Pairing: Raymun Fossoway x Baratheon! Female Reader
MASTERLIST (story synopsis also found here)
Warnings: friends to lovers, slowburn, GOT typical sexism, mild canon divergence, language, canon-compliant violence against women, mild angst, Steffon Fossoway straight up sucks
word count: 17,500ish
A/N: thank you for your patience with me on this one. extra thank yous to anyone who's still here reading this story, and welcome to anyone new 💚💛🖤 I'd love to hear what you think. i'm excited to cook up the next part for you all, more angst inbound 😈
🖤 if you prefer not to read long format fics on tumblr, this is also cross posted on AO3, the link is on the masterlist 🖤
“Where will they take him?”
The three Targaryen guards hauled Ser Duncan to his feet. Given the man’s size, it was no small task. But Dunk had made it somewhat easier for them, having ceased in his attempts to resist their hold. He had either come to terms with its futility, or simply did not want to make this already horrid predicament any worse for himself.
You surmised the hedge knight’s motivations could have been the latter. You watched the scene before you unravel, feeling more powerless than perhaps you had ever felt in all your life. Dunk gave his squire - Prince Aegon- a look that conveyed a deeply-felt betrayal.
“Ashford Castle must have cells,” Raymun answered you, his tone grim. Remorseful.
When he turned over his shoulder to inspect you for further injury, his dark eyes dropped to where your hand was still clasped tightly around his wrist.
Like a bright flash of lightning in an autumn storm, your senses came crashing down upon you. You relinquished your grip, withdrawing your hand as though you had been burned, and sputtered out an apology. “Forgive me, Raymun. I did not mean-“
“Are you alright?” he interrupted, vehement and undeterred. “Did he hurt you?”
Something in Raymun’s tone stirred something within you. As his eyes searched yours imploringly, genuine worry was painted across his face, and he waited with bated breath for your response. His concern was not for show, and there was no acting on his part.
The thought both scared and thrilled you in equal measure.
Your forearms felt tender by the guard’s brutish attempt to restrain you, but you would not speak of it. Your own pain was of little concern. Beyond you, up on the stage, the girl whom Prince Aerion assaulted was huddled in on herself. She cradled her hand, several fingers bent at a sickeningly unnatural angle. A few others, other puppeteers and actors who had not been able to escape the madness, hurried over to her aid.
Having been provided with new toys to torment, Prince Aerion turned his cold violet eyes upon you and Raymun. The energy underneath the puppeteers tent shifted, the air growing suffocatingly hot as you fell under his sole attention.
Without a thought, you stepped out from behind Raymun, and planted your feet firmly so that you stood shoulder to shoulder. You could concede that in your moment of panic, when accosted by the unfamiliar Targaryen guard, you had momentarily sought safety behind him.
But this was different. You knew well of the evil that was within Prince Aerion Targaryen, and despite the consequences it may have yielded for you, you would not leave Raymun to face it on his own.
Recognition flooded Prince Aerion, and he pointed a pale finger in Raymun’s face. “You… I know you. You wouldn’t stop going on about that fucking cider the other morning.”
“Guilty, My Prince.” Raymun’s response was sharp and quick, adrenaline still burning strong within him. “Would you care to buy some?”
“Raymun,” Ser Steffon warned.
Raymun ignored his cousin. “House Fossoway would be pleased to do business with the Crown. Now, I’m afraid Ser Lyonel has just about bought us out of most of our wares, but we should still have a couple of cider barrels tucked away somewhere.”
Prince Aerion was not humored in the slightest. His eyes hardened as the fire was stoked within them, and his face shriveled up in half-disgust, half-anger. “You insolent bastard-“
“Move! Make room! Clear the way!”
Had the newcomers not been of such import, Steffon and his men might not have stepped aside. But they yielded, and several of Lord Ashford’s men pushed through the crowd, slowly depositing themselves into the tent. They were led by a man in armor of pure, bright white. A member of the Kingsguard.
Ser Willem Wylde, if your recollection was correct.
“This man has laid hands upon the Blood of the Dragon,” Prince Aerion declared to Lord Ashford’s men. “I want him seized at once!”
Although several looked at one another with mild uncertainty, others did not need to be commanded twice. A few of them, bolder than their counterparts, strode forward to take custody of Dunk from Prince Aerion’s men.
Still, Dunk gave no resistance.
“Your Grace,” Ser Willem said to Prince Aerion, “Prince Baelor was with Lord Ashford when he was notified of… this. He wishes to speak with you at once.”
Prince Aerion was insulted. “For what purpose? I am a prince of the realm, grandson of the king. Is my word alone not enough for my accusation to hold weight?”
Scarcely.
Ser Willem did not take the bait, most likely well-accustomed to the prince’s tricks. “The Hand did not say, Your Grace. Only that I am to bring you to him and Prince Maekar without further delay.”
Not even Prince Aerion could refuse a summons from the Hand of the King. Judging by the displeased look on his face, he was well aware of that fact.
Prince Aerion spit onto the ground, even more blood littering the floor. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and his jaw tightened. “Come, Brother. I’m sure Father will be beside himself to see you unharmed.”
Dunk’s squire- Prince Aegon- did not seem to hear his elder brother, let alone take note of his heavy sarcasm. The young boy watched mournfully as Lord Ashford’s men led the way out of the tent. A highly cooperative, if not defeated, Ser Duncan remained in their hold.
Ser Willem regarded Prince Aegon with thinly veiled surprise, as though he had just realized his presence. Prince Aerion impolitely nudged his younger brother forward, forcing him into motion.
As he passed, Prince Aerion was unable to help himself from one last passing remark. "Do take better care, Lady Y/N. Misfortune awaits women who go without escorts."
Raymun stiffened beside you. You did not deign to respond.
The Kingsguard minded both princes dutifully, and the trio, accompanied by Prince Aerion’s guards, followed Lord Ashford’s men out of the tent.
The guard who had put his hands on you gave you and Raymun a final disgruntled look as he followed his brothers in arms out of the tent and into the night.
After the armed men left, the performers who had managed to flee returned slowly. They solemnly assessed the damage that had been done to their crafts, their livelihood. A few more went to help tend to the girl on stage, whose pained cries had since faded into a stunned silence.
Raymun turned to you. Once more, he took you in, briefly but with purpose. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
You weren’t alright. Far from it, actually. But it was not what he meant. “Yes.”
His eyes flitted about the tent. “…Where are Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion?”
“I’m worried about Ser Duncan, Raymun.”
He was too, you could tell.
It was unclear what awaited Ser Duncan. Lord Ashford’s men would lead him to Ashford castle, where he would be further detained. But what then?
The alleged crime had taken place in Lord Ashford’s land. While he had the duty to oversee the dispensation of justice himself, since royal blood had been spilled, Lord Ashford would most likely defer the responsibility to the visiting Targaryen princes.
At best, a trial would take place. At worst, Prince Aerion would demand Dunk’s head. The outcome of either would be the same. Prince Aerion Brightflame did not like to lose, and he loathed being made a fool. Ser Duncan had dealt both blows to the prince, and though you could not fault him for his actions, you knew he would pay the price for them.
But still, if there was to be a trial, you hoped it would be overseen by the cool-headed Prince Baelor Targaryen, whom you remembered to be a fair, just man. You could place decent confidence in the legitimacy of any judgment issued by him. However, you would have less faith in a ruling made by Prince Maekar. While not an unjust man, you remembered King Daeron’s fourth and youngest son as one fiercely loyal to his kin, and fiercely protective of his children most of all.
The crowd gathered outside the puppeteers tent dwindled as the excitement was over.
The Fossoway men at arms shuffled on their feet, unknowing of their next course of action. Steffon gave Raymun a pointed look.
“I should walk you back to your camp,” Raymun said.
You despised the thought of leaving, of simply walking away from the path of carnage forged by Prince Aerion Targaryen. But what more could be done? The damage had been done to the puppeteers, and even worse, the poor girl. And Dunk’s fate would remain unknown for some yet.
Though it did not sit well with you, you relented. You would allow Raymun to escort you back to the Baratheon camp- even if you had no intention of remaining there.
You did not know whether Ser Duncan would receive a fair trial. But if there was a way to help increase the likelihood that he would, if there was a way to help tilt the scales more in his favor, or at the very least, balance them evenly, you would take it. You did not know the man well, but he at least deserved that. After all, many men had witnessed Prince Aerion’s attack, but only one had put an end to it.
Raymun waited for you to lead the way. He was visibly eager to get you back to what he perceived to be the safety of the Baratheon camp.
Had the night gotten off to such a horrid start, it might have given you butterflies.
Thunder rumbled, flashes of lightning blinded, and rain poured down upon him mercilessly.
Raymun could not pay any of that much mind at all.
Only when he saw you returned to the Baratheon camp was his heart able to attempt a return to its normal thrum. It was not his place to have an opinion on your decision to forego your escorts that evening. Even so, Raymun could not help but wonder why you had not thought them necessary.
Judging by the disapproving faces of Ser Rogar Fell and Ser Sebastion Swann, they were of a like mind on the matter.
Once you were inside the safety of the tent, the burden weighing upon Raymun’s shoulders was lessened, though not completely alleviated. He had trudged back to the Fossoway camp by muscle memory rather than intention. When he’d arrived, he found Steffon back at his usual antics, going on and on to his men about how gallantly he had intervened. How the puppeteer might have been dead, had he not arrived when he had. How there was no telling what might have happened to you, had Steffon’s arrival not distracted Prince Aerion.
Raymun could not suffer another moment of his cousin’s nonsense, and he knew he made poor company at that moment anyway. As the rains began, he departed the Fossoway camp with little else on his mind but a sole aim.
Prince Aerion Targaryen was a menace, a stain on a royal family that Raymun already, admittedly, did not hold in very high regard. Though he acted as any true knight should, Dunk was likely to pay the ultimate price for standing in the pompous prince’s way. His new friend was likely to die, all because he could not stand by as a man, prince or not, laid his hands upon a woman.
The reality made Raymun feel about as sour as the nasty storm barreling down on him.
His cloak, the hood drawn over his head, provided some relief from the nearly torrential downpours. However, it was not enough to entirely stave off the chilly waters from sinking into his bones. Raymun walked briskly, cutting through camps and into the woods beyond.
Dunk had mentioned where he had made camp a few days past. However, it had only been in passing, the hedge knight had been vague. At the time, Raymun thought Dunk did not want any uninvited visitors happening upon him. In hindsight, Raymun currently suspected it was to get away from the chaos being near to so many others tended to breed.
After some practically blind ambling through the woods, Raymun happened upon a small clearing that led to a pooling pond of creek runoff. From what he could see through the rapidly falling streams, no tent or pavilion had been raised, but there were remnants of an old fire.
More importantly, he spotted his quarry. A reddish brown stot, a white streak upon its snout, and a dark brown destrier with an even darker mane huddled beneath a lone towering tree.
Raymun hurried across the clearing, but slowed his movement as he approached the horses. He made a point of stepping firmer, squelching his feet into the puddles and mud, so as to alert them to his presence and avoid frightening them.
The destrier noticed him first, but the stot seemed less weary of him outright. Raymun’s instinct was soon proven true, as the latter of the horses let him cautiously place a hand upon its neck soothingly.
Raymun withdrew a sack from beneath his cloak. The fabric was damp, though the goods within were unblemished. He gave each of the horses an apple. Though the destrier still seemed suspicious, even he did not refuse the treat.
As the horses savored the snack, Raymun’s mind drifted once again. He might not have been able to do much to help Dunk in his current predicament. But this- looking after his friend’s horses, and ensuring they were taken care of- this Raymun could do. This, he would do.
…
Didn’t Dunk mention a palfrey, too?
Raymun looked around, squinting in an effort to see more clearly through the unyielding rain. As he did not immediately make to leave, the two horses he held the leads of began to get nasty. But Raymun was reluctant to leave if meant leaving one of Dunk’s horses to fend for itself in the storm.
Where is the third?
Just then, there was a noise from the opposite side of the tree, and Raymun leapt on his feet. Whatever it was, it did not sound heavy enough to have been the palfrey… Although who, or what, else would have been able to find their way to Dunk’s remote camp?
Bandits? If there was any more than one, Raymun did not fancy his chances. But he’d be damned to the Seven Hells if he simply gave over the reins of his friend’s horses. Even if his defeat was inevitable, Raymun would not make it any easy for them.
His grip on the horses’ leads tightened in his fist as Raymun braced himself for an altercation.
“… Dunk? Is that you?”
You stood silently in the entry hall of Ashford Castle. As you waited patiently, the only sound filling your ears was the bustling of servant activity from further within, and the droplets of water dripping from your dress and cloak onto the stone floor.
Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion stood at your back, just as soaked to the bone as you were.
Your frequently assigned escorts had not been pleased with you when you returned to camp. They had been even less thrilled when you immediately requested them to accompany you to Ashford Castle. The hour was growing late, and heavy rains had begun.
You imagined you only disappointed them further when you had chosen to force their hand, bending them to your will. I’ve already slipped out of camp without detection once, you had reminded them. If I must, I will do so again.
It was unkind of you to sway them so, but you would apologize to them for it profusely later.
Lord Ashford’s steward, a plump man with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, descended the steps at the end of the corridor before you. As he approached, he looked regretful.
“My apologies, My Lady, but Prince Baelor is indisposed at the moment.”
You wanted to curse, but you held your tongue. “You relayed that it was of the utmost importance that I speak with him?”
“I did, My Lady. However, the Hand is in council with Prince Maekar, Prince Aerion, Lord Tyrell, and my Lord Ashford. All have asked not to be disturbed.”
When you had returned to the Baratheon camp to discover that your father had not yet returned, you decided to take matters into your own hands. With your highly encouraged escorts at your side, you had stalked through the heavy rain all the way up to Ashford Castle, hoping to be granted a moment of Prince Baelor Targaryen’s time.
Prince Baelor was a busy man, and likely even busier that night than usual. Still, you persisted. If you could present yourself, make it known that you were a witness who would speak on Ser Duncan’s behalf, you hoped it would be enough to combat whatever case Prince Aerion sought to prepare.
But if Prince Baelor would not speak with you, what was to be done?
Lord Ashford’s steward was sympathetic to your plight. “While he is preoccupied, Prince Baelor has asked that any matters of import be brought to the attention of Prince Valarr.”
Your heart skipped a hopeful beat. “Would you be so kind as to inquire whether Prince Valarr will speak with me?”
Eventually, you were led to the great hall. Though the large room was mostly scarce, a few lingering servants busied themselves with cleaning and dusting, whilst another stoked the roaring fire periodically. A few Ashford and Targaryen household guards, as well as Ser Willem of the Kingsguard, lined the periphery of the room and stood watch at the large doors.
Lord Ashford’s steward had led you to the Young Prince, and then promptly excused himself. Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion followed you dutifully, but they stayed back a few paces. The two men lingered beneath the entryway, taking up residence beside a pair of Targaryen guards in order to give you a semblance of privacy.
Prince Valarr, seated at one of the many long tables that occupied the room, appeared to have been in the midst of enjoying his supper. A plate, the food upon half eaten, was placed before him.
“Thank you for granting me an audience, My Prince. I hope I did not disturb your meal.”
“Not at all, I was just about finished,” Prince Valarr dismissed your concern politely, lightly waving his hand. He rose to his feet, and after taking in your appearance, frowned. “You look… drenched. What ails you? Something must be terribly amiss for you to have come all this way in the dark and rain.”
You realized that his concern for you did not seem to have the same affect as Raymun’s had. But it was far from the appropriate time to dwell on such a thing.
“Are you aware of what has transpired tonight?”
“Most unfortunately, I am. I’ve heard many tales already, and Daeron was just recounting his own version of events.”
The two of you looked down at Prince Daeron Targaryen, who was seated at Prince Valarr’s immediate right… However, perhaps seated was a generous term.
The eldest of Prince Maekar’s sons was slumped over, his chest and upper body laying upon the table. The side of his face was pressed harshly into the wooden surface, and soft snores slipped from his mouth. Although incoherent, he clutched a goblet tightly in his right fist. By his left hand was a carafe of wine, some variety of red.
It had been several years since you had last seen Prince Daeron. When you had seen him last, he had not been in an entirely dissimilar state. As much as the consistency should have given you some comfort, you felt a pang of sadness instead.
If Daeron had been in the puppeteers tent, you had not noticed him. It made you wonder what tales he had to speak of.
“He dreams now, our words will not reach him,” Prince Valarr deduced, looking away from his cousin and back over to you. “You may speak freely, Lady Y/N.”
You squared your shoulders. “I have come to present myself as a witness to the events this evening. I wish to testify on Ser Duncan’s behalf.”
Prince Valarr’s brows furrowed in confusion. “You wish to speak in favor of the hedge knight?”
“I was there, Your Grace, and I saw it all unfold with my own eyes. Prince Aerion attacked that poor girl, and Ser Duncan merely rose in her defense.”
Very nobly, you recalled. A great number of men from within the audience of the puppeteers tent, several armed with a dagger, had fled when Prince Aerion Brightflame’s chaos converged.
“Aerion says the girl slayed a dragon.”
“It was puppetry, My Prince. They were performing the tale of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Do you recall it?”
“Yes, but-“
“A dragon was slain, yes, but it was no dragon of House Targaryen. Perhaps Prince Aerion is not familiar with the tale, but had he simply asked, he would have discovered as much himself. Instead, he took insult where none had been given, and he attacked that innocent girl in haste.”
You could see her crooked fingers in your mind, even still. The screams were worse. They were not likely to leave your memory for some time, if at all.
“Careful, My Lady,” Prince Valarr cautioned you, calm but stern. “Perhaps my cousin did act in haste, but he cannot be faulted for being upset by the depiction.”
And we are thought to be the gentler sex, you thought bitterly. I’ve yet to see a woman drawn to physical violence in response to a mere play.
“All the same, I wish to speak on behalf of Ser Duncan,” you insisted. “I was hoping you would relay as much to the Hand. Will a trial be held?”
Prince Valarr shrugged. “Most likely.”
Most likely? … A horrid thought struck you. “Certainly they do not mean to let Prince Aerion take his head without a fair judgment-“
“In truth, I know very little about the matter.” Prince Valarr raised his hands, palms facing outward. Whether the gesture was one of defense, or in surrender, you could not yet tell. “I only know of what little I have been informed of thus far. My father and the other lords are upstairs at this very moment, discussing what exactly is to be done with the hedge knight.”
“And Prince Aerion, Your Grace.”
“And my cousin, yes.”
You could scarcely fathom a world where Prince Baelor Targaryen would allow his nephew to take a man’s head without a trial. Even if that trial were intentionally skewed to be out of Ser Duncan’s favor, it was the only right, only just, path forward. Mad though it had been, you hoped with fervor that madness had not completely conquered the day.
“It was a gross misunderstanding, Your Grace. Do you believe a man should die because of it?”
“Were it so simple, I would be inclined to agree with you. Unfortunately, laying hands upon a prince of the realm is not the only crime that the hedge knight has been accused of.”
The prince did offer a direct answer to your question, and you noted it with unease. “What else has Prince Aerion alleged?”
“Not Aerion- Daeron.”
As though he heard his name, Prince Daeron let out a particularly loud snort.
Prince Valarr ignored him. “Daeron claims that the man robbed him a few nights past, and took off with Aegon afterward.”
A scoff slipped from your mouth. “I can hardly believe such a claim, Your Grace.”
Even within the limited glimpses you had caught over the past few days, the boy had looked nothing like one being held against his will. In fact, Prince Aegon had been so dedicated to his master, you had full-heartedly believed him to be Dunk’s squire!
“You know the hedge knight well, then?” Prince Valarr assumed.
"No,” you admitted. “But he has become a fast friend of my father’s, and I’ve spoken to him several times myself.”
Ser Duncan had never been anything short of kind and respectful to you. Despite his intimidating size, there was a fair amount of gentleness within him. It was a bit of a shock to learn that he was capable of the brutality you had witnessed not too long ago, even if you did not fault him for it.
Prince Valarr arched a brow at you skeptically. “And a few conversations with the man is enough for you to value his word more highly than Daeron’s?”
“I believe Prince Daeron has a motive to stretch the truth of his tale, if only to dampen the severity of his own shortcomings.”
Once again, the Young Prince admonished you. “Take care of how you speak, Lady Y/N. You and I are friends, but even our friendship can not absolve you from the consequences of such bold words.”
Perhaps Prince Valarr had a point. To speak of a member of the royal family in such blatant disapproval was cause for offense. A lesser Targaryen might have seen you punished for it, some of them more severely than others.
But the day had been long, the night even longer, and your patience had long since ran thin. And there was something, something about the manner in which Prince Valarr carried himself that gnawed away at you. He was detached, flippant, as though the matter of a man’s life being held in the balance was a mere inconvenience, rather than a moral dilemma.
Prince Valarr sought answers you could not give. “I can tell this business with Ser Duncan troubles you greatly. What would have me do, My Lady?”
“I do not know,” you confessed, adamant despite it. “Something, anything. Has any true harm been done, other than damaged pride? Prince Aerion lives. Can the same be said of all who have crossed him before?”
Prince Valarr’s following silence was answer enough.
How could the Young Prince be so unmoved by the gross injustice that was at hand? He knew, more intimately than many, of Prince Aerion’s true nature. They had been boys together, and spent their youth alongside one another. Though they had grown to be men cut from different cloth, Prince Valarr doubtlessly held more of Prince Aerion’s secrets than you would ever know.
Why is he so complacent?
Through the red haze of your building frustration, you could not help but think of Raymun. Like Prince Valarr, Raymun also contended with a rather difficult cousin. But if things had been different, and if Raymun had been born the heir to Cider Hall, you had no doubt that he would have put an end to Steffon’s less than admirable traits years ago.
But Raymun was not the heir to Cider Hall, nor could he so openly oppose the man who was. Though he could not change the man Steffon had become, Raymun still did his part to maintain the honor of House Fossoway with his own words and deeds.
Prince Valarr Targaryen was an heir in the direct line to ascend the Iron Throne. Did he not have the same duty to dissuade his cousin from his malicious instincts? Prince Aerion was of the blood of the dragon- he bore the name, savored the privileges, and commanded the respect. Though he would never become king, he was still a reflection of House Targaryen.
“Do you not feel the same as I? Do you not carry this guilt?”
The Young Prince was visibly taken aback by your question. “Guilt? What is the nature of this guilt that I am supposed to have carried?”
You glanced down at Prince Daeron. Though he was still unaware of the world around him, you doubted that his state could be considered blissful. You looked back to Prince Valarr, locking eyes with his mismatched hues. Your next words were softly spoken, for even if Prince Daeron would not hear them, there were plenty of others within the great hall that still could.
“There were signs of your cousin’s nature years ago. I stayed silent then, because I believed it to be the best remedy for all involved… But now, I cannot guarantee that I would choose to do the same.”
Prince Valarr went still. “You made an agreement not to speak of what happened in King’s Landing. We all did.”
“Yes, I agreed. And how many people have suffered in the years since because I did not say anything then?”
He shook his head vigorously, refusing to consider your reasoning. “My cousin’s acts are his own. The guilt of those he has wronged is not yours to bear, or my own.”
“Prince Aerion’s actions do not belong to him alone, Your Grace. For better or for worse, he is a member of your family, and a reflection of House Targaryen. And when the royal family allows him to sow chaos wherever he pleases, when the royal family tolerates him treating nobles and common folk alike as his playthings without any recourse, it reflects poorly on you all.”
A silence followed, and not a comfortable one.
You could not tell what was going through Prince Valarr’s mind as your criticism of himself and other members of his family sunk in. Any skill you might have once had in reading him had long since faded with time.
“You are second in line to the throne,” you continued, a reminder that he did not need. “And while Prince Aerion may be further down in the line of succession, he is given more grace than even you, My Prince. Though I hope it is far from now, the day will come when you are to ascend the Iron Throne. When that day arrives, do you believe that your cousin will suddenly become the paragon of chivalry? … Can you trust that he will fall into line, simply because you ask?”
The Young Prince tried to speak, but no words came out. His mouth snapped shut, and his jaw clenched tightly.
In that moment, you did not know what was harder to comprehend- that you had tossed propriety into the wind and spoken to the second in line to the Iron Throne so boldly, so harshly, or that your bold words had stunned Prince Valarr into dumbfoundedness, rendering him speechless.
The apology tumbled from your mouth. “Forgive me, My Prince. The day has been long, and trying. I know not what I say.”
Prince Valarr still had no words for you. Perhaps your own fate had been sealed that very night, but if it had not been yet, you could not risk further damning yourself. You curtsied with haste, and turned to leave.
But what you saw made you halt mid step.
…
Prince Baelor Targaryen, Hand of the King and Heir to the Iron Throne, stood beneath the doorway to the great hall. He watched you with a look as indiscernible as his son’s, matching mismatched eyes focused intently on you.
Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion were wide eyed. How much had they overheard? There was no way for you to know. And, more alarmingly, the same could be said for the Hand of the King.
Your heart was in your throat. You had just made a thinly veiled threat against members of House Targaryen, and blatantly condemned their handling of one of their own.
How much did Prince Baelor overhear?
If only to preserve what little dignity remained to you, you ceased your gawking with haste. Forcing one foot in front of the other, you walked towards him and hoped you exuded a calmness you did not truly possess.
You curtseyed to him. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
Prince Baelor made no acknowledgement of your greeting. But you could not linger, lest you allowed him time to contemplate whether your brash words warranted punishment.
You fled the great hall of Ashford Castle as swiftly as the breeze blowing through the town, your loyal escorts not but a step behind.
"A Trial of Seven?”
Raymun could scarcely believe it, but he had little choice. Though he had not known him long, Raymun knew Ser Duncan to be a man of integrity. Dunk would never lie about such a thing, especially when said lie would put him at such a severe disadvantage with nothing little gained from it.
After bringing Dunk, and his horses, back to the Fossoway camp, Raymun had given his friend a plate of the Fossoways’ leftover supper. However, Dunk had scarcely touched any of the food. That alone was a bad sign.
Unlike Dunk, Steffon had no qualms about satisfying his appetite. He noisily munched away at an apple, unbothered. Then again, that was easily understood. It wasn’t his arse on the line.
Raymun hadn’t necessarily wanted Steffon to join him and Dunk as the latter recounted all of what had occurred within Ashford Castle following his arrest. But Steffon had been at camp when the two returned, two horses in tow. And when Steffon pulled up a stool to listen to Dunk tell the tale of his imprisonment and subsequent audiences with princes and lords alike, Raymun had had no viable reason to tell his cousin to sod off. No matter how much he wished he had.
“That would mean battle axes, morning stars, and lances of war,” Raymun rambled on. As the weapons, and their lethality, came to mind, the concern for his friend grew even deeper. “The swords won’t be blunted, either.”
“I know what it means, Raymun,” Dunk said tiredly, his hand covering his eyes, his elbow resting upon the table. He was drained to even look at him.
“Do us all a favor and shut up, Cousin,” Steffon barked. “I apologize, Ser Duncan. My cousin is still green, as you know. And I’m afraid he will be for a long while still. He hasn’t even got the stones to stand up for himself… Raymun the Reluctant.”
Raymun scowled at him. He was not sure what insulted him more- how Steffon spoke of lowly of him, or how familiar his cousin tried to be with a man he barely knew, a man Raymun considered to be his own friend. “Oh, fuck off. I just meant-“
“A Trial of Seven is knightly combat,” Steffon interrupted, giving him a hard look that had Raymun snapping his mouth shut. “You are no knight, and your skin is not at risk. Leave the discussion for the men who know the severity of what we speak of.”
Raymun’s lips pressed into a firm line, and he narrowed his eyes at his cousin. Still, tempted though he might have been, Raymun said no more. It was becoming mighty cumbersome to roll over and allow Steffon to treat him so, but Raymun also knew that pressing the matter with a guest present was not an appropriate time.
Steffon turned his attention back to Dunk. “What Aerion did to those puppeteers was cruel. Such cruelty ought to be a crime in and of itself.”
For allegedly finding violence against strangers to be cruelty, Steffon certainly had no qualms enacting violence against his own kin.
In response to Steffon’s dramatic statement, Dunk mumbled something that sounded like vague agreement.
“All knights vow to protect the innocent,” his cousin continued. “When an injustice such as this arises, it is our sworn duty to stand against it.”
Raymun could have rolled his eyes. He almost did. If only Steffon’s actions mirrored his noble speech.
But then, his cousin said something that genuinely surprised him.
“I am for you, Ser.”
…
Raymun was not the only one shocked by the declaration. Dunk lifted his hand from his head, slowly turning to look at Steffon. He was visibly leery, as though waiting for Steffon to laugh off his offer as a mere jest. Unashamedly, Raymun thought that to be a genuine possibility as well.
But Steffon actually looked quite serious, a determined glint in his eyes that Raymun recognized. It was the same look Steffon got whenever he was about to enter the lists at a tourney, or when he thought another man was encroaching upon a girl he had his eye on.
Steffon may have been inclined to take shortcuts whenever life had offered them to him. But even Raymun could admit, when push came to shove, Steffon was not one to shy away from a fight. He had already put himself and his men in harm’s way earlier that night by following Dunk to the puppeteers tent. Perhaps Steffon believed retaliation from Prince Aerion to be unavoidable, and wished to take control of the matter whilst he still could.
There was a twinkle in Dunk’s eyes that was not tears, but rather hope. “Thank you, Ser… But perhaps you shouldn’t.”
Prince Aerion would have the means to recruit decent champions, of that Raymun had little doubt. But Steffon was skilled enough that he stood a fair chance. He could hold his own in combat, especially when pressed to do so by the threat of death.
And Steffon had every motivation to live. If Steffon died, Cider Hall would likely pass to Raymun’s father, and then to him. Steffon would tussle with the Stranger itself before he ever let that come to pass.
Raymun offered to Dunk, “It pains me to admit it, but Steffon is a fine sword.”
Steffon’s hard stare turned upon him. “Why would that pain you?”
Dunk ignored both of them. “While I do not doubt that, the Dragon House will not look kindly on those who would oppose them. If you choose to stand with me, they will not forget that you have done so.”
Steffon laughed dryly. “Dragon House… Tell me, what dragons do they have, Ser Duncan? All that is left of those beasts is but ash in the wind. Us Fossoways were here long before the Targaryens came to our shores. And we will still be here, long after they are gone. We do not need their permission, nor their approval.”
Who’d have thought that apple trees, of all things, would outlive the mighty Targaryen beasts?
“Who else fights with us, Ser Duncan?” Steffon asked.
“I only just left Ashford Castle when I came upon Raymun at my camp,” Dunk answered. “I know no one else, let alone another whom I’d dare to ask… Except Ser Manfred Dondarrion, perhaps. Ser Arlan served his father once, though that was some years ago. I was but a boy then, I barely remember it myself.”
Raymun did not wish to dash his friend’s already feeble hopes. He did not know much about Ser Manfred, or how strong his loyalty to the Crown remained. But Ser Manfred was the younger brother of the late Princess Jena Dondarrion, wife of Prince Baelor. If Raymun had to venture a guess, it was safe to assume that Ser Manfred would not ride against any member of House Targaryen, as noble a cause though Dunk’s might have been.
Steffon slapped his discarded apple core down upon the table. “While you and I are a fine start, I don’t fancy our chances with just the two of us. We’ll need five more champions to join us, Ser Duncan.”
“Yes, I know. But-“
“Fear not, my friend. Of all the places to lay hands upon a Targaryen prince, you might have chosen the best. Lord Ashford’s tourney has gathered all sorts of men together. It can’t be too much trouble to find five more. There ought to be five men out there who will leap at the chance to live forever in songs and history.”
Raymun looked at Duncan carefully, assessing whether or not he was buying into Steffon’s beautifully painted, yet shallow, words. The Seven knew Raymun certainly had his own doubts about Steffon’s sincerity. And the longer his cousin preached on, the larger those doubts grew.
“Leave it to me, Ser Duncan,” Steffon suavely reassured him. “I shall find these five men for you. Leo Longthorn, the Laughing Storm, Lord Caron, the Lannisters, Ser Otho Bracken…”
“Are you mad?” Raymun demanded then, unable to stop himself. “The Brute of Bracken? Why should he risk his own neck for Ser Duncan? He does not know him.”
“Nor will any of the other men I ask,” Steffon snapped back impatiently. “But they will join. What man would not want to be immortalized?”
Raymun was baffled. Did Steffon actually believe in the fodder spewing from his mouth?
He nodded towards the entrance of the tent. “The hour is already late, Steffon.What is your aim? Will you saunter into their camps, jolt these men from sleep? Present Dunk’s case, and hope they will be moved enough to join his fight?”
Perhaps Lord Tyrell would have a sense of humor about being disturbed, if only to avoid inciting the anger of Steffon’s father. Raymun had a more difficult time believing that the Laughing Storm or the Brute of Bracken would be so patient as to show any sort of restraint towards a strange man who had roused them from their precious slumber.
Dunk frowned, and worried lines etched into his forehead deeply. “They will not be happy at being woken…”
“All the better!” Steffon’s confidence was bordering on unnerving. “They’ll fight all the more fiercely for it.”
Or they’ll be too weary to stay atop a horse!
Steffon placed a firm, grounding hand upon Dunk’s closest shoulder.
“You shan’t die under my watch, Ser. I can promise you that.”
His cousin shot to his feet, the legs of the stool beneath him squeaking loudly in protest with the sudden harsh movement.
“Rest well, Ser Duncan,” Steffon bid him. “And worry not. You can rely on me to find you these men.”
Steffon strode off, looking awfully happy and mighty pleased with himself. Along the way, he grabbed his crimson cloak and fixed it around his shoulders.
Something about his cousin’s behavior did not sit well with Raymun. What did Steffon have to gain from participating in the trial? Glory, certainly. But why was Steffon so adamant that he be the one to find these additional men to rally to Ser Duncan’s side?
… Perhaps Steffon was merely so vain as to believe he was the sole individual able to accomplish the feat. Fortunately, Raymun knew better.
Dunk watched Steffon leave the Fossoway tent, looking far less comforted by the parting words than what Steffon probably wished for him to be. That was good- there was still a chance for Raymun to persuade his friend to see reason.
“Dunk, listen to me,” Raymun gravely pleaded to his friend, reclaiming his attention. “While Steffon may think he is of enough import that all those men will know who he is, I wouldn’t stake my life on it. And that means that you shouldn’t, either. If you want a shot at surviving the morrow, you cannot rely on Steffon alone. You should find your own men.”
Dunk’s brows furrowed. “But Steffon said-”
“I trust Steffon about as far as I can throw him.” That is to say, not very much at all. “He seeks glory, and he only means to use the trial as a way to obtain it. But it’s your life at risk, Dunk. Why not try to find some men to stand with you? I can help- I’ve a few in mind we could ask. Wouldn’t it be better to have too many champions than too few?”
Steffon had been right about one thing. A Trial of Seven was likely to entice many of the knights gathered in Ashford. Unfortunately, helping a lowly hedge knight of little notoriety and no holdings was not likely to outweigh the risk of harm, let alone death, for the majority of them.
But Ser Humfrey Beesbury was a decent man, one of the best Raymun had come to know. His good brother, Ser Humfrey Hardying, had been wronged by Prince Aerion that very morning. It was entirely possible that one, or both, would be willing to fight. It was worth a shot.
"And, if between the two of us, we cannot find men who will join you…. There is still some time. To run, I mean.”
Raymun would help him, too. Dunk only needed to ask.
Dunk shook his head dismissively. “That would do no good. It is not as though I blend into a crowd. They’d catch me in a day or two.”
That left Dunk little other choice, and they both knew it. If death was the only option, it was better to go down fighting than fleeing. Raymun, green though he was, fully believed that.
“I suppose this is what the gods figure I deserve,” Dunk sighed, crossing his arms.
Raymun’s brows raised. “For doing what you were supposed to do?”
Dunk shook his head, hunching over and huddling into himself. For a man so large, at that moment, he seemed the smallest Raymun had ever seen him. “For not knowing my place.”
