Thinking about a Modern AU, Reader meets Maekar and Dyanna at a bar and has the best threesome of her life with them. But then want to kill herself when Daeron, the new friend she made at university, invites her to spend the holidays with his family, and she finds out that she slept with his parents.
It all started with this idea. Honestly, this was one of my favorite fanfics to write, and I plan to continue writing more about this reader and Aerion.
I really hope you like it!
If you do, please don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. As I always say, those things motivate me to keep writing🥰🥰💖
My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3
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Edit: Now you can read part 2
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
You would spend the rest of your life regretting playing that stupid match of cyvasse with Prince Aerion Targaryen.
At Ashford Meadow, many people were preparing for the jousts, while others were watching the puppet show or other entertainments, and still others were getting drunk and eating. But you and Prince Aerion were among the group of nobles playing cyvasse.
You watched with boredom as several men lost to the prince. You were sure that some games had genuinely been won by him, but you also knew that many others had been deliberately lost, simply out of fear of hurting the prince's ego and angering him. That's why you offered to be his next opponent.
You saw him smile, thinking he would easily beat you. You made him eat his words, and you instantly noticed a competitive and amused glint in his eyes as the game continued for so long. So long, in fact, that some spectators left.
But in the end, you got the result you wanted; you beat him.
The crowd watched expectantly, awaiting Aerion's reaction.
“A well deserved victory,” said the prince, listening with surprising sincerity…and pleasure?
"Thank you, Your Grace," you said, rising from your seat to make room for your next opponent.
"Wait," Aerion said, taking your wrist. You felt the crowd instantly tense up, some even whispering. Perhaps someone was thinking of coming to your defense, but you didn't need it. "Wouldn't you like to play another match?"
“Perhaps another time, Your Grace,” you said, pulling away from his grip and taking a few steps back. “After all, there are others who want to play with you, and it would be selfish of me to steal your attention.” You couldn't help but feel disgusted with yourself at how much of a bootlicker you sounded. You were grateful your cousin Steffon wasn't there because you knew he would have mocked you. “There are still days until the tournament ends; I'm sure we'll meet again,” you added when you saw he didn't seem happy with your answer. Although, honestly, you were thinking of avoiding him. You had already accomplished your goal of beating him; you didn't want to know anything more about him. You weren't interested in joining the royal family.
“I hope it’s soon, my lady Fossoway,” Aerion said, smiling without showing his teeth, and you simply bowed before hurrying away. Gods, you hoped you could avoid him in the coming days.
Unfortunately for you, it wasn't long before you ran into Aerion again. Just a few hours later, you were dancing in Lyonel Baratheon's tent. One moment, you turned around, and the next, it wasn't Humphrey Hardyng beside you, but Prince Aerion. You were so surprised you almost fell backward, but the prince caught you by the waist before your clumsiness caused an accident on the dance floor.
“Careful,” said Aerion, who seemed amused by your reaction. It annoyed you so much that when he asked you to dance, you stepped on his toes every chance you got until the song ended. You apologized, saying you'd drunk too much wine, and left satisfied, thinking that now Aerion Targaryen would never want to hear from you again.
But you were wrong.
The next time you saw him was the following morning, on the first day of the tournament, when he asked for your favor. You were so surprised that your cousin had to nudge you to snap you out of it. Hesitantly, you gave him your favor. It was one thing to beat him in a game of cyvasse and step on his foot while pretending to be drunk in front of a couple of nobles, and another to reject him in front of everyone.
You weren't proud of giving Aerion your favor; you regretted it instantly after seeing how he played dirty, killing the poor horse and winning the joust only because Humfrey Hardyng broke his leg.
You didn't want to know anything more about Aerion Targaryen, so the next time you met him and he invited you to play another match of cyvasse, you rejected him without hesitation.
"I don't feel like playing cyvasse today. I'd rather watch the puppeteers," you said, and without waiting for a reply, you left him.
What you never imagined was that the prince would come looking for you minutes later and that at that very moment, he would see the dragon puppet being murdered during the play.
For the first time in years, you froze in fear as you watched Aerion harm all the puppeteers and actors. You couldn't do anything to help them.
Just as you couldn't do anything but rant endlessly to your cousin Raymun when, only days later, your father told you that you wouldn't be returning home with them but would instead go to King's Landing because you would become Aerion Targaryen's wife.
You couldn't understand what on earth was going through the Targaryens' heads. Baelor Targaryen had just died, and now they were planning a wedding when they should be in mourning. You didn't know how you were going to survive living with all those freaks.
; Aerion being Aerion, only he does not expect you to defend yourself. (Mentions of controlling behavior, domestic violence, Aerion isolating the reader from others. No real description for the reader. But they’re from a noble house probably(?) if that matters.)
—
One evening, after you have dined with his family, Aerion does not expect you to snap. Having just returned to your shared apartments, he has already begun to try and make your evening end miserably. You usually never respond to his taunts. To the way he supposedly “teases” you as he declares a spouse does.
You learned quickly not to.
You learned not to flinch when he would grip your arm too tightly, beneath your sleeves would lay finger shaped bruises. You learned to cover the bruises on your face that had been covered by powders and tints.
He does not expect you to respond, to rebel against his actions.
But you do. That is what takes him by great surprise.
He ends up on the floor, wine had spilled down his doublet, staining the cream colored fabric of his tunic a dark red. (Too red. Too bright. He almost thinks you’ve taken the glass shards and stuck them into his chest.)
Your expression almost frightens him. How your jaw is locked, your eyes are glaring down at him. His lips part, but not a sound leaves them.
But rage bubbles beneath his skin, and it makes him wonder if this is how dragons felt before they breathed flame. The anger overwhelms his surprise, his shock that you had the gall to act in such a way.
A dripping sound makes him pause. His eyes drift to your hands, with one that is currently clenched into a fist around broken shards of glass. Your palm must have been cut as you grip the glass with a white-knuckled touch.
You have wounded yourself, and yet you barely care.
“How dare-!” Comes next. As Aerion pushes himself back to stand.
Yet it is your unwounded hand that rises and meets his face. The sudden sting shocks Aerion into silence, as he looks at you, wide eyed and confused.
As your husband, he claimed many things about your relationship, your life at court even.
He chose what you wore, how it mostly matched his own clothing. After all, you were his spouse, and wasn’t that all that mattered. He chose who you could speak to. Courtiers who were too friendly, maids who were too nice, all seemingly missing.
And for their safety, many learned to avoid publicly speaking with you. You had been all alone.
Maekar had tried. Your goodfather had certainly tried. But Aerion was good at hiding his cruelty under honeyed words and actions. And you already suspected he had some inkling of what was happening behind closed doors.
But he loved his son. So you grew to hate the man, too.
“Touch me again,” You hiss, your hand trembling, “I will ensure you dare not wish to again.”
Aerion laughs. A cold and bitter sound that almost makes you wish to hide. When you had first been wed, you had naively thought that if you did little to anger him, you could maybe even come to care for him.
What a fool you were.
“You will not dare to strike me again,” He says. His tone is empty of any emotion. But you see in his eyes, indignation.
You take a breath. Steeling yourself and your nerves as you open your clenched hand, glass clatters to the floor. Small cuts litter your palm. But they no longer bleed terribly, if at all.
Your eyes tremble. But you do not break the eye contact first. “You forget, husband. I am also of a house with storied history. And that dragons have also fallen to mortal men before.”
The dragons having long since died before he was born was an especially sensitive topic. You knew it would wound him more than your hand ever could. But you knew he would readily retaliate.
So, you practically turn on your heel and walk with quick and rushed strides; you leave the private apartments you both shared within the castle walls. Aerion would probably scream for someone to clean the mess. But, he does not chase you.
You leave Aerion stunned and angry. But he does not follow. He must have been wroth — undoubtedly so. But for the first time in what felt like ages, you smile to yourself.
No matter what he may try, you know that you have won something against your husband.
That is what helps you endure the coming journey to Ashford Meadow. A part of you hopes that Aerion enters the lists at the tourney and an unfortunate accident comes upon him.
Another part of you wants to see him lose to a hedge knight. One with no renown or any fame to his name. Just to see the Prince falter in defeat. That gets a laugh to form within your chest. Yet, that laugh sounds more like a cry.
As your maids clean your hand (to which you pointedly ignore their concerned looks), you push the thought away for now. It was late already, and you were already tired from the day’s events.
After last night’s episode I have so many fic ideas running through my head. Like baelor’s wife grieving and finding comfort in maekar’s arms(nsfw or sfw), Baelors daughter who’s married to aerion reaction to what happened to her father. Reader who’s married to valarr comforting him while he grieves, Reader who’s married to baelor where she was having nightmares about someone dying in the fight but not knowing who it was until it happened. Aerion’s wife who thought of Baelor like a father reacting to his death and blames aerion for it. Baelors wife finding out she’s pregnant days after his death, Maekar’s wife comforting him while he breaks down about the death of his brother. Reader who’s with Duncan comforting him after the fight while he blames himself for that happened, Reader hugging and comforting aegon because he blames himself for what happened. Baelor and maekars sister who’s married to lynoel breaking down in her husbands arms, Baelors wife who goes to congratulate him and tell him that she’s with child when he’s taking his helmet off only for him to die in her arms while she puts his hand to her stomach begging him to come back for their son. Baelors pregnant wife acting strong until the funeral pyre when everyone leaves and she breaks down screaming and crying and cursing the god for what they’ve done….. I have more ideas cooking in my head but I can’t think of them through the tears… if anyone uses any of my ideas please tag me so I can read them!
Maekar daughter his second child. She his favorite child never gives him any problems. When she was little she wanted to sword fight like her brothers. Maekar reluctantly agreed. Her and aegon are pretty close. Aegon has trouble finding knights for the trial and know his sister is an okay fighter. Begs her to pretend to be a man and fight in ser Duncan side. She agrees her first act of rebellion against her father. Egg helps her acquire armor and a sword. The amour is ill fitting as It’s not made for her. She fight bravely in the trial. She help baelor fight of maekar. Maekar ends up hitting her helmet instead of baelor. After areion yields she stumbles her way to were her uncle is talking with dunk. Confused from the blow to the head she accidentally reveals who she is to baelor. Not really understand what’s happening she falls and dies in her uncle arms. Now we see how Maekar deals with the fact that he killed his daughter. And how egg feels guilty about getting her to agree with fighting. Maybe Daeron had dreams about it and that’s why he and egg ran away.
So this is an angst fic no happy ending for anyone except baelor lives.
Hopefully this entices some one to write it.
(P.s. I got the idea reading another fic where aegon gets his sister to help dunk and she saves baelor. I can’t remember who wrote that fic but it’s great so if you find it you should read it )
Ser Duncan the Tall x fem!Baratheon bastard (NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTIONS)
Overview: You've traveled alongside Egg for a year now. And he's always been stubborn, but deciding to squire for an oafish hedge knight is a new one for him.
What's a bastard-born to do when she finds herself falling for that hedge knight and a Targaryen prince seems set on destroying him?
a/n: I just binged the show and need me that big, strong man
(spoilers for the show below, canon-compliant violence, absolutely ZERO physical descriptions of the reader. That’s one of my gripes with GoT fics: a house name always comes with house features. NOT HERE, baby!)
wc: 9.2k
“Truly, Egg?” The young boy glanced from you to the lamb cart and you let out a scoff of disgust. The farmer spat into the mud, shuffling impatiently as he waited for you to cough up a copper. Just enough for you and Egg to get to the Ashford Tourney.
He’d gotten it into his head that he ought to be a squire for a true knight. And, somehow, that lumbering oaf of a hedge knight that had come in this night past was just that. You’d never understand the boy's reasoning, but you wouldn’t argue with your prince.
Egg stared up at you, arms crossed.
“Fine, you hellion," you grumbled, and Egg let out a triumphant hum. You hiked up your skirts, clambering into the back of the wagon with the animals. You tossed some coins in the farmer's hand. Just as you’d reached down to help Egg up, the wagon began to roll forward.
“This better be fun,” you warned him, grimacing as a lamb butted its head against you. The beasts smelled foul.
“It will be,” Egg swore. “You’ll see, I’ll be a great squire.”
You snorted, "Certainly better than any of your brothers.”
“What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to thieve away my horses? I ought to clobber your ear.” You heard the knight admonishing Egg.
Your brows rose as you stepped out from behind the oak tree. Dunk, as he called himself, straightened up when he saw you. A flush rose to his cheeks that you found rather endearing.
“I didn’t know knights to be so cruel to their squires,” you taunted, dropping the basket of washing to the grass. Dunk’s eye darted between you and Egg, his mouth parted as he stuttered over his words.
Egg introduced you, saying your name with a small smile. “This is my traveling companion.”
“Hardly a companion, just trying to keep little man out of trouble.” You reached for one of the shirts you'd cleaned and clipped it to the line you’d strung up. “Are you trouble, Ser?”
Poor Duncan still seemed entirely unsure of what to do with himself. Standing in his pathetic little camp were two complete strangers. An obstinate boy he’d met at an inn only a day past. And a woman he’d never seen before. You had told Egg you ought to introduce yourselves first. But he was insistent on cleaning up Dunk’s camp, on proving his merit as a squire.
“I ain’t no trouble,” Dunk finally responded, shifting uneasily on his feet. You surveyed the man, appreciating just how large he was.
“Certainly not,” you teased, laughing at the irritated look Egg shot you. “Well, I’ve laundered your clothes as best I could. Hopefully you’ll smell less like a... hedge now.”
You wipe your hands off on your skirt and begin to make your way from the camp. Dunk frowns and watches you warily. “Where're you going?”
“I’m not your squire, Ser. I don’t have to answer to you,” you reminded him, sending him a sharp smile as you made your way onto the road.
