[opultea]

☆彡　Welcome ☆彡

Come rest for a little while, I only hope I can ease you.

Call me Mayo!

Refer to The Masterlist for all works

Asks are always open for thoughts, chats, and questions! (However I’m under no obligation to respond if you’re rude)

[ratgirl300]

we have a what’s wrong with them. So what do you think is right with them?

What's Right With These Guys?

18+ MDNI

Summary: What good traits do the akotsk men have? How does that show in relation to you? 

AN: I loved this, thank you for the suggestion!! I’ll be honest, I almost skipped Aerion on this one lol bc like….. Yeah. Anyway, if you’d like to read about what's wrong with them, you can do so here. I hope you enjoy! <3 

Warnings: some violence, fem(ish) reader but not really, a little angst

2.6 Words

Daeron:

Daeron is soft in a way that few men are. Maybe it's the loss of almost all shame over the years; waking up in ditches, filthy, rank, stained. He’s not one to be domineering, nor is he masculine in the traditional sense. He has spent years listening to his father berate him for his disinterest in all things political, a lack of propriety, and inability to handle a sword.The constant pressure has only forced him deeper into his depravity, but has also made him a gentler soul, despite it all. 

It's no secret Daeron believes himself incapable of good. He states to Dunk that he’s doomed to hell, certain there’s nothing redeemable about him. Yes he’s a coward, and yes he allows his dreams to rule his life, but the truth is, there is a good deep down in him. Sometimes it's so deep, it's difficult to find, but he’s not violent, or cruel, or brutal like so many men in the Realm. When he hasn’t drunk so much that his mind has gone, he’s funny and clever. There's a small joy for him in teasing you, flipping your braid or tugging at your cloak, whispering in your ear small obscenities or silly words. Making you laugh means he’s done something right. Even when it irritates you instead, he’s just happy for the attention honestly. 

The Prince is also very fond of being close to you. Where other lords, and certainly some of the Princes, would find it unfitting or childish, Daeron will not shy away from holding your hand, tucking his head against your shoulder, or putting an arm around you. Several times, you’ve had to giggle and step away, playfully chiding him about his public image. He is well aware of how people see him, and if that means he can stand with you pressed against him in a crowd, he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

I had this vision of him that struck me while writing this: Daeron, drunk out of his mind, lost in the dark outside of a tavern, halfway to Ashford with no brother in sight. He’s upset, confused, stumbling around in the woods, and falls against a tree when his legs can no longer keep himself up. He falls into restless sleep, visions of dragons spinning in his head. When he wakes, there’s only a dim light on the horizon, and a warmth pressed against his hip. It's a cat, ragged fur and a notched ear, sleeping soundly against him. He’s extremely confused in his drunk, half-asleep state, but scratches its head as it purrs, and falls back into slumber with a hand protectively on its back. Even when he thinks the worst of himself, others can sense the innate goodness, deep down. 

Maekar: 

Maekar is loyal to a fault. He’s a soldier, trained from a young age to take orders as the youngest son of a King. As an adult, it shows in his dedication to the people he loves. He is Baelor’s shadow, on and off the battlefield. The expendable spare, ready to take a hit for the brother he looks up to so fondly. There's a discipline in him; training, learning, listening to what he’s told and executing it with efficiency and competence. 

It is the same in his marriage; even if there isn’t love right away, he would never think to break an oath. He may not be soft or warm or cuddly but make no mistake, you can feel how much he cares peeking through his incessant need to keep you safe. He feels the need to do things for you himself. Yes you have an escort of guards around you, but he insists on being the one to take a turn with you in the gardens alone. If you’re planning on a ride, he checks your saddle before you mount, ensuring it will not fail. Maekar learns quickly to anticipate your needs; a new gown when you tear a hem, the next volume before you’ve finished a book, his cloak around your shoulders before you even realize you’re chilly. 

He’s not one for poetry or song, often he doesn’t even verbalize his love for you, but you feel it all the same. You know it's hard for him to admit his feelings, years of forcing down opinions in favor of those who give orders has made him unsure of how to open up. And Maekar hates feeling unsure of himself. Instead, he’ll avoid awkward confessions and scrambled musings of love, the unwavering faithfulness all the admission you need to know he feels the same. 

I touched on this in the other post, but he does secretly love attention and affection, especially physical. If you ask him to snuggle up to you in bed, he’ll grumble about how undignified it is for a prince to do something so silly, but he pulls you against his chest and tucks you under his chin. Part of it is a protection aspect: where would you be safer than in his arms? He also just loves the feeling of your hand holding his head or rubbing his back. 

Despite most of his life being an exercise in strength, brutality, and honing the ability to turn off emotions, Maekar loves hard. It doesn’t really look like it to people who don’t know him well, and that’s by design. For the first time in his life, he does not care what anyone but the person he loves thinks of him. He’s stern and grouchy, tough and crass, but he would follow you to hell and back if you asked him. 

Aerion:

For all his faults, and there are many, Aerion is extremely protective over what he deems as his. This can be toxic, at times, possessive, but there is a fierceness in which he would defend anyone or anything that he loves. He takes pride in the feeling of keeping someone safe, a true dragon defending his hoard. There are no lengths he would not go to defend someone if he truly loves them. He’s easily the most skilled warrior of his brothers, something else he takes pride in, spending hours training and dedicating himself to the task. He’s strong, wiry and tough, and able to stand up to men much bigger than himself without hesitation. Of course, it gets him into trouble.

He cares, very deeply, about a great many things; what you think of him, if he’s strong enough to warrant a reputation,  his own standing in the dragon house, but he has an ability to mask any insecurity, and turn it into confidence. It frightens most, lords and commonfolk alike keeping their distance. He revels in the fear, but he also knows it keeps you safe. He’s obsessive: a word spoken in jest about you, an eye staring too long at your neck, a hand offered to help you to your seat, and he’s losing it. It's his job to help you, to leer at your decolletage and to tease you mercilessly. Gods help any man who tries, they’ll suddenly find themselves at his mercy, and we’ve all seen where that leads. Bloody knuckles, broken bones, bruised eyes and egos. He’ll fight and fight until he feels like whatever wrongdoing has been fully paid back. Aerion doesn’t care how injured he gets, his eyes see red and feeling leaves his body as the adrenaline rushes. After, as long as you’re safe in his arms, kissing his face and cleaning his wounds, he’s content to keep fighting. 

Dunk:

Dunk is the very truest of knights. Honor, integrity, truth, these are the traits he knows are baked into the oath every knight swears, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t follow them. He’s chivalrous, but not in a way where it feels condescending. You know when he offers to carry your basket, he’s doing it to be kind, not because he thinks you can’t do it yourself. When he wraps his cloak around your shoulders, it's because he wants you to be warm, not because he expects anything in return. When he steps in front of you at the sight of danger, it's because the thought of you hurt makes him so angry that his body moves before his brain has fully formed the thought. He wants to help people, to be useful, needed. Helping old ladies up stairs, teaching a young squire a sword trick, giving the crust of his bread to a curious bird. It's purely out of the goodness of his heart. 

He’s the most lovesick puppy of a man. Following close behind you, dopey grin on his face, while you go about your day. He preens when you ask him to get something down from a high shelf, his shoulders shift back and his spine straightens when you thank him for helping you. Helping you up on a horse, tying your boot laces, giving you the warmer blanket, he’s just so pleased to have someone to take care of, and the way he knows how to show his love is to help. He does the same for Egg, though he does try to be sterner with the boy. His sweet, brotherly affection he shows for the child is heartwarming. There’s no end to threats of clouts on the ear, bed without supper, tending to the horses alone, but you, Egg, and even Dunk himself knows it's all in vain. The fond look on his face when the little Prince disarms him gives him away instantly. 

Dunk is well aware of how large he is, how if someone didn't know his kind heart, they might find him daunting. He goes out of his way to be smaller and softer, to move slowly so as not to spook people. I’ve mentioned it before, but Gwin Ashford picks at him, gets in his face, and feels no fear. She’s literally a tween girl, but immediately senses that he won’t retaliate if she jabs at him. It takes a lot to provoke him to real anger, and anything less means he tries hard to be unintimidating. 

He almost dies from happiness when you give the same attention back to him. Mending holes in his clothes, chatting with the horses as you feed them, gently pulling his giant form out of the way so he doesn't trip over tree roots. It's the simplest things, but he covets the attention you give him. Dunk adores you, and shows you by acts of service, so when you do something for him, it tells him how much you love him back. 

Baelor:

Despite being raised in King’s Landing, years of heavy strength and swordsmanship training, and countless bouts on the battlefield, Baelor remains gentle and kind in a way so few men in Westeros are. It's not weakness by any means, rather he fights all his instincts; the lessons engrained in him, his hot Targaryen dragon blood. For the realm, it means an even-headed, calm, intelligent man ruling with both compassion and tenacity. 

For you, it means a man who will listen to you speak for hours so that he can better understand every part of you. A man who will take a deep breath and apologize instead of escalating an argument. A man who, in spite of his status, treats you as an equal and insists on you calling him Baelor; not my Prince, or eventually my King, just the name he was given. Of course duty is important to him, he works himself to the bone to try and live up to his own standards, but he also yearns for a connection with you and to know you wholly, and for you to know him. 