“You saved that girl, Dunk,” Raymun reminded him. “There’s no telling what more Prince Aerion would have done to her, or to the others, had you not interfered.”
“And for all the good it did. Prince Aerion still hurt her, and I’m likely to die on the morrow. Not to mention that you almost got caught up in it yourself, defending Ser Lyonel’s daughter… I’ll not have you risking your neck for me again.”
Noble of Dunk, but not his decision to make. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
For the first time since he had returned from Ashford Castle, Dunk managed a small smile. He raised his mug of cider, and Raymun mirrored him as a silent understanding passed between them.
“It is a shame Steffon has not knighted you yet, Raymun. I’d have asked to be one of my champions already.”
For a moment, Raymun’s words failed him as the honor Dunk bestowed upon him resonated, and settled into his bones. “I’ll still be there, Dunk… Even if it is just to squire for my git cousin.”
A brief, manic fit of laughter overtook the two of them. However, it was short lived.
The flap of the tent opened, and a small figure stuck his cloaked head inside.
“Ser?”
Raymun and Dunk looked in tandem across the tent, to where none other than the young Prince Aegon Targaryen was stepping timidly inside. Gone was the raggedly clothing Raymun had seen Dunk’s squire sporting for several days. In their stead were garments of black and red finer than anything Raymun had ever owned, and had seldom seen. Most befitting a prince, he supposed.
“Egg?” Dunk questioned in disbelief, rising to his feet. “What are you doing?”
“I’m your squire, Ser,” Prince Aegon affirmed, lowering the hood of his cloak. “You’ll need someone to arm you for the trial.”
“Does your father know you’ve left the castle?”
The flap of the tent opened once again, and another, though considerably taller, figure slipped inside. Their movements were languid, slow as they came to stand a few paces behind the young boy.
“I hope not,” a man’s voice replied, answering the question that had not been posed to him.
As the man lingered near a few lit candles, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak, the soft lighting began to creep over his face. Raymun did not immediately recognize him.
But Dunk did.
Dunk crossed the tent with a few calculated steps. He reached to his side, and it took the ringing of a dagger being withdrawn its sheath for Raymun to realize what was about to unfold.
The man gasped as Dunk grabbed him harshly and pinned him beneath his forearm onto a nearby table. The blade was held dangerously close to his throat.
“Duncan, no!”
As you waited at the Baratheon camp for your father’s return, the frustration you felt at your fruitless conversation with Prince Valarr Targaryen slowly ebbed away into dull pangs of hopelessness. The dread consumed your every thought, even driving away the fear you had felt at having lost control of your tongue.
The camp was scarce. Only Maester Kaegan and a few others lingered in the larger of the two Baratheon tents, though they all kept at a distance from you. Your ladies were off, either with each other, or with other nobles. You sat at the high table, resigned to the feeling that no letter, no needlework, nothing at all would distract you from your thoughts that felt akin to an impending doom.
Then, somewhere off in the distance, you heard the faint singing of Alice with Three Fingers. At least, you thought it was Alice with Three Fingers, as you had made the distinction on the tune alone. The words being sung, so slurred and unintelligible, were of no help.
Not but a moment later, the flap to the tent was thrown open with great ado. Your father barged in, ungraceful but jovial, grinning from ear to ear. Ser Humfrey Beesbury and Michael Morrigen aided his drunken stupor, each of them bearing one of his arms over their shoulders.
As Ser Humfrey and Michael aided your father in your direction, the two older men commenced the second verse of Alice with Three Fingers. Michael Morrigen remained silent, which was not unusual for him. However, the drunken antics of the other two endangered his typically steely composure, and an amused smirk threatened to split across his face.
Ser Humfrey and Michael deposited your father unceremoniously into his seat at the high table, just beside your own. Your father’s singing trailed off into laughter, and then a contended sigh, as he dragged a tired hand over the side of his face. Ser Humfrey Beesbury collapsed into the chair on the other side of him, while Michael went to, hopefully, fetch the two men some water.
Maester Kaegan approached. With a small bow of his head, he left a few of his well sought-after remedies upon the table for your father and Ser Hufmrey’s inevitable consumption.
“Ah, Maester Kaegan,” your father drawled, beaming at him. “You’re a good man, you know that?”
“I merely try to be of service, My Lord.”
“Yes, yes. Your unwavering loyalty is hereby acknowledged now and forever more.”
While Maester Kaegan might have normally waited for your father to properly dismiss him, given his lord’s state, the maester clearly did not anticipate receiving one. Just as quietly as he had come, Maester Kaegan withdrew, returning to his own reading and other various brews a few tables away.
Michael reappeared, blessedly with a pitcher of water in hand. He poured a goblet for each man, sliding them over onto the table within their hand’s reach.
Your father smiled at him in gratitude, and then took several large gulps. When he was satisfied, he sighed loudly once more. As though he had just noted your presence, his head rolled lazily over his shoulders as he finally acknowledged you. “Good evening, Daughter.”
It was anything but. “Father.”
It’d been all you trusted your voice to muster without wavering. But of course, the peculiar behavior did not go unnoticed.
He straightened in his seat at once, and the pleasant look upon his face melted away into one of increasing concern. “What is the matter?”
Too much to speak of, I fear. “… I know not where to begin.”
Your father remained unassuaged. “Did someone wrong you? Has something happened with that Apple Boy?”
At the mention of a particular Apple Boy, Ser Humfrey Beesbury’s interest was piqued. He leaned backwards in his chair, looking past your father’s back to gauge your reaction for himself.
“No, nothing of the sort,” you reassured them both. “Have the two of you truly not heard what has happened tonight?”
By the puzzled look that persisted upon their faces, you deduced your answer.
“I’m afraid we’ve been far too deep in our cups to hear much talk of anything,” Ser Humfrey confessed, though he did not look the least bit apologetic.
Your father smiled slyly, and elbowed his friend with all the subtlety of a rampaging elephant. “Except the tales of Alice and her many adventures, eh?”
Your head drooped into your hands, and let out a sigh of utter defeat. Just as you had feared, your father would not be of much help in his current state. Not with Ser Duncan’s plight, nor your own political blunder.
Movement out of the corner of your eye distracted you from your resignation. Across the tent, a lone figure, small, lithe, and cloaked almost entirely in black, slipped inside. Under the soft glow of minimal candlelight, the figure’s perceived swiftness was magnified, and his movements were illusory as he crossed the dance floor.
As the stranger continued, now nearing the high table, Michael stood to attention. Now fully alert, your father’s squire took a few steps forward, placing himself directly between his master and the rapidly approaching figure. Michael stood tall, shoulders squared.
The significantly smaller being ducked, slipping beneath Michael’s legs with ease.
Not pleased at having been bested, Michael huffed and turned around to grab the intruder. However, your father held up his hand, silently calling him off. Amusement was plain upon his face, as it was also upon Ser Humfrey’s.
“What have we here?” your father asked, leaning forward to get a better look. “… Dunk’s squire, mayhaps?”
Your eyes went wide. But you were not granted the chance to inform your father of the vital information you had discovered that evening- namely, the squire’s true identity.
“Please, Ser,” the boy, Prince Aegon Targaryen, begged him. He lowered the hood of his cloak swiftly, revealing his hairless head and large, imploringly deep purple eyes. “I come on behalf of my master.”
Prince Aegon was not only clothed in material of the finest caliber. Mostly black, though a sash of red ran across his chest. Your father, either due to his intoxication or mere oversight, did not seem to notice the boy’s sudden and drastic improvement in clothing.
He raised a questioning brow. “Dunk? Well, return to your master and tell him that I will happily entertain him on the morrow. The two of you could join us again for supper, perhaps. But as for tonight, I have already drunk enough mead and ale to fell a giant… Why, I could retire at this very moment, if I so chose.”
To prove his point, your father leaned back in his chair. He made a show of settling into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes closed, and his head tilted backwards, before gently lolling over to the side.
You and Ser Humfrey exchanged an uncertain look. You thought your father was having some fun, playing up an exaggerated joke. But then, you heard soft snores emitting from his mouth.
He had actually begun to doze off!
Before you could swat him awake, Prince Aegon lunged forward. He grabbed the nearest cup- an abandoned cup of water- and thrust at your father.
His eyes shot open wildly, cool liquid drenching his face, hair, and beard.
Prince Aegon reared back, fearing retaliation, though none came. Your father merely sat there, blinking slowly, face blank. He stared at the prince dumbly, looking as though he had been robbed of any and all thoughts.
Redness crept over Ser Humfrey’s face, and his shoulders shook as he was on the very verge of losing a battle with a fit of laughter.
Michael stood behind Prince Aegon, jaw dropped in appall.
“Forgive me, Ser,” the young boy said bashfully.
Several more moments of silence passed, and more blinking ensued before your father finally cleared his throat. “Alright, lad. Now that you have my undivided attention… Wait, what was your name again? Or shall I continue to refer to you as Ser Duncan’s squire?”
The Laughing Storm had not been to King’s Landing in a great many years. He could hardly be blamed for not having recognized the prince standing before him. As for you, there was no mistaking those large eyes and forlorn look. He was taller now than when you had last seen him a few years past, but it was him. You only wished you had been able to realize it far sooner.
“Father,” you interjected carefully, “You should know that he is not merely a-”
“My name is Prince Aegon Targaryen, Ser Lyonel.”
Skepticism flashed across your father’s face at the declaration. Ser Humfrey paused mid sip from his goblet, and slowly lowered it back down to the table as your father leaned forward with a critical eye.
Perhaps it was the eyes, or the finery he wore. Perhaps it was simply the manner in which the young boy carried himself. Whatever it was, something finally resonated within your father’s mind, and he cursed under his breath.
Then, he barked out a laugh. “Seven Hells, it cannot be so. Are you truly?”
Prince Aegon did not respond.
“Is that even possible? How exactly does a prince of the realm come to be in the service of a hedge knight?”
“... Ser Duncan did not know who I was, Ser.”
Your father’s laughter intensified. Though he was not laughing at any one individual’s expense- rather, the absolute absurdity of it all- you felt far too ill at ease to join in his merriment. Ser Humfrey looked mildly amused at the notion too. But even he, perhaps also sensing something was not quite right, could not fully commit to laughter.
Your father wiped a stray tear from his eyes as his mirth began to fade. “Ahhh, Dunk, Dunk, Dunk… Gods bless that freakishly tall man. I presume this means that your master has the truth of it now, Your Grace?”
“He does, Ser,” the boy solemnly confirmed. “And, though he is cross with me, rightfully so, I am to help him.”
“Well then, Prince Aegon, what would you ask of me?”
“There is to be a Trial of Seven. Ser Duncan is in need of men- good men- to stand beside him as his champions.”
“A Trial of Seven?” you echoed.
You knew of a trial well enough. There was an accused, alleged to have carried out some crime or other misdeed, and the accuser, alleged victim. Both sides would gather witnesses to speak on their behalf, and the cases were presented before a number of judges. They were not extremely frequent occurrences in Storm’s End, but they had happened. You had hoped Dunk would have been so fortunate as to be granted one, however stacked the odds against him might have been. To speak as a witness in his defense had been your primarily motivation for having appealed to Prince Valarr earlier that evening.
Trial by combat was less familiar, as you had never borne witness to one yourself. However, between your father, and the chosen company he so often kept, you had heard more than your fair share of stories throughout your life. Perhaps it was too optimistic for you to hope Dunk could have avoided a trial of such nature. Prince Aerion’s blood had been spilled, and it would be most out of character for the Targaryen prince to not demand repayment in kind.
A Trial by Seven, however, was a completely foreign concept to you. Although, it caught your father’s attention well enough.
“A Trial by Seven, you say?”
The young Prince Aegon merely nodded.
Ser Humfrey looked as lost as you felt. “What, pray tell, is a Trial by Seven?”
Your father gave Ser Humfrey a wounded look. “Good gods, man. Do you not recall your history lessons?”
“From when I was a lad? I most certainly do not! At present, I’m fortunate to remember what I ate for supper two nights ago.”
“A Trial by Seven,” your father continued, speaking with great confidence in his recollection, “is by and large much the same as a trial by combat. They say the gods still decide who emerges victorious, if you believe such a thing. But, unlike a typical trial by combat, neither the accused or the accuser fight alone. Each man is to find six knights, six champions, to fight beside him. All fourteen men will battle until the blood lust of the gods is quenched, and they are satisfied once again.”
A trial by combat seems brutal enough. A Trial by Seven seems far worse. “This subject is of great interest to you, I see.”
“There hasn’t been a Trial by Seven in over a hundred years,” your father said wistfully, a far off twinkling look in his eyes. “The first on these shores was during King Maegor’s reign. It came to be when the ancestor of this lad here-“ he jabbed a thumb in Michael’s direction, “challenged his right to rule.”
“My ancestor lost,” Michael recalled with a sad frown, speaking even more softly than usual. “And King Maegor slayed him.”
“Yes, well… that was some rotten luck, my boy. But don’t look so glum, I’m sure that misfortune has worked its way out of the family tree by now. So tell me, Prince Aegon, what has Ser Duncan done to warrant a Trial of Seven?”
Prince Aegon looked at you hesitantly.
He had noticed your presence at the puppeteers tent, then.
You chose your words carefully. “Over in the merchant’s row, there is a group of performers. They have these magnificent puppets, you see. For several days now, they have been performing the tale of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.”
“Ah, that’s a good one,” Ser Humfrey interjected fondly.
“A captivating performance,” you conceded. “… Unfortunately for the puppeteers, one of the members in the audience this evening was Prince Aerion Targaryen. To say that he did not take too kindly to the slaying of a dragon- though not even a dragon of House Targaryen- is to put it mildly.”
Prince Aegon insisted, “It was awful, Ser. My brother tormented these puppeteers. His men upheaved their tent, and set fire to their crafts.”
“It culminated when Prince Aerion snapped a girl’s fingers,” you recounted, fighting the tremor that threatened your voice as your eyes bore a hold into the ground nearby. “It was… dreadful. Of all the men present, only Ser Duncan would intervene on the girl’s behalf. And, given the circumstances, he had no choice but to quell Prince Aerion by force.”
All three men looked extremely disturbed at the tale.
“That is most unfortunate to hear,” Ser Humfrey sympathized gravely. “Prince Aerion’s behavior at the tournament this morning was petty and unbecoming. But to torture mere common folk thus?”
“It is savage cruelty,” your father readily agreed. Then, he paused. You could feel his suspicions turn over to you slowly. His eyes bore heavily into the side of your face, though you refused to meet his gaze. “You speak as though you have borne witness to the event yourself.”
“The tale has likely spread all throughout Ashford by now, Ser,” Prince Aegon insisted, timing impeccable. “My brothers, Aerion and Daeron, have both made accusations against my master. Ser Duncan demanded a trial by combat, as was his right. But in return, Aerion demanded a Trial by Seven.”
“And so he shall have it,” your father proclaimed. “Who fights with us?”
Us?
“Us?” Prince Aegon’s eyes were alight with hope. “Do you mean that Ser Duncan can count on you, Ser?”
“Dunk may be a giant of a fellow, but he is no heathen. If you say that he was acting in the defense of a poor girl who was brutalized by a rotten prince, then I believe you.”
“You mentioned a Trial by Seven is a type of trial by combat,” you reminded him. “Do you truly mean to participate?”
You could get hurt- or worse.
Your father shrugged, the gesture so nonchalant that you wished to grab him by the collar and shake some sense into him. “If Dunk’s cause is just, as you and Prince Aegon’s accounts have led me to believe, then the gods will be merciful, and we shall triumph.”
You stared at him wide eyed, terribly jealous in his ability to view the matter so simply.
“Ser Duncan can count on my sword as well, assuming he does not have his six champions already,” Ser Humfrey chimed in. “And I have faith that he can also count on my good brother, Ser Humfrey Hardying, too.”
Your incredulous stare turned on him next. “Hasn’t Ser Humfrey Hardying broken his leg?”
Ser Humfrey Beesbury nodded. “If he can ride atop a horse, he can fight. He’ll be all too eager to pay Prince Aerion what he is owed.”
Meanwhile, Prince Aegon looked positively elated, his hope renewed. “Truly, Ser? Ser Duncan will need every one of you. My father plans to fight with my brothers, and he has commanded the members of the Kingsguard to join them.”
“The Kingsguard?” you asked, stunned. “Just how many of them are in Ashford?”
“Only three, My Lady.”
Your father rubbed his hands together, and a mischievous smile crept upon his face. “Not seven, but they will suffice.”
“And to go up against the Anvil?” Ser Humfrey added, looking just as thrilled at the prospect. “I daresay, this has the makings of a legendary event.”
“I could not agree with you more, my friend. Michael- be a good lad and fetch us more water, if you please. Beesbury and I will need to be at our very best.”
You could scarcely believe how quickly the matter had been set, let alone begin to comprehend the potential consequences of the decisions made.
“Meet us at the tourney field come the dawn,” Prince Aegon told the two men. “And thank you both, Sers. My master will be most relieved to hear that you have decided to fight by his side.”
“Not nearly as relieved as we are for a chance to get a few licks in against your kin,” your father said without thought. After a moment, he thought better of it, and added, “No offense, My Prince.”
Prince Aegon brushed him off. “Aerion is cruel. I do not care what happens to him on the morrow. I know what Ser Duncan fights for is right and just. If the gods are real, they will spare him- as they will all who fight with him.”
With those parting words, the prince turned on his heels and made to leave the tent.
You rose to your feet, leaving your father and Ser Humfrey talking excitedly amongst themselves as Michael poured them more water.
You hurried after Prince Aegon. Fortunately, you managed to catch up with the swiftly moving boy just a few paces outside of the tent, and called after him.
“Prince Aegon?”
The boy halted, and turned to face you slowly.
“I wanted to thank you for your discretion when recalling tonight’s events. It was kind of you to make certain… omissions, and only relay to my father what was truly necessary about tonight’s events.”
“It was not my place to tell,” he reasoned, plain and simple. “I am glad Ser Lyonel, and both Ser Humfreys, have chosen to fight for Ser Duncan.”
“Ser Duncan,” you began, seeking the proper words. “… Is he skilled? He is tall, and looks to be very strong, but-“
“He is a good knight, My Lady.”
A good man, was his unspoken sentiment. However, a matter of egregiously significant import hung in the balance. Could you place all of your faith in Ser Duncan’s innate sense of goodness swaying the tide of the battle, and ensuring your father’s survival?
You pressed, “Yes, but is Ser Duncan skilled in arms?”
Prince Aegon contemplated this for a moment. “If it is for the gods to declare his innocence, or to condemn his guilt, does that truly matter?”
The boy must have believed his response sufficient, for he turned on his heels once more. Raising his black hood over his head, he strode off, disappearing into the dark of the night.
You wished you could have taken comfort from the prince’s words. The confidence, the unshaking faith in justice that seemed so potent among the youth. Once, long ago, you had felt much the same. You had once believed that gods favored the righteous and just, and punished those who were not.
But you were now a woman grown. And if there was one thing you had come to reckon with throughout your life, it was that the gods, more often than not, had a twisted sense of humor.
“Take Wrath to the field, see to it that he’s saddled and barded. And grab my helm, while you’re at it. I’ve one last matter to attend to, and then I will meet you there.”
Stephon’s command had been clear enough. If only the horses had been of like minds.
In the wee hours of the dawn, when light had just begun to chase off the dark of night, Raymun struggled to corral the horses outside of the Fossoway camp. Wrath, though usually gentle, and Dunk’s destrier, Thunder, seemed to not get on well at all. Thankfully, Wrath was well adjusted to Raymun’s courser Crispin, and Thunder did not seem to mind the white stallion either.
With skill he could only attribute to prior experience with the horses in Cider Hall, Raymun managed to saddle and bard all three horses. Perhaps Crispin did not need to be armored, but if something happened to Wrath… it was not unheard of for a knight to take his squire’s horse in a moment of dire need. Steffon would demand it of him, Raymun had little doubt, though the thought pained him.
He took care to secure Wrath and Thunder’s leads with Crispin separating the two, and when they gave him no further trouble, Raymun was grateful for it. Thunder’s master was not there to help calm him.
Some hours past, shortly after the departure of the Targaryen princes, Dunk had ventured out into Ashford without a word. While Raymun still believed that his friend had chosen not to flee, Dunk had yet to return to the Fossoway camp.
Thankfully, Raymun had been able to stop him from causing too much harm to Prince Daeron. Although, a small part of him wished he hadn’t. Aside from admitting that he made false allegations against him, Prince Maekar’s heir had little else to say to Dunk. In fact, Prince Daeron, momentarily sober but obviously longing for his next drink, had had the gall to request leniency from Dunk during the trial. Still, if Prince Daeron could be trusted, he was to be one less threat Dunk would have to contend with.
And Dunk would need all the help he could get. Prince Aegon had left shortly after Daeron, vowing to his master that he would recruit other knights to fight at his side. Despite the promise that Steffon had made to Dunk, Raymun doubted his cousin’s ability to make good on his word. One could only hope that the youngest Targaryen prince had been successful in his endeavors.
Despite the early hour, the surrounding camps were bustling with the most activity Raymun had seen so far. All of Ashford was likely to have heard of the Trial by Seven by then, with the most eager having already departed their camps to make way for the tourney field.
Just as Raymun was about to mount Crispin and follow their lead, he decided to look down the path in the opposite direction of where he was headed.
Illuminated by the faintest morning light and the abundance of dwindling campfires around, you walked away from the Baratheon camp with your familiar escorts shadowing behind. Your head was held high, but through the brief flickers of light, Raymun noticed that the look on your face was anything but proud. You were dressed in a gown of mostly black, with small, nearly imperceptible golden accents.
Fine a garment though it was, with your face so grim, it might as well have been a gown of mourning.
When you saw him, the veil of gloom briefly lifted, and the faintest light shone in your eyes.
Recognition of a familiar face, Raymun chided himself. Nothing more.
Though his heart was being pulled in one direction, Raymun could not afford distraction. He needed his wits about him. Stephon’s life depended on it. Dunk’s life depended on it.
As you approached, you said something to your escorts that Raymun could not hear. The two men nodded in abeyance, and took positions a few paces away. It was as private a moment as you would get, but Raymun found himself thankful for it just the same.
“Good morrow, Raymun.”
“Good morrow, My Lady.”
Nothing was said for a few moments, though Raymun found that he did not mind it much. Your presence alone was calming enough.
“Is that Ser Duncan’s horse?”
Raymun was forthcoming. He briefly relayed to you all that had transpired since you had seen one another last. It was rather remarkable- though only half a night had passed, give or take a few hours, Prince Aerion’s upheaval of the puppet show felt like ages ago.
“I am relieved to hear that Ser Duncan has not spent the last few hours in a cold, damp cell.”
He grimaced at the thought. “Of course not, My Lady. Dunk’s been out on his own for a while now, but I’ve tried to keep an eye on him.”
“You're a good friend, Raymun.”
He was not so certain of that, but Raymun did not dare to question your judgement. Your words, kind though they were, were spoken with as much gravity as one would expect from the morose look you bore.
In the short few days Raymun had known you, you had always been so quick to smile. That morning, you had no more to offer. It was a far cry from the woman he had begun to know, had begun to care a great deal for. But Raymun could scarcely fault you for it.
“Ser Humfrey told me that your father means to fight for Ser Duncan,” Raymun said, gently acknowledging the burden you carried. “A few hours ago, I went to ask him if he would fight for Dunk. But Ser Humfrey told me Prince Aegon had beaten me to it, and that he had managed to recruit the Laughing Storm as well.”
You nodded. Though a smile accompanied the motion, it did not quite reach your eyes. “My father has not slept a wink since he heard. Far too much excitement, I think… I can only hope that it will not be his downfall.”
The admission did not surprise Raymun, but the severity in your voice did wrench his heart in a rather uncomfortable way.
“Ser Lyonel is a renowned warrior, My Lady,” he reminded you, though you most likely did not need it. “And Dunk’s cause is just.”
You said nothing, but bowed your head in silent agreement.
“Is that Wrath?”
Not bothered in the slightest by the change in conversation, Raymun patted the horse’s neck affectionately. “Aye.”
Your gloomy face quickly shifted into one of shock. “Ser Steffon means to fight for Ser Duncan as well?”
“So he has declared,” Raymun said. “But make no mistake, it’s not out of the goodness of his heart. He’s just enamored by the grandeur of it all.”
You smirked, and for the first time that morning, your amusement, however small, was genuine. “That stands to reason.”
“Aye.” A small but comforting warmth fell over Raymun. He felt himself mirror your expression. “Steffon could not pass up the chance for glory, I suppose.”
“Regardless of what has compelled him to fight for Ser Duncan, please tell him that I wish him good fortune,” you requested. “It is my understanding that your relationship is… trying, at times. And I could, and would, put plainly into words how much I despise his abhorrent treatment of you. But he is your kin, Raymun. And though I very much wish for him to regard you with the respect and kindness you so deserve, that means he must live. Steffon must survive this day, so that he has the opportunity to become a better man.”
Is such a thing even possible?
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or some other odd feeling that Raymun could not put a name to. But something, something, deep within Raymun desperately wanted your words to be true. Would a solid blow to the helm, just enough throw Steffon from Wrath, but not enough so as to injure him grievously, incite his cousin to come to terms with his own mortality? If it did, was Steffon even capable of such drastic change? It was something to consider, certainly.
In one way or another, in just a few hours, Raymun would have the answers he sought.
“In all the years I’ve known him, Steffon has yet to prove himself worthy of such charitable words,” he replied. “I hope you will not judge him too harshly if he should fall short, My Lady.”
An amused twinkle shimmered in your eyes. Though he did not know why, Raymun felt the sudden overwhelming urge to commit it to memory.
“We shall discover for ourselves soon enough,” you acknowledged, voice light. “Will you extend my wishes of good fortune to Ser Duncan as well? Though Steffon’s worthiness may be called into question, I believe we are in agreement that the same cannot be said for him.”
The other men would fight for glory, fame, obligation. And yet, Dunk would fight for his life, all because he dared to stand up for an innocent woman, just as he had once sworn to do.
You continued. “He is an honorable man. A good man. If anyone deserves to live, it is him.”
They were strong words, especially in light of the fact that your father was one of aforementioned competitors. However, Raymun could not have agreed with your sentiment more.
“I think he would be honored to hear as much from you, My Lady. Perhaps you will have the chance to tell Ser Duncan yourself.”
“I hope so.”
By then, the amount of nobility rising to head to the tournament field had increased significantly. Raymun knew he had to be getting along, and soon, lest Steffon arrive before him, and find himself without a mount. Dunk would be in need of Thunder, too.
Though your spirits had somewhat lifted, Raymun was loathe to part from you.
You must have sensed his internal conflict. “These fine fellows you lead will be needed imminently, I’d venture. You should get going, I shall not keep you any longer.”
“Are you sure?” Raymun asked, reluctant. “I can spare a few more moments-”
“Go.”
Your tone left little room for argument, and Raymun had no desire to oppose you. Raymun turned, mounting his horse without delay. Wrath and Thunder shuffled on their hooves on either side of Crispin, but otherwise remained at ease.
As he dug his heels lightly into his horse’s sides, Raymun heard you call out to him. Your words were of a teasing lilt, though the fondness within them was still felt.
“The realm is in greater need of you now than I, Squire Raymun. It’d be best not to keep her waiting.”
You found your father in his pavilion at the tourney field. In light of the abrupt end to the jousting the previous day, and the assumption that the tournament was to recommence, it had remained pitched overnight. Water from the rains had begun to pool along the top of the canvas, causing the occasional spill of water onto the ground below. You hastily ducked inside to avoid the falling streams.
Michael Morrigen was tightening the final straps of your father’s armor.
“How is that, My Lord?” he inquired. “Too tight?”
Your father took a moment to test the feel, rotating his shoulders and swinging his arms about. When he was satisfied, he let out a lone laugh, and clapped Michael on the shoulder. “‘Tis perfect as usual, lad.”
There was something off in your father’s tone. While he had never mistreated the boy, he addressed his squire in a manner more fondly than what was usual. It was gentle. Familial, even.
Did your father suspect it was the last time he might speak to the lad?
You cleared your throat softly. While you wanted to make your presence known, you did not wish to startle them. At the sound, both men turned to look at you, and your father let his hand fall back down to rest at his side.
Michael grabbed a nearby pitcher. “I’ll go and fetch you more water, Ser.”
“Many thanks, Michael.”
You gave Michael a polite smile as he passed you to exit the pavilion. In exchange, he gave you a solemn nod.
Once he had gone, you took a moment to look truly at your father. He stood tall, though that was not too difficult for him at all, and donned his fine armor that was tinted gold and embellished with fine black details. The antler helm, the very same one you had teased him about just the morning before, rested upon a nearby chair, just an arm’s reach away.
He was the perfect portrait of a Baratheon warrior. Orys Baratheon himself would have beamed in pride at the sight.
“Committing my face to memory, are you?”
Though he jested, the implication broke your temporary reverie. Dread once again filled your heart, and your throat tightened. “I am merely surprised that you still intend to go through with it.”
“Did you think I would change my mind?”
You shrugged, trying your best to appear unbothered. “I might have hoped it was limited to drunken ambition, nothing more. That your sense would have returned to you come the dawn.”
He let out a sigh. “There hasn’t been a Trial of Seven for over a hundred years-“
“So you said last night-“
“I’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity," he said plainly, as though the explanation was that simple. To him, it was. “And Dunk is a good man. A bit rough around the edges, mayhaps, but a good man nonetheless. Should he die because he was the only man brave enough to put a stop to the Targaryen brat’s rampage?”
“No, of course not,” you conceded, meaning every word. “Dunk had every right, every obligation to stand up for that girl. But this trial by combat.”
“If it will upset you so, are you certain you still wish to witness it? You could wait back at camp, if you’d like. It stands to reason that a man or two might die today- I will not blame you if you do not have the stomach for it.”
You deadpanned. “Now you’re just insulting me.”
“My apologies, Sweet Girl. It’s the nerves. Makes me feel a bit… cheeky.”
“Even more so than usual?”
He winked.
“… I worry for you, is all.”
Your father had not expected that, you could tell. His expression softened, head tilting to the side, grin slowly fading. “Do you?”
“What sort of ridiculous question is that? You’re my father, aren’t you? Of course I am concerned whether you’re about to go off and get yourself killed.”
He shrugged sheepishly. “I’m touched that you care so deeply about the matter... It’s always felt like a bit too much to hope for. Particularly in light of my relationship with my own sire.”
In a moment of rare vulnerability, the Laughing Storm’s mask of bravado had slipped. Gone was the man, the proud, joyful, and fearsome Baratheon heir who had earned the respect and admiration of many both within the Stormlands and throughout the realm. Instead, there was a glimpse of the boy who once was, a second son who had always sought approval, but had always been denied it. A child who had constantly been told by his father that he was insufficient, and always would be.
Your steps were small and unhurried as you closed the distance between you. “You are nothing like Lord Baratheon, Father.”
“To the realm’s horror and eternal sorrow, I’m sure.”
Upon his deflection, you let the subject rest. The Seven be willing, further conversation could be had at a more opportune time. You refused to see your father off with anything less than a clear head.
You took a seat, or rather, plopped somewhat ungracefully, into one of the nearby chairs. Although vaguely aware of your exhaustion, you had not felt the full weight of it until you were off of your feet.
In your tired haze, and under the pressing mental strain of what was soon to transpire, your tongue felt very loose. “However, as of late, I have found myself wondering whether Lord Baratheon might have a point.”
Your father looked as though he had just seen a flying stag in the Kingswood. “What in the Seven Hells do you mean?”
“About his intentions to see us both wed. Pledging my hand to the highest ranking lord who will have it, and you finally taking another lady to wife.”
He said nothing.
“If you do not survive this trial, the Baratheon line will be in an even more precarious situation than it already is.”
An uneasy silence fell upon you at the verbal acknowledgment of your father’s potential peril. It was one thing to be aware of the possibility. It was another altogether to speak of it. To hear it.
After plucking up his helm and setting it aside, your father lowered himself into the chair across from you. Another sigh escaped him as he did so, for once showing a sign of his age. He was not old- and all knew better than to even insinuate such a folly- but he was no spring warrior, either. Just as the wisdom he had gained from previous battles would be an advantage, so too could the beginnings of time-induced ailments be a detriment to him. He would not be the oldest to participate in the Trial of Seven, nor would he be the youngest.
“I must admit, preserving the Baratheon line has not always been a priority of mine.”
“It should be,” you argued, though you could only speak with as much edge as your weariness allowed you. “You are the heir to Storm’s End. If you had taken another wife when Grandsire had first asked, you could have had more children by now.”
A son. While you were not eager to be deposed as your father’s heir, perhaps you could swallow your pride. You could eventually resign yourself to the new reality if you had faith that in doing so, it was in the best interest of House Baratheon. Hadn’t your grandsire even tried to argue as much, after your cousin Martyn had passed?
“Perhaps. Though it is best not to dwell upon all of that now.”
The Seven preserve me…
You let out a frustrated huff, but fought the urge to tug at your hair. Was he truly so blind to the gravity of the situation?
Regardless, there was little more to be said. Though perhaps your father could be still persuaded to see reason, it would not be that day. Just as you would not allow him to enter the field with a distracted mind, you would not risk having your parting conversation end in an argument.
Michael returned then, approaching the table when neither of you made to stop him. He refilled your father’s cup and handed it over to him.
Your father raised the cup, twirling it and looking at the liquid contemplatively. “It is only fair that Dunk be given the first right to pummel Prince Aerion. But if I should have the chance, I will try to get in a few punches in myself. On your behalf, of course.”
You suspected he was trying to coax a smile out of you. Fortunately for him, it worked. “Should you be so fortunate, you would have my gratitude.”
“If it will make you smile like so, I’ll happily grab Prince Aerion by the collar, hold him up to the viewing stand, and give you the chance to strike him yourself.”
It was a ludicrous and completely improbable suggestion. And yet, the utter foolishness of it all drew a laugh from within you. Somewhere behind, Michael snickered too.
As your laughter began to settle, you felt your father’s eyes upon you. Though he had teased you about committing him to memory, you realized that might have been doing the very same.
"Are Rogar and Sebastion outside?”
“Yes.”
"Michael, be a good lad and send them in, won’t you? I would very much like to speak with them before I take to the field.”
The area immediately surrounding the tourney field had not been scarce since the beginning of the tournament two nights past. And yet, somehow it was positively crawling with even more onlookers than Raymun had seen thus far.
It was apparent that everyone in Ashford had gotten word of the trial.
The viewing stands were filling up quickly. Nobles and knights alike claimed every spare seat, with the overflow of the later group taking occupancy along the north and south sides of the list. Across the field from the viewing stand, the common folk gathered in masses, with no spare greenery of the grassy hills they stood upon able to be seen.
Though it seemed impossible, more and more people continued to arrive, all clamoring to claim whatever little space remained.
As Raymun scanned the sea of many faces, lowborn and highborn alike, some were downtrodden and forlorn, while others were bright eyed and ecstatic. Whether they sought to witness justice served, or simply feast their eyes on the rest-assured carnage, all were vying for the best vantage point.
Despite the crowd, Raymun had little difficulty spotting you. Seated in the very first row of the viewing stand, the one closest to the field, you had managed to secure one of the best seats possible.
Or the worst, Raymun thought to himself, noting the grim look etched upon your face.
Oddly enough, there was still some space on either side of where you sat, more room for other nobles to try and seat themselves. He briefly wondered why none of them had attempted to do so. Your escorts were seated in the row immediately behind you, looking just as grim as yourself, though significantly more alert.
“Good morrow, Raymun.”
Raymun had just finished securing the three horses’ leads to the outlying fencing- a temporary measure- when Ser Humfrey called over to him. His own squire hung back a few paces, checking his horse’s saddle.
"Good morrow, Ser Humfrey.”
As he had several times over the past few days, the heir to Honeyholt had once again caught Raymun red handed. He fixed him with a knowing look. “I’ve never seen the Laughing Storm’s daughter look so glum.”
Raymun said nothing.
“Perhaps, after all this unpleasantness has been dealt with and the tournament has concluded, you might consider a visit to Honeyholt, Raymun.”