You could hear him turn back to the boy, still sputtering slightly. “Who are you two?”
Egg let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m your squire, Ser. And she’s my companion.”
“That’s not a bloody answer.”
You’d heard your father was to be at the tourney. Not a surprise, seeing as he was a glutton for any sort of excitement. But a house as large as his showing up meant it was more likely than not that the Targaryens would be here as well. All of them.
The presence of Egg's family was inevitable, but you still prayed that Aerion might fall ill during the journey and miss the tourney.
If the Gods did not see fit to answer your prayer, you hoped that Baelor and his sons would join them as well. You quite liked Valarr’s company, and that side of the family seemed to keep the more wild Targaryens in check.
Being a bastard born of a high-born house should hardly make you any better than a low-born. But your father had a particular weakness for his daughters. So, you’d been raised alongside his legitimate heirs. And he had tried to have you legitimized, but you weren’t interested in being married off to a Lord of some far-off land. You'd rather live your life.
And Egg had been so enamored by your stories that at the last tourney you’d attended, he’d ask your father for your company a while longer. It’s how you’d ended up traveling with him, flitting between different houses as you let the wind chart your path. As any proper Stormborn would.
It’s also how you met his brother Aerion. A dragon would never sully himself with a bastard or lowborn, of course not. But that didn’t stop him from taking joy in tormenting you. You swear, if the Other had a face, it would be his. Dragon born he was not, just another spoiled, cruel son of a second son.
He enjoyed the power he held over a Baratheon. You provided him with the entertainment of torturing another powerful house with none of the consequences. Hopefully, you and Egg would be able to skirt by without attracting his attention too long at the tourney.
As you made your way through vendors and tents, you searched out the loudest crowd. Your father was like to be in the middle of it. And with the sun going down, it wouldn’t be too long until he got so deep in his cups he wouldn’t even recognize you.
Eventually, you came upon an obnoxiously large tent covered with stag horns. The guards paid you little mind as you stepped through, assuming you to be another dancer come to entertain your father’s men.
Someone followed in behind you and you frowned, glancing over your shoulder. Egg’s hedge knight lingered behind you, eyes wide as you caught him following you.
“Are you stalking me, Ser?”
“No- no, ‘course not. I’m just looking for,” his eyes darted around the tent before they lit up at the sight of the dessert table. “Supper, looking for supper.”
You raised a brow and smirked. “Then help yourself. And stop following so close, you fool.”
Dunk flushed and ducked his head, a poor attempt to make himself smaller as he made his way toward the food. You watched him for another moment before shaking your head and turning toward your father's table.
“Oi,” he hissed out your name as you passed. Eyes widening when he saw your target. “What’re you-“
You made it to your father before Dunk could properly stop you. Lyonel’s eyes lit up at the sight of you, whatever he was drunkenly going on about, forgotten. “My daughter! Returned to me,” you grinned, rounding the table as you threw your arms around his shoulders.
“And who is this?” He muttered. You turned to see that Dunk really had foolishly followed you. There was a half-eaten tart still in his hand, eyes wide as they took you in.
“Ser Duncan,” you told him. “Kind enough to help me find my way here,” Dunk choked at your lie, and you let out a little laugh.
“Sorry, you’re his….”
“Daughter,” you finished, popping off your father's ridiculous stag crown and placing it on your own head. “Don’t you see the family resemblance?”
Dunk's eyes darted helplessly between the pair of you before your father let out a bark of laughter. “Good, you shouldn’t! She takes after her mother, bless her.”
“Thank the Gods,” you nodded, placing your father's crown back on his head.
“You,” Lyonel’s eyes narrowed with a scoff. “You are very tall. Be tall! Stop skulking about and curling into yourself.”
Dunk shook his head, mouth still slightly full of tart. “I don’t skulk.”
“You do,” you interrupted, taking off your cloak and tossing it to one of your father's men. “I’ve always found dancing to be a good way to loosen the shoulders. Would you try with me, Ser?”
You held out your hand and your father crossed his arms, motioning toward you in a way Dunk could hardly refuse. “Well,” he offered tensely. “Who doesn’t like to dance?”
Dunk is a giant; you can offer him that grace. And no one ever said a giant made a good dance partner, but he certainly tried his best. His elbows flexed awkwardly at his sides, like a headless chicken trying their hand at graceful footwork. You laughed as you looped your arm through his, leading him through the dance.
Despite his stature, he was quick enough to follow your lead, grinning to himself as he ducked his head and let you control the movements.
But your father was always quick to get jealous of the fun. You cheered along with the rest of the crowd as he jumped atop his table, motioning for the musicians to play an even rowdier tune.
You backed into the circle, leaving Dunk unawares as your father approached behind him. You offered a sympathetic grimace when he smashed his foot on top of Dunk’s worn boots. You swear, the way your father dances is like a male bird trying to mate and a praying mantis lopping off her lover’s head, all the same.
It’s violent, without rhythm, and something you’ve never tried your hand at. But it was surprising how quick Dunk was to catch onto the game. To bring his foot down just as hard, so badly you could almost hear the crunch of your father’s bones.
And then Lyonel was letting out a howl of joy, spinning back into the dance and snatching up your hand as he went. He tossed you back to Dunk, who was feeling confident enough to tug your right back into a dance with him.
By the time the reverly had settled, you were breathless, your temple damp with sweat as you sat in the chair beside the hedge knight, listening to your father recount his wild true tales.
“Ooh,” he let out a groan and shook his head. “I am drunk.”
“You always are,” you chastised, chuckling slightly as you leaned against Dunk’s thick frame. He stiffened at the movement before relaxing slightly, grinning over at you. You can’t tell what was more fun for him tonight, the dancing, or the turkey legs as large as his arms.
“My beloved daughter,” your father took your hand, placing a chaste kiss on it as he clambered over his table. “I retire!” He announced to the dying crowd, drunkenly making his way from the tent.
You shook your head with a grin, taking another sip of your cider. “If I may,” Dunk started, and you hummed, glancing over at him. “I’ve never met a noble lady who acted as you do.”
You chuckled, “Is that a question or an insult, Ser?”
Dunk’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, jerking back from you. You let out an aggrieved sigh as your head slipped from his shoulder, and he even apologized for that. “Meaning no offense, my lady.”
“Relax, my noble knight of the hedge.” You didn’t miss how he flushed at that. “I am a bastard. Perhaps the luckiest bastard in all of Westeros to be sired by a father who cares for his daughters. No matter their title.”
“Then why,” his brows furrowed and you could smell the ale on his breath. Thoughts already seemed difficult enough for him to form. You imagined it was that much worse when he was drunk. “Why are you with Egg?”
“I was bored and looking for an adventure. The boy seems to have a keen eye for them,” you lied easily and with no guilt. Egg wanted his family name kept secret, and you would not betray his trust. It did not matter if one knew your name. Bastard is hardly a name at all. Targaryen, though, that was an ask for trouble.
“Suppose you’re right,” Dunk muttered, taking another deep swig from his cup. Your eyes narrowed at the size of it in his massive palm. It looked like a child’s plaything when he held it. You can’t say you’ve ever had the pleasure of being with a man as large as him.
But you could tell his type. He’d probably only ever lain with a handful of women. Each bedding more bashful and red-cheeked than the last. Shaking your head, you banish the thoughts from your mind. The alcohol has gotten to you and burned away what remains of your sensibilities.
“I think we ought to retire,” you tell him.
His head snaps up as you stand, seeming disappointed. “Aye,” he reluctantly agrees, “you’re probably right. It’s best to have fresh eyes tomorrow.”
“Mm,” you hum, taking hold of his arm and letting him help you out of the tent. “Egg will be jealous he missed the fun, I’m sure.”
“Meaning no offense, I don’t think your father’s the type to be allowed ‘round children.”
You barked out a sharp laugh, your smile only widening when you saw the look on Dunk’s face. “You do have a fair point, Ser. I believe I was five the first time he let me attend a tourney. And hardly eight when I stepped foot in my first brothel.”
“Brothel?” Dunk stuttered, shaking his head. “A lady shouldn’t be setting foot in no brothel.”
“Well, how else was I to see my mother?” At the scandalized look upon his poor face, you’re sure your laughter woke up the rest of the camp.
“Now! Now!”
“Egg,” you groaned, clutching your pounding head. “Not so loud.”
The boy crossed his arms and glared. “It is not my fault you got drunk. I won’t miss the puppets because of you.”
You screwed your face up at him, sticking out your tongue as he ran in front of you. Dunk was missing from your trio, off to beseech knights to try and remember his Sire’s name. You doubted anyone would help him enlist in the names. All these high-born sons only cared about themselves, not helping a hedge knight make a proper name for himself.
Egg darted between the legs of the crowd and you cursed, hiking up your skirts as you raced after him. By the time he’d gotten this squire’s itch out of his system, all your decent dresses would be stained brown with muck and mud.
You caught him just before he slipped into a large yellow tent. Ducking in after him, you were thankful for the shade the performer’s tent provided for a moment. Your eyes darted across the crowds and your shoulders relaxed when you saw Egg’s bald head seated right at the very front.
The stage was still empty as you hid in the back of the crowd. Despite Egg’s complaints of your laziness and too-slow demeanor, it seemed he’d gotten you both here far earlier than he needed to.
A hand clamped around your shoulder and you shot forward with a gasp. There was an airy laugh behind you. You whipped around with a wide grin. “Tanselle!” You admonished, “Seven hells, you scared me.”
She pressed a finger to her lips, smiling as she took your wrist and led you to the back of the tent. You shot Egg a smug smirk as she led you behind the stage and he watched with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.
“What are you doing here?” She demanded, dropping you in the familiar bustle of the puppeteers readying themselves for another performance.
“I heard about the tourney, found myself a young squire and a giant knight to travel along beside.”
She grinned widely, letting out an impressed scoff. “Do your adventures never stop?”
“I take after my father, what can I say?” A sudden thought popped into your head and you took her hand. “Though the knight I’m with, he doesn’t have a sigil of his own. Just carries around his master’s old shield. I wonder, could you do an old friend a favor? Paint him something new?”
Her eyes narrowed and she hummed. “That’ll come at a cost…”
“A performance,” you both said at the same moment. Her eyes lit up and you shook your head. “Alright, I don’t see much harm in it, anyhow.”
“Perfect,” she clapped her hands and led you toward the back. “I’ve been working on something new, I think you’ll love it.” Your eyes widened as she brought you before a giant mastery of puppeteering. The towering form of a dragon. “Feel like slaying the beast?”
You smiled, but something settled poorly in your stomach. This didn’t seem like it would end well for you.
“Typically, one says thank you when a friend does them a favor.”
“Oh, and are we friends now?” You drew back, arms crossed, as Dunk came to a slow stop. He turned with a grimace, already knowing he’d said the wrong thing. “I didn’t mean-”
“No, if you don’t want my help, then fine. Don’t get yourself a new sigil. Don’t get yourself a better shield. Suffer,” you spat, storming past him. Egg’s eyes darted between the pair of you. When Dunk remained still, he kicked him in the ankle and motioned him forward.
Duncan shot him a harsh look before following after you. “I am sorry, lady,” he offered. “But I would have liked to choose my own sigil.”
“Oh,” you spun around on him and he nearly tripped over himself. “I didn’t choose your sigil, you lumbering fool. I just had a friend agree to create you a new one. Now,” you let out a sharp huff. “Thank you?”
Duncan pursed his lips, chin dipping between his shoulders. “Thank you, lady,” he muttered, sounding properly admonished.
“Cheer up, Dunk, you’ll soon be a proper knight,” you took his arm in your own as you walked him through the camp. “And don’t say hedge knights are just as good as any other. I know that, but they,” you motioned to all the men milling about. All the fancy high-lord knights in their pretty armor. “They don’t know that. It’s on you to show them.”
Duncan straightened up, rolling back his shoulders as he gave a firm nod. You bit your lip so you wouldn’t laugh at him. He took your words to heart so easily; if he wasn’t careful, your ego would soon start to consider you important.
A bellowing horn blew through the camp, shaking the ground beneath you. Duncan frowned, glancing around as people began shoving past one another to see who was coming. Egg shot you a worried look as Dunk broke away from the pair of you. You took the boy’s hand in yours, following closely behind your knight.
You had a feeling you knew what family would make such a grand entrance. But you prayed to the Seven you were wrong. Dunk glanced over his shoulder as you approached, making room for you and Egg in the crowd. He lifted the boy onto his shoulders while you positioned yourself in front of him.
You should have known yourself better. Rarely were you ever wrong.
Riding onto the tourney grounds was a family of black and red, their dragon sigil flying high above their knights' heads. The Targarayens had arrived, fashionably late and with a dramatic entrance, as always.
Egg lightly kicked out from where he sat on Dunk’s shoulders. You glanced up to see worry etched along the boy’s face. “Oi,” Duncan swatted his thigh, “don’t go kicking people,” he scolded. The poor thing was completely oblivious to just how much danger his squire had put him in.
“Come,” you urged. “There are plenty of fancy lords to gawk at. I bore of this,” Dunk frowned as you brushed past him. He set Egg on the ground and trailed behind you. Egg was quick to rush to your side, tugging on your cloak as he sent you a frantic look.
“Worry not, boy, you’re bald as a babe now. I doubt anyone will pay you much attention. Much less recognize you.”
“That hardly makes me feel better,” he scowled. Such a cantankerous young prince.
“What’re you scheming ‘bout, now?” Dunk asked, glancing between the pair of you suspiciously.
“Nothing,” you smooth over. “Just wondering what ridiculous sigil you might choose for your new shield.”
