Mrs Brightflame @plotgoblinsstuff - Tumblr Blog

Jul 11

The Knight and the Dragon Fair

Aerion Targaryen x fem!knight!reader (I made up a random last name for the reader so there would be something after Ser- it's Wyght, not a real Westerosi house. No physical descriptors except she’s taller than Aerion.)

Overview: You forged your own path through Westeros with honor and steel. And when you reached the Stormlands, it was Lyonel Baratheon who saw the fighter within you— who granted you your knighthood. And it was that damnable Baratheon who got you in the lists to fight the Dragon Prince at Ashford. Aerion doesn’t like being bested, but it’s certainly more interesting when it’s a woman beating him bloody in the mud.

Mdni: p in v, slight fem!dom themes, relatively aggressive between them

wc: 14k

a/n: No, I don’t forgive Aerion for what he did to Egg, but I’m going through a Finn Bennett thing and needed to get this out. I also just needed to write a fic where Aerion gets his ass handed to him by a woman taller than he is

Also, Baelor doesn’t die because that man is too fucking fine.

Lyonel had pulled strings to get you here. For what, you do not know. Perhaps he wants a show. He wants to see the lowborn knight he plucked and groomed show a Targaryen what true brutality tastes like. Or, perhaps, there is no reasoning behind anything the Laughing Storm does.

He is chaos incarnate. And a part of that chaos is you.

The woman he knighted. The she-beast he helped cultivate so you could show men the many faces of a woman’s ferocity. Now, here you were, a simple tourney in Ashford. One attended by the royal family.

One where your hip perches your lance, and you find yourself staring down the demonic visage of Prince Aerion Targaryen’s helm.

“The prince does not fight fair,” Lyonel had told you while you’d been preparing yourself for the joust. The one meant for high-borns, not some lowly scum like you. “You must prepare yourself for any dirty tricks he might throw at you. Ignore his title, ignore his blood. He is nothing more than another opponent to you.”

Nothing more than the man who thinks himself a dragon trapped within mortal flesh. Nothing more than a prince who could end your life with a flick of his hand if he so wished it. You let out a rough sigh, slamming the visor of your helm down. Your breath rattles through your armor, coaxes down your arms to that violent tremble in your hands.

You want to pass it off as nothing more than pre-fight adrenaline. But you know yourself better than that. You’ve never been so nervous like this. But you’ve also never unseated any nobility except Lyonel himself.

Why had he done this? Why had he moved your name up the lists, put you smack in the middle of nobility and royalty? A Fossoway should be jousting the Dragon Prince today, not you. That damnable Baratheon has left you with no other choice but to go forward.

To forfeit now would be to prove every man who ever doubted you right.

Your mare grows unsettled beneath you, hooves digging into the mud as she huffs impatiently. You push forward, stopping at the end of the fence. He sits across from you, lance perched on his hip, same as you. But you can feel that stare, like dragonfire; it melts through your armor, pierces through your body and soul.

Whatever ill words you might have to spare about spoiled nobility, you would not dare say there is a Targaryen who does not fight like a dragon reborn. Well, except perhaps for that drunken one, Daeron.

Your breath echoes through your helm, burns at your eyes as the horn sounds. Lyonel’s warning rings through your ears as your mare charges forth. Your gaze drops to the Prince’s lance, and you gasp, just barely jerking your steed out of the way before the tip of his weapon pierces through her neck.

Your lance barely brushes against his shield as his passes along your leg. Fury rages hot under your skin, burns at you until you think it might heat the metal of your armor. You tug on the reins of your horse, quickly steering her back around.

He does not wait for the horn to blow once more; he’s already charging forth, lance aimed straight for your chest. You squeeze your legs around your steed, urging her forward. The crowd’s roaring is drowned out by the pounding in your chest– raging like the drums of war in your ears.

Your lance slams into his chest, splinters against his armor, and snaps in half. His own lands firmly against your side, ripping the air from your lungs. Your mare continues riding forth, but your legs fly up from her sides. Your body is in the air a moment before you’re slammed harshly into the mud.

That was it. Two turns and he has already unseated you.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, body prone as you try to earn your breath back. Through the din of your own surging blood, you hear it. A sharp voice, screaming over the roar of the crowd. It sounds like that little squire you had met only a day past.

“Get up, Ser! Get up!”

Your eyes roll in your head as you jerk up, glaring through the thin slit of your visor. The prince is in the mud, his steed gone. You’d both unseated each other. Your feet slip against the mud as you rush to stand, reaching for the sword at your side.

He comes to realize the same as you, just as you’re unsheathing your weapon.

With both unseated, there is no choice but to brawl. In the mud, beneath this thick fog, with nothing but a screaming crowd all around you, shoving at the fence posts. You have no house name for them to shout, and your sigil is nothing more than a falcon you’d painted on your shield.

But it is not the dragon they scream for, the man who would have killed your horse rather than offer a fair fight.

He has gotten to his feet just as you launch yourself over the fencing, bearing down on him with whatever fury is left pumping through your veins. He barely has time to draw his sword– just managing to throw it up in time to deflect your blow. Sparks fly up from the clash of metal as he shoves you back.

Your greaves slip along the mud as you shake your head, trying to clear the mud from your eyes that had slipped beneath your helm. With little other choice, you reach up, ripping it from your head. You can finally see more than just a foot in front of you.

But the leather tie keeping your hair at bay has been lost somewhere during the joust. It spills freely in front of your face. The Prince does the same, ripping off his own helm. His eyes narrow, lips parting as the briefest display of shock shows on his face.

You can hear the crowd react, their shouting dimming as they realize it is not a man who they had been cheering on. Now, here is the question: Do they cheer for a fellow small folk commoner? Or cheer their Dragon Prince on so he might show you what a real knight looks like?

You don’t allow him to process who– what he is fighting. You’re already charging forth, sword raised high. He ducks beneath your swing, quick as a viper as he whips around, sword scraping against the back of your armor. You grunt, jerking forward as you turn back around.

He’s fast, lithe, and serpentine in his motions. Each of your blows is deflected or dodged, with one quickly returned to you. You barely have a moment to leap out of his reach, your armor weighing you down as the mud sucks you deeper into the earth.

The clashing of your swords sings– echoing throughout the field as the people watch with rapt breaths and subdued cheers. They do not know who they wish to see win now. Too many in the crowd would feel themselves grow weaker if they watched you– a woman– defeat their prince.

For once, though, you do not feel hesitation from your opponent. There is no poor attempt at chivalry that weakens their resolve and allows for an easier defeat for you. He is bearing down on you with lips pulled back, sharp teeth shown like a wild animal.

Each blow is devastating. It dents your best armor. Metal that pales in comparison to his own because you can afford no better. His sword cuts close to your neck, and you have only a moment to dodge out of the way, planting your foot on his chest and shoving him back.

His sword lifts, just enough to slice against the back of your hand. You let out a sharp hiss, weapon dropping to the mud as blood pools from the wound. That should be enough to have you disqualified. But his own sword has fallen from his hand, sliding into the mud.

Your eyes widen, and you don’t allow him to retrieve it. You throw aside all dignity, all knightliness, and pounce on him. Your knees bracket his hips as you bring your hand down across his face. His hands skate down his body, and you don’t see the dagger he’s unsheathed until he’s stabbing it into the side of your armor.

You nearly screech, breath ripped from your lungs as you feel the warmth of your blood pour from the wound. He bucks his hips up, flipping you over and ripping the dagger from your side. He bears down on you, arms raised high– and you are desperate. You punch forward, metal-cloaked hand slamming into his throat.

He gasps, eyes bulging as he sucks in a rasping breath. You reach up, hands wrapping around his neck as you roll him onto his back. Your legs pin his arms down as you draw your fist back, slamming your gauntlet into the side of his face.

“Yield,” you growl out, watching his skin split around the metal of your armor.

His eyes are wild, Targaryen fire burning through the irises as he gives you a bloody grin. “No,” he hisses, back, reaching for that damnable dagger again. It is only adrenaline that keeps you going, you’re certain. It is the only reason you remain standing as your blood sinks into the mud below, forever a part of the Ashford grounds.