That was… not what he had expected. “Why’s that?”
"My master at arms is quite knowledgeable. He taught me everything I know, and I think you could learn a lot from him. Perhaps he can brace the gaps of Steffon’s training.”
"My cousin won’t be too pleased with the idea.”
Ser Humfrey merely rolled his eyes. “If Steffon possessed even half the sense the Seven intended for him to have, he’d have trained you more dedicatedly. You’re not a dull lad, Raymun. You’re loyal, perhaps to a fault. With the proper guiding hand, you might have had your knighthood by now.”
The thought had never crossed Raymun’s mind. It had not been his choice for Steffon to take him on as a squire. It had not been Steffon’s choice either. Both had entered into the arrangement at the command of their fathers. Having little other choice, both heeded.
But now, Raymun could not help but wonder. How much more skilled could he have been, had he had a more attentive, more invested, tutor?
“Lyonel mentioned that he plans to visit in a few months' time,” Ser Humfrey said, feigning casualness. “He believed his daughter would be interested in joining him.”
Before Raymun could begin to think about Ser Humfrey’s implication, the Laughing Storm himself had stepped out of his pavilion and had taken to the field. He was accompanied by his squire, who held the reins of his solid black destrier in one hand, and the infamous antlered helm in his other.
With their moment of privacy dissipating, Ser Humfrey clapped Raymun on the shoulder, and gave him a warm smile. “Try not to look so glum yourself, lad. We shall speak more of this later.”
Dawn had just broken, though the sun remained tucked away beneath heavy cloud cover and fog. It was a foul morning already, and rain would only make it worse.
Though the threat of a downpour loomed, onlookers were not deterred in the slightest. More nobility and common folk arrived at the field, crowding the space around you with a mixed array of emotions.
You had arrived early enough to snag a seat in the foremost row of the viewing stand. Though you were wary what such a closeness to the field might subject you to witness, you felt a pull to the spot. It would be most beneficial in keeping an eye out for your father. And for Raymun.
Said squire stood on the far end of the field, talking to Ser Humfrey Beesbury, whom you knew to be one of Ser Duncan’s champions. One.
Your father, accompanied by his squire leading his destrier, made their way to join them. Two.
To your disbelief, Ser Humfrey Hardying, having been helped atop his newly acquired bright red charger by his squire and a few strong men, trotted across the field to join them. Three.
By the time he reached the ensemble, the one-eyed Ser Robert Rhysling had joined them as well, accompanied by none other than Prince Aegon Targaryen. Four.
Ser Duncan entered onto the field beneath a stone archway, trailed by a large bearded man whom you did not recognize. As he revealed himself, what limited light the sky provided fell upon him. Despite being visibly on edge and doubtlessly lacking meaningful rest, Ser Duncan otherwise looked as well a man in his position could hope to be. Five.
Given Ser Duncan’s lack of notoriety, the fact that he was able to find four more champions to fight with him in a matter of hours was an extremely admirable feat. Ser Steffon Fossoway would be the fifth, which meant that Dunk was only in need of one more knight. Though Steffon had yet to arrive, Raymun had readied his horse, Wrath, and was tending to him.
“Is this seat taken, My Lady?”
You looked up to see Lady Alynne Cafferen.
Your escorts were seated behind you, as you strongly suspected was at the behest of your father. However, your ladies had given you a wider berth, opting instead to sit a few more rows back. Perhaps they did not wish to be too close to the bloodshed. Perhaps they did not know how they would comfort you- should such a need arise.
Regardless, you were pleased to see Lady Alynne. Accompanying her was her older cousin, the Lord of Fawnton’s niece.
By way of an answer, you moved to make room for them both. Once the two women were seated beside you, you felt some relief. Whatever horror you were about to witness, you no longer felt so alone.
Some excitement rippled over the crowd as more men took to the field, followed shortly thereafter by mild applause. However, you did not join.
Prince Aerion Targaryen rode out first. He was seated atop a different charger than he had ridden the previous day, as his other had been awarded to Ser Humfrey Hardying as compensation. But his armor remained the same, dark and ill-boding.
Beside him was his elder brother Prince Daeron. He looked as though his sleep had been restless, and that longed for little else than a sip of whatever indulgent beverage he could find. In comparison to Prince Aerion, his movements were far more sluggish, his eyes red.
Prince Maekar hovered around the two, be it out of protection, or supervision. His mouth was pressed in a firm line, and though a few bold members of the audience called out to him specifically, he ignored them all. Simply put, he was intimidating, well-seasoned from the Blackfyre Rebellion. You pitied any amongst Ser Duncan’s men who might find themselves facing the Anvil in direct combat.
Three men in the white cloaks of the Kingsguard lingered near the three princes. They were beacons of light amongst the dark brown of the mud beneath their horses’ hooves and the drab gray sky above.
You waited for one the final of Prince Aerion’s champions to appear, but none did.
Alynne had the same realization. “There are only six of them.”
You looked over to the raised platform in the viewing stand, where Lord Ashford, his daughter Lady Gwin, and her two elder brothers were seated. The rest of the chairs were occupied by other nobles of Lord Ashford’s choosing. Though you knew of two other Targaryen princes in Ashford, they remained to be seen.
Hidden away, you suspected. If Prince Maekar had commanded the three members of the Kingsguard to fight for Prince Aerion, they were spoken for. In addition, three members of King Daeron’s line were about to partake in the Trial of Seven. Prince Baelor and Prince Valarr must have been tucked away somewhere secure, closely guarded by every remaining Targaryen household guard that had accompanied their party to Ashford.
The Lord of Fawnton’s niece warily observed, “While there may only be six of them, Prince Aerion still has the advantage.”
“There is at least one more still to join Ser Duncan,” you divulged, unable to shake the increasing hopefulness from your voice. “Ser Steffon Fossoway.”
As though he had heard you, Ser Steffon finally emerged out onto the field.
He had a satisfied look upon his face, and there was a particular skip in his step that you had not seen since your first encounter with him several days before. He’d been so confident then, strolling into the Baratheon tent under the guise of a servant delivering a barrel of cider… So self-assured when he attempted to force an introduction between the two of you.
But if confidence was what Ser Steffon needed to ensure that both he and Ser Duncan survived the day, so that your father might survive the day, you would not fault it for him.
At least, not today.
“Six?” Raymun exclaimed, looking to Duncan with what he was sure was thinly veiled hope. “There are only six?”
Six men, three in armor of white and the other three in armor of black, sized them up from the opposite end of the tournament field. Behind Raymun and Dunk, Ser Lyonel Baratheon, Ser Humfrey Hardying, Ser Humfrey Beesbury, and Ser Robert Rhysling returned the favor.
Dunk looked as though he could scarcely believe it himself. “Is it possible that Aerion has not found a seventh to take up his claim?”
“Perhaps,” Raymun conceded aloud, though he had his doubts.
Prince Aerion was in no short supply of power or wealth. And though he may have had difficulty in securing allies based on the morality of his claim alone, he had plenty of other means to compel men to fight for him.
“Raymun!”
In the midst of waiting for the seventh of Prince Aerion’s champions to arrive, Steffon’s sudden appearance had gone unnoticed. His cousin strolled over to Raymun and Dunk, with not a single trace of nerves about him.
He had not noticed Steffon’s sudden appearance, though his cousin had wasted no time in making himself known. Steffon strolled over to them, no trace of nerves about him.
“My helm, if you please.”
Raymun hopped into action quickly, murmuring praises to the gods under his breath. Had Steffon been successful in his venture to rally more men to fight for Dunk? Even if he hadn’t, shocking though it was, Raymun was happy to see him. He was happy his cousin had truly meant to make good on what he had promised Dunk.
Raymun handed Steffon his helm, and then began to ensure that Steffon’s armor was sufficiently secured. As Raymun’s fingers worked swiftly through the well-practiced motions, his mind drifted to your earlier words.
Steffon must survive this day, so that he has the opportunity to become a better man.
“Ser Steffon, what of your friends?” Dunk called out to him. “Were you able to find another? We only need one more knight to make our seven.”
“You’ll need two more, I’m afraid.”
Steffon’s words were spoken with such casualness, Raymun did not immediately register their meaning. “No, just the one,” he corrected Steffon, fingers still flying as he remained focused on the task at hand. “There’s Ser Lyonel, Ser Robert, the two Ser Humfreys. You will make five, and Ser Duncan makes six. He’s only in need of one more.”
Steffon did not respond. Raymun finished his inspection of the armor, and slowly rose back to his full height.
He met his cousin’s eye, only to find a look within them that he did not care for.
“Ser Duncan will need two more, Raymun.”
The meaning finally dawned on him just as Steffon finally chose to speak plainly.
Steffon pointed down the field. “I fight for Prince Aerion and the accusers.”
A very uncomfortable silence fell, and even Dunk’s other champions halted their idle chatter to listen. Raymun looked back at Duncan, the betrayal clear upon his face. face.
“You told Ser Duncan that he could rely on you.” More hushed, Raymun added, “You promised him, Steffon.”
“And I’ve made a new promise,” he explained. “Despite that despondent look in your eyes, you can rest assured that it was nothing personal. My promise to Prince Aerion simply supersedes the promise that I made to Ser Duncan.”
Dunk’s look of betrayal had shifted to one of resignation. A part of him had expected this, feared this. A part of Raymun had as well, but for some ungodly reason, he had opted to ignore his instinct in favor of trusting his cousin.
How foolish that had been. Steffon had not been out attempting to recruit others to fight for Ser Duncan’s claim. He’d been betraying him. And in doing so, he had conspired with the very people he claimed to despise.
Raymun was almost too afraid to ask. “What could possibly be worth bringing such dishonor upon our house?”
“In exchange for thwarting Ser Duncan, Prince Aerion has promised me a lordship.”
“A lordship? You traded your honor for a lordship?”
Though it was far from the first time, Raymun saw Steffon for the man he really was. Thick, vile, and self-serving. However, unlike before, he would not be so quick to forget.
Steffon smiled, the bastard. “Better men than me have traded their honor for far less. Believe me, it was a bargain well struck. And chin up, you’ll soon be the cousin of Lord Steffon Fossoway of Cider Hall… For now though, be a good squire and go fetch me my horse.”
Fresh off the betrayal to Dunk, his cousin truly expected him to squire for him, as though nothing of consequence had happened. As though Raymun owed it to him.
Was he to squire for a man of such dishonor?
…
He couldn’t.
…
He wouldn’t.
Raymun shoved his cousin harshly. Steffon hadn’t seen it coming, and he stumbled back. A point of no return, but he ceased to care.
“Fetch him yourself,” Raymun spat angrily.
Shock flashed across Steffon’s face, but he recovered. Ever petulant, Steffon shoved him back before storming off.
Steffon was not the only one surprised by his outburst. He turned slowly, meeting Dunk’s wide eye gaze. As Wrath, rider now seated upon his back, galloped down to the opposite end of the field, both Raymun and Dunk watched the traitor go.
Dunk was defeated. “We are lost.”
Steffon approached Prince Aerion, who offered him a single nod of acknowledgment. A nod and a lordship, that was what Steffon had tarnished the reputation of their house for. What he had sold his honor for.
…
For better or for worse, Raymun’s honor was not able to be bought.
He closed the distance between himself and Dunk, summoning his courage with each and every step.
“Knight me,” he bid his friend. “I will take my cousin’s place.”
Pairing: Raymun Fossoway x Baratheon! Female Reader
MASTERLIST (story synopsis also found here)
Warnings: friends to lovers, slowburn, GOT typical sexism, mild canon divegence, language, canon-compliant death of a horse, canon-compliant violence against women
word count: 15,900ish oops again
A/N: thank you all again for your patience. i fear this fic will continue to be me fretting over the word count, only to go ahead and commit to my chapter outline anyway (I'm a wordy b*tch, im sorry). we're getting into the good stuff now, folks! I'd love to hear your thoughts. thank you for reading! I hope you have a wonderful evening and weekend🖤💛💚 (if you're interested, I've made a work in progress pinterest board for the fic- the link can be found on the masterlist)
🖤 if you prefer not to read long format fics on tumblr, this is also cross posted on AO3, the link is on the masterlist 🖤
Ser,
…
Dear,
…
My Friend,
…
You let out a frustrated huff, the quill plopping onto the table unceremoniously. The parchment, now boasting a blot of unbecoming ink, laughed at you mockingly.
Seven Above, this should not be so difficult…
Oh, but it was. You had been attempting to write your letter- or rather, a brief message- for the better part of an hour. In all that time, all you had to show for effort were the many, many scratched out attempts at addressing the recipient.
You sat inside the largest Baratheon tent, having reassumed your usual place at the high table. Others, including a few of your ladies, sat at other tables nearby, discussing the previous night’s events as they broke their fast. The hour was still early, but you suspected that many, yourself included among them, had not been able to sleep very well the night before due to all of the excitement. As the quiet lull of nearby conversations continued to fill your ears, you turned your focus to another, significantly less frustrating, task.
Your needlework on the handkerchief was a bit more forgiving. With the progress you had made the previous afternoon, the outline of the stag was coming along quite nicely- if you said so yourself. You lifted the handkerchief up, and the light from the nearby candles illuminated the stitches as you examined them.
...
Sadly, for all your craftsmanship, you found something to be… lacking, in your recent project. Black and yellow threads were frequently used in your prior needlework, and you had often stitched stags, a doe, or even the occasional fawn. Nothing about this particular handkerchief was particularly special at all. You sought to rectify that.
The handkerchief was missing something… Though inspiration had yet to whisper to you of what that something was.
“You’ve risen early this morning.”
So focused had you’d been in the scrutinization of your needlework, you had not noticed or heard your father’s approach. However, to your credit, he had to have been all but silent, which was a rarity in and of itself.
You set down the handkerchief carefully, letting it fall into place beside the temporarily abandoned parchment. “The same could be said of you.”
Your father shrugged with a small, sheepish smile. “The tourney calls.”
In a little more than an hour, new challengers would enter the lists, and the second day of the tourney would commence. While your father had ultimately been victorious over Ser Robert Ashford the prior evening, the younger knight had put forth a tremendous effort. They had each broken nine lances, and after unseating each other on their tenth tilt, fought on foot until Ser Robert Ashford ultimately yielded. Today, your father would take his earned place as one of Lady Gwin’s champions.
He needed no invitation to claim the seat beside you. As he settled, you offered him the carafe of wine within your reach. It was a light, fruity blend that you tended to favor when breaking your fast.
However, your father politely declined it. “As tempting as that may be, I best not get too far ahead of myself. The day is still young. If I were to fall from my horse after the first tilt, poor Michael may just leave me to lie there in the dirt, just as I would deserve.”
Michael, the third and youngest son of Lord Morrigen of Crow’s Nest, was your father’s squire. The young man was a year or two your junior, though one might never have guessed that, given his considerable height. Michael was reserved but polite, and was blessed with an immaculate amount of patience. The last of those qualities had served him well in his duties as the squire of the Laughing Storm.
“Was my helm amiss my head proper last night, or did I see you sitting beside that Fossoway fellow?”
You felt your back straighten of its own accord. Under the guise of making room to pour yourself more wine into an awaiting goblet, you scooted the handkerchief over to veil the parchment with as much subtlety as possible.
“His name is Ser Steffon Fossoway,” you reminded tactfully. “And yes, I was seated beside him last night… Although, I am surprised that you were able to see such a thing, especially with that silly helm of yours.”
It was unwise to mock the Laughing Storm’s helm, especially to his face. But you were one of the privileged few able to jest without fear of his retribution.
Your father rolled his eyes, though there was no true annoyance in the gesture. “Laugh all you like, Sweet Girl. But when my enemies see those antlers on the field, they know of the storm that approaches them.”
Despite your teasing, you did not doubt that.
“So, this Ser Stevron fellow-“
“-Steffon-“
“-the two of you are not…?”
You jerked back in disgust, as though you had been doused with cold water. “Seven preserve me, no.”
“No? Truly? I had thought, since the two of you seemed cordial enough-“
You could not bear the thought for a moment more. “I vow, with the Seven above as my witness, that I have no special tenderness in my heart for Ser Steffon Fossoway.”
The amused look on your father’s face was relentless. “If you insist.”
“I insist. I only sat beside him last night as a favor to a friend… It’s a long story, and I don’t think you’d care too much for the details.”
He shrugged nonchalantly, unbothered. “I don’t mean to pry. I only wanted to ensure that you would not be too cross with me if I had to unseat him today.”
A smile came to your lips at the thought. “By all means, do what you feel you must.”
The one Fossoway whose well being might concern you would never take to the field. At least, not as a competitor.
“I would be bearing a falsehood if I said that was not a relief to hear,” your father admitted. “The man was not even brave enough to simply ask me to be introduced to you. Instead, he went through all that trouble to sneak into a party where he was not invited. And, frankly, unwelcome.”
Of the several reasons for which you held Ser Steffon Fossoway in low regard, a lack of bravery had not yet been among them. But it was a valid point. You added it to your mental tally of areas Steffon could stand to improve in.
“It would pain me to see you choose such a coward to stand by your side.”
Your fathers sudden confession, in a tone far more serious than what he usually carried, gave you pause.
“I would not protest too much, of course, if it would make you happy and was what you truly wanted,” he continued, filling the silence between you. “Though we both know I would most definitely put on a poor show of pretending to like him. You deserve more than-“
You put a hand on his closest arm to cease him. “You fret for naught.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
The hopefulness in his eyes lingered for a moment. As his sight fell back down to the table, he patted your hand a few times placatingly. “Forgive me, I did not mean to doubt your judgment.”
You scoffed, half-seriously. “If I came to you, and declared that I wished to be wed to a man the likes of Ser Steffon, I would hope you would protest. At the very least, I would hope you would try to reason with me.”
The effort to lighten the mood was successful, and your father smiled. “Aye, I can do that.”
A comfortable silence fell. The two of you looked out across the tent, casually watching others break their fast with no real focus on any of them in particular.
You thought your father would soon excuse himself to prepare for the tourney. Instead, he posed a question that caught you off guard.
“But what of that other fellow?”
You looked at the parchment out of the corner of your eye. “… What other fellow?”
“The dark haired lad, the one you invited to supper the other night.”
You pursed your lips as you contemplated your next words. The feeling stirring within you was oddly reminiscent of your youth, when your septa would catch you and your cousin Martyn sneaking sweets from the kitchens.
“The lad was in the Beesbury pavilion yesterday too, wasn’t he?” Your father did not wait for your answer. “I could have sworn that that was him, sitting beside Dunk. Of course, I didn’t piece it together until last night- when I spotted him in the row behind you. He was sitting beside the young Cafferen girl.”
“Raymun Fossoway,” you supplied, feeling as though you had no other option. “He is Ser Steffon’s cousin, and his squire.”
“And is Raymond-“
“Raymun-“
“Is he…?”
“We’re acquainted.”
The word did not feel right, and it did not settle on your tongue with much ease at all. But you had yet to navigate your own feelings about Raymun Fossoway. The thought of trying to explain the delicate situation to your father seemed absolutely mortifying at best.
Your father sighed wistfully. “That’s the wonder of tournaments like these, isn’t it? All walks of life, coming together. Friendships blossoming, bonds between houses strengthening… And all that other whimsical shit that the minstrels sing of.”
You shook your head in mock disapproval. As you fought off a smile, you were relieved to know that, at least for now, your secret was safe.
Your father hummed. “The lad and the Cafferen girl make a charming pair, don’t you think?”
Though you would not dare speak of it aloud, you could not deny your growing affinity for Raymun. Neither could you deny that Lady Alynne Cafferen was quickly growing on you as well, despite the interesting conversation the two of you had shared the evening before.
However, the mere thought of Raymun and Alynne together had you feeling abruptly ill, and, most shamefully, jealous.
Instead of acknowledging his statement, a devious idea crossed your mind. “How fares your search for a bride of your own, Father?”
He barked out a single, joyless laugh.
And that was that.
“As lovely as this has been, I best be going. I’m off to find my squire, before he has the burden of having to find me.”
“Do be careful today,” you bid, watching as your father rose to his feet. “I would hate to write to Grandsire and inform him that you’ve broken an arm. Or worse.”
He scoffed, feigning offense. “I am always careful, Sweet Girl.”
About as careful as a newborn fawn, you mused.
“Perhaps you should be careful with that Fossoway fellow,” your father added, as though it was a mere afterthought.
“Praise the Seven, Ser Steffon is likely to enter the lists today. I believe I shall be spared his company.”
“No, no, not that one. The other one.”
Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I know not whether he seeks Lady Alynne’s affection now, but I saw the way he looked at you the other night,” your father said, giving you a knowing, and yet sympathetic, look. “It was as though you painted all the stars in the night sky by your own hand.”
It was not often that you found yourself rendered speechless.
“It’d be a shame to break the lad’s heart.”
As your father departed to find his squire, you were left sitting at the table with nothing but your own uncomfortable thoughts. Perhaps what bothered you most was the sense of finality in your father’s tone. It was as though what he warned you of was inevitable, instead of merely possible. With your fortune, it most likely was.
And still, you could not help but wonder. Knowing the fate was already sealed, did he caution you so as to not prolong what had already begun?
… Or did he hope for you to prove him wrong?
“Twenty three,” Steffon grumbled, spitting on the ground in disdain. “Twenty fucking three.”
Steffon, with Raymun on his heels, had just stepped out from beneath the pavilion.
A makeshift viewing gallery, significantly smaller than the viewing stand which boasted the majority of the lords and ladies in attendance, had been erected on the south side of the lists. The gallery was little more than a few staggered wooden benches, but it was shielded from any potential rainfall by the pavilion raised above it. All knights, even if they did not intend to challenge, were welcomed there, as well as their wives, mistresses, or other favored companions.
The gallery was also the designated location where the knights who intended to compete would learn of their drawn place of entry. The right of first challenge the previous evening had gone to knights of higher birth and greater renown. But the first full day of events, and the order in which remaining challengers would joust, was to be determined by luck of the draw.
Well, not entirely luck of the draw, since the challengers preparing to ride that day were still of the nobility. But after another a day or two, as competitors entered the lists and either emerged victorious or left defeated, the knights of lesser renown, and those who were unclaimed by a lord, such as Ser Dunk, would be granted their own chance to challenge whom they wished.
Plummer, an older man with a narrow face and thinning grey hair, was Lord Ashford’s master of games. It was he who had been charged with relaying the men’s drawn number of entry. Steffon had reported to Plummer in the viewing gallery early that morning, just after the sun had risen.
Steffon had handled his fate with about as much grace and decorum as Raymun might have expected. That was to say, he did not take the news very well at all.
“It could be worse,” Raymun countered, hoping to ease his cousin’s brewing frustration. “You could have drawn the first entry.”
Being among the first competitors to joust meant that the champions they challenged would be fresh. They would be well rested and prepared, which fostered the higher chance for a match on near equal footing. By the time Steffon would enter the lists, it stood to reason that at least a few of the remaining champions would have begun to tire from their previous matches.
Not to mention, had he been one of the first to enter the lists, all of Steffon’s efforts to learn of opponents potential weaknesses would have been for naught.
On second thought-
“Poor luck in the draw, Steffon?”
Ser Humfrey Beesbury, who had also promptly reported to Plummer that morning, had followed them out of the pavilion.
Steffon spared him an acknowledging glance, but he said nothing in reply. Under his breath, he mumbled a few impolite words that Raymun fervently hoped Ser Humfrey would not overhear.
As said man approached, Raymun was quick on his feet. “What number did you draw?”
Ser Humfrey bore a mighty pleased grin upon his face, his bright yellow mustache gleaming in the rising sun. “Four.”
“Four?”
It was a better draw than even Prince Aerion Targaryen had pulled, as Raymun had overheard earlier in the pavilion. Mercifully, the Targaryen prince had not shown up to report to Plummer personally, and instead sent a guard in his place. That had probably been best for all involved.
“Unless my good brother is challenged by one of the first few, and has suffered some rotten luck, he will most certainly still be a champion when it’s my turn to take to the field.”
It would also be early enough for the crowd to not have lost much enthusiasm. The same could not be said for Steffon’s number in the draw. If the day’s events went long, he would not be able to take the field until the morrow. Raymun knew Steffon had realized as much when even more curses angrily tumbled out.
“Better luck of the draw next time, eh Steffon?”
Steffon opened his mouth.
“-Good luck, Ser Humfrey,” Raymon interjected hastily, though no less sincerely.
Ser Humfrey gave him a disappointed look. Raymun did not know whether it was at his own failure to rile up Steffon with his words, or with Raymun’s intervention to prevent his cousin from engaging.
Either way, Ser Humfrey’s pleasure at having drawn such a favorable number eventually won out. With one last nod to Raymun, he left without another word, presumably to find his squire and get armored.
Once Ser Humfrey was out of earshot, Steffon gave him a hard look. “You don’t need to coddle me, Raymun. I can handle Beesbury on my own.”
“Folks are already starting to arrive,” Raymun replied, his eyes darting around the surrounding area to confirm. “Coming to blows with Ser Humfrey, even if he was the one goading you, would reflect poorly on our house, Steffon.”
Raymun waited for either a verbal lashing or physical rebuke from Steffon. To his astonishment, he did not immediately receive either.
Steffon regarded him with narrow, scrutinizing eyes. But after a beat, they softened a bit. “That is surprisingly selfless of you, Cousin.”
… Is this a dream?
Raymun could not recall the last time Steffon had offered him any sort of praise or compliment. He was baffled, and at a complete loss for words.
However, Steffon did not allow him time to ponder what to say. He struck out, hand clasping around Raymun’s upper arm in a grip so tight it was painful, and indisputably threatening.
“Speak on my behalf like that ever again, and I will knock you so silly you won’t be able to remember your own mother’s face.”
And there it is.
Raymun yanked his arm out of his cousin’s grasp. He could not care less if the sudden movement drew attention to them from the arriving crowd.
“What in the Seven Hells has gotten into you, Raymun?”
Raymun did not know how to respond to Steffon’s demand, for the simple reason that he did not know the answer. He turned on his heel without another word, striding away from Steffon despite the punishment that such disrespect was likely to cull for him later.
Steffon did not stop him. “Make yourself useful, go and check on my horse.”
Raymun had already planned to do as much anyway, though there was little point, as Steffon was not likely to joust that day. Still, though the horse may have had to suffer its master, that did not mean it also had to endure neglect from his squire.
As he walked away, Raymun let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
It was a small mercy, though a mercy nonetheless, that Steffon had had the sense to omit any mention of you that morning. In fact, Steffon had been oddly tight lipped about the prior evening altogether. It was… odd. Raymun had not expected gratitude from Steffon for having introduced the two of you, but for his cousin to not bring up any mention of it at all? It was rather curious…
Perhaps you did not catch his cousin’s interest, Raymun ventured.
Any man in the Seven Kingdoms would be very fortunate to have your hand, Steffon more so than others. But, despite the novelty of your friendship, Raymun could sense that you were not a woman who would bow down and heed the will of her husband just because she “ought” to. Steffon had little use for a squire with his own mind, even less so for a wife that would not obey him.
Just as well, Raymun thought, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Save a woman with a fighting spirit for a man who will actually appreciate her.
… Gods know he would, if only given the chance.
“Lady Y/N, is that you?”
You halted in your tracks.
“Princess Kiera.”
You had left the Baratheon tent shortly after your father’s departure, and were once again escorted to the tourney field by Ser Rogar Fell and Ser Sebastion Swann. Unlike the prior evening, Lady Alynne Cafferen had not joined you, and the three of you walked alone.
Well, alone as one could get when surrounded by masses of other folk also aiming to reach the same destination.
Your father’s parting words, and their implication, claimed almost your entire focus, and it was all you could do to make sure you did not trip over your own feet. It was very much out of character, but nonetheless, you remained distracted. So distracted, in fact, when you finally reached the tourney field and approached the viewing stand, you had not noticed the group gathered at the bottom of the staircase.
To many throughout the realm, particularly the nobility and common folk who viewed the match with the one of the Free Cities as unfavorable, she would always be Lady Kiera of Tyrosh. However, as the wife of Prince Valarr Targaryen, she was owed the honorable title of princess, and you would give her no less respect than what she was due.
A few guards stood watch in her periphery. There were few more than what you might have guessed necessary. However, given her current condition, you deduced that the extra security would have been at the insistence of her husband. In Princess Kiera’s immediate vicinity, she was surrounded by a few of her ladies in waiting. You recognized several of them from your brief time in King’s Landing.
Once you broke free of the clouded haze that was your troubled thoughts, you fell into a curtsy so proper, your childhood septa would have admired it. “Good morrow. You look well today, Princess.”
Princess Kiera beamed. Her face was framed by a few stray pieces of light pink curls, but the majority of her hair was swept up and away. She donned a magnificent gown of silk in various pink and purple silk. Despite not wearing their house’s colors, Princess Kiera looked every bit of royalty.
“You are kind to say so,” she replied, still smiling. A gentle hand came to rest upon her round stomach. “I am grateful that I feel well enough to attend. I should like the opportunity to see some of this chaos for myself.”
Her referenced illness explained her absence. When you had not seen her the evening before, you had - incorrectly- assumed she had not been in attendance in Ashford at all. “Prince Valarr rode well last night, you should be proud.”
It was not a lie- exactly. Prince Valarr had ridden well, and managed to unseat Ser Abelar Hightower. However, Ser Abelar Hightower was old, and had to be carried off the field. You could not help but wonder how the Young Prince would fare against an opponent of his own age. However, you did not anticipate that any challengers of note would ever dare to knock upon his shield.
And who could blame them? No one wanted to be responsible for causing harm to a prince of the blood.
“So I was told. However, I suspect that my husband’s performance in his tilts was exaggerated solely for my benefit.”
Thankfully, you were spared having to formulate a response to her astute observation.
There was a slight commotion up ahead, in the direction from where Ashford Castle loomed in the distance. A moment later, more Targaryen guards came into your line of sight. There was also a lone member of the Kingsguard, donning armor of pure white amongst a sea of red and black.
Prince Baelor Targaryen wore a look of distraction himself, though you might not have caught it at all, had you not happened to glance over at just the right moment in time. In a manner which was undoubtedly well practiced, his expression subtly shifted into one that exuded calmness as he approached.
Prince Baelor gave you a cordial nod, and in response you curtseyed as Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion bowed respectfully behind you.
“Good morrow, Lady Y/N.”
“Good morrow, Your Grace.”
Prince Baelor turned to Kiera, and offered her an arm for support. “Are you ready, my dear?”
She nodded, and took his arm appreciatively. “Perhaps we will speak again later, My Lady. I hope you enjoy the tournament.”
You bowed your head, though you had already lost the attention of Prince Baelor and Princess Kiera. The pair began to ascend the staircase to claim their seats of honor and you watched them go silently.
In a queer, brief moment, it dawned on you that you were catching a glimpse of what your life might have been. In another life, you might have been in Princess Kiera’s shoes. It might have been you, wed to the Young Prince and already expecting your first child, a babe that would someday sit upon the Iron Throne.
In just a stark of a realization, you no longer mourned for what might have been.
The first full day of the tournament had begun, and Raymun, who stood along the fencing along the south side of the lists, had what he believed to be one of the best vantage points of all.
After Raymun had seen to Steffon’s horse, Wrath, his cousin had resigned himself back to the viewing gallery. Though Steffon was most likely still sulking and bemoaning his misfortune, Raymun was pleased enough to have been given leave to watch from outside the gallery, much closer to the field.
In the unlikely event that Steffon’s turn to enter the list would occur that day, Raymun paid a mind to the number of challengers who entered the lists. There was still a chance he would need to fetch Wrath, and help Steffon with his armor.
However, before that time would come to pass, Raymun was determined to thoroughly enjoy the spectacle. He quickly found that there was little not to enjoy.
The five champions who had emerged victorious the evening before remained - Prince Valarr Targaryen, Ser Tybolt Lannister, Ser Humfrey Harding, Lord Leo Tyrell, and the Laughing Storm Ser Lyonel Baratheon. All five of their pavilions, each in the color of their houses, were raised in a line along the north side of the lists. Each of the men, when not actively riding, sat outside of their tents, drinking and watching appraisingly as challengers approached.
A shield for each man was posted along the fence in front of their pavilion. When a challenger knocked upon a shield with their lance, their challenge was declared, and the crowd made their enthusiasm known.
One of the first three challengers was Ser Joseth Mallister from Seaguard. He called out Ser Humfrey Hardying. However, the decision was ill advised, or perhaps the gods simply did not favor Ser Joseth that day. After a third tilt, Ser Humfrey Hardying unseated Ser Joseth Mallister from his horse. Ser Joseth was knocked unconscious from the fall, and had to be carried off the field, much like Ser Abelar Hightower the night before.
The second challenger was Ser Gawain of House Swann, Lord of Stonehelm on the Cape of Wrath. He knocked upon the shield of the Young Prince Valarr Targaryen. On the second pass through the lists, Ser Gawain was unseated by his opponent. However, after Prince Valarr dismounted, withdrew his sword, and approached the older knight, Ser Gawain yielded immediately.
The Young Prince accepted the victory graciously, and the nobility and common folk alike gave both men adequate applause for their efforts. But as Prince Valarr knelt to help Ser Gawain rise to his feet, Raymun could have sworn a look of frustration flashed across his face. Perhaps the Young Prince, like Raymun, had hoped for more of an eventful match.
The third of the first three challengers was Ser Pearse of House Caron, Lord of the Marches. His match against Lord Leo Tyrell proved to be the most exciting so far. Lord Pearse Caron managed to dismount Lord Leo Tyrell. Once the two took to their feet, they engaged in an enthralling battle with blunted longaxes. It went on for some time, until Lord Tyrell took advantage of his shattered shield and promptly broke off the head of Lord Caron’s axe from the haft of the weapon. Lord Caron yielded thereafter.
The first few challenges had their shining moments, and the crowd was utterly captivated by the time the fourth challenger entered the lists.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury rode across the field with purpose. He passed by several of the champion’s tents, not bothering to pretend to consider another opponent. He knocked on his good brother’s shield, and Ser Humfrey Hardying, despite having just unseated Ser Joseth Mallister, eagerly answered his challenge.
What transpired then, Raymun would later discover, was what the smallfolk had dubbed the Battle of the Humfrey. The affair was aptly named and aptly entertaining in equal measures. Ser Humfrey Hardying and Ser Humfrey Beesbury broke at least a dozen lances- though after then, Raymun had lost count. Eventually, the men took to foot, continuing to battle. There was not a single sign of any tiredness from either of the men, even though they had participated in over a dozen tilts. Blows were exchanged eagerly, and almost evenly, much to the adoration of the crowd. However, Ser Humfrey Hardying eventually capitalized on a moment of zeal from Ser Humfrey Beesbury, and the heir to Honeyholt was forced to yield.
As the later Ser Humfrey was helped off the field with the assistance of his squire, Raymun caught his eye. “You’ll get him next time, Ser.”
Ser Humfrey clapped him on the shoulder fondly as he limped by. “That’s the spirit, Fossoway.”
Raymun smiled, snickering to himself as Ser Humfrey’s squire, with an arm thrown over his shoulders, continued to help his master away from the field. Somewhere behind him, Raymun could hear Lady Deana chiding her husband with half-hearted disapproval.
Raymun let out a contented sigh as he took in the tourney field. New challengers would soon enter, but for a moment, the field was empty. On one side of the field, the crowd of common folk buzzed, still reeling from the entertaining display of knightly valor. It was easy to spot the massive, looming figure of Ser Dunk, his small squire seated upon his shoulders.
On the opposite side of the tourney field, the nobility in the viewing stand were also riled up with excitement. Raymun had not meant to look for you amongst the crowd, truly. But his mind was traitorous, and his eyes were all too happy to go along with the treason.
It took a few moments, but eventually he saw you. You were seated a few rows up from the field, not far from the row that Steffon had guided you to the night before. While Steffon was not at your side anymore, to Raymun’s surprise, neither was Lady Alynne Cafferen.
Though other nobles carried on with giddiness around you, you sat rather still. It was hard to tell from the distance, but Raymun could have sworn you appeared distracted. Somber, even.
