People on TikTok are calling him ugly and horrendous, and like yeah he’s not attractive but like, he looks like a little bug, I just wanna put him in a jar and feed him occasionally by poking my finger tip with a needle and letting the blood drop into the jar and he would slurp it up but then he would try to suckle on my finger tip so I have to flick him off using my thumb and he would sob on the bottom of the jar and I would apologise and let him rest in my palm, anyway I don’t think he’s that ugly.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
summary: the trial of seven has ended, and now you had to face the consequences and the scrutiny of the targaryen princes
content: slow burn, love triangle, knight reader, found family, age gap, panic attack warning
note: i’m so sorry i’m finishing this so late…i found this part quite difficult to write but i hope you enjoy it anyways, tho beware it is quiye slow and more of a filler. ALSO ty for all the love on the last part, i really didn’t expect it and it means so much that you guys would enjoy my writing
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was hard to tell the real voices from the ones in your dreams. Though your father’s voice was the clearest of them all, calm and steady, exactly as you remembered.
At least, you thought they were dreams.
The dead didn’t tend to speak to the living, or so you believed.
You reached desperately for the voices that brushed your ears rather than the ones that echoed in your head, but every time you did, the pain dragged you mercilessly back under.
In between the bouts of darkness, everything came in fragments: bursts of harsh white light, a bitter chalky taste coating your tongue, hands prodding and poking at you incessantly.
“…The puncture… avoided any organs but she’s lost so much… only the gods…” A voice floated somewhere above you.
The pain, though, was constant. It shuddered through you like a cold sweat, leaving you clawing for any semblance of warmth before the dark swallowed you again.
Then one voice swam softly through the haze, more tangible than the others before.
“Thank you maester, please ensure she has whatever she needs and that I might be summoned when…or if she wakes.”
Anger now tangled with the confusion. You wanted to shout, to tell them you were still here, still breathing but your tongue felt leaden, your eyelids heavier than stone. The words died before they could ever leave your lips.
Mercifully when you woke again there was no longer any burning bright light or painful poking, but there were no longer any voices either.
The room was dim, lit only by the waning fire beyond the bed where you lay. The scent of crushed herbs and fresh linen reached your nose, threaded faintly with sweat.
Lifting your head, even just a little, felt like it drained every ounce of strength, and just brought your attention sharply back to the dull, heavy throb in your side. Though you were almost grateful for the pain, as it served as a reminder that you were alive.
For a long time you remained still, the only measure of time passing being marked by your uneven breaths.
Though the world was clearer to you now, your memories were not. They came to you like ripples in water, fading before you could even quite figure out what they were.
The ringing of steel.
A chilling warmth.
The taste of salted iron.
Two pairs of Targaryen eyes.
Then it all rushed over you at once and suddenly you had to get up, had to move, had to find answers. Had to get out of wherever the hell you were.
Your arms felt weak, your fingers clumsy and heavy but you managed to sit up. A brush of cool air hit your legs as you weakly dragged the bedsheets off.
Your gaze drifted downward.
Linen was wrapped tightly around your middle, thick and firm beneath an unfamiliar cotton nightdress. You frowned faintly at the sight of it. The bandages looked heavy, deliberate.
Strangely, you could not remember the moment the blade had cut you, his blade.
Only the battle before it. The chaos. The noise. And the prince that stood over you.
The pain must have come later.
Perhaps that was a mercy.
Getting to your feet proved even harder. You swung your legs slowly over the side of the bed, your muscles trembling with the effort. For a moment you simply sat there, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
Then, gathering what strength you could, you pushed yourself upright.
The moment your weight settled on your legs, they nearly buckled beneath you.
You caught the bedpost just in time, gripping the wood tightly as your vision blurred. Your knees trembled violently, threatening to give way as your body protested against the sudden movement.
For a moment you could only cling there, breathing hard, willing the weakness to pass.
It did give you enough time to search the room for something familiar but there was nothing to be found. Your pack, armour and sword…all gone.
It spurred you onwards towards the door, panic more than sense taking over now.
The corridor beyond was gloomy and silent. You pressed close to the wall, using it to steady yourself as you forced your legs to keep moving. A chill seeped through your bare feet and along your arms where they brushed the stone, sending a slow shiver crawling over your skin.
It stretched dauntingly ahead of you, as did the realisation that this was Ashford castle, and you had been put here, and kept here?
Fear crept in with the chill now.
You had played the Targaryens, and most men on that tourney field for fools. Were they keeping you alive and close now just to see you punished?
Perhaps you could’ve waited in that room, waiting on their whim for when you’d learn of what they decided to do with you, but patience has never been one of your virtues.
Around two corners and down a set of stairs, and at the end of it the deep murmur of voices finally found you.
You shuffled along steadily, fighting the way the world tilted and swam around you. Everything still felt distant, unreal, as though you were watching it all unfold from somewhere just outside yourself.
What had first been a low murmur slowly separated into distinct words and steady voices. They spoke quietly, but there was a weight to their tones that was measured, deliberate, the sort of authority that carried even when kept low.
These were not servants speaking in the hall.
You slowed to a stop, catching yourself against the wall as a wave of dizziness passed through you. The cold stone steadied you somewhat, rough beneath your palm.
For a moment you simply stood there, listening.
A bitter thought crept in despite yourself. The last time you had lingered in these corridors, listening where you ought not to, it had been with far lighter consequences in mind. Then it had felt almost like a dare, another small risk taken in the shadow of the tourney at Ashford Castle.
Now it felt very different.
For one thing, Duncan’s voice was now achingly absent among these ones.
“...you have been a most gracious host my Lord,” a soft voice said. “I regret however, that our presence has given the singers a story of Ashford they will not let die soon.”
“It has been my honour your grace, you are welcome to its halls for as long as you wish.” Another replied eagerly.
“I thank you, but we will be on our return to King’s Landing as soon as my nephew is stable enough for the journey.”
There was a small shift among the men, the faint rustle of movement.
“And the girl?” A different man spoke.
“Your Grace, if I may, she entered the trial in disguise. A woman is no knight. By law alone the trial could be considered invalid. It would be well within your rights to see her punished.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and you with it.
Then another voice spoke, thoughtful, but cautious. “...perhaps she was sent by the gods as an instrument of divine will.”
“Divine fucking will.” Another scoffed.
You pictured the silver hair and beard that belonged to the speaker, as well as the scowl that matched it.
It was hard not to share the sentiment though, these men might do anything to reconcile with the idea of a woman holding a sword.
“Her courage is more important than custom. She fought with honour just as any man on that field” The first voice returned. “I believe we should set this matter to rest.”
Silence settled thickly in the room, the kind that comes when men must accept a prince’s judgment whether they wished to or not.
“Very well, Your Grace,” another man said at last.
For a moment you stayed where you were, leaning against the cold stone wall, letting the tension slowly drain from your body. Relief came cautiously, like something you hardly trusted, as the words settled heavily in your mind.
‘Set the matter to rest.’
Then fatally, the corridor started to sway again.
You pushed yourself away from the wall before the dizziness could swallow you again, forcing your feet to move.
One corner. Then another. Each step felt heavier than the last. The dull ache in your side stirred with every movement, the pain gradually sharpening as though it had been waiting patiently for you to forget it.
The voices soon faded into the walls you left behind.
The castle seemed strangely distant now, the corridors stretching longer than they had before, the torchlight flickering in soft distracting halos along the walls. Your hand drifted back to the stone for balance more than once as the world threatened to tilt beneath you.
By the time you reached the half familiar hallway leading back to your chamber, you knew you were close to fainting. The door however stood just achingly ahead, slightly ajar, the dim glow of the fire inside spilling welcomingly into the corridor.
Only minutes ago the bed had felt like a prison you were desperate to escape, now it was the only refuge your body wanted.
Almost there.
You took one step toward the bed. Then another.
Your hand reached for the bedpost, but the distance was treacherously farther than it had seemed. The strength left your legs all at once, as though someone had cut the strings holding you upright.
Then the floorboards rushed up to meet you, the impact sending a sharp burst of pain through your side that stole the breath from your lungs.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the floor, but your arms refused to lift you. And then the weight of exhaustion settled over you like a heavy cloak, dragging you downward no matter how hard you tried to fight it.
The fire continued to crackle faintly in the hearth somewhere beyond your blurred vision.
You let out a slow, unsteady breath, and the room returned quietly back into blackness.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Something was shaking you. Relentlessly.
You tried to ignore it, tried to sink back into the soft, painless dark where nothing hurt and nothing demanded anything of you. But the shaking came again, more insistent this time, tugging at you to return to the world.
Your eyelids fluttered open weakly. The world beyond them was thick and slow when it finally crept into view, shapes swimming and blurring like reflections in disturbed water.
“Please… wake up.”
The voice was small, tight with worry. It was one you had heard before.
You blinked, forcing your eyes to focus.
A round familiar face hovered above you, framed by the dim light of the chamber. The owner’s violet eyes wide with anxious relief.
“Egg?” The name left your cracked lips as little more than a rasp.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, as though he scarcely believed you were awake at all.
Then he moved all at once.
His small arms wrapped suddenly around your neck, nearly knocking the breath from you. The sudden pressure made you wince, as pain flared sharply through your ribs, but you lifted your arms anyway, gladly returning the embrace as best you could.
Funny, you thought, how someone you had known only a handful of days could already feel so familiar.
And for the first time since waking, the room felt a little less strange.
Egg pulled back just enough to look at you again, his expression a strange mixture of relief and lingering panic.
“I thought for a second you might—” He stopped himself, swallowing the rest of the words. His brows furrowed as he glanced down at you. “But why are you on the floor?”
You managed a weak breath that might have been a laugh. “I fell… I suppose I overestimated my strength.”
Egg immediately scrambled to his feet, letting you use his body to hoist yourself up. “Here let me help you.” For someone so small, he held you with surprising determination.
Your fingers tightened slightly on his sleeve, your first question begging to be answered. “Is Duncan alright?”
Egg nodded quickly. “Yes well, I think he’s faring a little better than you are, but…Lord Harding was taken in the first charge.”
The brief relief that had begun to settle in your chest faltered. Your gaze dropped for a moment as the words sank in. You had known someone must have fallen, trials of seven rarely ended cleanly, but knowing it and hearing the name were two very different things.
“Lord Harding…” you repeated quietly.
Your mind drifted back to the field, the dust rising beneath trampling feet, the shouting, the brutal ring of steel on steel. Faces had blurred in the chaos, men moving and falling faster than thought could keep pace. And yet you had fought beside him, shoulder to shoulder, without ever having spoken a single word to the man.
Egg’s expression dimmed as well, the moment of brightness fading just as quickly as it had come. He glanced toward the door before lowering his voice.
“I heard the lords speaking. My father too. They said you could be tried for it—for the disguise. For pretending to be a knight.” He swallowed. “They said you could be imprisoned.”
He climbed onto the edge of the bed beside you, sitting stiffly, his hands twisting together in his lap.