You bring your fist down once more, hand still tight around his throat. There is a manic edge to the curl of his lips. Something desperate, something unsure because no one has ever dared to brawl with a prince in the mud. Not like this. But there’s something else. This wicked glint in his eyes that makes your stomach turn.

As you split the skin of his cheek, teeth bared savagely, he almost seems to enjoy it.

His flesh has grown bloodied and mottled; you draw your arm back once more, and then the horns are sounding. “Enough!”

The crowd silences, and your head whips up. Mud has sunk into the strands of your hair, weighing them down as they hang matted around your eyes. You’re sure you look every bit the wild animal as you straddle the prince, covered in mud and your and his blood.

Maekar stands from his chair, glaring down at the match. “Enough!” he calls again. Your arm drops to your side as you slowly release the prince. He jumps to his feet immediately, blade of his dagger shining at his side.

You almost think he’s going to charge you again when Prince Baelor speaks. “Ser Wyght has been deemed the victor of this match,” he declares. Hesitant to let you both continue. Perhaps it’s for the best. You don’t need a Targaryen’s life on your hands.

Aerion’s face falls, a quiet fury brewing beneath his expression as he turns toward his family. Betrayal lines every angry tremor of his shoulders and shuddering breath. Someone runs past him, grabs your hand and holds it in the air, displaying the victor for the smallfolk to see. A horn blows behind you, and the Dragon Prince storms off the field.

It is only when he is gone from your sight that you feel yourself slump. The pain suddenly registers within your weakened body. You let out a low groan, ripping your hand from the grasp of the other man as you clutch the weeping wound at your side. You might have won, but Aerion certainly put up a better fight than any other man you’ve faced.

He’d almost had you, with that dirty trick of his. He seemed unprepared for the raw, desperate urge of a woman fighting tooth and nail to survive. A Dragon he might be, but he does not know what it means to survive rather than live.

“The knight who defeated a Targaryen!” Lyonel boasts loud and proud as you enter his pavilion that night. You grimace at the cheering that greets you, limping past his nobility and toward him. They offer you hearty slaps on the back, jolting the stitches the maester had fixed you with that afternoon.

You suck in a sharp breath, bearing it with a grin, unwilling to show them how your head is thrumming with pain. It is evenfall now, long past the fight, but you still cannot catch your breath. Your sternum is bruised, the right side of your face mottled from Aerion’s blows. You are bandaged and bloody, but at least you have been cleaned of the mud from your fight.

Lyonel greets you with a wide grin, passing you a large mug of ale. You take it gratefully, drinking down as much as you can in one gulp. It does little to ease the pain, but your mind fuzzes at the edges, making it easier for you to enjoy yourself.

“I have something for you,” he goads. He waggles his brows, and you bite back a laugh. He goes behind his table and pulls something from beneath his cloak. You watch in confusion as he returns to you, bearing a shield.

Not a wooden one like you currently have. A true shield. On it, that shoddy symbol you’d created for yourself. Except the falcon is not painted on by an amateur’s hands; a master at their craft embellished the wings and added that furious glint to its eyes.

“Lyonel–” you breathe out, shaking your head as you take it from him. “It’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” he claps you on the shoulder, and you let out a pained groan as it jostles your body. “You beat a Targaryen for me today. You’ve earned this.” You open your mouth, but he holds his hands up. “I’ll hear nothing more from you.”

You nod, still holding it to your chest as he prances off to dance. You shake your head as you watch him, then glance toward the nobles surrounding him.

You are underdressed compared to them. In nothing more than a simple shirt and trousers because you own nothing better. Lyonel has offered to sponsor you multiple times, to help you establish a real name for yourself.

But you had not fought so hard to become someone he deemed worthy of knighting just for him to begin handing you your prizes. No, you would win your fancy clothes, same as any other knight without a house attached to their name.

But you could certainly accept this shield.

That giant he has grown fond of is present for the revelry once more. His squire is just behind him as they walk up to you. “That–” Dunk shakes his head, struggling for the right word.

Egg bounces at his side, lips split with an eager grin. “That was amazing!” he shouts over the din of the crowd. Your brows raise with a bemused smile as you stare down at him. His little fists pump furiously through the air as he relives your fight with the Prince.

“I’ve never seen someone best Aer– the prince like that before. It was incredible,” he gushes.

Dunk flushes crimson and nods. “Incredible,” he settles on– the word he’d been trying to find, you suppose.

“Thank you, though, I think that bastard rocked one of my teeth loose,” you complain, tongue poking at the loose molar in the back of your mouth. Dunk’s going to respond when the pavilion grows silent.

All of your gazes turn toward the entrance. Your head tilts with interest as you peer around the crowd of bodies. Your heart stutters, breath seizing as you realize who has just walked in.

Aerion Targaryen strolls through Lyonel’s pavilion as if he owns it. You suppose in his own way, he does. What part of Westeros does a Targaryen not have claim to? Even if it is a tent run by the man who hates Targaryen’s most.

Lyonel’s easy-going grin fades as Aerion makes his target known. His eyes lock onto yours, and you stiffen, shoulders rolling back as you stand to your full height. Just enough to look down your nose at him.

Dunk moves to shift in front of you, but you shoot him a sharp look. You’re injured and beaten down from this morning; you appreciate his intent, but this is not a man you can afford to look weak in front of.

“A Targaryen in my tent,” Lyonel muses, body positioned before your own. You can see the tenseness in the line of his shoulder, the shock at Aerion’s audacity to breach this unspoken barrier. “How quaint,” he scoffs.

Your eyes cut to Lyonel before you move in front of him. “Your grace,” you greet, praying that you can stop Lyonel from doing something ridiculously foolish. Like striking a Targaryen prince, as it looks like he wants to.

“You are the knight who bested me?” Aerion questions, eyes dragging up and down your form. Chills break out along your skin as he surveys you. Like a viper, determining if a mouse is too big to unhinge his jaw for.

“Aye,” you answer. His gaze drops to the shield you’re still holding, the falcon crest you created.

“I was not aware any female knights were participating in the tourney. Or any tourney,” he adds, words barbed and smirk sharp.

Your eyes narrow as you let out a scoff. “Not so many nobles are as open-minded as Lyonel. He is the one who knighted me… if you’re doubting my legitimacy,” you hiss, not missing his barely veiled jab.

Aerion lets out a long sigh, nodding his head as if that answers all his questions. “Ah, so it is the Baratheon who trained you?” He asks, speaking as if Lyonel is not standing just beside you.

“No,” you answer before anyone can try to speak for you. You can feel the barely contained rage wafting off Lyonel. “Life trained me, hardened me, in the way it does for anyone who is not born with a great house attached to their name,” you narrow your eyes with a cruel smile. “Not all of us are so fortunate to be trained by Kingsguards and seasoned warriors.”

“And not all of us need to be,” Lyonel adds, hand landing on your shoulder as he takes a step closer to Aerion.

The insult does not go unnoticed by the prince. The barely hidden stab at his spoiled upbringing and the knighthood that could so easily be handed to him. It’s the reason you beat him today. He may be a skilled fighter, but he lacks the grit hedge knights and smallfolks rely on to survive living under the thumb of men like him.

“What are you–” Aerion steps forward, and you brush by him.

“Thank you, Lyonel, for the shield. I’m afraid it’s time for me to retire.” You interrupt, drawing Aerion’s attention back to you. Lyonel’s jaw grits as he stares you down. Tonight was meant to celebrate your achievement. Your victory over the royalty. But he knows as well as you that if Aerion stays in the tent much longer, blood will spill.

Finally, Lyonel nods, dismissing you. Your eyes flit past him, to Dunk and Egg. But the young squire has disappeared. Offering a brief nod to Dunk, you step through the pavilion. You don’t have to turn to know you’re being followed. The band resuming behind you is revealing enough.

“I was not done with you,” a cruel voice taunts. You cast your eyes to the sky, pray to the Mother for strength, and turn back to the prince. “I wanted to meet the knight who bested me,” he tells you. And the fact that he says knight, not woman, sparks something dangerous inside you.

“Alright, my prince, we have met. We have fought. What more could you want?”

He lets out a sharp huff of something close to laughter. His eyes drop to the shield. “I thought House Arryn had claimed the falcon.”