You sensed his gaze, and your eyes flickering from the field upwards, locking with his own.
His heart skipped a beat as you smiled in recognition.
He’d been looking for you.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Raymun stood along the south side of the lists, a few other spectators on either side of him. Although, the majority of the challengers and their squires came and went from the viewing galley and pavilion just beyond.
Despite the nearly overwhelming desire, you did not dare to risk a wave. You hoped that Raymun would not take offense.
Most blessedly, he did not appear to. The grin he gave you was wide and proud- goofy in a terribly endearing way. It was difficult to break yourself away from Raymun’s doe-eyed gaze, but when the next challengers entered the lists, you had little choice.
Challengers continued to take the field, sometimes in two, three, even five at a time.
Ser Tybolt Lannister was nearly defeated by Ser Jon Penrose, but ultimately emerged victorious and was able to remain a champion. A similar circumstance befell Lord Leo Tyrell, who was challenged by Ser Robyn Rhysling. Ser Robyn lost his helm on their first tilt, and in doing so revealed himself to have only one good eye. Despite this, Ser Robyn held steadfast, and was not unhorsed until the pair had rode three more times. On the fourth tilt, after Ser Robyn was dismounted, he eventually yielded to Lord Leo Tyrell.
As the day went on, few were daring enough to challenge your father. Living up to his reputation, laughter often accompanied him on and off the field. You were grateful that your father was skilled as he was, as it did not give you too much cause to fret for his well-being. Nevertheless, even the most talented lance only needed to have one ill tilt for something disastrous to occur. Every time a lance collided with the black stag upon his golden shield, your eyes clenched shut.
While his own remained strong and unbroken, the Laughing Storm had devised a game of picking apart the shields of his challengers. This was much to the crowd’s amusement, as well as your own. The few knights who rode with shields adorned with a crest would suddenly find themselves short of the ornate and expensive decor once they had completed the tilt. All the while, on the opposite side of the field, your father would fling their snatched crests into the crowd with his lance. In those moments, his laughter was barely able to be heard over the gleeful cheering of the crowd.
Through it all, you sat alone. Your ladies were seated in the row behind you, but they talked enthusiastically amongst themselves. Lady Deana had briefly sat beside you earlier, and you had been grateful for her company. But as soon as Ser Humfrey Beesbury had to be helped off the tourney field by his squire, she was gone in a flash, cursing both her husband and brother under her breath.
A curious thing, to be surrounded by so many… and yet feel so alone.
You wondered about Lady Alynne Cafferen, whom you had not seen since the previous evening. Despite her peculiar proposal, you found yourself wishing she was seated at your side.
The deep horns bellowed once again, claiming the attention of the common folk and nobility alike- not that it had had any chance of straying too far anyway. The booming sound and the increasing exhilaration of the crowd caused the viewing stand to tremble beneath your feet. However, you were not granted much time to consider your potential peril at all, for the brazen fanfare was soon accompanied by a herald announcing the next challenger.
The knight rode out onto the tourney field on bright red charger. The magnificent horse was adorned in armor of mostly black, but with red and orange streaks, and a helm of its own in the shape of a dragon’s skull.
“Son of Maekar, grandson of King Daeron the Good, and prince of House Targaryen - Prince Aerion Brightflame!”
The crowd applauded as Prince Aerion Targaryen halted his mount in the middle of the tourney field. You joined them, albeit half-heartedly. Despite your disdain, it would have been unwise to be so blatantly disrespectful.
Prince Aerion lifted his visor and looked up at the towards the viewing stand, his deep violet eyes honing in on those in the seats of honor. Lance in hand, he offered one respectful nod.
Lord Ashford looked proud, visibly pleased that another renowned member of the royal family was entering the lists. Lady Gwin looked positively elated, as one might expect a young woman to be when a prince was not only in attendance, but jousting in a tourney held in honor of her name day. Princess Kiera offered her good cousin a polite smile, if not one a touch reserved.
You thought Prince Baelor’s reaction to his nephew to be the most interesting by far. Prince Aerion looked to his uncle and waited for his acknowledgement. For what felt like a moment too long, at least to you, Prince Baelor regarded his nephew neutrally. Finally, he offered his nephew a small and nearly imperceptible nod.
Prince Aerion smirked in gratification. Then, his eyes darted to the right, to the unoccupied seat beside Princess Kiera.
How odd…
You had not even noticed Prince Maekar Targaryen’s absence. What could be so important as to occupy his time and attention, when his second oldest son was due to enter the lists?
However, Prince Aerion did not appear too disheartened by the lack of his father’s presence. Apparently the acknowledgment of the Hand of the King was sufficient enough.
Smirk unwavering, the prince lowered his visor and dug his heels into his horse’s sides. The crowd continued to cheer in anticipation as the prince rode across to the north end of the lists, where the champions waited.
You briefly entertained the possibility of Prince Aerion challenging your father. Though you could admit you were biased, you thought the likelihood of Prince Aerion’s defeat in that scenario quite inevitable. It gave you joy.
Prince Aerion rode past all of the champions once, the movement slow and calculating. A predator encroaching upon its prey. You watched with interest, feeling half thankful and half disappointed when Prince Aerion did not pay the Baratheon shield, still posted in front of your father’s pavilion, much mind at all.
On his second pass, Prince Aerion halted his horse outside the grand black pavilion of his cousin, Prince Valarr. The latter sat in a chair, unbothered as he drank from a cup.
Prince Aerion lifted his visor, and Prince Valarr rose to his feet. Helm at his side, the Young Prince stared his cousin down. The look on his face was resolved. Daring, even.
The nobility surrounding you, including your ladies, began to murmur in excitement. A tilt between two Targaryen princes would be an exciting spectacle for most anyone to witness. However, the very thought made you uneasy. You were privy to some of the history between the cousins. A competitive relationship, to say the least.
Prince Aerion said something to Prince Valarr, though with the distance, you could not make out his exact words. Your mind filled the gaps in your knowledge as Prince Aerion urged his horse forward, striding past the Young Prince’s pavilion and moving on to the white and red diamond pavilion of Ser Humfrey Hardying.
“Come out, come out, little knight,” Prince Aerion goaded loudly. “It’s time you faced the dragon.”
The lance in his hand struck the matching shield before the pavilion, and the crowd erupted into cheers. The horns bellowed once more.
Prince Aerion Targaryen urged his horse forward, turning and riding back to the south side of the lists. Ser Humfrey Hardying, unafraid, took the reins of his destrier. Once he was upon the saddle, he accepted his helm and lance from squire, and swiftly took his place along the north side of the lists.
Applause continued as the challenger and champion readied themselves. But as they steadied their horses, tightened their grips on their lances, and took a few final moments of preparation, an eerie silence fell over the field.
Thunder rumbled softly, and the colorful banners of many houses rippled in the increasing wind.
The horns blew once more, and they were off.
The horses galloped towards each other at an alarming pace. However, just before lance and shield could meet, Prince Aerion veered his charger away from the barrier and out of reach. Ser Humfrey veered forward, making no contact, but managed to remain in his saddle.
Disappointed boos echoed around you and from across the tourney field, and you had half a mind to join them.
The riders whirled around at the opposite end of the lists, and a moment later, engaged in a second tilt.
There was an impact this time. Most egregiously, it was by way of Prince Aerion’s lance going straight through the neck of Ser Humfrey’s destrier.
Your hand clapped over your mouth in horror, and you screwed your eyes shut as distraught neighing filled your ears. Some of your ladies behind you mirrored your actions, while others had their interest piqued by the unpredictable turn of events.
As the crowd continued to gasp in shock, you forced your eyes open again. Ser Humfrey’s horse had fallen to the ground, trapping its master beneath it.
By then, other men had taken to the field to assist Ser Hardying in whatever way they could. Among those who ran out onto the field, you spotted Raymun, right by Ser Humfrey Beesbury’s side.
To your relief, the poor horse was put out of its misery a moment later. But the crowd was not so easily soothed.
You did not bother to conceal the disgust on your face as you looked back to the south side of the lists, where Prince Aerion Targaryen, horse unmaimed, sat. He watched the carnage he crafted with thinly veiled interest, the same infuriating smirk etched upon his face.
Boos continued, angry shouting broke out, and across the way, the common folk began to clamor amongst themselves. Around you, nobility began to shift in their seats uncomfortably. Several even rose to their feet, making way to leave.
An unknown object struck Prince Aerion, having been flung from the opposite side of the field. While the prince was caught unawares, the bold action seemed to only incite those who were displeased. What was a discontented crowd soon became a mob, and a few of the common folk jumped over the fencing to enter onto the tourney field.
You shot to your feet in alarm, as did your ladies behind you. Additional men ran over to try and quell the spiraling chaos. Two white cloaked men of the Kingsguard and several other guards in Lord Ashford’s colors rode out to assist the effort in preventing anyone else from storming onto the field.
“Lady Y/N!”
You had not noticed your father’s squire approach the viewing stand, but all of the sudden, there he was. Michael Morrigen stood just below, looking up at you in mild distress.
As you exited the row, you had struggled to pass by other nobility who were fleeing out of caution. You descended the last few stairs, reaching the very first row closest to the tourney field. Once there, you learned over as far as you could manage in an effort to hear him better.
“My Lady,” Michael called out, far more unsettled than his usual stoic composure. “Ser Lyonel has bid me to have Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion escort you back to camp. With haste.”
Beyond him, the Kingsguard and Ashford guards had yet to gain control of the rioting crowd. Soon, the tourney field would become a scene for a whole other display of carnage. The idea of returning to camp was sound, but you hesitated.
“We will do so… But first, will you grant me a small favor?”
It was hardly an ideal time, but how were you to know when another opportunity might present itself?
Michael looked exasperated, and you pitied him. However, ever dutiful to House Baratheon, the lad waited patiently for you to continue.
“Do you see the man in red, just over there?”
Michael followed your pointed finger and line of sight all the way across the field. Raymun and Ser Humfrey Beesbury were attempting to help Ser Humfrey Hardying to his feet. A few other men, including your father, lingered nearby, ready to help.
You withdrew the parchment, the message upon it since completed, signed, and sealed, from your cloak. Without further ado, you tossed it down to Michael.
He caught it with ease.
“Please deliver that to him, as soon as you can. And please, Michael- be discreet.”
Michael examined the sealed letter and then gave you an apprehensive look.
“It’s nothing untoward,” you promised him. “And he will know who it’s from.”
The squire looked over his shoulder and across the field, where the three men had finally made it safely back to Ser Humfrey Hardying’s pavilion. Then, he turned back to you and let out a small sigh.
“What is his name, My Lady?”
A storm began to brew, both within the skies above and within the masses surrounding the tourney field.
Despite this, when Ser Humfrey Hardying was pinned beneath his horse, Ser Humfrey Beesbury ran out onto the field without another thought, and Raymun was close behind him.
Several other men joined them, with a few offering suggestions on how safely to remove Hardying from beneath his ailing horse. However, Beesbury was quick to take charge.
“Let’s approach from the head. Slowly, now.”
Following Beesbury’s lead, Raymun and Hardying’s squire were able to free the fallen knight with minimal additional jarring to his battered body. As they attempted to help him to his feet, Hardying’s poor horse was put out of its misery. Raymun made a point not to watch, listening to it was bad enough.
With Raymun taking one arm around his shoulder, and Beesbury supporting the other, they began to assist Hardying back to his pavilion.
“The Hand of the King says he is sending his own maester,” someone nearby informed whoever would listen.
“Does he think it will remedy what his nephew has done to me? To my horse?!”
Ser Humfrey Hardying was bruised, bloody, and beaten. But thank the Seven, he was awake and talking. As Hardying exchanged more colorful quips about his opponent’s integrity, or lack thereof, with his good brother Humfrey, Raymun threw a nervous look at the rapidly assembling mob forming just a short ways away from them. Physical blows began to be exchanged between those storming onto the field and those trying to stop them.
Once they were all underneath Hardying’s pavilion, Raymun felt a little better. But the angry shouts of the crowd outside still roared, and he would not let himself breathe comfortably just yet.
The maester arrived shortly after, and began to tend to Ser Humfrey Hardying.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury pulled him aside. “You should be getting on now, Raymun.”
“Are you sure?”
“Unless you’ve spent some time studying in the Citadel, there’s not much either you or I can do for him now,” Beesbury admitted, glancing back over at his good brother. Though there was a good-natured rivalry between them, his genuine concern was plain. “His leg looks ghastly, and he’s clearly shaken up. But I believe the immediate danger has passed.”
There was no need for Beesbury to elaborate.
For the second time that day, Beesbury clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you for the help lad, I will not forget it. I will ensure my good brother does not, either. But go- off with you now. Lord Ashford will likely call an end to the events for the day. You should go and enjoy what’s left of it, whilst you still can.”
Raymun hesitated.
“Stay then, if you wish. You can endure my lady wife’s wrath. She’ll be along soon, no doubt.”
With Beesbury’s advice still in mind, Raymun left the pavilion in somewhat of a trance. Numbness settled in. The riot continued, though the guards had managed to push the mob back a few paces. More by memory than by conscious thought, Raymun trekked back across the field. His destination was unclear, but his intent was not.
Away, something within him whispered, as his eyes focused on the disturbed stretches of dirt in front of him. Away from this wretchedness…
His name was called. He did not hear it. His name was called a second time, though it barely registered amongst his myriad of racing thoughts.
It was only when someone physically stepped into his path that Raymun snapped out of his stupor. He looked up dumbfoundedly, taking in the interceptor as fast as his fogged brain would allow.
A young man around his own age looked down at him. A tall, lanky fellow with dark hair and solemn look, he carried himself just as gravely.
“Raymun Fossoway?”
“… Yes?”
A folded piece of parchment was offered up. Though he had many questions, Raymun did not voice a single one of them aloud. He took the parchment into his own hand.
Not just parchment, but a letter. The gold wax upon it was sealed with a stag, a crown around its neck.
When Raymun looked back up, the other young man was gone.
And, when he looked towards the viewing stand, where many nobles still made for the staircase with great haste, he saw that you were too.
“Ohhhhh, Alice was a special lass, born bereft ‘er thumb. Lost a digit tending flock, now feeling awfully glum!”
“Oh! Alice with three fingers, a copper in her glass. Had two fingers less than most, she’ll shove them up your arse! Hey!”
Though the rains poured outside of the Beesbury pavilion, the merriment beneath it would not be stifled.
You watched warily as your father, mug of mead in hand, stood, sung, and danced on top of a table. He clung to a chandelier precariously secured to the supports along the very top of the pavilion for balance. Through his indulgence, his shirt had since been misplaced. Interestingly enough, he had managed to keep track of his crown of magnificent antlers.
In light of the foul turn of tournament events that morning, many in Ashford felt they were in dire need of mirth. A large group had flocked to Ser Humfrey Beesbury’s pavilion to await news of Ser Humfrey Hardying. When Beesbury returned, he shared the good news that Hardying, while having suffered severe injuries, would live. Beesbury mead went around generously as the good news was spread.
Now, Ser Manfred Dondarrion joined your father atop the table, and you watched with mild apprehension as the wooden planks bent beneath the weight of the two grown men. They sang the bawdy tune to a captivated audience who were all too eager to join in.
Across the tent from where you sat, even Ser Dunk had managed to find his way to the impromptu gathering. You spotted the small boy with a clean-shaven head- his squire- sitting beside him, but could not see him in any great detail.
“And you are certain we will not be overheard?”
You looked away from the amusement and over towards the young woman seated opposite of you at your table, Lady Alynne Cafferen.
“I don’t think it likely that anyone will find our conversation more interesting than good ol’ Alice,” you joked. “But if you are still concerned, we could go for a stroll.”
As if the gods heard you, another rumble of thunder rolled over Ashford. The pattering of rain upon the canvas above your heads picked up.
Alynne frowned. “No, I think not. This will serve just fine.”
“I must admit, I’ve been rather curious as to what favor you would ask of me.”
“You’ve been kind, so I wish to extend you the same courtesy. With your permission, I’d like to speak plainly.”
“Please do.”
Alynne paused and looked around those seated at nearby tables. Almost as if to ensure that they were, in fact, more preoccupied with the performance of Alice with Three Fingers than anything else.
In a low voice, she continued on. “My grandsire has been experiencing some financial troubles as of late.”
“I’m aware,” you admitted bluntly.
Just two mornings past, you and your father had briefly discussed Lord Cafferen of Fawnton’s recent failings, and Lord Baratheon’s growing disappointment in him. Primarily, there was the matter that coin was owed to House Baratheon, and was past due to be repaid. Additionally, though perhaps more pressing, was the concern that Lord Cafferen was either unwilling or unable to keep the peace in his own lands. Bandits and ruffians roamed amongst the villages under his control at their leisure, and to the detriment of his people.
“I ought not to divulge this, but it rests heavy upon my heart,” Alynne said then, piquing your interest all the more. “The villages pay their taxes dutifully, even as many of the people within them go hungry. But when the time comes to make payment to Lord Baratheon, my grandsire tells us that our coffers have suddenly run dry. He does not ease the tax burden upon his villages, but neither is he able to present the coin he has collected from them… My cousin and I suspect he has a horde of gold stashed away, though we do not know where.”
A suspicion you, your father, and Lord Baratheon also shared.
“My cousin has taken it upon herself to try and discover where he has hidden the wealth. And though she has taught me a great many things, I am out of my depth in a matter of such great intrigue.”
Was her cousin the one who had educated her thus far in politics? You made a mental note to inquire further at a more appropriate time.
“Even if he has a copious amount of gold tucked away somewhere, my grandsire still yearns for more,” Alynne said. “He intends to marry me off to the wealthiest suitor who will have my hand. At first, I think he hoped I might catch Ser Lyonel’s eye. Had I been successful, perhaps House Baratheon would be more inclined to forgive House Cafferen’s debt.”
Your own grandsire was not without mercy, but nor did he take kindly to being deceived. “You do not know Lord Baratheon, then.”
“No. I fear that my grandsire does not truly understand much at all. Even I suspected that the Lord of Storm’s End would not be so swift as to forgive him. You must know, My Lady, that I meant every word that I said last night. It is not my intention, let alone my wish, to marry Ser Lyonel.”
You were touched by her honesty. “I believe you.”
Alynne looked as though she believed your sincerity in turn. “However, if Ser Lyonel will not have my hand, my grandsire will find another wealthy suitor who shall. He will care if my husband to be is cruel, if his keep is far across the other side of the realm, or if the man is even older than himself!”
The more Alynne disclosed, the more you sympathized with her. There was a time when Lord Baratheon would have planned the same fate for you- and in his mind, he still was. Though time and circumstance had distracted him from his goal and given you some temporary reprieve, you and Lady Alynne Cafferen would ultimately share the same fate.
“Women are dealt an unfair lot in life more often than not,” you commiserated.
Alynne smirked in amusement. “You speak like my cousin. She feels much the same.”
“But if Lord Cafferen has already made up his mind, and has plans to marry you to the suitor of his choice, how can I possibly be of any help?”
“You meet many of the nobility at Storm’s End, do you not? My grandsire has traveled there before to petition Lord Baratheon. I imagine many other lords and ladies from the Stormlands do just the same.”
It was true, your grandsire often held court, and recently, with your father sat at his side. Petitioners traveled to Storm’s End frequently. Some of them came from lands directly under House Baratheon’s control, while other lords from the Stormlands journeyed a greater distance to appeal in person before their liege.
Alynne did not wait for your confirmation, having deduced as much from your expression. “Let me attend to you. Take me on as one of your ladies. It will put some distance between myself and Fawnton, and give me some time. Allow me the chance to find a worthy husband for myself.”
Her plight was so familiar to your own, your heart ached. “Alynne-“
“Do not think me naive,” she interjected, polite but firm. “I do not expect to find myself entangled in some grand love affair. Wants aside, I know I must wed, and I intend to embrace my fate with dignity… I only wish to find a husband that I can tolerate the presence of. Or, if the Seven above bless me so, one I might actually be able to call a friend.”
You looked at her, truly looked at her. The girl was so earnest in her plea, you did not wish to deny her. However, such a decision did not solely lie with you.
“You should know that Lord Baratheon has chosen all of my companions for me,” you warned her. “They are daughters and granddaughters of his friends, or other lords whom he owes favors to.”
“Then you must speak with him, convince him if need be. I know I ask a great deal of you, especially given my grandsire’s when considering my grandsire’s current predicament as Lord of Fawnton. I do not imagine Lord Baratheon will be inclined to grant me the position. But please, will you speak to him anyway? Try to persuade him?”
You began to mull over the idea.
“I will be more than happy to uphold my end of the bargain,” Alynne avowed. “If you take me on as one of your ladies, I mean to be the best confidant you could ask for. I’m decent at needlework and dancing, and I love to go riding. Hawking, too… And, I’ve also a knack for going unnoticed when I will it so. I tend to overhear a fair amount of gossip.”
You smiled. “So I have noticed.”
“Any information you seek, if it is within my reach, I will obtain it for you. If there’s anything else you would ask of me, consider it done... Please, Lady Y/N.”
You deliberated her proposal.
On one hand, you had only just met the young woman. Alynne’s tale- the forced marriage arrangement by her grandsire, as a means to relieve his financial burden- could be a long, well-thought out ruse. A well-crafted ploy, designed to appeal to your sympathetic nature. But if that were true, to what end did the scheme serve? You were not Lady of Storm’s End. Even if a friendship was struck between you and Lady Alynne, you had no right to forgive the debt that Lord Cafferen owed to House Baratheon. And you did not have much sway to entice your grandsire into such action, either.
On the other hand, if Lady Alynne were telling you the truth- as you greatly suspected that she was- she had made herself, and House Cafferen, extremely vulnerable with all the information she had just shared. The suspected hoard of wealth, stashed away somewhere unknown? Lord Baratheon would be most keen to learn that even Lord Cafferen’s own granddaughter suspected him of such.
None of this was to mention, the Seven be damned, that the young woman was really starting to grow on you. It was similar in the way a certain squire from House Fossoway had begun to earn your affection… Though it was of an inherently different nature.
A confidant, just as she had said. A true friend.
How you had since longed for one of those again…
“I can make you no promises… But, when the tournament is over, and I return to Storm’s End, I will speak to Lord Baratheon.”
Alynne beamed, and for the time being, her joy was the brightest beacon in all of gloomy Ashford. “That is all I can hope for, My Lady. If there is something I can do in the meantime, something to show you my gratitude, you need only ask it of me.”
You thought of the sealed message, hand delivered to Raymun Fossoway by Michael Morrigen just a few hours prior. The hour you had penned within it was rapidly approaching. Even though the rain did wish to relent, you had a meeting of the utmost importance to attend.
“Well, now that you mention it, there is one thing that comes to mind… Did you say you love to go riding?”
“I’m glad you received my letter.”
“Not as glad as I was to have received it, I’d wager.”
Though Raymun had become familiar with Ashford Meadow, the surrounding village, and the makeshift camps that had since become another bustling village of their own, he had yet to journey beyond. So, when he had read the letter, sealed with the sigil of House Baratheon, requesting him to join you for a ride in the woods beyond Ashford, he’d happily leapt at the chance to explore more of the area.
Plus, he would have been foolish to deny himself any time spent with you.
On the trail up ahead, Lady Alynne Cafferen rode beside Michael Morrigen, the same tall, serious lad who had delivered your letter to Raymun earlier that day. You had made introductions between the three of you, and Raymun was glad to have a name to put to the solemn face. For a young man of so few words, Raymun found it somewhat amusing that the lad was the squire for the notorious Laughing Storm.
However, despite his inclination to keep most of his thoughts to himself, Michael Morrigen seemed polite enough. And he looked genuinely interested in whatever Lady Alynne spoke to him of, though they rode far ahead enough that Raymun could not hear any specific details.
Behind you, at a far enough distance that Raymun similarly hoped would grant the two of you some semblance of privacy, rode several escorts. Raymun recognized two of the men, whom you had also introduced to him, from the course of the past several days- Ser Rogar Fell and Ser Sebastion Swann. Another pair of men, in House Cafferen’s color of green, rode nearby them.
Perhaps it was a trick of his own mind, but Raymun could’ve sworn he felt the watchful eyes from Ser Lyonel Barartheon’s men upon the back of his neck. Raymun meant no harm to you. Far from it. Your father’s men ought not to have concerned themselves with him. Yet again, the men would have had no reason to know of his intentions, innocent or otherwise, so Raymun could not fault them for their caution.
It would have been lying for Raymun to deny that he took some comfort knowing that at almost all times, your safety was being looked after. However, Raymun refused to ponder as to why he took comfort in such a thing.
“I hope you can forgive me, I know the timing of my message was rather poor.”
Poor horse, Raymun thought to himself. Poor Ser Humfrey Hardying. “It was better than not having received the invitation at all, My Lady.”
You half-smiled, looking down at the reins in your hands bashfully. “I’m glad to hear it. I had hoped you were in need of some lifted spirits. I know I certainly was.”
“Unpleasant?” you suggested. “Awful? Completely dreadful?”
“I was going to say wrong.”
“Wrong?”
Raymun glanced behind him briefly, seeking reassurance that the escorts were still distant enough as to not catch anything exchanged between the two of you. Though the four men were some paces behind, he still knew better than to speak too specifically, if only on the off chance that something was overheard.
“Princes of the realm ought not to behave so dishonorably to begin with,” Raymun declared, sitting right in his saddle and looking forward once more. “But when they do, they go unpunished. All whilst the common folk are beaten down for expressing their frustration. It’s all… wrong.”
You were quiet for a few moments as you considered his words. “Perhaps you have a point. Wrong is an apt description. Things need not have happened that way, but they did. It is regrettable that change is unlikely, at least not anytime soon… For now, it is simply the way of things.”
Raymun’s tongue ran off with his thoughts before he had a mind to cease it. “And we should just be content with that? We should not wish to do better? Be better?”
You looked over at him with wide eyes, your jaw slightly dropped. Raymun could have kicked himself, the Seven knew that he wanted to.
He shook his head, as if the action could shake the thoughts from within. “Forgive me, My Lady. It’s been a long day.”
You cleared your throat, your expression softening into something more at ease. “There is nothing to forgive, Raymun. You caught me by surprise, is all… That aside, I am inclined to agree with you. Perhaps if more thought the way that you do, and were inclined to act upon it, the events of this morning need not have transpired. Blood might not have been spilled so needlessly.”
Humourous, how casually the two of you toed the line of treason. The way you made a conversation about something so significant feel completely inconsequential should have been studied by the maesters in Oldtown.
It was just another one of the rapidly expanding list of things Raymun had begun to admire about you.
“How fares Ser Humfrey Hardying?” you asked of him then. “I saw you were one of the ones to help him off the field. Beesbury announced that he lives, but said little more.”
Your concern for others beyond yourself could not be understated in Raymun’s opinion, either. “The maester was still tending to him when I left his pavilion, but he was awake and talking.”
“And a touch angry too, I surmise?”
Raymun did not have to answer.
“Well, I am glad to hear that Prince Aerion Brightflame has only claimed one victim this day, not two.”
The poor horse flitted back into his mind again, but Raymun was determined to turn the conversation in a more positive direction. “That’s a fine palfrey you have, My Lady.”
Your horse’s black ears flickered, almost as though it had understood his praise.
Meanwhile, you lit up at the compliment. “Thank you. She was once a name day gift from my cousin.”
“Your cousin?” You had not made mention of them, nor had Raymun noticed another close, visibly-Baratheon relation over the past few days. “Have they traveled with you to Ashford?”
A conflicted look washed over your previously pleasant disposition. “No. My cousin, Martyn, passed away several years ago.”
Raymun could have halted, dismounted, and plunged himself into the doubtlessly cold waters of the nearby creek as a way of punishment. It had slipped his mind, but now that you mentioned it, he recalled hearing of the passing of the heir to Storm’s End some time past. Seven Hells, he ought to have remembered.
You must have sensed, or perhaps seen, his discomfort. “Do not fret on my behalf, Raymun. It is good for me to speak of him, especially so fondly.”
He tried to take your words to heart. “You were close, then?”
“I like to think so. My father may not have sired any other children, but Martyn was my brother, through and through.”
A small inkling of jealousy began to fester within him at your conviction. Raymun knew most everything about Steffon, though not by choice. Still, if Steffon had not been his blood, Raymun could readily admit that he would not consider him a friend. And while other Fossoway cousins of his, close and distant, lived within Cider Hall, there were not many he could count upon in an hour of need.
But perhaps jealous was not the right word. Perhaps what he felt instead was longing.
You looked over at his horse, and smiled kindly. “I must return the compliment, ser. That is a lovely courser.”
The white stallion was one of very few things he prided himself on, and for once, he had little trouble accepting the compliment. Raymun patted the stallion’s white neck affectionately. “Crispin, is his name.”
You repeated the name, and let out a laugh. “That is… precious.”
Coming from anyone else, Raymun might have called into question the sincerity of the remark. Coming from you, his cheeks began to burn.
In an effort to stave off embarrassment, he pressed onward. “I’ve had him a few years, ever since Steffon took me on as a squire. He said it wouldn’t be fitting for just any horse to be riding beside Wrath.”
“Wrath?”
“Aye, Steffon’s courser. His name may be scary, but just between you and me, Wrath is one of the gentler horses I’ve ever had to tend to. All the stable hands at Cider Hall would agree.”
You tilted your head in curiosity. “Have you taken care of many horses?”
“Oh, plenty,” Raymun affirmed, smiling at the thought. Before he knew it, he was lost in memory, and his words flowed as freely as the calm waters of the Mander. “Steffon may have convinced him, but my uncle made me earn the privilege of having Crispin as my mount. I never minded, I’ve enjoyed helping with the horses since I was a lad. My cousin thinks it’s beneath me to help the stable hands, but I like to think that the horses remember the hand that feeds them.”
For a few moments, you said nothing. Raymun glanced over, and the way in which you looked at him made him feel uneasy. Had he said too much?
But your eyes held no judgement. They shone with appreciation. “Some would say you can learn a great deal about a person by how they treat animals.”
Raymun vehemently agreed. Prince Aerion Targaryen, for example.
“Will you tell me more about your home? What is Cider Hall like?”
“It’s not far,” was the first thing that came to Raymun’s mind. “Just under four days' ride to the west of Ashford.”
“I envy you in that regard,” you admitted, though your light tone betrayed your words. “And there are orchards, upon orchards, upon orchards, I presume?”
Raymun smirked. He was learning it came easily to him, at least when he was with you. “Aye. There are orchards as far as the eye can see, all leading up to Cider Hall and the Mander.”
“When you are not helping care for the horses, or training with your cousin, how else do you occupy your time? You must have other cousins, friends. What of them?”
Besides the recently acquired friendships- namely, that of Ser Dunk and you- a few other faces came to Raymun’s mind. But instead of elaborating further, he paused. “You’re asking me a great many questions, My Lady.”
There was a mischievous glint in your eyes. “And is that a crime?”
“No, not at all. I only wonder if you truly want to know the answers.”
“I would not ask if I did not care to know.”
“Then you won’t mind if I ask you a few questions of my own?”
Your brows lifted in mild surprise, but you recovered quickly. “Of course not. Ask what you will, ser.”
“What of your friends?”
“Aside from you?” you teased. “I suppose there are… some.”
“Some?”
The two of you rode in silence for a few moments. Up ahead, Lady Alynne and Michael still conversed with great ease. The former led while the latter contributed on the occasion, but was otherwise content to listen.
The escorts behind you had even begun talking amongst themselves. In the temporary silence that had befallen you, Raymun was able to discern that they were discussing the tournament’s events thus far. He overheard a few names of challengers and champions that had already competed. However, most notably, Raymun did not hear any mention of Prince Aerion Targaryen.
When the silence between you was finally broken, you spoke softly. “Truth be told, I find myself in short supply of friends these days.”
You had alluded to as much the prior afternoon, while enjoying some mead in the Beesbury pavilion. Raymun had not known what to say then, and he still did not know what to say now.
He cautiously offered, “It must have been difficult, losing your cousin.”
“It was,” you acknowledged. “We understood one another, and we shared the same privileges and burdens of being Lord Baratheon’s grandchildren. My ladies spend time with me, but they were all chosen by my grandsire. I’m afraid to get close to any of them, because I do not know whom among them I can trust.”
Your vulnerable admission did not go unnoticed by Raymun, and he felt an honor beyond words that you felt comfortable enough to share such a thing with him. “I may not be a lord or heir of anything myself, but there must be others who share your plight.”
“There was… another friend, once,” you confessed timidly. “He understood what I felt better than most anyone else. However, it is impossible to continue that friendship now. He is wed, and I am not. We have little else in common anymore.”
Prior to the first tilts the evening before, Lady Alynne had asked Raymun about his knowledge of Lord Ashford and Lady Gwin’s chosen champions. He had introduced them all, one by one, with commentary from those sitting amongst them. Though you had been present, you had remained tight lipped. That was, until it came time to announce the fifth and final champion…
“You were friends with the Young Prince?”
You blinked slowly in bewilderment. “How did you possibly-“
“A lucky guess?” Raymun was not yet willing to admit that he had been paying so close attention to the dissonance of your words.
“Lucky guess or not, it is true. Does that surprise you?”
Yes. “A little… How did such a friendship come about?”
“After my cousin passed, my grandsire sent me to King’s Landing for a few months. I was a lady in waiting for Prince Maekar’s daughters, Princess Daella and Princess Rhae. It was nowhere near as intriguing as it sounds, though. Princess Rhae was just a babe at that time, and Princess Daella was no more than a child herself.”
As Raymun listened, he began to piece together pieces of a puzzle, the picture slowly being assembled within his mind. It explained why your encounter with Prince Aerion Targaryen a few days past did not seem to have been your first. It also explained some of the comments you made to him in the conversation between you immediately after.
You continued. “The title was more of an honor than a useful role. At times, I feel as though I was little more than a glorified nursemaid. My main task was ensuring that the princesses were kept entertained.”
“Then why did Lord Baratheon go through the trouble?” Raymun wondered aloud.
You hesitated, briefly contemplating your response before choosing your word carefully. “Ultimately, I think he wished for an opportunity to strengthen the relationship between our houses. And for a while, that seemed likely. Prince Valarr was a cupbearer to King Daeron at the time, and we met shortly after my arrival. He’s kind, polite, and much closer in age to you or I than either of the princesses I served. The friendship between us was inevitable.”
As your recalled your experience with Prince Valarr Targaryen, Raymun felt a twinge of jealousy that he knew that he was not entitled too. He swallowed it down stubbornly, willing it away.
“But the friendship did not last?”
“No, it did not.”
Raymun could sense that there was more to the story than you led on. However, you were not willing to share any more of the tale for the time being, and he would not pry. Furthermore, given the nagging feelings that had been stirred up already, Raymun was not so certain that he wanted to know all of the details that you currently withheld.
“The Young Prince is a fool.”
You did a double take at Raymun’s bold, and rather loud, declaration. “I beg your pardon?”
Raymun settled into his saddle further, still confident in his words, though too nervous to meet your eye as he spoke them. “Prince Valarr is a fool.”
He could feel your wild, questioning eyes bearing into the side of his face. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Whatever differences the two of you might have had, only a fool would set aside a friendship with you, Lady Y/N.”
A bashful smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “I believe the same could be said of a friend like you, Raymun.”
His ears began to burn, threatening to put the redness that must have been plain upon his face to shame.
You tugged the hood of your rider cloak lower, willing it to cover more of your face.
A foolish idea, something, somewhere far within the reaches of your mind continued to whisper. But you had been emboldened, liberated by everything that had transpired that day. A newfound sense of urgency was instilled in you, enticing you to take the risk.
The morrow was never guaranteed.
Perhaps it was this notion that had encouraged you to be more open with Raymun than you otherwise might have been. Much of your past was by no means a secret, nor did you wish it to be. At least not from him. A friendship- or whatever else you may wish for- between the two of you would never last if it was built on a foundation of mistrust.