“I begged him to spare you,” he continued in a hurried rush. “I told him I commanded you to fight, that you couldn’t refuse a prince. I thought… maybe that would help.” His words stumbled over each other. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up at you again, urgency returning all at once. “There’s still time,” he said quickly. “You could leave. I know where your sword is—it’s in my uncle’s—”.
“It’s okay, Egg,” you murmured, your voice still thin with exhaustion. Slowly, haltingly, you told him what you had heard in the corridor, or what little of it you could piece together through the haze of pain and dizziness.
Egg listened closely, the tension in his shoulders easing little by little as you spoke.
“Well he does owe you.” A boyish grin tugged at his mouth. “Your fight with my father, it was incredible. I wish you could’ve seen the look on his face afterwards, I’ve never seen him that way.”
Before you could respond, Egg hopped off the bed, excitement overtaking him completely. “The way you evaded his attacks…
He delved into an enthusiastic performance, eyes bright as he darted about the chamber swinging his imaginary sword through the air. He ducked suddenly to one side, then the other, twisting his body as if avoiding a rain of blows from an unseen opponent.
“And then Father came at you again, like this!” he said, lunging forward with surprising ferocity.
“But you blocked it!” he continued, “Everyone thought he had you, but you just—” he slashed the air again, nearly knocking over a stool, “—turned it on him.”
You watched him in tender silence, leaning weakly against the bed, the pain in your side briefly forgotten as the young prince hopped and spun about the chamber with earnest determination.
And then you noticed the figure in the doorway.
He stood just beyond the threshold, tall and still. There was the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth, as though he had arrived in time to witness the end of Egg’s enthusiastic performance.
His gaze moved past Egg and settled on you.
For a brief moment the two of you simply looked at one another across the room, the air settling into a quiet stillness. There was something searching in his expression, as though he were measuring you again, now that the dust of the trial had settled.
Baelor Targaryen stepped further into the room, the firelight catching the silver strands in his dark hair. His gaze lingered briefly on the bulge of bandages at your side before returning to your face. Suddenly you wondered whether the sore gash across your cheek really looked as bad as it felt.
“I am glad to see you have survived your victory, Ser.”
Egg turned toward his uncle, the bravado of his swordplay vanishing at once. For a moment he looked very small again, far younger than he had a heartbeat ago. “I’m sorry, your grace I-.”
“It’s quite all right,” Baelor said gently. “Though I suspect your father might remember the scene rather differently.”
He offered a faint smile, but it lingered unanswered in the quiet of the room. “If you would leave us now please Aegon.”
“Of course, your grace.” Egg answered. He turned back to you before going, offering one last anxious smile, as if to reassure himself you were truly awake. Then he slipped out into the corridor, the door closing softly behind him.
Suddenly you were acutely aware of yourself, of the rough linen sheets, of the ache beneath your ribs, of the cool air against skin that was far too bare. You tugged the covers higher, clutching them instinctively to your chest as though they might serve as armor.
Across the room, he regarded you quietly, his long fingers idly turning the ring on his hand.
“Egg kept vigil beyond your door,” Baelor said. “He would not depart his post all the while you were asleep, insisting upon standing guard until word came of your condition, that he might be certain you were safe.”
“…He’s a good boy.”
Baelor nodded once to you, before turning towards the fireplace. “I owe you my thanks, you perhaps saved me a nasty blow,” He smiled faintly as if remembering something. “My brother is a formidable man,” he added, turning back to face you. “As I expect you discovered for yourself.”
You shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing as the movement tugged at your wound, avoiding his gaze. The memory of the clash, the noise, the shouts, still rang in your ears.
“You don’t owe me anything, I wasn’t fighting for you,” Your eyes lingered somewhere near his shoulder rather than his face, “…your grace.” The words felt awkward on your tongue.
For a moment you thought you might have offended him.
But his expression didn’t change.
“All the same, you fought with a particular courage and it shouldn’t go unnoticed. And it hasn’t.” He replied. “I believe there are whispers among the small folk of the ‘lady in mail’.”
Your brow lifted faintly despite yourself. “I suppose there are worse names.”
“Indeed, but I can’t pretend your tale has pleased everyone… there’s disgruntlement among the lords and knights. A woman stepping between them and a question of honour is not a story that sits comfortably with their pride.”
You finally glanced back at him then, your fingers tightened slightly in the sheets. “I know but I’d do it again. For Duncan.”
“As would I.”
The weigh of both of your quiet confessions filled the room.
For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, a look you had quickly come to find as unsettling as it was strangely compelling. Up closer, you could make out the details of him more clearly, the weathered bronze of his skin, marked by sun and years, and the dark beard along his jaw, already threaded with streaks of grey. His hair, the same deep shade, was beginning to silver at the temples, and his nose bore the slight bend of a break that had healed long ago.
Silence enveloped the room.
“Your horse is safe in the stables,” he added almost as an afterthought as if bringing himself back to reality. “Though I’m told it took three stable hands and a great deal of patience to calm the poor creature after the trial. It seems it was as determined to fight as its rider.”
You smiled gently, though the thought lingered uneasily in your mind. You had dragged the animal into that storm as surely as you had yourself, only you at least had a choice in the matter.
“Well Lord Ashford has kindly offered his hall to you for however long you need it, and I shall alert the maester that you are awake.”
You suspected Lord Ashford’s generosity might have been somewhat less forthcoming, had a request undoubtedly not come from a prince.
He turned to the door as words seemed to escape your throat.
“Thank you, your grace.” The admission felt strangely difficult. “I know you didn’t have to argue for me.”
Then he gave a small nod, neither grand nor dismissive, but something quieter. Almost private.
“Rest,” he said.
For a long moment after he left, you simply stared at the door.
The quiet he left behind seemed louder than the conversation itself. The faint scrape of boots in the corridor faded, then vanished entirely, and the chamber fell back into the slow rhythm of a sickroom: the distant murmur of the castle, the soft crackle of the hearth, and your thoughts.
His words lingered in your mind, the ‘lady in mail’. You could almost hear the smallfolk saying it in the markets, passing the story between them like gossip over bread and ale.
You were not sure whether the thought filled you with pride or dread. The voices of the smallfolk could so easily be ones of admiration or mocking scorn.
Not longer after the Maester came to check your wounds, assuring you that there were no signs or fever or infection. And then the maid servants followed suit.
They worked gently, washing away the stale sweat and dust of the past days with warm cloths and soap that smelled faintly of lavender. Their hands were careful around the bandages, patient in a way that felt almost strange.
The quiet attentiveness of it all felt oddly unsettling, as if you had wandered into someone else’s life and were wearing it poorly.
Your thoughts drifted as they worked.
You couldn’t help but turn over everything. The fact that you had participated in a trial of seven and lived to tell the tale, the mercy of a Targaryen prince and how two days ago you hadn’t dreamt of being any more than a part of the watching crowd.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next morning had settled fully over the castle by the time you awoke, and finally forced yourself out of bed.
The first attempt nearly ended with you back on the floor. Your legs trembled the moment you put weight on them, and the dull ache in your side sharpened immediately into something far less forgiving.
You reached for the simpler things laid out nearby, a simple everyday gown someone had left folded on the chair. Even dressing proved an ordeal. Every motion pulled at the bandage around your middle, forcing you to pause more than once to wait out the sharp protest in your ribs.
By the time you had finished lacing the back of your dress, you were already winded. You took a moment to rest, chewing on a piece of toast that the servants had left behind while you slept.
The thick castle walls had become enough for you and you needed air, and you needed to see Duncan.
You left your chamber quietly and made your way into the corridors. The stone passageways felt less confusing than they had the day before; either you were stronger now, or your mind had finally begun to settle after the haze of fever and pain. Your steps were still careful, the dull pull in your side reminding you not to move too quickly, but at least the world no longer tilted beneath your feet.
The sudden lurch in your stomach, however, was very real when you turned a corner and nearly walked straight into someone, and soon realised who it was.
You stopped short.
So did he.
For a moment neither of you moved, the narrow corridor suddenly feeling far smaller than it had a moment before. His presence filled the space with quiet, immovable certainty, and you felt the strange awareness of standing directly in his path.
Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his.
Maekar Targaryen stood a few paces away, broad and unmoving as the stone walls themselves. Even without armour he was impossibly imposing.
Harsh light from a nearby window caught the pale silver of his hair, the colour stark against the darker shadow of the passage.
The marks of old pox scars mottled his pale face, faint but impossible to miss once seen, lending his features a roughened edge that made his gaze feel all the more unforgiving.
You noticed a deep purple bruise high on his cheekbone and wondered briefly if you had been the one to put it there.
Yesterday you had stood across a field from this man with steel in your hand, half certain his face would be the last thing you ever saw. It felt strangely unreal to meet him now in a quiet corridor with nothing between you but a few paces of stone.
“You’re walking.” He noted. It seemed more of a statement than a question.
“Yes.” You replied, shifting slightly on your feet.
“Have you seen my son? I had expected to find him haunting your door again.”
“No.”
The brevity of your answer hit the air with a bluntness that mirrored his own. A flicker of mild irritation crossed his face, marked by the slight flex in his hard jaw.
For a moment you thought that was the end of it, that he would simply continue on his way and leave the encounter buried in the quiet of the corridor.
But to your dismay, after only a few paces he stopped again.
“Who taught you to wield a blade?,” he asked, his voice echoing with a reluctant curiosity.
You let the silence stretch, before offering the only truth you had. “My father.”
“If I were your father I’d-.” He started.
“Yes, I know,” you said, the words escaping before caution could catch them. You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a defiance that you knew was unwise yet unbreakable. “You’d probably have me marry my brother and submit to churning out silver-haired heirs, who will grow up to burn villages and call it justice.”
For a moment he just stared at you incredulous, the air around you icy despite the warm sun pouring in through a window.
Your quickness to anger would undoubtedly be the death of you.
“You speak boldly, especially for someone who owes her life to my brother’s mercy.” He fumed. “Your father may have taught you well but a wiser man would have taught you how to live in the world as it is.”
“I didn’t ask for mercy.” You said quietly.
“No, you asked for attention. You turned a trial by combat into a spectacle for half the realm.” He returned, looming over you, though you showed no signs of backing down.
A bark of humourless laughter escaped you. “With respect, your son turned the question of Targaryen honour into a spectacle, by snapping the fingers of an unarmed girl.”
“You presume to lecture me on honour? You disguised yourself as a knight, and forced my brother to defend your actions before every lord in attendance. You had courage but courage does not grant you the right to forget your place.”
Your jaw tightened faintly. “With respect, if everyone had remembered their place yesterday, Ser Duncan would be dead, your grace.”
The corridor seemed to hold its breath around you, and you could swear you almost heard his heart thumping in time with your own.
“If you see Aegon, tell him his father is looking for him.”