You tilt your head with a sigh. “Only a noble would think that a House can simply claim an animal all for themselves. There are plenty of Hedge Knights bold enough to display the animals of higher houses.”

He shifts, coming to stand beside you as you linger before Lyonel’s tent. Your eyes drop to the dagger on his belt; Valyrian steel. You’re lucky that thing didn’t kill you earlier. “A falcon defeating a dragon is simply… wrong.”

His eyes cut to yours, and they linger on your own, heavy with something that makes you uncomfortable. “Impressive, though. Even I have to admit.”

“It’s not as though I walked away unscathed,” you remind him, a pointed stare directed to his dagger.

That only makes his smile go lax, less of a show and more amusement. Perhaps at your audacity in the face of draconic royalty. “You loosened one of my teeth,” he tells you. “I ought to take all of yours.”

“You knocked one of mine free,” you snap, eyes narrowed as you glare down at him. “I think we’re even. I beat you, your grace, without having to rely on dirty tricks,” you hiss. “You almost killed my mare today.”

“Did I?” he hums, shrugging. “Had we–”

“Don’t,” you’re quick to interrupt. “Whatever you plan to say. Whether it be ‘if the weather were fairer,’ ‘if the grounds had not been muddy–’ Don’t say it. You are one of the few men that I have ever fought who has not held back. Who has not looked at me and seen nothing more than a girl playing pretend. You fought me today, as brutally and bloody as you would any man. I beg, your grace, that you do not taint such a good fight with promises of what might have been. I beat you, that is all.”

Aerion draws back, brows raising as he tilts his head. “Are you aware of who you’re speaking to so brazenly?”

“Incredibly,” you tell him, voice flat.

Something flickers in his gaze, a flash of interest, a twitch of his lips as he scoffs. “You beat me, woman; I accept that. I was only going to ask who your sponsor is.”

“I have no sponsor,” you tell him. His eyes flit to the shield, and you roll your own. “‘Tis a gift from Lyonel, for besting a dragon. Had I been a man, it would have been just as impressive. You’re an incredibly skilled fighter; I cannot deny that. Even if you do not fight honorably.”

“I am not so sure I would count beating a man bloody with your bare hands honorable, either,” he goads. “Have you ever considered joining the royal guard?”

Your brows furrow as you shake your head. “That's for sons of nobility, not lowly knights like myself. Certainly not for women.”

He rolls his eyes, casting his gaze to the sky much the same way you did earlier. “I’m saying I want you on my guard, woman. If I cannot beat you, I would much rather have you fighting for me.”

You can see it in his eyes, the expectancy of acceptance. He is a prince, offering a hedge Knight with no sponsor – and no name of her own – a place on his royal guard. It is an opportunity from storybooks, not reality. But here he stands before you.

You bested him, and in you he sees a skilled fighter. Someone worthy of his attention because you beat him, even when he fought unfairly. Of course, a dragon would lay claim to the shiny new thing that has captured his attention.

“No.” You tell him, leaving no room for anything else.

He blinks rapidly, face screwing up as he recalibrates his brain around such an answer. “Excuse me?” He glares up at you.

“No,” you tell him. “I quite like my life. I like traveling with no expectations of where I might go or who I have to serve. I’m not interested in a white cloak or a vow of celibacy.”

“I never said anything about celibacy–”

“It does not matter, my prince. My answer is no.”

His gaze narrows, tongue licks across his teeth as he sucks in a sharp breath. “After the tourney, I invite you to travel with my family. I believe I might change your mind.”

He begins to walk away, and you glare at him. “I said–”

“That was not a request,” he shuts you down coldly, retreating to the warm halls of Ashford. Your breath dances through the cool night air as your head falls between your shoulders.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

You’re training with the Fossoway boy when you see him again. He doesn’t pace the tiltyard where you spar. No, that’s too lowly for him, too close to the common blood. But he watches from the Targaryen pavilion overlooking the field. Hands braced on the railings as you knock Raymun to the mud over and over and over…

Honestly, it doesn’t feel like a real fight when the boy is barely a squire, let alone a knight. His cousin had tried to take you on earlier; you’d only had to knock him on his arse once before he gave up. At the very least, you can admire Raymun’s tenacity.

You hold up your hands, needing a break before another round. Raymun stays lying in the mud, simply nodding as you step over him. You walk to the edge of the field, toward some benches, and pick up a rag, wiping the sweat from your brow with it.

You’re taking a swig from your waterskin when he approaches. You don’t hear him coming, his steps disconcertingly silent.

“Hardly a fight,” he notes, head tilting as he watches Raymun’s cousin walk over to him. He kicks at Raymun, shouting about letting a woman beat him.

“Noble boys are never much fun to fight,” you tell him, smile sharp as he turns back to you with narrowed eyes. “With exceptions,” you amend.

He straightens at that, the sharp edge of his lips softening just slightly. “I could offer you a real fight.”

“I’m still recovering from our last one,” you tell him, motioning toward the bandages at your waist.

He sucks his teeth with a small shake of his head. “Not with me. The Kingsguard that traveled to the tourney with us, they’re grand fighters. Certainly more challenging than an apple boy.”

“Certainly,” you muse, gaze narrowing as you consider him. “Why do you want me to?”

“I want to see what you’re capable of,” he tells you simply. He turns on his heel and begins to walk off. You let out an agitated sigh, realizing he’s not giving you any choice but to follow him. You’re stubborn, but you’re not stupid enough to blatantly disregard a royal command.

Even if that command is yanking on your leash like you’re some new mutt he’s found.

“I’m quite tired, your grace,” you try. He shakes his head, stepping through the gates of the tiltyard. Beyond where you’d been training is a larger field. The ground is more even, less of a rugged, muddy terrain. Men in loose shirts and trousers spar lightly with one another in the center.

They straighten as the gate closes behind them, swords dropping to their sides as Aerion approaches. Your brows furrow at that, like some sort of practiced performance. Had he planned for this?

How odd.

He glances over his shoulder at you before nodding you forward. “My lady,” one of the guards greets.

“She’s not a lady,” Aerion corrects before you can, gaze sharp on the knight.

The man’s chin dips in apology. “Pardon– Ser,” he corrects. Your eyes flick uncertainly toward Aerion as you lift your sword.

“I suppose we’re meant to spar,” you tell him. He glances over at his prince, who is watching you both with rapt attention. He seems just as confused by his behavior as you. He turns back to you, offers an easy smile, and you bare your teeth at him. “Take it easy on me, and I’ll take your head. Kingsguard or not,” you snap.

He draws back in shock before letting out a low laugh. “I see why he likes you.” He raises his sword, and you offer a sharp smile, lifting your own to clash with his.

The rest of your day is consumed by the Prince’s whims. He sets you on his guards, watches you spar. Watches you sweat and bleed as you’re worn down by his never-ending supply of opponents. You’re blessed not to have to fight on the morrow.

You don’t know if he’s trying to wear you out, run you down, or what his intentions are. His eyes never strayed from you, intent on tracking each of your moves. Absorbing your method and style as you danced around his guards and struck them down.

They were certainly more entertaining challengers than your previous foes. These were trained and hardened men. With bodies hewn from years of wielding a sword for their King and princes alike.

You found yourself knocked to the mud more times than you could count. It was far more entertaining when they released their ideologies about you being a woman and started cutting you down like a man.

When the setting sun begins to cast its glow across the dew of the field, and you, as well as the other Knights, are scattered across the mud, panting– Aerion finally releases you. He comes to stand before you, hands tucked behind his back, head tilted. It’s the first time since you’ve met he’s been afforded the opportunity to look down at you.

“You may return to your apple boys and stags,” he dismisses.

“Truly?” you demand, a fresh welt on your cheek leaking blood. “That’s all?”

He hums and begins to walk off. “That’s all.” He disappears back into Ashford’s halls, and you scoff incredulously. The man thinks himself a dragon wrought in human flesh; you will never understand him.

But this was quite an odd way to spend your day.

One of the royal guards offers you a small smile as he passes by, clapping your shoulder. “You’re quite the skilled fighter,” he compliments. Though that shock in his voice makes the jagged edges of his words grate across your skin.