Baelor works diligently on any task. Whether it's planning logistics for grain distribution, or helping you clip a necklace, he treats any duty like a chance to prove himself, and to execute said task with completeness. He does not not understand when you giggle to yourself in the mirror when he braids your hair with the same concentration he plans battle strategy, both are equally important to get right for him. 

He is also remarkably bright, focusing on his political and historical intelligence to better prepare himself when he ascends the throne. Baelor never makes you feel stupid, however. Intellect is something he covets, and he is more than interested in hearing what you know, and explaining what you ask him in a way that shows he thinks of you as academically equal. 

He’s not a show-off type, rather he knows his strengths, and is content to let them speak for themselves. Not one to brag, confident but with the poise of someone who knows his worth. You wouldn’t often see him on a tourney field, not only would it be unsafe for the heir, but he doesn't find he needs the satisfaction of winning. Why risk an injury, or frightening you, to knock some fresh boy off his horse? Baelor would much rather use that energy to practice and perfect his skill in a yard, sparring with experts he could actually learn something from. He’s not the proud sort. Rather, he’s a good man, with a good heart, who longs to take care of someone. 

Lyonel:

Lyonel is the type of man who never really cared about marriage; didn’t want a tidy wife to have to look after, and he certainly didn’t want to end his gallivanting and carnality. So when he does marry, he’s not the type to force a wife into the strict standards of a noblewoman. That doesn’t necessarily mean he needs someone who will get up and dance on a table with him (though he would certainly enjoy it), but he would never understand why some men want silence and subservience from a partner. 

Instead, he’s excited to hear you talk about your interests; he may cut in and ask questions or add his own commentary, but he’ll also sit and listen with his chin in his hand while you tell him about a book you read or a bit of gossip you heard. When you laugh loudly at a crude joke he makes, or make an even cruder one yourself, he’s grinning ear to ear. If you eagerly tell him how much you love dancing, he’s finding the nearest tavern to spin you in immediately. Lyonel has a way of making friends with anyone, and you are no exception. If the two of you will be living together, expected to make heirs and rule the Stormlands, he is determined to make you like him. He’s too busy trying to make you laugh with his antics, or impress you with a hunt, or regale you with stories of adventure, to realize he’s fallen head over heels, deeply, wildly in love. 

He’s not a serious person, and while that can have its faults, his lust for adventure and intense need for companionship mean that he wants to be around you constantly, and is in desperate desire for your pleasure. If you like to read, he’s sitting beside you in the gardens, fidgeting in his seat but trying to pay attention to the story. If you like to ride, he’s lifting you up onto a horse and following you out into the glen. You get the picture. It's not so much about the activity, as it is about getting to make you happy. 

At his core, Lyonel would do anything for the people he loves. I know I’ve said this before, but he literally joins a fight to the death for Dunk after knowing him for like a day. He is fiercely loyal, would step in front of an arrow for someone he cares for. It borders on crazy, certainly, but you cannot deny his devotion.

[finchytv]

WINTER YIELDS TO SPRING

— WILLAS TYRELL ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

summary: after being married off to some southern lord for political gain, you swear to yourself that you will never love the man who took you from your home and from your family, but after he goes out of his way to make his home yours, you start to discover that maybe the south isn’t too bad.

content: arranged marriage, angst to fluff

notes: guys I don’t think you understand how much I love Willas Tyrell and I VOW to fill this app with Willas fics this is me volunteering to be head Willas Stan btw.

The road stretched endlessly before you, dust clinging to your cloak and boots. The further south you rode, the warmer the air became, until the familiar bite of Northern wind was nothing but a memory.

Robb rode at your side, silent and grim. Theon filled the silence with jokes that rang hollow.

Behind you padded your wolf, a streak of grey against the green countryside.

“You could still run,” Theon muttered, half-joking. “We could steal a ship. Take you to the Free Cities. Robb could claim you were abducted.”

Robb shot him a look. “She’s not a barrel of wine to be stolen.”

You smiled faintly. “I appreciate the thought.”

He scanned your face, looking for any trace other than sadness, he tapped your arm in a jokey way trying to make light of the situation, “just keep it in mind.”

But you didn’t believe in running.

It wouldn’t be honourable.

Starks endured.

And you always put your house above yourself.

You met Willas Tyrell outside Highgarden’s gates.

He wasn’t what you expected. No glittering armour, no arrogant smile. He wore simple green and gold, riding a tall bay horse, posture careful but steady.

He dismounted when he saw you. Unbuckling all the mechanics that strapped his legs to the side.

You heard Theon snicker beside you, turning you give him a stern look and his face drops to dead pan.

“My lady Stark,” he said, bowing his head. “You honour us by coming so far.”

Robb didn’t dismount.

Theon didn’t bow.

You did.

“Lord Tyrell,” you replied, voice cool but polite. “I thank you for your welcome.”

Willas’s gaze flickered to your wolf, who sat at your side, ears forward.

Instead of fear, he looked… delighted.

“He’s magnificent,” Willas said.

“He’s not a spectacle,” Robb snapped.

Willas blinked once, then nodded. “Of course. I meant no offence.”

Theon smirked. “You southerners usually do.”

“I just meant,” he began, “I have a lot of dogs so maybe he’ll feel some form of comfort.”

This agitated Robb even more, “he’s not a dog.”

You shot them both a warning look, then turned back to Willas. “I apologise for my brother and our friend. The road has been long.”

Willas smiled faintly. “I imagine it has.”

You thought he looked… kind.

That made you wary.

The feast that night was loud, overflowing with wine and music and Reach laughter.

Robb sat stiff beside you, glaring at every Tyrell who approached. Theon drank too much and insulted half the hall.

Willas tried.

He asked about Winterfell, about your journey, about your wolf. He spoke softly, carefully, like he was stepping on thin ice.

Robb answered with clipped sentences.

Theon answered with sarcasm.

You answered with courtesy.

At one point, Robb leaned toward Willas, voice low and dangerous.

“If you hurt her, I will come back with an army and burn your gardens to ash.”

Willas didn’t flinch.

“I would deserve it,” he said simply.

That surprised all three of you.

The comment caused a very drunk Theon to lean closer to your ear, “ooohhh look at ser gallant over here.”

You gave him a pat on the back and a tight lipped smile, “Wrong Tyrell Greyjoy.”

The next day, before the ceremony, you found Willas alone in the gardens. He was reading under a tree, leg stretched out, book balanced on his knee.

He began to reach for his cane when he saw you.

“You do not have to stand,” you said.

“I do when someone braver than me is walking into a sept full of strangers,” he replied.

You huffed a laugh.

“Your brother does not trust me,” he said.

“He doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t a northerner,” you said.

“And Theon?”

“He just likes to be involved, I love him like a brother though,.”

Willas considered this. “I will try not to fail either of them.”

It was such a strange thing to say that you didn’t know how to respond.

You barely remember the vows.

You remember Robb’s expression.

Theon’s clenched jaw.

Willas’s quiet voice.

Your wolf waiting outside the sept like he refused to step into a place that wasn’t yours.

When it was done, you were Lady Tyrell.

You felt smaller.

Dawn was pale gold over Highgarden’s roses.

Robb walked with you through the gardens, your wolf padding silently beside you.

“You always liked the quiet hours,” he said. “Less people.”

“You always hated them. You do love an audience.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.

“I hate this,” he admitted. “You were meant to stay. To rule Winterfell with me.”

“You’re meant to be the warden of the North.”

“I was meant to have my sister beside me.”

You stepped forward and hugged him, gripping his cloak like you did when you were children and the storms rattled the windows.

Theon joined you, awkward but warm.

“If he’s awful,” he said, “I’ll come steal you back.”

“You’ll be too busy stealing wine and wooing pretty girls.”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

They left.

Taking home with them.

The sound of hooves faded long before you moved.

You stood on the balcony of your new chambers, hands gripping the stone railing, watching banners disappear beyond the rolling hills. The wind carried warmth instead of snow. The air smelled like roses instead of pine.

You had never felt so alone.

Your wolf paced behind you, restless, confused by the foreign land. You crouched and pressed your forehead against his fur, whispering his name like a prayer.

Robb was gone.

Theon was gone.

The North was gone.

You were alone and surrounded by people who did not care to know you.

You didn’t cry.

You wouldn’t let them see you cry.

Instead, you went quiet.

You stopped joining feasts you weren’t required to attend.

Stopped exploring the gardens.

Stopped responding when ladies tried to befriend you.

You ate little.

Slept less.

Spent hours staring at nothing.

Willas tried.

He invited you riding.

You declined.

He offered to show you the library.

You smiled and stayed in bed.

He brought your wolf treats and books about Northern histories. You thanked him politely and kept your distance.

He never forced you.

That somehow hurt more.

The court were cruel, they hadn’t taken to you. Your mother warned you of this before you left but claimed they would come around eventually like how the northern lords and ladies had grown fond of her.