You didn’t stay to watch him limp away down the corridor, half relieved that it seemed to be the second encounter with him you had made it out alive from. You prayed there wouldn't be a third one.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The walk from the castle down toward the tourney grounds had been longer than you remembered. Your wound protested with every step, but the sharp edge of it was drowned beneath the rush of adrenaline still coursing through you.
Your heart was still beating harder than the walk alone could explain.
Maekar’s words followed you down the stone path like an unwelcome shadow.
They battled endlessly in your mind, each one striking against the next, mixing with the responses you had given, and the many more you had not.
The words you might have striked back at him if you had thought of them sooner. The ones that would have cut deeper. The ones that would have made you sound wiser instead of simply angry.
It was strange, you thought, how two brothers could carry the same name and yet cut from entirely different cloth.
Did they not share the same father? The same tutors, the same endless lessons in history and swordplay? Had they not once trained side by side in the same practice yards as boys, their boots kicking up the same dust?
Yet somewhere along the way the paths between them had split. One seemed so human while the other seemed to have been forged with all the hardness and fire of a dragon.
Before making your way down toward the tourney grounds, your steps carried you towards the castle stables, seeking an old friend amongst the new ones.
The air inside was warm and thick with the familiar smells of hay and leather, which were welcome to you after the stuffiness of the castle.
It was quieter than the courtyards outside, the morning bustle already drifting toward the pavilions and tents beyond the walls. A few stable boys moved about their work, but none paid you much attention as you walked slowly down the narrow aisle between the stalls.
Your horse lifted its head the moment you approached, ears flicking forward in recognition. The soft thud of its hoof against the straw sounded almost like a greeting.
You stepped inside the stall.
“Hello,” you murmured softly.
The horse nudged forward at once, pushing its nose against your shoulder with the impatient familiarity of an old companion. You lifted a hand in return, resting it against the warm line of its neck.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I dragged you into that mess,” you continued under your breath. “All that noise and shouting… the lances, the crowd.”
Your hand stilled briefly against its neck. “You didn’t ask for any of that.”
The horse shifted its weight slightly, blowing a warm breath against your sleeve. You huffed a faint, tired laugh.
“I suppose you did better than I did,” you said. “You at least had the sense not to get stabbed.”
It nudged your shoulder again as if impatient with your self-pity, and you scratched behind its ear, feeling some of the tightness in your chest ease.
“Still,” you murmured, leaning your forehead lightly against the side of its neck, “thank you.”
For a little while you stayed there in the quiet of the stable, listening to the soft sounds of shifting hooves and rustling straw, grateful for the quiet company.
Eventually you straightened again. There was somewhere else you needed to be, and someone else you needed to see.
You gave the horse one last pat along its neck before stepping back out into the aisle.
“Behave yourself,” you told it softly. “I’ll be back.”
You had decided to make for the Fossoway tent, hoping that Duncan would be there, or at least a friendly face who could tell you where he was. The familiar banners would too have been easy enough to spot among the sea of pavilions.
But you never made it that far.
A solemn but sweet music passed faintly out of a large nearby tent, underscored by the steady thrum of talk.
“To Harding!”
The cheer that followed was loud, but not joyful. It carried the strange mixture of respect and sadness that belonged more to remembrance than celebration.
Understanding settled over you. Without a second thought, you stepped inside.
The interior was crowded with knights, squires, and men-at-arms. Tankards lifted and lowered as men spoke in clusters around the long tables set beneath the striped canopy.
A few musicians sat near the back, coaxing that same gentle melody from their instruments while the gathered company drank in quiet honour of the fallen.
Your gaze swept the crowded space, searching for a familiar silhouette among the sea of boiled leather and surcoats.
It didn't take long to find him.
Duncan stood near the far side of the tent, hunched slightly over in conversation with a man at a table whose face you could not see.
You made your way towards them through the throng of tables, ignoring the eyes that fluttered to you as you passed.
Raymun’d voice cut through the din as you passed, flushed with the heat of the tent and the cider in his cup. He hailed you with a boisterous grin, calling for a flagon to be filled on his coin, but you lingered long enough only to return his sentiments.
“Nevertheless I congratulate you Ser, you’ve certainly done well for yourself.”
You reached out, your fingers pressing firmly against the rough wool of Duncan’s elbow.
He spun with a start, his massive frame nearly knocking a flagon from a nearby table, but the moment his eyes found yours, his breath hitched. He enveloped you instantly, a rib-crushing embrace that smelled of horsehair and old leather.
Yet, in that fleeting second before he pulled you close, you didn't miss the grim, hard set of his jaw.
Beside him, Prince Daeron sat slouched over a scarred trestle, watching the pair of you with an absent look. He looked more like a hungover squire than a prince of the blood, his silver-gold hair tangled and his doublet stained with wine.
“Well,” the Prince murmured, as he drained the last of his cup. “I suppose I should take my leave. I came for the ale, and now I’ve had my fill of it.”
He pushed himself up from the bench with an exaggerated sigh. He lingered a moment, his gaze drifting to you with a strange amusement. “I am glad to see you have survived your injuries, my lady… and my father’s pride. Both are equally dangerous to cross, I fear.”
Daeron offered a thin ghost of a smile, though it stopped well short of his bloodshot eyes. With a vague wave of a hand, he turned toward the tent flap,
“The gall he has to show up here—.” Duncan’s voice was low, the words half-swallowed in irritation as he the departing prince.
“I know,” you said quietly. “But come on, let’s sit before one of us collapses.”
The two of you found an empty table tucked into the corner of the tent, half-shadowed beneath the canvas.
You slid onto the bench first, gripping the edge of the table as you lowered yourself carefully.
Duncan moved a little slower himself, easing onto the opposite bench with the stiffness of a man whose body had also seen better days. His shoulders hunched slightly as he settled, one hand briefly pressing against his ribs.
He really did look awful, with one of his eyes fully close from a brutal purple bruise and barely a spot left unbloodied on his face.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The quiet between you felt strangely heavy, filled with everything that had happened since the last time you had stood together on that field.
The murmur of the wake continued around you; low voices, the scrape of tankards across wood, the soft thread of music drifting from the musicians, but it all seemed distant, as though you and Duncan were sitting in some smaller, quieter pocket of the tent.
The two of you were so clearly a marked more deeply by the last day than anyone else in that tent.
“I tried to come see you yesterday,” Duncan said at last, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “But they told me you were still resting.”
“Yeah whatever they gave me for the pain knocked me out cold for a while.” You replied.
“I can’t decide which of us looks the worse.” He let out a self deprecating huff. “I should’ve let you pass on that dirt track, maybe you’d have had more luck.”
You hoped he didn’t mean it.
“Between the two of us I think we make our own bad luck enough to turn it into good.” You smiled, though Duncan seemed to find it hard to return.
He leaned back slightly, studying you more carefully now, as though reassuring himself you were truly sitting there.
“I thought…” Duncan began, then stopped.
His gaze drifted past you, toward the open side of the pavilion where the empty tournament field lay beyond.
“I thought you might’ve died out there,” he admitted quietly.
The words hung awkwardly between you.
You tried to lighten them with a small breath of a laugh. “Well,” you said, “Prince Maekar certainly tried to make that possible.”
But Duncan didn’t smile, he simply shook his head once, slow and firm.
“I shouldn’t have let you do it,” he said. There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet certainty.
“You couldn’t have stopped me Duncan.” Your voice was steady now. “I made my decision and I would make it a million times over, because it was the right thing to do, consequences be damned. Just as you thought when you stepped between Aerion and Tanselle.”
Duncan accepted your words quietly, though the weight on his shoulders didn’t fade.
For a time the two of you remained there, the conversation drifting into quieter things, half-finished thoughts, the strange disbelief of having survived the chaos of the previous day.
Around you the wake carried on in its slow rhythm: cups raised, names spoken, the soft lament of the fiddlers weaving through the tent.
Eventually Duncan pushed himself carefully to his feet. “Perhaps we should make on our way.” he murmured, offering a large, calloused hand to steady you as you rose from the bench.
The two of you made your way toward the tent flap, weaving through clusters of knights and squires who paused in their conversations as you passed. Some nodded respectfully to Duncan. Others glanced toward you with open curiosity.
You had only just stepped beyond the canvas when a voice called after you.
“Well,” the knight drawled, his voice thick with the rasp of a man who had spent the afternoon shouting at the lists and the evening drowning his senses in the casks. “If it isn't the Lady in Mail herself."
The title carried a jagged edge, sharp enough to hook the attention of a nearby knot of men-at-arms. Beside you, you felt the massive frame of Duncan shift, his weight settling into a stance that promised a storm.
He held a half-empty cup, his cheeks flushed with the heat of the wine, though his eyes remained uncomfortably sharp.
He came to a halt, letting his gaze travel slowly from your skirts to your brow before it settled into a crooked, knowing half-smile.
The knight raised his tankard in a lazy, mocking salute. He took a heavy step closer, ale sloshing dangerously near the rim as he gestured toward you with a gloating tilt of his head. “Quite the show you gave yesterday,” he said, his smirk widening. “Though I was under the impression the Trial of Seven was reserved for knights and men of true honour.”
His mouth twisted, dripping with a sudden, ugly venom. “Instead, we find a woman creeping into the fray behind a false face.”
A ripple of low, jagged chuckles drifted from the shadows of the pavilion. The knight didn't flinch; he took a long pull of his ale, wiping his mouth with a greasy sleeve before continuing. “What honour is there in such a deception? I wonder… did Harding pay for your spectacle?”
Your gaze drifted across the tent rather than meeting the man’s eyes. The fiddlers had stopped playing entirely now, their bows hovering uncertainly over the strings. Tankards hung half-raised in the hands of watching men, the air thick with the anticipation of a fight.
“How dare you,” Duncan rumbled. The giant’s voice was low, vibrating in his chest like distant thunder, but it was edged with a cold, white-hot fury.
You felt suddenly, bone-deep, tired.
“Please,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as you reached out to steady yourself against Duncan’s arm. “Let’s go.”
For a moment it seemed he might not listen. He looked as if he were ready to bring the whole tent down upon the man. But after a breath he turned sharply and followed you out into the open air.
Duncan was still fuming as you left the tent behind, muttering dark curses under his breath. You listened in silence.
Strangely, you found you didn’t have the strength left for anger. The day had wrung something out of you, leaving only a dull heaviness in its wake.
“You know,” came a voice from behind you, warm with amusement, “I had not imagined you to be so pretty beneath your helm, Ser Gillem.”
You turned.
Lyonel Baratheon stood a few paces away, clearly well battered by the trial but relaxed, watching the two of you with a faint, knowing smile.
His dark eyes, sharp and full of life, flicked between you and the towering, sullen Duncan. “I know the prince wasn’t imagining your pretty face, when you were sending him stumbling around in the dirt either,” he continued, closing the distance.
He took your hand in his, his grip surprisingly gentle and raised it to his lips. “By the Seven, you can swing a sword, my lady.”
“Thank you, my lord,” you said. “Though I fear the credit may be somewhat exaggerated.”