“A Kingsguard shouldn’t let a hedge knight sweep him off his feet. You do both of us a discredit when you hold back,” you bite out, getting to your feet and ignoring the hand he offers you. “If we are ever to meet on a field such as this again, I recommend you do not pull your punches.”

His expression hardens, the kindness in his eyes disappearing as you turn on your heel, dismissing him. You trudge back to your tent, without the energy to find Lyonel tonight.

And while you sleep, the prince visits a puppet show. He watches as the puppeteer slays her faux dragon, and he decides it’s a grave crime. While you sleep, the prince breaks her fingers, and a hedge knight defends her honor.

When you wake on the morrow, the news has already spread throughout the camp. Ser Duncan will be on trial in a day’s time.

“Lady Wyght,” someone calls outside your tent. You frown, looking up from where you’d been sharpening your sword. Placing it down, you tuck your dagger in your belt and approach the tent flaps.

“Not a lady,” you call out, stepping into the early morning sun. Three Targaryen household guards stand before you, decked in the dragon’s colors. “What do you want?”

“Prince Aerion Targaryen demands your presence at once.” Demands, not requests; he could not even grant you the manners of pretending you have a choice.

Your eyes narrow on them, the lax way they stand, their eyes drifting past you– bored of carrying out the Prince’s orders. You could easily knock them down, take their swords and send them scurrying back with their tails tucked. But you don’t need to find yourself in the middle of a royal scandal as sweet, foolish Dunk has.

“Alright,” you agree. The one in front nods curtly before turning on his heel, marching off to Ashford Hall. You glance back at your tent, almost wishing you’d brought your sword, and follow behind him.

Anger bubbles in your gut as they lead you through the tents and camp. Past the tiltyard and into the hall. It broils and settles under your skin like something buzzing and alive. It’s astonishing, the audacity of the prince, to demand anything of you after what he’d done.

Their boots echo through the stone halls as they march you up the stairs, one at your back and front so you can’t go running off. It’s not like you would. You’re itching to see Aerion, to give him a piece of your mind.

“–and Daeron will–”

“I will not have Daeron fight for me,” Aerion hisses out. You believe it’s his father’s voice in the room with him as you approach. They’re bickering about something, possibly the upcoming trial. “I have someone to fight for me.”

“Oh, and who would that be?”

The guards open the doors for you, and you step into the room. Prince Maekar Targaryen turns from his son and faces you. His eyes narrow, gaze flitting up and down your form as he shakes his head. “Who the fuck are you?”

You bristle at his tone and are forced to remind yourself of what he could do if you pissed him off. “My knight,” Aerion boasts, smug as he shoots his father a knowing look. You dislike the way he drags out the my. You are not his anything. “She will fight in Daeron’s place.”

“This is the one who unseated you?” Maekar demands, glancing over at you warily.

“Aye,” you answer him. “Though, I’d love to know why I was brought here.”

“As would I,” Maekar grits out, glaring at his son. You shift uncomfortably as they both posture before each other. You have been exposed to far too much royalty of late. With your luck, the bloody heir would walk through the doors next.

You grimace, glancing over your shoulder, checking they’re still locked. That truly is the last thing you need.

Aerion lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if you should both already know his intent. Though, you doubt he ever understands his own motivations. “The trial is to be a trial of seven. Seven knights for each side,” he explains to you. “You are going to fight for me,” he tells you sharply.

“No.”

Maekar stiffens at the outright rejection, eyes widening slightly as he watches his son carefully. Aerion goes still, blinking as his expression slowly settles into something unreadable. “You deny a command from your prince?”

“Is it a demand?” you ask simply.

“No,” Maekar butts in. “No one can force you. You must fight of your own volition.”

Aerion whips around to his father, muscle of his jaw flexing as he takes in a sharp breath. You don’t like this, being here stuck in a fight between two dragons with sharp teeth and sharper words. This is not your place; it never has been.

“Tanselle was my friend,” you tell them both. They stare at you blankly, and something sharp curdles in your gut. “The puppeteer whose finger you broke,” you hiss at Aerion. “And you hurt her for no other reason than your bruised ego.”

Aerion rounds the table, stalking slowly toward you. You see Maekar stiffen behind him, almost looking as if he might reach out, try to stop his son. You shake your head minutely.

“She ought not to have made the dragon lose,” Aerion chides, voice laden with a slow drawl that makes you burn. “Dragons do not–”

“Where are your dragons, my prince?” You bite out, glaring down at him, leaning until your nose is nearly brushing against his own. “They are all gone.”

Aerion sucks in a sharp breath, rearing back as something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “I could have your tongue for that,” he threatens.

“For the truth?” you taunt. Maekar shifts uncomfortably behind you both, looking bored and done with this conversation. “The dragons are dead, and you broke her hand for no other reason except spiteful cruelty. There is no honor in you, no decency. And I do not fight for men I do not respect.”

His hand lifts as his lips pull back with a snarl. “How dare you–”

“Enough!” Maekar’s voice booms through the room. He glares over at his son before his eyes cut to you. “Leave, now. And mind how you speak to your betters.”

You suck your teeth and step back from Aerion. “Apologies, your grace,” you offer bitterly. You turn toward the door, and Aerion bites out your name.

“I’m not finished with you,” he warns, and you ignore him, striding through Ashford Hall until you’re back under the sunlight. Away from stone walls and the suffocating presence of dragons.

Righteous fury thrums in your blood as you march through camp, heading toward the Fossoway’s tent. As expected, Dunk is inside, pacing the perimeter with his head in his hands. Raymun watches him helplessly; his little squire hovers just behind him.

His head lifts when he finally notices you, eyes widening. “Ser, what are you–”

“I would fight for you, Ser Duncan, if you would have my sword.” Dunk’s eyes widen as a smile breaks out onto Egg’s face. Hedge Knight or no, whether or not you lack a strong house behind your name, you will not fight for a cause you do not believe in.

And you believe in Dunk.

“Are women even allowed to fight?” Ser Beesbury demands, face screwing up as he glances over at you.

You roll your eyes, perched atop your mare as she waits impatiently at the gates. The trial will commence any moment now. Dunk has collected seven knights now that you have joined him; it is only a matter of time.

“I don’t know,” Lyonel ponders. “Are you allowed to fight, Beesbury?” He offers a sharp grin as Beesbury bristles. Lyonel directs his steed toward you, stopping at your side. “Who are you more excited to fight? Personally, I can’t wait to spill some dragon blood.”

You give him an amused look. He raises his brows, tilting his head. “I know there’s someone.”

“A Kingsguard I’d sparred,” you finally admit. “I want to show him what a woman looks like when she’s not holding back.”

Lyonel chuckles to himself. “If it’s anything like your fight with the prince, I’m not sure he’ll survive it.”

The gates begin to open, and Dunk stiffens on his horse in front of you. He goes still before he’s lurching over the side of his stallion, vomit spewing from his mouth in one violently anxious wave. You grimace, and one of the other knights laughs as Raymun shortly joins him.

“Fucking green boys,” he taunts.

You shake your head, riding up beside him. You pat his back awkwardly, unused to sharing gentle words of comfort. You are not the maiden from tales of knights and dragons that gives her favor and spurs the men on with easy smiles. But you are here, at his side, and you will pledge your life and sword to him if he so demands it.

Dunk looks up and glances over at you. You nod once, a severity in your eyes that conveys your loyalty better than words ever could. He glances behind himself, at the men ready to lay their lives down for the chance to spill royal blood.

After a moment, he spurs his steed on. You follow closely behind him, pulling up your hair and shoving on your helm. Lyonel joins you at your side as you take in the tiltyard. Seven fences for each of you.

Just like you’d hoped, a Kingsguard waits at the end of yours.

Fog settles heavy around you; it swirls around the horse’s hooves. The pavilion of nobility, the field of common folk; they remain quiet. Your breath rattles through your helm, vision narrowed until all you can see is the man in front of you.

Lyonel’s steed shuffles impatiently beside you; his grand, horned helm towers above him. Against the darkened sky, he paints the picture of noble death. Your heart beats hard against your chest plate, blood humming as you turn back to your opponent.