To them you were just gossip. They whispered about your accent, your wolf how you still found ways to wear dark coloured clothes and furs during the summer.

You heard it all, but pretended you didn’t.

They tried to convert you.

Septas visited your chambers with silk and incense. They spoke of the Seven, of kindness, of beauty, of duty.

You nodded.

You listened.

You didn’t believe.

How could you?

There was no godswood in Highgarden. No heart tree. No quiet red leaves to whisper prayers into.

You tried kneeling in the sept once.

It felt like kneeling before strangers.

So you stopped praying.

That was worse than homesickness.

It felt like losing yourself.

The first letter from Robb was short. Duty-bound. Careful.

The second from Sansa was excited, full of gossip and courtly dreams.

Arya’s was messy and angry and full of scribbles.

Jon’s was quiet and gentle.

Theon’s just utter nonsense.

Each one made your chest tighter.

You started writing back lies.

I am well. Highgarden is beautiful. Willas is kind. I am happy.

You were none of those things.

On one particular evening, a letter arrived sealed with the Stark direwolf.

It smelled faintly of snow.

Robb wrote about Winterfell, about Bran climbing the walls again, about Rickon biting a stableboy, about Arya stealing swords, about Sansa sewing, about Jon training in the yard.

He wrote:

You would have laughed at this.

You sat on the floor of your chamber and stared at the page until your vision blurred.

You laughed once.

Then you broke.

You didn’t hear the door open.

“My lady I was wondering if-”

Willas stopped dead in his tracks.

He didn’t speak. He just sat beside you, close enough to be warm.

“I don’t belong here,” you whispered.

He didn’t contradict you.

“I can’t breathe here. I can’t pray. I can’t be who I was.” Your voice cracked. “I miss them so much it hurts.”

He hesitated, then placed a hand over yours.

“You are still who you were,” he said softly. “You are just far away from the people who taught you how to be her.”

You looked at him, tears spilling freely now.

“I don’t want to be Lady Tyrell,” you said. “I want to be a Stark.”

“You can be both.”

You laughed bitterly. “You don’t understand.”

He nodded. “Then teach me.”

That was the first time you leaned into him.

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, careful but unsure.

You cried into his chest while your wolf placed himself at your feet.

After that night, something shifted.

You started joining him in the gardens.

You rode with him in the mornings.

You read beside him in the afternoons.

He asked about the North.

You asked about Highgarden.

You started calling him Willas.

He started calling you by your name instead of “my lady.”

You laughed again.

One afternoon, he led you through a quiet part of the gardens you’d never seen.

A white-barked tree stood there, its trunk carved with a simple face. Stones formed a small altar beneath it. Northern runes were etched into the wood.

It wasn’t Winterfell.

But it was yours.

“I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought you might like a place where the South does not exist.”

You stared at it, breath stolen.

“Willas…”

“You said you couldn’t pray here. I did not like that.”

You touched the carved bark like it was sacred.

You cried again, but this time, you smiled through it.

The day you realised you loved him was actually in the makeshift godswood.

You were knelt beneath it looking into the carved out faced, the light summer breeze flowing through loose strands of hair.

It was as though the gods were whispering it to you through the leaves.

You told him in the gardens, beneath your heart tree.

“I did not intend to fall in love with you,” you said.

He froze.

“I thought I would endure you, then endure this place, then endure my life.” Your voice trembled. “But you made it impossible not to love you.”

He looked at you like you were the sun.

“I have loved you since the day you looked at Highgarden and did not pretend to be impressed,” he admitted softly.

You kissed him first.

He kissed back.

Hard.

After the confession your love began to flourish like the winter roses you’d grow in the glass gardens back home.

You walked the gardens hand in hand.

He read to you.

You braided flowers into his hair just to annoy him.

Your wolf adored him.

The court whispered, but this time you didn’t care.

You were well and truly happy.

“How would you feel about travelling north?” You questioned not looking up from the letter in your hands.

“What?”

Placing the letter down you grab his hand, “well Brans name day is coming up, and I was thinking we go and pay them all a visit.”

He gaped at you, quill stilled.

Shaking your head you took that as an answer “you know what forget it,”

“No! Sorry I was just, thinking of what to get the little lad.” He beamed.

Smiling you pull him into a soft kiss, “I must go pack!”

Before you knew it the Tyrell banners flew north.

You rode beside Willas, cloak lined with green and gold over Stark grey. Your wolf ran ahead, tail high.

Winterfell rose from the snow like a memory made real.

Robb met you at the gates.

He studied you, really studied you.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“Wow, I’ve missed you too robb! But yes I am.”

Theon whispered to him, “She wasn’t when we left.”

They watched you and Willas walk hand in hand through the yard.

Bran hugged you. Rickon climbed all over you. Arya demanded stories. Sansa admired your dress. Jon smiled quietly.

At dinner, Robb pulled Willas aside.

“Did you force this?” he asked bluntly.

Willas shook his head. “I was forced to learn how to deserve her.”

Robb watched you laugh with your siblings.

Then he nodded once.

“She looks like herself again.”

Theon grinned. “Took you long enough, flower boy.”

He made his way back over to you at the high table placing his hand on your silk covered knee.

“What was that?”

He gave a short laugh, “oh you know, just your brother’s making sure I wasn’t torturing you.”

“Well you’ve came back with two legs so you’re obviously a good liar.” You joked back.

The pair of your laughter filled the vast halls while onlookers gave odd looks wondering how a Stark as stubborn as yourself had fallen for a flowery Tyrell.

[wingkink]

btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here

[ur-favorite-fishgirl]

sex is a distraction from your true purpose in life which is to go to the aquarium and look at the fish and go "wooooooaaah.... fishies". cmon guys we all need to lock in.

[i-am-a-lazy-mess]

hate when I type :) and this 🙂 fucker appears. Go away you evil soul

[wifegideonnav]

“bits to use in everyday conversations”

[beacon-lamp]

hello beloveds ☺️

[iceslushii]

made an alternate version for the mutuals ive never spoken to

[thetreeofliberty]

You are appreciated

[luvhrprincess]

The Things We Do Not Name IV

part 3

summary: Aerion begins to unravel at the thought of you and his cousin. He makes a desperate attempt of winning back your affections for good.

pairing: aerion targaryen x tyrell reader x valarr targaryn

cw: aerion pov so that says enough, violent thoughts and behavior, aerion being an asshole, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex but no actual smut, arguing, toxic relationship, reader is a tyrell but no physical description or use of y/n

word count: 4.4k

Aerion remembered the first night he had seen you.

You had only just arrived at court then. All green silk and hands that fidgeted constantly at your sleeves and rings. You trailed faithfully at Queen Myriah’s side like some pet afraid of its own shadow.

You were pretty, of course. That was the first thing he noticed. But the court overflowed with pretty girls. Sweet little highborn things dressed up and waiting to be married off like broodmares to whatever lord best pleased their fathers, he had seen plenty of it.

What had caught his attention was the way you looked at him. Again and again across the feast hall, and he had caught your eyes darting away quickly.

Later, when he found you alone beyond the hall, he had cornered you simply because he could. He had always enjoyed making nervous little ladies squirm, and you had looked ripe for it.

A fresh flower newly brought to court for some lord or prince to pluck apart. He decided it would be him, that rightfully, it should be him.

He remembered the wine on his tongue and the way you looked at him when he stepped into your path. But he could not remember all that he had said to you.

You smelled of fresh flowers. He would come to associate it so wholly with you afterwards that even now, passing the gardens could sour his mood unexpectedly.

Your back had pressed against the stone wall when he crowded nearer, and he remembered liking that far too much. The sight of you trapped there between him and the window

Pretty little thing. He had thought.

He kissed you because he wanted to see what you would do. And you had kissed him back with a hunger he had not expected from some timid little Reach maid.

Your hands had found him almost desperately, and he remembered the sharp twist of want that had gone through him then. He wondered briefly if you were truly a maiden at all.

Yet later, when the blood had stained his sheets he found that you were. That pleased him in some possessive way he did not care to examine too closely, even now.

At first, you were a mere distraction and something lovely to occupy him at night. He lured you into dark corridors, cornered you in stairwells, and would drag you laughing and breathless into his chambers with impatient hands already upon you before the door had even fully shut behind him.

You did not bore him. Instead, you had matched his depravity equally. When he kissed too hard and split your lip against his teeth, you did not weep as other girls might have. You would swipe the blood away with your thumb before looking up at him again with cheeks flushed and your eyes shining strangely.

Then you would bite him back. He cursed you for it. Insolent little thing. He would think, but then he would find himself urging you on rougher than before. You brought something ugly out in him quickly, and yet you seemed to like it.

At first, you’d slip out quietly after. He liked that arrangement just fine. That you did not linger where you were not wanted. You would dress yourself silently and vanish before servants stirred awake enough to gossip. He thought it was convenient at the time.

Then he got bored of that. Why were you in such a hurry to leave? He began noticing it every time. The speed with which you gathered your scattered clothes and the way your fingers hurried through tangles in your hair before scurrying off. It was as though leaving him came naturally to you, and he found he hated that.

So he changed the pattern of things.

