to be drawn and arrangements were to be made—in allegiances, funerals, farewells, or otherwise—with the tournament dwindling down to a close and all its participants preparing to embark on the paths that led back out to the rest of the realm.

In a forest clearing on the outskirts of the meadow, an elm tree stood as it always had, broad and steadfast with a wide leafy canopy offering shade and peaceful refuge. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of loam and lingering woodsmoke from a long extinguished campfire. Dew clung to the grass in shimmering beads. A white mist settled low on the ground, slow to dissipate with the onset of morning. Colorful birds of the countryside whistled a lilting tune as if to herald the rising sun.

The only path that lay ahead for you promised more idyllic mornings like this.

Dunk slept beside you, his large frame slumped against the trunk of the elm. His breathing was even and steady, though it had not come so easily through the night. Pain had plagued him relentlessly, dragging him in and out of restless half-slumber. It was only when the Kingscopper took full effect that he was finally granted some reprieve.

His head tipped sideways, pressing heavily on your shoulder, and his shaggy mop of honeyed-bronze hair tickled your cheek, but you had not the heart to move him—not when he had already endured so much. He deserved comfort, in even the smallest ways possible. So you sat there, still as a statue, allowing his great weight to rest against you for as long as he needed. One of your hands absently plucked at the grass below while the other rested on your thigh, enveloped by his larger, slackened hand. Sometime in the night he had unconsciously grabbed your hand in a fit of pain, and even squeezed it softly from time to time, for guilt seemed to haunt him even in deep slumber.

All of a sudden, a faint rustle of movement stirred at the edge of the clearing.

It failed to elicit any alarm, though, for such sounds—like the skittering of forest animals or the passing of strangers in the distance—had become commonplace here in the hedges. You made no move, and continued to stare aimlessly down at the grass. But the rustling sound only increased, deliberate and sure, approaching rather than merely passing by.

Then an all-too-pleasant voice cut through the hushed quiet.

“I must confess…” it drawled airily, laced with familiar irreverence, “I truly had not expected to find a hedge knight sleeping so faithfully in his hedges.”

Your head snapped up immediately.

Just beyond the reach of the elm’s shade stood Daeron Targaryen. The rays of the morning sun at his back cast him half in shadow, and it felt somewhat uncanny to see a prince of the blood this far out in the hedges, but there was no mistaking him. Not with his charmingly dimpled chin, tall straight nose, sharp jaw, thick brows, and flickering icy blue eyes.

He was dressed just as regally as he was the day before, though this time he held a leather flask loosely in his right hand and his hair was a bit more unruly, wavy golden locks loosened further from the knot of hair lazily tied at the back of his head. He looked like he had slept in his garments, judging by their slightly wrinkled state and their softened edges, but really he looked like he had barely even slept well at all. If the dark circles under his eyes and the staining on his lips were any indication, he had spent the night drinking instead.

“Be quiet,” you shushed him, nodding down at Dunk. “He needs his rest. He managed very little all night.”

A strange bitterness tugged sharply in Daeron’s gut at that.

Why could you not tend to him the same way you tended to the hedge knight? Why could you not look after him while he slept? He imagined, fleetingly, what it might feel like to wake beneath your gentle care, to be granted even a fraction of it. It would surely do a great deal to calm his own restless, fitful slumber.

He fully took in the sight before him: you and Ser Duncan seated together under the elm tree, your shoulder bearing the weight of another man, your hand resting so easily beneath one that wasn’t his. The strange bitterness coiling in his gut grew sharper still, rising in the back of his throat like bile. But he swallowed it down hard, for he was the type of man who favored willful ignorance, who resigned himself to a hedonistic lifestyle that offered him the least resistance and the least of his effort.

It was quite the familiar act, too. Swallowing down such unsavory feelings paired with wine and wit to stomach them easier. Burying discomfort beneath indifference instead of confronting it outright. It was, perhaps, the only art at which he truly excelled. Aside from his unrivaled performance at lying insensible in the mud, of course.

You moved carefully, easing away from Dunk and propping his head gently against the rough bark of the elm. He twitched but did not wake, too far gone in the sleep his distressed body so desperately needed. Some vague sense of a cold emptiness settled in you then, seeming to strike the very moment your hand had slipped out of the hedge knight’s warm grip, but you did not pause to examine such a curious feeling. Instead, you rose to your feet, brushed the dirt from your dress, and met the prince loitering at the edge of the elm’s shade with a guarded expression.

“Why have you come here?” you hissed under your breath.

You had already told him that Dunk would be upset to see him. Had the warning fallen on deaf ears? Had he decided that his princely judgment was worth more than yours?

Daeron lifted his shoulders in a shrug, easy and unbothered.

“We never did finish those lessons yesterday morning.” He gestured lazily with his flask toward the dark destrier tied nearby. “I thought we might continue them. You made quite the good teacher.”

Your gaze followed the gesture and softened once it settled on Thunder.

Ah. Right.

Before the Trial of Seven, you had briefly taken up the task of teaching Daeron better of horses, correcting where his father and his childhood had failed him. But you would not go so far as to say that you were conducting lessons, much less would you have expected him to remember that surprisingly tender moment or seek its continuation. Though, certainly, it seemed this drunken prince had a growing penchant for surprising you.

For Daeron’s part, he truly couldn’t care less about improving his horsemanship. He simply needed an excuse to see you again.

You pursed your lips and, for a moment, just stared at him. At his infuriatingly handsome face, at the slight smirk on his wine-stained lips, at his thick brows cocked upward in anticipation of a reply. There was no real harm in his request—not when you had nothing left to lose, given your failed purpose in Ashford and your potential no greater than a humble life in the hedges.

In truth, you did not really wish to refuse him either.

If the dragon burned you this time, then so be it.

Perhaps that was the path the gods had intended for you.

“Very well,” you assented at last, voice low so as not to disturb Dunk. “But we cannot be gone for too long.”

The curve at Daeron’s mouth deepened, and he opened it to make some sly comment.

You lifted a hand, halting him, and something roguish played at your features. “Before we go, there is someone you must meet.”

Without waiting for a reply, you turned and stepped around the wide trunk of the elm, motioning for him to follow.

The easy expression on Daeron’s face turned to a vaguely sour one in an instant. He had not asked his little brother for directions to Ser Duncan’s camp, nor had he trampled through horrid thickets with all the grace of a drunkard to meet someone. He had come here with the singular intention of meeting you. Anyone else was a trifle.

Even so, he obeyed and matched your strides around the elm, where a peculiar sight unveiled before him.

Just behind the tree, tied down alongside two large horses, stood a stout and rather unimpressive animal on four hooved legs—a donkey. It was even-tempered and grizzled, with a coat of soft fur on its head and wiry fur on the rest of its body. Large, shaggy ears made its most prominent feature, and its big brown eyes blinked slowly at him in placid indifference. You approached it with a marked fondness and affectionately stroked your hand along its neck.

“This here is Old Lady,” you said, voice softening almost to a coo. “My nearest and dearest friend.”

Daeron blinked. Of all the things he had expected you to own, a donkey had not been among them. The conclusion he had come to the other night at Ashford Castle still held true. You were quite the beguiling creature indeed.

“Old Lady,” he repeated in a half-amused wheeze, like the name was some sort of jape.

“Yes,” you replied evenly. “Old Lady.”

The firm, almost defensive tone you took made him amend himself quickly, but a hint of amusement still tugged stubbornly at the corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat and tried for something kind to offer, though it came out a tad bit flippant—which was usually inevitable, seeing as it came from him.

“She is not a horse. That is promising.”

Old Lady snorted deeply out her broad muzzle, as if to express how entirely unimpressed she was with him. Yet you found the attempt somewhat endearing, and the ghost of a smile graced your lips.

“I have known her nearly all my life,” you said, absently stroking through Old Lady’s gray fur. “My mother bought her on my sixth nameday. She claimed it was only because she needed a packing animal to pull the plows…” A wistful expression blossomed on your face. “But I think it was truly because she wished for me to have a companion of my own.”

A sad, silent thought resonated in your bones.

Old Lady and your tattered cloak were all you had left from her now.

Instantly, all the wry humor and careless irreverence Daeron hid so faithfully behind crumbled away. The shadowed emotion that crossed over your features at the mention of your mother had not escaped him—not when he watched you so closely, not when it was so recognizable to him. Lurking in those shadows was a quiet sort of grief he understood far too well.

He wondered, briefly, where your mother was now.

Perhaps in the same abstract, unreachable place as his own mother—lost forever to the living and embraced steadfastly by the dead.

“Your donkey is far more promising than I thought, then,” Daeron offered after a beat, more gently than anything else that had left his mouth that morning. “Such a gift in a companion is no simple thing. In spite of life’s many little cruelties, I find mothers often possess a peculiar talent for knowing what we need and providing it… even after they are long gone.”