Lyonel straightened, studying you with clear amusement. “Exaggerated?” he repeated. “Half the camp spent the afternoon arguing whether they had just witnessed the finest swordplay of the tourney or the greatest embarrassment ever dealt to a prince.”
Duncan let out a faint huff beside you, still clearly irritated from the encounter in the tent.
“I’m just glad to have gotten away with my life,” you added quietly.
At that, Lyonel’s smile softened slightly, the humor fading just a little from his expression.
“Well then,” he drawled, clapping him once on the shoulder, “I suppose I offer you my congratulations, Ser Duncan. It seems Baelor Targaryen has decided he cannot face the world without you looming behind him. I’d make peace with the departure of your honour, you’ll soon realise dragons don’t make good company.”
You looked between the two of them, confusion settling slowly across your face. “What do you mean?” you asked. “Duncan?”
Duncan still would not meet your gaze. He shifted his weight, as though the words themselves were difficult to carry.
“I pledged myself to Prince Baelor,” he muttered at last. “I’m to join his personal guard… and ride with him back to King's Landing.”
You watched him carefully as he spoke, as if the truth might change before the sentence finished. But it didn’t.
Something hollow opened quietly in your stomach and your smile came a moment too late. “That’s… that’s great,” you said.
Before either of them could see too much of your face, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a quick, shy embrace, and for a moment you were grateful for the excuse to hide your expression against his shoulder.
“It’s what you wanted,” you added softly.
Duncan hesitated before returning the hug, his arms settling awkwardly around you as if he wasn’t certain whether he deserved the congratulations.
When you pulled away, you turned instead toward Lyonel Baratheon, smoothing your expression into something polite. “I should head back to the castle,” you said. “I’m sorry if I don’t get to see you again before you leave, my lord.”
Lyonel waved a dismissive hand, though the easy smile never left his face.
“Nonsense. You’re welcome in the Storm’s End any time.” He placed a hand over his chest in mock ceremony. “Come to Storm's End and I’ll host a grand tourney in your honour.” His grin widened. “I should very much enjoy watching you knock a few green boys into the dirt.”
You tried to laugh, but the sound never quite came.
Duncan was watching you now, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I’ll walk you back up to the castle,” he said.
You shook your head immediately.
“No, that’s alright,” you replied, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’re hardly steady on your feet as it is. I’ll manage.”
Neither man looked entirely convinced.
“Goodbye,” you added quickly, already turning away.
The path up to the castle climbed steeply from the camp, the sounds of laughter and fiddles fading with every step you took. Torches burned low along the road, their light wavering in the wind as shadows stretched long across the ground.
You walked quickly at first, eager to put distance between yourself and the tents.
Duncan riding south with Baelor ‘Breakspear’ to King's Landing was considered an honor, even you could recognise that. It was the sort of thing songs were written about.
You should be glad for him. You were glad for him.
The thought repeated in your mind, but it felt strangely thin, like a piece of cloth worn nearly through.
Halfway up the hill your breathing began to change.
At first it was subtle, a little faster, a little shallower but then suddenly the air felt far too thin.
You tried to draw in a deeper breath, but it caught halfway, leaving your lungs tight and aching, which only made your heart begin to hammer even more.
Another step forward, and the sound of your boots on the ground echoed far too loudly in your ears.
Then the memory surged up without warning.
You could see it again as clearly as if it were happening now: the scream of a horse, the smell of churned mud and blood, the sharp jolt running up your arm every time your blade struck another’s.
Your breath came faster.
You remembered the moment you’d stumbled, the weight of armor dragging at your limbs, the terrifying second when a blade had flashed toward you through the chaos—
Then the path blurred before your eyes as your heart pounded harder, faster, until you were sure it was going to burst through your ribs. Your fingers trembled as you reached out blindly, finding the rough stone of the outer wall beside the road.
You leaned against it heavily.
Breathe.
But the air refused to come properly. You were convinced you were dying.
Your lungs worked in short, desperate bursts while the images still clung stubbornly to the edges of your vision, the dirt beneath your knees, the taste of copper in your mouth, the knowledge that one wrong movement would mean the end. It was all replaying over and over again in your head, no matter how much you tried to wish it away.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
You weren’t there. The trial was over. You were safe.
Still your body refused to believe it.
Your hands shook as you pressed your forehead against the cold stone, the chill grounding you in a way nothing else could. For a moment you stayed like that, breathing against the rough surface, letting the solid weight of it remind you where you were. Slowly, painfully slowly, the roaring in your ears began to quiet.
In. Out.
Your breaths grew deeper, though they still trembled.
Then finally the tourney field faded, leaving only the looming castle ahead and the distant murmur of the camp far below.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you returned to your chamber, the door was already ajar.
Inside, Aegon was exactly where you should have expected him to be.
He stood in the middle of the room, your sword clutched in both hands, the blade wavering uncertainly as he attempted what looked like a very careful practice swing. The weapon was clearly too large for him; the point dipped toward the floor every time he tried to raise it again, forcing him to heave it back up with visible effort.
The sight might have been amusing under other circumstances.
“Please don’t play with my sword,” you said tiredly as you stepped inside. “Your father will have my head if you so much as give yourself a scratch.”
The adrenaline that had spiked during your walk, the phantom roar of the battlefield and the crushing weight in your chest, had finally abandoned you, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion.
You lowered yourself onto the edge of the mattress, gripping the frame as the dull ache beneath your ribs flared sharply in protest.
Behind you, Egg hurriedly slid the blade back into its sheath, far more carefully than he had drawn it. He set it against the wall where it had been before, then turned back toward you.
The excitement that had lit his face a moment ago faded quickly.
He studied you for a moment, taking in your pale expression and the way your knuckles had turned a milky white in your grip.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded faintly, though your eyes remained anchored to a knot in the floorboards
Egg hesitated.
Then he stepped closer.
You felt his small hand settle over yours where it rested on the bed.
“Your hand is cold,” he said quietly.
You let your fingers curl around his without thinking, the warmth centering you slightly against the restless churn of thoughts still running through your head.
“I think I may have overexerted myself,” you admitted after a moment.
Egg didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other before speaking again.
“My uncle asked to see you,” he said. “He’s in the Lord’s solar.”
Your brow lifted faintly.
Egg hurried on. “But I can tell him you’re resting if you want. He wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.”
You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself a little straighter despite your body’s every instinct telling you to submit to your exhaustion.
“No,” you said after a moment. “It’s alright. I’ll go.”
Egg studied you another second before nodding. “Alright,” he said. “I can show you the way.”
The walk across the castle was even quieter than the one you had made that morning. The long stone halls echoed softly with your footsteps as you followed Egg through turns and stairways you had not yet learned to navigate alone.
Every so often he glanced back at you.
You tried to ignore them. Instead your thoughts drifted ahead to the man waiting in the solar.
Baelor Targaryen had already shown you more kindness than you had expected from a prince. Which somehow made the summons feel more unsettling, not less.
You spent the rest of the walk wondering what exactly he might say. Had he changed his mind, now convinced by the lords and his brother that you were little more than a fraud, hell bent on making the matter of Targaryen honour a joke?
The heavy oak doors of Lord Ashford’s solar loomed at the end of the gallery.
Before Egg could knock, raised voices drifted through the door, or rather, one raised voice did.
“So you not only spare her, but reward her.”
You and Egg both froze, shooting each other a wide eyed look but not daring to move an inch.
Inside the solar, Baelor answered with the same measured calm you had come to recognise.
“She fought with honour,” he said evenly. “And with skill that few knights possess. She deserves a chance to hone her skills, to train.”
“Train?” the other voice repeated incredulously. Maekar sounded as though the word itself offended him.
“As what, exactly? A curiosity? A court spectacle for idle lords?”
“I have made my decision, brother.”
Maekar’s reply came low and sharp. “Very well. On your head so be it.”
Egg barely had time to step back before the door was wrenched open.
Maekar strode out into the corridor with the force of a storm breaking loose. His cloak swung sharply behind him, and the anger that had been contained within the solar now seemed to fill the passage itself.
He stopped short when he saw the two of you standing there. For the briefest moment his pale eyes flicked between your face and his sons’.
“Eavesdropping now?” he said curtly.
Egg straightened at once. “No, Father, we were just—”
Maekar cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand. “Come,” he said.
Egg hesitated.
Maekar’s gaze hardened. “Now, Aegon.”
Reluctantly, he glanced back at you once before stepping toward his father who was already striding down the corridor, before you offered him a sympathetic smile in return.
Within moments their footsteps had faded around the corner and the corridor fell quiet again.
Behind you, the solar door remained open.
“You may come in, you know.” Baelor’s voice carried from inside,
You stepped cautiously into the room.
Baelor stood beside the window with his hands resting neatly behind his back.
“I suspect,” he said gently, “that you have already heard the substance of our conversation.”
You shifted slightly. “Some of it, your grace.”
Baelor inclined his head. “Then I will spare us both the theatrics of pretending otherwise. I meant what I said.”
Baelor watched you for another moment before continuing.
“You fought yesterday with courage and discipline that many men train their whole lives to achieve,” he said. “It would be a waste to send you back into the world without the opportunity to refine that skill.”
He paused briefly.
“In King’s Landing there are training yards, masters-at-arms, and opportunities that simply do not exist elsewhere.”
His gaze met yours steadily. “I would offer you a place there.”
For a moment the words hung between you, heavy with possibility.
King’s Landing.
You never had layed eyes upon the place or even wished to, having forever associated it with the family you hated. And now the family you had been given the opportunity to serve.
It would have felt like an impossible gift to anyone else. And despite your supposed hatred of the family that offered it the first thing that came to your mind was the echo of Maekar’s voice.
A spectacle.
A weakness.
“I can’t.”
The words came out quieter than you intended.
Baelor Targaryen did not react immediately, nor did he seem at all surprised by your answer.
“I heard what Prince Maekar said.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed across Baelor’s face at the mention of his brother.
You forced yourself to continue. “He’s not wrong,” you said begrudgingly. “You offering me something like that… it makes it look as though you’re rewarding me for what I did.”
“You believe you should be punished instead?” Baelor asked mildly.
“That isn’t what I meant.” You let out a slow breath, searching for the words.
“Yesterday was already more than enough of a spectacle,” you said. “If you bring me to King’s Landing after that to train me as some sort of… knight, people will say exactly what he said they would.”
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the window behind him. “That you’re weak. So soft are you that you’ll have a woman protect you.”
You couldn’t quite believe you were saying the words as they left your mouth. Nor did you know whether the intention was to spare Baelor’s dignity or your own.
Why should you accept for either of your sakes.
If you did ride to court, it meant standing beneath the eyes of the realm, listening while lords who had watched you fight now laughed behind polite smiles at the woman who had dared wear a knight’s armour.
It meant serving the very family whose judgement had hung over your head only hours before. The family that you had spent almost your entire life cursing.
And yet the thought of leaving alone was no easier.