The horns bellow, and you lift your lance, charging forward.

He had died, the Kingsguard, with your sword buried in his neck, helm abandoned in the mud. He’d had nothing but a woman’s eyes to stare into as he choked on his own blood. It had been his fault. He had softened his blows, thought himself to be fighting honorably.

There is no honor in underestimating your opponent. Nor in allowing them to win.

You did not offer him the same version of “honor.” But he was allowed a warrior’s death.

You lie in Lyonel’s tent as you have for the past few days. Your torso is bandaged tight from where you’d taken a mace to the gut. There is stitching across your forehead from the stray swipe of a dagger.

Lyonel is on a crutch, his head bandaged and eye welting purple. But he is content. He fought Maekar, lived to tell the tale, and spilled dragon blood all in the same day. And the Prince could do nothing to punish him for his eagerness about violence against royalty. Everything you’d both done, everything that once would have been a sin, had been brought on and allowed by Aerion.

Your body aches in ways it hasn’t in years, but you will take the pain if that means Dunk is free. The last you’d checked on him, he’d been under his elk tree. Thanking you and Lyonel both for your aid.

Prince Baelor had declared him innocent once he’d grabbed Aerion by the scruff of his neck– forced him to yield.

“I’d like to drink and not stop for the next week,” Lyonel muses beside you.

“I’d drink if it weren’t for the hole in my gut,” you regard, not bitterly, but your voice is tired. He snorts at that and picks up his mead, taking another deep swig.

You hear the clank of armor, of a sheath jostled against chainmail, and frown, sitting up. A low hiss escapes you as it tugs at the stitches along your stomach. “Ser Wyght!” A voice calls from outside Lyonel’s tent.

“Whaddya want?” He demands, voice slurred from the alcohol he’s already indulged himself in.

“Prince Maekar Targaryen demands Ser Wyght’s presence at once.”

You roll your eyes as Lyonel scoffs. “Do they have to say the cunt’s whole name?” He wonders aloud. You slap lightly at his shoulder as you get to your feet, tightening the laces of your shirt. “Try not to get your tongue taken,” he warns, amusement lacing his tone.

You ignore him as you step out of the tent. It’s the same guards who had fetched you for Aerion. They look just as irritated as you that they’d had to fetch you once more. “On with you,” you mutter, waving them forward.

It’s the nearly same path as the last time, but they take you down a different set of halls. Up winding stairs and into an office you’re sure belongs to the master of Ashford Hall. Maekar stands behind the desk, his back to you.

He waves his hands and the guards leave you immediately. “Take a seat,” he mutters. You would object if you were not in so much pain. With a low groan, you settle yourself into the stiff chair before his desk.

He turns, slow, eyes not meeting yours as he focuses on something in the distance. “Aerion is still bedridden. He has yet to wake up; the maester keeps him laden with milk of the poppy.”

You suck your teeth, raising your brows. “He’ll live, though?” Maekar nods, and you smirk. “Small blessings.”

“The last time I saw you, I told you to mind your betters. I see you haven’t learned much.” You bristle, straightening in your chair. It tugs at your wounds, but you ignore the ache as you meet his stare head-on.

“The Kingsguard you killed was a good man and a better warrior–”

“Not good enough,” you bite out, caring little that it’s a Prince of the realm you’re interrupting. “He underestimated me; that was his folly.”

Maekar pauses, eyes narrowing as his jaw tightens. You expect admonishment, but he slowly nods, taking a seat before you. “Agreed. I have to admit, I was surprised when I saw you fight Aerion. I was surprised still when I saw you take on Ser Wylde.”

Had that been his name?

“I know of what my son wished from you before this ridiculous trial. He wanted you to join his own personal guard.”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, a stone settling in your gut as you nod. “I also know you refused. A stupid fucking decision,” he bites out, glaring at you. “You are barely even a hedge knight. You are barely a knight at all.”

“I’m more a knight than your son. And you can take my tongue for speaking out of turn. But at least I know what honor is,” you snap back at him, nails digging into the arms of your chair.

Maekar’s hands tense up on the desk, nose twitching as he fights back venom. “I will not deny that, but I will warn you to be incredibly careful what you say next. You do not have to join his guard, but I will respect his wishes. I want you to travel with myself and my family to Summerhall.”

You open your mouth to object, and he holds up his hand. “Consider it payment for your displacement of one of our guards. A month’s time, that’s all I ask. So that my son can sate this sudden itch he’s found himself with. And I don’t have to listen to him whinge on about the woman-knight he lost.”

“He does not have me,” you tell him. “How could he have lost me?”

Maekar lets out a sharp breath. “This is a command from your Prince. Do not argue.” He looks to some papers on his desk, effectively dismissing you. “We will collect you in two days when we leave.”

He calls for the guards, and they come in, helping you out of your chair and escorting you from Ashford. You make your way back to Lyonel in a daze, reality not having settled quite right.

Dunk is in the tent with him; their grins drop as you walk inside. “What is it?” Lyonel asks. “You did not seriously have your tongue taken, did you?”

“Nearly,” you scoff, slowly making your way to him. You take the mead from his hand and swallow it down quickly, until the mug runs dry. Dunk watches you with wide eyes. “I am to ride with the Targaryens to Summerhall,” you tell them, blank stare settling on the floor.

The tent is silent for a moment before Lyonel lets out a low, “What?”

You nod, “Prince Maekar has demanded my presence. On behalf of Aerion.” You look up and meet Lyonel’s furious stare. “I’m going to kill that little bastard,” you swear, and something like pride flits across his face.

The rage subsides, for there is nothing to fuss or fight about. A dragon has made a demand; you must comply. His arm slings around your shoulders, dragging you into his side. You’re careful to avoid the sharp points of his stag crown.

“Oh do be sure to give those royal cunts some hell for me.”

You meet Dunk’s eyes as he offers you a sorry look. “Perhaps it will be a good opportunity,” he offers.

You and Lyonel both snort at that. “A month is all that’s been demanded. I’ll make myself intolerable.”

“Don’t have to work hard at that,” you slap Lyonel’s shoulder, and he grins. The mead flows between the three of you as you try to ignore the tightening in your chest. The way the fabric of the pavilion seems to drape ever closer.

It’s only a month.

Aerion is barely cognisant in the wagon as you ride beside him. He’s still hazy from milk of the poppy. Maekar had made it clear your only role right now is to simply stop him from tumbling off the side.

You keep your hand reluctantly balled in the prince’s sleeves, hands on the reins of the horses. Your mare is somewhere in this long train of royalty. You don’t know where. They’d taken her, laid their supplies on her and then dismissed you to your new role.

Dragons take so easily.

Aerion mutters to himself, and you roll your eyes as his body lolls to the side. You jerk him back, and his head pops up for a moment, eyes heavy as he seems to realize you’re beside him. “You,” he mutters, voice sharp. “My knight.”

“Don’t call me that,” you admonish, grimacing as his head drops to your shoulder, eyes falling shut once more.

Maekar rides up the line, head on a swivel as he searches for something. “Where is Aegon?” He demands, glaring back at the servants. “Where is my son?”

You ride past him, biting back a smile as your lips twitch. You think of Dunk, of his stubborn squire. At least one of you has escaped these people. “What are you so happy about?” Aerion slurs, glaring up at you.

You shake your head and push his face from yours. “Nothing. Sleep, my prince. The road is long and weary.”

“You do not command me,” he slurs out, but then his head is falling once more, and he’s asleep. You should enjoy this while it lasts. The peace and quiet of him being too high to be of any concern to you.

It is a week into the ride to Summerhall. You’ve been told by some of the servants that it should only be a few days more until you arrive. Your back is to a tree, the sound of passing water behind you.

Aerion lets out a low grunt, and you glance over your shoulder. He’s relacing his trousers as you fully turn. “This is humiliating,” you tell him, no bite to your voice.

“You are my guard,” he turns with a sharp smirk, staring up at you. “Guard me.”

“While you piss?”

“The road is a dangerous place; you said it yourself,” he taunts, brushing past you. You scoff and follow behind him.

“You realize I am not truly your guard. Your father has only demanded my presence for a month, no longer.”