His words resonated with you in the way a rare phenomenon would, passing over you like a falling star. He had not delivered them alongside a lazy grin or a swallow of wine, nor had he woven a jest through them or hastily tacked on a flippant remark to dull the blow. Instead, they had been thoughtful and knowing, filled with a sincerity entirely unexpected of a drunken prince and more befitting a broken man intimately acquainted with devastating loss.

Alongside the glimpses of kindness you had seen from him so far, a profound hidden quality was beginning to reveal itself more and more.

Somewhere beneath all the smoke and ruin that came with being a dragon, Daeron Targaryen possessed an achingly human heart.

A heart that had known warmth and love for a time, but had gotten so badly bruised that it now sat cold and hollow within a cage of bone. A heart that had been neglected for countless years in favor of drunkenness and indifference, because to feel too deeply was, perhaps, far more unbearable than feeling nothing at all. A heart he seemed determined to bury.

A sudden curiosity took hold of you then. An urge to understand what could compel a man to spurn his own humanity so desperately. An urge to understand him. To truly understand him, bruises and all.

And perhaps, in doing so, you might discover what his heart still had left to offer, too.

Could this drunken prince still possess the capacity to love?

Alas, despite how incredibly enticing—and incredibly foolish—that curiosity was, you had committed yourself to a different task this morning. So you turned to Thunder instead, who was far more imposing in stature and spirit than the humble donkey beside him, and moved to untie him. Your fingers worked deftly at the knot securing his reins, loosening it in a quick maneuver and gathering the reins into your hand.

“Come on,” you said, glancing back over your shoulder at the prince. “There is a field not far from here. It will suit our purposes better than this place.”

With that, you led Thunder away from the elm and into the forest. Daeron followed without question, leather flask still faithfully in hand. He walked just behind you, close enough that his presence echoed how it was at the market—warm, steady, and quietly attentive.

Before long, the trees began to thin and the forest opened into a wide field still half-veiled in lingering mist. Upon reaching the center of the field, you slowed Thunder to a stop and withdrew a pair of brushes from the saddlebag strapped to his back. They were well-worn, many of their bristles lost and the wood gone smooth with years of use. You unceremoniously placed one into Daeron’s free hand, then moved to Thunder’s side and began working your own brush along his coat in steady, rhythmic motions.

Daeron, however, did not move. He stared down at the brush lying on his palm with furrowed brows, as if it was something he had never seen before. And really, it might have been. A brush like this had no place in his possession, not among the silver goblets and fine flasks he so often clutched.

He glanced between you, Thunder, and the offending object in his hand. “You want me to brush the horse?”

“Yes, I want you to brush him,” you answered simply, without looking up. “He has earned proper care after yesterday. And I have told you before: teaching one to ride a horse means teaching one to form a bond with it as well. Grooming is as good a place as any to begin.”

Daeron gave a snort of disbelief, and looked back down at the brush.

The worn old thing felt oddly heavy in his hand, though not because of its true weight but rather because of what it signified. The task was so mundane, so beneath him by every standard he had been raised to know. It was the sort of task done by stable boys and servants, not princes, and he had no reason to ever dirty himself with it at all—especially seeing as he much preferred to dirty himself instead with stints in seedy taverns or drunken stumbles into puddles of mud.

But you had asked him to do it, and that alone was strangely enough to lighten the heaviness in his hand.

With a deep exhale, he complied and stepped forward to set the brush against Thunder’s coat. His technique was awkward and lacked the practiced diligence of yours, but he mimicked your motions as best he could. Thunder seemed satisfied enough, flicking his tail in a smug manner as if he were reveling in receiving such care from a prince of the blood.

Of course, Daeron could not keep his attention on the mundane task for too long—not when there was a far more enticing sight to gaze upon right beside him.

His eyes helplessly, inevitably drifted toward you, greedily drinking in the natural set of your features when unburdened by tension. Here in this open field, with the morning mist still clinging low upon the grass, a worn brush in hand and that stubborn streak of mud on your chin, you looked wholly at peace. Content in a way the realm seldom allowed its inhabitants to be. Serene in a way he could never hope to attain himself yet found he rather enjoyed seeing upon you instead.

Much to his chagrin, your peaceful expression did not last long.

You glanced up suddenly, sensing the weight of his stare as surely as one might feel sweltering heat rolling off a nearby fire, and regarded him with a puzzled tilt of your head. Your eyes squinted, half-curious and half-suspicious, clearly noticing that his brushing had long since slowed to near uselessness. Your gaze flicked once toward the brush and then slowly back to his face as you silently wondered why he was not giving his full attention to the task you had asked of him.

In truth, Daeron held no shame for having been caught staring so openly. He was a man who had cast away such a feeling long ago, just as he had cast away his honor and any other remaining bits of his dignity. Yet even so, to spare you the disappointment or the breath of reprimanding him, he cleared his throat with an awkward half-cough and pointedly schooled his attention back ahead to the boorish sight of Thunder’s flank.

The motions of his brush then resumed with exaggerated diligence.

For a while, the only sounds in the field were the sweeping rasps of bristles against horsehair and the hushed whispers of the wind. The quiet settled easily between you and Daeron, free of strain or uncertainty, just as it had during your stroll through the market the day before. But after a long moment, while you both continued to brush alongside each other, you finally spoke.

“I never owned a horse of my own,” you began idly. “But when I was a girl, I would sneak away every morning to visit a stable boy who lived near my home. You see, my mother never liked me engaging with strangers, but I did it anyway.” The faintest hint of a coy smile played at your lips. “Sometimes, I could be quite the defiant daughter.”

Daeron kept his eyes dutifully on Thunder, as you wished, but let out a soft huff of amusement. It seemed he was not the only one between the two of you who got up to mischief in their youth. It worked well to his advantage, too, that you had not heeded your mother’s advice on strangers. He never would have met you back on that street at the inn if you had.

“The stable boy taught me how to mount and ride,” you said, eyes alight with fond, happy memories. “Taught me everything. He even let me take out this beautiful white mare sometimes, like she was my very own.”

The motion of your brush faltered for a brief second, and Daeron slowed his own. His attention shifted, drawn back entirely to you. Blue-violet eyes searched your face and watched curiously as something youthful and innocent dawned across it.

“I thought myself a little in love with him.”

The confession escaped you quietly, like a long-held secret that had been left untouched for years. It struck Daeron like a blunt force, less sharp than what had tugged at him earlier at the elm tree, but unwarranted and bitter all the same. His grip on the brush tightened ever so slightly, and his posture shifted with a subtle roll of his shoulders to ease some unseen tension. Though he remained silent and asked no questions.

“One day, he was summoned to arms by a local lord,” you murmured, tone laced with unmistakable lament and the light in your eyes quickly dimming. “They needed men to fight in some petty feud over land.”

Any last vestiges of levity vanished at once.

“He never came back. Most like he died in battle, and I never got the chance to ride a horse ever again.”

Silence fell over the misty field, and Daeron stopped the motions of his brush altogether, quietly slipping it back into the saddlebag pocket in a deft, discreet maneuver. He turned to regard you fully. Your gaze was still fixed on Thunder and you continued to brush him, but your mind had gone elsewhere, somewhere far away, and you seemed to have completely forgotten that the prince was even there at all.

The death of the stable boy had been small and insignificant in the grand telling of the world, yet it had been everything to you. It was the brutal ending to something hopeful and treasured. The snuffing out of a gentle flame that had never been allowed to become anything more. The devastating moment that marked the loss of your girlish naïveté about life’s cruelties.

And you had to bury your grief for years, because no one was ever supposed to know you even knew him.

Daeron, for his part, did not like the idea of you loving another. Even in such an innocent way, even in the distant past. In fact, he might have disdained the idea even more than he disdained swords and horses, which was saying quite a lot. But the unwelcome bitterness he felt now was not nearly as intense as what he felt at the elm tree with Ser Duncan.

He quickly found that he could not resent the stable boy the same way—especially seeing as he was dead. But more so because the stable boy had given you something so special, so formative. What you learned from him all those years ago had brought you here, in this misty field, standing beside Daeron as the fascinating woman you were today. And for that very reason, the sharpness of jealousy was alleviated.

Now, it was time Daeron brought you back to him.

“Well…” he started, finally breaking his silence.

You immediately glanced up at him, for it seemed the low drawl of his voice had the unerring ability to pull your attention like nothing else in the realm did.

He jerked his chin at Thunder. “You could ride a horse now.”

“I should not,” you said warily.

“I am sure your hedge knight will not mind,” Daeron retorted with a swat of his hand.

“He might not but—”

“Then we have nothing to fear. Now, go on,” Daeron commanded languidly. “Mount the damned horse.”

He tilted his head down at you, a goading smirk curling at his lips, and those eyes—

“No,” you huffed stubbornly, almost petulantly. “Your troublesome eyes will not win me over this time.”

Daeron curiously lifted a single thick brow. No one had ever made a comment about his eyes before, much less called them troublesome.

“It is you who will mount Thunder,” you declared. “After all, you are to receive lessons and I the teacher.”