He gave you wine and fucked you properly, and when he saw you gathering your gown to dress and leave, he poured you another cup. He enjoyed a bitter red, supplied to the crown from Lord Redwyne. You grimaced when it touched your lips at first, yet you drank it anyway.

And after a time, you seemed to grow accustomed to the bitterness of it much as you had grown accustomed to him.

The wine loosened your tongue, he learned quickly enough. You would sit curled beside the hearth or on the edge of his bed with his cup between your hands whilst he sprawled across the chaise half-drunk himself.

He would listen to you speak of useless things. Highgarden mostly at first, and court gossip not worth the breath. He had found it irritating at first. Gods, you could talk. He had mocked you for it often enough.

Yet somehow he always found himself refilling your cup before it emptied. And he would watch you over the rim of his own. And somehow, in turn, he had begun speaking more himself.

Before long, you had stopped sitting apart from him entirely. You would lie against him as though the place had always belonged to you. Your cheek pressed against his bare chest, and your fingers would wonder in idle patterns against his skin or in his hair as he spoke.

He enjoyed the touch of your fingers so much that he had nearly snapped at you to stop. You dare touch a prince of the blood so casually? Like some favored hound? He would think. Worse still, he began wanting it when you did not do it.

Some nights, he would return already foul with temper only to find you waiting for him, and the sight alone eased whatever had twisted in his chest.

On those nights, you seemed to understand when silence suited him better. You would simply settle beside him, quieter than before, with your head resting against his shoulder, and neither of you would speak for hours.

Soon enough, it became a habit between you two, or rather, you became a habit.

And he knew you loved him, or something close to it.

At first, the devotion pleased him. Why should it not? He was vain enough to enjoy the sight of you looking at him as though he hung the moon, and he liked the want in your eyes. Worst of all, he liked that he could hurt you and still feel your hands reaching for him after.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like vanity and became something fouler.

He had never lied to you. Not truly. He had never whispered sweet vows or empty promises. If anything, he had warned you often enough what sort of man he was.

Yet you still looked at him with that softness in your eyes. As though you loved him anyway, and he hated you for it.

Some nights, he found himself speaking to you more than he spoke to his own blood, and it was humiliating. He hated himself every time he realized he had said too much, but he hated you more for bringing it out of him without even trying.

Every time he felt himself growing too accustomed to your presence, something inside him recoiled from it viciously.

You lingered like a weed in his chambers and in his thoughts.

The scent of flowers clung to his sheets no matter how often they were changed. Most mornings, he would roll over to the pillow where you had lain and breathe in the scent of you deep enough to feel himself harden with desire and something close to longing.

And the thoughts that came after proved worse.

He could recall the worst of them clearly.

It came first when he had woken once with you still asleep beside him, your hair spilled across his arm, and your face was softened by sleep. For one brief half-waking instant, he had looked at you and thought—

Wife.

It felt as though someone had thrown cold water in his face. He had slipped from the bed soon after with disgust curling in his ribs. He was angry with you for inspiring it, angry enough that he could wrap his hands around your throat and put an end to it.

It was awfully infuriating. And the weak rotting part of him had wanted it so badly.

His mind betrayed him often these days, and he would find himself imagining impossible things. You draped over his arm and silver-haired children with your eyes.

He would sooner carve his own heart from his chest than place it willingly into another person’s hands. Even yours—Especially yours.

He never misunderstood what you were.

You were not some whore to warm his bed nor some witless maid with no prospects. You were a highborn lady of a great house. Beautiful and with the queen’s favor draped over your shoulders. You were desirable whether you knew it or not. It both pleased and irritated him that you did not know how much power you truly had.

He had always known one day you would marry. Strangely, the thought had never troubled him much before. Because you were his. You had said so yourself often enough, ruined and breathless against his mouth.

Yours, Aerion. I am yours.

The words had rooted themselves somewhere deep inside him, and now you had the gall to say you did not mean them. He should cut your lying tongue from between your teeth.

Some stupid lord might place a cloak around your shoulders before the gods; it did not matter. He found he cared little for that in the abstract. Men wed every day for alliances and heirs. Such things meant nothing in comparison to what existed between the two of you.

You would return to him all the same, and that was what he knew, you loved him too deeply not to come back when he called and he would call.

Yet beneath all your softness and foolish devotion, there remained something inside you he had never managed to spoil entirely. Perhaps if you were to speak vows, you would try to honor them.

And that knowledge sat bitter in his throat. Was it because it meant one day another man might truly take you from him? No, he did not care. Or atleast that is what he had told himself plenty of times over.

But now Valarr had begun looking at you. Of all men, it had to be Valarr.

Perfect fucking Valarr

He had loved him once, as young boys did, he supposed. He hated him now. No—that was not the truth if it. Perhaps it was something worse than hatred that he felt there.

He has spent a life watching Valarr collect affection without effort. Even his own father looked upon Valarr more warmly than he ever looked upon his own sons. And now he was turning that attention toward you. Toward what belonged to him, and it was gnawing at his insides.

Yours, Aerion. I am yours.

Valarr thought he could simply step near and take you for himself with his fucking gallantry. He could smash his cousin’s perfect teeth down his throat for it.

Valarr was a fool who could only see a pretty, sweet girl. Only he knew the truth of you, only he knew. You were his. So why did it feel so aggravating to see you near him?

Perhaps that is why he took the stupid fucking flower from you. The sight of it beside the bed where he had fucked you scarcely an hour before made him feel near murderous.

You would not even notice it was gone, a stupid, pathetic thing. He had thought.

He stood there now, alone in his room, crushing the pink blooms in his palm. Stupid thing. He thought again, even now.

There was a moment when he considered returning it to you, but then you had to run to Valarr, and now he hated you, and this was the only way he could think to punish you.

He tossed it into the fire without thinking twice and watched until nothing remained but ash.

He hated you for having turned him into this pathetic, brooding man. Pathetic, pathetic. He was a prince for fucks sake and he could have anything—anyone he wanted.

And for once in his entire life, he was so…uncertain. Now you had left him with no choice. He must carve that uncertainty out quickly before it festered.

-

You were surprised to find Aerion standing before you.

After the ugliness between you the day before, you had expected the usual pattern. He would normally vanish for a time. A few days, sometimes longer if his pride had been cut deep enough.

Then he would return without apology, as though no cruel thing had ever passed between you. You had hated those silences, and even more, you hated how you longed for him through them.

This time, you had almost hoped for peace. A few days, at least. A little quiet in which to gather the scattered pieces of yourself and decide what must be done with them.

Of course, Aerion would not grant you that.

You had scarcely made it halfway down the corridor outside the queen’s solar when his voice sounded behind you.

“You look pleased with yourself.”

You stopped and turned slowly. He came toward you and looked you over once.

“I have done nothing,” you said.

“Have you not?”

His tongue darted briefly across his lower lip. His gaze moved over you, lingering just long enough to make heat and irritation rise together beneath your skin.

A knight passed then, bowing his head as he went. Aerion’s eyes cut toward him and remained there until the man turned the corner and vanished from sight.

Only then did Aerion move.

His hand found the small of your back and guided you toward the shadowed space behind one of the great stone pillars. You had no time to protest before your back met cold stone and his arm came up beside your head, caging you in.

“Aerion,” you said, your breath catching despite yourself. “We should not—”

His mouth was already on yours.

The kiss was rough, and his hand tightened against your waist whilst his lips moved against yours. For one weak moment, you let yourself fall into it. Your hands lifted before you thought better of them, and your lips parted beneath.

Then your senses returned, and you pushed at his chest hard enough to break the kiss.

Aerion drew back with a scowl. His lip twitched, “What is your problem?” he asked.

“You insult me, and now you think I will kiss you merely because you dragged me here?”

Aerion huffed a laugh. “I think you will do more than kiss me.”

He leaned in again, but this time you turned your face away. Aerion drew back just enough to look at you. His eyes had narrowed, his arm still braced against the stone beside your head. “You are determined to be angry with me then?”

You stared at him for a moment. You could hear the footsteps and murmured voices passing through the halls. Any one of them might turn their head and see you there, caged beneath the prince’s arm.

You swallowed hard. “I am not angry,” you muttered, at least you were trying not to be.

Then you gathered your skirts and turned away from him. You heard his boots strike against the stone behind you. “Do not walk away from me.”

You did not stop until his hand closed around your wrist and pulled you back to face him. “I said—”

“I heard you.”

His lip twitched. The grip upon your wrist tightened slightly. “Stop behaving like a child,” he said through his teeth.

You became aware then of passing eyes. A servant slowed as they walked past, and two ladies at the far end of the hall glanced over their shoulders. Heat rose in your face, and you yanked your hand free of him.

“A child?” you asked, almost laughing from disbelief.

“Yes,” Aerion said. “You are being difficult.”

You took a slow breath before answering, “You all but called me a whore, and I am the one being difficult?”

“I did not say whore.”

You scoffed. “Oh. My apologies. How gracious of you.” You turned again, but Aerion stepped after you.

For the first time, he looked as though he were struggling to find the words. His jaw worked once, his eyes fixed upon your face, as if he blamed you for the difficulty of speaking to them.