Even so, some things were still difficult for you to speak of. You wanted to believe you would feel comfortable enough sharing the entire truth with Raymun. If not today, then someday. But until that time, you hoped he would not inquire further about matters you did not wish to dwell on. Fortunately, for the rest of the hopefully mutually enjoyed ride through the woods of Ashford, it appeared that Raymun was perfectly willing and able to respect your boundaries.
Your return to camp was unceremonious. Your father was not present, though you did not know if he had even returned from the Beesbury pavilion, where you had last seen him. Maester Keagan did not know his whereabouts either, for he merely offered you more than a small shrug when you had asked.
For a short time, you busied yourself with making additional progress on your handkerchief. While you continued to wait for inspiration to strike, you settled with embellishing the borders with additional strands of black and golden threads.
Night fell, but your father never returned. Your ladies were, unsurprisingly, scarce once more. Needlework could only captivate your attention for so long, and the inevitable boredom set in. But then, it hit you. Something your ladies had mentioned just a few nights prior, and something far more entertaining than sitting by your lonesome.
The puppet show.
You felt as though you had claimed enough of Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion’s time already that day, so you did not bother them. Besides, if your ladies had managed to make the trek to the merchant’s row and find the puppeteers tent themselves, it could not have been too difficult. And it could not have been too far.
I’ll only be gone a short while, you reassured yourself, though another part of you knew it was a pitifully disguised excuse. I’ll be back before anyone notices I’m gone.
With the aid of your cloak, it was easy to sneak away from camp undetected. Perhaps a little too easy.
You made your way down the well worn path, illuminated decently well by campfires and torches. You refused to meet the eyes of any curious onlookers who chanced a look in your direction. When you reached the area where tents and pavilions gave way to the stalls and accommodations of the merchants, the amount of others surrounding you increased tenfold. You melded into the crowd.
It was not complicated to find the puppeteers tent, just as you had hoped. You slipped inside, and only once you claimed a spot towards the back of the tent did you feel comfortable enough to remove your hood.
The tent was far from scarce. The benches had been disregarded in favor of standing, which allowed more people to crowd into the small space. As you settled into the spot you had snagged for yourself in the very back, you joined in the crowd’s awe as the performance began.
It was the story of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. You had not initially remembered it, but it soon came back to your memory as a tale you had been told several times in your youth.
The dragon puppet was a feat of pure artistry, you decided. You had never seen a dragon with your own eyes, as the last of the Targaryen beasts died many, many years before you were born. But you wanted to believe the puppeteers had found a way to capture their movement perfectly. The way in which the scaled, fabric skin rippled over the dragon's body was mesmerizing to watch.
The performance of Serwyn, played by a young woman of considerable height, was of great note as well. The actress’s performance enthralled as she and the dragon circled one another, the former with a mirror shield and sword in hand.
Fire, real flames burning hot and bright, shot out of the dragon’s mouth, and the audience gasped. You jumped, your back brushing against the fabric of the tent. When you recovered your composure, you laughed under your breath and joined in the appreciative applause.
The crowd’s enchanted murmuring ceased. You weren’t certain when it had, and it took you a few moments to realize. But when you finally did, you looked around the tent in anticipation. Perhaps another actor or actress was about to join the stage.
Unfortunately, the crowd’s focus had not been stolen by another player simply waiting for their queue.
You watched apprehensively as Prince Aerion Targaryen continued his stroll deeper into the tent, the crowd parting for him with no hesitation. Thankfully, he had not seen you, and you hoped it would remain that way. However, a deeper, far more troubling concern began to arise when you realized what was about to happen instead.
Serwyn thrusted the sword through the dragon Urrax’s neck. Red confetti bursted, an artistic spray of blood. Serwyn was victorious, the dragon slain.
A silence so stifling fell over the tent, the actress on stage was pulled from her own focused performance. She paused, turning slowly to face the crowd.
Instead of the crowd’s appreciation, she was met with the ire of another, far more crueler, dragon.
For how poorly the day had begun, things had improved remarkably since.
You had been right, of course. A ride through the woods, much like his leisurely solitary strolls, was just what Raymun had needed to lift his spirits after the abysmal morning. Spending time with you- at your invitation, no less- certainly helped alleviate his woes, too.
After your escorts had seen you and Lady Alynne Cafferen returned safely to your camps, Raymun sought to return to his own. However, just as the Fossoway tent came into view, none other than Ser Dunk had crossed onto the path before him, his small squire at his side.
Raymun was in a jovial mood, and he wanted to keep it that way. Inviting Dunk inside the Fossoway tent for a cup of cider came to him without a thought. Before Dunk could politely decline his offer, his squire excused himself to attend the puppet show at the merchant’s row.
…
Mayhaps, between his elation, and the freely flowing cider that Raymun both offered to Dunk and drank himself generously, he had gotten a bit carried away in an impassioned rant about House Targaryen…
But the Seven continued to bless him, as they had for some unknown reason as of late. Dunk did not appear to take any real offense to Raymun’s words. Still, it made Raymun wonder…
To him, Prince Aerion’s dispatchment of Ser Humfrey Hardying’s horse was obviously intentional and undeniably dishonorable. Even Steffon had denounced the prince’s actions as ignoble, once Raymun had found him in the viewing gallery afterwards. Steffon’s hypocrisy aside, the feelings of others within the gallery echoed those of the Fossoway cousins. Even though Lord Ashford had declared Ser Humfrey Hardying the winner of the tilt, and awarded him Prince Aerion’s courser as his prize, not all were appeased.
Discontent had sparked unrest within those of the common folk who stormed onto the field. What had Dunk thought of that, if he had not understood it to be their expression of disapproval of the prince’s actions?
Perhaps Dunk was an outlier, for he admitted that even his squire had thought Prince Aerion had killed the horse on purpose.
Though tensions still lingered, there was none between Raymun and Dunk. The conversation dwindled, and the two shared a hearty and solely needed laugh. As Dunk wiped at his eyes, Raymun continued expressing his opinion on the matter, though he did take care to restrain himself this time.
“It’s a shame Prince Maekar was not there. Aerion’s all smiles and chivalry, so long as his father’s watching.”
Dunk hummed. “I saw the prince’s chair was empty.”
He wasn’t the only one to have noticed the infamous Anvil’s absence, either. Had Prince Maaek been present at the tilts that morning, Prince Aerion might not have attempted what he had, let alone walked away with no consequences.
… Although, if Prince Maekar was able to see through his son’s ruse in his presence, it was apparent that he cared little for remedying his son’s behavior.
“Prince Maekar left Ashford this morning, searching for the rest of his misbegats,” Raymun informed him.
He had learned as much from the talk overheard in the viewing gallery earlier. Steffon’s penchant for gathering information on his potential opponents was often accompanied by a lesser known side benefit of culling gossip.
Dunk’s brows furrowed. “Misbegats?”
“His oldest, Daeron, and his youngest. They left Summerhall together a few days ago, but never made it to Ashford. Rumor is that the boys are dead.”
Raymun didn’t believe the rumors himself. Had anyone had foul intentions for them, the princes were far more valuable alive than dead. Additionally, the Tararyens had never seemed to reap what they sowed. Raymun did not know why the Seven would see that recfitied now.
But Dunk appeared unnerved at the very idea of their potential demise. Raymun swiftly attempted to put his new friend at ease.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Ser. Most likely, Daeron’s just drunk again. Gone off drinking somewhere, and taken his younger brother along with him. That’s what they call Daeron, you know- Daeron the Drunken.”
Not that anyone would say as much in front of Prince Maekar, of course.
“Gods know what inn Daeron has holed up at,” Raymun continued. “But it’s little wonder Maekar’s been walking around so foul-like, looking like the dragon egg never hatched in his cradle.”
Dunk was not so certain. “He’s probably just worried about his sons.”
Did Targaryen’s care for each other, like a normal family might? Raymun had a hard time even conceiving of such a thing. … Then again, he could not declare the Fossoways to be an idyllic picture of familial affection, either.
Raymun frowned. “Seven know why he would be. Daeron’s a sot, drunk more often than not. Aerion’s just vain and cruel. Who kills another man’s horse like that, just because he can?!”
Dunk did not answer his redundant question.
"And they say Prince Maekar’s third son, Aemon, was just as unpromising as the first two. That’s why they shipped him off to the Citadel, you know- to make a maester of him. And the youngest-“
“Ser! Ser Duncan!”
The shouts of Dunk’s squire could be heard from outside the tent before the small lad even entered inside. The flap was thrown open with great urgency, and he rushed in. Despite being short of breath, he looked towards his master and pleaded with wide, panicked eyes.
“You have to come, Aerion’s hurting her!”
Dunk rose to his feet, swayed by the boy’s alarm. “Hurting who?”
“The puppet girl. Hurry!”
The boy whirled, exiting the tent with as much speed as he had entered it.
Raymun might not have known Ser Duncan the Tall for more than a few days, but it did not take one of great knowledge to infer the hedge knight’s intended course of action. While he had made no secret of his dislike for House Targaryen, especially Prince Aerion, Raymun had no desire to see his new friend hurt.
Raymun shot to his feet as well, catching Dunk’s arm just as the larger man moved to follow his squire. “Dunk- Prince Aerion is still a prince of the blood. Be careful.”
Dunk mulled over his counsel for all of a blink of an eye, before he freed his arm from Raymun’s grasp, hurrying after his squire. Raymun hurried after him.
As soon as Raymun stepped out into the night air, he could hear screams- terrified, pained ones- coming from the merchant’s row just down the way.
Steffon was sitting outside the tent around a fire, with several of House Fossoway’s men at arms keeping him company. Every one of them had the decency to look concerned at the wretched sounds hitting their ears. Steffon and his men stood at once, following Raymun, who himself followed Dunk, all with very little hesitation.
They all followed the horrifying screams to merchant’s row, where the scene the squire had described was immediately located. A wall of people lingered around the tent, craning their necks to get a better look at the madness happening within.
For the second time that day, Prince Aerion Targaryen had sown chaos. More shouts were heard from inside the tent, and Dunk charged ahead without a second thought, pushing his way past a guard in Targaryen red and black who tried to stop him.
Though he was unsure whether he wished to prevent Dunk from incurring harm, or to aid others he could hear still within the tent, Raymun followed the hedge knight. Taking advantage of the harsh shove Dunk had delivered to the Targaryen guard, Raymun was able to slip inside the tent with no resistance.
Prince Aerion Targaryen stood in the middle of the stage, his pale, sinister face illuminated by the contrastingly soft lighting. In his unwavering grasp struggled a young woman, the “puppet girl” Dunk’s squire had spoken of. A few of Aerion’s guards threw open chests, emptying the puppets within them and stamping them into the dirt. Torches shortly followed, waving about carelessly.
A few people shoved past Raymun as they fled the tent. More of Prince Aerion’s guards wrestled with unlucky others, either fellow puppeteers, or mere bystanders, who had been unable to escape.
It was with no small amount of dread that Raymun recognized some of the shouting filling the air.
“Prince Aerion, this is madness! Please, let her go!”
Raymun’s head jerked in the direction of your voice.
You made for the stage, your riding cloak billowing out behind you. A Targaryen guard stepped into your path, forcing you to halt. You dug into your heels, reeling backwards at the sudden movement.
Prince Aerion, briefly forgetting the women fighting to break free in his arms, snarled at you in disgust. To his man, he barked, “Get her out of here.”
The guard reached for you, and though you jumped backward, it was not far enough. Hands clasped around your forearms in a grip so tight Raymun could see your discomfort from across the tent.
“Get your hands off of me!” you demanded, attempting to yank your arms free from your captor’s grip. It was to no avail. “What crime have I committed? I’ve done nothing wrong! You cannot seize me-“
Your protests were cut off by the guard bearing his teeth and tightening his grip. You sank slowly, retreating a step backwards as the pain forced you to succumb to the guard’s will.
The puppeteer girl howled in agony as Prince Aerion snapped her fingers at a severe and unusual angle.
…
Raymun saw red.
He was not the only one.
Dunk surged forward to the stage, barreling a punch across the left side of Prince Aerion’s face, and then the other. The prince was stunned, and the girl broke free from his clutches. But Dunk did not let him rest. He grabbed his arm, hauling him up off the stage, and tossed him onto the ground.
Meanwhile, Raymun leaped over an upturned bench to reach you with a speed he did not know he possessed. The Targaryen guard restraining you was startled by Dunk’s sudden appearance, and Raymun took advantage of having caught him by surprise. With a similar unbeknownst strength, Raymun shoved, hard, against the man’s chest. The man released you at once, stumbling back a few steps and steadying himself.
Though you may have been equally surprised, you wasted no time in scrambling behind Raymun. Breathing deeply, he stared down the guard as he seethed, silently daring him to take another step forward.
A gentle hand, slowly but surely, wrapped around his right wrist from behind. A calming boon.
The guard must have decided that protecting his prince was a higher priority than getting even with Raymun. He recovered from his shock, and with a grunt, helped a few of his comrades in removing Dunk from Prince Aerion. The former had been raining blows upon the latter ferociously. In the end, it took three men to properly restrain him.
The grasp on Raymun’s wrist tightened, presumably out of fear, as Prince Aerion Targaryen rose to his feet slowly. The screams had ceased, and for a few moments, all eyes watched in petrified silence.
Prince Aerion Brightflame asked a few questions that Dunk refused to answer. The prince’s voice was barely above a whisper, and Raymun would have been surprised if anyone outside the tent would have understood him. Furthering his suspicion, when he glanced over to the tent’s entrance, he saw Steffon and his men at the front of the crowd, watching with uncertainty in their eyes.
When the prince gave the order to break Ser Duncan’s teeth, the crowd’s silence broke. In the distance, someone cried out to send for Lord Ashford’s men.
“No! Don’t touch him!”
Dunk’s squire shoved past the crowd, bursting into the tent.
“You stupid boy!” Dunk hollered, still fighting in the hold of the three men who pressed his face harshly into the wooden stage. “Hold your tongue, or they’ll hurt you!”
Steffon and his men took a few cautious steps forward, flocking the young boy on either side. There was a fiery look in his eye as he placed a readying palm on the pommel of the sword at his side. He felt a foreign sense of pride in his cousin- no one had ever accused Steffon of an excess of chivalry. But even he would not abide grown men harming a child.
“No they won’t,” his squire insisted. “If they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of him- Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.”
Prince Aerion regarding the young boy with astonishment. “You impudent little rat… What’s happened to your hair?”
“I cut it off, Brother. I did not want to look like you.”
The implication of the boy’s words crested over those within the tent just as the storms had over Ashford Meadow.
Taglist: (please let me know if you'd like to be added) @mooondapple @brianna-merlim @bimboreader @allthingsimagines @cold-v0dka @shitface-t @opultea
Pairing: Raymun Fossoway x Baratheon! Female Reader
MASTERLIST (story synopsis also found here)
Warnings: friends to lovers, slowburn, GOT typical sexism, mild canon divergence, language
word count: 12,500ish oops
A/N: thank you for your patience. if you're still here, thank you. if you're new, welcome.🖤 my birthday is tomorrow so if any of my replies are a little incoherent…🫣🤫🍹 I am sorry. I can’t wait to get into the next part, we’re starting to get to the good stuff now. thank you for reading, have a wonderful weekend🖤💛💚
🖤 If you do not like reading long format fics on tumblr, this is also cross posted on AO3, link is on the masterlist. 🖤
The skies over Ashford were gray.
The sun fought to break through the myriad of clouds overhead, and though it was successful on the occasion, it was never able to hold onto its victory for long. A cool breeze had begun to blow through the meadow, serving as a reminder to all in Ashford and beyond that Summer had not yet arrived, and that it was likely to be another year claimed by Spring. There was even talk amongst the many camps, concerns expressed that rain would delay the beginning of the tourney that evening.
Despite the dreariness, the world felt awfully bright to you.
Though sleep had done wonders to sober your mind and body, when you awoke the following morning, the giddiness you had felt before closing your eyes very much remained. With limited means at your immediate disposal, there was only one solution you could think of to try and quell the joy you felt, and it required a bit of fresh air.
The wooded areas around Ashford in the Reach were different from the Kingswood and Rainwood back home in the Stormlands. But in several ways, they were much the same. Birds still chirped and sang, creeks ran over the soft ground, and game sprinted through the brushes at the sound of approaching hoofbeats.
Your horse was glad for the exercise. Ashford Meadow had gotten rather crowded over the past couple of days, and the poor thing was not yet accommodated to such commotion. Even the mounts of your escorts seemed to have perked up at the opportunity to get away from the chaos, if only for a little while.
A pair of men from the Baratheon household guard, Ser Rogar Fell and Ser Sebastion Swann, accompanied you. The two men had been the ones sent by your father to find you the morning before, after you had been summoned for an audience with Prince Valarr. Whenever you found yourself in need of an escort, the two men most often than not had been given the task. You reasoned that asking them for their company in advance would be most efficient, and the men happily agreed to your request. Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastian appeared as eager as their horses for the chance to get away from the hectic camp.
For a while, the three of you rode in a silence that was not uncomfortable. But after some time, Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion began to converse about the tournament, for both men had kin that planned to enter the lists. At first, you had attempted to participate in polite conversation with them, but eventually, you fell to the temptation and let your mind wander. And wander, it did. It wandered all the way to the delightful evening you had experienced the night before.
The delicious food, the enticing music, the lively dancing…
The captivating conversations held with a certain squire from House Fossoway…
As you reminisced about the night before, you were thankful that your escorts rode at your flanks, and therefore could not see the smile that naturally came to your lips.
Although the ride was supposed to have helped you clear your mind, the momentary reprieve from Ashford had robbed you of all other distractions. It was as though your mind wished to dwell on nothing but Raymun Fossoway.
It was a dangerous thing, you knew, to be thinking in such a way. It was especially risky in light of how little time you had been acquainted with each other. But, as you recalled from your inebriated musings the night before, there was a way for you to mitigate any potential harm.
Do not act in haste.
As long as you stuck to your code, and thought carefully before acting, perhaps you could stand to indulge your mind’s inclinations. And what your mind kept coming to, time and time again, was when you might be able to see Raymun Fossoway once more.
You could call on him at the Fossoway camp, you supposed. While it was direct, there were a few potential issues you could foresee with that approach.
For one, you were not certain that Raymun would want to speak with you again. You had enjoyed his company the previous day, but what if he had simply tolerated yours? You had not given him much opportunity, if any, to decline your invitation for supper. For all you knew, Raymun might have been compelled to accept.
A second matter to consider would be the gossip such a scene could cause. Witnesses might wonder what such a display could possibly mean, and that was only if whispering about the two of you had not already begun. While you were not too bothered by the notion- after all, you had not acted in a way that would validate any nefarious accusations- you did not want to presume that Raymun felt the same. He had a reputation of his own to consider, and you would not jeopardize it merely to satisfy your own whims.
But most importantly, should Ser Steffon Fossoway be angered by such an act, you could not let Raymun bear the brunt of his older cousin’s displeasure. From the veiled words Raymun had spoken in confidence, and the few observations of the two that you had made yourself, it was apparent that Steffon had no qualms teaching with a firm, and often harsh, hand. The thought of causing Raymun any further torment than he was already likely to receive was simply unfathomable to you.
…
As much as you detested it, you ultimately concluded that the predicament was best left in Raymun’s hands.
If he wanted to see you again - and you could admit, that you did hope that he wanted to see you again - he would find a way.
The gods might not have smiled upon Ashford by granting favorable weather. But they did smile upon you, and Raymun Fossoway would seek you out much sooner than you could have possibly known.
“Have you given any more thought to what I’ve told you?”
Raymun and Steffon stood at the edge of the training yard, their forearms resting on the wooden fencing that surrounded it. It was the same fencing that Steffon had kicked Raymun through the previous morning, and evidence of that exact encounter lay on the ground just a few paces to Raymun’s right.
The broken remains were merely another trace of the unpredictable chain of events that had transpired the day before.
The first tilts of the tourney were set to begin that evening, after sunset. By dawn of that morning, all challengers, nobility and otherwise, had arrived in Ashford. Despite the early hour, there was significantly more activity in the training yard than there had been the previous day.
Steffon had dragged Raymun to the training yard, although unlike previous days, he had no interest in partaking in any exercises. Instead, Steffon meant to scout the training yard for any potential opponents, visibly eager for the chance to weigh the competition.
While Steffon scrutinized potential opponents in the hopes of detecting any weak points they may have, Raymun did just the opposite. Assessing eyes looked over the practicing knights on the field, searching for someone, anyone, who could reasonably unseat his cousin. While such a knight was not terribly difficult to find, the trick lay in finding a man who also was visibly meager, enough so that Steffon would not perceive him as a legitimate threat.
Raymun fought a yawn as he finally answered. “A bit.”
He’d been roused early, so early that Raymun had been deprived of any time for himself. It was a shame, too- he’d woken up feeling unsettled and conflicted. Raymun loathed the thought of it, but Steffon’s harsh words from the night before had left a mark on him. Had Raymun had some moments to himself, whether it be a short walk, a brief leave to check on his horse, or anything at all, he might have been able to make sense of his muddled thoughts.
However, since that had not been an option, Raymun had a strong suspicion that he would not feel much better about anything at all until he was able to see you again.
“That’s good to hear, Cousin,” Steffon praised him. “I’m glad you haven’t taken a leave of all your senses.”
He could feel Steffon watching him, waiting for his reaction. But Raymun offered him none, and refused to rise to the bait. He fixed his eyes straight, squared his shoulders, and focused on the practice field with the dedication of a man of the Night’s Watch, ordered to man the Wall.
“You may not be pleased with me now, but that’s just as well. I don’t need you to like me, Cousin. I only need you to respect me.”
Raymun felt the itch to retort with a witty remark, despite knowing that only pain and further embarrassment awaited him if he did. But he pushed ahead solemnly, holding his tongue.
Steffon clapped him firmly on the shoulder, and kept his grip there tight. Raymun’s body swayed back and forth lightly with the force.
“Maybe some day, after you’ve proved yourself worthy enough for me to knight you, we’ll find you a proper girl to wed,” Steffon suggested. “One more befitting a man of your rank…. Some lord’s fifth or sixth daughter, or of that like.”
He could already tell where the conversation was headed, and he did not care for it at all.
“Or better yet,” Steffon continued on, his smirk widening in a cruel, knowing way with each passing moment. ”Perhaps I’ll let you take your pick from the lot of our servant girls.”
Though his head remained forward, Raymun’s eyes shot over to his cousin with a dangerous speed. A warning.
But Steffon would not be dissuaded, and he went for the kill.
“I’d promise not to steal her away from you this time. You’d have my word.”
A sharp, painful memory that Raymun was in no mood to recall threatened to burst through his already fragile composure. He looked away from Steffon, attempting to force the unpleasant recollection down and away from the forefront of his mind. But his lack of sleep was to Raymun’s detriment, and he struggled.
His heart began to race, and he felt his fingers dig into his palms as his fists clenched. Raymun could feel Steffon’s eyes on him still, just waiting for him to put hands on him first, so that he might have more of a justifiable cause to thrash him about than what he usually had.
Raymun closed his eyes and took a breath in through his nose. Suddenly, the memories shifted to events much more recent- and far more pleasant. …
You, twirling in a golden dress surrounded by many other golden hues. A lone ship amongst a sea of color.
Your laughter, filling the air and enticing him to join. Prompted by nothing, and yet everything at the same time.
Your eyes, never straying from his own despite the nerves it left him with, as you clung on to every word he said. The same fervor a devout would treat the words of their preacher.
…
Raymun felt his fists unclench and his shoulders relax, though he was not conscious of his body's command to do either.
When the realization of what happened finally struck him, Raymun was stunned.
His memories from the prior evening, memories of you, memories that Steffon could not tarnish and could not take from him, had placated his ire. For now, the brewing storm within him had subsided.
Raymun did not wish to dwell on how, or why, the memories had been able to have such a profound effect on him. He simply took the blessing for what it was, and would leave the questioning for a later time- perhaps a time where his cousin was not waiting so eagerly for him to step out of line.
Steffon scoffed in disbelief, and the sound reverberated through the training yard. It was clear that he was beyond frustrated, and perhaps a touch disappointed, that Raymun had not met his callous jests with physical blows.
“Fine,” Steffon huffed, spitting onto the ground in disdain. “Since you have righted yourself and forgotten about this farce, then I’m sure you will not mind making the introduction between Lady Y/N and I.”
Raymun did a double take. “When am I to do that?”
“Tonight.”
“But the first tilts are tonight.”
If the rain held out, the first bouts of jousting were to take place. However, only a small number of the gathered competitors would actually be able to participate. The right of first challenge would go to the knights of higher birth and greater renown. With representatives of three of the great houses- House Lannister, House Tyrell, and House Baratheon- in attendance at Ashford, their men would be among those to claim the right.
Ser Steffon from House Fossoway, while still of the nobility, would have to wait until the second day of the tourney to challenge. Perhaps even the third, if the jousts on the second day were to go on longer than expected.
“You’ve always been a sharp one, Cousin,” Steffon taunted him. “Since I will not be able to challenge until the morrow, I mean to watch from the viewing stand tonight. The Baratheon girl will be there too, no doubt, watching for her foolhardy father.”
The ‘Baratheon girl’ has a name, Raymun seethed to himself.
Amongst rest and a few moments of solitude, another one of Raymun’s greatest desires in that moment would have been for the Laughing Storm to overhear Steffon refer to him as ‘foolhardy’.
“As you are already acquainted with her, you will introduce us.”
There was no room for argument in Steffon’s tone, though there seldom ever was. An introduction from Raymun, or from another already known to the both of you, was all that stood in the way of Steffon being able to call upon you as he pleased. And as you allowed, of course.
But Raymun also sensed you were not so impolite as to refuse to speak with Steffon outright. Especially if his cousin were to corner you in a public setting, with many eyes and ears about as witness. If Steffon was still determined to have an audience with you, he would.
Raymun might not be able to dissuade Steffon from his chosen course, but he could, at the very least, warn you of his intentions.
Steffon had poisoned plenty of things, moments, and relationships throughout Raymun’s life. Now, Raymun was encroaching upon a tipping point, and if he could help it, he would no longer allow his cousin’s foulness to impede anyone else.
Least of all you.
When you returned from your ride, you found the camp to be surprisingly tranquil.
Maester Kaegan was one of the lone occupants inside the largest of the tents. When you inquired about the whereabouts of- well, everyone- he pointed you in the direction of another camp further down the glade.
The Beesbury camp was buzzing with activity, and it did not take long at all to determine the cause.
Someone had been determined to make the most out of the less than ideal weather, and a claim was laid to a large stretch of mud that formed a sort of pit. A long, thick rope lay across the length of the ruined ground. Many onlookers - both nobility and common folk alike- had gathered around to watch what was unfolding. Drinks were flowing aplenty, with many pitchers and mugs being brought to and fro from the overlooking Beesbury pavilion.
The assembled crowd applauded as one group of participants, many of whom were dressed in the blue and mud-red colors of House Tully, relished in their adoration. Another group, several of them donning House Lannister’s colors of crimson and gold, sulked as they trudged away from the pit of mud to soothe their disappointment with more alcohol.
You glanced about the people gathered, though it was to no avail, as you realized that your ladies were sparse. You briefly thought about moving on to the next camp in search of them, but you halted.
Did you truly want to find them without delay? It would be such a shame to miss what is certain to be amusing entertainment….
“Who will issue the next challenge?”
A man stood in the mud pit then, his arms open wide as he beseeched the crowd. The declared officiant of the game, most likely.
“Baratheon! You are looking far too comfortable over there. How about you put down the ale for a moment and grab the rope instead?”
“Keep talking like that, Tyrell, and you’ll soon find yourself with a far more interesting challenge on your hands than this little game.”
“Leave the discourse for the tourney field, gentlemen,” the officiant insisted. “My Lord, will you accept Lord Tyrell’s issued challenge, or not?”
You could hear your father scoff in disbelief. “Do you take me for a coward? Of course I accept!”
“Then, My Lords, choose your teams!”
The crowd cheered with excitement as the two men set about their task. You finally spotted your father amongst the crowd when he rose to his feet, standing to his full height. He had been sitting at a table just outside the Beesbury pavilion. A few of his men were seated with him, but they did not rise just yet. Your father scanned the crowd of onlookers with critical eyes.
When his eyes landed on you, his face lit up like a flash of lighting amidst a summer storm.
“Daughter, there you are!” he called over to yo in a booming voice, his voice clear despite the eager chattering of the crowd. “What say you? Care to help me sully these flowers with some dirt?”
Your instinctual reaction was a resounding agreement, but nevertheless, you hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s most wise…”
“Leave her be, My Lord,” Lorent, eldest son of Lord Leo Tyrell, interjected with a teasing lilt. “This is hardly an appropriate activity for a noble young lady. Does she not have more pressing needlework to attend to instead?”
You fixed your eyes on the young man, staring evenly. Without a word, you yanked your riding gloves off your hands, stowed them in your cloak, and took a step towards the pit.
Your father grinned madly and cackled. “Aha! Do you know what they say about Stormlander women, Tyrell? One of them is worth three of your Reachmen!”
Nearby, one of your father’s men, who had apparently also been chosen by your father to participate, scratched his head idly. “Isn’t that what they say about women from the North, My Lord?”
Your father rolled his eyes and slapped him half-heartedly on the arm. “Shut up.”
“Might I join you, My Lady?”
You froze mid step and turned towards the source of the soft inquisition.
Lady Alynne was on your left, though you had not noticed from where she had come. It was as though she had simply appeared out of thin air. A useful skill…
Alynne must have misinterpreted your initial lack of response as a likelihood of refusing her request. She put her hands on her hips, issuing you a challenge of her own. “Are we to simply abide such an insulting insinuation, even if it did come from the heir to Highgarden?”
This was only your second time meeting Lord Cafferen of Fawnton’s granddaughter, but you had already begun to like her more and more. “No, I don’t think we shall. Come, I daresay these flowers may need to be reminded of the dirt from whence they came.”
“That’s two Stormlander women now, Tyrell!” your father announced, not bothering to contain his glee.
“Mind your tongue, Baratheon, or I’ll mind it for you,” Lord Tyrell warned him with narrow eyes.
Your father held his hands up in surrender. The sincerity of the gesture might not have been called into question, had his next words not been so incendiary. “I only ask that you still regard my daughter with kindness, even after she helps yank your silly boy there into the mud.”
Before Lord Tyrell could respond, your father turned away, his eyes wild as they continued to scan over the crowd. His attention finally landed on an individual whose presence you had, most bizarrely, missed.
“Yes, Hedgeknight! You!”
Ser Dunk sat at a table just underneath the Beesbury pavilion. From the distance, you could not see much of the boy seated beside him, only that he had no hair.
As your father galavanted off to recruit Ser Dunk, you and Alynne joined the others already gathering in the mud. You planted both feet in the slop firmly, not flinching when the bottom of your skirts got dirtied, or when your feet began to sink into the ground.
You spared a passing glance at the younger woman beside you. “Are you certain you are up for this, Lady Alynne?”
Alynne followed you into the mud readily, without hesitation. “I grew up with three older brothers, My Lady. This will be but a trifle in comparison to that.”
You understood her perfectly, having gotten into the occasional squabble with your cousin Martyn during your youth. “You need not explain further.”
The crowd applauded and cried out with enthusiasm as Ser Dunk, the boy who had been beside him, and your father returned to the pit. The boy took the foremost position for the team, just an arm’s reach from the flag dividing the rope into halves. Ser Dunk did the opposite, choosing the last position in line. At your father’s unyielding insistence, he secured the rope around his waist.
Your father fell into line further ahead. While his men made room for him, you and Alynne claimed your own spots along the rope, right in front of Ser Dunk.
You offered him a courteous nod and a polite smile. “Ser.”
The hedge knight returned the gesture at first, but then faltered. “My Lady…?”
Once it dawned, a short laugh escaped you.
While Raymun had told you of the man at your side, he most likely had not had the chance to extend Ser Dunk the same courtesy. That would not have been a surprise, as you had claimed a good deal of one another’s time the evening before. All the while, Ser Dunk had been pulled into dancing and conversation time and time again by your father.
“Ready!” one of Lord Tyrell’s men cried out, riling up their crew.
Shuffling of calloused hands and ruffling of fabric filled your ears as your entire team prepared themselves. You wiped your hands off as best you could on your riding cloak before gripping the rope thoroughly.
However, it was soon made apparent that your father was not pleased with the effort put forward by some.
“Hey! Dry those palms, you clam-handed cunt,” he ordered, emphasizing the command with a solid thwack to the man’s arm. “We’re not in your sister’s chambers now.”
Alynne snickered in front of you, whilst Ser Dunk cleared his throat from behind.
Your father glanced up and down the row of his team, taking one last account, before nodding to the officiant. “Ready!”
The officiant held his hand above the flag of the rope. You took a deep breath, and braced yourself.
His hand fell. “Go!”
The game was more akin to a test in endurance, if not pure belief, than a mere test of strength. You dug your heels into the dirt and heaved with as much force as you could muster, as did Alynne, your father, and rest of the men in front of you - not to mention the giant of a man who held the back of the line.
However, despite all your hard efforts, Lord Tyrell’s team would not be defeated easily, and put up a fight of their own.
Your father’s ever so eloquent words of encouragement rang out. “If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!”
From your limited line of sight, you peered around the men in front of you, spotting the bald head of the boy in front of the line. The flag in the middle of the rope seldom moved. When it did give way to one side, the other team quickly gained the lost ground back.
Additional words of wisdom were offered by your father. “Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!”
You were so focused on maintaining your grip, you could barely hear the crowd around you, shouting encouragingly and cheering on their chosen favorites.
Suddenly, your team lost a pace of footing. As your team veered forward, your hands began to burn with the friction.
What in the Seven-
Your father strolled by so casually, you did a double take, eyes wide. “What the-!”
“I’m thirsty!” he merely said, as though that was sufficient enough excuse. “I’ll be back. You’ll be fine! Just man up- er, woman up, I suppose.”
“Lyonel!” Ser Dunk admonished from behind you, just as shocked. “What’re you doing?!”
“I’m thirsty!”
“Lyonel!”
The Tyrells seized the opportunity- they would have been foolish not to.
“Pull!”
Those who remained on your team dug their feet into the ground even harder. You felt the heel of your boot, trapped deep in the filth, threatening to slip from your foot entirely, but you could do nothing to remedy it.
You heard your father in the periphery grabbing the drink that was apparently an immediate and dire need. A few bold individuals in the crowd booed him for the disadvantage it put your team in, and did not hold back in voicing their displeasure.
You were rather tempted to join them.
The flag began to favor Lord Tyrell’s side. The boy in front turned around with a mildly panicked look upon his face. For the briefest of moments, your eyes locked.
Wait.
Is that-
No, it couldn’t have been. It simply was not possible.
The boy righted himself swiftly. Sensing his fall was near, he hoisted himself up. His legs locked around the rope in a desperate last ditch attempt to prevent the inevitable.
Your father slinked past once again. His pace was a bit sluggish, as though he was strolling the battlements of Storm’s End, instead of desperately needing to aid the team of his own creation.
He meandered all the way to the front, where he tilted his head at the boy dangling from the rope. He shrugged, turned back to face the rest of your team, and yanked with the full force of his body.
"Fucking pull!!!”
They were by no means words of grand inspiration, and no maesters would ever pen them to paper. But nonetheless, the outburst was the push that your team sorely needed.
With the last of your team finally rejoining the effort, you all gave one final massive heave.
Lorent Tyrell plopped face first into the mud with a splash.
The Baratheon camp had been unusually scarce. Thankfully, the sound of the crowd led Raymun exactly where- and to whom- he sought to be.
The crowd held their breath as Lord Leo Tyrell’s son and heir fell into the sloppy pit of mud. Raymun watched, with no small amount of joy, as Ser Lyonel Baratheon’s team erupted into cheers, with the crowd around them echoing their sentiment.
The team jumped into the air synchronously, grabbing onto one other and crying out in elation. Men in Baratheon colors threw their arms around each other without care. Ser Dunk threw a young boy, short of any hair at all, high up into the air. He threw him probably a tad higher than he ought to have, given the boy’s smaller stature, but Dunk caught him easily enough, and set him right on his feet. Dunk did not have a moment to recuperate before Ser Lyonel all but pounced on top of him, and both of the very large men were nearly knocked to the ground.