The abrupt reversal of the command caught Daeron slightly off-guard, but he quickly recovered. Irreverence returned like a tide that had pulled from the shore and crashed back in at full force.

“I regret that I simply cannot mount the beast,” he sighed, feigning a mournful tone. Then he flashed you a bright and no doubt disingenuous smile, one that split wide across his face and deepened the dimples in his cheeks. “I am far too devoted to the riveting task of brushing it instead.”

“I am sure you are,” you replied sweetly, just as disingenuous as his smile. The brush was not even in his hand anymore. “But I saw how dreadfully you rode your charger during the trial—there is much to improve upon."

“Ah, so you were watching me,” the prince noted smoothly, without missing a beat, absolutely pleased with the revelation. “Am I to assume I had your favor, then?”

“You are to assume a position upon that saddle.”

“Mm. Not a position of my personal preference, I dare say.”

There might have been far less innocent implications hidden within the prince’s remark, but you easily sidestepped them.

“Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten? You are rather keen on lying face down, drunk, on the floor.”

“You should try it. I find it far more enjoyable than most things the realm has to offer.”

“That so?”

“Certainly. Just a few nights past, it introduced me to quite the pretty woman.”

“Hm. Well, perhaps she is regretting ever stopping that night.”

“You wound me.”

“You will survive.”

“I think not. This is surely an affliction I shall never recover from.”

“Oh, be quiet.” You rolled your eyes, though the irritated expression was done with no true irritation at all. “Just get on the horse, Daeron.”

Daeron.

The name slipped free from your lips unconsciously, weaving so seamlessly into your speech that you had not even noticed you had used it.

But Daeron noticed.

Gods above, he had noticed.

You had finally said his name. His name. Not “my prince.” Not some dull moniker weighed down by formality or scorn. His. Name. And having waited for what felt like decades to hear it made the moment all the more rewarding. Your lovely, lovely voice composing those particular vowels and consonants in that precise order was no doubt the sweetest sound he had ever heard in his entire life.

A pleasurable jolt traveled through his entire body, causing warmth to bloom deep in his chest like the first crackling flare of fire within a dragon. It felt as though you had claimed him, all of him, merely through the act of saying his name. Even worse—or better—you had said it so freely and with such teasing vexation that your claim upon him only closed in tighter, like a vice grip he never wished to be released from. This easy banter between the two of you, this playful clash of wit and will, excited him to an almost shameful extent. If he was fortunate enough, if the gods decided to be kind when they had always been cruel, perhaps he could find an opportunity to coax his name from your lips again in other exciting ways.

But that was a thought for another time.

Now, with your command having seized his entire being, there was no choice left but to obey.

Daeron stepped closer to Thunder, eyeing the great destrier with suspicion. Seven Hells, he was really going to do this. Ordinarily, he avoided riding horses as much as possible, and loathed it entirely when he had to for travel or tourneys his father forced him to attend. And yet here he was, preparing to mount one willingly, simply because you had asked it of him.

With a long, resigned sigh, he tipped his head up and took a heavy swig from his flask.

For a brief moment, you forgot all sense of propriety and paused to appreciate the enthralling sight before you. Your gaze lingered, drawn unbidden to the pale skin of his exposed neck, the sharp line of his jaw, and the pleasing angle at which he had thrown his head back. Pink wine-stained lips curved around the rim of the flask and drank from it in a fluid, effortless motion, like it was second nature. Suddenly, that same strange molten heat from the day before spiked somewhere low and foreign within you once again.

The drunken prince had somehow made the simple act of drinking feel almost too intimate to watch.

You blinked. Such distractions must not be allowed. Drawing in a deep breath, you schooled your attention back to the task at hand. Once Daeron lowered his flask, you were pointedly looking at the horse before him, as if a lapse in your composure had never even occurred at all.

“Thunder is not a hindrance,” you said, returning to the role of teacher, inwardly grateful that your voice sounded convincingly unaffected. “Do not try to work around him or against him—work with him. Horses are strong and intuitive creatures, you may trust them to handle your weight. There is no shame in it.”

Daeron took another step forward, and grabbed the reins with his free hand. He must have already done something wrong, though, because your eyes narrowed and your mouth tightened into a thin line in disapproval at the action.

“You cannot hope to properly ride a horse with a flask in hand,” you chided. “You need both hands to mount. One on the reins and the other on the saddle. Put it down.”

“I have managed well enough before,” Daeron replied dismissively.

“Obviously, you have not.” You held a hand out. “Give it here. I will hold it for you.”

With your expectant pout and your soft palm open, unyielding, and outstretched before him, Daeron found he could not refuse you. Oddly enough, it seemed the common theme for the morning. A pattern he neither understood nor wished to break.

He surrendered his flask and set it in your waiting hand with a reluctant grumble, as if the very act physically pained him. But the pleased smile you gave him in return for his obedience served consolation enough for him to continue, softening the loss into something tolerable. He took up Thunder’s reins in one hand again, set the newly-empty hand on the saddle, and placed his left foot in the stirrup. That left him standing on his right, the injured foot from the trial.

Hopefully it would not cause him too much trouble.

You came up closer behind Daeron, and instructed him in low tones. Your sweet voice in his ear, breath against the nape of his neck, and comforting presence at his back already more than made up for what he lacked in the riding lessons of his youth. All his father ever did was stare at him impatiently with cold, piercing eyes and bark gruff orders at him.

“Keep a secure hold on the reins,” you advised gently, “it will help you maintain control. But do not tug too tightly or it will strain the horse. Do not pull too much on the saddle either, else it might slide sideways and you’ll fall backwards.”

“Seven Hells, horsemanship is so terribly restrictive,” Daeron cut in dryly.

You ignored him. “Push off the ground with your right leg and swing it over in one fluid motion. If you hesitate in between, you’ll lose momentum—that is where I saw you struggle most yesterday.”

Daeron let out a small, incredulous snort at his circumstances before finally attempting to carry out your instructions.

Unfortunately, just as he had hoped against, the use of his injured foot indeed caused him a great deal of trouble, hindering his attempt before it even truly began. The moment he shifted his weight on his foot to lift up, a searing pain tore up his right side, unforgiving and immediate. A low, strangled groan escaped him as he faltered, his grip slipping from the reins and saddle. He staggered backward from Thunder and collided straight into you, but you dropped his flask and quickly caught him without hesitation.

In an instant, the task at hand vanished from your mind completely, eclipsed by a deep, instinctual concern for the prince. Your arms wrapped around him securely, bracing across his chest to steady him upright with surprising strength. His head bowed and his breath came shakily as he brought his hands over your wrists, gripping them tightly in a desperate attempt to ground himself in the feeling of you—the softness of your skin, the heat of your body against his back, the beating of your pulse underneath his fingertips, the way your touch calmed the chaos in his mind like nothing else could—rather than the feeling of pain.

“Are you alright?” you asked softly, voice threaded through with such genuine concern that it nearly undid him altogether.

“My own horse trod on me during the trial, nearly broke my foot,” Daeron admitted with a humorless half-chuckle that sounded more like a choked hiss. “Quite ironic since I was finally beginning to make peace with its species. But it seems my dream of it finally came true, just as my dreams always do.”

His pained admission brought a confused frown to your face, and a vague memory suddenly resurfaced.

Before the trial, he had mentioned his strong disdain for horses revolving around that of a dream he had at a young age. Strange as it was, it fit a peculiar habit of his quite well. Ever since that night at the inn, you had keenly noticed how his dreams clung so stubbornly to his tongue, as if they held some powerful meaning. But you never truly understood why.

Why would a man like him ever lend any weight to the fleeting fantasies of his slumber at all?

It seemed a forthright approach might be the only way to ease the confusion that had nagged at you for days now.

You released him at once, turned him around by the shoulders, and stared at him hard.

“Why do you speak of your dreams so often?”

“They come true.”

Only then did it strike Daeron—belatedly—that he had not already shared as much with you yet. He somewhat wished he had done it sooner, if only to have prevented it from so abruptly breaking the intimate moment shared between you. Now, he was left sorely missing the intoxicating feeling of your touch, for he would have been content to simply remain there suspended within the warmth of your arms forever, uncaring of all that burdened him or the entire miserable realm beyond.

“What do you mean they come true?” you pressed, the line between incredulity and curiosity beginning to blur.

“I meant just as I said.” Daeron gave a weak shrug. “I see things in my sleep and, soon enough, they occur precisely as I saw them. An impressive talent for an unimpressive man, I know, though I find it more a curse from the gods than anything else.”

“Could it not be mere coincidence?”

“I had hoped so, at first,” he sighed, weariness worn plainly on his face. “But pure chance cannot possess such influence. My dreams are not like yours. They are so vivid, so real. I feel them here.” He pressed a hand against his chest, fingers curling roughly at the fabric there. “Every single one comes true eventually."

His expression darkened, violet-tinged eyes drifting outward to the wispy mist shrouding the field.