“You provoked me,” he said at last.

For a moment, you could only stare at him. “You do it once again,” you said quietly before you walked away.

“What?” he demanded behind you.

You did not answer. His steps quickened. A moment later, he was before you, blocking your path with his body. “Do what?”

You looked up at him. “Every cruel thing that comes from your mouth somehow becomes my fault afterward.”

“It is your fault.”

“I do not force you to insult me time and time again!” you said, louder than you meant to. The words echoed down the corridor, and several heads turned.

You felt them all at once. Aerion noticed too, and his face darkened. “You are causing a scene,” he said lowly.

“Then I will go.”

You moved to step past him, but his hand caught your upper arm before you could escape. His fingers closed firmly through the fabric of your sleeve.

“Aerion—”

He did not answer and drew you sharply toward the open archway nearby and shoved you out onto the balcony overlooking the Blackwater Bay and away from prying eyes before you could protest further.

The sun was beginning to set, and the last light of evening bled red and gold across the water. Under different circumstances, it might have been beautiful. You think.

You tore your arm free from his grasp and stumbled back a step. “What is the matter with you?”

Aerion’s mouth was hard. “You do not command me, and you do not walk away from me.”

He came toward you as he said it, and you moved for the door, but he was there before you, blocking the way. “You have been pleased enough to ignore me before.”

“That is what this is about?” he asked. “Your wounded pride?”

“No.”

“It is Valarr then.” His cousin's name slipped from him, and afterward his jaw clenched hard, as though he had not meant to say it aloud at all.

“What are you talking about?”

Aerion took another step toward you, and despite yourself, you moved back. The stone rail met the edge of your hand. His eyes were on you in a way that made you nervous, fixed so intently upon you that for one heartbeat you thought he might throw you from the balcony and be done with it.

“You heard me.”

When you did not answer, his lips curled. A humorless laugh slipped from him. “Ah,” he said. “So it is.”

“You do not know what you are talking about.”

“He smiles at you, and now you think yourself above me?” His brow lifted. “Or perhaps you are only desperate for attention—“

The crack of your palm against his cheek sounded sharp, and his head snapped to the side. Your hand stung; the pain bloomed hot through your fingers. You stared at your own hand in horror for half a moment before your eyes lifted back toward him.

Aerion turned back slowly to look at you. He might actually kill you. You think.

His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek where you had struck him. He stared at you, breathing slow and hard through his nose.

You had not known this feeling before. Anger, perhaps. True anger. It felt as if every cruel word he had ever thrown at you had risen inside you at once and spilled over before you could swallow it down. You had not meant to hit him.

“You forget yourself,” he said at last. His voice had gone strangely calm.

You cradled your stinging hand against the other and realized suddenly how hard your heart hammered against your ribs. An apology rose to your lips. You almost begged his forgiveness for the blow.

But the apology did not come. “I remember myself quite well.”

His jaw flexed. “You have grown too bold and tiresome.”

“You are right.” You saw his eyes narrow at that. “I have grown tiresome.”

“Stop speaking in fucking riddles.”

“I am tired of you,” you snapped.

Aerion scoffed. “You do not mean that.”

“You insult me. You seek me out only when it pleases you. You are mean and vile and—”

“Valarr—”

“This is not about Valarr!” You practically shouted loud enough that it seemed to knock him silent.

You dragged a hand over your face and drew in a breath, trying to calm the heat boiling beneath your skin. Then you looked at him again. Really looked at him and suddenly it dawned on you.

“Are you jealous?”

Aerion looked as though you had struck him a second time. “Quiet.”

Something about the look on his face almost made you laugh, though there was nothing funny in it.

“You are,” you said, looking him over once. The angry set of his shoulders and the way his hands flexed uselessly at his sides.

“Do not.” His voice was low now. He shook his head slightly, eyes fixed on you, daring you to go on.

You laughed once beneath your breath. “You cannot bear that someone else might actually want me—”

You did not finish. One moment, you stood before him with anger hot in your throat, and the next, your back struck the wall hard enough to drive the breath from you. You felt Aerion’s hands on your shoulders, gripping tight enough to bruise.

“I told you to be quiet,” he hissed.

When you opened your eyes, there was something vile in his face. His expression was twisted and near feverish.

“I am not—” He stopped. His breath came sharp through his nose, and his mouth worked once as though the words themselves had turned bitter. “I hate you.”

Aerion did not relent. He was too close, close enough that you could feel his breath hot against your skin, “You are an unbearable, lying wench,” he said. “And I hate you.”

Tears gathered before you could stop them, and that only seemed to enrage him further.

“I fucking hate you.” His voice cracked sharp enough to make you flinch. “Do you hear me? I hate you.”

At last, his hands left your shoulders. He turned away from you with a restless movement and paced once across the balcony and back again.

“You crawl into my bed,” he spat, “spread your legs for me willingly, and now you stand there as though I owe you something?”

“I have never asked you for anything,” you said quietly.

Aerion scoffed. “You ask for everything.”

You opened your mouth, but he rounded on you before a word could leave it. “No!” he barked. “No, you will stand there and listen for once.”

He stepped toward you again. The mark of your hand is still red upon his cheek. The sight of it should have satisfied you. But it did not.

“You ruin everything,” he said. “Gods, you ruin everything, and then you stand there weeping as though I am the one who has made a mess of it all. Look at you.” His lip curled. “Pathetic.”

“Please stop.” You whispered.

“You want and want and want!” he shouted. “Nothing is ever enough for you.”

“That is not true—”

“You think yourself better than me now?” he snapped over you. “Is that it?”

“Stop—“

“You want more, fine!” He dragged both hands through his hair violently. “I will marry you then!”

You had gone still.

Aerion stood breathing hard before you, chest rising and falling from the force of his own rage. He looked as bewildered as you felt.

Then his face hardened. “You want it so badly,” he said. “Fine. You shall have it. I will marry you if that is what it takes to finally shut you up.”

You could only stare at him.

The wind moved cold across the balcony. Below, the sea had darkened beneath the last red smear of sunset, but the world had narrowed to Aerion’s face, to the ugly triumph and panic warring there.

He swallowed once, hard, and shifted as though suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. When you still said nothing, his expression twisted.

“What?” he snapped. He flung his arms outward once, then let them fall to his sides. “Is this not what you wanted?”

Your tears did not cease. For so long, you had wanted those words from him, wanted them so badly it had shamed you. You had wanted him to love you as plainly and foolishly as you had loved him, wanted proof that there had been something beneath all of it after all. Yet now that the words had finally come, you did not feel relieved by them.

“Have you suddenly forgotten how to speak?” Aerion snapped, stepping closer again.

“I cannot marry you.” Your words scarcely above a whisper.

Aerion stared at you. He looked more irritated than angry. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You wiped beneath your eyes with the heel of your hand. “It would not fix anything.”

“Yes, it would,” he said. “Gods, this is exactly what you wanted. We marry and all this…” He gestured sharply between the two of you. “We can end all this pointless bickering.”

“No.” You shook your head harder. “You do not understand.”

His jaw tightened. “What do I not understand?”

You saw the exact moment when something inside him began to realize this was not going the way he thought it would. “What?” he asked again.

“Valarr already asked for my hand.” You swallowed hard enough to hurt. “I accepted.”

The silence that followed was worse than his shouting, and you wished he would rage again.

“Ah,” he said finally. “No, that is…” He stopped himself. His voice uncomfortably calm.

His hands flexed once again at his sides, and he turned away from you altogether and looked out across the bay. “That makes sense.” He muttered.

“Aerion—”

“Go.”

You stood there a moment longer, unable to move. Then his head snapped back toward you, and the rage was there again behind something else you could not name, “I said, leave.”

He did not look at you again. Not even when you paused at the balcony doors and turned back one last time before leaving him there alone.

-

Tag List: @katnipwintergreen @snorklingfae @multiversejumper @oh-miniso @sigilofdragonfly @diannana @taylorgriffin @jinmjy @xxvelvetxxxx @doesoteric @mckaylarkendra5608 @hearts2bunnys @katt-kitty-katt @sand-sucks @doesoteric @chlmtfilms @snowwythegloww @eisaslvr @soyvanpino

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Ours is the Honor (Part 6/?)

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.”

taglist: @mooondapple @brianna-merlim @bimboreader @allthingsimagines @cold-v0dka @shitface-t @opultea

[opultea]

This is such incredible quality writing, it really deserves more attention!! I love how you’ve characterised everyone and given the reader some real agency. The romance between reader and Raymun feels so natural and that’s so hard to do, you just keep out doing yourself lovey 🫶

[fosterova]

i may have lost a brother, but he lost a father...

[916gawd-deactivated20190411]

Reblog if you think public libraries are important and should be maintained.