Aerion’s jaw clenches at that, expression hardening as he looks at you. “The month does not start until we arrive at Summerhall. Until then, you do as you are bid by your prince.”

You open your mouth, and his eyes widen with interest, goading you on. Your mouth snaps shut with a click. “Yes, my prince,” you acquiesce. He nods at that, returning to the wagon. The entire train of people that he’d forced to stop because he had to make water.

Much of the ride has gone like this. He makes small, frivolous demands, testing the patience of you and his family. They have not snapped, yet; you refuse to be the first to break. Aerion climbs back onto the wagon while you go to mount your horse.

“No,” he stops you with only a word. “Ride beside me.”

Your teeth clench painfully tight as you turn to face him. He tilts his head, waiting as he leans into the spot beside him. You shake your head, passing off your mare to a nearby servant before climbing onto the wagon beside him.

Baelor and his son travel ahead in carriages. You think this is Aerion’s punishment, for the trial. Riding in a wagon like smallfolk. But he does not mind as you hold the reins, as he leans back on the bench with the smug satisfaction of a cat whose just caught itself a bird.

If this is what the next month will look like, it will be a miracle if you survive it without being charged with treason.

Summerhall is grand in a way you could never put into words. With domed roofs, white walls, and a sprawling estate, it is possibly the most beautiful place you’ve ever been. You have explored much of Westeros and seen miraculous things.

But this is beautiful in a noble way. The architecture, the gardens, the way the castle seems to capture and reflect the sunlight… it is a beauty created by nobles you thought not possible.

It is incredibly difficult to mask your reaction as you ride in with Aerion. He observes you from his spot beside you, eyes narrowing with interest, lips curling as your mouth parts in awe. “If you think this is impressive, you’ll go into shock once you see the Red Keep.”

Your mouth snaps shut as you glance over at him, the haze of Summerhall dissipating. “I have seen the Red Keep from below. In the muck of Fleabottom.” Something burns in your chest as you look away from him. “It is not so beautiful from there.”

Besides, you will not be with him long enough to travel to the Red Keep.

Aerion lets out an irritated huff that you ignore as the servants guide your wagon toward the stables. He jumps off the bench and holds his hand out toward you, expectant. You glance down at it before ignoring him and stepping down.

His face tightens at that, but he doesn’t point it out. Rather, he takes your arm in his hand and leads you through the sprawling estate. “I will show you to your rooms.”

You glance over your shoulder, brows furrowing in confusion as you watch the Kingsguard walk in the opposite direction. “This is not the way to the barracks,” you point out.

He snorts, “Gods no. You won’t be sleeping there. You’re to be my guard; I want you close by.” He cuts his eyes up to you with something smarmy in his smile. “Should I need you for anything,” he taunts.

You bristle, but decide it’s easier not to argue.

He takes you through the winding halls. Long carpets muffle your footsteps as you make your way up the stairs. Stained glass windows cast the colored shadows of prismatic flowers across the floor the higher up you go.

It’s quieter in his section of the castle. It takes a moment for you to realize that no one else has claimed a room anywhere near him. He is isolated, whether through choice or his own family’s wariness; you’re unsure.

He stops you in front of an arched door. “My room,” he tells you. He turns you and marches you three steps forward. “And yours,” he tells you.

You shoot him a disbelieving look as you glance between his room and your own. “We’re across from each other.”

He tilts his head, huffing out a laugh. “You understand the purpose of a guard, don’t you?”

Your eyes twitch, and you are a hair away from striking a royal across the cheek. Instead, you force yourself to turn, to throw open the doors of your new room for the next month. You stagger to a stop as he lingers behind you, smug as he takes in your expression.

“Better than a hedge, isn’t it?” he taunts.

It is certainly grander than any place you’ve slept. The bed is four-postered and larger than any you’ve ever seen. There is a hearth where the fire has already been stoked, a chaise across from it with a flagon of wine on the table.

There are shelves full of books and a desk pushed into the corner. It is larger than any inn you’ve been in and far better decorated than any tree you might have slept under. But this…

This is a room meant for a lady.

“I should be in the barracks,” you tell him, tone hardening as you force the wonder from your voice.

His brows draw in, eyes narrowing as he shakes his head. “I already told you–”

“I know what you told me. It doesn’t change the fact that I am a knight, a soldier. I should be in the barracks, same as the others–”

“You forget yourself,” he interrupts. His voice is low, calm as he stalks closer to you. Your shoulders stiffen, expression hardening as you look down at him. “I am your prince. It does not matter how you feel,” he tells you, tone soft as he reaches up, brushing some of your hair from your shoulder.

You shudder at the touch, biting your tongue. “Besides,” he continues. “I do not trust those men with you. A woman in the barracks, knight or not, I won’t have it. Not with you. You will stay here, as I said,” he tells you, voice sharpening at the end. There is no room for argument.

Sucking your teeth, you nod. “As you wish, my prince.”

“Very good,” he hums, releasing the strand of hair he’d been curling around his finger. “What do you think of your room, then?”

“I appreciate it, my prince,” you respond stiffly. His eyes narrow with dissatisfaction at that. “Thank you, Aerion,” you try again, forcing something kind into your tone. He presses closer, and you find yourself drawn down to him, breath stuttering as your noses brush.

He pulls back abruptly, and you let out a sharp huff. “The Kingsguard train at dawn, I want you there.”

“Yes, my prince,” you respond.

He nods. “I’ll fetch you for dinner,” he tells you, promptly turning on his heel and closing the doors behind him.

You shrug off your cloak, tension ebbing from your shoulders as you toss it onto the desk. You peer around the room and find a tub already filled with water. Stripping out of your clothes, you decide to wash the week's worth of travel off.

You miss the small creak of your door as the prince steps back in, having forgotten another order for you. The words fall from his lips as he watches you, eyes rapt on your body. The scars along your skin from fights lost and won. The sword-hewn muscles in your arms as you sink into the tub.

You tilt your head back, hair draping along the edge as you let out a low, satisfied noise. His eyes rove across your body. His knight– before he steps back into the hall.

As your prince demanded, you showed up at dawn to spar with the Kingsguard. It’s not quite as brutal as it had been at Ashford. There is order here, a schedule to things that Aerion cannot wholly control.

It is Ser Crakehall that you spar with this morning, an older man, with fine features. He does not hold back as your swords clash against one another. Nor does he soften his blows as he barks orders at you on how to correct your form.

You appreciate it more than you care to admit.

Aerion watches from above the training yard, arms crossed along the bannister with interest as he stares down at you. There are other ladies beside him, tittering at the knights sparring. They got over the shock of your presence quick enough.

You duck under Ser Crakehall’s blade and find yourself glancing up. Aerion’s sharp eyes are already on you, a tilt to his lips as he watches you. A blade swipes against your arm, and you hiss, ripping your eyes away from the prince.

“Focus,” Crakehall snaps, shooting you a pointed look.

“Come on then, old man,” you taunt, jumping back a step as he lunges at you. Blood weeps from the cut on your arm. Sweat makes your shirt cling to your back as you duck around his swing, sweeping your leg behind his foot and sending him to the floor.

Crakehall lets out a low groan, the air rushing out of him as he lies before you. You offer a winded laugh, grinning down at him. “Two to three now, I’ve nearly got you beat,” you goad.

“Nearly,” he shakes his head. “But not quite.” You offer your hand, and he slaps his palm in your own, letting you help him to his feet. “I must admit, I’m quite enjoying the challenge,” he tells you, a shine in his eyes that makes your grin widen.

“As am I. I rarely meet men so willing to beat a woman’s arse,” you laugh. He smiles at that and lets out a low huff of amusement.

You had thought, after the Kingsguard you’d killed, this would be hard. That he would be vying for your head, for vengeance for his fellow knight. Apparently, the one you’d killed had been fresh. Not quite beloved by his men.

Crakehall and the others seemed to harbor no ill will toward you for it, but you were still hesitant.

“Another round?” Crakehall asks, retrieving his blade from the ground.

You’re about to agree when Aerion calls your name from above. “Wyght,” he orders. “Be done for today,” he commands.