“And every single one has foreseen misery or ruin.”

Despite how absurd it all sounded, despite how you had always put little stock in dreams, you found yourself wholeheartedly believing him. There was such certainty in the way he spoke—a dire conviction that proved itself without flourish or performance. He had not tried to convince you. He had merely laid bare a devastating truth he had come to accept long ago.

After a beat of silence, Daeron continued, giving voice to the horrors that plagued his restless slumber.

“I have seen the demise of my entire family, written in dragonfire, disease, or destruction. I saw my mother’s death long before it ever happened, and it came to pass just as I had dreamt it.” His voice tightened with that confession, anguish in its purest form cutting clean through it. “I saw a dead dragon fall on top of Ser Duncan, and that came to pass as well.”

The haunted look etched upon his contours and the way his enigmatic eyes shone depicted a torment unlike any you had ever seen before. Your heart ached deeply for him. What a cruel burden it was to witness such devastating loss before it ever arrived—to carry grief twice over; once in dream, and once again in waking. No man should ever bear so great a burden, yet he shouldered it merely because he could do nothing else.

It was no wonder, then, why he drowned himself so desperately in wine and other indulgences. He was trying, in vain, to drown out his dreams.

A sudden, profound realization washed over you.

“You thought you might be the dead dragon.”

It was not a conjecture. It was a statement murmured with quiet understanding.

Daeron said nothing at first, his mouth tightening to a thin line, but after a beat, in a moment quicker than a blink, he dipped his head in a slight nod.

“Yes,” he admitted, breathy voice barely above a whisper and watery eyes still trained on the misty horizon. “I did.”

Ah. So there it was. The insight into the immense fear he had carried yesterday morning. The reason behind the tremors that had racked him so fiercely as he had donned his helm.

Daeron Targaryen had entered the Trial of Seven truly believing himself irrevocably marked for death. He had seen the list field as less a tourney ground and more a graveyard. He had been so certain that, by the time the sun stood highest in the sky, he would be reduced to nothing but a cold corpse sprawled upon a hedge knight. All because his damning dreams had told him it was so, and they had never failed him thus far.

Yet the dead dragon had not been him. It had taken the form of Prince Baelor instead.

And that came somewhat as a twisted blessing.

Of course, you never wanted any blood to be spilled at all… But if the gods truly demanded the blood of a dragon, then some shameful, selfish part of you was relieved they had chosen The Hammer and not The Drunken—even if Prince Baelor had been the better man by every single measure, even if he had the makings of a great king, even if his death would cost the realm far more dearly.

It was beyond all sense or reason, for you had not even known him long, but Daeron’s death would have broken something within you. Something no good deed nor righteous reign of a tanned, dark-haired Targaryen upon the Iron Throne could ever hope to mend.

A hushed heaviness rushed into the space between you and Daeron, lingering for a few breaths.

Then, suddenly, Daeron exhaled sharply through his nose and rolled his shoulders back, thoughtlessly casting the entire moment off like an ill-fitting cloak. His gaze returned to you, and the mask he so often wore returned as well—crafted of careless indifference, cool to the touch as porcelain. But now, the fractures in the feigned porcelain were plain to see. Thin, spidering cracks marred the polished surface, poorly mended and filled in with a paste that could never really set quite right.

The illusion might have held for anyone else, but not for you, not anymore.

The true brokenness within the drunken prince could never be unseen again.

“Fortunately, I was the dragon who fell not upon Ser Duncan, but upon the mud instead,” Daeron said airily, his usual flippancy returned and settled as firmly into place as his mask. “All this talk of dreams has been dreadfully somber. I am sorry. I fear I might have ruined our lessons.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you murmured softly, “If anything, it is the gods who ought to be sorry for all the misery they have wrought.”

“Yes,” Daeron agreed with an amused huff, faintly tickled by the blasphemous notion. “Though I do not think they would ever deign to wound their pride by offering apologies.”

“No, I suppose they would not.”

You said nothing more on the matter, letting it rest there. You did not press, did not pry, did not chip at the cracks in the porcelain he hid behind, even if you knew precisely where they lay now. The merciful kindness that so often defined you had stilled your tongue.

For that, Daeron was grateful. In a world that demanded so much of him, that put his every action under scrutiny, that labeled him a disappointment—you let him breathe, held no expectation, and allowed him grace. The tension in him eased further, and his expression flickered to something unguarded and relieved. Then it was gone, replaced by the careless air of a drunken prince.

“Let us dwell on something far more agreeable instead.”

You tilted your head curiously.

He gestured toward the distant sprawl of pavilions beyond the trees, within the height of clamor in the meadow.

“There is to be no shortage of wine today, I think. Funerals do tend to inspire generosity in that regard.” A wry smile curved across his lips. “It would be a terrible waste not to partake in it together. And you still have yet to share a cup with me, if you recall.”

It was a bold offer, much like the one he had posed after the trial. Yet unlike before, you did not rush to rebuff him outright. There was less of an urgency to shield yourself from the dragon, where otherwise you would have dismissed his invitation as nothing more than the frivolous indulgence of a hedonist chasing women and wine, or balked at the inherent imbalance woven into entanglements between a prince of the realm and a common woman. This quiet morning had altered the dynamic in a way that felt irreversible, granting level footing where there once was none.

Now, you understood what drove his actions. You understood his pain. You understood him.

The wine was not truly the point, and it never had been.

Still, you shook your head. The drunken prince was broken and bruised indeed, but so too was your hedge knight, and he had not the privileges of the dragon house.

But you offered kindness where you could, in a gentler refusal.

“I am afraid I cannot join you,” you said, with an apologetic smile. “Dunk… he will wake soon, and I should return to him.”

Dunk?

The unfamiliar name caught Daeron entirely off-guard, and the confusion showed plainly in the way his nose wrinkled.

“Ser Duncan, I mean,” you amended with a faint blush.

Oh. Right. Of course. Your hedge knight.

Dunk.

Is that what you called him? Did you stake your claim over him with that name? Was it some term of endearment born of affection? Certainly so, for it would not have found a place on your tongue so easily, like it belonged there.

That same sharp bitterness from before—familiar now but still unwelcome—tugged yet again in Daeron’s gut, and it had only grown sharper.

“Ah, yes,” Daeron drawled. “Ser Duncan. Could he not spare you for just a few hours?”

There was humor in his voice, but the jest rang hollow.

“He needs me,” you replied with a simple shrug.

You offered him another apologetic smile, before taking Thunder’s reins and leading the horse out of the field in the direction of where you came, back to the hedge knight in his hedges.

I need you, Daeron thought.

The words roared through him with an intensity beyond reason, resonating deep in his bones like the echo of a warhorn long after its call had faded. He had voiced as much to you yesterday, after the trial, but it seemed you had not believed him. Perhaps you even refused to. Yet nothing else in the world could ever hold more truth.

But once again, just like at the market, he was given no time to express his sentiments, leaving him to stare lamely after your retreating figure—a beautiful silhouette bathed in the white mist of morning.

In a forest clearing on the outskirts of the meadow, an elm tree stood as it always had. However, there now dwelled an unexpected presence beneath its wide leafy canopy—a great stag dressed in yellow and black.

Upon your return to camp, you beheld Lyonel Baratheon standing over Dunk, engaged in some dire conversation. Dire enough, it seemed, that the great lord would deign to trek through uneven terrain while heavily injured just to reach this secluded pocket of the realm. You lingered off to the side, watching in silence and clutching the leather of Thunder’s reins with uncertainty. It might not be a wise idea to approach your father, not when he had made it so painfully clear yesterday that he wanted nothing to do with you. Still, you caught what you could with avid curiosity.

The authoritative cadence of Lyonel’s husky voice carried across the green grass, smooth as silk and edged with steel.

“—a force, you and I… You’ll consider it?”

The tall hedge knight responded only with pointed silence.

“Good! Caravan departs after the roast.”

Lyonel turned to walk away, and his gaze immediately fell upon you.

His right eye had since begun to heal from the last time you saw him, the swelling around the socket now gone, replaced by a discolored ring of purple. A few scratches still littered his face along with some bruising, and frayed linen bandages wrapped loosely around his right hand. He leaned heavily upon a crutch made of a great antler, its curved ivory tines cradling his left underarm. A fine yellow cloak hung regally from his shoulders, looking vaguely familiar with its heavy silk brocade, gold chain, and embossed clasps.

You took a step backward in retreat, but it was already too late.

“Aha! Yes!” Lyonel exclaimed, a pleased grin splitting wide across his face as he pointed at you with his bandaged hand. “I have been looking for you.”

Your brows drew together. “You have?”

He hobbled toward you on his crutch, grunting with the effort, and you instinctively dropped Thunder’s reins, readying to brace for the oncoming storm.

“I have given your little visit to my tent yesterday some profound thought,” he said lightly, “and I have a proposal for you.”

“And what is that?” you asked carefully, chest tightening with unease.