[cats4dayssss82]

[machy-march]

Valarr somewhere in Kiera's distant memory

Alexa, play "about you" by the 1975

[obsessedwithceleste]

Divination for Dummies

Theodore Nott x Ravenclaw! reader

Based on this request 🫶🏽

Summary: When the tarot cards tell you you’re going to fall in love, sometimes it’s best to just listen to them

word count: 6k

©️obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

Divination was stupid. Theo knew it. Enzo knew it. But unfortunately for the two of them, Daphne Greengrass did not. She was quite the believer in fact—spending hours charting stars to gauge compatibility, gazing into her crystal ball, and practicing her palm reading. A load of bollocks and a complete waste of time in Theo's opinion, but, he wasn't a monster and so he humored his friend, content in blocking out Professor Trelawney's incessant babbling for an hour at the start of his mornings.

Theo was just admiring how particularly gray the walls of the castle were looking this fine afternoon when a sharp elbow to the ribs pulls his attention back to the old bat's class. Theo shoots a glare Enzo's way as he rubs his wounded ribcage pointedly. To only further his agitation, Theo notices that Trelawney is now stood directly in front of him extending a deck of tarot cards to him as she blinks her wide owlish eyes at him expectantly.

With a deep sigh and a rather dramatic eye roll, Theo plucks a card from the deck and hands it back to the witch without even bothering to glance at it. Trelawney doesn't seem to mind much though as she inhales sharply, a grin that seemed much too wide for her face forming as she flips the card back to Theo.

"Yes, yes. Just as I predicted dear boy. Just as I predicted. The Two of Cups!" She announces proudly, brandishing the card out towards the class.

Daphne squeals.

"Oh Teddy—"

"Don't call me that."

Daphne ignores him.

"How exciting. How romantic," she continues, clearly far more interested in the pull than Theo was.

She pulls out a script of parchment, finger tracing down the lines of notes until she finds what she's searching for. Then she shoves the parchment under Theo's nose.

"Look there. The Two of Cups—signifies mutual attraction and deep connections. A representation of kindred spirits in the early stages of falling in love. That's so romantic," she gushes, continuing on in her notes.

Enzo snorts doing a horrible job trying to stifle his laughter. Theo glowers, not even wanting to deign such a ridiculous concept with a response. This was ludicrous. The whole thing. Theo had been attending Hogwarts for well long enough to know that there was not a single present student in the school that he would even dignify having a romantic relationship with. He can't help but shake his head and scoff at the mere idea.

"Oh lighten up Teddy, heaven forbid you let Daphne have this," Enzo snickers, clearly enjoying the discomfort the whole thing brought Theo.

It was easy for him to say. It wasn't his love life being carefully dissected by their mystic enthused friend.

Being the new student at any new school was always going to be nerve wracking. But being the new student at a new school in a whole new country was significantly worse in every aspect. Whispers float down the corridors, your name echoing off the high ceilings of the castle, and eyes flicker towards the ground as you pass as if they hadn't just been staring shamelessly the moment prior. Normally the stares wouldn't bother you much, but the constant hushed voices were beginning to be unnerving. Your lips tighten as you move swiftly through the halls and you can't help but feel a bit self conscious as you smooth out your unfamiliar, deep blue robes.

You weren't exactly enthusiastic about your new school to begin with. It was different—of course it would be—but no matter how much you had prepared yourself for all the changes, it just hadn't been enough. Like really, they let a ratty, old—albeit sentient—hat determine house placements? You hadn't wanted that thing anywhere near your head, but it just couldn't be helped. Then, once you had been placed into your house, you come to find that yours is the only one in the entire school that requires you to solve a freaking riddle just to get into your damn room. Asinine. And to top it all off, the wretched school was literally impossible to navigate because the staircases, apparently, were also sentient and did whatever the hell they wanted.

All that to say, when you finally collapse into a seat in the back of, what you hoped was the History of Magic classroom, you were more than a little miffed. With an agitated huff, you try to stay invisible as more students begin to file into the classroom, taking their seats closer to the front. As seats fill, the extra buffer of breathing room melts a bit of the tension in your shoulders. When your professor—a ghost you notice dryly—begins to write on the chalk board, you finally feel yourself start to relax, pulling out a roll of parchment from your bag and carefully copying down each line.

Just as you're about to finish—The Gargoyle Strike of 1911—the classroom door swings open once more and a boy with brown hair and dark, calculating eyes saunters in. You're content with giving him a quick, uninterested glance before getting back to your notes, but unfortunately for you, the boy is rapidly approaching. His bag hits the floor next to you with a dull thread and you feel your lips turn downward into a frown as you look up at the boy once more in annoyance.

You watch as the boy's mouth opens as if to say something, but then his eyes meet yours and you watch him freeze, mouth agape for a moment then two. Just as it's becoming a bit uncomfortable, he seems to awaken from his trance looking shaken, brows furrowing as if he were wondering why on Earth he was just standing there like a fool. Still though, he tilts his head awkwardly—chin gesturing towards the rest of the class—and for the first time you notice that every other seat in the room seems to be occupied. With a sigh of defeat, you wordlessly turn back to the board, preparing to scramble to write down whatever you'd missed just now, content with simply ignoring this boy's existence for the the rest of class.

"A 'wildcat strike' refers to a stopping of work by unionized workers without authorization from the union. In 1911 the wildcats were winning, meaning things were moving in favor of the gargoyles—"

Good god this was horrible. You weren't even ten minutes into your first day of this new class and you already wanted to throw yourself off the top of Ravenclaw tower. It seemed as though many of the other students in class felt similarly as one of the boys sitting a few rows in front of you lets out a concernedly loud snore. You have to choke down a snicker as your eyes flicker up to the ghost at the front of the room, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care.

"That's Finnigan. There's a running bet on how long it'll take him to fall asleep after Binns starts monologuing," the boy next to you murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You turn to look at the boy, surprised to hear him speak after all, and for the first time take a good look. Shit. He was hot. You don't really get the chance to dwell too much on it though because he speaks again.

"That one next to him is Thomas. Any second now he'll start piling things on top of 'em. See how high the stack gets before it falls over or Finnigan wakes up. Whichever comes first."

As if on queue, the boy next to the snoring kid carefully places a thick text book on his friend's back. Then another. It's like you can't look away as you watch on in morbid fascination.

"They friends of yours?" you find yourself asking as the boy, Thomas, adds an ink well to his tower.

Your desk partner snorts.

"Hardly. Lions and snakes don't exactly get along," he says smoothly.

You have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but you don't want to ask. Instead you continue to watch as a bag of Bertie Bott's jelly beans, three quills, a sweater, and someone's pet frog is added to the pile. A potted plant is about to be placed on top when a sneeze sends the whole thing crashing to the floor. Professor Binns doesn't even blink as he just continues on. Finnigan's head shoots up as he takes in his surroundings once more, shoulders slumping when he apparently realizes where he is. Understandable.

The rest of class is an absolute drag as you flit in and out of different thoughts and daydreams. Anywhere was better than here, listening to this ghost drown on. If he were any less interesting, you're sure the entire class would die of sheer boredom and be cursed to haunt this very classroom with the old professor. Doomed to be subjected to the very thing that killed you all in the first place for all eternity.

After what you're certain is the longest hour of your life, class finally ends, but to your dismay, you realize that halfway through class you'd simply given up on taking notes. Dammit. As though reading your mind, the boy next to you slides his parchment towards you. His notes are impeccable. Perfectly neat rows in dark ink with not a smudge in sight.

"I can get them back tomorrow," he says simply, before returning the rest of his materials into his bag.

You open your mouth to thank the boy, but before you even get the chance he's gone in a swoosh of emerald green and black.

The whole thing leaves you a bit stunned. It was the first real interaction you'd had with, really anyone at your new school and you couldn't tell if you'd completely blown it or not. He'd seemed decent enough, whoever he was. And that's when it occurs to you. You hadn't even bothered to ask the boy's name.

"Mmm. What was their name again?" Theo asks, trying to appear nonchalant as he inserts himself into Enzo and Daphne's conversation.

The three of them occupied their usual spots inside the Slytherin common room, the soft glow of green flames painting their faces as their voices mix in with the other echoes of the dungeon. Enzo eyes Theo suspiciously, noting that—despite the unbothered front he put on—Theo's fingers couldn't seem to stop tapping anxiously against his knee. See, usually when Enzo and Daphne were participating in their daily debrief, Theo was staring off into the abyss, pointedly ignoring them. So it didn't take an intuitive genius to pick up on the sudden spike of interest he was showing.

"Y/n. They're from America," Daphne says helpfully, seemingly oblivious to the way that Enzo was trying to dissect their friend's inner most thoughts.

"Why all the interest? They catch your eye? Are you two already falling into the early stages of love?" He taunts when he isn't able to get a proper read on his friend.

Theo's heart stops beating in his chest for half a moment before he juts out his chin defiantly.

"All anyone will talk about. Just curious to know who all the fuss is about," he retorts, forcing his voice to remain steady as he continues to stare ahead, avoiding the curious glances of his friends.

He can tell Enzo doesn't quite buy it, but that simply isn't his problem to worry about at the moment.

So they were from America. Huh.

Truthfully, Theo didn't know much about America. Hadn't ever really cared to find anything out. He was familiar with Ilvermorny of course. Which was presumably your former school, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Maybe he'd ask you about it tomorrow.