“Oi, it ain’t gonna be ridiculous. It’s gonna be…” Dunk’s eyes narrowed as he glared down at the mud. You raised your brows, waiting for his grand idea. When he fell stubbornly silent, you let out a slight snort.
“We’ll help you think of something,” you reassured him. “After all, what’re squires for?”
“You’re not a squire,” Egg corrected and you shot him a glare. “Though you would make a good one,” he quickly corrected.
“I would, wouldn’t I?” You muse, glancing over at Dunk, he nods, but you feel like it might just be because you scare him.
You dine in your father’s tent once more. Egg has scurried off somewhere. You think he might be playing with some of the other children. But he would never admit that, the title squire has made him take himself far more seriously than the title prince ever had.
The start of the tourney will be underway soon enough. Which means the people here are more boisterous and overexcited than they typically are. The tent is near bursting at the seams with people, and the tables are overcrowded.
It leaves a lady like yourself little place to sit unless it’s a man’s lap or standing room at the back. Dunk seems wholly unaware, eagerly scarfing down his meal (and half of yours). You scoffed as you noticed him stealing from your plate. But you’re certain that half of this hunger stems from his nerves at being so close to competing.
You’ll allow him the thievery this once.
A drunken lord slams down on the bench beside you, jolting harshly against your side. You let out a hiss of pain as his elbow connects with your ribs. “Oi!” Dunk reaches around you, shoving the man away. He’s either too strong or the man too drunk, because he goes toppling to the floor.
Dunk flushes as the man’s friends haul him up with laughter. “My brave knight,” you muse, glancing down at his spread legs with a scowl. For all the space he takes up, he can’t spare you some? He notices your glare and offers a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” he mutters. He reaches for your waist and you let out a sharp huff of surprise. You’re certain he’d been trying to move you away from the reverly, or create more space for you. But the hilt of your dagger catches on the tale and before he can move you over his lap, you’re stuck in place. Sat right on top of those nice thighs of his.
You certainly aren’t complaining, but Dunk’s face has gone so red he’s liable to catch fire. “Apologies, lady,” he stutters.
“Nonsense,” you wave him off, picking at some of your food. In the midst of the crowd, you’re certain you see your father dancing, too distracted to notice you and your knight.
“Dunk,” you question, and he hums. “Have you ever heard the fable about kissing a maiden for luck?”
His brows furrow and he shakes his head. Good, you’re making this up, slightly desperate for something from him other than his apologies and honor. “Well, the tourney is soon to begin. A noble hedge knight such as yourself, surely you might like a little extra luck.”
You turn in his lap, one arm wrapped around his shoulders as you get yourself settled nicely against his thick frame. You catch the way his eyes drift to your cleavage before quickly shooting back up. “Are you,” he clears his throat uncomfortably. “Are you a maiden?”
You let out a scandalized gasp, slapping his shoulder. “Are you questioning my virtue?”
Dunk’s jaw drops and he shakes his head wildly. “No! No-”
You don’t let him finish his panicked apologies, dipping forward and pressing your lips to his. Dunk’s hands drop from his plate to your lap, one palm squeezing anxiously at your gown. You pull back with a smug grin, quite enjoying that glazed look in his eyes.
“I’m not,” you tell him.
“Huh,” he mutters, eyes trained on your lips.
“A maiden,” you clarify with a laugh. “But it’s worth a try, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dunk mumbles, head already dipping back down to your own. You let out a small laugh against his lips at how eagerly his large palms wrap around you. One tightens around your thigh, the other squeezes at your waist. His lips part against yours, tongue eager to taste you.
You almost pull back, caught off guard by such a bold move. Perhaps he wasn’t the blushing virgin you’d thought him to be. His hand creeps along your back, wrapping around the ends of your hair and tugging your head back so he can get a better angle.
A moan slips, involuntary, from your mouth as you move yourself higher up his lap. You’ve always been known to have little self-control. Were it not for the blaring horn that now rings through the camp and sharp cries of the men around you, you probably would have taken Dunk right there in that tent.
Instead, you were jolted apart by eager knights and drunk men. You let out a breathless laugh as Dunk pressed his forehead to yours. “Think that ought to bring you some luck?” You teased.
“I believe I already am lucky, lady,” he swore, smiling far too proudly and widely.
Egg ran up to you both, “Ser! Ser! It’s happening,” he stopped short when he saw you on Dunk’s lap, nose wrinkling with disgust. “What are you two doing?” he demanded, utterly scandalized.
“What’s happening, Egg?” You demanded, smiling as Dunk stood and offered you a hand up.
“The tourney!” Egg snapped, completely exasperated by the two of you.
“Really?” Dunk demanded, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming. “Come on, then,” you let out a little yelp as he yanked you after him, snatching up Egg with the other hand. You were tucked into his side while he lifted Egg so the boy might have a better view above the crowd.
With his size, it was easy enough for Dunk to split through the crowd, finding a nice spot at the front for you all to watch the first matches. A crazed knight rides forth, he rips the head of a dead fish and swallows it whole. You’ve been to plenty of tournaments in your life and that tradition still makes no sense to you. What boldness are they proving except that of their bowels?
Egg lets out a disgusted scoff as he forces Dunk to set him down. He rushes in front of you both, climbing up the fence to be even closer to the action. You push aside some people to join him, Dunk coming up behind you, his arms bracketing both you and Egg.
Someone in the crowd shouts, “Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!” And the resounding cheers seem to spur the knights on. Before you can blink, lances are cracking against shields, riders dismounted from their horses. You're deaf to your own screams as you shout for the victor, jostling Egg’s shoulders as the boy cries out encouragements.
By the time the first matches are over, you can scarcely speak, your voice is so wrecked from all the cheering. “That was incredible!” Egg grins. “Did you see those squires? And the horses,” he shakes his head with a laugh that makes you smile. “They have to be so fast, so strong,” he picks a stick up from the road, swishing it through the air. “Take that Blackfyre bastards!”
You chuckle as he runs ahead toward the camp, shouting insults at lesser houses all the way. But Duncan remains quiet beside you. You turn to him with a frown, concern burrowing deep when you see the disenchanted look on his face.
“Ser?” You question, reaching out to hold his arm. That seems to jolt him from his reverie and he shoots you a tense look. “Cold feet?” you question, tone teasing but not malicious.
“Ser Arlan never won a tournament. He was no champion or renowned hero. Half the men here have forgotten his name.” Duncan’s hands flexed at his sides as he glared down into the mud.
You pursed your lips, hand absentmindedly rubbing along his arm. “Perhaps, but Baelor Targaryen remembered his name. He vouched for you, got you enlisted. Ser Arlan might not have been as famous a knight as someone like the Grey Lion, but that does not mean he was unimportant or a poor knight. It is overwhelming, Dunk, facing a crowd as hungry as that one. But I believe you have all the makings of a grand knight. So does Egg. You just have to show them who you are.”
He spared you a glance, smiling slightly as you took his hand in your own. “Come, we should catch up before Egg curses the wrong house with that stick of his.” Dunk let out a small chuckle, nodding as he followed behind you.
The next morning, Egg had stolen off with one of Dunk’s horses, Thunder, and Dunk’s sword. You worried that by the time he returned, Dunk might make good on all those promises to clobber Egg’s ear.
“I am going to perform. Perhaps not in as violent a show as you, but you might enjoy it,” you tell Dunk.
He glances up from his sewing with raised brows. “Perform?”
“Yes,” you hum. “My friend, the one painting your shield, puts on a puppet show with her family. They came to entertain at Storm’s End during my half-brother’s name day. I enjoyed their show so much that I traveled with them for two years. You would like her,” you glance up, laughing at the astonished look on his face. “What is it now?”
Duncan shook his head, glancing back at his sewing. “Nothing, it’s just-” he shot you a look out of the side of his eyes. “You’ve lived a more exciting life than I could ever dream of.”
You tilt your head with a smile. “Your life is not yet over, Ser Duncan the Tall. There is plenty more excitement for you to have. Will you come, then? To Tanselle Too-Tall’s show and mine?”
“Tanselle Too-Tall?” He questions, incredulous.
“I told you, you’d like her.”
The sound of hooves echoed through the small camp and you looked up to see Egg returning with Thunder. It was a wonder the effect that boy had on animals. The last time you’d tried to pet the horse, he’d nearly kicked your pretty smile off.
“And where have you been?” Dunk snapped, glaring over at the boy. You shook your head with a small sigh, taking your leave so you don’t have to listen to the scolding.
“Did you see the Targaryens ride in?” You stand in Tanselle’s tent, arms out as she measures you for your costume.
Her hands paused on your waist, her tape dropping to her side as she stepped in front of you. “I recognize that tone,” she accused, eyes narrowed.
You let out a huff, arms dropping back to your sides. “Is it wise? Putting on this grand show of dragon slaying while the dragons are present?”
Tanselle rolled her eyes. “I do not put on this show to insult the Targaryens. It’s only the truth. The dragons are dead and there were many who were slain before then. Besides, when do high-borns such as themselves bother coming down to watch silly puppet shows?”
“I watched yours,” you remind her with a grin.
Tanselle shot you a firm look and shook her head. “High-borns, I said.”
You scoff, reaching over to swat her, when a horn rings out. The signal to start another match. You step from the stool she’d set you on with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I must find Dunk and Egg.”
She waved you off. “That’s fine, his shield should be ready by evenfall.”
You nod and run from the tent. Turning toward the tourney grounds, you search across the crowd until you spot the only head towering above the rest. Shoving through, it’s easy enough to reach Dunk’s side.
“There you are,” he muttered, glancing down at you. Egg was already positioned along the fencing. Dunk helped you push forward, setting you beside the boy.
“Who’s fighting today?” You ask, scanning the field. When Egg doesn’t answer, you frown, glancing over to see his already pale face even more colorless than usual. He seemed quite ill. You wonder if Dunk might’ve poisoned the boy with too much salt fish.
“Egg?” You whispered. The horn bellowed before he could answer and you forced your eyes back to the pitch. Suddenly, his sickly look made sense. Aerion rode out onto the field, lance held high as he took his position.
“Gods,” you groaned, stomach tightening with fear. In all the time you’d known Aerion, you’ve never once known him to play a fair match. Dunk shoots both you and Egg concerned looks, but you can scarcely meet his eye. Your attention has been wholly stolen by the Targaryen prince.
The match is set off on a rocky start immediately. Aerion doesn’t try to drive his lance into his opponent. Rather, he dives out of the way, forcing the man to nearly fall from his horse. And when he turns, he doesn’t wait for the other knight to recover. No, he tucks his body low and his lance even lower.
“No,” you whispered, just as Egg shouted, “Kill him!” Your head whipped to his in concern. He hated his brother, sure, but such violence was concerning. By the time you turned back, Aerion’s lance was piercing the neck of the knight’s horse, and its dying scream was enough to make you shut your eyes.
“Oh, that weren’t right,” Dunk muttered, shaking his head. His attention fell to you when you began to push your way out of the crowd, not allowing yourself to look back. You couldn’t watch the horse suffer or listen to its rider’s cries of pain as his leg was smashed beneath its body.
Aerion was cruel and delusional and the worst sort of twisted mind you’d ever met. But knowing that didn’t make facing it any easier than before. It wasn’t long before you could hear heavy footsteps racing to catch up with you. A cold hand reached for yours, and you glanced down to find Egg’s eyes watery and reddened.
“It’s alright, little man,” you reassure him, but you both know it's a lie.
“You have to be strong,” Dunk told him and you shot him a glare. He shook his head helplessly. “Accidents happen, Egg-”
“That wasn’t an accident,” Egg snapped, sniffling as he glared up at Dunk. “He did that on purpose.” You frowned, wiping the tears from Egg’s cheek. But he jerked out of your hold, running ahead of you both.
“That was horrible,” you muttered, eyes tracking Egg as he rushed through the crowd.
“Are you alright, lady?” Dunk asked, and you smiled at the soft tone of his voice.
“I am Stormborn,” you reassured him, taking his arm in your own. “We persevere, Ser.”
By the time of your performance, you hadn’t bothered checking the crowd to see if Dunk was there. You had been too busy learning the movements of the show, the cues to duck beneath your shield before Tanelle did her fire tricks.
She had you decorated in chainmail and armor so shiny it was practically a mirror. You took up the shield she gave you, grinning as you stepped onto the stage. That grin fell, though, when you saw the stark white head of hair waiting in the crowd.
Immediately, your eyes fell to where Egg sat in the front row. But he seemed oblivious to his older brother’s presence or uncaring. Aerion’s brows rose from where he stood, head tilting as he took you in. You were quick to turn around. He knew that wherever you went, his brother was not far behind. Hopefully, he had yet to recognize you.
Tanelle began her story. One of a knight whose name was lost to time but whose touch was carved forever into history. You did as the puppeteer instructed, diving when they dipped the dragon’s head low. Slashing up your wooden sword as you tried to slay the beast.
The crowd cheered behind you, the pupteers hissed as the dragon’s voice, but you could enjoy none of it. You could scarcely appreciate the familiar feeling of being back with the performers. All too terrified of the princes that stood behind you. Of what might happen when they saw each other. It was certainly no secret that Aerion had hatred for his kin.
The puppeteers threw their pollen and lit their match. You ducked behind your shield, feeling the fire bounce off it.
Your final cue.
Your heart raced painfully as you got to your feet, sword held high. You brought it down against the fabric neck of the dragon and red, shredded pieces of paper flew at you. The puppet’s head dropped with a thud, the beast defeated.
But the crowd did not roar; they did not applaud the performance. Even the performers did not bow. You turned and found the reason why standing just before the stage. Aerion’s hand flexed around his sword as he glared at you.
“Seize her,” he commanded. The guards stormed the stage just as you spotted Egg fleeing from the tent.