Lyonel’s grin widened in self-satisfaction. Clearly, he was quite pleased with whatever proposal sat just behind his teeth.

“Come with me to Storm’s End, and I will have you legitimized as my daughter as soon as I return to court there.”

Breath left you all at once and the world seemed to go completely still.

“It may cause a bit of a squabble with the advisors on my council,” he tacked on in an offhanded manner, “but they cannot refuse me. I’d see them dead if they did. Thrown from a high tower. Drowned in Shipbreaker Bay.”

The corner of your lip twitched, faintly curving downward. What a fearsome thing it was for a man to speak so casually of ending lives while wielding the power to truly do so. But Lyonel went on as if it were nothing special at all.

“We can throw a banquet for you if you wish, for your debut into high society as a Lady of House Baratheon. Seven Hells, we’ll make it the greatest revelry in a hundred years.” His voice rose in pitch with a lighthearted breeziness. “Why not, eh? It’ll be a grand opportunity to make merry, drink, sing, dance. Oh, yes. A revelry is fuck all without dancing. And we’ll teach you how to dance like a proper stag—stomp on the foot of other men and simply pretend it an accident.”

He laughed and, to your surprise, a soft chuckle escaped you as well. The two sounds blended together in perfect rhythm, harmonizing in a way that felt strangely natural.

“I’ll provide for you in every way a father could,” Lyonel added blithely, before faltering mid-thought and scrunching his face. “What do fathers do?... Ah, cunt…”

He absently scratched his beard while he pondered for a moment, then looked to you as if you might have the answer, but you did not and only stared blankly. You never had a father and he had never been one, so it seemed you were both lost. Nevertheless, the great lord drove on, just as Baratheons always do.

“Oh!” He brightened with a snap of his fingers, and pointed at you again. “A dowry! I’ll throw thousands of silver stags at your dowry so we may secure you a mighty husband, one worthy of the name. That is what fathers do, yes?”

A husband.

You flinched—imperceptibly, but felt all the same—and your pulse quickened at the prospect.

“What need do I have of silver stags anyways?” Lyonel continued with a dismissive snort, mouth curling into a lazy smirk. “I’m the greatest stag in all the realm for fuck’s sake.” He gave a careless swat of his hand. “We’ll figure out the details later.”

He leaned forward, put a hand on the back of your neck, and pulled you in toward him until your foreheads nearly touched. Dark brown eyes bore into yours, swirling with something fierce that may have resembled paternal affection on any other man. For you, it resembled it enough to begin healing something deep within. His touch and closeness felt akin to an embrace you had unknowingly waited for your entire life, a lost love you had always starved for without realizing it. An instinctual childish warmth bloomed alongside it, born from the remnants of that idealistic little girl who had grown up in a lonely cottage by the Summer Sea.

Lyonel’s voice went low, serious, deathly persuasive.

“Come with me, and we can be father and daughter. The way it should have always been.”

For a fleeting moment, the promising vision of your life together flashed before your eyes—wealth, power, security, belonging—and all the pieces that had been shattered so brutally yesterday began to slowly knit themselves whole again. The foolish fantasy. The wish pushed deep down. The dream of finally having a father after living so long with the aching void.

It was all so heartachingly beautiful.

Then pragmatic caution and the sting of yesterday’s rejection burned it all in an instant.

“What has caused this change of heart?” you asked warily, searching his umber irises for sincerity.

Lyonel cocked his head slightly. He had not expected to be met with any friction at all. Not after delivering such a fine offer. Even so, he took it in stride, and his gaze did not waver nor did his warm grip on the back of your neck loosen.

“I was a right bastard for leaving your mother,” he admitted, tone roughened with something mournful, “for not being there for her. But in this way I can make amends. I can be there for you, daughter. My blood, Baratheon blood, flows through you, along with that of the most fascinating woman I have ever met. It would be a mockery of the gods for us not to hone your potential.”

You hesitated to say anything in reply, and averted your eyes.

He spoke with the conviction of a man driven by remorse, love, and—most notably—legacy. A legacy inadvertently promised to you since the moment you were conceived. An inheritance sealed at birth by virtue of blood alone. Yet for all the ways it was beginning to feel right, it was also beginning to feel somewhat wrong too—uncanny and missing something you couldn’t quite name.

“I have already offered your hedge knight a place among my men.” Lyonel pulled back and gestured toward Dunk, who still lay miserable against the elm tree. “As you can see I have a propensity for taking in lost things. They fascinate me so.”

He chuckled to himself.

It was true.

The gold ring dangling from his left ear was proof of that. Sure, its origin was known only to him, but it was proof all the same. He had plucked the earring off a dead body he came across in the Dornish Marches, after one of the many short-lived, petty border wars there. Quite charitable of him, too, for it made a pretty accessory and would have gone wasted had he not taken it.

When living in such a dreary place as The Stormlands, House Baratheon had learned not only ‘the fury’ but an appreciation for the finer things in life as well. A crowned stag was nothing without the gold that made its crown. A crown which, in most cases, took the form of bold displays of opulence and power… and shiny baubles.

“Now, go,” Lyonel commanded lightly, as if the matter was already settled. “Gather up all your things. As I told Ser Duncan, the caravan waits only on the roasts.”

With that, he turned away and hobbled off through the thick grass, his fine cloak swaying about him in a dramatic fashion. He made coarse grunts and groans as he went, and eventually disappeared into the forest, returning to his pavilion to make the final preparations for his departure from the meadow. No doubt he’d be waiting for you to meet him there, with the lofty expectation and short patience of a storm.

You remained rooted to the ground, still and silent, staring after the spot between the trees where a great stag of yellow and black had slipped through. The feeling of his touch lingered, still warm at the back of your neck. The weight of his offer settled heavily in the air as well—a father’s acceptance, a name made known, a place carved out, a home to belong to. It was everything your mother had sought to give you before she died, and everything that felt impossibly out of reach after enduring such a cold rejection yesterday.

You had come to a sort of peace with it. The fact that your purpose in Ashford had been a complete and utter failure, merely a foolish endeavor dashed cleanly against reality. But now, with such a bizarre turn of events, it seemed all was not lost. You could truly see your purpose through, if you really wished to.

You chewed at your lip in deep contemplation.

What were you to do now?

“You should go with him,” a familiar deep voice rang out from behind you.

You turned to see that Dunk had risen to his feet and stood at the foot of the elm tree with a grave expression drawn tight across his bruised, lacerated features.

“You should go with your father,” he repeated, taking slow steps toward you with the help of his crude wooden crutch. “Gods know I can’t after all that has happened… But you should go. You’d be better off.”

“Better off?” you echoed incredulously.

“You can’t stay here with me,” Dunk replied, sorrowful and withdrawn. “All I do is bring pain and sufferin’ to those around me.”

“No,” you said at once. “That's not true.”

“Aye, it is,” Dunk insisted sourly. “Prince Baelor fought for me and died. Had it not been for my actions, he wouldn’t have entered the Trial of Seven at all, and he’s like to still be alive.”

You shook your head. “You cannot blame yourself for his death. He entered the trial knowing well the risks before him.”

“Ser Arlan is gone,” Dunk went on, like he hadn’t even heard you at all. “Tanselle, too. All because of me. You ought not risk a broken finger, or a deathly cold, or a cracked skull—” or a slit throat, he grimaced inwardly as he thought about poor Rafe lying dead in the gutters of Flea Bottom “—just for the likes of a stupid hedge knight.”

“Dunk—”

“I need to see to Prince Baelor’s funeral pyre,” he cut you off coldly. “It’s the least I can do to pay my respects.”

He shifted around on his crutch and fixed his gaze on the babbling stream in the clearing, leaving you only to stare at his broad back. Such a sight had become strangely comforting these past few days, one you had happily followed along the dirt paths of the meadow. But now Dunk was impossibly distant, and the sight of his back turned on you, hunched and strained beneath the unbearable weight of a guilt he need not carry, elicited only a profound loneliness you had not felt since your arrival in Ashford.

Attempting to bridge the distance, you took a few steps forward, but stopped short when Dunk shook his head at the sound of green grass rustling under your tentative approach.

“I’m off for the funeral, alone,” he muttered without even looking at you, resolute and utterly detached, voice rough as stone grinding against stone. “You’d best be long gone when I come back.”

That hit you like a hard strike to the face, stinging so badly that anger flared in reflex, burning through the pain. You wanted to yell at him, scream at him, seize him by the shoulders and force him to look at you. You wanted to do anything to convince him that he was wrong. But there was simply no use in it. Not when he was being like this. Stubborn and obstinate as an old, untamed aurochs, so caught up in his own hurt that he couldn’t see yours.

So, instead, you swallowed it all down—save for a sharp, angry huff of disbelief that escaped uncontrollably—and gave him what he wanted. With brisk movements, you gathered up your few belongings, untethered Old Lady with less care than she deserved, and marched away from the elm tree, blood boiling so hot it felt like steam was pouring out your ears. All the while, Dunk did not turn to face you, not even once, and that stung even more.