It meant leaving Duncan behind, and the boy who had waited outside your door as though your life were worth guarding. It meant turning away from the one place in the Seven Kingdoms where you might truly learn freely, where better knights than you walked the halls and where every day you might sharpen the skill you had bled for.
Then your father came to mind.
You wondered what he would have said if he could see you now, standing in the solar of Ashford Castle, weighing whether to ride south in the company of princes.
He had fought for the dragons once, long before you were old enough to understand what that meant. He had ridden beneath their banners during the Blackfyre Rebellion, when the realm had torn itself apart over which branch of their blood should rule.
Had he really seen something in the Targaryens worth giving his life for, that you hadn’t?
Baelor didn’t move for a moment.
Then he gave a soft, almost thoughtful huff of breath. “My brother has never lacked confidence in his opinions.”
You glanced back at him.
“But you think he’s right,” Baelor said.
“I think…” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “I think you have more important things to worry about than defending your choice of guards.”
Even as the words left your mouth, part of you wondered why you were arguing with him at all.
“You believe this offer is about gratitude,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
His answer came simply.
“It is about potential.”
Your brow tightened slightly.
Baelor continued.
“You stepped between princes, knights, and a crowd of watching lords without hesitation,” he said. “You fought with composure under pressure that would have broken many trained men.”
His gaze held yours steadily.
“That is not something I am inclined to ignore because it makes certain people uncomfortable.” The quiet firmness in his voice left little room for argument.
Still, you shook your head faintly.
“With respect, your grace… I don’t belong in King’s Landing.”
“Few people do,” Baelor replied dryly. “I sometimes think I don’t myself.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. But the unease remained.
For a moment the room fell quiet again, the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner filling the space between you.
Baelor folded his hands loosely behind his back. “I am not asking you to decide at this moment,” he said at last. “But we ride early tomorrow…if you do wish to come with us.”
“Thank you, your grace.” Your words were not a hollow courtesy.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dawn had only just begun to touch the towers when you reached the yard.
The sky above Ashford Castle was still pale with early light, the first thin streaks of gold creeping slowly over the sky. The castle was already awake. Stablehands moved between the horses with quiet urgency, breath rising in clouds in the chill morning air as saddles were tightened and straps checked for the long road ahead.
It had not taken long to pack what little you possessed.
Your belongings had never amounted to much, your weathered armour, a whetstone, the few small things that had followed you from place to place these past years.
They now sat tied behind your saddle in a worn bundle that looked almost laughably small beside the baggage of the noble riders gathering in the yard.
You ran a hand along your horse’s neck as you fastened the last strap, feeling the familiar warmth beneath its coat. The poor creature had calmed since the chaos of the trial, though it shifted impatiently beneath your touch, as if sensing another journey ahead.
Beyond the stables, a cluster of riders had already begun to form near the gate. Cloaks stirred in the morning wind.
The road north waited beyond those walls.
Toward King's Landing.
You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, your hand still resting against the saddle leather.
It would have been easy to turn away even now. To remain here at Ashford, to slip back into the quieter life on that dirt track, the one you had known before all this madness had begun.
Instead, you gathered the reins and led your horse across the yard.
Haven’t really full gathered the idea but here’s what I’m thinking. The reader in this case travels with dunk and egg during their lil journey. She is attempting to become a knight under the guise of being a man.
She joins the battle during the trial of the seven as a “man” to try and prove her capabilities. During the battle she manages to block the hit that would’ve fatally ended Baelors life, essentially saving him in the process.
Maybe at the end she could reveal herself as a woman? Not really sure where I’d go from there 💔
Also I love your writing style immensely, I’ve never sent a request to anyone before so this is my first time!
To Break a Dragon’s Fall ͙͘͡★
pairing: baelor targaryen / reader…./ meakar?
summary: after duncan quite possibly saves your life as a stranger on the road, you are determined to fight for him in the trial of seven, with your participation ultering the course of history
content: violence, slight threat of sexual violence, you egg and duncan being a cute trio, slow burn, multichapter, enemies to lovers but make it one sided.
note: tysm for sending this in! also i’m honoured cause this is my first request too. i really couldn’t stop thinking about this, i loved the idea. idk really where the story may go from here but i’m welcome to suggestions!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
A falling star streaked across the sky and vanished beyond the dark, and you found yourself praying that whatever fortune it carried might drag the jeering men behind you away with it.
“Come on love, we don’t bite!…Well unless you’re keen on it.”
Two men had been trailing you for the better part of twenty minutes along the rutted dirt track, their voices carrying easily in the open air as they called for you incessantly to turn about and give them a “proper look.”
You did not oblige. Instead you kept your eyes forward and your stride even, praying with every footfall that the Ashford tourney encampment would appear beyond the next stand of trees. You had been travelling for a week or so, eager to witness the thrilling jousts with knights from across the seven kingdoms, even if you resented not being able to participate yourself.
If you could just reach the press of tents and banners, you could lose yourself in the crowd, and trust that even men such as these would think better of making a spectacle in plain view.
Even so you kept your eye on your sword in your saddle sheath from where your horse rode next to you, and your dagger warm against your palm. A handful of backward glances however told you what you needed to know: they were armed as well, and from their surcoats and sigils they were likely knights.
Little good they were for it, you thought bitterly.
You would not draw steel. Not yet. Though you had spent half your life with a sword in hand and a bowstring biting your fingers raw, you would not risk blood here, not when there were two of them, broad-shouldered and braced for it, and only one of you.
Not unless you had no other choice.
But then you felt their footsteps closer and fingers close around your arm, with hot wine–stained breath brushing the shell of your ear. “Don’t be shy now sweetheart.”
You drew your dagger out from your hip, and sliced it cleanly against the drunk’s forearm. He staggered back in surprise, and you felt your own heart leap with the realisation of what you’ve done. You were really in for it now.
You reached for your horses’ reins, heart hammering in your chest, and watched as the man’s once so-called friendliness twisted into something dark, his flushed face hardening with hatred. His companion’s hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, and the cold weight of your solitude pressed down like iron.
“You little whore. Oh I’m going to fuck-”
A sudden rustle cut him off. From between the trees, a shadow moved, then filled the path. A man, nay a giant emerged. His gaze locked on you, taking in the dagger still raised in your hand, then slid toward the two men before you, their own weapons being reached for. A silence fell, thick as the forest shadows, broken only by his low, even voice.
“Are you alright, m’lady?”
The two would-be attackers faltered backwards, uncertainty creeping into their eyes. It seemed their bravado faltered under the weight of his presence alone, and for a moment, you realized just how alone you had been and now how entirely the odds had just shifted.
You swallowed a shudder and forced your voice to a casual familiar pitch. “Cousin!” you called, stepping slightly forward, letting your hand rest lightly on his massive forearm. “There you are! I was beginning to think I’d lost you in the trees.”
The stranger’s brow furrowed in surprise, but he said nothing, letting your false story settle in the space between you. The two men blinked, confusion replacing aggression.
“Oh, these fellows were just teasing me,” you continued, waving a hand toward them. “I told them my cousin would have them running home crying if they tried anything foolish.”
The man’s massive frame shifted, his gauntleted hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, not threatening, but heavy with potential.
The men staggered backward in defeat, drunkenly tripping over roots and each other, muttering curses that carried none of their earlier bravado. You let the dagger fall slowly to your side, though your fingers still itched with the pulse of adrenaline.
You studied the stranger for a moment, taking in the contrast between size and gentleness. For all his towering frame, shoulders broad enough to block the moonlight and hands large enough to lift you without effort, there was no hardness in his face. His jaw was firm but not cruel, and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softened the seriousness of his gaze. There was a youthfulness there, too, something you hadn’t expected when you first noticed him; perhaps he was not much older than yourself.
“Did they hurt you?” He asked, concern knitting his eyebrows.
“No,” you said, letting your voice soften. “They didn’t get the chance. I should thank you for that.” You offered a small smile, careful but genuine, and you thought you saw a flicker of something in him. Perhaps surprise, perhaps amusement as if the world had just reminded him that not all battles were won with strength alone.
He shook his head lightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. You had it quite managed on your own. I… all I did was stand here.”
You tilted your head, considering him as you let your smile broaden just a little. “And you did that very well.”
“Well… um,” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “You’re welcome to join us. I don’t have a pavilion, but there’s a fire, and… well, perhaps we’d both be a bit safer together.” He gestured behind him, and your eyes followed to a small boy standing half-hidden among the trees, watching quietly, while the warm glow of a flickering fire marked their camp just beyond. “My… name is Ser Duncan.”
You weighed his words carefully. The tourney grounds were close, yes, but you too had no pavilion of your own. The thought of falling asleep on the cold ground to the jeers of strangers surrounded by tents was hardly appealing. You were not accustomed to relying on the kindness of others, and yet there was something different about him.
With a small nod, you accepted. “Thank you,” you said, fully meaning your words. “I appreciate it.”
A faint, almost shy smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment the forest seemed a little warmer, the danger of the road behind you fading as you followed him toward the fire.
The three of you settled quickly into a quiet, easy familiarity. The boy, whose name you learned was Egg, peppered you with endless questions, his curiosity relentless. How did you come to be in Ashford? Where were you from? Was that your own sword you had sheathed on your horse? Each inquiry was rapid-fire, but earnest, and you found yourself smiling despite your exhaustion as the hour grew late.
Duncan scolded him gently more than once, his deep voice rumbling through the quiet night. “Egg, give her a moment to rest,” he would say, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, the firelight catching the planes of his kind face. And yet, despite his scolding, Duncan listened to every answer you gave. His eyes followed yours, attentive and patient, as if committing each word to memory.
You told them of your father. How he had left your mother and you to fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion years past, how the promise of Targaryen favor and hollow honors had pulled him from your home. You could still feel it in your chest, the hollow ache of abandonment, as if the very crown he had served had reached into your life and plucked him away. When he returned, broken and bleeding, it was too late; his injuries soon claimed him, leaving only his sword and the weight of what he had left behind.
You also spoke of your mother, worn to nothing by endless toil, the lines of care and worry etched deep into her face, the work she had done to keep you alive while your father chased a war that was not his. You could almost see her again, bending over the hearth, hands raw, hair streaked with gray, and you felt the sting of both pride and fury.
It was impossible to hide the edge in your voice when you spoke of the Targaryens. How their promises of glory had cost your family everything. You clenched your fists unconsciously, the anger simmering just beneath the surface, a quiet heat you carried with you. You did not curse them aloud; you didn’t have to. The sharpness in your eyes, the tight line of your jaw, the sudden flare of your temper when you recalled your father’s departure all spoke louder than words.
And now, here you were, on your own, no mother to shield you, no father to guide you. You had learned long ago that honor and courage in men were often fleeting, unreliable shields in a dangerous world. You would rather trust in the steel in your own hands than the promises of a husband, or the protection of a knight who might vanish at the first call to glory. You had inherited your sword, and with it, the certainty that you would rather die protecting yourself than die hoping for the aid of an honourable man.