“Dunk!” Egg shouted, storming his way into Raymun Fossoway’s tent. Dunk’s head jerked up, shooting the boy a confused look. “Dunk, he’s hurting her!”
The wheels turned slow in his mind as he regarded Egg’s terrified face. But there was only one woman that Egg might be so worried about. He thought of you, the performance he was missing, and leapt from his seat. Raymun stood as well, casting a confused glance between the two.
Neither Dunk nor Egg stopped to explain. Duncan stormed from the tent, racing through the mud toward the sound of screams and the billowing smoke of fire. The performance tent was being destroyed, set pieces were being broken down and set alight.
In the middle of the tent, you were dressed in a knight's armor, forced to your knees. The prince stood over you with a malicious look. Duncan tried to storm toward you, but the guards leapt in front of him, shoving him back.
“There is that face I’ve missed,” Prince Aerion muttered and Dunk hadn’t a clue how you could possibly know the prince. “Perhaps we should finish this in my tent, hm?” He hummed to himself as he took hold of your hand.
Dunk broke through the guards just as Aerion snapped your finger in half, bone ripping through the skin as your scream echoed throughout the night.
Duncan should have gotten your father. Bastard or not, Lord Baratheon wouldn’t just stand by and watch his daughter be mutilated. But Dunk was half a fool and hadn’t the forethought. Still, he couldn’t stand idly by and just watch you be beaten.
Aerion’s head whipped up, surprise painting his features as Dunk ran at him. The prince had little time to prepare as he grabbed his collar, tossing him to the floor as easily as he would a doll.
“Dunk, don’t!” You called out, but he was already driving his fist across the smug bastard’s face. He would have kept going if the guards had not come to rescue the blonde prick. It took four of them to finally hold him back, and he still managed to get a decent kick to the boy’s face.
“Aerion,” you pleaded behind him. “Please, I was the one who mocked you!”
Aerion spared you a brief glance, spitting blood from his mouth and rubbing his jaw. Cold eyes fell to Dunk’s. “You’ve loosened my tooth. For that, I ought to take all of yours.”
Duncan was flipped around. He fought brutally against the guard’s hold, but they still managed to knock him to his knees. He bit down on a finger as they tried to pry his mouth open. Blood pooled from his lips, but they did not relent, pressing his open mouth to the edge of the stage.
“Aerion,” you let out a strangled whimper as the prince moved to stand behind you. He jerked you back by the hair, forcing you to watch.
“Stop!” Your eyes widened as Egg’s voice echoed through the tent. Aerion paused, his hold on you loosening for a moment.
“Get out of here, boy!” Dunk warned, but neither of you paid any mind to reason. You scrambled to your feet, forcing the guards away from him as Egg approached. What surprised Dunk most, though, was that the guards obeyed. Not you, but the boy.
“You harm him and you will answer to my father.”
Aerion sneered as you helped Dunk to his feet. “What did you do to your hair, you little rat?”
“Cut it,” Egg snapped. “So I wouldn’t look like you, brother.”
You’d followed a servant girl through the maid’s entrance and managed to sneak your way down to the Ashford dungeons. Were you to be caught, you’re certain that not even your father could save you. Aerion was declaring Dunk a traitor to the crown. And Daeron’s claim that Dunk had kidnapped Aegon was not helpful in the least.
Being caught with him was a risk to your own neck, but you could not stand the idea of Duncan being left to rot in the dungeons. You slipped the poision laced cloth from your pocket as you approached the entrance.
Lord Ashford thought himself to be an important man. But he did not have a truly powerful man’s coffer or a good man's guards. Only one stood before Duncan’s door. You leapt onto his back and pressed the cloth tight to his mouth. It wouldn’t kill him, but the sweet-smelling poison would knock him out long enough for you to speak with Dunk.
Slipping the keys from the guard’s belt, you stepped over his body and undid the lock of the cell’s door. Dunk glanced up as you walked in, eyes wide as he rose from the muck of the cell floor.
“Lady, you,” he shook his head, glancing around your shoulder. Most likely, spotting the unconscious guard behind you. “How did you-”
“Are you alright?” You rushed out, not wishing to linger long on your crime.
Dunk’s eyes dropped to your right hand, to the thick bandage around your fingers. “Are you?”
You let out a soft laugh and nodded your head. “Yes, my brave hedge knight. I am fine. It is not my hand I worry for, anyway. Have they said anything to you about the trial?”
Dunk sank back against the wall as you approached and he shook his head. “Nothing. I have not even seen,” he cut himself off, eyes darting to yours as you moved to stand in front of him. “Did you know?”
You bit your lips, not able to meet his eyes as you took his hand in your own. “I swore to protect my prince’s secrets long before I met you.” Dunk scoffed and tried to move away, but you held firm, lifting your face to his. “Dunk, please, you must understand. If I had betrayed Egg’s trust, told you who he was, I wouldn’t just be putting myself in danger.”
“I am a fool,” he muttered. “I thought you might have been as lost as I was.”
“He was not acting maliciously,” you promised him, tugging on his hands until he finally met your eyes. “He’s a boy, Dunk. And you have seen the cruelty of his brother. What boy wouldn’t want to escape that?”
Dunk’s eyes dropped to your hand, his thumb briefly running along the edge of the bandage. “You’re sure you’re alright?”
You nodded, “I think I’m quite lucky, all things considered.”
Dunk scoffed, “I could use a bit of luck, myself.”
Pressing up on your toes, you left a brief kiss on his cheek. “There, a maiden’s luck.”
He offered a small smile, one hand wrapping itself around your waist. “You’re no maiden.”
You let out a little laugh and glared at him. “Pretend for a moment,” you implored him. Dunk nodded, and you pressed up once more, this time, pushing your lips against his own. He sank easily into you, hand tightening its grip as you leaned further into him.
You broke away only when you heard the door to the dungeons open above you. “Damn,” you cursed. “I would take you with me but-”
“They’d take both our heads,” he answered.
You nodded and, with a small smile, left one last kiss on his cheek. “When Egg gets you out of here, and he will, you’ll have more luck than you can handle,” you promised. Dunk offered a sad tilt of his lips. He didn’t quite believe you, but he’d allow himself the hope.
You wished to say more, but the steps were growing closer, and so was the chatter of the guards. You hoped the flask you’d planted on the guard outside would be enough to explain why he’d collapsed to the floor.
Forcing yourself back, you pulled on your hood and slipped from the cell before anyone could see you. You hid behind the columns of the dungeon and watched Egg enter to speak with Dunk. Slipping behind the group of guards, you ran up the stairs and headed to the stables, just as Egg had instructed.
A few minutes later, the group was coming back out, Dunk now with them, his wrists in chains. Egg fell back from the group, hovering for a moment before he rushed toward you.
“My uncle will tell him to demand a combat by trial,” Egg rushed out, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one could see you. “But I know my brother. He’ll demand a trial of Seven.”
“Trial of Seven?” You questioned, it’s not something you remember from your lessons.
“Yes,” Egg nodded. The boy had limited patience for stupidity. “Dunk will need six men to fight by his side. Six knights.”
“Gods above,” you cursed. “I’ll speak to my father,” you promised. Egg nodded once before he went racing after the others.
Your father was not as drunk as you’d been expecting. Aerion’s attack seemed to have left him slightly sober. You hadn’t seen him since the bastard had broken your fingers, you’re almost hoping your father doesn’t know what happened.
Of course, though, you’re wrong. The moment you stepped into the tent, your father rushed over to you. “What happened?” He demanded, voice firm for once. His men had been dismissed for the night; only your uncle and a few cousins remained.
You tried to hide your hand from Lyonel, but he offered you a sharp glare before forcefully pulling it from your cloak. “I have been looking for a reason to fight the bastard.”
“Good,” you huffed. “Dunk defended-”
“Dunk?” Your father questioned, brows furrowing as he led you to take a seat.
“Oh, for- The giant, father,” you clarified. “He defended me against the prince. Now Aerion’s aiming for his head. There’s to be a trial of seven at dawn.”
Your father paused, leaning against the table as he surveyed you. “You like the boy, don’t you?”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Oh, that is beyond the point, I think.”
“That’s exactly the point, I think.”
With a sigh, you glanced down at your hands. “He protected me, Father. No other man would have stood against a Targaryen like that.”
Lyonel nodded his head with a low sigh. “No, certainly not one with a working mind, at least. Let me guess, daughter? You’ve come here to curry my favor.”
“Actually,” you corrected. “I’m here to give you a reason within the bounds of legality to bloody up some Targaryens.”
He wagged his finger in your face chidingly, taking a long sip from his cup. “You should have led with that, sweets.”
At dawn, you rode up with your father to the gates of the field. Dunk’s court by sword. Egg was already there, and three other knights stood behind him. The boy had been far busier than you’d thought. You supposed that’s what made him such a grand squire.
“Lady,” Dunk called, rushing over to you. You smiled down at him as he took your waist in his hands, helping you from your horse. You braced your arms on his shoulders, letting your weight linger against his for a moment before your father cleared his throat.
Dunk jumped back when he realized Lyonel was standing there. His hands tucked tight to his sides as his eyes darted between you two. “My lord, I-”
“Relax,” he grinned, clapping Dunk on the shoulder. “She’s no lady, Ser. Don’t fret so much for her virtue.”
You snorted and shot your father a glare. “Thank you, father.” He winked and you shook your head. “He’s here to fight for you, Dunk. Egg told me of the Seven, my father’s a finer swordsman than most.”
“And far more lustful for dragon's blood than any knight you’ll ever meet,” Lyonoel added, a wide grin on his face.
You shot him a perturbed look, “Yes, well, they don’t call him the laughing storm for nought.”
“Huzzah,” your father cheered, pulling a flagon of wine from his belt and taking a deep swig. You shook your head and took Dunk’s hand in yours, leading him from the others. He watched you with a concerned gaze, and you smiled at his compassion.
“Be safe, noble hedge knight, I do have a promise to fulfill, after all.”
Dunk shook his head, a confused smile upon his face. “A promise?”
You tilted your head with a coy smirk. “All the luck you can handle? Come, you don’t think I actually meant luck, did you?” You asked, taking his hands and setting them low upon your back as you stepped closer to him.
Dunk let out a startled cough, choking on his words as he glanced at the men around you. They were hardly paying the pair of you any attention. Mainly laughing about the royal blood about to spill. “Lady-”
“As my father said, Ser, I am no lady. Do not be so worried for my virtue.” You press up on your toes and cup his cheek. “Just keep this head firm between your shoulders,” you commanded.
Dunk nodded and you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He almost seemed disappointed and you laughed. “The luck comes after your victory. So, swear to me you’ll be triumphant.”
Dunk grinned and nodded, “I swear, m’lady.”
A horn bellowed through the early morning air as the gates beyond him began to open. His hands squeezed around you once before he stepped back. You waved him off and smiled as your father winked. But you did not stay to see the trial.
No, you mounted your horse and rode south. You had to find Tanelle; you’d sworn to help get her and her family on a boat back to Dorne. Where their names would be long forgotten by the vindictive prince and her neck would be safe from the executioner’s blade.
By the time you made it back to Ashford, Tanelle was long gone and the trial was over. The news had reached you on the road. It had already shocked its way through the majority of Westeros. Prince Baelor, dead by his own brother’s mace.
The funeral was over when you returned. Servants were scurrying about the fields, packing their lords' things away and preparing for a grim departure home. You leapt from your mare, searching through the rushing processions for any familiar face.
“You must be happy,” you stilled, heart stuttering at the voice behind you. You turned as Aerion pushed away from the fence he’d been leaning on. “Your pathetic knight’s life is safe.”
“Pathetic?” You questioned, surveying the deep gouges in Aerion’s face and the bandages down his neck. “If a pathetic man did that, then what does that make you?”
Aerion lunged forward. You just barely jumped out of his way. His hand swiped through the air, scarcely missing your face. His eyes narrowed as he growled, “Careful how you provoke the dragon.”
“My father is still here, your grace. I would not test the Stag’s patience.”
Aerion snorted, “There is little your father can do if I try you for a traitor. You still have not answered for your crime of that farce of a show.”
“This is not answer enough?” You demanded, holding up your mutilated fingers.
“Hardly,” Aerion sniffed.
“Fine,” you gritted out, and his eyes widened ever so slightly with surprise. “You may try me. But I would demand a trial by combat. And you have already seen what my champion can do to you.”
Aerion’s eyes narrowed into slits; he reminded you more of a rat than a dragon. “Leave this place,” he commanded, storming past you. His shoulder shoved into you and you let out a hiss of pain.
Someone called your name before you felt a small weight smashing against your legs. Glancing down, you found Egg wrapped tightly around you, face buried in your cloak as he muttered something you couldn’t understand. “What’s that?”
He tilted his face up, chin pressing against your side. “Father’s named me Dunk’s squire. I’m to travel with him!”
You glanced up as Dunk approached, a shy smile on his face and a new cut along his cheek. “Is this true?” You demanded, bewildered by Maekar’s perceived kindness.
“Aye,” Dunk nodded. “It’s true. The boy’s mine to clobber as I see fit, now.”
Egg released you and rolled his eyes at Dunk. He ran off to collect your horse and the others. You watched him go before turning to Dunk with an easy smile. “Well, you’re a proper Ser now, aren’t you? Fought alongside and against royals, all in one go.”
Dunk scratched the back of his neck, a flush on his cheeks as he shook his head. “I don’t know ‘bout that.”
“Would you have room in your party for a maiden fair, Ser?”
Dunk shook his head. “Ain’t no maiden.” Your lips parted with astonishment, and then he was wrapping his arm around your waist. “But I say you're fair enough,” he hauled you up toward him, cutting off your protests with a kiss that left you breathless.