“Fossoway, is that you?”
Ser Humfrey Beesbury stood beneath the edge of his family’s pavilion. A hand shielded his eyes as the sun reattempted to break through the clouds, but they still shone with recognition.
Raymun immediately heeded the beckon and made his way over.
Ser Humfrey smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. “I thought that was you over there.”
Ser Humfrey was known to him. House Beesbury and House Fossoway had done plenty of business together over the years. There was something about honey, mead, and cider that complimented each other, and made them well suited to such fruitful business endeavors. Though Raymun was unaware of the particulars, he had met Ser Humfrey several times on occasion, and the man had always been perfectly pleasant to him. Kind, even.
“I take it your presence here means that Steffon has decided to enter the lists?”
“Aye, he has. He’s not with me now, though.”
“Good, good.”
Ser Humfrey had never been nearly as fond of his cousin, however. Raymun supposed he was one of few outside of the family to correctly discern Steffon’s true nature and character.
“Are you up for a game yourself?” Ser Humfrey asked, nodding towards the mud pit. “I could join your team, if you’d like. My good brother would be happy to assemble a team of his own. He’s been anxious for the tourney to start so that we might be able to have a proper go at one another. Work out our differences, as my lady wife so often likes to say.”
“I’m afraid not,” Raymun declined politely, though not without a small laugh. “I’m perfectly content with being a spectator.”
Ser Humfrey merely hummed in reply. Raymun looked back to the pit, where the celebrations had continued.
You were with the young woman Raymun had spotted you walking with briefly the evening before. With excitement still plain upon your faces, the two of you jumped up and down, grasping at each other’s hands and laughing freely.
So lost in his gaze, subtly had been the last thing on Raymun’s mind. Ser Humfrey immediately traced his line of sight, and chuckled.
“Ahhh. Got an eye for the Laughing Storm’s daughter, do you now?”
“What?” Raymun felt all the color drain from his face. “No. No. Nothing of the sort.”
“Come now Lad, your secret is safe with me,” Ser Humfrey jested good naturedly, elbowing Raymun lightly in the side. “Although, I do recommend proceeding with caution. You may yet win over Ser Lyonel, in due time. But Lord Baratheon is a fickle old fellow. He will not give his granddaughter’s hand to just any man who may want it, no matter how sincere their intentions may be.”
As the lord and head of House Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End had the indisputable right to grant your hand to whomever he wished. But Raymun could not help but think that not taking your opinion on the matter into consideration would be most cruel.
Regardless, Ser Humfrey’s comment, unrelated though it was, was an interesting one. Steffon had made a similar comment the other day, hadn’t he? Though he did not know when he might ever need it, Raymun stowed the information away in his mind anyway.
“We’ve only just met,” Raymun insisted. “We’re acquainted, is all.”
Ser Humfrey smirked, though not unkindly. “Yes, acquainted. That’s what my Deana and I told everyone, too. Half a year later, we were in the sept at Honeyholt exchanging vows before the septon.”
Blessedly, Raymun did not have the chance to mull over the implication of Ser Humfrey’s words.
”You lot!” Ser Humfrey called out to the celebrating team. “A victory like this calls for some mead, does it not?”
Ser Lyonel was the first to break from the joyful haze. He made a show of considering the invitation, before waving a hand dismissively. “Nay, Beesbury. There’s half a score of us! We couldn’t possibly impose.”
“Well, if you are not feeling up to it, then perhaps Lord Tyrell-“
“Fine, if you insist.”
Ser Lyonel threw his arms around the shoulders of the men closest to him, and corralled them up and away from the mud pit. As the Laughing Storm led the victory march into the Beesbury Pavilion, Ser Humfrey looked to the remaining stragglers with a raised brow- Ser Dunk, the other young woman, and yourself.
Dunk’s expression fell into one of befuddlement as he looked around his immediate vicinity. “I thank you for the invitation, Ser. But I ought to go find my squire, it seems he’s run off on me again.”
“The small lad? I just saw him take off towards the market,” Ser Humfrey informed Dunk, nodding in the direction he spoke of. “There are plenty of other young ones running about Ashford. I’m sure he’ll be fine, at least for a little while.”
The Laughing Storm’s voice abruptly boomed out from underneath the Beesbury pavilion.
“Ser Dunk! You best get in here and drink some mead, before I drink your share for you!”
Ser Humfrey shook his head, though he did not look displeased. “Ser Lyonel means to make good on his threat, I fear. You all should make haste and head inside. That includes you too, Raymun.”
Raymun was as startled by Ser Humfrey’s address of him as you were to notice his presence. You met each other’s eyes, and Raymun watched as your expression shifted from one of shock to one of delight.
Though Raymun still felt wary and torn, he still sensed the change within him.
A small, shielded part of himself, tucked away several years past, had begun to crack.
A short while later, you, Raymun, Ser Dunk, and Lady Alynne sat at a table beneath the Beesbury pavilion. Each of you had a mug of Honeyholt specialty mead in hand.
While the rest of your team sat at a table on the other side of the pavilion, your father was seated beside Ser Humfrey. The pair were engrossed in what appeared to be a highly captivating conversation. Knowing your father, it could have been anything from a dramatic account of a battle past, to the epic tale of the large mutton leg he defeated at the last feast.
Oddly enough, all was tranquil. You suspected many were mindfully preserving their energy and excitement for the start of the tournament that evening.
If only your heart would have been amenable to the idea. Its pace had begun to pick up during the tug of war, as was expected. But it had truly spiked when you saw Raymun, and in the short while since, it had yet to soothe itself back to rights.
Perhaps the mead will help… You sipped from your mug leisurely. As Raymun formally introduced you to his companion, you hoped you exuded a calmness that you did not truly feel.
“Ser Dunk, this is Lady Y/N Baratheon. My Lady, this is Ser Dunk.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ser Dunk,” you smiled. “Raymun has spoken of you.”
Ser Dunk bowed his head respectfully. There was a redness lingering upon his cheeks, certainly attributed to exertion from earlier.
“The pleasure is mine, My Lady. You must be Ser Lyonel’s… sister?”
The laugh that escaped you was not particularly pretty, but it was sincere. “Seven Hells! I beg you, good Ser, do not let him hear you say such a thing. While he would not take offense, he would be most insufferable about it.”
Raymun struggled to suppress a laugh of his own, though you sensed it was not at his friend’s expense. “Ser Lyonel is her father, Dunk.”
The tips of Dunk’s ears began to match the color of his cheeks. But you did not dawdle, and tactfully redirected with a gesture to the woman seated beside you.
“Forgive my poor manners, gentlemen. This is Lady Alynne Cafferen of Fawnton, Lady Alynne, this is Raymun Fossoway, and Ser Dunk of…?”
“Nowhere in particular, really,” Dunk admitted with his head low, and immediately took a swig of mead.
You reassured, “There is nothing wrong with that at all.”
“Where one hails from can be important,” Alynne acknowledged. “But the stories only remember what one makes of themself in the end.”
Her words were spoken with confidence and a heartfulness you attributed to her youth. Even so, you found her optimism endearing, and hoped that age would not snuff out her sense of hope entirely.
“That’s a kind thing to say, My Lady. But I don’t suppose there’ll be any stories written about the likes of me.”
Alynne tilted her head, and a small frown played upon her lips. “The tourney has not even begun. You would count yourself out so soon, Ser?”
“Come on, Dunk,” Raymun encouraged, patting him on the back. “You’ll win at least a few challenges. In fact, I know an apple that’s well past ripe for the picking, if you’re interested.”
“Hear, hear,” you muttered, attempting to mask your enthusiasm as you took another drink.
The image of Ser Dunk knocking Ser Steffon off his horse filled your mind's eye, and you suppressed a wicked grin. Ser Dunk, standing tall and victorious. Ser Steffon, completely baffled as to how a hedge knight of so little renown might have bested him. Raymun, repressing amusement purely out of solidarity to House Fossoway. The boy who had accompanied Ser Dunk, cheering him on with glee.
The boy who looked an awful lot like…
“Ser Dunk? The boy that was with you- did you say he is your squire?”
Dunk nodded. “Aye.”
Though it felt an awful lot like prying, you humored yourself. “Who is he? He looks familiar, but I cannot place him for certain. Would I know of him?”
“That is doubtful, My Lady. He’s but a stable boy, found me at an inn about a day’s ride from here.”
A trick of the light, then. “I must have been mistaken.”
Dunk drained the last of his mead, and placed the mug atop the table as gently as a man of his stature could. “I’m a bit worried about him being on his own for so long. He might get himself into trouble.”
“Then you best go and find him.”
Dunk hesitated, as though he had not considered it a possibility. “You would not think me rude?”
You severely doubted that the hedgeknight had ever been intentionally rude to anyone a day in his life. Ser Dunk was an interesting character, and he seemed very kind and honest enough. It was little wonder your father had taken a liking to him in just one day.
“I think we would take greater offense if we knew harm had befallen your squire, but you were not inclined to help him,” Alynne countered.
Raymun nodded his agreement.
Reassured by encouragement from the three of you, Dunk rose to his feet, his massive frame looming. “Aye, you've got a point. I’ll be going, then.”
The man turned to leave, but he was halted by a call from across the pavilion.
Your father wore a look of mock affront. “Dunk, where are you going?”
He hesitated, visibly uncomfortable under the sudden attention. “…To grab a meal, Ser?”
Your father stared blankly at him for a beat, before he shook his head and laughed. “Oh sod off, then. I do hope you mean that, you’ll need your strength for the tourney. I’ve half a mind to wager a serious sum of gold on your success.”
Ser Humfrey raised a brow at him. “But will you be able to find anyone foolish enough to take your bet? The man’s a giant. He’ll have little issue unseating many who plan to enter the lists.”
“You wound me, Beesbury! I know a fair amount of lords and ladies who I am most confident could be perusaded to try their luck. Why, I could charm the High Septon into emptying all the coffers within the Great Sept!”
“Have you, ever charmed the High Septon?”
“Never met him, I’m afraid. But I have charmed a septon or two, mayhaps. Several septas, for certain. And, well, there was that one time in Tarth where I could have sworn that a silent sister smiled at me. Of course, I could only see her eyes...”
Ser Dunk had barely left the pavilion when Lady Alynne suddenly gasped.
Raymun, who had been about to take another drink from his mug, jumped in fright. It took no small effort to ensure that no mead spilled onto the table, or worse, upon himself.
Alynne grabbed your nearest hand with great urgency. “My Lady, I beseech you to forgive me. I have forgotten your shawl in my family’s tent.”
You looked about as confused as Raymun felt. “‘No matter, I told you last night that you could keep it for as long as you need.”
“She did,” Alynne reaffirmed, looking at Raymun with enthusiasm. “Wasn’t that kind of her? I caught a bit of a chill, and she offered me the very shawl from her shoulders!”
If the tale were true, Raymun would not have been surprised. However, judging by your persisting confusion, he wondered whether the tale was nearly as dramatic as the young woman would have him believe.
He played along, anyway. “That was very kind of you, My Lady.”
You shot Raymun an exasperated look that left him chuckling. “Regardless, there is no need for you to go and fetch the shawl now.”
“Oh, no, I simply must. Fetch it now, that is.”
You narrowed your eyes at her suspiciously, but the soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth belied any real sternness. There was something unspoken between the two of you that Raymun was not privy to.
“I see… Well, if you must retrieve it now, then do not let me stop you.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Alynne avowed, rising to her feet with haste. Then, she looked at Raymun, nodded politely, and smiled. “It was nice to meet you, Raymun.”
Raymun returned the gesture. “It was nice to meet you as well, Lady Alynne.”
Alynne smiled at the two of you one last time, before she turned on her heels sharply, and hurried out of the pavilion. The abrupt change in her behavior was rather peculiar, but also admittingly comical.
Once she was well out of earshot, Raymun wondered aloud, “Does something ail her?”
You looked ruefully in the direction from whence Lady Alynne had departed. “Trust me, she is in perfect health.”
“I take it she is one of your ladies, then?”
“She is not, unfortunately.”
He thought that odd, the two of you seemed to get on well enough. “Have you known each other for long?”
“I met her last night.”
Raymun’s eyes widened in shock, and you laughed.
“Believe me, I am just as surprised as you, ser. But she was keen enough to join our cause, and that should count for something.”
Ah yes, ‘the cause’. The tug of war game.
Raymun might not have been able to witness it, had he not been in the right place at the right time. But he thanked the Seven that he had been. It was such a curious thing, seeing a highborn lady - two, technically- being undeterred by the mud. Even more so, being undeterred by the game of strength itself.
Most other noble ladies might have thought it inappropriate, if not downright beneath them. Why, Raymun’s aunt would have handed his cousins over to the septa for punishment, if she’d caught them in the same situation you’d been in when he had happened upon you.
You looked at Raymun with a purpose. “I hope you do not think too poorly of me for having participated in that game.”
No trace of embarrassment flickered across your face. In fact, it was the opposite- you were steadfast and unapologetic. Though your words suggested that you may have hoped for his approval, Raymun knew that you did not truly need it.
There was more to you than what met the eye. Frankly, he should have expected it. You were unpredictable in a most predictable sort of way. Why should the daughter of the Laughing Storm have grown up to be exactly like every other highborn lady in the realm?
And with every new side of you that he caught a glimpse of, Raymun found himself earnestly hoping to see more.
When he said nothing, you continued to explain yourself. “Lorent Tyrell made a smart remark, and I’m a little ashamed to admit that I took the bait.”
Raymun shrugged, completely unbothered. “Whether you took the bait or not, you still won, didn’t you?”
“I suppose you’re right… He looked rather silly caked in all that filth, didn’t he?”
He did not bother to stifle his laugh this time. “Aye, he did.”
It was probably unwise, sharing a laugh over the young man who would one day be the Lord of Highgarden, and the liege to whom House Fossoway would swear fealty to. But then again, Raymun was discovering that you had an uncanny ability to make him want to think, feel, and do many things that were not very wise at all.
“I hope you enjoyed joining us for supper last night.”
In more ways than I can admit. “It was hard to find anything not to like, My Lady.”
You paused, and for the briefest of moments, Raymun feared his words had somehow given you cause for offense. Thankfully, you recomposed yourself quickly.
“I am glad to see you again,” you confessed, speaking softly. “I was unsure when we might have the chance to speak next. I can imagine you are kept quite busy, helping Ser Steffon prepare for the tourney.”
The mere mention of Steffon, unintentional though it had been, sombered Raymun as though he had been doused with frigid water. As he recalled why he had set out to speak with you in the first place, uneasiness settled in his gut like a heavy stone.
Raymun did not have the heart to deceive you. But even if he did, he would not have wanted to. “I must confess, there is a reason I sought you out.”
“Oh?”
“Steffon has asked me to introduce him to you at the tourney tonight. I think he means to sit beside you for the tilts as well.”
You laughed dryly. “Ha! I do appreciate your forewarning. Now, we have ample time to decide how best to handle it…Perhaps I could make myself scarce, not even allow Steffon the opportunity to ask… Or, perhaps I can find another to sit beside first, so that I might at least have a legitimate excuse when I decline his offer…”
As much as he disliked the idea of Steffon claiming any of your time, Raymun could not imagine any realm in which his cousin would react favorably to either of your proposals. And any disgruntlement Steffon felt, or any slight he thought he had been dealt, one way or another, Raymun would inevitably feel the brunt of it.
Eventually, you noticed his reluctance to participate in offering solutions to your quandary, and your smile fell.
You looked at him, truly looked at him. Your sharp eyes hovered over him in a way that should have enthused him, but instead, it left him feeling a little vulnerable. And then, most perceptively, you managed to deduce what ailed him, despite his unwillingness to voice it aloud.
“Of course, I will do neither of those things if it will bring more trouble upon you, Raymun.”
“You needn’t concern yourself with my troubles.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
She’s using you, Raymun.
Steffon’s words echoed in his mind tauntingly, as unpleasantly and as unwanted as the gloomy clouds that loomed over Ashford.
The attentive way in which you regarded him, and the conviction with which you spoke, all seemed genuine enough to him. But Raymun could readily admit that he was no expert in the matter of womanly charms.
If Steffon’s accusation had any merit- if you were using him for your own entertainment- would he even be able to tell? He’d known you for all of a few days, and could count the number of conversations you’d shared on one hand. Even so, it did not sit well with him to think you capable of such an inhumane thing.
Raymun had hoped seeing you again might offer some clarity, help him make sense of his muddled thoughts. But with his cousin’s words echoing in his mind, wishing to paint you in a certain light, your actions continued to directly contradict them.
He felt even more conflicted than he had that morning.
”Why do you care?”
…
Shit.
… Well, he’d never claimed to have been very practiced at proper words or the tactful employ of them, anyway.
At first, you were taken aback by his directness. But when his question finally settled upon you, your expression visibly softened. “You speak plainly, so I shall do the same. You should know that I rather enjoy spending time with you, Raymun. I do not have to think about what to say, or how to act… I simply do. It feels natural. It’s been a long while since I’ve felt so much ease with another.”
Raymun did not know how best to address the later part of your statement, so he opted for what he could. “But there must be plenty of others whom you’d rather spend your time with.”
You traced the rim of your mug, uncharacteristically unwilling to meet his gaze. “Not nearly as many as you may think. Many of those who seek my company would ask something of me. Or rather, they would ask something of the granddaughter of Lord Baratheon. Favor, gold, my hand… my father’s hand, and what else have you.”
“How do you know I do not seek the same?”
“If it is my father’s hand you seek, I should warn you that Lord Baratheon will be most scrupulous whilst considering your offer. You should be certain you can survive the scrutiny.”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, the solemn front Raymun tried to present, and his mother’s best efforts to instill good manners within him, his eyes still rolled at your jest.
“In truth, I do not know whether you would ask something of me,” you continued on, serious once more. “We’ve only just met, after all. All I can do is trust in the feeling that I have, and that your intentions are genuine.”
As I must do the same, I suppose… “Forgive me for the questions, My Lady. I’m just surprised that you would choose to spend time with someone like me.”
“Why does that surprise you? My father has all but declared Ser Dunk to be his latest companion. Why would befriending you be beneath me?”
He ought not to have even acknowledged it, but something within him, a bolder side he found himself more and more tempted to indulge as of late, did not want him to squander the moment. “Is that what this is? A friendship?”
“If you wish, then yes. And only if it will not cause you any more grief.”
Oh, it certainly would, Raymun had no doubt. If a friendship with you did not cause himself pain directly, Steffon would take advantage of every opportunity to remind him of what a terrible idea it was, and just how unworthy Raymun was of such a thing.
But you did not deign him unworthy of your attention, or your time. Raymun had enough sense not to question your judgement. And while his cousin might have claimed to have been looking out for Raymun’s best interest, persuading Raymun into doubting your intentions would only have benefitted Steffon.
Raymun raised his mug. “Aye, friendship it is, then.”
If Raymun did not know any better, he might have thought you looked nervous. Still, you readily agreed, and raised your own mug. “A friendship… Of sorts.”
The unspoken sentiment behind your words was fragile, but most certainly present. Fragile or not, it was heavy, weighing upon the air between you.
Friendship might not have been the most precise word to describe what was occurring between the two of you. But it certainly did not feel wrong, either.
Whatever it was, Raymun knew he would strive to be worthy of it- worthy of you.
Night had finally fallen upon Ashford. The rains had withheld, and excitement could be felt in the air.
Some time ago, your father’s squire had helped him into his armor. The two had departed camp shortly thereafter to ensure that his horse had remained well looked after, and would be prepared for the joust. You had considered heading to the tourney field with them at the time. However, there would have been little to do except take a seat in the viewing stand and wait as more of the competitors, nobles, and common folk arrived.
Still, the idea must have been appealing enough to your ladies, as they departed for the tourney field shortly after your father and his squire had. Most, if not all of them, had already promised to sit beside other lords or ladies for the evening.
Thus, you sat alone, passing the time in the Baratheon tent with some needlework. As you had opted to ride on horseback for most of the journey from Storm’s End to Ashford, you had not been able to make much progress on your craft at all. But the handkerchief finally had a border, consisting of none other than black and yellow thread. You had begun half-hearted work on the outline of a stag when you realized how late the hour had grown.
Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion, your escorts for the second time that day, trailed behind you at a respectable pace as you finally left camp. Many others must have shared your mind, as you joined a small mass of people leaving their tents and beginning to make their way towards the tourney field.
You had not been walking for long when another suddenly appeared by your side.
”Lady Y/N.”
”Lady Alynne.”
”Might I walk with you?”
You said nothing in reply, but stepped aside to allow her room to join you. Another pair of men, Lady Alynne’s own escorts, fell into line with Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion behind the two of you. For a few moments, you remained silent as your small group walked along the dirt path.
Finally, you voiced aloud what you had grown to suspect. “If I did not know any better, Lady Alynne, I would think you want something from me.”
While Alynne considered this, she looked at the ground in front of her. “Perhaps I do. But perhaps it is not what you think.”
You surmised, “You do not wish to curry my favor, so that I might be more receptive when you are betrothed to my father?”
She laughed, and for not the first time that day, you were taken aback. “I beg that you do not take offense, My Lady. But I do not wish to be the Lady of Storm’s End. I believe you would be best suited for that role, in due time, of course.”
You could not begin to think about the implications of her statement. “What do you want of me, then?”
Alynne looked over her shoulder, as though she sought confirmation that her escorts were not far behind. When she looked back ahead, she spoke more quietly. “I cannot speak of it here. But I was advised that you might be able, might even be willing, to help me.”
You wondered who had given her such counsel. “What am I to do with this knowledge?”
“Not much at all,” Alynne acquiesced. “At least, not much until we are able to speak freely, and in a more private setting.”
By then, the tourney field had come into view. The lists were illuminated by scores of torches. What light they could not provide, the moon, nearly full, and the stars above more than compensated for them.
One one side of the field stood the viewing stand. It was lit by nearly as many torches as the lists. Some nobles and other highborn folk had already arrived, seeking the best vantage point they could obtain. In the middle of the viewing stand, a platform had been erected. A few chairs for persons of honor- Lord Ashford, his daughter, the Targaryen Princes- had already been placed upon it, but for the time being, they remained unoccupied.
On the opposite side of the field were the soft slopes on the skirts of Ashford Meadow. The market, and further beyond it, camps from which you had just come, could be seen in the periphery. Some of the common folk had already arrived as well, the most enthusiastic of them claiming spots along the wooden fencing that defined the field.
“Since we cannot speak privately, what would you ask of me now, Lady Alynne?”
“Nothing at all,” she swore. “Except, perhaps, for you to tolerate my presence for the evening. You have been so kind to me, I only wish to return the favor.”
“And how do you aim to do that?”
“I have confidence an opportunity will present itself. I can show you I mean you no harm, if you allow me the chance.”
You hated to admit it, but you were a little intrigued, as Lady Alynne was more than what she appeared. You initially thought the girl a novice in the matters of politics, given her age and occasionally demure demeanor. However, despite her outward appearance, it was becoming apparent that she had received some tutelage in the area.
And now, she sought to use what she had learned to ask a favor of you, though you did not know exactly what it was that she sought. While she was not the first to ask something of you - as you had confided to Raymun just that afternoon - she was one of the few that had been so forthcoming about it. It was difficult not to appreciate her honesty.
You had given Raymun Fossoway the chance to prove his intentions. It only stood to reason that Lady Alynne Cafferen deserved the same opportunity.
“Very well,” you conceded.
A horn billowed loudly. It echoed throughout Ashford, a signal to all who could hear the call that the night’s events were about to begin.
Still, there was no need for you to hurry, for by then, the viewing stand was just up ahead. Other nobles, and knights who would not yet compete, flocked to it. They began to rush up the steps, some several at a time, eager to claim their seats.
You saw Ser Steffon and Raymun Fossoway lingering by the bottom of the wooden stairs. Since neither were yet to compete or squire, both were dressed in fine garments of the deep red color of their house. Raymun met your eye before Ser Steffon noticed your arrival.
You might have been tempted before, but you now knew, beyond a doubt, that you would not refuse Ser Steffon’s advances. Whatever few hours of uncomfortableness you might have to endure, it would be well worth being assured that Raymun would not pay the price for his cousin’s displeasure.
Ser Steffon stood tall when he finally noticed you. He muttered something to Raymun that you could not catch as you and Lady Alynne approached them.
After the conversation you had shared earlier that day, the greeting felt formal, oddly so. Still, under the current circumstances, you knew it was necessary.
You returned his nod with one of your own. “Raymun Fossoway.”
“Might I introduce to you my cousin? This is Ser Steffon Fossoway, heir to Cider Hall.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ser Steffon. I hope you can forgive Ser Lyonel and I’s less than considerate treatment of you the other night. You see, we were still weary from our journey. I believe it culminated in making us poor hosts.”
Ser Steffon- and by extension, Raymun- had not been invited to that supper, as you recalled. But you had known other men like Steffon before. Men like that would sooner blame others than see the fault that lay in their own actions. It was of little use to correct one who would willingly choose to be blind to all reason.
You could not tell if Ser Steffon believed in the sincerity of the offered apology. But he gave an appreciative nod just the same. “No offense taken on my part, My Lady. In fact, I hoped you might allow me the honor of sitting beside you this evening.”
“Make way!”
“Coming through!”
Shouts coming from the far side of the viewing stand sounded out. You looked over Ser Steffon and Raymun’s shoulders, immediately spotting guards of Targaryen red and black marching in your direction. An escort for the princes, no doubt.
You could not see him, but you did not care. You knew you could not afford another encounter with Prince Aerion Targaryen, and you did not want to risk him encountering Raymun, either.
You looked back at Steffon. “That would be most kind of you, Ser.”
Ser Steffon’s chest swelled with pride, and he offered you an arm. However, you hesitated in taking it, glancing over at Alynne.
“Raymun Fossoway,” she greeted him with a charming smile. “Might you accompany me this evening?”
It was clear Raymun had not anticipated the offer, but he recovered hastily. “The honor would be mine, Lady Alynne.”
Ser Steffon did not look thrilled at the idea of Raymun joining you, but he did not comment on it, and you were thankful. You took his arm, encouraging him to remain silent with a smile you hoped was cordial, and allowed him to lead you up the stairs and into the viewing stand.
Almost every soul in Ashford had gathered at the tourney field.
A large crowd of common folk had amassed across the way. Scores and scores of them eased forward, trying to claim the best viewpoint they could. One of the persons near the front of the crowd- who Raymun realized with amusement was none other than Dunk- stood over a head taller than any of the others around him. Seated upon his shoulders was his squire, who fortunately appeared to be unharmed.
The viewing stand was crowded as well. Steffon had led you to two empty seats just a few rows back from the field. Raymun, to his surprise, escorting Lady Alynne Cafferen, had managed to snag two unclaimed seats directly behind you. Though this was to Steffon’s mild dismay, you looked pleased.
Yours and Lady Alynne’s escorts stood at the back of the viewing stand, an optimal position for them to both watch their charges, and be able to watch the jousting. Though they were not in the immediate vicinity, Raymun could still feel their presence, and he prayed to the Seven that Steffon did as well.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury spotted Raymun only a few moments after he and Alynne had taken their seats. Ser Humfrey, with his wife Lady Deana on his arm, claimed the seats beside them. After Raymun made a brief introduction between them on Lady Alynne’s behalf, the couple took stock of the others seated around them.
It did not take Ser Humfrey but a moment to recognize you in the row in front of them, seated beside Steffon. He gave Raymun a knowing smile, and Raymun’s face began to burn with mild embarrassment.
But Raymun was spared from whatever comment Ser Humfrey might have made. The chattering of folks around them was drowned out by several more thundering horns, signaling the arrival of the guests of honor. As they appeared, heralds announced them by name and title.
Lord Ashford stepped onto the raised podium first, looking over those seated in the viewing stand, before focusing on the gathering crowd across the field.
Prince Aerion Targaryen was next. Raymun was filled with both apprehension and disgust at the sight of him. Fortunately, Prince Aerion did not wish to be burdened by acknowledging those among him, and Raymun remained unspotted. Prince Aerion walked past Lord Ashford and stood tall before his chair without delay. The cheers of the crowd he must have believed he was owed continued on.
The enthusiasm of the crowd picked up significantly when Prince Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King, and Heir to the Iron Throne, followed his nephew. However, unlike his nephew, Prince Baelor recognized the crowd’s appreciation with a polite wave.
Raymun harbored no love for the Targaryens. His unfavorable feelings towards them was actually one of the few things he and Steffon held common ground on as of late. House Fossoway swore fealty to House Targaryen as the sovereign of the realm was owed, and nothing more.
However, if Raymun was given the choice of who would next sit upon the Iron Throne, he supposed that Prince Baelor would not have been the worst choice. At the very least, Raymun could admit that Baelor Breakspear was the most suitable candidate out of all King Daeron’s sons.
Prince Maekar Targaryen, the king’s fourth and youngest son, followed him. Though the crowd still cheered, perhaps they did so with a little less enthusiasm than they had his elder brother. Raymun had only ever seen Prince Maekar a handful of times throughout his life - and all of those instances had been at other tourneys or similar events- but the prince looked as gruff as ever. Raymun wondered when the last time Prince Maekar smiled… Then again, if he had sons like Prince Aerion, whose cruelty needed no further elaboration, and the eldest, Prince Daeron, who was a known drunk, Raymun supposed he might have found little reason to smile too.
Lord Ashford’s daughter, Lady Gwin, was the last to take to the podium. The crowd’s spirits lifted once again, for her nameday was the sole reason that the tourney had come to be. Though Lady Gwin was still young, she appeared gracious while taking in the affection generously offered to her by those gathered.
While the guests of honor finally took their seats, Raymun’s attention drifted onto the field. Five pavilions, each in the color or colors of the house from which the knight within hailed from, stood on the north end of the lists, with the river behind them.
The champions, chosen in advance by Lord Ashford, were tasked with defending the honor of Lady Gwin, who had been declared to be the Queen of Love and Beauty. Should any of the champions be defeated, the victorious challenger would take their place. After several days of the tournament, the five remaining champions would decide whether Lady Gwin was to remain the Queen of Love and Beauty, or if the honor would go to another woman in attendance. It was all for the spectacle, of course- any woman other than Lady Gwin being chosen as the queen would be a scandal.
The five champions, each already armored and donning a silk sash of orange tied upon the arm of their choosing, signaled for their squires to retrieve their destriers.
“How much can you tell me of the champions, Raymun?” Lady Alynne asked him. “This is my first tourney I’ve attended since I was a girl. Many of these names are unfamiliar to me.”
Over the past few days, in addition to his observations in the training yard, Steffon had made great efforts to obtain as much information about the competitors and champions as he could. Raymun had listened when his cousin relayed all that he learned, as a dutiful squire would. However, he was all too happy to have a more noble cause to apply the acquired knowledge towards.
“Aye, My Lady. The first two champions would be Ser Androw and Ser Robert, Lord Ashford’s sons.”
The young men in question stood outside their orange pavilions. Even from a distance, the familial resemblance between the two was plain.
“I see the third champion is Lord Leo Tyrell of Highgarden,” Lady Alynne noted then. “If I did not recognize the sigil, I would have recognized the lord himself.”
You laughed from the row in front of them, apparently having been listening, and turned to glance at Lady Alynne. “Perhaps the gods will spare him, and Lord Tyrell will not be made to suffer a second loss this day.”
Steffon frowned at you. “I do not follow your meaning, My Lady.”
“My apologies, Ser. I was referring to the game of strength that took place earlier this afternoon. Lady Alynne and I joined my father and some of his men in victory over Lord Tyrell’s team.”
“You should have seen them, Steffon,” Ser Humfrey chimed in, acknowledging him for the first time that evening. “It was quite the entertaining sight.”
Steffon shook his head, giving both of you a disapproving look. “Entertaining or not, that hardly sounds like an appropriate activity for two ladies.”
Lady Alynne bowed her head in shame from Steffon’s chiding, and Raymun had the errant thought of bludgeoning his cousin upside the head for it.
Ser Humfrey scoffed at Steffon. “If you are fearful of women who are stronger than you, you can just say so.”
Steffon glared at Ser Humfrey over his shoulder, while Lady Deana smacked her husband in the chest to shush him.
"Hush now,” she hissed. “They are about to announce my brother.”
And the herald did, for the fourth champion was none other than Ser Humfrey Hardying, Lady Deana’s brother, and Ser Humfrey Beesbury’s good brother. Ser Humfrey Hardying had garnered notable reknown since the previous year, when he had won a great melee at Maidenpool. Steffon had competed in the melee as well, though he had not been anywhere near as successful in his attempt as Ser Humfrey Hardying.
The fifth and final champion called to his squire to fetch him his helmet as he mounted his horse. Another man stood closely by, armored in all white- a member of the Kingsguard.
“I can see the sigil from here.” Lady Alynne leaned forward, and her eyes flickered over to the guests of honor seated upon the podium. “It must be one of the princes, but I cannot tell who.”
“Prince Valarr,” you answered her, eyes fixated on the tourney field before you.
The herald’s following announcement was confirmation.
There was something in your tone that gave Raymun pause. Though the crowd around them and across the tourney field cheered loudly at the Young Prince’s introduction, it did not sound as though you shared their sentiments entirely… Disdain was not the right word for it, but neither was apathy. It was something.
The challengers were next to enter onto the field. One by one, they rode onto the field at the herald's announcement of their names. Each paused in front of the viewing stand, giving a respectful nod to Lord Ashford, Lady Gwin, and the Targaryen princes. Once the formality had been completed, the challengers rode to the north end of lists, where they chose their opponent from the selection of champions.
Three of the challengers, Ser Abelar Hightower, Lord Damon Lannister, the Gray Lion, and Lord Damon’s son and heir, Ser Tybolt, chose their opponent and took their position on the south end of the lists with little flair.
However, the fourth challenger, Lord Medgar Tully, paused on his way through the field, coming to a halt before the mass of common folk. He proudly declared his intent to emerge victorious, with a large trout clenched in his upraised fist. Raymun fought a grimace as Lord Tully bit the head off of the raw fish and spat it out. However, the crowd roared in delight at the profane display.
Ser Lyonel Baratheon was the last of the five challengers to enter the field. By the time he arrived, the only champion who had not been called out was the younger of Lord Ashford’s sons.
Ser Humfrey let out a low whistle. “Poor lad. At least he’ll be able to say that he once rode against the Laughing Storm.”
Even if it was assured that Ser Robert Ashford would inevitably yield to Ser Lyonel Baratheon, to joust with one of the finest knights in the kingdom was an honor in and of itself. One day, Raymun hoped to be able to make such a claim too.
As Ser Lyonel rode across to the final spot on the south side of the lists, Raymun overheard you speaking to Steffon.
“I do hope my father refrains from testing his limits this evening.”
Steffon turned to you, clearly intrigued. “Whatever could you mean, My Lady?”
You shook your head remorsefully. “He has been complaining of an ache in the shoulder of his shield arm for days. Our maester gave him a draught for the pain, but I fear what will happen if he ails it further.”
“Is that so? … ‘Tis a shame. Let us hope the gods will spare him any further plight.”
Raymun could not believe his ears. For you to offer Steffon such sensitive, damning information about Ser Lyonel… it was folly. Particularly when Raymun had, at least, he thought he had, suggested to you that Steffon was apt to choose opponents who he knew he could win against. Opponents with weaknesses he could exploit.
What in the Seven Hells-
But then, as subtle as a shadow, you lifted your chin. Under the guise of peering across the crowd over to the champions on the north side of the lists, you turned, ever so slightly, trying to catch Raymun’s eye.
When he gave you a bewildered look, you ceased his worry with a simple gesture.
A mischievous wink, cementing a shared secret between the two of you.
…
Gods be good, you’d be the death of him.
A quietness fell over the field. Raymun had never seen such a large group of persons cease talking in such a brief passing of time. All eyes turned upon the champions and challengers, who secured their shields and accepted their lances from their diligent squires.
When Ser Humfrey suddenly spoke to him in a hushed voice, Raymun nearly jumped out of his seat.