Despite the recollection of your memories, the fire before you and the presence of two unlikely companions, offered a strange but welcome comfort you hadn't known in a long while. The sword at your hip now felt heavier in a way that steadied you, a tangible proof of your key to a life that you could make your own with no one to follow but yourself.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next morning dawned bright and restless, the tourney encampment’s air already alive with anticipation before the first trumpets ever sounded. Duncan, Egg and you moved with the throng of the crowd, animatedly discussing the events of the day.
Then came the banners, red and black, snapping sharply in the wind and above the mounted procession beneath them. The crowd of smallfolk surged forward, craning for a glimpse of the blood of the dragon as the riders passed, their armor gleaming and their horses stepping proud beneath their embroidered sigils.
You felt your jaw tighten. You hated that your eyes followed them as everyone else’s did. Hated that, for all your anger, you looked just the same, another face turned toward House Targaryen. Another figure caught in the spectacle of their arrival.
The resentment coiled low and familiar in your chest, hot as a brand. All this pageantry and worship, for the dynasty that had only brought war and suffering to the realm.
So consumed were you by the sight of them that you barely turned to give Egg your farewell as he returned back to camp. Nor did you question why you followed Duncan, when he began moving toward the castle courtyard, your boots carrying you forward almost of their own accord.
It seemed as if you had almost a morbid fascination with wanting to catch a glimpse of the princes who your father had given his life so readily for.
And then you had it. You weren’t sure what you had expected. Monsters, perhaps. Men with dragonfire in their eyes and cruelty etched plainly across their faces. Something visible, something you could point to and say there, those are the tyrants who took everything from you.
Instead, you just saw men. The elder rode first. Baelor Targaryen. The man you recognised as being heir to the iron throne.
He looked…commanding but not unkind That was your first, unwelcome thought.
He was tall in the saddle and, and his hair, darker than you had imagined, was cut short and streaked with grey at the temples where you had expected bright Targaryen silver. It lent him more of a softness that did not match the songs. His face was striking, almost unfairly so, all strong lines and steady eyes, the sort of handsomeness that seemed effortless rather than cultivated.
Then your gaze shifted to the other man, the one who left no room for doubt. He was every inch the Targaryen of your father’s dying stories.
Prince Maekar sat his horse like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath, controlled, but dangerous. His silver hair caught the morning light like polished steel, bright and unmistakable. There was nothing gentle in him. His posture was rigid, his jaw set, his expression carved from something hard and unbending.
If Baelor unsettled you with an unexpected look of warmth, Maekar looked exactly as you had imagined: a prince forged for war, stern and impenetrable, the living embodiment of the dragons your father had once followed into battle.
“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.”
The command rang out sharp and careless.
A rider had pulled up directly before Duncan, this man also unmistakably of the dragon’s blood. His hair was cropped short and silver, bright against the dark of his riding leathers. The confidence with which he had issued his order carried the easy arrogance of someone who had never expected to be disobeyed.
You watched Duncan falter. “I—I’m not a stable boy, m’lord,” he said, the words careful, almost apologetic.
“Well if you can’t manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.” The prince replied, dismounting from his horse.
That was when his gaze slid past Duncan and landed on you. His eyes swept indulgently over you from where you stood a pace behind, in a way that made your stomach tighten.
“Or have you already found me one?” he added, the smirk on his lips enough to make your skin crawl.
You simply pretended not to hear him. Turning your back as if the words had never been spoken, you forced your hands to remain at your sides, though your fingers had already begun to curl into tight fists. Better to walk away, you told yourself, because if you stayed a moment longer, you weren’t entirely certain what you might say.
That small exchange had been enough. The feeling returned at once, sharp and familiar, reminding you exactly why the sight of dragon banners made your stomach turn.
Hatred crept back into your thoughts as you watched the prince stride off across the yard. Duncan lingered behind, soon drawn into conversation with a pair of the king’s white-cloaked guards. You might have joined him but you had already had your fill of the king’s men for one morning.
But soon they were gone as well, and the courtyard settled back into its restless rhythm.
You drifted back to Duncan’s side.“Shall we head back to Egg then?” you asked.
He didn’t answer. His gaze had gone distant, fixed on something you couldn’t see, and for a moment you wondered if he had heard you at all.
“Uh… just wait here for me, will you?” he said suddenly.
Before you could ask what he meant, he was already moving, long strides carrying him across the yard toward a narrow servant’s entrance. In another moment he had slipped inside, disappearing into the shadows beyond the door.
You blinked after him, dumbstruck. “Where are you going? Duncan!”
But he was already gone.
How long you waited there, scuffing the dirt with your shoe you weren’t quite sure, arms folded tight as you muttered a few choice curses under your breath. You knew how desperate Duncan was to find someone to vouch for him so he could enter the lists. But barging into a lord’s castle uninvited? What in the seven hells did he think he could possibly accomplish?
If it was folly for him to sneak inside, but it was probably even greater folly for you to follow. You had known the man less than a day. And yet you had already seen enough to know he was good and honest in a way that was almost painfully rare. The thought of him stumbling into trouble alone sat wrong in your gut.
With a sigh of resignation, you pushed yourself away from the wall. Fine. You would find him, drag him back out before he made a complete disaster of things… and, if luck favored you, slip out again before anyone noticed the intrusion at all.
Once inside however you quickly realized you had no idea where Duncan might have gone.
The passage beyond the servant’s door was dim and narrow, lit only by thin slivers of daylight from high windows. You hesitated for a moment, listening, then pushed forward anyway, boots quiet against the worn floor.
You followed down the dark corridor, turning once, then climbing a short flight of stairs that opened onto another hall. That was when you heard the voices. Several of them, low and measured, and among them one you recognized immediately.
“As you say, Your Grace. I–It was four. I do apologize. The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.”
Duncan.
You crept closer, heart quickening, until you reached the entrance to the hall. Pressing yourself flat against the wall beside the doorway, you leaned just enough to hear but careful enough not to let your shadow betray you. Fuck, you thought grimly. He’s really done it now.
From the sound of it, he was grovelling, stumbling over his words before someone important. You braced yourself for the inevitable: sharp reprimands, offended nobles, perhaps even guards being summoned.
But the harsh words never came.
“No harm was done, ser. Rise.”
The voice that answered was calm. Gentle, even. It surprised you.
There was no bite in it, no arrogance or impatience, nothing like the young prince in the courtyard earlier. For a moment you simply stared at the window in front of you, trying to reconcile the sound with the men you had seen ride in beneath the dragon banners.
You didn’t quite believe it but you knew it had to be one of the princes speaking. You forced your attention back to the voices within the hall.
“You wish to enter the lists, is that it?”
“Yes.” Dunk’s answer came quick and eager.
“The decision rests with the master of the games,” the prince replied evenly, “but I see no reason to deny you.”
That lucky bastard, you thought, a grin tugging at your mouth. Only Duncan could blunder his way into the presence of princes and walk away with exactly what he wanted. Though, if you were begrudgingly honest, it seemed far more the result of the Targaryen’s kindness than Duncan’s nerve.
“Your Grace…” Dunk began, sounding overwhelmed.
“Very well, ser. You are grateful. Now piss off.”
The sharp interruption carried enough irritation that you didn’t need to see the speaker to guess who it was. If you had to wager, it was the silver-haired brother, the one who had sported a scowl from the moment he’d ridden into the courtyard.
There was a brief pause before the calmer voice spoke again.
“You must forgive my brother, ser. His sons went astray on the road here, and he fears for them.”
“Of course,” Dunk said quickly. Then, after a beat of thought, he added, “I trust they will not be found dead.”
Your eyes widened. A strangled gasp escaped before you could stop it as you slapped a hand over your mouth, pressing your back harder against the stone as laughter threatened to spill out despite yourself.
Seven hells, Duncan truly had no sense of when to stop talking.
Slowly, you let your hand fall from your mouth. Your thoughts, however, refused to settle. You had braced yourself for mockery, for cruelty, for the sort of cold dismissal men like Duncan usually received from those born to castles and crowns. Instead you had heard patience. Kindness, even.
The older prince Baelor, had spoken to him like a man, not like some nuisance who had wandered too close to the wrong door. Yet even as the thought crept in, you pushed back against it almost immediately.
A few gentle words meant nothing. A courteous tone did not erase the wars fought beneath dragon banners, nor the countless men who had marched to their deaths in service to a crown they would never wear. Your father among them.
No, princes could afford kindness since it cost them very little. You straightened from the wall, jaw tightening. Whatever pleasant impressions the moment might have tried to plant in your mind, you would not let them take root. Royalty was royalty, whether they spoke softly or barked orders. And you despised them all the same.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next day unfolded with a kind of easy joy you had not felt in longer than you cared to admit.
Ashford had come fully alive with the tourney now in full swing. The fields beyond the castle walls buzzed with noise and color, tents and banners fluttering in every direction while merchants and performers filled every spare patch of ground.
You drank more than was strictly wise, though you blamed the warmth of the afternoon and the cheerful press of the crowds.
The lists drew you back again and again throughout the day. Whenever the horns sounded you joined the surge of spectators, shouting and cheering with everyone else as armored riders thundered down the field. You found yourself yelling encouragement and insults in equal measure with depending your voice hoarse long before the afternoon faded.
You too helped Egg practice the small but important tasks of a squire, buckling straps properly, handing off weapons quickly, learning where to stand and when to stay out of the way. He approached it all with serious determination, brow furrowed as if the fate of the realm depended on whether he could fasten a strap correctly.
You even challenged Duncan once or twice to a friendly duel to each of your victories, though he was clearly holding himself back much to your annoyance.
For a little while, the bitterness that usually shadowed your thoughts loosened its grip. The dragon banners still flew, the princes still walked the grounds somewhere beyond the crowds, but for that single day, you managed to forget them.
But then, the destruction that so often followed the Targaryens materialised, shattering your short lived contentment. Duncan and you had been enjoying the hospitality and cider of a friendly Raymun Fossoway, spitting out words to describe the Targaryens that would have been considered treason, when Egg dashed in with calls of peril.
“Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come! Aerion’s hurting her.”
All three of you had followed the boy without hesitation to the puppeteer’s tent where chaos awaited you.
People crowded the edges of the tent, some shouting, some only watching, their faces caught between fascination and fear. In the center of it all stood Aerion Targaryen, and before him the puppeteer girl you had come to know that past day as Tanselle.
He was hurting her and the memory of it would sit sour in your stomach long after.
Then Duncan moved. Before anyone else could react, he surged forward, wrenching Aerion away from the girl and throwing the prince hard to the ground with a punch in the process. The sound of it, a prince striking packed earth, seemed to shock the entire tent into silence.
The guards however soon roughly seized Duncan, and for a few monstrous moments you were convinced he would not make it out of that tent alive, as Aérions forced his mouth against the stage. But then Egg had stepped forward, and much to yours and the rest of the tent’s astonishment revealed himself as one of the missing princes, Aegon Targaryen.
You knew the whole thing would have ended far worse if he hadn’t done so.