You smiled against his lips, reaching up to wrap your arms around your neck just as you heard a disgusted little, “That’s horrible!”
Dunk parted with a laugh and you shot Egg a half-hearted glare. He handed you your horse’s reigns and Dunk helped you onto the saddle. “Well,” you glanced over at your knight. “Where’s your next adventure, ser?”
“The Red Lake!” Egg shouted, before Dunk could even answer.
He shot Egg a firm look, but you laughed. “You must admit, he has a keen sense for adventure.”
Dunk sucked in a sharp breath before turning his horse toward the road. “Fine,” he grunted. “The Red Lake it is.” Egg raced ahead of you both and you laughed as Dunk shouted after him. Threatening a clout to his ear if he didn’t slow down.
Tags • established marriage, TW pregnancy losses, angst and comfort, grief/mourning, guilt & self-loathing, betrayal & unrequited love (Aerion), hopeful ending
Wordcount • 3,835
Despite your harmonious marriage, Valarr and you seem to be cursed with the repeated losses of your pregnancies. Until one day, the most heinous betrayal is discovered.
Valarr Masterlist
Night was heavy and thick over the Red Keep, the darkness seeping into your rooms until the dying hearth was no longer sufficient. Apart from the crackling of the cooling embers and Valarr’s even breaths at your side, there was silence, and for a moment you could not understand what had pulled you from slumber—there was no lingering dream at the forefront of your mind, and no movement in the room except for the gentle dance of the curtains in the summer breeze.
For a moment you blinked into the dark, assessing, until the reason why you had been brought back to awakeness made itself known—a cramp, deep inside your belly, pulling on either side of your hips. The permeating ache made you want to whimper, but you swallowed it down, unwilling to wake your sleeping husband.
Without a sound, you rose from the bed and took your night robe from the nearby settee. As carefully and quietly as you could, you lowered yourself to the ground near the window, the stones cold against your heated skin. Nausea rose in your throat, or perhaps it was heartbreak suffocating you.
It was a pain you had felt twice already, and it did not take proof for you to know what was occurring once more. Soon your nightgown would be tainted crimson and you would apologize to your husband for your failings.
Whispered prayers fell from your lips but you knew them to be useless. The Gods were deaf to your desperate pleas.
“My love?” came a gentle call from the bed, and Valarr sat up suddenly when he heard only a harsh, shaky breath for answer. “Are you unwell?” he pressed.
No words came, and he was quick on his feet, coming to your side and reaching for you. He gasped as he saw crimson on white. “We should call for the Maester.”
“There is nothing to be done!” you cried out. “All we can do is let it run its course.”
Valarr sat at your side in the cool breeze and held you through the night as you sobbed quietly, hiding his own silent tears.
The next time your breasts grew tight again, and your days were disturbed by bouts of nausea, you kept the news a secret, forcing yourself to appear at court as though nothing was wrong. If it was meant to end in a loss, then you would rather suffer it in secret—however as weeks went by and your body fell into an ease you had never known before, you could no longer hide from your husband.
Valarr was as understanding as you could have expected. He praised you for your strength and only lamented that nature was such that he could not relieve you from the burden of childbearing.
This time you also waited to announce to the king until the quickening was felt, hiding your frame under looser gowns. The Maester was confident that all would be well this time, and both you and your husband truly believe your tragedies were over.
However, it all came to a heartbreaking end one afternoon, when Valarr was at council. It had merely been a few days since he had proudly announced to his father and grandfather that their line would continue through him, and all had met the news with joyful prayers.
Baelor was grooming him to take on his role one day, serving him as Hand when he would himself be king, and to start such a tradition, of having heirs being Hand to their fathers, made Valarr proud of his heritage. He could now hope to do the same one day.
“What say you, Valarr?” Baelor asked, always eager to hear his side, but before he could answer, one of your maids came running, interrupting the discussion. She curtsied hurriedly, a look of panic upon her face.
“My apologies for the interruption, my lords,” she cried out, then turned to Valarr. “You must come, my prince, your wife is calling for you.”
Valarr did not wait for his grandsire to dismiss him. He pushed his chair back, dragging it against the stones, nearly toppling his cup when he set it down. “The baby—” the maid tried, but could not finish.
Valarr was already in the hallway, running towards the royal quarters, the young woman on his heels. As he rounded a corner, he nearly tumbled into another maid, who held a soiled sheet in her arms. The linen was tainted with bright red, and it turned Valarr’s stomach.
Before he could reach your chambers, a great, piercing wail cut through the air, and Valarr knew of the tragedy that had befell you. For a moment he froze in the middle of the hallway, a sob tearing through him, but he could not think of his own grief—he allowed the agony of this loss to breathe in him for a second, then swallowed it, and ran to you.
The walls of the Red Keep had seen many babes born too soon over the centuries, and such a loss was acutely felt each time. Since that day, you had been in a slumber, your eyes staring into a void only a grieving mother knew.
Setting his own grief aside, Valarr made a decision then, when after three moons, the Maester declared the loss to have passed and your body to have healed enough for another pregnancy.
One morning after breaking his fast he walked up to the Hand’s tower, where his father was writing in a ledger—the man set his quill and ink down and gave him a small smile, gentle and welcoming.
“You wished to see me, my son?” he asked. Valarr took a deep breath, and faced his father’s gaze unwaveringly.
He knew what his stance had to be, no matter the disappointment he might face. “I cannot put her through this again, father,” Valarr announced, forcing his voice not to break. “I am sorry, but the heir to the throne will not come from me, and your line will end, were Matarys to fail as well.”
Baelor frowned, setting the parchment he had been holding down. “Do you believe this information is a disappointment to me, that it requires an apology?” he inquired.
“Does it not?” Valarr retorted. “I am your eldest, your heir, and I cannot give you the third in line to the throne.”
“The fault is not with you, my son, nor is it with your wife,” Baelor said, hurrying to reach the end of his sentence when Valarr frowned. “What would be a disappointment to me, would be if you would try continuously at the peril of your wife’s life.”
Valarr’s shoulder dropped, his breath leaving his lungs. “Oh,” he said, and at that Baelor gave him another one of his small, benevolent smiles. The kindness in his eyes soothed Valarr rather, and it made him want to reach out like a small child, seeking comfort in his father.
“I would not think you so cruel as to risk her life over and over again, even for the sake of the crown. Matarys will marry, and even if he does not, you have cousins. Your heir could come from Daeron, or even Aegon, further down the line,” Baelor explained as though it was already acted.
Valarr nodded. “He would have to be named by royal decree.”
“There is still time, Valarr. Trust that the Gods know of your fate,” Baelor said, wise as usual, then nodded towards the door. “For now, be with your wife, and comfort her. She needs you now more than the realm does.”
With a last parting smile, Valarr obeyed, walking to your chambers feeling much lighter than he had felt in weeks. Grief was still holding his heart in its crushing grip, but the future seemed less grim now than he had had his father’s reassurance.
He found you resting in a warm bath near the hearth, lounging in milky water from the soothing soap the midwife had recommended. He knelt aside the copper tub, picking one of your hands up and pressing a greeting kiss to it.
“Where have you been?” you asked, out of sheer interest. You were held in such care in here, encouraged to rest and heal for as long as you needed, but you longed to know what was happening outside of the walls of your chambers.
“I went to see my father,” he replied, and you knew from his tone that there was more coming. “I have told him of my decision to stop our endeavors, of trying for an heir.”
“Valarr,” you protested, although rather weakly, but your husband did not let you finish.
“I cannot call myself a good man and continue to inflict this suffering upon you,” he defended. “I will not risk your life.”
Tears welled in your eyes, and he knew then there was nothing he could say to ease your pain. Instead he sat and held your hand, pressing the back of it to his cheek, and breathed in time with you. “I know I have failed you in this, and I am sorry,” you finally said, voice thick with sorrow. The hollow space inside of you throbbed, dull and sharp at the same time. “I will pray for forgiveness for all the remaining days of my life.”
Valarr dipped his head and hid his eyes from your gaze. “Then I shall pray alongside you, for if you are in need of forgiveness then so am I,” he said as fervently as he could, then pushed himself up on his knees, and kissed your temple, where a loose strand of hair fell.
No matter Valarr’s attempts and his kind understanding, there was an emptiness in your breast, at the pit of your stomach, and you could see the same grief in his eyes, no matter the grace with which he bore it. In his mind, he could not grieve, for you were the one suffering in your flesh. Sometimes you saw tears in his eyes when he thought you were not looking, and you were unsure how to reach out for him.
To have him cry in your arms would bring you comfort, you thought, knowing you were not alone to carry this burden. Bringing those thoughts to prayer with you, you spent afternoons kneeling in front of the Weirwood tree in the gardens of the Red Keep.
The smell of the earth and the firm pillow under your knees grounded you—or it usually did, up until one afternoon when footsteps came behind you. No one dared interrupt your time of quiet contemplation, and you could only guess who would. You smelled his peculiar scent before you saw him appear at your side, with a red doublet of velvet and light, short-cropped hair.
“Aerion,” you said, but it was a dismissal more than a welcome. Still, he stood at your side, uncaring.
“No need for hostility, my good sister. I simply wanted to offer my condolences,” he said with a rehearsed tone. “What hell must it be to endure.”
“Now that you have, would you please be so kind as to leave me alone,” you retorted, but instead of taking his leave, he sat at your side, leaning against the solid trunk of the tree.
Closing your eyes again, you tried to cling to your prayers and to ignore his eyes boring into you, until he spoke. “Has it never crossed your mind that perhaps the fault is not in you, but in the seed?” he suddenly murmured, his breath hot on the side of your face.
Nausea rolled in your stomach like a tidal wave and your eyes shot open. “What are you…” you murmured, horrified.
“Perhaps another seed would succeed in giving you the child you want,” he grinned.
Rising in a hurry, you loomed over him for a moment. He looked up at you, sun in his eyes, and his angular face looked gaunter for it. “This is a heinous suggestion,” you protested, feeling like you might be sick.
Aerion rose in turn, coming face to face with you. “I’m sure I would succeed,” he promised, and before you could react, he continued, freezing you in place. “Think of Valarr, he is second in line to the throne, he needs an heir. He might still seek an annulment and be in his right.”
“No,” you shook your head. “He would not. He is a better man than you.”
Aerion’s grin grew sharper, uglier. “Are you so certain? He may feel this way now, but it could change, years down the line, when he’s Prince of Dragonstone?” he pressed. “And what of the king or the hand’s orders?”
A flicker of doubt crossed your face, and Aerion relished in it. “It would ruin your name, but I would take you as you are, you need not worry about prospects,” he offered, one of his hands reaching for your arm.
Unable to stand his presence and his words, you fled without answering, the mere ghost of his touch haunting you. For a moment you contemplated clinging to your doubt, but in the end your instincts carried you all the way towards your husband’s chambers.
Valarr could not get the words you had reported to him out of his head. It was in Aerion’s nature to be cruel, but something in his bragging sounded false. He would not care about the line of succession, about Valarr’s legacy, and in his endeavors to boast about his own great blood in the past, he had never been so vicious.
For an entire day and night, Valarr wondered—your last pregnancy had held farther than the others, and the only thing you had done differently was wait to announce it. For weeks you had held your breath and no tragedy came, only did it strike like when the announcement was made, like the Gods were laughing at your attempts to counter fate, or as if an evil ear in the Red Keep was waiting in the shadows, ready to spring.
Such a thought was beyond horrendous, just as much as it was treason, however as soon as it was planted in Valarr’s head it grew like a seed, like a weed, and thorns cutting him up from the inside.
There was only one way he would ever know, and so Valarr sought out his cousin, finding him easily in one of the Keep’s halls. Taking a deep breath and reasoning with his heart’s desire for justice, he stopped himself from requesting they speak in private—he had enough self-knowledge to perceive he could not trust himself in private with Aerion.
“What have you done, Aerion?” Valarr accused without a greeting, and Aerion sneered.
“Cousin, you’re going to have to be more precise than this,” he replied, popping a nut or a seed of some kind into his mouth, then turning to the table once more. He reached for a cup and a pitcher.
“What have you done to my wife?” Valarr continued, knocking the cup out of his hand.
Aerion turned to him with a flourish and an annoyed expression. “I simply told her, that should you wish for an annulment after this fourth loss, I would be graceful and take her as she is,” he said with a melodic tilt to his voice, as though this was laughing matter.
For a second, Valarr could only hear his own breath, disbelief a veil over his eyes, and then the quiet ended and the rush of his own blood in his ears deafened him. The coldest, most cruel feeling of betrayal slammed into him and horror spread over his face. “It is you, isn’t it? You are behind these losses.”
Aerion laughed and made a dismissive gesture, attempting to walk away. “Do not be ridiculous, even I cannot control the laws of nature.”
Valarr said to his back. “My guards are searching your rooms as we speak.”
Stopping in his tracks, Aerion’s shoulders lost their nonchalant roll and stilled into one line, and when he looked over his shoulder, the look on his face told Valarr everything he needed to know.
“Why, Aerion? Why would you stoop so low?” Valarr meant to simply ask, but his voice rose without his consent. His cries resonated under the high arches.
Aerion turned to face him once more and his offended look morphed into outrage. “She deserves better than you,” Aerion sneered, vaguely gesturing to his head—was it his face, his hair, his heritage? Was it his character that was under attack? “She deserves a true dragon.”
Valarr could not bring himself to care about the insult; there was nothing left in his chest but devastation. “Four babes, Aerion! Four children you have taken from me!” he howled, the sheer agony of it scraping his voice raw.
Guards around started to gather, coming from the adjacent hallways. Aerion squared his shoulders and curled his hands into fists—Valarr had not even realized he had done it as well. His ears were ringing like he had taken a hit while wearing his jousting helmet, his whole body prickling with hot and cold at the same time.