You suck your teeth and cast your eyes to the heavens for patience. “Another time, then,” you tell Crakehall. He offers a low laugh and glances over at the prince. Aerion has disappeared down the stairs, most likely coming to collect you.

“I have not seen him like this in some time,” he admits.

You watch Aerion appear at the corner of the courtyard and tilt your head. “Yes, well, some men despise a woman who can put them on their arse. Others…” you both watch Aerion stalk forward. “Others enjoy it a little too much.”

Crakehall chuckles as you walk away from him, already heading toward your prince.

Sweat drips down your neck as you reach him; it pools down your clavicle and dips beneath your shirt. Aerion tracks the droplets, eyes rapt on the sheen of your skin as you come to stand beside him.

“You let him get the better of you,” he admonishes.

“Ser Crakehall is a better knight than I; I can admit that.”

His eyes narrow as he shakes his head. “No,” he purses his lips and begins to walk ahead of you. “We will fix that,” he promises. You roll your eyes in exasperation, following behind him.

You had lost sight of Aerion after dinner. You do not sup with his family; you are not royalty or bound to them by marriage. You eat with the other soldiers, in the barracks, despite Aerion’s irritation. It is enjoyable, amicable as you jest with them.

They are far more welcoming than you once thought they would be. Perhaps it only takes knocking a few of them on their arse to earn that respect.

But, after you eat, it is time to return to your prince’s side. You stand guard in the dining room at his request, despite how much it irritates his father and unsettles his uncle. He insists that he needs you. That threats lurk around every corner. A Targaryen can never be too careful.

Maekar always rolls his eyes at that. But he’s gotten to the point where it's easier to let Aerion just win these little things rather than spend the night arguing.

After dinner, tonight, however, he’d escaped your eye. You don’t know how much you care to track him. But you’d put in the barest effort. Checking in the courtyard, the gardens, the library, and then finally knocking on his door.

Once you’d decided sleep was more important than wherever he was sulking, you turned to your own room. Pushing open the doors, you let out a tired groan as an ache settles in your muscles. Training with Crakehall and the other men has been more of a challenge than you’ve dealt with in months.

That consistent, honing schedule is far more than you’d been prepared for. But you’d be lying if you said you did not love the ache of muscles reforming into something stronger.

The fire is already crackling in your hearth. And you are not surprised when you see a familiar white-blond head of hair draped along your chaise. His head is on the armrest, arm draped along the back as a goblet of wine dangles from his hand.

“My prince,” you greet, taking off your cloak and tossing it over your desk. Aerion does not move from his spot on the chaise or attempt to greet you. A frown tilts your lips as you make your way slowly to him.

He stares into the fire, the flames casting a golden light across his sharp features. The angles of his jaw and expression truly do remind you of a dragon. The goblet wobbles precariously in his hand as he lies there.

You kneel before him, tilting your head as you take in that guarded look in his eyes. “Aerion,” you whisper, reaching out to him. Your fingers brush some hair from his forehead, the callouses of your hand rough against his soft skin.

His eyes close as he tilts his head, leaning into your touch. “Is something the matter, my prince?”

“Are you happy?” He suddenly asks, eyes opening and boring into yours. You jerk back slightly at the intensity of his gaze. “Are you happy here?” He demands again. He sits up, and you don’t dare take your hand off him, knowing it’s the only thing keeping him from pouncing.

“I– I suppose,” you settle on weakly.

His eyes narrow, chest heaving as he inches ever closer. “Are you happy when you spar with Crakehall?” he snaps, the goblet falling from his hand. Crimson spills across the furs in front of the hearth. You rip your eyes from the stain, finding him once more.

Is this… “Are you jealous, my prince?” you whisper. “You are the one who told me to spar with him,” you remind him. “I only do what you ask.”

He lets out a sharp huff, shaking his head. You reach up, cupping his face in both your hands. “I am happy with you,” you tell him, surprised that it doesn’t taste like a lie as it rolls off your tongue.

Perhaps it isn’t a lie. Perhaps this once gilded cage has become something new to you. Something to hone you into a new beast, a better knight. And, loathe as you are to admit it, it is Aerion’s fault that you are here. That you have been afforded these opportunities you never would have had before.

His eyes flash with something you don’t understand, darting between your own, looking for some form of untruth. You don’t look away, allowing him to peer as deep into you as he wishes. He creeps closer, slipping from the chaise and kneeling on the floor in front of you. Your hands do not leave his face, even as you both lean closer.

He is alluring, attractive in a way that is serpentine and feels very much like crawling into an ever-tightening trap. But what lowly hedge knight could ever boast that they had captured a prince’s attention so wholly as you have?

None.

Not in this way, at least.

“You’re happy with me?” He whispers, gaze dropping to your lips. You nod, and it feels truer the more you admit it. There is no warning when a snake strikes, when it sinks its fangs down and venom courses through your veins.

There is no warning as Aerion lunges forward. His hands ball up the hem of your shirt, pulling you forward until you’re in his lap and his lips are on yours. It is not gentle or sweet like the princes in fairytales.

His touch is consuming, fire trapped in flesh as his sharp teeth drag across your lips. His arms band around you, keeping you close as a serpent tightens around its prey. Your lips part against his demanding mouth, his scouring touch.

He rolls you onto the floor, hips pressing into your pelvis as his arms bracket your head. You let out a low sound you have not heard from yourself before as pressure begins to mount in your core.

His rough hands slip from your shirt; they dip under the hem, warm fingers dragging their way up to your chest. He explores your body as if he has a right to. As if you have always belonged to him and just finally admitted it.

Your eyes twitch, fury spasming in your fingers as you grab his hips. He lets out a low noise of surprise as you roll him, pinning him down on the furs. You part from him with a gasp, lips swollen and split from the violence of his devotion.

Your hands find his wrists and hold them above his head. He tilts, eyeing you warily as you glare down at him. Your chest heaves as you work to get air back into your lungs. “It’s not so easy, princeling,” you taunt, smiling cruelly down at him.

“You cannot even best me in a fight, and you think you can just lay claim to my body?”

He lets out an angered noise, the closest thing to a growl a human can make. Amusement thrums in your skin as you watch him struggle beneath your weight, beneath the strength of your hands as you keep him where you want him.

“You may hold my leash outside these walls,” you taunt, leaning down, your breath brushing against his jaw. He shudders as your teeth nip lightly at the sensitive skin there. “But the same cannot be said in here, do you understand?”

You lift back up and stare down at him expectantly. His face says he wants to fight you, to show you that he is stronger. But there is pressure growing between your legs, something pushing up between his own that betrays his own want. You smirk, slowly grinding your hips down against him.

He sucks in a sharp breath, head tilted back and neck exposed as you continue your teasing ministrations. “Words,” you chide, leaning down to sink your teeth into the junction of his neck. He lets out a low groan, grimacing, but his hips buck against your own.

“Fine,” he hisses out.

You doubt he will give up so easily next time, but he is desperate now. Laid down and wanting beneath you. You pluck at the laces of your shirt and nod down at him. He follows your lead, tearing off his tunic as you do the same. His hands reach out greedily toward your chest.

You click your tongue, and he pauses, jaw clenching as his hands drop back to his side. Slowly, you stand, undoing the ties of your trousers and letting them fall to your ankles. You nod expectantly at him, and he stands, following suit.

Feeling just the slightest bit indulgent, you take his hand in your own, let it skate up the scars of your stomach, let him cup your breast as you take his face in yours once more. The kiss you guide him into is less aggressive but no less demanding. Just as impassioned, still fueled by something you cannot tell if it's hate or attraction.

You push his shoulders back as his nails dig into the skin of your waist. Let him drop back to the floor as you straddle his hips once more. You reach between the pair of you, guiding him against your entrance that has been slick since you found him in your room.

You have been waiting for this. Watching as his gaze teeters on that edge of obsession and possession. Waited to find another way to put him back in his place. He holds the power at Summerhall, outside these walls– but here… Here it is yours. He is yours.

You let out a low hum, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you sink fully down on him. Aerion gapes up at you, hands flexing on your sides. It takes a moment before you realize he’s waiting for permission.

Eyes narrowing, you slowly nod. His reaction is immediate, hips bucking up into yours and ripping a sharp gasp from you. It feels like another battle, another fight to be tugged at and won between the pair of you.