Once you were gone, all traces of your time with the hedge knight went with you, and it was as though you had never even stayed under the shelter of the elm tree at all.

Even with the camp in the hedges left far behind, your incensed trek continued, albeit without direction or destination.

Shrubbery and dirt caught on your dress from time to time, but such inconveniences were barely noticed and brushed away without care. Your feet moved restlessly, and so too did your mind. Anger soon dulled, leaving only the swell of troubling thoughts to press in from all sides: the uncertainty of your future, the place you had yet to carve for yourself in the world, your father’s unexpected offer, Dunk’s rejection and his insistence.

Should you really go with your father?

The vision of a faceless Lady Baratheon unfurled, and you attempted to imagine yourself in her.

A distinguished woman in opulent garments, dressed head to toe in yellows and blacks, adorned in mighty antlers and glittering gold. The privilege of standing tall and proud beside The Laughing Storm as his legitimate and beloved daughter. A bed of lavish furs instead of straw pallets or thin bedrolls, and a coin purse that would never jangle sadly again, nor any true need for one at all. Safety and comfort within towering castle walls, where the world beyond offered only crashing tides and dreary weather. Careful navigations of court politics and the suffocating decorum of a noble life dictated by expectation and public scrutiny. A respected seat at the head of the table at grand banquets, endlessly dealing out polite smiles to powerful men who didn’t truly earn them. Ambitions set nowhere higher than being married off to some lord for the benefit of House Baratheon, like a lamb gently led to slaughter.

Was that truly the destined path set before you?

It was certainly the perfectly paved path, one with polished slate stones laid evenly alongside each other in neat, ordered patterns leading straight to Storm’s End. The path that your mother and father, together, had secured for you. The path that guaranteed a favorable life far removed from the cruel injustices of the Seven Kingdoms.

But level terrain and polished stones felt too unfamiliar beneath the worn leather of your boots.

You had recently become quite fond of traversing an unpaved dirt path instead, one with countless footprints, hoofmarks, and wheel ruts littered across lanes of rough, raw earth leading straight to adventure. The path you had begun to bravely navigate yourself. The path that guaranteed a life of quiet mornings spent in the cherished company of a tall hedge knight and his bold little squire.

Yet that path had now been entirely blocked off, as if a downed elm tree had obstructed it in the aftermath of a harsh storm—Dunk had made that abundantly clear.

So it seemed Storm’s End was all you had left to turn to.

By noon, after a tiresome and aimless stroll, your feet had finally decided upon a destination of their own accord, bringing you to a halt before a large pavilion. However, upon lifting your eyes, you saw not a pavilion of yellow and black as expected but rather a pavilion of cream-colored canvas instead. And inside dwelled not a great stag but rather the buzzing clamor of revelry.

Quite honestly, this pavilion was the last place you ought to have arrived at, given the dire state of your circumstances.

This was the tavern tent.

Ser Humfrey Beesbury’s wake.

Only then did a startling and undeniable awareness begin to set in. This peculiar destination had not been chosen by pure accident, nor by a selfless intention to pay respects to the dead. No, some deeper, baser instinct had guided you toward this place. You had come here to look for something… for someone.

You had come here to look for Daeron.

Perhaps you could have blamed your trajectory on that strange, inexplicable connection between you—stubborn as old iron, forever drawing you together. But the truth was far less convenient. This time, there was some tiny seed of volition on your part. This time, you were not stumbling into his path purely by accident or coincidence or fate, nor was he deliberately placing himself in yours as he had done these past few days.

Somewhere in the far reaches of your traitorous subconscious, you had remembered his offer in the misty field. You had known the best place to find him was where the wine flowed in abundance. And, without even realizing it, you had let yourself follow that knowledge.

So here you stood, outside the tent where Humfrey Beesbury had been buried in bees, hoping it might also be where Daeron the Drunken had gone to get drunk.

Sure enough, once you had tied Old Lady down and slipped through the canvas flaps of the entrance, you beheld Daeron sitting alone at a table, already deep in his cups. Ever the irreverent prince, he had lazily situated himself sideways on a bench, long legs spread wide and bracing either side of the wooden seat rather than properly facing forward as any man of high rank ought to be. His left elbow rested heavily upon the table, fingers absently tracing the rim of a cup of wine, while his head hung low, shadowing his face as he stared down at nothing in particular.

He looked aloof, distant, and yet somehow still in quiet, aching need of company.

Not just anyone’s company, however.

Perhaps only yours.

Without a second thought, you crossed the pavilion, quickly weaving between tables and mourners alike, until you reached him. Then you wordlessly dropped down onto the bench beside him, seated so close you were nearly framed by his thighs.

Before he could so much as lift his head, you plucked the cup right out of his hand without ceremony and took a long, unrestrained drink from it. Life in a secluded cottage rarely ever granted such an indulgence, but it felt deserved after everything you had endured these past few days. The wine tasted sweet and earthy at first, rich on the tongue, then turned bitter as it burned its way down your throat, the unfamiliar sensation bringing a pinched grimace to your face.

All the while, Daeron stared at you open-mouthed, slightly impressed and slightly dumbfounded.

Ironically, when he had proposed “sharing a cup of wine,” he had not meant truly sharing the same, singular cup. Though he made no move to protest, and the corner of his lip tugged upward in a faint grin. Such boldness from you had come as a complete surprise, but was no less welcomed with a pleasant thrill unfurling low in his gut. He shifted on the bench, knee brushing against your thigh, and dragged his gaze over you in open, unabashed appraisal, his expression curious and unmistakably enamored.

Three times now, he had been the one to seek your company.

This was the first time you had sought out his.

He found he could quite get used to it.

The closeness between you had not been lost on him, either. Your position—practically in his lap—delighted him to no end. Yet you seemed wholly unaware of the magnitude of its heady effect, or the sheer amount of restraint it took him to not pull you in closer by the waist and drape you fully across his thighs. Still, he savored what he could get, indulging in the easy intimacy of you sitting so comfortably beside him in such a way, like you belonged there and had finally embraced the fact.

He was about to make a cunning remark or a suave greeting, but stopped short when you gently set the cup back down and lifted your eyes to meet his. Immediately, he noted the subtle uncertainty swimming within them. The flicker of doubt that you might have acted too boldly and, underneath it, the hint of something far more dire troubling you. His mouth snapped shut at once.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered what force could have driven you here to him when you had so succinctly refused his offer earlier. Perhaps it was one and the same with whatever conflict lurked in the depths of your irises. Selfishly, he found it did not truly matter much to him besides its favorable outcome: your closeness. But more so, he dared not risk ruining the moment nor your comfort to ask it of you—he vividly remembered your bristled deflection at the market yesterday when he had tried a similar line of questioning.

Daeron Targaryen was no stranger to desperate bids of escapism, and if you had sought a reprieve in him, then he’d happily give it to you.

As much of it as you needed.

As much of him as you needed.

Always.

So instead of pressing you, he simply reached for the cup on the table and took a slow sip, his eyes never once leaving yours.

He deliberately placed his lips on the very same spot you had drank from, and briefly lingered there. A part of him hoped he might somehow feel the phantom sensation of your lips over his through the action. Another part of him imagined receiving far more than just the hollow imprint. When he set the cup down and gestured for you to take another sip, you complied and mimicked his movements. Heat sparked through him as he watched your lips find the same spot on the cup once more. Whether done by intention or instinct, he could not say, but it thrilled him all the same.

Then the cycle began anew, again and again, until the world narrowed down to only charged silence, the thin layers of fabric between you, and a shared cup of wine.

Before long, the silence miraculously turned to something softer, giving way to easy conversation that unfolded like it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither of you could have said who began it. Neither of you really cared to keep score.

Daeron spoke of his siblings, each tale recounted with his characteristic wry humor and his breathy voice low and unhurried, curling easily around each word. There was a certain fondness beneath every story, though he would never name it as such. You offered pieces of your past in return: small details, humorous anecdotes, vivid memories, and idle musings about how those experiences shaped your philosophical curiosities. Daeron met your curiosities with opinions of his own, mostly delivered in cryptic, drawled remarks that masked how thoughtful they truly were. Their worth had not escaped your notice, however, and it seemed—with increasing clarity—that nothing about him ever would.

More often than not, Daeron let you lead the conversation, much more inclined to lounge back and enjoy the sweetness of your voice, the quiet enthusiasm that lit your words, and the gleam in your enchanting eyes. It came as a rare treasure, the way you showed so much joy at the smallest and simplest of things. When you laughed—freely, unrestrained, with a brightness that did not belong in his miserable life—he found himself chasing the beautiful sound without even realizing it, subtly adjusting the delivery or selection of his words in an effort to elicit another.

Soon enough, the playful banter from earlier returned too, finding its place between you like it had never left. Wits were matched evenly. Cheeky teases were exchanged over a dwindling supply of wine.

And, eventually, the supply of wine ran dry.