“You shall never approach her again, or I swear to all seven gods, you will die from my hand!” he roared, and he must have done more than that, because soon his knuckles were throbbing and there were hands holding him back, stern voices calling his name.
In the end, it was unclear who struck the first, but it took three guards to separate them, and two to hold Valarr down. Aerion laid sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, crimson tainting his clothes and splattered in his hair, but it was not nearly enough for all you had bled and suffered.
Valarr could not stand to stay in the capital a day more, and risk more harm to your person, therefore he wasted no time to whisk you away. He barely waited for the king’s order that Aerion should be exiled for his crimes against his cousin and against you, and ordered his household to pack and make way for Dragonstone.
The fortress was always magnificent, but as you crossed its threshold once more, it brought you a sense of safety and security you had lost in the Red Keep. While the capital had been your home for years now, you and Valarr had been allowed to stay on the island for a month after your wedding day, and you supposed your husband hoped that you would find the same peace and contentment that you had back then.
“Everything has been readied for us,” Valarr informed you as you settled into the main living quarters.
It had surprised you that he had not led you into the guests quarters, even though Baelor had never claimed those rooms who were his by right, instead choosing to remain in King’s Landing, serving as hand. They were bare of any personal possessions, and now they would be yours for the stay.
“Are you glad I brought you here?” your husband asked, and in his questions you heard all the words he could not bright himself to say.
A deep sigh left your chest, your shoulders losing some of their tension. “Yes, thank you. How long shall we stay?” you inquired.
“I have asked a favor from father,” Valarr explained, coming to you and taking your cloak from your shoulders, gentler than what was needed. “Dragonstone is ours, until matters are settled.”
“Matters?” you asked quietly, your hand finding its home in the crook of his.
Valarr eyes bore into yours then, bright blue and warm brown, and there was as much love as a gaze could hold in both. “The Maester confirmed the poison retrieved from my cousin’s chambers to have caused it all. He believes there should be no impediment now,” he said, kissing the back of your hand.
No smile came to your lips at his words, despite the reassurance you knew to be true. You still daren’t let hope into your heart, no matter Valarr’s own trust that you would prevail.
For days you lived in this strange fog, reading between the lines of Valarr’s careful questions and gentle assurances. Most of your time was spent in your quarters, and you savored the presence of your husband at your side. There was no council to take him from you, no other preoccupation than looking after one another, and it lifted a weight from your shoulders you thought had been grief.
The fourth night on Dragonstone found you sitting on the rug in front of the hearth, bent over a work of embroidery while Valarr watched you, a forgotten book on his lap—his gaze admired your profile in the soft glow, and you felt so close and yet so far, he wanted to weep.
“What are you making?” he asked quietly, almost afraid of spooking you.
Valarr saw the way your gaze flickered from your work to him, then to the fire, and he held onto your every breath, his chest cracking open, ready to receive your answer.
“A swaddle,” you finally replied, and that word was enough to send hope galloping in Valarr’s chest. You had made one for each of your babes, even if they had all served as shrouds.
“I would not ask this of you, not before you are ready,” Valarr said carefully, his voice barely a whisper.
For a moment he thought you would fall back into silence, and he would have to wait until you reached out for him, touched him, or sought him out. However he would not have to wait so long, for you turned to him, setting your embroidery aside.
“Is that why you have not shared my bed since we lost our last babe?” you asked, and the longing in your eyes mirrored the one in his heart.
Valarr sighed, not from tiredness but from the breath he had been holding, nearly choking himself with it. “I would rather die than to hurt you,” he replied, his voice thick, wavering.
Tears clouded your eyes in turn. “I have died every night you have not touched me,” you whispered.
Valarr threw his book aside and fell to his knees on the rug, taking your face between his hands. His kiss tasted of salt, of his tears and yours, and he nearly sobbed when your hands burrowed under his light evening shirt, finding his skin. Your palms were cool and yet they felt hot, like a brand on his ribs.
“Then I shall come back to you tonight, and never leave your side, whatever may come,” he vowed.
“Whatever may come,” you echoed—I am yours and you are mine, whatever may come—those were the vows you had spoken on your wedding day, sealing them into your very soul and flesh, and on that night you felt them live through you, feeding the small seed of hope you could feel settling into your womb.
Dividers by @/saradika. Not beta read. Based on this request.
A/N: god bless the people of tumblr for letting my freak brain work! (Also thank you to @vhagars-dementia and @myladyship for their exchange bc this would not have existed without that)
Edit: Here is a part 2!
Summary: Dunk meets what looks like Egg’s sister for the first time. Key words: looks like.
Note: This is a perfectly happy world where nothing bad ever happens and Dunk just finds out that Egg is the prince and that’s that.
Word count: ~2.5k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Dunk didn’t really meet you when he first met you. It was in a tent full of revelers at the Ashford Tourney, celebrating a successful event despite the bumps along the way. He had discovered Egg’s parentage now, was far too aware of what that meant, and was suddenly attempting to mind his P’s and Q’s in the company of the royal family (though Egg much preferred exploring without their involvement anyway…).
The tent was immensely large, perhaps Lyonel Baratheon’s again, or some other lord that he could not remember the name of, and Egg was finally enjoying being a boy for once while Dunk indulged in the food and drink. Men and women of every station were dotted around, some beginning to dance with the music, while others sat at tables or simply milled about with their wines and ales.
“Egg!” Came a high-pitched call across the space, a young woman appearing from the crowd and beaming at the little boy. Dunk watched you quickly bend to hug Egg, petting his head a little and pinching his cheek as he huffed and whined and tried to pull out of your grip. You did not relent until he allowed you to press an obnoxious kiss to his little cheek (which he promptly wiped away despite the big smile stretching his lips) and then stood back up to continue speaking to him.
You were dressed in the signature Targaryen red and black, a beautiful dress to be sure, but Dunk stayed back while keeping an eye on the boy. You were surely someone from his family, someone he knew well, and Dunk had had enough of making bad impressions on royalty for a lifetime. But you did have a very pretty smile, so easy and gleaming, and immensely kind. It was a kind smile to be sure. And your hair was beautiful, falling as it did as you bent down to laugh with Egg.
It was clear that Egg was fond of you, the way he fidgeted in front of you and talked animatedly, how comfortable he seemed to grab your arms and hands or to jump about or even just to grip at your skirts for your attention. And you seemed so sweet the way your attention never wavered from the boy, allowing him to speak as much as he wanted.
Dunk felt his cheeks turning pink and he forced himself to look away, taking a long gulp from his pint of ale and shoving more food into his mouth. Then you were looking in his direction as Egg pointed, your pretty eyes a little wide as your mouth opened and you nodded at whatever Egg was saying to you. Dunk turned fully red then, pointing at himself as both you and Egg smiled in his direction, his cheeks puffed out and full of pastry. Both of you laughed a little and shook your heads, but you did raise your hand to wave at him, a small motion, before refocusing on Egg.
Dunk swallowed, his heart racing, and he wanted to vomit everything he had eaten in the corner. Instead he chugged more ale. What could Egg possibly be saying about him to you? You, with your beautiful face and your beautiful smile… A little sigh whooshed from Dunk.
Dunk watched you bend down and press a kiss to the top of Egg’s head, rubbing your thumb over his cheek then waving goodbye. You turned back to smile in his own direction, giggling a little as he could only offer you another wide-eyed look, before disappearing into the crowd once more.
Egg returned to Dunk’s side, grimacing as he sipped from his own glass of ale, letting out a little ‘ugh’ noise but not putting it down either. Dunk didn’t say anything about the interaction he had witnessed, not wanting to seem too interested in you. Heaven forbid he somehow indirectly insults a princess. Because surely you were one of the sisters Egg had mentioned before, whose names he could unfortunately never manage to keep track of… But you were definitely his sister, all signs pointed to it. You were young, blessedly pretty, extremely comfortable with the boy, and he with you, and did Dunk mention how gorgeous you were? Yes, you must be a sister.
Dunk, his head far above others, was at an advantage when it came to people watching. He was able to spot heads in the crowd, simply because he was above it, and now that he knew what yours looked like, it was easy to find with his eyes. You had not gone very far, stopped in conversation with some noblewoman, and Dunk’s eyes remained fixed on you, watching the movement of your dress, your face, your hands as you spoke.
“What are you looking at, Ser?” Egg asked when Dunk remained silent, his eyes fixed on some distant point.
“What?” Dunk asked dazedly, glancing down to Egg for a second before returning his gaze to you. ‘
“I asked what you were looking at, Ser,” Egg repeated, climbing up to sit on the tabletop that Dunk was leaned back against. He followed Dunk’s gaze to you, and then looked back to Dunk who, despite drinking from his cup, was still watching you. Egg sighed, long and low and shook his head. “Do not even think about it, Ser.”
Dunk jumped at that, snapping his head to face Egg, then furrowing his brow at the young boy.
“Think about what?” He asked defensively, shifting a little uncomfortably and shoving the last bit of his handpie into his mouth.
“Do not even think about it,” Egg repeated simply, shaking his head and giving Dunk a warning glare. The knight just scoffed, shaking his head and averting his gaze to the people beginning to dance, but Egg knew better. He didn’t say anything else and allowed Dunk to be distracted.
Prince Maekar paced slowly to the window, then back along the front of the room, sighing a little. Baelor sat behind the table, occasionally flitting his eyes up to his brother before suppressing his smile and looking back down to the book laid out in front of him. Maekar grunted with annoyance then set himself down in the chair to the side of the table he had previously occupied, groaning loudly as if he was a man much older in age.
You entered first, smiling at Maekar as his gaze flicked to your face and his expression smoothed out a little. You were wearing a pretty red dress, the fabric moving and shifting with each step, and your hair was beautifully done as it always was. You bowed your head in Baelor’s direction, the man nodding in return, and made your way straight over to Maekar’s chair. Before the man could open his mouth to greet you, Egg came rushing in, the giant hedge knight hesitantly lumbering in behind him.
“Father, Y/n,” Egg greeted quickly, before bowing to Baelor. Behind him Dunk did the same, bowing low at the waist with a quiet ‘your highnesses’. Maekar grimaced a little but said nothing else. He did not understand why his son chose a hedge knight as his companion, but after some choice words you had aimed his way he allowed it.
“How have you spent your day, Egg?” You asked, leaning casually against Maekar’s chair.
Baelor and Maekar were waiting for other lords to come join them, and Egg had thought it was a good time to show his face to his father and you, a condition his father had implemented after his disappearing act.
“We have perused the market and looked after the horses,” Egg told you succinctly, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes that made your smile turn tender.
Dunk found it immensely difficult to keep his eyes off you. Each time he forced them back to the floor or to Egg, they somehow strayed their way back to you. He watched you smile at the boy, watched you drop a hand onto Maekar’s shoulder, and he almost smiled. You must be close with your father and your family, perhaps the only one based on what he had heard of the Targaryens.
Maekar watched the hedge knight watch you, and his face began descending into a scowl. What the fuck was the man so interested in? He sat straighter in his seat as Egg hummed, yappering on to you about something else you had asked about.
“...we had fun though, didn’t we Ser Duncan?” The boy asked, turning to look up at Dunk with his big blue eyes. Dunk froze a little, feeling unfairly exposed.
“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, we surely did,” he answered, offering you and Maekar a pursed lip smile, and you just giggled.
“Alright, we’ll be off then,” Egg finally chirped, wanting to have a go on the horse the way Dunk had promised.
“Do not fucking disappear again,” Maekar said sternly, glaring a little at the sheepish boy as he nodded. You cleared your throat, whacking the prince on the shoulder a little before turning to the pair.
“Stay close to Ser Duncan, alright? And if you need absolutely anything, come find one of us. And do not bother Ser Duncan too much.” You smiled fondly at the boy before turning your eyes to Dunk. “Take care of our boy, Ser Duncan, please. And the same sentiment goes for you as well, if you need aid for whatever reason, we will gladly help.” Maekar grunted at that, scowling at the table, but Dunk was undeterred, beamingly shyly at you as he nodded his head.
“Thank you, my lady, that is far too kind for me. If I can ever be of service-”
“Yes, yes, we all know how long your thanks can go, be off now,” Maekar interjected, leaning back in his seat again and waiting patiently for them to leave so he could place his attention on you once again.
“Of course, my prince,” Dunk said hurriedly, bowing his head before he glanced between you and then said, “and might I add, your daughter is very beautiful.”
Everyone froze at that. Egg paused, his mouth dropping open and eyes widening as he tilted up to stare at Dunk. Baelor lifted his head from the book, and though his expression remained unchanged, he looked at Ser Duncan with eyes that shined with mirth. A sharp giggling sound left your mouth and you smacked your palm over your lips, your eyes bright and wide as your breath quickened.
Maekar tilted his head, leaning forward in his seat as his expression morphed from one of shock to incredulous anger. His brows furrowed and there was the power of a thousand dragons in the fire of his glare.
“She is my fucking wife, you oaf,” Maekar spat, readying to stand up and knock the giant knight down before your soft laughs reached his ears. You had moved forward to lean your hip against his shoulder, but you were bent over now, draping your arms over his shoulders and holding him there.
Dunk turned bright red, the shame and mortification burning in his face. He stared at the two of you wide-eyed, you trying to control your insensible laughter and your husband at the same time. The prince looked ready to stick his sword through Dunk. One glance at Prince Baelor told the knight that he too was holding in his laughter, a look of sympathetic knowing offered to Dunk. Egg had his hands slapped to his mouth, his little childish giggles falling through despite his attempts to hide.
Dunk was frozen for a moment more before he threw himself down onto one knee in front of you both, eyes clenched shut and one hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, his head bowed toward the floor.