Assuming he didn't freeze up again at the mere sight of you. Salazar's ball sack that had been bloody embarrassing. Theo couldn't think of a single other time he'd ever frozen up like that, brief as it had been. Usually Theo liked to consider himself to be quite suave. Charming even, if he did say so himself. And he did. It was completely unlike him to be rendered speechless. Especially not by the mere presence of someone with a pretty face.

But it simply hadn't been his fault. How was he supposed to expect that some great, higher power was going to reach deep into his inner most thoughts and desires—pull together every single physical trait that Theo could possibly fantasize about—and combine them all into one single heavenly creature, and then plop them down right next to him in History of Magic of all classes.

Fate was cruel.

And speaking of fate, there was also all that nonsense from Divination that morning to think about. Theo leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Surely the fact that batty, old Trelawney had predicted that he would fall in love was a complete coincidence in relation to him practically being prepared to propose to the new student in History of Magic a mere few hours later. How could it be anything else? Divination wasn't real. The whole class had been so close to being completely scrapped so many times that you either had to be a fool, or Daphne to believe in it.

Okay, so maybe Theodore was starting to believe it. A little. But what was he supposed to think as he watches you drag your feet through the door scowling? He feels his chest tighten as the two of you make eye contact and he watches as you make your way over to him.

"This seat taken?" you ask, already dropping your bag to the floor. "Didn't take you as one to be into this kinda stuff," you say conversationally as you pull parchment and a quill from your bag.

Theo scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not," he assures, "But Daph is," he adds, head tilting as he gestures to his friend.

He watches as your eyes dart over to the pretty brunette sitting happily between him and Enzo, assessing.

"Oh. Are you two?" The question lingers on your lips and Theo is quick to shake his head no.

Salazar he was being stupid. Of course you would assume—Why was he being like this?

"Nah. No. Daph's an old friend. Enz and I are just here for moral support. And an easy O." Theo hears himself drawl. "What about you? Training to become a seer?"

"Hardly. This was the only elective left that fit into my schedule apparently."

Salazar's balls you were perfect, Theo thinks to himself as Trelawney comes sweeping into the room. Her eyes are closed and her fingertips are pressed against her temples as she swooshes around the room, humming lowly.

"I feel new energy. An unfamiliar presence. You!" Trelawney screeches in her trembly voice, stopping in front of a poor, innocent Hufflepuff with an accusatory finger hovering dangerously close to their eyeball.

Theo can't help but let out a dry snicker and is delighted when he sees you out of the corner of his eye trying to hold back a laugh too. When it's clear to the old professor that the student in front of her had actually been present all year, her eyes scan the room, finally coming to a stop when they rest on you.

"Ah, there you are my dear! Your energy feels so concentrated on this side of the room, it simply drew me over," Trelawney babbles as she makes her way over. "Now let's see here. Palms up dear, palms up, let me have a look."

Theo watches amused, ignoring the weird kissing faces Enzo is making at him, as you sigh but still present your palms facing upwards to the professor. Her bony talons quickly engulf your hands, her eyes fluttering shut once more as her head tilts back, a low hum starting once more.

"Yes, yes. How interesting," the hums get louder as the professor's fingers dig into the lines of your palms. "I see. In the darkest hour, a dark shadow, it will over take you. Consume you."

Trelawney's eyes snap open and Theo watches her face melt back into a warm smile as she gives your hands one last squeeze.

"Welcome to class dear. We have much to learn, so much to see!"

Theo finds that he rather likes the way his heart swells when you turn to look at him, brow raised as you shake your head ever so slightly as if to say, 'what a nutter'.

"How many freaking goblin rebellions is it going to take before the British Ministry finally takes the hint and leaves those poor goblins alone?" you huff, slamming your books a little too loudly onto your table in the library.

You can feel Madam Pince attempting to burn a hole through your back as she glares at you, but you ignore her.

"Probably at least—" Theo checks his notes from the day's lesson, "six or seven. Unfortunately not every revolution to rid oneself of British rule is successful," he teases lightly.

You glare at the boy pointedly.

"I'm not even particularly, patriotic," you grumble, the word actually quite sour on your tongue, "but nothing brings Americans together quite like our mutual hatred of the British."

"Mmm. Do let it go on record now that my family is Italian," Theo replies dryly.

Theodore had very quickly become your closest friend at Hogwarts. From that first day in History of Magic the two of you just seemed to click. It also definitely helped that not only did he share your dry sense of humor, but he was also insanely smart, and very easy on the eyes. You'd been worried for a split second when he first introduced you to Daphne Greengrass, a familiar turning in your stomach that you'd quickly identified as jealousy flaring up, but it had been quickly squashed when Theo assured you that they were indeed just friends. But that was neither here nor there. You and Theo had become practically inseparable in the month that you'd been at your new school, much to the chagrin of his friends. You liked them too of course, and they'd been good sports about welcoming you into their little group, but with Theo it was just easy.

You slide your potions notes across the table just as Theo hands over his Charms essay for you to look over. No words exchanged, but you were both perfectly in sync. Easy.

It's far past dark when you finally push your chair back, the old wood scraping against the floor, and you force yourself to stifle a yawn.

"Alright. I'm calling it a night," you announce as you begin packing up your books. "I should head back in case it takes an hour to get that damn eagle to open up the common room door again."

You hear Theo let out a snort at your last comment. He'd heard well and good your complaints about that stupid hunk of metal.

"Guess I'll head out as well. Mattheo has been complaining that he never sees me anymore, but he's just mad he can't copy my notes anymore."

The two of you quickly gather the rest of your things, slinking out of the library right as Pince begins making her rounds to toss the last lingering students out before closing the doors for the night. The walk to Ravenclaw tower is made in comfortable silence as you walk side by side, both of you trying to ignore the way the back of your hands were brushing against each other as you went. When you finally arrive, a whole group of students in black and blue are outside the door when it swings open. Not wanting to miss your chance, you toss Theo a smile over your shoulder before disappearing with the crowd of students through the door.

As soon as you enter your room, you dump your bag on the ground at the foot of your bed, trade your stiff school uniform for a more comfortable track set, and turn right back out the door—a disillusionment spell on the tip of your tongue. You move silently against the walls, retracing the same steps you'd just taken, leading your right back to the library. It's dark now—you knew from experience that as soon as the clock hit ten, Pince was out the doors. You lift your wand, ready to cast the usual alohomora but tonight something stops you. Call it a gut feeling. You grip the handle of the heavy, wood door and without so much as a squeak, the door swings open. Huh. Maybe the cranky librarian had been in such a rush to leave she forgot to lock up.

Without giving it so much as a second thought, you slip through the doors, following the familiar path that lead you right to the heart of the restricted section of the library. Really, you often found yourself wondering, why on Earth did they have a so called restricted section, and then not even bother to put up a single ward to keep students from entering? Wasn't very restricted if they asked you. Your fingertips brush over the spines of different books as you pass through the shelves, pulling one from the shelf every so often if it catches your eye. The silence of the empty library was deafening, but you relished the way you could hear your footsteps echoing on the tile and the rustle of pages turning as you flipped through your nightly finds.

You're on your tiptoes, straining to reach a large tome from the top shelf when you catch sight of a dark shadow appearing out of the corner of your eye. God, you hoped it wasn't that old man Filch. He wasn't as bad as everyone made him seem, you'd been able to talk him out of snitching on you thus far, but it kind of ruined the mood. Your hand drops to rest on the handle of your wand as the shady figure draws closer and you prepare to throw one of your books its way just in case.

"What are you doing here?" the confused voice of Theodore rings out just as you're about to launch your copy of Moste Potente Potions at his head.

You feel your shoulders sag in relief. You hadn't been scared of course. Just vaguely alarmed. Then you let out a laugh.

"And what's funny?"

"Oh, nothing. Just Trelawney and her whole 'A dark shadow is going to overtake you' spiel," you snicker. "And what do you mean what am I doing here? What are you doing here?" you ask rather indignantly, turning back to focus on the book that was just out of your reach.

"I come down to the library at night all the time," Theo replies, crossing his arms defensively.

"Well it's obviously not all the time because I've been here every night this month and I've never seen you down here," you reply casually.

You can practically hear Theo rolling his eyes at you.

"Well of course not all the time, Filch would start getting—sorry did you say you've been here every night? How has Filch not caught you?"

You shrug your shoulders noncommittally, glaring up at the book that seemed to be just taunting you.

"He has a few times, but we usually just chat for a little and then he'll send me on my way."

You don't see the absolutely stunned look on Theo's face.

"You chat? With Filch. About what?" Theo asks incredulously.

You let out an exasperated sigh.

"The weather. Cat toy recommendations for Mrs. Norris. His mother's retirement in France. I don't know, we chat about a lot of things."

You still aren't facing Theo, but if you had been, you probably would have laughed at the completely gobsmacked look that was written across his face.

"Now will you be useful and get that book down for me?" you ask, foot stomping impatiently on the ground.

Still too shocked to respond, Theo reaches up over your head, placing one hand on your shoulder for balance as he easily plucks the book you'd been reaching for off the shelf. Just as he's about to hand it to you though, it seems he comes back to his senses and that smug grin that you'd become so familiar with recently finds its way back to his lips.