“Don’t worry, Lad.” Ser Humfrey was teasing him, but unlike so often with Steffon, Raymun felt a part the jest. His head tilted in your direction, and then back to Raymun himself. “Your secret is still safe with me.”
Raymun opened his mouth to protest.
“Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!”
The shout from across the tourney field broke the tension in the air, and laughter from all ranks and walks of life rang out into the night. A moment of such unity was a rarity across the realm, and Raymun knew at that moment that it would be forever branded in his memory.
Horns bellowed once again, champions and challengers urged their horses forward, and the first tilts of Ashford Tourney commenced.
Taglist: (please let me know if you'd like to be added) @mooondapple @brianna-merlim @bimboreader @allthingsimagines @cold-v0dka @shitface-t
dragons and knights in the ER - modern! akotsk au x the pitt
pairings: baelor targaryen x fem!resident!reader; maekar targaryen x fem!nurse!reader; ser duncan the tall x fem!resident!reader; daeron targaryen x fem!medstudent!reader; aerion targaryen x fem!resident!reader; valarr targaryen x fem!nurse!reader.
summary: three dragons. one knight. one hospital that never sleeps. they’re used to closing deals, taking hits, and writing questionable stories after midnight... not losing their hearts to dangerously compelling doctors and nurses.
a/n: yup, a crossover between a knight of the seven kingdoms and the pitt. bear with me, i had this idea a few days ago and said 'well, why not, let's see what happens' and here i am, i don't know how well or badly this might turn out, but that's it.
we'll have love interests from akotsk and appearances from characters from the pitt... maybe someday i will do the reverse.
content:
still got it - baelor targaryen (5.8k)
summary: baelor targaryen only meant to prove to his son that he still got it. instead, he ends up in the ER with a cut on his head, a bruised ego, and a doctor who makes him forget the score entirely. oh, and his son trying to be his matchmaker.
a grumpy mess - maekar targaryen (8.2k)
summary: widower and real estate magnate maekar targaryen hasn’t opened his heart in years, until a late-night ER visit for his son puts him face-to-face with the only nurse brave enough to put him in his place. she thinks he’s arrogant. he thinks she’s extraordinary.
flirting, apparently - ser duncan the tall
summary: american football star duncan can handle tackles, but apparently not windows. she doesn’t care that he’s famous, she just wants him to stop bleeding. he doesn’t mean to flirt… or ask her out. It just sort of happens, he can’t help it.
wine-stained words - daeron targaryen
summary: daeron targaryen arrives at the ER bleeding, charming, and quoting poetry no one asked for. she blames the alcohol, she doesn’t expect him to return the next day, clear-headed and still flirting.
second-degree flirting - aerion targaryen
summary: after a reckless stunt lands him in the hospital, aerion targaryen discovers two things: fire hurts, and he might enjoy being scolded by the very doctor who patched him up. and it leaves him cotemplating committing another minor act of stupidity... just to have an excuse to see her again.
not my best shot - valarr targaryen
summary: when an unfortunate shot lands a nurse with a bruise, valarr targaryen finds himself with a problem, and an opportunity. he'd noticed her long before the impact... the puck just did the talking first.
Pairing: Raymun Fossoway x Baratheon! Female Reader
MASTERLIST
Summary: Raymun Fossoway, a mere squire to his older cousin, had yet to become the man he one day hoped to be. The granddaughter of the Lord of Storm's End knew she not the heir that was desired. But a chance meeting between the two of them at Ashford Tourney and the following fated chain of events may just be the catalyst they needed to embrace who they were always meant to be.
Warnings: friends to lovers, GOT typical sexism, mild canon divergence, language, Aerion is a red flag all of his own by making women very uncomfortable (nothing graphic)
word count: ~6,000 ish
A/N: over 100 likes on part 1? absolutely wild🖤 thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this and provide feedback. please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist for future parts. I'm hoping to get part 3 out sometime next week. I hope you enjoy part 2, and that you have a wonderful weekend 🖤💛💚
Storm’s End was never quieter than in the early hours of the dawn immediately following a night spent drinking, dancing, and celebrating. Unsurprisingly, the same could be said of the Baratheon camp at Ashford Tourney.
It was early when you were roused from sleep the following morning. Dreadfully so. The pounding in your head and the heaviness of your eyes were indication enough of a night well spent indulgence.
Looking around the tent, you noted that your ladies, only half of whom had yet to rise themselves, seemed to be in a comparable state to your own. Someone outside of the tent wretched, but you chose to ignore it in the hopes of keeping your own stomach at ease. Somewhere in the distance- though you could not see where- you heard your father’s snores.
You would have given just about anything to stay as you were, to sleep for a few more precious hours before embracing the day. But, despite the earliness of the hour and your less than agreeable state, when one was summoned by a Targaryen prince, one heeded the call.
After freshening up, you were dressed in a new gown with the aid of a few of your ladies who were able to assist. Not long after, you were being escorted by several men of the Targaryen household guard across Ashford Meadow.
So early was the hour that not many, be it nobility, or common folk who had made the journey to witness the tourney, were even awake just yet. But there were a few early risers, some who had begun to break their fast, and several men already walking about, presumably heading to the training yard.
The escort led across the meadow all the way up to Ashford Castle. You had greeted Lord Ashford and his daughter there the day before, but you had not anticipated to be back so soon, if at all. Once you arrived, you were led inside and up the stairs to one of the rooms on the top floor.
As the doors were closed at your back, your eyes finally landed upon who had summoned you. The heavy fog that hung over your head meant the curtsey you all but fell into was more instinctual than intentional.
”Prince Baelor, Prince Valarr.”
Prince Baelor Targayren, Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King, and Heir to the Iron Throne, and his eldest son, the Young Prince Valarr, sat at a long table in the middle of the room, breaking their fast. The scene was a calm one, and oddly domestic, for princes that were held in such high regard by many in the realm. It was so peculiar, it might have even given you pause, had you not been privy to similar sights before.
”Good morrow, Lady Y/N,” Prince Baelor greeted kindly.
”Good morrow, Your Grace.”
”How was the journey from the Stormlands?”
Aside from the disappearance of my wine? “Delightfully dull, I am pleased to say. The weather was more than fair to us, and there was not a single bandit in sight.”
“It is always good to hear the King’s Peace is still maintained, even outside the Crownlands. Is Ser Lyonel prepared for the first round?”
Lord Ashford’s tourney was to begin the following evening, and the prospect was an exciting one. Though it was not the first tourney you had attended by any means, first rounds almost always took place in the morning, or at least by midday. Starting the event when the field would be lit by nothing but torches and the stars above only added to the spectacle.
“He certainly seems to think so, My Prince,” you answered honestly. “Although, there have been some potential challengers of note that have arrived over the past day. Perhaps my father will not have nearly as simple a task before him as he currently believes.”
Prince Baelor’s mouth twitched upwards. “Though I doubt he would ever admit to such a thing.”
You shook your head, softly smiling in agreement at the light jest.
“I hope you enjoy the tourney, Lady Y/N,” Prince Baelor bid, rising to his feet. “If the two of you will pardon me, I am off to speak with Lord Ashford.”
One of the guards opened the doors for their lord, and you curtsied once more to him as Prince Baelor Targaryen passed by. Once he was gone, the doors were closed once more.
Excluding the several guards who remained in the room, you suddenly found yourself in a private audience with Prince Valarr for the first time in several years.
You bowed your head respectfully, focused on keeping your composure despite the aching that was agitated with the motion. When you lifted your focus, you looked him over as subtly as you could. The Young Prince looked much the same as you remembered, though a few years of maturity had definitely complemented his complexion. A boy no longer, undeniably a young man. It suited him, suited his title as second in line to the throne.
“Lady Y/N, please sit.”
You did as he bid without a word, knowing that if you truly wished to turn and leave the room entirely, Prince Valarr would allow you to do so without fuss. Make no mistake, as a prince of the blood, he certainly could have demanded you to stay, and you would have been forced to comply. But you also knew from your brief history with the Young Prince that he was kind and good-tempered, much resembling his father in that regard.
Once you were seated across from him, Prince Valarr pushed away his empty plate and sat up straight.
“My apologies for the early summons,” he began, surprisingly a bit sheepish. “You look well though, despite the hour.”
“Thank you, but I fear you honor me with a compliment I am not so certain I deserve. Last night’s festivities ran rather late into the evening-“ -morning- “so I hope you can forgive my appearance.”
“It is I who should be requesting your forgiveness, My Lady. I suspected we may cross paths here, and I wanted to speak with you before the tourney began, lest we run into one another at less than opportune moment. Should anyone else have witnessed such an encounter, I did not wish to cause any further trouble for you.”
“The royal escort was very subtle,” you joked, before you could think better of it. “I am certain it will have gone almost completely unnoticed.”
Prince Valarr was silent for a moment, though he made no attempt to hide the smile he fought. “I have missed your wit.”
You did not know what to say to such a remark.
“To be completely transparent, my father also asked for me to speak with you,” Prince Valarr admitted then. “He thought the two of us might be able to have a more productive conversation than he would have had with your grandsire, or even your father.”
Lord Baratheon would be absolutely beside himself at the thought of you discussing business with a representative of the crown, and you deeply relished in the thought. “What is it that you wish to discuss?”
“In light of what happened a few years past, my father and I want to be certain that there is no ill-will between our houses. House Baratheon is an important ally to the crown, and we appreciate your house’s loyalty. If we have offended your house in some way, we wish to rectify that.”
“No betrothal was broken, nor were any promises even made. There is nothing to have caused any strife, and certainly no ill-will,” you promised sincerely. “Lord Baratheon is a stubborn man, and perhaps my father is even more so, in his own way. But even they know this to be true. You and the Hand of the King have no reason to doubt House Baratheon’s loyalty to the crown, Your Grace.”
Prince Valarr visibly relaxed. “That a relief, My Lady.”
You hesitated for a moment. “I truly believe the right decision was made, for all involved.”
“I am pleased to hear it, and I am certain my father will be as well. He did not make the recommendation to the king lightly. Had the situation been different, I think he would have been pleased to join our two houses.”
The Young Prince likely made such a claim to your benefit alone, but a small part of you truly wanted to believe it.
Eager to change the subject, you cleared your throat. “While I am here, I would also like to extend my congratulations to you, Your Grace. They say Lady Kiera is with child.”
Prince Valarr smiled. “They speak the truth. Thank you, I will pass along your kind words to my wife.”
”I hope you will,” you replied earnestly.
In the somewhat comfortable silence that followed, you became all the more painfully aware of the throbbing in your head. It had gone forgotten for a short while, with conversations with princes to be had and whatnot, but that seemed to only encourage its return with a vengeance.
You fought a grimace. “If it pleases you, My Prince, I ought to return to camp and rest.”
Prince Valarr stood at once, and you mirrored his actions. “Yes, of course. These next few days will be rather long. But I am certain we will speak again before the tourney has concluded.”
You did not doubt that, but a small part of you wished you could be so fortunate so as to avoid the Young Prince altogether. You had meant every word, you held no ill-will for him, or his father, or even the king. But even that did little to alleviate your conversations from a lingering sense of awkwardness.
With one final curtsey, you turned to leave. “I wish you the best of luck in the tourney, Your Grace.”
“My Lady?”
“Yes, My Prince?”
“I am glad that things between us are amicable. One day, a long time from now, the Seven willing, when I am crowned king, I will take comfort in knowing that the Lady of Storm’s End can be relied upon as my ally.”
The compliment meant more to you than Prince Valarr could ever know. But the perfunctory smile that came to your lips was devoid of any real happiness. “You honor me, My Prince, but you misunderstand. My father is to remarry soon, and a new brother is more likely to succeed my father than I.”
“Is that so? … A shame, then. In the short while I knew you, you were always a force to be reckoned with. I can only imagine how that might have served you in being the lady of your house.”
“… Good morrow, Your Grace.”
“Good morrow, Lady Y/N.”
The sun was an early riser, but so was Raymun Fossoway.
When he was a boy, he rose early so that he could read before his lessons with the maester occupied the majority of his day. When grew a bit older, he rose early so that he could be the first in the training yard, always eager to get in as much practice with his sword and shield as he could. Now that he was grown, he found himself rising earlier and earlier just to be alone with his thoughts.
The sun begun its ascent into the sky as Raymun made his way across the grounds. Though the day had begun, few others were up and moving about their respective camps and market stalls. However, given the multitude of parties that had taken place the prior evening, that was hardly a surprise.
The tourney was set to begin the next day, after dusk. And soon, far too soon for Raymun’s liking, Steffon would awaken and drag him to the training yard, where his cousin would clobber him brutally under the guise of “practice”. And, being the loyal squire and dutiful kin that he was, Raymun knew he would have to endure Steffon’s beatings until the day he finally deemed him worthy of becoming a knight of his own.
But no use dreading that now, Raymun chastised himself. He shook his head, willing the unpleasant thoughts away, and recommitted himself to enjoying the last moments of peace he would have for the day.
Raymun’s walk eventually took him to Ashford Castle. Unlike the rest of the camp, the courtyard was already bustling with usual business. Guards manned their posts, stable boys were up feeding and watering the horses, and servants bustled in and out of a side door to the castle that presumably led to the kitchen.
Raymun looked up at the sky once again. It was time, most regrettably, to start making his return to the Fossoway camp.
But he halted, startled, as did a dozen or so other persons in the courtyard, when a sharp voice barked out.
“Fetch me my horse!”
From out of the castle, Prince Aerion Targaryen stormed out into the yard with a scowl that could make the rising sun shirk away and retreat. The prince, also known as Aerion Brightflame, as well as a few other choice names by Steffon that Raymun dare not speak aloud in public, was flanked by several men wearing Targaryen colors. The armed men were undoubtedly members of the royal family’s household guard.
No members of the Kingsguard, though, Raymun noted, amused at the realization. Not crucial enough to the line of succession to warrant additional protection, eh?
As Prince Aerion waited for some stable boy to do his bidding, he huffed, and straightened out the deep black riding cloak that rested upon his shoulders. When he was satisfied, his attention shifted to others in the courtyard.
His sights seemed to settle on a servant. A kitchen maid, Raymun supposed, from the look of her. The girl, young and admittingly pretty, attempted to walk past the prince without meeting his eyes. In each of her hands, she held two large buckets of water from the nearby well.
Prince Aerion leered, a sight that gave Raymun both a chill and filled him with disgust. The prince took a sudden step to block the poor girl’s path, and gave her an appraising look that did little to mask his intention.
Raymun was far enough away that he could not make out their conversation, but it did not take much imagination for his eyes to supply the details his ears could not. The kitchen maid appeared uneasy, but bowed to Prince Aerion as best she could. Her steady grip slipped into one gripped by nerves, causing water to shift and spill over the brim of the buckets and onto the ground. Prince Aerion seized the opportunity the momentary distraction offered him to slink closer to her, more than what would be deemed appropriate.
Steffon frequently made remarks about how servant girls should be thankful to receive any sort of special attention from their lords, and Raymun was unfortunately knowledgeable enough to know that Steffon spoke of his own personal experiences. But this particular kitchen maid, who squirmed and whose eyes never left the dirt beneath her feet, looked as though she would have rather been anywhere else in the realm than under the eye of Prince Aerion Targaryen.
Raymun looked to the Targaryen guards who had accompanied the prince out into the courtyard. Surely, they would get involved, and perhaps dissuade the prince in a manner that would not incite his anger. It was not as though they could not have been unfamiliar with Prince Aerion’s general demeanor and inclinations. If Raymun Fossoway, a member of a minor noble house from the Reach, knew of the prince’s cruel reputation, it was by no means a well-guarded secret across Westeros.
But the Targaryen guards did nothing. In fact, though they stood to attention in the vicinity of Prince Aerion, they did not look at him, nor the poor girl he had chosen to torment. The men seemed to be focused on anything but the scene unfolding in front of them, just a few short paces away.
The kitchen maid attempted a step backwards, but Prince Aerion closely followed her. The situation was escalating, and fast.
Raymun cursed under his breath. He could not just stand there idly, not after what he had seen thus far. But nor could he turn and walk away- the guilt would consume him. He to do something. If the Targaryen guards would not intervene on this girl’s behalf, someone ought to. And, since no one else in the courtyard was apparently willing to do so, the duty seemed to fall on him.
Steffon was going to kill him. But perhaps he would not get the chance, if Prince Aerion’s retribution claimed him first.
Raymun Fossoway, without a plan but absolutely certain of his intent, strode forward across the courtyard and toward the Targaryen prince.
He only made it a few paces before another voice rang out into the fray.
“Prince Aerion! Perfect morning for a ride, is it not?”
You really ought to have minded yourself and stayed silent.
But when you left the castle, stepping out into the courtyard to begin your return to the Baratheon camp, you had caught a glimpse of the unfortunate scene unfolding. Your tongue acted of its own accord- before your mind had a chance to fully understand the consequences of your decision.
Prince Aerion Targaryen whirled around at the sound of your voice. The kitchen maid, wasting no time, took the opportunity to flee with great haste. But that did not matter to Aerion Brightflame, whose sole attention you had now all but demanded.
When they landed upon you, the anger in his eyes shifted to something far more sinister. Your head, still throbbing, and your body, trembling in a way that you hoped would be mistaken for a chill, were strong reminders that you really should have chosen to flee when you’d had the chance.
“Lady Y/N Baratheon,” he smirked, more predatory than playful. “An excellent morning for a ride, I agree. Though I doubt the sort of ride I have in mind is one that you would be agreeable to.”
As a member of one of the great houses, you might have been allowed some grace to occasionally exchange a few terse words with other members of the nobility. But Prince Aerion Targaryen was not mere nobility, and your rank, though high as it might have been, would carry no weight if you were to directly insult a prince of royal blood.
You feigned innocence. “I am afraid I am not dressed for a ride, Your Grace.”
Prince Aerion looked you up and down, scrutinizing your appearance. “No, I suppose you are not. What are you dressed for, exactly?”
It was not any business of his, you knew. But you also knew that refusing him an answer would create more problems for you than it was worth. “Prince Valarr wished to speak with me.”
This seemed to pique his interest. “Did he, now? Has he any regrets about how things worked out? Lady Kiera is a lovely woman, to be sure. But you are not something to be so easily set aside, either.”
If it had come from anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, you might have accepted the compliment. But the compliment was not for your sake, only his own.
”Of course, taking a full-blooded Targaryen to wife is most desirable,” Prince Aerion stated, matter of factly. “But, if I cannot have one, perhaps I could amuse myself with a Baratheon bride instead.”
He leaned forward, and spoke in a low voice. “I could make that happen, you know. It would not take much effort at all- only a single conversation with my grandsire. During that summer a few years past, there could have easily been a time or two where we found ourselves alone with one another. Anything might have happened.”
It was a threat, and a poorly veiled one at that.
Your jaw clenched. “You would be speaking of nothing but lies.”
“And you would dare to refute me?” He stood up straight and let out a short laugh, the sound of which grated on your nerves. “Who is the king more likely to believe? His own flesh and blood, or the Baratheon opportunist we all already know was sent to the capital solely to secure a match with a Targaryen prince?”
It was fruitless to argue. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I am feeling unwell. Enjoy your ride, I must be getting back-“
“Why are you in such a hurry?” Prince Aerion looked to his personal guards, as well as the guards who had escorted you to Ashford Castle. “Leave us, now. All of you.”
“My Prince,” one of them objected, “we are to escort Lady Y/N back to the Baratheon camp, on the orders of Prince Valarr.”
Prince Aerion’s nostrils flared. “He may be a prince of the blood, but as am I. You serve me just as well as you serve him, do you not?”
A few of the guards looked at one another, visibly uneasy. “But what of your safety, My Prince?”
“Do you think the lady poses a legitimate threat to my safety? You cannot possibly be so daft. You will do as I have commanded, and leave us.”
Dread filled your stomach as slowly, one by one, the Targaryen guards around you began to back away. You looked at them with wide, pleading eyes, hoping they would convey the fear that you could not voice aloud. Despite the smallest semblance of guilt you saw on a few of their faces, all of the men ultimately heeded their prince. And though they did not completely disperse, the guards distanced themselves enough so that your conversation would not be overheard.
Prince Aerion took a menacing step towards you, instantly reclaiming your attention. “Now that we have some privacy, how about you and I-“
“Lady Y/N?“
Neither you nor Prince Aerion had noticed the young man’s approach, but all of the sudden, there he was.
You almost did not recognize him, not without being beneath the burden of a barrel of cider. The man spared a quick glance at you, and the moment his dark brown eyes met your own, the memory of you catching his eye the evening before flashed across your mind. His focus then fell to the ground, much in the same manner it had the evening before, too.
A Fossoway, you surmised. But while his partner Ser Steffon had forced an introduction, he had not been given the chance.
”Yes… ser?”
Aerion wrinkled his nose. “Who the fuck is this?”
”My Lady, I am glad to have caught you,” the man continued, ignoring the prince’s question. “It’s about the cider you ordered- when would you like it delivered to the Baratheon tent?”
The cider? “…Ah, yes, the cider.”
”What fucking cider?” Aerion demanded, temper rising. “Nevermind, it matters not.” He jabbed a finger in the other man’s face. “You have interrupted us. You can leave now, with your tongue, or you can delay your leave, and find yourself without it.”
To his immense credit, the Fossoway man did not flinch under the prince’s harsh treatment and words.
You took the calculated risk that Prince Aerion would either be unwilling or simply unable to carry out his threat in broad daylight, and with so many witnesses. “My father is hosting another party this evening, but most of the guests will not arrive until after dark.”
“Shall we deliver it at sunset, then?” the Fossoway man suggested earnestly, fully committed to the tale.
You made a show of pretending to consider his suggestion. “Well, the cider is best served cold, is it not? How is it stored, prior to being delivered? I would not want it to lose some of its luster by being brought over too soon, before it has a chance to be properly enjoyed.”
Prince Aerion sighed exasperatedly. “If I have to hear one more word about this fucking cider, I swear to the old gods and the new that I shall-“
”Your horse, My Prince.”
The stable boy handed the visibly irate Targaryen prince the reigns to his horse and vanished just as fast as he’d appeared.
“Fuck this,” Prince Aerion declared bitterly, “and fuck your cider.”
The prince mounted his horse without delay. To his guards, still gathered in the periphery a few paces away, he announced, “I ride alone.”
”Is that wise, My Prince? Prince Maekar said to make sure you are accounted for at all times-“
”My father is not here, I am. Now, that is two times today you have questioned me. Question me thrice, and I shall have you removed from your position and replaced with someone who will actually obey their prince.”
Prince Aerion Targaryen turned his horse, dug in his heels, and the mount galloped out of the courtyard and into the surrounding woods with great speed.
An immediate silence fell over the courtyard.
”If we’re lucky, perhaps he’ll be thrown off his horse and break his neck.”
You turned to the Fossoway man beside you, and despite everything that had just transpired, the corners of your lips dangerously threatened to tilt upwards. Clearing your throat, you threw a wary glance over your shoulder at the Targaryen guards. “You should take care of how loudly you say such a thing, ser.”
The young man shook his head, as though chastising himself. “Of course, My Lady. Forgive me, I did not mean for my words to offend you.”
“Have I given you cause to believe I was offended by them?”
The silence that followed was an answer enough. As you looked to the Fossoway man beside you, he shifted a bit under your attention. But you quickly noticed the growing smirk that threatened his own composure.
“Lady Y/N!”
Two of your father’s favored and most trusted men strode across the courtyard, concern and determination written plainly across their faces.
“What is wrong?” you asked of them, still wary from the morning’s events. “Has something happened?”
The men came to a stop a few paces away. Both of them regarded the Targaryen guards behind you with suspicion, and neither bothered to disguise their feelings.
“No, all is well, My Lady. Merely, Ser Lyonel awoke and noticed your absence. He sent us to ensure no trouble had befallen you.”
Taking that as their queue, the Targaryen guards took a few steps forward. “We are under orders of Prince Valarr to escort Lady Y/N back to the Baratheon tent.”
”Are you, now? You shall not mind if we join you, then. After all, clearly we are no threat to our own lady.”
The man beside you took a step backwards in retreat.
You held out a hand to stop him. “Are you headed back to the Fossoway tent?”
His eyes, two dark, seemingly endless pools, flickered between the two groups of guards on either side of you with apprehension. “Aye, My Lady.”
”Will you walk with me?”
Raymun had done many things in his life that, in hindsight, he wished he had not. He lived with regrets, and he had made foolish decisions before. And, it was undeniably foolish, interrupting Prince Aerion Targaryen as he had.
But he carried no regrets with him now. The kitchen maid did not deserve such mistreatement, even from a prince, and neither had you.
Then again, perhaps immediately wishing death upon said prince had been a bit too bold. Ignoble of him, at the very least. Imagine his relief when you had actually smiled at his poorly thought out words. The feeling was simply indescribable.
Raymun had had enough good fortune bestowed upon him that morning, and had every intention of removing himself before he tempted fate any further. But then, you’d asked him to join you. And with the eyes of all the guards, a few other curious spectators in the courtyard, and even your own resting upon him, Raymun had been in no position to deny your request.
Setting all that aside, he found himself not wanting to refuse you.
And so, there he was, Raymun Fossoway, merely a squire of a minor noble house, walking beside a daughter of one of the realm’s great houses. It was such an odd thing, to be at your side, while a small escort of Targaryen and Baratheon guards followed shortly behind. He had experienced nothing similar of the sort before, and would not dare to hope for such an opportunity again.
All Raymun could do was make the most of the unique circumstance he’d found himself in. And, if Steffon happens to catch a glance of this, so be it. His cousin’s jealous ire would be worth enduring, if it meant he could commit these fleeting moments to memory.
As you set off to return to your respective camps, you introduced yourself to him.
Raymun had to stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Despite all that had transpired, you had never been formally introduced. For all you knew, Raymun might have only known you as Ser Lyonel’s daughter. That most likely would have been the case, had Steffon not pointed you out to him the day before. It was probably the kindest thing his cousin had done for him as of late, and he hadn’t even known it.
“I am aware of who you are, My Lady.”
You did not look embarrassed, but interested. “You have me at an advantage, then. To whom do I owe my thanks, Ser…?”
”Raymun,” he supplied. “Just Raymun. Raymun Fossoway, My Lady.”
“Not a knight?” The question was more curious than accusatory. “Well, I am in your debt, just Raymun Fossoway.”
You spoke so softly, Raymun was barely able to hear you over the sound of his own racing thoughts and the quickly awakening camps and market stalls you passed by.
Raymun glanced over his shoulder to the guards that were following closely behind the pair of you. Rather unfortunately, he immediately caught the eye of one of the Baratheon guardsmen, who narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him in turn.
Best not to be overheard, he realized. Anything the guards caught wind of could make its way back to Ser Lyonel Baratheon, or worse- Prince Aerion himself.
Raymun hastily turned his attention back to the dirt path in front of him. “I wouldn’t go that far, My Lady. The poor girl was just doing her job. Anyone would have done the same.”
“No, they would not,” you disagreed, not unkindly, but still firm. “Those men behind us witnessed the same thing as you and I, and yet, when it truly mattered, they looked the other way.”
Never in a thousand years would Raymun have thought he would come to the defense of the Targaryens, or anyone closely involved with them, but there he was. “I suppose I can appreciate the difficulty of their position. You heard how he speaks to them. They likely did not want to incur Prince Aerion’s wrath.”
”Those men know who he is, and they know the family they serve. Still, they choose to remain in their employ. But you-“ you paused. “You risked a great deal of harm befalling you, throwing yourself in the prince’s path.”
As did you. “Not many ladies would have intervened, either.”
”I could not stand by and do nothing, knowing what I do.”
You did not elaborate further, and Raymun did not dare to ask.
When you next spoke, your tone was less grave, more apologetic. “You were kind enough to come to my aid at all, particularly in light of how my father and I treated you last night.”
Raymun felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment at the memory. “I hold nothing against you for it. My cousin is the one who came up with the idea. I tried to warn him that it wouldn’t end well, but he doesn’t put much stock in my opinion.”
“Ser Steffon is your cousin, then?”
Unfortunately. “Aye.”
“Do you always follow your cousin’s orders?”
”I am his squire, My Lady.”
You seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Is your cousin always so… firm, with you?”
Raymun tilted his head. “I’m afraid I do not follow, My Lady.”
“Make no mistake, my father enjoys a good jest, but even he is wiser than to completely shun someone he may encounter on the tourney field. After you and Ser Steffon fled the tent last night, I followed you. I meant to invite the two of you to join us for supper, as proper guests, that is.”
Gods, Raymun groaned internally. Steffon had been absolutely irate when they’d left the Baratheon tent. How much did she overhear? How much did she see?
You seemed to notice his reluctance at once. “Forgive me, ser. Clearly, I witnessed something private. I should not have mentioned it.”
Raymun’s gut was still sore from where Steffon had punched him not once, but twice the day before. The pain was mostly gone now, but a faint throb pulsed again when he detected the concern in your voice. Concern for him.
“My cousin has always been that way. It’s how he shows he cares, I suppose- by keeping me in line.”
You frowned. “For as long as I can remember, my grandsire and father have never seen eye to eye. But I have never seen them lay hands on one another.”
”Then you are very fortunate, My Lady.”
You were not pleased with his explanation, Raymun could tell. Fortunately, you let the matter rest.
”I will not disagree with you, ser.”
All too soon, the deep red Fossoway tent came into view. And, a bit beyond it, the golden and black Baratheon tents loomed.
”Thank you for allowing me to accompany you thus far, My Lady,” Raymun said, bowing his head in your direction. He glanced once more at the guards trailing a few paces behind. “If you’ll give me leave, I am sure these men will have no trouble seeing you the rest of the way.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion. “I all but forced you to walk with me.”
Then why did I enjoy it so much? “You granted me the honor of escorting you across the grounds. Consider any debt between us repaid.”
You scoffed, an impolite gesture that Raymun could not help but find refreshingly honest, if not downright endearing. “Whatever you wish to call it, it is a poor way to show you my gratitude.”
Encouraged by your words, he could feel a sense of bravery brewing within him. “Then what do you suggest?”
You regarded him thoughtfully. After a moment, another charming smile threatened to tug at the corner of your lips. “Join us for supper tonight. As a proper guest this time.”
Raymun could have kicked himself for the next words that slipped from his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
You let out a laugh, the same sound that echoed enchantingly in his ears the day before.
"It’s not imposing if you are invited, Raymun Fossoway. But, forcing you to attend is no way to show my gratitude, either. If you do not wish to join us, I will not be offended by your refusal.
By now, several of his family members, including Steffon, had spotted their approach from where they stood outside of the Fossoway tent. Raymun could see Steffon’s glare even from a distance.
“Anytime after the sun has set, you will be most welcomed,” you reassured him. “There will be plenty of food, drink, even dancing. Bring a guest of your own, if it will make you more comfortable. Although… Perhaps you can tell Ser Steffon that my father explicitly forbade his presence. You will not feel so compelled to invite him, then.”
Raymun felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you for that kindness alone.
Only a fool would be tempted to turn down your offer. It was most certainly nothing more than repaying the favor you perceived him to have bestowed upon you. But Raymun wasn’t foolish enough to denounce his good fortune, not when the Seven so rarely bestowed it upon him.
“I’ll see you tonight, Lady Y/N.”
The unbridled joy that flooded your face was brighter than the rising sun. Raymun was so lost in the contagiousness of your expression, he forgot to take a moment to remind himself not to place too much meaning upon it.
“Until tonight, Raymun Fossoway.”
Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to added for future parts): @mooondapple @brianna-merlim
✎⠀⠀pairing ⦂ jason todd x reader | pure shenanigans from the batboys, damian being a traitor, and dick playing older brother.
࿐ synopsis ⦂ jason todd is baffled when you cancel your date with a vague excuse; uncharacteristic behaviour for you. Suspicious, he heads to your apartment, where he unexpectedly runs into dick grayson, who reveals he’s there for the same reason with kori. The coincidence unnerves jason; him and dick won't stop at nothing until they get to the bottom of this coincidence.
MASTERLIST . . . . . ↷
"Are you kidding me? Something came up?" The text on Jason Todd's phone screen glared back at him, unapologetic in its vagueness. He reread it for the seventh time in five minutes. Same words. Unbelievable.
This wasn’t like you. You never cancelled. Ever. Not even that time he showed up with a black eye and bloodstains on his jacket; you simply sighed, handed him a wet cloth, and ordered takeout. But tonight? ...Radio silence after a single, dry excuse.
He shoved his phone into his pocket. Fine. If you weren't answering, he would get answers the old-fashioned way.
Your apartment building was a squat brick thing, the kind with flickering hallway lights and a lobby that smelled faintly of cheap air freshener. He didn’t bother with stealth; just jabbed the elevator button and rode up, arms crossed, scowling at his own reflection in the metal doors.
He rounded the corner to your floor and nearly walked straight into Dick Grayson.
Dick blinked. Jason blinked harder.
"You," they said in unison, then both paused.
Dick recovered first, shifting his weight with that infuriating relaxation of his. "You stalking someone?"
Jason’s eye twitched. "None of your damn business. Why are you here?"
Dick held up his phone, screen lit with a text. "Kori cancelled. Said she was busy." His smirk was thin. "Funny. She’s never busy."
Jason’s stomach dropped. His fingers twitched toward his holster out of pure reflex. “Strange,” he muttered, jaw tight. “My girl said the same thing.”
Dick’s grin sharpened, all teeth. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence.”
They both turned toward your door; cheap wood, peeling paint, with a lopsided wreath you drunkenly hung last Christmas and never taken down. Silence pulsed between them, thick enough to choke on. Then, from inside, a burst of laughter. High, bright—yours—followed by another voice, warm and melodic. Kori’s.
His boot hovered an inch from the door, his entire body coiled like a spring about to snap, until Dick’s grip yanked him back mid-kick. The sheer audacity of it had him whirling, fist already swinging, but Dick ducked with that stupid acrobatic flair and held up both hands like he was pacifying a feral cat.
“I have a better idea,” Dick said, voice conspiratorial, like they weren’t standing outside their respective girlfriends’ impromptu betrayal party.
Jason’s teeth ground together. “Unless your idea involves a flamethrower and a signed apology letter—”
“Subtlety. Ever heard of it?”
“Fine. But if this goes south, I’m blaming you.”
The apartment smelled like burnt popcorn and nail polish remover; two things Koriand'r had insisted were essential for a proper girls' night, despite your half-hearted protests. Now, sprawled across the couch in pajamas that hadn’t seen daylight since college, you watched as she brandished a bottle of neon green polish.
"Hold still," Kori chided, her tongue poking out in concentration as she swiped another stripe across your toenails. "If you smudge this, I’m making you redo it."
You snorted, wiggling your toes just for the fun of being difficult. "You’re worse than my mom."
She gasped, clutching her chest. "Betrayal! After I literally saved you from that cursed eyeliner?" She gestured dramatically to the your face, where last night’s smudged wings had been replaced with something vaguely resembling competence. "I demand gratitude. And snacks."
You lobbed a gummy bear at her forehead. "There. Snack delivered."
She caught it mid-air with inhuman reflexes and popped it into her mouth, grinning. "I’ll allow it."
A comfortable silence settled, punctuated only by the pop of you cracking open another soda. The air was warm, thick with the scent of cheap face masks and the faint hum of some reality show you weren’t actually eyeing.
"You ever think about how weird it is?" you mused, picking at the frayed edge of your sweatpants.
Kori glanced up. "That you own eight identical black hoodies but only one functional bra?"
"No... okay, yes, but no." You tossed a throw pillow at her. "Just… us. Like, you’re you. And I’m… me."
Her grin softened. "Oh... the classic why is an alien friends with a human who cries at dog commercials existential crisis." She nudged your foot with her knee. "I like you. No overthinking required."
Your chest tightened, just a little, but she masked it with an exaggerated eye roll. "Wow. Deep. Next you’ll tell me friendship is magic or some shit."
She gasped again, this time slapping a hand over her heart. "You monster. Don’t insult My Little Pony in my presence."