Shame however rolled over you in waves, heavier than any armor could be. You had done nothing, nothing to stop Aerion from his rampage. Neither did you make to move when Duncan lunged, relying entirely on his strength and courage to intervene where you had stood frozen.
You wanted to tell yourself there was no way you could have helped, that Aerion’s power and the presence of the guards made interference impossible. And yet the thought did little to quiet the sting in your chest. You had trained for years with sword and dagger, honed every skill to survive the world as it was and here, but with everything you knew and all the strength you could muster, you had been useless.
Anger joined the shame, sharp and bitter at the Targaryens themselves. At the entitlement that allowed Aerion to administer punishment on a feeling. By the way the men born to crowns could bend law, loyalty, and fear to their whim, while others, like your father, died or suffered in service to the same dynasty.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Hours had passed since the chaos in the tent, and now you stood in the pouring rain with Raymun, doing the only useful thing to do: watching the horses.
Water streamed down your cloak and plastered your hair to your face, yet you barely noticed, half consumed by the cold and half by the gnawing dread that churned in your stomach at the thought of Duncan’s fate.
The silence between you and Raymun was heavy as you had since given up on offering hollow words of comfort to each other. Each minute stretched like an eternity as your fingers ached from the cold, not knowing if your friend would return.
Then by some god’s great mercy Duncan appeared, soaked but unmistakably alive. Relief flooded over you. You and Raymun didn’t hesitate: both of you pulled him into a tight shivering hug, hearts racing at the realization that he was even alive still.
The rain was suddenly inconsequential, as laughter and exclamations of exhilaration broke through the tension that had bound your shoulders for hours.
Practicality however returned quickly. Together, the three of you made for the Fossoway tent.
Once inside, wrapped in the relative warmth of the tent, the three of you, joined by Raymun’s cousin, poured over the situation, turning it over from every angle. You discussed every possible way Duncan might somehow escape what awaited him. The trial of seven.
The odds were cruel, stacked against him before he even drew a sword. And you knew it. There seemed to be little hope in him even securing six other champions to fight alongside him, let alone winning.
An idea however ignited in your mind the instant the words “trial of seven” were even uttered, sharper than any arrow you had ever drawn. A fire flared along your spine, sudden and undeniable: you would fight alongside Duncan, no matter what it took.
It wasn’t just for loyalty, though that alone was enough to drive you forward. You owed him that much. He had stepped into danger without hesitation the first night you met, risked his own safety to keep you from harm on that dirt track. He had offered you kindness and his protection in a world that had too often denied both, and for that alone you would stand beside him now.
But it wasn’t only for him.
You owed it to yourself. To prove that you could stand your ground, that you could fight with the same courage and skill as any man who claimed the title of knight. The thought coiled around you like a living thing, thrilling and terrifying all at once. I can do this. I will do this.
You had watched a Targaryen prince torment a girl on a whim, watched a tent full of knights and spectators stand frozen because dragon’s blood made him untouchable. But now you wouldn’t let the only man brave enough to stand against him die.
Besides, steel did not know the difference between a man’s hand and a woman’s. A blade cut the same either way, you thought wryly.
All your life you had been relying on the flighty honour of men. On the idea that men who carried swords and titles would stand between the weak and the cruel, that their vows meant something solid, something you could trust your life to.
But you had learned, slowly and painfully, how feeble that promise truly was.
Your father had ridden off chasing honor beneath a king’s banners and returned only long enough to die. And your mother had worked herself into the grave while the men who spoke so proudly of duty never once looked back to see what had been left behind.
The honour of men to you seemed just to be a thing spoken loudly in songs and tourney fields, yet strangely absent when the moment demanded real courage.
You were tired of it.
The rain had begun to ease by the time you stepped back outside the Fossoway tent, though the ground was still churned to thick mud beneath every passing boot. You stood for a while beneath the grey sky, arms folded against the damp chill, your thoughts beginning to scheme on how you might have hope of assuming to be one of the champions tomorrow.
Then movement down the path pulled your attention away. Two figures were making their way through the muddy lanes between the tents, one small and familiar, the other taller and moving with a kind of languid reluctance.
“Ah—there you are.” Egg’s voice carried a note of relief as he hurried toward you across the camp. “Is Ser Duncan inside?”
It was the first time you had seen him since he had revealed the truth, that he was no hedge knight’s squire but a Targaryen prince. Now he looked as though he had stepped straight out of the songs: dressed in black and red, the colors of his house, a small dragon worked in thread across his chest.
Well, almost like the songs. He was still missing the signature silver hair but it was hard to have silver hair when you had no hair at all.
“In the tent,” you answered, nodding toward the canvas behind you. “Trying to decide how he’s meant to find six men foolish enough to fight princes.”
Hurt and guilt flashed across his face all at once.
You immediately wished you could’ve taken back the edge that laced your words. In truth, you weren’t angry at him for lying, not really. He was just a boy, who was probably just outrunning the very thing you’d also hated the Targaryens for.
What unsettled you more was remembering that first night on the road, before you knew who he was. How freely you had spoken then, your anger spilling out in careless words as you cursed his family and all the ruin they’d left behind.
He had listened quietly the whole time. You still didn’t know what to make of that. Or what he made of it now. You watched him disappear under the tent flaps.
But the prince who had walked beside him did not follow. He seemed a far cry from the polished image of a prince. His long, sandy hair hung loose and tangled around his face, sweat-darkened in places, and his skin had the pale, slightly blotchy look of someone who had spent too much time with wine rather than sleep.
Prince Daeron’s pale eyes rested on you with a strange sort of focus, like he was trying to put your face to a name.
You shifted uncomfortably under the attention. “Do you need something, your grace?” you asked, not intending for the sarcastic tone but it coming out all the same.
The prince blinked slowly like a man surfacing from deep water. “I dreamed of you,” he said.
The words were so unexpected you almost laughed, assuming some strange jest. But his expression held none of Aerion’s cruelty or mockery, only that same distant seriousness.
“In the dream,” he continued quietly, “there was a dragon.”
Your stomach tightened instinctively at the word.
“It was large,” he went on, his voice thoughtful, almost puzzled. He studied your face a moment longer before finishing. “and it bowed to you”
You stared at him, unsure whether to scoff or be unsettled by the certainty and seriousness with which he had said it. “You must have very strange dreams, Your Grace.”
Daeron continued to watch you for a moment longer, as though weighing something unspoken. But whatever thought had been forming seemed to slip away.
“...Excuse me,” he said at last, almost absently.
Then he turned and ducked beneath the tent flaps after Egg, leaving you alone with the quiet camp and the strange weight of his words.
A dragon bowing to you.
The thought should have sounded ridiculous. And yet something about the way he said it left a faint, uneasy echo in your chest. Maybe all Targaryens truly are just mad.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The sky was still dark when you woke, and you had slept little, if at all. Each time your eyes had closed the same vision had come for you again and again, relentless as a drumbeat. Seven riders thundering together, steel flashing, Duncan bleeding on the ground, a pale haired fighter standing over him with you powerless to help.
So you rose before the sun.
You dressed quickly in the dim grey light, pulling on the plain tunic and dark trousers you had slept in before reaching for the bundle you had hidden beneath your saddle blanket.
Your armor was simple, nothing like the shining plates worn by knights and princes. No gilding, no heraldry. Just pieces you had gathered over the years.
Your padded gambeson was thick and worn from secondary use. You shrugged it over your shoulders and tugged the laces tight across your chest, binding it down firmly. The weight and pressure flattened your shape enough that, beneath the armor, few could tell what you had underneath it.
The mail shirt hung a little loose over the padding, the extra slack helping to hide the shape of your body rather than reveal it. Next you fastened your simple leather vambraces, tightening the worn straps around your forearms before buckling on a plain belt to carry your sword.
Last came your hair. You gathered it quickly and tied it back tight at the nape of your neck, pulling it close so it would sit neatly beneath your helm, leaving nothing loose that might betray you.
By the time you were finished, the figure staring back at you from the dull reflection of your blade looked far less like a woman and far more like some thin young hedge knight who had not yet filled out his armor.
It would have to be enough.
Your horse greeted you with a soft nicker as you approached them, breath puffing white in the cold air. You ran a hand comfortingly along its neck, murmuring under your breath while fastening the last straps of your saddle and securing the shield and helm beside it.
The sky had only just begun to pale.
Mist clung low across the tourney grounds as you stepped quietly through the waking camp. Tents loomed like silent shapes in the gloom, their banners hanging limp in the still morning air. A few early risers moved about, stable boys, guards, a cook stirring embers back to life, but none paid you more than a passing glance.
You kept your head down, guiding your horse toward the far edge of the field, away from the heart of the camp. From there you could see the tourney grounds stretching wide and silent before you. You waited knowing Duncan would have to pass this way to meet the other champions.
At last a familiar tall shape appeared through the mist. Relief and dread twisted together in your stomach. You stepped out to meet him.
“Duncan.”
He stopped immediately.
For a moment he only stared at you, confusion creasing his brow.
“What are you—”
“Let me fight with you.” The words came out faster than you intended, tumbling over each other before you could lose the nerve. “There’s still no word from Ser Steffon,” you rushed on, “and even if he comes you’re still one man short. Knight me and I’ll ride beside you.”
Duncan blinked at you as though you had spoken in another language.
For several long seconds he said nothing at all.
Then he found his voice.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I won’t.”
You clenched your jaw.
“I won’t make a lady fight for me.”
You breathed slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to groan. Of all the moments for Duncan’s stubborn chivalry to surface, this was perhaps the worst.
“I am no lady,” you said sharply. “And you know perfectly well I’m as skilled with a sword as you are. Perhaps more so.” You added, a smile twitching at the corner of your mouth despite yourself.
Still he shook his head determinedly. “Men will die out there.”
“Yes,” you said, stepping closer. “They will. Which is why I won’t stand aside while you ride to face seven of them without every blade you can muster.”
His expression hardened. “Even if I agreed, you truly think the lords would allow it?”
“They won’t know.” You held his gaze steadily. “They never need to know what’s between my legs or what’s beneath my helm.”
Duncan stared at you.
“Introduce me as Gillhem,” you continued calmly. “I’ll be the son my father never had. No one will question it once the fighting begins and I’ll be gone after it ends…if I’m still alive.”
Before he could answer, you dropped to one knee in the damp earth. “Now knight me,” you said.
The words hung between you in the grey morning light. For a moment he simply stood there, tall and silent, the mist curling faintly around his boots. Then his hand moved slowly to the hilt of his sword.
Hope flared in your chest but just as slowly, his hand stopped. You watched his face carefully. The uncertainty there was plain enough, his brow furrowed, his jaw working as though wrestling with something larger than either of you. But if anything you thought he looked more lost than apprehensive.
A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it, as you pushed yourself back to your feet. “Oh, what does it matter if I’m actually knighted or not,” you muttered. “We only have the gods to witness us out here anyway.”