"Uh uh uh, where's my reward?" he teases, holding the book just out of reach once more as he smirks down at you.

"Reward?" you ask dryly, looking up to raise an eyebrow at your friend.

Had he always been standing so close?

"I'm a Slytherin. I don't do something for nothing now," he says, voice like honey in your ears.

"What do you want?" you ask, eyes narrowing.

Theo tilts his head as if pretending to think.

"A kiss."

You blink, shoulders shrugging as you turn to face the boy properly. Seemed fair enough to you. You were definitely getting the best end of the deal. So you tug on the collar of Theo's sweatshirt, before crashing your lips into his. His lips are warm and soft and that's all you take note of before pulling away quickly. Theo is clearly stunned once more so you take the opportunity to finally get your hands on the book you'd been eyeing this whole time.

"Thanks Theo!"

Theodore Nott was dangerously close to never brushing his teeth ever again. Because you had kissed him last night. In some sudden, stupid burst of confidence he had asked you to kiss him and you did. It had been a complete joke—Theo hadn't even remotely considered that you'd actually do it, but you'd grabbed the collar of his jumper and then your lips were on his and he knew he was well and truly done for.

"Theo. Theo! You need to get your act together mate," Lorenzo grunts, elbowing his friend to get his attention.

"What? Stop that," Theo mutters, batting his friend away from him.

"Seriously. You're acting like a love sick puppy."Brie

Theo glares.

"Would take one to know one," he snaps, falling back in his seat with a huff.

Now it's Enzo's turn to narrow his eyes.

"I'm going to choose to ignore that because you're just upset that you didn't kiss y/n back," he responds.

Theo's eyes bulge at the bold—albeit correct—observation.

"Can you keep your bloody voice down?" he hisses, eyes flickering about to make sure no one had heard.

Luckily, you had only just entered the divination classroom so at least Theo was safe for now. Or maybe not.

"Morning," you say brightly giving the group a small wave and taking your usual spot next to Theo.

Theo opens his mouth to respond but, Salazar you smelled good today, and your lips, god your lips looked soft and pink and, the words feel caught in Theo's throat. Somewhere in the distance he can hear Enzo snickering obnoxiously, but all Theo can do is stare at you dumbly. This was mortifying. As soon as he figured out how to move again Theo was launching himself straight off this bloody tower.

"Hey, do you want to sneak into the library again tonight?" you ask casually, laying your things out on your desk, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you were about to send Theo into cardiac arrest.

Of course I'll sneak back into the library with you. Especially if it means you'll kiss me again, Theo wants to say. But he has at least a little bit of dignity left, so he straightens himself in his chair, trying to maintain at least somewhat of an air of nonchalance as he finally strings a sentence together.

"Sure."

Okay, so a sentence might be giving himself a bit too much credit, but it was better than sitting there gaping like a daft idiot. You seem satisfied with his answer though as you turn to face the front just as Trelawney waltzes into the room with her usual dramatic flair. Theo drifts in and out of the lesson as Trelawney rambles on about tea leaves and the placement of tasseography symbols. He tried to focus. Really he needed to, because the alternative was his gaze finding its way to the curve of your lips and the way your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek as you furiously scribbled down notes.

The gentle sound of metal clinking on china pulls Theo wholey back to class as a spoon taps impatiently on the teacup in front of him as if urging him to drink. Glancing around he sees most of his classmates were already bottoms up. Drinking down the rather bitter liquid, Theo carefully places his cup back down in front of him, peering disinterestedly at its contents. Just looked like soggy tea leaves to him.

Trelawney insists on moving about the room though, dissecting the meanings inside each little cup and leaving behind a trail of utterly befuddled students in her wake. When she finally reaches Theo, he can visibly see her begin to vibrate with excitement as she moves his cup around in her hands, swishing the tea leaves back and forth.

"Look there, dear. Do you see?" she asks giddily, shoving the teacup back in Theo's face.

"No." he replies flatly, not even bothering to examine the wet leaves.

"Look closer."

Theo's nose is practically inside the cup now and he can hear you and Enz snickering on either side of him. Traitors. When he still doesn't say anything, Trelawney lets out a huff, sticking her crooked finger into the cup and speaking slowly as if explaining something to a small child.

"Right there. Don't you see?" she asks, as if it should've been the most obvious thing in the world. "An axe—" she swirls the cup to the side. "And a butterfly."

Theo stares blankly at the old woman.

"Use their notes and figure it out," she finally huffs in exasperation before sweeping off to another table.

As soon as she's gone and Theo makes eye contact with you he can't help but chuckle as Daphne scowls at the two of you.

"Look," she sighs, shoving her notes across the table for Theo to read.

The Axe—problems overcome

The Butterfly—success and pleasure

Wonderful. More nonsense. That was the problem with divination—the definitions were so broad they were basically meaningless. Overcoming problems and success? That could be about anything. Theo pushes the parchment back to its owner with a shrug. He'd just do what he always did and make something up for the assignment.

Shadows loom against the dimly lit walls of the library as you and Theo wander through the shelves together. Theo had been quieter than usual tonight. To be fair, he wasn't usually the most talkative person ever, but you had had to push to get your usual banter out of him. He clearly had something on his mind. You don't push though. That was something you both appreciated about each other—just being there together was enough.

Once you both have a sizable stack of books pulled together you tuck yourselves away in one of the back corners of the restricted section. Far enough that not even Mrs. Norris would bother to wander all the way back. You find yourself curling up next to your friend, legs pressed together and shoulders brushing as you cast a soft lumos charm just bright enough to illuminate the pages of your books as you read. The quiet is nice after a long day of navigating the crowded halls and classrooms of the school. Hogwarts was definitely a lively place, and you hadn't realized just how much you missed having some peace and quiet until you'd snuck out of Ravenclaw tower that first night.

"Do you think divination might not be completely useless?" Theo asks a while later, breaking the silence.

You look up in surprise before glancing down at the book he's reading—Divination Through the Ages: A Skeptics Guide—your eyebrows furrowing in thought. If you were being honest, you'd always thought that divination was, to be polite, dumb. In fact, you'd been rather pissed when your head of house, Professor Flitwick, had told you that it was the only class that would fit in your schedule. But you didn't think that was what Theo wanted to hear at the moment.

"I mean, all forms of magic have their unique uses I suppose," you reply carefully, wondering where this was going.

Theo just hums in response, continuing to finger through the pages of the book as you watch with curiosity. Finally, with a deep breath, he snaps the book closed and turns to face you. It's clear he wants to say something as you search his eyes which seem to be getting ever so slightly closer by the second. You can't help the way your eyes drop down to his lips as his tongue glides across his bottom lip nervously. They're so close now you can practically feel the way they had pressed against your own last night. However brief that encounter had been. When you finally tilt your head back up to meet his eyes once more, your nose brushes his and you feel your breath hitch. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was about to kiss you right now.

And then his lips are on yours and you feel your body go limp as he pulls you into him, your eyes fluttering closed as he molds you to him. Your book slips from your fingers with a dull thud as it hits the ground, but you hardly notice. Theo's lips are just as warm, and soft, and utterly intoxicating as you remembered them to be. You can feel Theo smiling against your lips as he pulls you impossibly closer and you forget where you are, what you were doing, everything except what it feels like to be held in Theo's arms.

When you finally break apart, it's your turn to blink in stunned silence as Theo gazes down at you, his breath warm against your cheek.

"Ever since you arrived, everything that divination has told me has come true," Theo says gruffly, clearly not pleased to be having to admit it.

You couldn't blame him. The two of you had kind of bonded over how unseriously you both took the class. Still though, you tilt your head, inviting him to continue.

"The first day we met—that morning in divination, a deck of tarot cards told me I was going to fall in love."

A dry laugh escapes Theo's lips as he pulls back, eyes trained everywhere but at you now. Which is probably for the best as you feel tendrils of heat creeping up into your face.

"I didn't believe them of course. Thought it was pure rubbish."

Your heart stutters for a moment before your eyes land on the book Theo had been reading so intently up until now.

"Hm. And did something change?" you ask cautiously, not daring to get your hopes up.

"Well, the soggy leaves in my tea this morning kind of implied that I should get my act together if I wanted any sort of success, so—" Theo lets out another wry laugh, though there's no humor in his voice. Just a nervous undertone that you can tell he's trying to mask.

"Well did you? Fall in love that is?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy around Theo for the first time.

There's a beat of silence where you can practically feel your heart trying to tear its way out of your chest. You hadn't quite realized just how much you wanted this until it was staring you in the face. Or rather anywhere but. Then Theo meets your eyes once more.

"I think I could. If I'm not half way there already."

His words melt every bit of tension you had been feeling previously as you let out a breath that you didn't know you'd been holding.

"I think I'm half way there too."

Everyone say thank you to the beta readers @simplyastra and @nottendo 🫶🏽

[do-not-u-dare]

”Explain yourself” followed by “stop making excuses” has always baffled me because the fuck you think explaining myself is????

[mawofthemagnetar]

What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?

When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.