You dissolved into laughter, the kind that left ribs aching and soda threatening to come out noses. It was stupid, and perfect, and for a moment, you both forgot about cancelled dates and suspiciously absent boyfriends.
Then the smoke detector went off.
Kori shot upright, eyes wide. "The cookies!"
You groaned, tipping your head back against the couch. "We literally set a timer—"
"Timers are suggestions!" She declared, already sprinting to the kitchen in socks that slid dangerously on the floor. She flapped a dish towel at the smoking oven. Victorious, she tossed the burnt remains of the cookies into the sink. "Next time, you’re in charge of baking."
"Next time," you began, snagging the last bag of chips from the cupboard, "we order takeout like sane people."
Her eyes lit up, like she had just discovered a new invention. "Genius."
Tonight? Tonight was for burnt snacks and bad decisions... or so you thought...
Jason’s boot scuffed against the rusted metal of the fire escape as Dick hauled him up by the back of his jacket like a wild kitten. “Would you stop—grk—manhandling me?” He hissed, wrenching free only to nearly elbow a loose bolt off the railing. It clattered down three flights before landing with a distant clang. Both men froze.
Dick exhaled through his nose. “Smooth.”
“How do you even know my girlfriend has a fire exit, anyways?” Jason muttered, crouching low as they crept toward the cracked window. The scent of singed sugar cookies and citrusy polish wafted out, mingling with the damp night air.
"Because someone had to drag you out of her bathroom window last New Year’s Eve when you accidentally locked yourself out," Dick whispered, pressing a finger to his lips as he eased the window open another inch. The hinges gave a tiny squeak. Both men winced.
Jason scowled but crouched lower, his forehead nearly brushing the fire escape. "That was one time—"
"Quiet down," Dick hissed, elbowing him sharply in the ribs.
Jason's forehead pressed against the grimy windowpane, his breath fogging up the glass as he strained to see inside. The angle was terrible; just the top half of his face visible, one narrowed eye and a sliver of his stupid white streak peeking over the sill like some half-assed burglar.
"Get down, Jason," Dick hissed, yanking the back of his jacket again. "Your head's too big. You're gonna get us caught."
Jason jerked backward, nearly kneeing his brother in the face as he lost his balance. "Would you—dammit—stop yanking me like I'm a goddamn dog on a leash?" His whisper was more of a strangled growl, the fire escape groaning under their combined weight.
Inside, the makeshift fashion runway was a disaster zone of discarded clothes and half-empty snack bags. You struck a pose in front of the full-length mirror, swishing the hem of a sequined dress you wore exactly once to a wedding three years ago. Kori twirled beside you in a black number that was definitely too small, the zipper straining over her shoulders.
Jason’s breath hitched. That was his hoodie tossed carelessly over the armchair... and the dress Kori was currently admiring on herself? That was yours. The one you wore on your second date, when you spilled wine down the front and laughed instead of panicking.
Dick’s elbow dug into Jason’s ribs. “Focus,” he muttered, though his own gaze kept flicking to Kori’s laughter-lit face.
"Well... that was the last of them. Feel free to borrow anything you liked that fit and actually put them to better use... anything other than letting these dresses rot at the back of my wardrobe," you announced with a grin, fingers already working at the zipper of your sequined disaster. Kori gasped in delight, immediately shimmying out of her own too-tight dress. Fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you standing in nothing but mismatched underwear that had seen better days; Kori in something lacy and black that looked like it cost more than the your entire wardrobe... the audacity to even ask if she wanted to borrow anything...
Outside, three things happened in rapid series: First, Dick Grayson's entire body went rigid, his hand shooting out to clamp over Jason's eyes with the speed of a man who just seen a grenade roll into a preschool. Second, Jason's knee jerked forward on instinct, slamming into the fire escape railing with a metallic clang that echoed down the alley. And third, Jason's free hand flew up to cover Dick's eyes with equal enthusiasm.
"I wasn't even looking at Kori," Jason hissed, his fingers digging into Dick's forehead hard enough to leave marks.
Dick’s grip on Jason’s face tightened to the point of pain. “You liar,” he spat out, voice strangled. “Your eyeballs were practically bulging out of your skull—”
“Oh, like you weren’t eye-fucking my girlfriend’s ratty-ass bra?” Jason snarled back, kneeing Dick in the thigh for good measure. The fire escape shuddered beneath them, rust flaking off in chunks.
"Spying on indecency?" Damian Wayne's voice sliced through the tension like a razor. Both his older brothers froze mid-scuffle, their hands still mashed against each other's faces like some cartoon puppet show gone wrong.
Jason recovered first, twisting toward the sound with a snarl; only to find their pint-sized brother standing two steps below them on the fire escape, arms crossed, looking totally unimpressed. "The hell—?"
Dick lunged first, Jason half a second behind, both their hands smacking over Damian's eyes with the synchronised panic. Damian didn't even flinch, his voice muffled but still cutting through their hearing, "They should have made you Batman's villains instead. At least they have standards."
Dick peeked over his shoulder at the window and exhaled hard, shoulders slumping. "The girls are dressed." He pried his hand away from Damian's face, leaving Jason's still clamped over their brother's eyes like a clingy blindfold. "Let him go, Todd."
Jason hesitated, squinting suspiciously at the window; where, sure enough, you and Kori were now swaddled in what appeared to be matching fuzzy robes, aggressively tossing popcorn at each other's mouths like some carnival competition. He released Damian with a grunt.
Damian blinked up at them, his expression the perfect blend of disgust and morbid curiosity. "So. This is what you do when your paramours reject you? Peep through windows like common degenerates?"
Dick opened his mouth, then closed it. Jason had no such restraint. "First off, paramours? Who the talks like that—"
"Assassins," Dick interjected weakly, rubbing his temples.
"—And second," Jason steamrolled over him, jabbing a finger at Damian, "why are you here? Don't tell me your girlfriend bailed on you too."
Damian's nose wrinkled. "I don't have a girlfriend. I've decided I'm too young to take on the responsibility of an intimate partnership "
"Then what—"
"I followed him," Damian said flatly, pointing at Dick. "Because someone disabled the Manor's security protocols again to sneak out, and Alfred was most displeased."
Dick groaned, slumping against the railing. "He's gonna murder me."
"Good." Jason smirked. "At your grown age... still being grounded. Should have stayed in Blüdhaven..."
"Now, you're just being cruel," Dick jokingly said. "You, don't remember the time when you said I was your favourite brother, Todd...?"
"No, because that memory doesn't exist."
Inside, your laughter spilled out the window again, bright and unfiltered. Jason's smirk faltered.
Damian eyed his brothers with the detachment of a scientist observing silly lab rats. "If you're this distressed over a cancelled evening, perhaps you should communicate like adults."
Dick snorted. "Says the kid who threw a tantrum last week because Titus got more attention than him."
Damian's glare could have melted steel. "That was different."
Jason ignored them, staring at the window where you were now attempting to balance a cookie on her nose while Kori cheered you on. Something twisted in his chest; something stupid and soft and annoying. He turned to Damian, "Well, if you're gonna hang around, you could at least make yourself useful."
You flopped onto your back, staring at the water stain on your ceiling that somewhat resembled Dick Grayson’s profile if you squinted. “Okay, but hypothetically,” you began, waving a gummy worm, “if you had to choose between saving Jason from a burning building or a lifetime supply of those mint chocolate chip cookies you’re obsessed with... what do you pick?”
Kori gasped, clutching her chest as if personally hurt. “Mint chocolate chip? Those are an abomination unto the sun.” She lobbed a pretzel at your forehead, you failed to catch it. “The correct answer is obviously Jason. But only if he promises to let me carry him out bridal-style while sobbing dramatically about my bravery.”
"Sounds like a fantasy of yours." You cackled, kicking her feet against the couch cushions. “I knew Grayson had a thing for damsel-in-distress theatrics.”
You had just settled back onto the couch, gummy worms halfway to your mouth, when the faint clashing of chitter-chatter voices from the far end of the room made you freeze. Almost said familiar, but you couldn't quite make it out as they were speaking in hushed tones… whispers.
"Of course, they'll let you in… who wouldn't, your adorable… when they do, say… but also asks… no, no… don't say we sent ya… alright… everything clear…"
Kori’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing like a predator catching a scent. "Did you—"
"Hear that?" you whispered back, already creeping off the couch. A noise came again; less chatter, more tap, like someone was politely rapping on glass with a spoon. You padded across the room, bare feet silent on the floor.
The window was already open.
You recoiled, blinking at the inch-wide gap. "Uh. Kori? Did you—"
"Absolutely not," she called from the couch, sounding deeply offended. "I have standards, and a key."
You frowned and pushed the window wider, expecting a stray cat or maybe an ambitious pigeon. Instead, you found Damian Wayne staring up at you, his forehead barely brushing the windowsill, green eyes wide. He looked like a lost Victorian child; if Victorian children wore tactical boots.
"Damian," you said slowly. "What are you doing out here all by yourself?" You leaned out, scanning the fire escape. Empty. "And who were you talking to?"
He clasped his hands behind his back, the sight of innocence. "I've been sent."
Kori materialised behind you like a vengeful shadow. "By who exactly?"
His lips pursed. "That I can't say. It's for my own good."
You and Kori exchanged a look.
"Well," you said, stepping aside, "would you like to come in? You do know you're always welcome here."
He hesitated, just long enough for you to catch the flicker of something smug in his expression, before nodding. "Very well."
Kori hauled him inside with one hand, her other already rifling through the snack bowl. "You’re terrible at lying," she informed him, popping a gummy bear into her mouth.
He dusted off his sleeves with exaggerated pride. "I don’t lie. I withhold."
You snorted, ruffling his hair; a crime punishable by death in any other circumstance, but he tolerated it with the long, suffering sigh of a child who accepted his fate. "Alright, little spy. Spill. What's the real mission?"
He batted your hand away with a scowl that lacked any real offence. "There is no mission." His gaze flicked pointedly to the discarded dresses strewn across the floor. "Though clearly, your evening plans are far more… intriguing than ours."
Kori's brows shot up. "Ours? Plural?" She leaned down until they were nose-to-nose, her grin widening as Damian leaned back. "Who's we, baby bat?"
His spine straightened. “I don’t know what you’re implying,” he said, chin lifted just enough to communicate offence without losing his air of mystery. “I came here of my own volition. To ensure you hadn’t been… compromised.” His gaze flicked to the half-empty soda bottle on the coffee table.
You folded your arms. “Uh-huh. You just said you've been sent and now, you're saying you came here on your own accord... not to mention the we?”
“Royal,” he said smoothly.
Kori’s eyes narrowed. “Tamaraneans don’t use the royal we when we come alone.”
A second of confusing silence. He blinked. “I’ve been spending time with Diana.”
“I doubt you're even allowed to be in the same room with her, unless Bruce is there,” you assumed, in a joking manner. "The adults are speaking."
Damian’s eyelid twitched, just once, before he rotated toward the kitchen. “Your snack selection is inadequate,” he declared, poking at the burnt cookie remains in the sink. “No wonder Todd looks malnourished.”
"...Actually, those snacks are all on me," you argued. "Jason despises sweet treats."
Kori opened her mouth, then froze. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “Wait. Wait.” She whirled on you. “How many times has Jason complained about Damian lurking during your dates?”
Your eyes widened in realisation. “Oh my god.”
Damian’s shoulders tensed, but he kept his back to you, rearranging your spice rack. “Irrelevant.”
Kori lunged, snagging him by the hood of his jacket and hauling him up like a misbehaving kitten. Sometimes, you forget just how tall she was. “You little stalker—”
“Unhand me—!”
“—Are you taking notes for them?!”
His feet dangled two inches off the ground, his expression caught between outrage and resignation. “I am not their lackey.”
“Then why,” you pressed on, stepping closer, “are your boots tracking in the same gutter mud Jason always drags in?”
Silence.
Damian exhaled through his nose, mumbling, almost ashamed. “…They’re on the fire escape. They made me do it...”
"Drop him slowly, they could be watching." You whispered, bopping his nose, much to his annoyance. "…Can't let them know, we have them figured out just yet."
Kori's grip loosened just enough for him to land in a graceless heap, but his glare never wavered. "This is undignified," he hissed, scrambling upright and dusting himself off.
You pressed a finger to your lips, then jerked your head toward the couch. "Act natural," you murmured, plopping down and grabbing the remote with exaggerated nonchalance. Kori followed suit, flopping onto the cushions like she hadn't just been holding that little assassin overhead.
Damian hesitated, then straightened his jacket and perched on the armrest. "They're debating whether to storm the castle or retreat to reassess," he muttered, eyeing the window with mockery. "Grayson is advocating for subtlety. Todd is advocating for"—he made air quotes— "controlled arson."
Kori snorted into her soda. "Sounds about right."
"And you, Damian? I'm curious... what did they send you here for?" You asked.
"To get information out of you both."
"Oh, you'll get plenty of information out of us, tonight." You leaned forward, dropping your voice to a whisper. "Okay, new plan. We let them think they're being sneaky." You snatched a marker off the coffee table and scribbled OPERATION: EXPOSE STALKING on your forearm with a flourish.
Kori's eyes gleamed. "I like the way you think."
Outside, the fire escape groaned ominously.
Jason's knee was killing him, especially for a guy his size crouching down. "This is a waste of time," he hissed, shifting his weight on the rusted metal grating. "We've been out here for twenty minutes, and all we've learned is that my girlfriend owns eight identical hoodies and Kori has a shocking lack of respect for zipper integrity—"
Dick elbowed him sharply. "Would you focus? They're up to something."
Jason squinted through the grime-stained window, his nose nearly pressed to the glass. Inside, you and Kori were now spread out on the floor, surrounded by what appeared to be a shocking number of glitter pens and a half put together… something. Kori held up a sheet of paper with exaggerated seriousness, her lips moving silently as she pointed at a barbaric stick-figure drawing of... was that him with devil horns?
Dick’s breath fogged up the glass beside him. “Are they… making a flowchart?”
Jason’s eye twitched. “I'm not sure.” He reached for the window, only for Dick’s hand to clamp around his wrist like a cuff.
Kori leaned back against the couch cushions, twirling a glitter pen between her fingers with a dreamy sigh. "You know, Damian, your brother does have this way of smiling, like he’s trying not to, but it still happens. Like he’s mad about how happy he is." She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes fluttering shut. "Devastating."
Damian’s nose wrinkled. "You’re describing Grayson like he’s a... romance novel."
You snorted, nudging his knee with your foot. Kori carried on, "Oh, don’t act like you haven’t noticed. Dick’s got those eyes... the ones that make you feel like you’re the only person in the room, even when he’s literally surrounded." She flopped onto her stomach, chin propped on her hands. "And the way he laughs? Ugh. Criminal."
Outside, Dick’s grip on the fire escape railing tightened. Jason side-eyed him—oh, this was too good—but Dick’s expression was an image, caught somewhere between smug and violently flustered.
Damian, ever the little chaos gremlin, rolled his eyes. "And Todd?" he prompted, tone dripping with exaggerated boredom.
Your grin turned wicked. "Jason? Ugh." You tucked your hair behind your ear. "The worst. You ever seen him cook? Man flips a pancake like it’s a goddamn art form. And at night—"
Jason’s pulse kicked up. Oh hell yeah.
"—Like, who gave him permission to take up that much space in my tiny ass bed? And his walrus sounding snores—"
Dick muffled a snort into his elbow. Jason elbowed him hard.
Kori sighed. "He's so infatuated with you that he doesn't even know—"
Jason’s chest spiked. Know what...
"—Yeah, well I have a feeling he's getting close to figuring it all out, which is why, I'm actually thinking about changing my lock so we don't get caught—"
Jason’s breath hitched... we...
You nodded. "Yeah, Jason’s handsome alright, but you know who else is handsome—" You leaned in toward Kori, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth as you met her ear. From any outsider point of view, it would have looked like you were whispering an actual name, but really you were just whispering gibberish in the poor girl's ear, while trying to contain the laughter begging for its release in the box of your throat.
Jason was already halfway through the window, chest puffed out, when Dick yanked him back by the hood with the reflexes, as if he were the head man himself, batman, who spent a lifetime herding Robins.
“Subtlety, Todd,” Dick said, carefully. “... I know it's hard but we stick to the plan. Damian’s our inside man.”
"Easy for you to say, you're not the one who's just witnessed their girl confess to being unfaithful," Jason scoffed. “Inside man, my ass! We’re putting way too much trust into that kid. And last I checked, he was sitting on her couch eating my gummy worms.”
Inside, Damian, continuing to be the traitorous little gremlin that he was, nodded solemnly as you whispered something in his ear. Then, with the gesture of a seasoned double agent, he plucked a glitter pen from the pile and began scribbling on a fresh sheet of paper. Jason’s stomach dropped.
“Oh, fuck no.” He lunged for the window again—
—Just as Damian’s head snapped up, green eyes locking onto the window. Jason froze mid-reach, heart thudding against his ribs.
Damian smirked.
Then he held up the paper.
TOLD YOU THEY WERE HERE
Jason’s vision went red. Red hood… indeed. “That little—”
The window slammed open.
Jason’s boot caught on the sill as he lunged inside, because that's what happens when you don't think your action through, and he nearly face-planted directly into your coffee table. Only Dick’s reflexes (and a humiliating, especially in front of you, yank on his jacket) saved him from eating the table’s material.
Kori didn’t even look up from her glitter masterpiece. “Oh, finally,” she drawled, swirling her pen in a lazy circle. “We were starting to think you’d actually set the fire escape on fire.”
"Yeah," You agreed. "I really thought pretending to be seeing someone else would have done the job... but I guess not."
Jason righted himself, dusting off his knees like he hadn’t just been caught mid-break-in. “You—” He jabbed a finger at Damian, who was now reclining on the couch like a tiny, smug king. “You’re dead.”
Damian inspected his nails. “You’ll have to get in line behind Father.”
Dick cleared his throat. “So. Girls’ night, huh?” He gestured weakly at the glitter bomb of a living room; half-finished flowcharts, snack wrappers, and what appeared to be a very unflattering parody of Bruce in a tutu.
You grinned, stretching your arms behind your head. “Yep. Super busy.” You paused. “Oh, wait—weren’t you two also busy tonight?”
“You cancelled on me,” Jason mentioned.
“And you stalked me.”
“Allegedly,” Dick interjected.
Kori rolled onto her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. “Dick-y, you literally brought Damian as a spy.”
Dick opened his mouth—closed it. “…Okay, fair.”
Jason, meanwhile, had zoomed in on the flowchart. “Step 3: Determine if Jason’s sulking is cute or just pathetic’—excuse me?”
You snatched the paper away, but not before Kori stage-whispered, “It’s both.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. Outside, the fire escape groaned under the weight of his wounded pride.
Damian, sensing blood in the water, slid off the couch. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, straightening his jacket, “I have a report to file with Alfred.”
Dick paled. “No—Damian, wait—”
He was already at the door. He paused, glancing back with a smile sharper than any batarang. “Don’t worry, Grayson. I’ll tell him you tried to be subtle.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Then...
“So,” Kori said brightly, tossing a gummy worm at Dick’s face; which he failed to catch like you did before, guess that talent was only preserved for her. “Who’s ordering takeout?”
Jason threw his hands up. “That’s your takeaway?!”
You patted the couch beside her. “Come on, Red. Admit it.... this was funnier than whatever dumb movie you had planned.”
He scowled. You batted her lashes. He caved like wet cardboard.
Dick, meanwhile, was still staring mournfully at the door. “Alfred’s gonna make me polish all the silverware again…”
Kori hooked a finger in his belt loop with enough strength, yanking him down onto the couch with a yelp.
“Relax, pretty boy." You reassured your best friend's boyfriend. "Damian loves you.”
“He loathes me.”
“Same thing.” You tugged Jason’s sleeve until he flopped onto the cushions beside you, still grumbling. You pressed a kiss to his cheek—cheating—and whispered, “Next time, just ask to join girls’ night.”
Outside, the fire escape finally gave up and collapsed into the alley with a metallic crash.
Nobody moved.
Koriand'r shrugged. “We’ll call it a structural donation.”
I don’t normally actually write posts. I’m usually just a reblogger but I felt the need to write this. When I first figured out, I was non- binary by figured out I mean, I’ve read the definition for it and had a literal lightbulb movement. From that moment on, I thought I had to be 100% androgynous to be valid and I had to do things a certain way to be valid. I happen to be AFAB so I thought that meant I had to wear a binder for starters, but for medical reasons, I simply could not. It’s just simply not safe for me. I did have dysphoria about my chest before figuring out I was non-binary and after, but I could never really place why. I also stopped doing things that were decidedly feminine, even if I enjoyed them because I thought that made me not valid. I was simultaneously happy and unhappy until a sentence that I overheard from my friend changed my life. It was around prom season at the time and they and their date, we’re looking at suit jackets online and their date found one they really liked, but it was in the opposite gender of what they were and my friend said “who cares it’s fabric it doesn’t have a gender.” And that honestly made me think here I was a non-binary person still playing by a form of gender binary in a way that I had to be androgynous to be valid that itself feels like a controlling box that one had to be stuffed into. And then I started thinking about really what made me uncomfortable about my chest, and I realized what truly made me uncomfortable was the fact that society sought as a sign of being a woman that has literally the only part about it that I didn’t like. So I ended up not giving a shit anymore about what people thought about me because I knew that as long as being non-binary felt right to me, I was non-binary that’s the only thing I needed to be to be valid. The point I am trying to make is that the only thing you need to be to be a valid trans person is to simply not vibe with your AGAB. You do not have to medically transition if that’s not what you want to do. You do not have to dress in the way that is typically seen for for that gender and you’re not doing 1 million other weird social rules that we made up they’re typically seen for that gender or rules that queer people made up for that group of trans queer people if you do not want to do that. But if you want to medically transition, if you want to dress what is seen as stereotypical for that gender or you want to look as stereotypically non-binary as possible just because it makes you feel happy then go for it. No one should make you feel like those things are wrong because none of those things are wrong. What’s wrong is forcing them on people, but simply don’t want to do them. If you tell a person, they are not a valid trans person because they did not medically transition for example you’re a asshole and if you told a person that they are a they are an asshole because they medically transitioned than you are an asshole too. The point I’m trying to make is that it is highly personal and everyone’s trans experience is different and while you may not understand it, you do have to respect it and I know some people are going to disagree with me for a million different reasons, but to try to keep this respectful. thank you for those of whom have made it to this far into my rant I kind of just thought I needed to make my opinion known. 
valentine’s day is planned down to the minute because he is isagi. reservations? triple-checked. route? optimized for traffic. backup plan? color-coded in his notes app. the universe looks at that and goes “lol.”
the first sign is the restaurant calling while you’re literally in line for coats. water pipe burst. whole place shut down. isagi just… freezes. you can see the gears trying to recalculate in real time.
then it starts raining. not cute drizzle rain. sideways rain. the kind that soaks your socks through your shoes and makes umbrellas decorative at best.
you start laughing first, like actual tears-in-your-eyes laughing, because this is so aggressively unlucky it circles back to funny. isagi’s mortified for exactly ten seconds before he hears you laugh and something in him unclenches.
you end up ducking into a tiny convenience store to escape the rain, sharing microwaved snacks and those sad little heart-shaped chocolates near the register. isagi insists on paying like it’s still a date, even though you’re both dripping wet.
you sit on overturned crates outside under the awning, watching rain flood the street, before he goes: “i’m really sorry. i should’ve checked the pipes, i should’ve had another place lined up, i just–”
you cut him off mid-spiral by kissing his cheek, rain-cold lips and all. “yoichi, stop. this is the hardest i’ve laughed all week.”
years later, whenever things don’t go to plan, he thinks about that night. wet shoes, convenience store lights, you laughing so hard you had to lean on his shoulder. it becomes his proof that perfection isn’t the goal – being happy with you is.
itoshi rin
rin doesn’t really “do” valentine’s day, but he still planned something. low-key. private. a quiet place with a view where no one could bother you.
unfortunately, the weather chooses violence. heavy snow, roads closing, visibility awful. his phone keeps buzzing with alerts and every one makes his jaw tighten.
he tries to push through it anyway, stubborn as hell, until you point out that you literally can’t feel your fingers anymore. he exhales sharply, annoyed – not at you, but at the world.
you end up stuck in a tiny train station café because service is delayed indefinitely. it smells like burnt coffee and the heater makes a weird rattling noise.
you start making up fake backstories for the other stranded people. rin pretends not to listen for five minutes before quietly adding his own dry, devastatingly funny commentary that catches you completely off guard.
“okay, see that guy by the window? definitely a novelist who hasn’t slept in three days because he’s in love with his editor.” “wrong. he’s avoiding his landlord.”
“how about those two over there? they met on a train in another life and found each other again.”
“… they argue about grocery brands every sunday.”
“why is that… kind of cute?”
“because they’re still here.”
at some point you’re both laughing, shoulders shaking, and rin realizes he hasn’t checked the weather once in over an hour.
when the snow finally stops, he walks you home in silence, but it’s soft this time. later he admits, very stiffly, that he liked that night. not despite the mess. because you were warm, and laughing, and right there.
itoshi sae
sae’s valentine’s plan is effortless luxury. reservations at a place that doesn’t even have a website. you show up dressed perfectly.
they lose the reservation. like, genuinely no record of it. the host is apologetic, but firm. sae stares at them like he’s considering suing time itself.
then his car refuses to start. just dead. sae leans against it, arms crossed, staring up at the sky like this is all deeply inconvenient, but not surprising.
you suggest walking. he raises an eyebrow. you drag him anyway.
halfway through, the wind is brutal, your hair’s a mess, and you’re laughing at how wildly un-romantic this looks. sae eventually gives in and lets you pull him into a random corner shop.
you buy instant ramen, cheap wine, and mismatched mugs. end up back home, sitting on the floor because the table’s cluttered, eating noodles straight from the pot.
“you look like you’re judging me.”
“i am.”
“and?”
“i’ve had worse dinners. with worse company.”
“wow. glowing review from sae itoshi himself.”
“… i meant that in a good way.”
sae watches you laugh with your mouth full and realizes this is the most relaxed he’s felt in months. no expectations. no image. just you.
later, whenever someone mentions “perfect dates,” he thinks of cold hands, bad noodles, and the way you looked at him like this was more than enough.
nagi seishiro
nagi forgets it’s valentine’s day. completely. not in a malicious way, just… nagi.
he remembers halfway through the afternoon, panics internally for exactly three seconds, and suggests going out anyway. you agree because you already know this will be funny.
the plan falls apart immediately. everywhere is booked, crowded, loud. nagi looks exhausted by society.
then your phone dies. his phone dies. you’re wandering aimlessly, mildly lost, mildly hungry.
instead of stressing, nagi just shrugs and sits down on a bench, patting the space next to him. you end up people-watching, rating couples’ vibes, making up ridiculous games.
“them?”
“two out of ten. they’re hungry.”
“lol okay, what about them?”
“seven. one of them loves harder.”
“which one?”
“the one walking slower.”
“… wait that’s actually kind of sweet.”
“yeah. you walk slow for me.”
you grab vending machine snacks and share earbuds, listening to random playlists while the city buzzes around you.
nagi leans his head on your shoulder and mumbles that this is way better than trying. you laugh because of course he’d say that.
later he tells reo, very casually, that this was his favorite valentine’s ever. because it didn’t feel like work, and you were laughing the whole time.
mikage reo
reo goes all out. like, genuinely ridiculous. gifts, reservations, activities – he’s vibrating with excitement.
then everything starts canceling one by one. venue closed for maintenance. activity overbooked. traffic backed up everywhere.
reo’s trying so hard not to be upset, apologizing every five minutes, clearly taking it personally.
you finally stop him by grabbing his face and telling him you’re having fun anyway. that’s when the tension snaps.
“i swear, if i’d just booked earlier– this isn’t what i wanted for you–”
“reo. i’m having fun.”
“… you are?”
“yeah. because i’m with you. not because of the plans.”
“god… i’m so stupid.”
“nope. just in love.”
“very. i don’t think i need perfect plans anymore.”
you end up at home, building an aggressively lopsided pillow fort because “we might as well commit to the disaster.”
you order takeout that arrives wrong. you eat it anyway. you play dumb games, laugh until your stomach hurts, and reo keeps staring at you like he’s memorizing the moment.
he admits later that he thought the day was ruined. now it’s one of his favorites because it proved that even when everything falls apart, you’re still happy with him.
after that, whenever plans go wrong, reo just smiles and says, “remember valentine’s day?” and you both laugh before it even gets bad.
bachira meguru
bachira’s idea of a valentine’s date is spontaneous joy. no reservations, just vibes. unfortunately, the universe decides to match that energy a little too hard.
you’re supposed to go to a cute outdoor art market he’s been hyping up for weeks. the moment you arrive? torrential rain. booths shutting down. artists scrambling. dreams dissolving in real time.
bachira blinks, looks at the sky, then at you – grins like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him.
instead of sulking, he drags you through puddles, splashing on purpose, laughing so hard he almost trips. you end up soaked, shoes ruined, but absolutely losing it.
“wait– look how big this one is!”
“meguru– my shoes–”
“it’s okay! they’re brave shoes!”
“we’re literally drenched.”
“yeah! isn’t it awesome?”
you take shelter under a bridge where street musicians are hiding from the rain. bachira starts clapping along, dancing like no one’s watching (because no one sane is out there).
by the time you’re heading home, you’re cold, damp, and smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. bachira tells you this was perfect because it felt alive.
later, every time it rains, he asks if you want to “recreate the best valentine’s ever.”
shidou ryusei
shidou plans something loud, flashy, and borderline unhinged. tickets to an event that’s supposed to be insane.
turns out it’s canceled due to a power outage. the crowd’s pissed. shidou is thrilled.
he laughs like the universe personally challenged him, slings an arm around you, and says this just means you’re free now.
you end up wandering the city at night, neon lights flickering, rain misting the air, shidou talking nonstop about random nonsense that somehow turns hilarious.
“i’m telling you, it wasn’t an accident. picture this: some guy in a control room, right?”
“… what guy.”
“THE guy. like ‘hmm yes… valentine’s day… too peaceful. cut the power.’ BZZT! KSHHH! BOOM!”
“LMAO, why did it explode?”
“because i showed up. i kick down the door. BAM! alarms go WEE-OO WEE-OO! lights flicker, and the guy’s like ‘oh no’ and i’m like ‘yeahhh.’”
you share street food under a busted awning, sauce everywhere, shidou refusing napkins just to make you laugh harder.
at some point he looks at you, actually looks at you, his girl that’s laughing uncontrollably, and something soft slips through his wild grin.
later he admits that valentine’s day sucking made it better. less rules. more you. more fun.
karasu tabito
karasu swears he’s got a simple, smart plan. practical. foolproof.
the problem? every single train line you need is delayed due to “technical difficulties.”
you’re stuck hopping between stations, nowhere near where you’re supposed to be. karasu’s annoyed, but also weirdly amused by how cursed the situation is.
you start ranking the worst station snacks you’ve seen so far. karasu joins in, turning it into a full-blown analysis like it’s a competition.
“okay, tabi. worst one. no hesitation.”
“that sandwich that looks moist, but somehow isn’t.”
“wrong. it’s the candy labeled ‘extreme sour’ that’s literally just sugar.”
“fake sour is a crime. immediate disqualification.”
“no fr.”
“and this mascot’s smiling too hard. red flag.”
you sit on your bags, sharing snacks, roasting the situation and each other. the sarcasm turns playful, the teasing warmer.
karasu realizes he hasn’t checked the time in a while. doesn’t really care anymore.
he later calls it a “good waste of time,” which for him is basically a love confession.
kaiser michael
kaiser expects valentine’s day to be cinematic. of course he does.
instead, the restaurant screws up everything. wrong table. wrong order. too loud. absolutely beneath him.
he’s visibly irritated… until you start laughing at how ridiculous it all is. like, genuinely laughing, unbothered.
something short-circuits in his brain. he’s used to perfection (or anger), not joy in chaos.
he abandons the place entirely, dragging you out into the cold night with dramatic flair. you end up walking for hours, talking about nothing important.
“okay. serious question, mihya. do you know where we’re going?”
“yes.”
“… and?”
“… no.”
“wow. thank you for your honesty.”
“don’t get used to it.”
“so this was the plan?”
“it’s quieter. no one staring.”
“you don’t like being stared at?”
“by idiots.”
“am i–”
“you don’t count.”
you stop at a random overlook, city lights below, and kaiser quietly admits this wasn’t what he wanted, but it might be better.
later he claims the night was “acceptable.” the way he never shuts up about it proves otherwise.
ness alexis
ness is so nervous about valentine’s day he triple-checks everything. which makes it ten times worse when things go wrong.
the gift he ordered doesn’t arrive. the café closes early. his carefully planned schedule collapses.
he looks genuinely devastated until you start teasing him gently, making jokes about cursed romance timelines.
you end up at home instead, sitting on the floor, unwrapping a half-finished gift he tried to hide.
you make a game out of it – guessing what it was supposed to be, dramatically reacting to every reveal. ness laughs so hard he nearly cries.
“okay. final answer. is it a spellbook?” “why would it be a spellbook?”
“… oh my gosh. it’s a scrapbook.”
“it’s unfinished. please don’t judge it–”
“oh no. these photos are terrible.”
“what– really?”
“terribly cute.”
“...”
“this one’s my favorite. you didn’t even line it up.”
“… i wanted it to be perfect.”
“it is. you’re in it.”
he relaxes for the first time all day, leaning against you, warmth settling in.
later he admits he was scared of disappointing you. you tell him you’ve never laughed harder. he holds onto that forever.
"Oh no I definitely want to support nonbinary people. Yeah, totally. But first you have to let me sort you into these two boxes. What? No no these boxes aren't just assigned sex at birth! It's totally different! Also I'm choosing which one of you goes in which box based on your asab. But it's totally not just asab again! You see, there's also arbitrary moral judgments! Totally different! Why aren't you getting in the box?"
if you talk like this to any nonbinary person ur getting blocked, I want to transition eventually with some medical work but that doesn't mean I won't defend my fellow nb people
I don't want to interaction with the original poster I have em blocked, I am really upset
"Nonbinary people that don't medically transition" A nonbinary person not transitioning medically doesn't mean they don't do socially
"the evil transmeds like me" that sounds like a confession bud
"they're actually the most privileged queer group to exist" based on what? speculation?
"Straight/cis people think they're just zesty straight people and treat them like they're cishet." zesty people get harassed, hurt, sexualized and sexually abused, cishet people too
being viewed as "zesty" isn't privilege, do you expect nonbinary people to never speak about their transness?
"They may not always be gendered correctly-" that's not proving your privilege argument
"They demand acceptance" they're trans, they're queer, we don't need to demand it, it is ours, you either accept that we are trans or out yourself as the hater you are
"they're still treated well in person and allowed into in person queer spaces." almost like you're bullying them online crazzy
also no, amab nonbinary people, intersex nonbinary people too, all still mistreated and not allowed in when being nonbinary is treated as woman light, which also means you're not accepting the afab nonbinary people as they are either
"They get straight/cis passing privileges as their AGAB and they get queer privileges with queer people." do they? is this not transandrophobia repackaged? because you so desperately need to recheck your privilege and look the fuck again
"straight/cis passing privilege" requires repressing a part of themselves as real as any queer identity, and it ignores the amount of obviously queer nonbinary people, because I don't have to medically transition to paint my hair or wear clothes without worrying about gender
"They're not going to risk losing their jobs or being assaulted on the street for being queer just because they added "they" to their pronouns." based on what?? again with speculations
nonbinary people get harassed by everyone in community and out of it because some people still think there are 2 genders, we get told we're not really nonbinary
people think it's okay to actually like this when it's hateful rhetoric regurgitated over and over for FUCKS sake stop
The comic that he is holding looks to be from the cover a Superman number one from 1939. In that issue, Superman fought gangs, a literal lynching, and a rigged execution. So honestly, that seems like a pretty good thing to wear an oath on because if Mr. Garcia wants to followed the example of Superman to always trying to get justice, follow the truth, and save as many innocent people as you can. That works for me :)
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