His arms snake around your body, hips thrusting up into your own as you bear down on him, letting your body sink onto him with an aggression no other man has wrought from you. Teeth and nails, the kiss is bloody, your coupling far from romantic as you take him on the floor before your fire.

You want to taste his blood on your tongue, see defeat settle in his eyes as he submits to you. You jerk back from the grasp, shoving him fully to the floor as you pin him once more. Your thighs tighten around his, ignoring his protests as you take your pleasure from him.

Your hips slam against his own, and you’re sure that you will both be bruised tomorrow. But his pain is your pleasure, and he soaks up the attention like a disregarded stray. Something mounts in your core, a tidal wave, a flurry of your rage and hatred toward him that bursts through your stomach as your hips stutter over his.

You slow, hips slowly rotating against his as you settle in the aftermath of your completion. He’s still staring up at you, waiting for permission. You slip off of him, and he hisses in displeasure. You don’t give him long to complain as you wrap your hand around him, grip tight, your rough callouses making his hips buck eagerly.

It does not take long before he’s finishing in your hand, spend splattering across his stomach. You sink back with a satisfied grin, tilting your head as you take in the way he struggles to catch his breath.

“Still with me, my prince?”

He growls something at you that you don’t quite catch. You grab your tunic from the floor, slipping it on as you drape yourself across the chaise. His head lifts, following you. He does not bother redressing as he joins you, smothering you with his weight as you both struggle to fit on the small chaise.

Neither of you complains.

You have just entered the courtyard for your daily spar with Crakehall when you feel it. That stare burning into your back, heady with malicious intent. You glance over your shoulder, leaning on your sword as Aerion approaches.

Your lips tilt with something smug as you regard him. “Joining us today, your grace?”

He stops before you, jaw clenched as he holds back something in his expression, eyes glinting up at you. “Spar with me today,” not an offer but a demand.

You glance over at Crakehall before tilting your head, considering your prince. “Not too tired, are you?” Lips curling with suggestion. Crakehall smothers a laugh as he glances away from the pair of you.

Aerion’s eyes are alight with challenge as he studies you. “You’re not worried I’ll best you, are you?”

You lean further onto your sword and shake your head. “I am not so prideful that I cannot admit you are a great fighter, my prince. You could easily best me. Just as I have you.”

He preens at that, shoulders rolling back and something sharp cutting across his lips as he huffs. “Then spar with me, today.” You’re confused, but you nod nonetheless, lifting your sword and motioning him forward.

He begins to unsheathe his own sword, pausing as he tilts his head, eyes narrowed with predatory intent. “How about a wager?” he offers.

Suspicion crawls up your spine, seizes your neck as you stiffen. “What sort of wager?”

Aerion’s smirk turns deadly, eyes growing cold as he unsheathes his sword. “Your month with us will be over soon. Should you win, I will let you go.” Was he not going to before? “But if I win, you stay. Join my guard and pledge your sword to me.”

Crakehall has drifted back to the perimeter of your spar, his brows perk with interest as he glances between the pair of you. You look to him for aid, but he simply shakes his head. The whims of the prince– the ones he lets you know about– are always hiding something worse. Something more malicious.

Why does he so desperately desire you to be his guard?

You know that Aerion could beat you. His father and uncle had interrupted your last fight, stopped you before you killed each other. This is different. This is a simple spar. The playing field is even, no mud to sink into and blind you. There is a small audience of Kingsguard who have suddenly grown interested in their prince’s strange behavior.

Agreeing to this is damning. It could go either way.

But there’s something about his stare. That taunt in his eyes that is just daring you to turn him down. To admit that he’s bested you. “I agree,” you mutter, grip tightening around your sword. His smile turns sharp, eyes going cold as he nods.

There is no horn to announce the start of your match. He simply lunges, and you lean in to deflect him with your sword. But he pivots at the last moment, slams the flat side of his blade into the spot Crakehall had kicked you yesterday.

The bruise is still tender, still aching. He would have seen it last night. You let out a low groan, whirling around on him and blocking the next swing he aims at you. That bastard had planned this. Had catalogued the weak points of your body and paid attention.

You attempt to kick his leg out from under him, but he jumps away from you like he’d been expecting the move. Your brows furrow as you circle each other. There is something eager on his face. Eager and hungry, as his sharp tongue licks at his teeth. You suck in a shaky breath as he lunges forward, just barely blocking him.

He’s playing a different game than you are.

You strike first, and Aerion easily dodges the swipe, but you pivot on your heel, throwing your arm back and catching the back of his head as he tries to dart past you. He lets out a low hiss, flinching forward as he whips back around. His sword catches the edge of your shirt and tears through the material at your arm. You glance down and see blood begin to leak down your skin.

Contact could count as the end of this. But he doesn’t say anything, just watches you expectantly, brows raised as he rocks back on his heels. You bare your teeth, throwing wild blows at him, no intent or real thought behind them. Just something to disorient him, to make him forget about whatever he thinks he knows about your fighting style.

You think of something you’d once heard from an older knight. He no longer played in tourneys because when he fought a man, he didn’t want him to know what he was capable of.

As Aerion bears down on you, sharp teeth pressed in a manic grin, you realize he was right. All this time– demanding you train with the Kingsguard, insisting he watch– even that first night back in Ashford when he’d made you spar from dawn till dusk.

The whole time, he’d been watching. Learning the way your body moves across a battlefield. The specific steps of your dance as you spar with someone. Learning what you do when you're desperate, tired, or feeling entirely too cocky.

And he knows, now. Just how to beat you.

He does what you so often do to others. With his sword bearing down on yours, blades uncomfortably close to your faces, breath mingling– he wraps his foot around your own, yanks just hard enough for you to lose your balance.

You drop to the ground, hard. The air rushes out of you in one wheezing gasp that makes you forget the pain as you scramble for breath. Your sword falls from your hand, and you quickly turn to reach for it.

A hand snaps out, tangling through your hair and jerking you back by the scalp. You let out a low yelp as Aerion presses his sword to your throat. “Yield,” he growls out, eyes burning as he glares down at you.

“Never,” you gasp out, water lining your eyes as his nails dig into the tender skin of your scalp. Something warm begins to dribble down your throat. It drips down your clavicle and pools in your shirt. Your eyes meet Crakehall’s from where he watches you both, and you see true fear in his gaze. For you.

The edge of Aerion’s sword bites further into your throat as you gasp out, “I yield.”

He releases you at once, and you fall forward, hands scrambling up to your throat. They come back crimson, coated in your own blood as you lurch to your feet. “A spar,” you spit out, turning on him with a burning rage. “You nearly took my head.”

He leans on his sword now, shrugging cavalierly. “I won,” he corrects. “Now, I believe I’m owed something.”

You scoff; he cannot be serious. You need to take care of your wound, to clean out the gash and see if it needs stitching. But he’s nodding to the ground before him, and you realize that you have no choice.

Dropping your hands to your sides, you slowly make your way toward him. Everything in you screams at you to stop. But he won, and you’d agreed to these terms. Slowly, you drop to one knee, kneeling before your prince.

His eyes are alight with victory as he lifts his sword, resting it on your shoulder. “Swear your allegiance to me,” he demands. “Swear your loyalty.” His voice lacks its usual bite. There’s something eager and anticipatory lurking just beneath. The prize he’s been vying for far longer than you were aware of is finally in his hands.

“I swear myself to House Targaryen,” you grit out, knowing that if Lyonel could see you now he’d take your head himself. “To Prince Aerion Targaryen, I swear myself to you. My sword is yours to command.” He tilts his head, sword tapping your shoulder impatiently. “My prince,” you bite out, looking up at him.

Even if you do not want to, you mean every word of your oath. He will never rid himself of you, not even if he commands it. Because you are nothing if you are not bound by honor.

His smirk goes lax at the edges, softens into something covetous. “My knight,” he purrs.

a/n: 🚬🤏😮‍💨good soup. If you couldn’t tell, this was a gender swap of typical Knight and lady tropes. If you couldn’t tell x2– I love humbling Targaryen men

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Mrs Brightflame