“I am so so sorry, your graces. My deepest and sincerest apologies. I have never mastered the skill of keeping my foot from my mouth. I cannot apologise enough.”
Maekar had settled back into the chair now (only because your weight was keeping him there and he did not want to disturb you). You had perched yourself precariously on the armrest of his chair, draping your legs over his knees and one arm on his shoulders. Your face was bright with your laughter and you still trembled a little with it.
“It is alright, Ser Duncan, an honest mistake, of course,” you answered, waving your hand in the air.
“Of course,” he repeated vehemently, nodding his head harshly.
“Rise, and get the fuck out of my sight,” Maekar spat angrily then, waving one hand at Ser Duncan as the other threaded around your back to wrap his arm around your waist and tug you into his lap.
Dunk needed no more invitation and turned swiftly on his heel, practically running out with Egg in tow. He caught the tail end of your squeal as you fell into Maekar’s lap and your renewed fit of giggles.
You shifted to sit at an angle on Maekar’s lap, looking into his face as your smile stretched your lips wide and your giggles shook you. Even Baelor began to chuckle quietly, ignoring the glare his younger brother shot at him at the sound. Maekar tightened his arm around your waist and leaned back, his countenance thunderous.
“‘And might I add, your daughter is very beautiful,’” you imitated, deepening your voice and then laughing uncontrollably. “Shall I take that as a compliment that I look beautiful and youthful, or should you take it as an insult that you look old?” You squealed out between laughs, dissolving into another fit as Maekar glared and pinched you on the arse over your dress. You jumped but could not stop laughing. Baelor turned his face away though his own amusement had not abated.
“Yes, yes, continue laughing, wife,” Maekar grumbled threateningly, but you just leaned back a little and cupped his cheek, beaming mischievously at him as you petted his beard.
“‘Tis no secret that I am both much younger than you and your second wife,” you told him knowingly, a little breathless. He huffed, pulling you a little closer. “You can forgive the hedge knight for being a bit airheaded.”
“Come now brother, the man did not know,” Baelor placated, smiling at you as well.
“Yes, that was very fucking clear,” Maekar responded angrily, grinding his jaw a little. It went quiet for a few moments, and you could practically see the smoke still coming out of his ears. “My fucking daughter…” he grumbled, a fist tightening into the pile of your skirts on your legs.
“Hush now,” you finally admonished, having caught your breath. “Do not be so sour, you know I hate to see you this way,” and you gave him that soft smile of yours that made him melt in your hands before cupping his cheek and leaning down to press a lingering kiss on his mouth. Baelor grimaced and turned away from the two of you.
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 5 of akotsk, incest, age difference, mentions of sex, mention of infidelity (Reader is married to Aerion), and angst. (I think I haven't forgotten anything, but if I have, please comment so I can add it.)
As I always say, if you liked it, don't forget to like, comment, and reblog. Feedback always motivates me to keep writing 🥰💖💖
My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3
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akotsk masterlist
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
You never thought you'd end up like this. You're on your uncle's lap, the skirts of the black dress you wore to the funeral falling down the sides, your underwear to one side, and his cock inside you. But you also never thought you'd lose your father so soon.
Maekar sets a slow but ferocious rhythm with his thrusts. Your arms cling to his back while his wrap around your waist. You both hold each other tightly, trying to soothe the need to be close, to comfort one another. Because only the two of you can understand the loss and the pain the other feels. No one loves Baelor like you two do.
“I’m sorry,” Maekar whispers heavily against your ear, and it tears you apart even more to hear the pain in your strong uncle’s voice.
You don’t know why he’s apologizing, whether it’s because he feels guilty that it was the blow from his mace that killed your father, or because he’s sleeping with his niece and his son’s wife. If it's because of the latter, you are even more guilty than he is because you started this. Your uncle was only comforting you, holding you while you grieved your loss, when you buried your face in his neck for warmth, and you don’t quite know what took over your mind when you started leaving kisses along his neck.
After that, things escalated until you two ended up in the current situation, him inside you, while you cling to each other as if you were the last anchor you have.
“It’s okay,” you assure him, your voice trembling, feeling your walls tighten around him. “It’s okay,” you repeat, resting your forehead against his. “It’s not your fault.”
Maekar closes his eyes. Gods, he wants to believe you, and for a brief moment, he clings to your words, increasing the force of his thrusts and drawing moans from your lips. If you don’t blame him or hate him, then perhaps you’re right. He isn’t responsible for his brother’s death.
You, too, begin to move your hips, forgetting your pain for the first time since the trial of seven occurred and focusing instead on pleasure. The sweet sounds coming from your lips calm Maekar a little, and needing to hear more, he begins to leave kisses on your neck and along the décolletage of your chest.
“Maekar!” you moan as you feel the knot in your stomach loosen, and you hug him tighter, needing him close.
Your uncle never thought he'd ever hear you say his name with such need, and he can't bear it any longer. He releases his seed inside you.
"It's okay, I've got you," he whispers against your neck as you try to calm your racing heart. “It's okay,” he says, stroking your hair, and when he leaves the hiding place at your neck, he finds your eyes filled with tears.
He feels sick. How could he do this to you? Of course, he should never have touched you like this. It was obvious you'd regret it the minute you regained consciousness. What on earth was he thinking? He's about to open his mouth to beg for your forgiveness when you say,
"Please never leave me."
And that's enough to break Maekar.
"Never," he promises, continuing to stroke your hair as you curl up against his chest, seeking refuge and warmth.
being married to aerion, i think she deserves to have an affair with maekar. as a treat.
You never thought you'd end up like this. You're on your uncle's lap, the skirts of the black dress you wore to the funeral falling down the sides, your underwear to one side, and his cock inside you.
idk what i was expecting the sequel to be but it was not this. but i am NOT complaining🫶
“I’m sorry,” Maekar whispers heavily against your ear, and it tears you apart even more to hear the pain in your strong uncle’s voice.
You don’t know why he’s apologizing, whether it’s because he feels guilty that it was the blow from his mace that killed your father, or because he’s sleeping with his niece and his son’s wife. If it's because of the latter, you are even more guilty than he is because you started this. Your uncle was only comforting you, holding you while you grieved your loss, when you buried your face in his neck for warmth, and you don’t quite know what took over your mind when you started leaving kisses along his neck.
bonded by grief we love to see it. especially like this. i mean what..
He's about to open his mouth to beg for your forgiveness when you say,
“Please never leave me.”
And that’s enough to break Maekar.
this is affecting me in a way i was not expecting (compliment)
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 5 of akotsk, incest, toxic relationship, angst, no happy ending
Please, if you like it, don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Feedback always motivates me to keep writing 🥰💖💖
My commissions are open, or if you'd like to support me with a Ko-fi, that would be a huge help too 🥰🤗 (It would really help because I'm still unemployed lol)
My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3
Edit: Now you can read a sort of sequel with Maekar here
akotsk masterlist
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
Aerion would never admit to feeling nervous as he knocks on the door of the new chambers Lord Ashford gave you after you asked for others, since you refused to be in the same place as your husband after the Trial of the Seven.
For the first time in his life, yesterday Aerion had decided not to impose his will on you and let you have your space. After all, you were grieving and had lost your father.
But Aerion is not a patient man, and he won't endure another night without you in bed or you continuing to ignore him. During the funeral, you didn't even look at him, and when he tried to take your hand, you walked away. You went to Valarr's side.
Aerion doesn't bother knocking again when you don't answer; he just walks right in.
The first thing he sees is you sitting on the bed with a lost look, still wearing the same black dress from the funeral.
But the moment you see him, your eyes blaze with fury, and you rise, beginning to walk towards him in great strides, surprising Aerion. He doesn't remember ever seeing you so enraged.
"I hope you're proud of yourself," you say as you walk, your voice dripping with pure hatred. "My father is dead because of you, because of your stupid whims."
You don't even give him time to defend himself. Although the truth is, it doesn't matter what Aerion says. There was nothing he could say to change things. You would never forgive him, and any affection you might have once felt for him died the moment your father left this world.
"It should have been you!" You shout as you push him. "The gods made a mistake; it should have been you!
Aerion grabs your hands tightly when you try to punch him in the chest.
"You don't mean that," Aerion says, focusing on his anger instead of the discomfort your words cause him.
“Yes, I am! You’re the worst thing that ever happened to our family!” Your mouth spits venom as you try to break free from his grip. You see Aerion begin to frown and clench his jaw, his grip on your hands tightening. Normally, you would have been afraid of him. But right now, you feel only hatred and rage.
“Shut up,” your husband demands through gritted teeth as you continue to struggle. “Shut up, you’re talking without thinking.”
“Fuck you,” you say without taking your eyes off his, and you can see in the instant that he thinks of silencing you with a kiss, of putting his control over you, as he normally does.
That's why you do something drastic: you headbutt him in the chin, catching him so off guard that he lets go. You instantly back away, wanting to keep your distance, ignoring the pain in your head.
Aerion stares at you in disbelief; the tension in the room is suffocating. It's not the first time you've fought, but this time it feels different.
“Bitch,” Aerion insults you, and just as you think he's going to lunge at you, the door bursts open.
Maekar.
You and Aerion stare at him, paralyzed. For a moment, you wonder if the entire castle heard you fighting.
“Go to hell,” your uncle says firmly, his eyes fixed on his son. “Now!”
But Aerion doesn’t seem inclined to listen, so Maekar enters and, without hesitation, grabs him by the collar of his cloak and drags him out of the room.
targ relationships can never be normal they have to be toxic and i enjoy that very much
“It should have been you!” You shout as you push him. “The gods made a mistake; it should have been you!”
#gagged. get him girl.
“Fuck you,” you say without taking your eyes off his, and you can see in the instant that he thinks of silencing you with a kiss, of putting his control over you, as he normally does.
That's why you do something drastic: you headbutt him in the chin, catching him so off guard that he lets go. You instantly back away, wanting to keep your distance, ignoring the pain in your head.
the implication he would (and has) often kissed her to silence any argument. UGH. anyways. i hope she got him good.
“Bitch,” Aerion insults you, and just as you think he's going to lunge at you, the door bursts open.
Maekar.
I had this little idea and wanted to share it…maybe I'll write more about it later
Please, if you like it, don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Feedback always motivates me to keep writing 🥰💖💖
My commissions are open, or if you'd like to support me with a Ko-fi, that would be a huge help too 🥰🤗
My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3
Warnings: obviously incest and age difference
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
Baelor never thought he would marry again after Jena's death; he thought he would spend the rest of his life a widower.
But then you made him change his plans.
You went to Baelor's chambers hours after the last family reunion, where they announced your engagement to Aerion. You begged him for help because you knew he was the only one who could save you from that horrible fate. Your father couldn't help you; he was considered crazy after walking around naked in the Red Keep. And your uncle Maekar wasn't an option either, because he was the one who arranged the engagement, hoping Aerion would straighten up once he married you. But you didn't believe your cousin would change.
Baelor tried to reassure you, but then no words seemed to help.
"You know what Aerion is, you know what he's capable of. He's a monster," you said over him, your voice trembling and your eyes glassy, but still without shedding a tear.
And at that moment, Baelor knew he couldn't leave you to your fate. He couldn't stand idly by when he could prevent Aerion from harming his sweet niece. Because he knows you're right; he's not blind to his nephew's actions. Aerion would find a way to destroy you simply because he's bored. He would steal your light, and Baelor couldn't allow his sweet niece to end up ruined and miserable.
“Uncle, please, I can’t marry him,” you pleaded again, and you seemed about to get down on your knees when he took your hands.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he assured you, and kissed your forehead.
For the first time since your engagement was announced, you felt like you could breathe easily. You felt safe. You trusted Baelor; he wouldn’t lie to you. He had always been the one you turned to when things went wrong. You trusted him more than your own father. Baelor had never let you down before, and you were sure he wouldn’t now.
“Thank you, Uncle,” you said, and you clasped his hands in yours before bringing them to your lips, leaving a soft kiss. “Thank you.”
That day, you returned to your chambers peacefully, knowing you wouldn't spend the rest of your life bound to your monstrous cousin. But you never imagined that a moon later you would end up in the Great Sept of Baelor, dressed in white and becoming your uncle's second wife.
When the moment came to kiss, you gave him a shy, brief kiss. You felt guilty, as if you had tied your uncle to you, forced him to marry you out of pity.
aerion targaryen x fem!cousin!reader, ser duncan the tall x fem!targaryen!reader
summary: after the tournament, ser duncan the tall crowns the targaryen princess as queen of love and beauty, awakening a tender bond between them and the dangerous jealousy of prince aerion, leaving the princess caught between a kind knight who truly sees her and a possessive prince who believes she already belongs to him.
warnings: mentions of possession/incest (aerion himself is the warning.)
author’s notes: new hyperfixation and they barely have any fics rn everyone get to work
THE LISTS AT ASHFORD MEADOW gleamed beneath the high summer sun, banners snapping in the breeze like bright tongues of flame. Crimson and black dominated the field—three-headed dragons stitched in gold, the sigil of House Targaryen—hung beside the devices of visiting lords and hedge knights come to test their steel.
And in the shaded royal pavilion sat Y/N Targaryen.
She was dressed in pale silver silk, light as mist, her long hair braided with fine chains of rubies that caught the sun when she moved. The court whispered that she looked like a dragon in human form: beautiful, gentle, and dangerous only because men lost their sense in her presence.
Aerion Targaryen had already lost his.
He stood at the far end of the lists, helm beneath his arm, white hair bound at his nape. His armor was polished to a mirror shine, a red dragon picked out in rubies across his breast. He glanced toward the pavilion with open confidence, lips curved in a faint, smug knowing smile.