Daeron had only noticed when he reached for the shared cup out of habit, fingers grasping it with an effortless dexterity befitting a prince called “The Drunken,” and finding it completely empty. He huffed softly under his breath, slightly annoyed at the inconvenience. It would not do. No, it would not do at all.

He moved to quickly correct the offense, lest you take it as a cue to rise and leave him, lest he suffer watching your retreating figure slip away from his side once again.

“Serving boy!” he called, fist pounding the table with three dull thuds. “Our cup!”

You flinched slightly at the roughness of his tone, displeased by the impatience in it, but your attention caught more so on the wording of his demand. Not my cup. Our cup. An unreasonable but altogether pleasant warmth rose within you at the thought of something physically tangible shared between you and him, together.

Before any further contemplation on the thought, a sudden presence behind you shifted the surrounding atmosphere all at once. There came the shuffling of uneven, heavy footsteps—distinctly different from the hurried pitter-patter of a serving boy—and the creaking of strained wood, perhaps from a fallen branch of an elm tree. Daeron lifted his head to regard it, and his expression darkened immediately, turning solemn and somewhat guilty. You turned on the bench, following his gaze, and your heart dropped.

A familiar hedge knight stood just a few feet away, towering among the other occupants of the pavilion despite leaning heavily upon his crude crutch. His broad shoulders were drawn tight with tension and his blue eyes—usually so kind and earnest—were hard as iron, fixed squarely upon Daeron in a cold, piercing glare. Disdain rolled off him in waves, like the red hot glow that rose off burning coals.

At the sight, a niggling sense of mortification began to grow. You had been so wholly engrossed in the warmth of Daeron’s company that you had not even noticed Dunk had entered the pavilion. Dunk, a man so large and lumbering and impossible to miss.

How was it that the drunken prince always made you forget yourself so easily?

And why did Dunk’s sudden interruption make you feel somewhat like a child caught misbehaving?

Perhaps it was because, until now, your strange connection with Daeron had been something special only known between the two of you. Something that flourished in the quiet, empty spaces and unobserved moments in between. There had been no expectation for anyone else, especially not your hedge knight, to become privy to it at all.

Yet Dunk scarcely paid it any mind and spared you hardly a glance. Instead, he continued to glower at Daeron, pursing his lips and shaking his head in disapproval.

“Have you no shame coming here?”

Daeron pointedly averted his eyes and gave no reply.

“Those men are dead because of you.”

A faintly sour expression pinched your features at the severity of such a statement.

Although Dunk was no doubt justified in his ire against Daeron—whose lie served half the accusation that condemned Dunk to the Trial of Seven in the first place—it was still a dangerous line of thinking. There was no use in placing blame or pointing fingers anymore, not when it merely added insult to injury, not when the grief was felt far enough. And, if anything, the trial proved that these ridiculous men with their ridiculous egos ought to learn a lesson or two about wrongful accusations, for they clearly led nowhere favorable.

Daeron, for his part, only gave a weak shrug in response, wholly indifferent to Dunk’s accusation. What else could he do, really? He already carried a great deal of guilt far heavier than the deaths of three good men.

Dunk shook his head in disbelief, exasperation etched plainly across his bruised face, and turned on his crutch to leave.

But before the hedge knight could go, Daeron spoke up at last. “Will you take Egg to squire?”

You remained silent, but your gaze flicked between the two men, confusion painting your features. It seemed Dunk had done more than just attend Prince Baelor’s funeral pyre in your absence, and it seemed he might have been presented with a fine offer from House Targaryen, just as you had from your father. An offer Daeron had been keenly aware of and elected to omit until now.

“I told your father,” Dunk grumbled, voice low and resigned, “he’s not my concern.”

Your heart twisted painfully at that, aching for Egg, aching for the spirited little boy you met at an inn and had grown so fond of these past few days. He wished for nothing more than to squire for a good knight. And now, with his family fractured by grief and surrounded by ruin, he needed Dunk more than anything else.

“You know…” Daeron sighed sharply, his gaze lowered to the floor. “My brother wasn’t always such a little monster.”

“Egg is no monster,” Dunk retorted. “He’s just a boy.”

“I didn’t mean Egg,” Daeron clarified, eyes lifting to meet the hedge knight with a wry smile. “But no doubt we’ll make a man of him, too.”

Dunk said nothing, but remorse wavered in his round blue eyes, softening the hard iron in them.

“Perhaps the seeds of madness are sown in the womb, as the maesters say…” Daeron’s gaze went faraway and something rueful settled among the regal contours of his face. “But Aerion was quite the glad child once. He liked fishing.”

A quiet kind of recognition dawned over the hedge knight then, his expression shifting completely from disdain to dire understanding. With a disgruntled huff, he turned on his crutch once more and swiftly trudged out of the pavilion. His departure prompted your own, and you were on your feet immediately, rising from the bench to follow after him. You hastily weaved through patrons and slipped past the canvas flaps, leaving Daeron behind—forgotten for the moment, alone at the table with nothing but a cold, empty cup.

Once outside, you spotted Dunk’s tall, sturdy frame in an instant, surely impossible to miss now. He was a few paces ahead, taking determined, effortful strides toward the stone bridge that arched over the meadow’s river. You had a vague inkling of where exactly he could be headed for.

“Wait!” you called, closing the distance in hurried steps.

Dunk rounded on you at once, voice rough and accusing, pointing back at the cream-colored tent and the drunken prince within it. “What are you doin’ with the likes of him?”

The blatant, self-righteous judgement in his tone struck like flint against steel, sparking sudden outrage within you.

“What does it matter?” you shot back, eyes aflame with an anger he had never seen from you before. “You do not have the liberty to question who I keep in my company, because—last I recalled—you wanted me long gone.”

The crude regurgitation of his own harsh words shut Dunk up immediately. Irritation drained from his expression entirely with a solemn bow of his head, leaving only shame and regret to pull at the line of his mouth. He readjusted his hold on his crutch and shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Dust stirred under his great mass while he ground the toe of his boot into the dirt below, as if attempting to bury the confrontation right there.

An apology rose on his tongue, clumsy and ill-formed, but it never quite made its way past his lips. He was a man who rarely ever knew the right words, and what he might have offered would have only been a poor, jumbled up thing that would do little to mend what had already been said. You deserved better than that.

“I’m off to the castle,” he murmured quietly after a long beat of silence. “To speak with Prince Maekar. About Egg.”

Your anger softened, unraveling just as quickly as it had risen.

“So you will take Egg to squire?” you asked, voice lifting higher with hope for the little boy.

Dunk nodded.

“You will go to Summerhall?”

“No. Seems to me that place only turns out unlikely princes. But Egg is no prince yet. Not truly. Most like he’d fare better outside those walls… Perhaps on the road with me, learnin’ to squire as I did.”

A small smile found its way to your lips. Dunk was right. Though many might have taken the tall hedge knight to be dumber than most, there was a humble wisdom in him—an ability to see the most complicated things in the simplest of terms—and that proved as worthy as any learned intellect from the Citadel.

“You can come too, if you wish,” Dunk offered timidly. “I cannot promise that it will be a comfortable life. We’d be eatin’ hard salt beef and sleepin’ under trees when we must…” He paused and regarded you with an earnest expression. “But we’d be together.”

Warmth burst deep in your chest in an instant, blossoming like a flower in spring, but you found yourself at a loss of how to respond. It felt impossible to form words when they were caught within the tumultuous storm of your mind, drowned beneath the swell of all that troubled you given this morning’s events. Dunk mistook your silence for confusion or an inclination to refuse him, so he continued, hoping it might help alleviate either affliction.

“You told me once that you wanted to explore the world,” he said thoughtfully. “That you longed for adventure.”

It was a surprisingly faithful recall of your confession during that peaceful moment on a grassy hill after The Battle of Humfrey—a confession you had not expected him to remember at all.

Dunk gave a sheepish smile, round blue eyes fully returning to their soft, steady kindness. “This is as good a way to do that as any, I think.”

Then he shifted back around on his crutch to make for the castle, his large frame growing smaller as it passed the stone bridge until it was swallowed completely by the meadow beyond.

Thus the destined path before you split in two.

One road leading to a life with your father.

The other leading to a life with Dunk.

All at once, a vivid memory surged forth, intense and haunting. The lingering echo of a low, raspy whisper that brought a shiver up the spine. The unnerving fortune teller swathed in inky black lace, her expression dark as smoke from a burning forest. The odd prophecy delivered right before the meadow’s last puppet show, an utterance that had seemed like nothing but a dull jape at the time.

“You will soon find yourself on a forked path of three.”

A snort of disbelief shot sharply out your nose.

Seven Hells.

How ridiculous.

With the pivotal developments of the day, that prophecy had miraculously found some merit, becoming no longer a nonsensical folly but rather a worthy prediction. Though, in your defense, it would have been impossible to ever ascertain that an offer from a stag and an offer from a hedge knight were truly what the fortune teller meant when she had cryptically spoken of a “forked path.”