Ser Duncan the Tall did not smile.
He sat astride his great brown warhorse, armor plainer, dented in places from years of honest use. He looked enormous beside the other knights—broad-shouldered, long-limbed, awkward in his own strength. When he removed his helm, his brown hair was damp with sweat, his face earnest and flushed.
His eyes went, helplessly, to the princess.
He did not know how it had happened.
He had come to Ashford to joust, to earn coin, to prove himself worthy of the knighthood he wore. He had not meant to notice the princess with the pretty smile and the soft voice who had thanked him for rescuing her dropped glove the night before.
He had not meant to think of her every time he lowered his lance.
But now he did.
The herald’s voice rang across the field.
“Ser Aerion Targaryen, called Brightflame, against Ser Duncan the Tall!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Y/N straightened in her seat.
She had watched Aerion since she was a child; his temper, his charm, his cruelty wrapped in silk. He had always treated her as something he would one day own, a jewel meant for his crown.
Bound by blood, my sweet dragon, he would tell her.
But Ser Duncan…
She found herself leaning forward, fingers tightening on the edge of her cushion.
Two knights rode to the center of the field.
Aerion’s horse danced, eager and high-strung, much like its rider. Aerion dipped his lance in a precise salute—first to the king, then deliberately, lingeringly, to Y/N.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them.
She swallowed thickly.
His eyes promised victory.
Ser Duncan followed, awkwardly, bowing so deeply in his saddle he nearly overbalanced. When he raised his head, he did not dare meet her gaze for long but he inclined his lance to her as well, respectful, almost shy.
It was not a challenge.
It was a wish.
The trumpets sounded.
They charged.
The first pass shattered both lances in a storm of splinters, neither knight unhorsed. Aerion laughed aloud as he wheeled his horse, exhilarated.
“Well struck, hedge knight!”
Ser Duncan only nodded, breath heavy, hands steady as he took a second lance.
The second pass; Aerion struck true, his lance glancing off Duncan’s shield and into his shoulder. The blow rocked him, pain flaring, but he stayed in the saddle.
From the pavilion, Y/N gasped despite herself.
The third pass was brutal.
Ser Duncan leaned into it with all his strength.
His lance struck Aerion square in the chest.
Aerion flew from the saddle in a spill of silver and red.
For a moment, the field was silent.
Then the crowd erupted.
Ser Duncan reined in, stunned, staring at the empty saddle where a prince had sat seconds before.
In the pavilion, Y/N rose to her feet.
Not in triumph but in relief.
Aerion climbed to his feet, fury burning through the shock. His gaze went not to the king, not to the crowd—
But to Y/N.
And he saw it.
The way her eyes were fixed on Ser Duncan.
Something dark coiled in his chest.
The day wore on.
Ser Duncan advanced, round after round, each victory harder won than the last. By the final tilt, his armor was dented, his shoulder stiff, his breath ragged.
But he was still standing.
When the last opponent fell, the herald proclaimed him champion.
“The victor of Ashford—Ser Duncan the Tall!”
A roar went up.
Ser Duncan dismounted, dazed, scarcely believing it. Tradition demanded he choose a Queen of Love and Beauty.
He stood there, lance in hand, turning slowly.
Every noble lady leaned forward.
But there was only one face he saw.
Y/N Targaryen.
His feet moved before his mind could stop them.
He crossed the field, towering, awkward, suddenly terrified.
In the pavilion, Aerion went rigid.
Ser Duncan knelt before Y/N, removing his helm with trembling hands.
“My lady,” he said, voice low and rough, “I am no prince, and I have no pretty words. But every victory I won today, I won thinking of you.”
He lifted the crown of winter roses.
“If it pleases you… I would name you my Queen of Love and Beauty.”
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Y/N’s hands rose to her mouth. She glanced, just once, toward Aerion.
His face was pale with rage.
She shook her head then she looked back at Ser Duncan and smiled.
A soft, radiant smile that seemed to light the pavilion.
“It would please me very much, ser.”
He placed the crown upon her head.
The crowd thundered its approval.
And in that noise, Aerion Targaryen understood something dangerous.
He had lost.
Not the tourney.
Her.
To a hedge knight. It was almost a mockery.
Jealousy burned in him, hot and poisonous, as he watched the hedge knight kneel before a crowned princess while Y/N Targaryen, with roses in her hair, looked at Ser Duncan as if he were the bravest man in all the Seven Kingdoms.
The pavilion had emptied slowly, the afternoon light fading into gold and amber as servants carried away goblets and silks and scattered rose petals trampled into the grass.
Y/N remained.
She had dismissed her ladies under the pretense of needing air, though in truth her heart was still beating too fast, her thoughts tangled between pride and unease.
The crown of winter roses lay on the small table beside her.
She lifted it, turning it slowly in her hands.
It had been placed there by Ser Duncan himself, after he had escorted her back with such careful distance, such earnest reverence, that she had nearly laughed and cried at once.
She had not yet decided what the crown meant.
She was still deciding when the tent flap moved.
Y/N did not need to turn.
She felt him.
“Aerion,” she said quietly.
He stepped inside, closing the flap behind him.
His armor was gone, replaced by a dark red doublet embroidered with black dragons. His dangerously handsome face was calm.
Too calm.
“I thought you might wish for my company,” he said.
“I did not send for you.”
“No,” he agreed. “You did not need to.”
He walked closer, slow, deliberate, until he stood before her.
His eyes flicked to the crown.
“So,” he said softly, “you wear the flowers of a hedge knight now.”
She bristled despite herself. “He is no hedge knight. He won the tourney fairly.”
“I know,” Aerion said. “I watched him unhorse me.”
There was a sharpness beneath the words.
She met his gaze. “Then why are you here.”
His smile returned, like a sharp knife, thin and practiced.
“To remind you who you are.”
He reached out, not touching her, but lifting a strand of her hair between his fingers, looking bewitched.
“You are a Targaryen princess. Not a prize to be claimed by the first tall man who looks at you with honest eyes.”
Her voice cooled. “He did not claim me. He honored me.”
Aerion’s fingers stilled.
“Do you think honor is enough,” he asked, “to protect you in this world?”
She turned away from him, setting the crown down. “I do not need protecting from him.”
He studied her for a long moment, as if choosing which truths to reveal.
“I have known you since you were a child, sweet dragon,” he said. “I have watched every man who ever looked at you forget his vows, his sense, his place. And I have always known what would happen in the end.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“That you would belong to me.”
The words were spoken gently.
Possessively.
Her spine went rigid. “I do not belong to anyone.”
His eyes darkened.
“Not yet,” he said.
She took a step back. “You speak as if my future is already decided.”
“In our family,” Aerion replied, “it usually is.”
Silence stretched between them.
She thought of Ser Duncan’s clumsy bow, his shaking hands as he held out the crown, the way he had looked at her as if she were something precious rather than something to be owned.
She said his name before she meant to.
“Duncan.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “You think of him already.”
“I think of his kindness,” she said. “Of his courage. Of the way he treated me today as if I were more than a prize.”
Aerion’s hand closed into a fist at his side.
“He will forget himself,” he said. “Men like him always do. He will reach too high, dream too boldly, and be crushed for it.”
Her eyes flashed. “You would see him crushed.”
“If he stands in my way,” Aerion said quietly, “yes.”
The honesty of it chilled her. “You frighten me when you speak so easily of destroying someone.”
He softened at once, stepping closer.
“I would never harm you,” he said. “Everything I do is for you, my sweet dragon.”
“That is what frightens me,” she whispered.
He reached for her wrist.
She pulled back.
For the first time, something like uncertainty crossed his face.
“You are letting a fantasy distract you,” he said. “A knight who will kneel, and smile, and then return to his place. He is not your future.”
She answered before fear could stop her. “Perhaps not. But he is my choice to think of.”
The words fell between them like a challenge and Aerion stared at her.
Slowly, his expression shifted into something colder, more resolved. “This is not finished,” he said. “You may play at admiration. You may indulge this foolishness.”
Y/N stiffened.
He stepped back, inclining his head with false courtesy. “But remember this, cousin.”
His eyes locked onto hers, heated and full of dark promises.
“No crown placed by another man can change what you are to me.”
When he was gone, the tent felt suddenly too quiet.
Y/N sank onto the cushioned seat, pressing her hands to her face.
She thought of Aerion’s certainty.
She thought of Ser Duncan’s humility.
And she realized, with a tremor of both fear and excitement, that this was no longer a simple tourney favor.
This was the beginning of something dangerous.
The night had settled gently over the encampment, the heat of the day giving way to a soft, fragrant stillness. Torches burned low between the tents, their light wavering across armor stacked neatly against poles and shields set out to dry. The sounds of celebration had retreated toward the center of the field, leaving the outer edge of the camp in a rare, almost sacred quiet.
Ser Duncan sat outside his tent with a cloth in one hand and his breastplate resting across his knees, though he had long since forgotten what he was meant to be polishing.
His thoughts refused to obey him.
He had ridden in a hundred lists, crossed swords with men far fiercer than he, and faced death more times than he could count. Yet never had his heart been so unsettled as it was now, simply from the memory of a girl’s face.
He saw her as she had been when he knelt before her that afternoon, sunlight in her hair, surprise and softness in her eyes as he placed the crown upon her head. He had not meant to look at her so openly then, but he had not known how to look away.
He told himself sternly that she was a princess.
That she was far beyond him.
That thinking of her was folly.
And yet.
He was still staring at the same small dent in his armor when he heard his name.
“Ser Duncan.”
The sound of her voice startled him so badly he rose at once, nearly upsetting the stool behind him.
“My lady—”
She stood a few paces from him, the lamplight catching her in gentle gold. She had left behind her jewels and heavy silks, wearing only a pale gown and a simple cloak drawn about her shoulders. Her hair fell loose down her back, unbound and unguarded.
For a moment, he could only look at her.
By the Faith of the Seven, he thought, he has never seen anyone else this beautiful.
In the bright cruelty of the lists, she had been radiant.
Here, in the quiet of the camp, she was something else entirely.
Not a dragon.
Not a princess.
Just a young woman who looked both uncertain and brave for having come here alone.
“I hope I am not intruding,” she said softly.
“You could never intrude,” he answered at once, then flushed so fiercely he feared she might laugh.
But she did not laugh.
She only smiled, and that smile struck him more deeply than any lance.
“I wished to thank you,” she said. “Properly. For today.”
He bowed, awkward and earnest. “You owe me nothing, my lady. I only did what I could.”
“You did more than that,” she replied. “You rode as if something mattered more to you than winning.”
He hesitated, then spoke honestly, because with her he found he could do nothing else. “I was thinking of you.”
The words were out before he could stop them.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“You looked at me before every charge,” she said. “I wondered why.”
“Because you were kind to me,” he said quietly. “And I did not wish to fail someone who had been kind.”
She studied him in silence, as if weighing something unseen.
“You are very brave,” she said at last.
The words were simple.
They undid him.
He had been called strong. He had been called slow. He had been called useful.
Never brave in that voice.
Never with that look.
“My lady,” he said, low and earnest, “you should not say such things to men like me.”
She inclined her head, face delicate and painfully beautiful. “Why not?”
“Because we might believe them,” he replied.
She laughed softly, a small, unguarded sound that made something twist painfully in his chest.
They stood together in a fragile stillness.
He became acutely aware of everything about her; the faint scent of roses clinging to her cloak and the way lamplight caught on her lashes.
The fact that she had come here without guards, without ceremony, trusting him simply because she believed him to be good.
And without meaning to, his thoughts turned to Aerion.
To the prince’s polished smile.
To the certainty in his eyes.
Not admiration. Not reverence.
Possession.
Duncan’s hands curled slowly at his sides.
He could not understand how a man could be born so close to her and yet fail to see what stood before him.
Not a prize.
Not a jewel.
But a rare and gentle thing that ought to be guarded more carefully than any crown.
“I fear I caused you trouble,” he said at last. “With the crown.”
“You did not,” she answered. “Others may think so. But I do not.”
He hesitated, then spoke the thought that had troubled him since dusk.
“Forgive me if I speak too boldly,” he said, “but Prince Aerion does not look at you as he should.”
Her breath caught. “How should he look at me?”
“As if he is afraid of losing you,” Duncan replied slowly. “Not as if he is certain of owning you.”
The words surprised even him.
For a moment, he feared he had gone too far.
But she did not grow angry.
She only looked thoughtful, as if he had named something she had long felt but never said aloud.
“He has known me all my life,” she murmured.
“That may be the trouble,” Duncan said. “Some men grow used to miracles.”
She was silent for a long time.
Then she smiled, not brightly, but with a quiet gratitude that made his chest ache.
“Ser Duncan,” she said, “do you know what I saw when you rode today.”
He shook his head.
“A man who was afraid,” she said, “and rode anyway.”
“I was afraid of failing you,” he admitted.
She stepped closer, close enough now that he could see the fine gold flecks in her eyes.
“No one has ever said that to me before,” she whispered.
“Then they were blind,” he said, without thinking.
The words hung between them, unguarded and dangerous.
In that moment, he understood something that frightened him with its certainty.
He would die for her.
Not for honor.
Not for glory.
Simply because she was good.
And men like Aerion, with all their blood and birth, did not deserve such goodness.
“I should go,” she said softly.
“Yes,” he agreed.
Neither of them moved.
She reached out at last and touched the edge of his gauntlet, barely a brush of fingers against steel.
“Good night, Ser Duncan.”
“My lady.”
When she turned away, he remained standing long after she had gone.
Thinking not of crowns, nor tourneys, nor princes.
Only of how cruel the world was, to give a woman like her to a man who did not know how to cherish her.
And how impossible it already seemed to imagine a life in which he did not love her.
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