Alas, her skills were in need of some fine tuning. She had still been wrong.

You faced only two diverging paths, not three.

Inwardly, a smug feeling of vindictive satisfaction flourished, along with that of stubborn defiance.

Not everything could be controlled by the silly ramblings of a mad woman, and simply foreseeing the paths laid before you still had no effect over which one you would truly go down in the end. You were no puppet dancing along the threads of fate, nor was every step of your life already carved out before you by the unseen hands of The Seven. There was still a choice yet to be made, and it belonged entirely to you alone.

Your father… or Dunk?

Alas, you had no idea what to choose, and the question hung suspended and unanswered.

It seemed another aimless stroll might serve you well. A moment to think, to walk, to breathe. So you pivoted on your heel with the intention of nothing more than restless motion, letting your feet carry you until a clear destination—one that felt right, one that felt inevitable—finally settled into place.

But you had scarcely taken a step forward before you froze completely because, upon turning around, you saw a dragon.

Daeron Targaryen stood a short distance away, near the tavern tent, and it looked as though he had followed you out of the cream-colored canvas flaps in quiet pursuit and simply loitered there, content to remain unseen for as long as it suited him. The light caught in the loose gold strands of his sandy blonde hair, and his figure was half-cast in the darkness of the tent’s shade and the open brightness of the meadow. If the steadiness of his gaze was any indication, he had been watching you for quite some time.

His eyes searched your face, blue orbs flashing violet in the sun’s rays, intently trying to piece together what he had seen and heard and—more importantly—what it could mean to you. There was something simmering just underneath his features, too. Nearly imperceptible had it not been for the tightened set of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows. It was defined by a sharpness, perhaps, or a bitterness. Both, most like.

It looked vaguely akin to jealousy.

But that simply could not be.

A prince of the realm had nothing to be jealous of at all, much less one who carelessly flaunted his inclination toward indifference and indulgence.

Before you could read into it any further, it vanished with a blink of blue-violet eyes like it had been quickly swallowed deep down, and that familiar porcelain mask slotted back into place once more.

Daeron strode closer and lazily set his hands on his hips.

“Well, now that my little brother’s affairs have been settled,” he huffed mildly, “let us return to that shared cup of ours. The serving boy came back with the wine. Pity to waste it.”

Incredulity worried at your features. This was not the time for wine. Not in the slightest.

“No…I–I cannot,” you sputtered. “I have to… I—”

You stopped short, eyes drifting toward the grand yellow and black pavilion towering in the distance, then toward the horizon Dunk’s broad silhouette had disappeared into.

You had to choose.

Daeron squinted, gaze following yours and settling on Ashford Castle for a few moments before returning back to you.

“Why do you spend all your time with Ser Duncan?” he asked idly, voice airy and tone brusque, attempting something unaffected and vaguely disinterested.

In truth, the question had been waiting on his tongue longer than he cared to admit, and it brought a certain sharpness back to your tongue as well.

“Why not?” you countered, crossing your arms and lifting your chin with faint indignance.

“You could be spending more time with me,” he replied offhandedly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “Not the finest prince of the lot certainly, but perhaps a deal better than dirt and hedges.”

“Dunk needs me,” you insisted, merely repeating what you had already told him in the field that morning, for it was the simplest and quickest rebuttal that came to mind—and it was far easier than parsing through whatever complicated emotions had begun to stir within you.

“I need you,” Daeron said, without missing a beat, repeating the same sentiment he gave you after the Trial of Seven.

This time, however, it landed differently. It was no longer an unadorned declaration, no longer one that felt too easily given. Instead, it came wrapped in layers of raw desperation and unwavering certainty, offering itself up like it had been ripped from the deepest, truest parts of him. Such naked vulnerability made it all the more difficult to brush aside—though you attempted to all the same.

“Do not be ridiculous,” you scoffed, the reflexive dismissal leaving your lips just as it had when he voiced such a sentiment before.

But it lacked its former bite now. You could feel the hollowness even as you said it. The way it was backed by little meaning. The way it failed to carry the same conviction as it did after the trial. All because some part of you, perhaps not as small or as reluctant as you’d like to admit, wanted to believe him. Even so, you pressed on, if only to utter the sensible truth aloud and ground yourself in the harsh reality of life as it was.

“You are a Targaryen Prince. Blood of the dragon. You could have everything else in the world.”

Daeron’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile.

“Yes,” he agreed dryly. “With the power that remains of my house, even with all our mighty dragons long gone, perhaps I could.”

A phantom thud of gleaming gold slamming against dull wood grain echoed in your mind, a reminder of his heedless display of wealth in the market yesterday and of all the other luxuries he freely enjoyed. Your defenses rose higher in turn, like steel armor forging itself beneath green linen. Nevertheless, Daeron took a few steps closer, narrowing the distance. His hands lifted off their loose placement on his waist, slightly hovering in the air as if he longed to place them on you but decidedly denied himself the privilege.

His voice came out breathy, velvety, and undeniably sincere where otherwise it would have been hollow and flippant.

“But everything else in the world is not you.”

Oh.

Gods be good.

That pierced a chink in the armor beneath your green linen with startling precision, breaking the steel just as quickly as it had been forged. With such a devastating blow, everything hushed all at once. The intake of your breath stopped. Your heart skipped a beat. Anything behind your lips died on impact. Yet Daeron continued, like the silence itself had given him leave to go further than he ought, his porcelain mask crumbling away alongside your steel armor.

“I do not know why…” he admitted, quieter now, honesty laid completely bare. “But when I am with you, I am…” He faltered briefly, searching for a word that felt truly fitting. “Whole.”

Breath found you again, a deep gasp filling your lungs with a cool rush of air, while your heart began to beat harder, filling with something intoxicatingly warm.

“My dreams… they cannot touch me when you are near. And whenever you look at me, all that burdens me simply falls away. In you, I find a peace I have not known since I was a boy.”

The confession was a sweet and tender thing, but deceptively dangerous in its delicate nature. Therein lay a responsibility far too great to be set in your hands without knowing whether it would be crushed or cradled, and far too unreasonable in how hastily it had formed within the span of only a few days. It was a responsibility that, by all means, should not have belonged to you nor even existed.

You should have denied it, or retreated from it.

Dragonfire and destruction be damned, you did not.

“The thought of leaving this meadow without you…” Daeron shook his head with a wry grin and exhaled sharply through his nose, weakly attempting to salvage his usual flippancy. “It is quite a miserable thought, actually. More than a life without wine, if you can imagine being doomed to such a hell.”

“What are you trying to say?” you cut in warily, though you were uncertain whether you were truly prepared to hear the answer.

Daeron took yet another step forward, standing so close the toe of his polished black boots nearly kissed the worn brown leather of yours. He towered over you, causing you to tilt your head up to look at him. Your eyes caught on his softly parted wine-stained lips, and lingered there. For a brief moment, you found yourself wondering whether they possessed the power to undo you completely—through the words waiting behind them or perhaps in other ways—but that did not stop your eyes from continuing upward and finally settling where they always seemed destined to.

Once again, those devastatingly beautiful pools of ice melted into blooming, glistening violets.

But this time they shone with something you had never seen so vividly in the drunken prince before.

Something like hope.

“Come with me, to Summerhall.”

And just like that, the forked path before you split further into three, exactly as it had been prophesied.

A/N: mwahahaha! that fortune teller really got the reader's ass. three paths: your dad, your best friend, or... your situationship. oop. tough one. anyways, it was lots of fun for me to finally deliver on that prophecy i planted way back in chapter 3. woohoo! and big props to you for making it all the way through 26 thousand words! i hope you all liked where this penultimate chapter has taken us, and i look forward to seeing you in the next part... the final part! my god, i can't believe we're almost to the end. wow! as always, thank you so so so much for reading and for sticking with this silly little series! please feel free to leave your feedback in the comments or in my ask box! i absolutely love hearing from you guys—it truly is one of the best parts about writing this series! A/N pt 2: I intended to keep the mother’s past and her love story with Lyonel largely ambiguous so you can all color it in yourselves! It was important to me that the mother be a character left up to interpretation so that everyone can immerse themselves in the story in their own way and imagine The Reader's maternal background in the world of Westeros however they so choose. When writing that scene in the Baratheon tent, I also thought it important to point out that The Reader’s features strongly favor her mother so as not to narrow down her physical appearance now that Lyonel has been revealed to be her father. As a POC myself, I wanted to ensure that POC readers feel as able as possible to see themselves as The Reader, especially since the ASOIAF universe doesn't always offer much representation. Any explicit inheritance of Lyonel’s I wrote was included through little bits of personality and temperament alone—The Reader’s tendency to laugh so freely, her bold spirit, her fascination with curious/lost things, and her amusement at Egg’s insolence. But you are more than welcome to draw any further physical inheritance from him if you would like! :)

°•*⁀➷taglist: open! lmk if you would like to join!

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