You met his eyes again, letting a small, crooked smile pull at your mouth despite the tight knot in your stomach. “Just remember, Duncan,” you said. “I’m Ser Gillem now.”
Before he could object further you swiftly mounted your horse and pulled on your helm and visor, riding out to meet where the other champions would be.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The waiting was excruciating.
No steel yet. No thunder of hooves. Only the slow gathering of men and the restless shifting of horses beneath their riders.
You kept your head lowered beneath your helm, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze for too long. The slit of your visor narrowed the world to fragments, glints of armour, the dark backs of horses, and glimpses of the watching crowd. Your palms were slick inside the gauntlets.
A horse moved closer beside you, heavy hooves pressing into the churned earth. You heard the creak of thick armour and the slow snort of a powerful destrier. Then a voice rumbled from somewhere beside you.
“You.”
Your stomach dropped as you lifted your head slightly to find the speaker. It was Lyonel Baratheon. Over the past two days you had spent a small time with the man, you weren’t even sure if he could remember your name since he had had a drink in his hand almost the entire time. You felt your heart in your throat.
“I don’t know that sigil,” he said.
Slowly, carefully, you straightened in the saddle as you fought against your racing mind. Think.
“Not surprising, my lord,” you said at least, forcing your voice lower than usual, rougher, and speaking through your teeth so the helm muffled it further. “I’ve little fame to my name.”
“Yes, my lord.” You dipped your head just enough to appear respectful without inviting further inspection. “Ser… Gillem.”
For a moment Lyonel said nothing. His eyes moved again over your armour, your horse, your shield. You forced yourself not to shift beneath the scrutiny.
Then suddenly the great lord gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, Ser Gilllem,” he said, sounding almost pleased, “you’ve chosen a bold morning to earn your reputation.”
Your shoulders loosened a fraction.
Lyonel gave you one last measuring look. “Just make certain you can swing that sword of yours,” he said. “those princes won’t be gentle.”
Your grip tightened on the reins. “I wouldn’t expect them to be.”
The Laughing Storm grinned at that and turned his horse away, his attention already shifting toward the field where the opposing champions now rode into place.
You exhaled slowly the moment his attention left you. Your heart was still racing. But at least one thing was clear now. For the moment, your lie lived.
However, even with Ser Gillem stepping forward, Ser Duncan’s side lacked a seventh champion. Steffon Fossoway had arrived only to reveal he had chosen to stand with the accusers, selling his sword in exchange for the promise of a lordship.
Perhaps you should have been angrier than you were. Betrayal like that should have stirred outrage, yet what you felt was something quieter, duller. You were not surprised. Not truly. Ambition has always held more sway over most men in your life than honour ever could.
What proved far harder to witness, was what came next.
Duncan stepped forward, turning toward the gathered crowd. There was no pride left in his posture now, only a desperate honesty as he spoke, appealing not to rank or power, but to the simple truth of what had happened in that puppeteer tent. His voice carried across the field as he laid his heart bare, asking for one man, just one, to stand beside him. He was only met with silence then mockery.
The last embers of hope had begun to fade, sinking beneath the weight of inevitability. Around you the field felt heavier, thick with the quiet tension that comes when men know blood will soon be spilled, with a trial or not.
Without a seventh champion, Duncan’s innocence was lost.
Then the sound of the tourney gates groaned open.
Heads turned. From the far edge of the field a rider burst into view, his horse driving forward in a spray of mud and turf. He wore armour black as midnight, polished so darkly it swallowed the weak daylight. Upon his chest, unmistakable even from afar, gleamed the three-headed dragon.
A ripple of confusion spread through the onlookers. Men leaned forward, craning for a better view as the rider thundered across the field, slowing only when he neared the assembled champions. The horse reared slightly before settling, breath steaming in the cold air.
You watched, scarcely daring to breathe. Prince Maekar stepped forward to meet the rider. For a moment nothing made sense. Why would another Targaryen arrive now?
As the rider removed his helm, the crowd stirred again. Dark hair, cut short and a neatly kept beard framed his handsome face. There was a quiet strength in his features. Your gaze fixed on the dark-armoured figure as realization crept slowly into place.
Baelor Targaryen. His voice carried clearly across the field. “I will fight for Ser Duncan’s side.”
The words struck the crowd like a hammer on an anvil.
For a heartbeat the world seemed to stop, before a chorus of cheers and applause erupted from the stands. A prince of House Targaryen, standing with Ser Duncan?
It was unthinkable.
Of all men, it was Baelor who had come riding onto the field to throw his weight behind the hedge knight. A prince of the blood, heir to honour, prestige, and the expectations of an entire dynasty and yet here he stood, openly choosing a side that placed him against his own.
You felt a chill of disbelief run through you.
Every man present knew the weight of what he had just done. Which made it all the more confusing. Why risk the dignity of his house? Why step into a trial that could stain the honour of the dragons themselves? What could he possibly hope to gain from this?
However, those thoughts were soon swallowed by a wave of paralyzing fear, wifh a firm realisation that the trial would go ahead. The noise of the gathering riders blurred into something distant and indistinct, voices rising and falling around you without meaning.
You stood among them as they gathered near Baelor, dimly aware that he was speaking, offering counsel, perhaps strategy, the sort of steady words meant to bind men together before a charge.
You heard none of it. Your mind had narrowed to a single, suffocating awareness: the field before you, the coming clash, and the terrible certainty of how these could be your last moments alive.
It took almost everything in you not to turn your horse and ride away from it. Everything else you had left went into forcing your hands to steady, guiding your horse into place, and lowering your visor as you took your position for the first charge.
A horn bellowed across the field.
The low note rolled through the crowd like distant thunder, and at once every horse beneath the seven champions grew restless.
Your heart began to hammer again. This was it.
Across the churned earth the opposing riders lowered their lances and began to spread slightly, positioning themselves for the charge.
Seven against seven.
Beside you the great warhorse of Lyonel Baratheon stamped impatiently. Somewhere along the line Duncan shifted in his saddle.
Then the horn sounded again.
“CHARGE!”
The world exploded into motion.
You dug your heels into your horse’s sides as the line surged forward, the ground thundering beneath fourteen pounding hooves. Wind tore past your helm, rushing over your armor as the two sides closed in on each other in a heartbeat.
The impact came like a crashing wall.
Wood exploded as lances shattered on shields and armour. Horses collided shoulder to shoulder, screaming as riders crashed into one another in a storm of steel and splintering shafts.
Your own lance struck a shield and snapped cleanly in half, the jolt rattling up your arms. Before you could recover, another rider came thundering toward you from the side.
His white cloak streamed behind him like a banner.
A knight of the Kingsguard.
You barely had time to raise your shield before his lance struck. The force of it ripped you straight out of the saddle and the world flipped violently. You hit the ground hard enough that the breath exploded from your lungs. For a moment you could see nothing but sky as hooves thundered past your head.
Mud splashed across your visor as you rolled desperately aside to avoid being trampled. Your gaze swept desperately across the field only to discover your horse was already gone, bolting riderless across the field.
Wood shattered around you as riders collided again, the crack of breaking lances echoing across the field. Horses screamed and reared, men tumbled from saddles and shields splintered beneath the force of the charge.
Your own lance had glanced off a shield hard enough to send the weapon spinning from your grip.
You didn’t even give yourself time to register it as you were already drawing your sword.
The battle dissolved instantly into chaos. Somewhere nearby you faintly heard Lyonel roar with savage delight as he battered an opponent from his saddle.
But then your attention was drawn instead to the center of the melee. There Duncan was fighting intensely, surrounded on nearly every side.
And near him was Baelor Targaryen. Even in the chaos he stood out.
He fought with a calm precision that seemed almost unreal amid the frenzy of the field. His sword moved with controlled efficiency, each strike deliberate, each movement measured.
You watched him drive one knight back with a brutal series of blows before wheeling his horse sharply to intercept another rider who had been charging straight for Duncan.
It took you only moments to realise what he was doing. He was guarding him. Again and again Baelor positioned himself between Duncan and danger, forcing attackers away from the hedge knight all the while maintaining relentless skill.
You had heard stories of the prince’s prowess from your own father but seeing him fight was something else entirely.
For a moment you almost forgot the battle around you as you watched him work, the fluid movement of his sword, the quiet authority with which he responded to the chaos around him.
Then everything happened at once.
Baelor had just forced one opponent back when another rider broke from a neighbouring melee and came charging toward him from the side.
His armour also bore the three-headed dragon.
Prince Maekar.
You realised catastrophically that Baelor did not see him. He was still turning from his previous opponent, his flank fatally open.
His brother’s sword rose high for a brutal downward blow aimed straight at his unguarded side. A strange, almost bitter thought flashed through your mind.
A Targaryen killing a Targaryen. A small part of you thought you should let it happen. After all, you had spent most of your life hating that name.
Hating the dragons.
And yet—
Your eyes drifted back to Baelor.
Suddenly you were moving without a thought, sprinting towards the two of them. You raised your shield just in time.
Maekar’s blade slammed into your shield hard enough that the impact nearly tore your arm from its socket.
Baelor’s head snapped toward you in surprise.
“Go!” you barked through your helm. “Help Duncan!”
For a heartbeat Baelor hesitated. Then he nodded once and charged back away toward the center of the melee, where the hedge knight seemed to be fighting a losing battle.
And suddenly you were alone with the anvil.
There was no hesitation in him. His sword came down again immediately. You barely caught the blow on your blade, steel ringing loudly as the force of it drove you backwards.
Gods.
You were not fighting some tourney knight now, you were fighting a prince raised in war. He pressed forward again, relentless. Another strike came, sweeping toward your shoulder before you’d even got the chance to register the last.
You twisted out of his aim and let the blade scrape harmlessly across your shield instead of meeting it head-on.
You didn’t try to answer with a counterblow. You already knew better. Maekar was stronger, heavier, with more combat experience than you could ever imagine. Trying to overpower him would be suicide.
So you did the only thing you could. You made him miss.
The next strike came low and fast. You hauled yourself sideways, dodging as his blade cut empty air where your leg had been a heartbeat before.
Maekar adjusted instantly, straightening himself for another blow. His sword flashed again. You leaned away just enough for the edge to glance across your armour instead of biting into it.
Steel screeched. The force of it still jolted your entire side.
You circled him warily, with your heartbeat in your ears. One wrong or delayed move and it would be the end of you.
Your sword stayed ready, but you struck rarely, only quick probing slashes meant to keep him cautious rather than do real damage.
Maekar noticed your strategy. You could see it in the way his shoulders stiffened. You weren’t fighting him like a knight. You were avoiding him. But so what if you weren’t fighting with honour, the odds had been stacked against your side from the start.
His next attack came faster, anger and frustration beginning to sharpen the motion. You ducked the worst of it, the blade slicing past your helm close enough that you felt the rush of displaced air.
Another blow. You turned it aside with your shield.
Another.
You turned sharply as it whistled past your head.
Under the armour, your lungs had started to burn.
But Maekar’s breathing was growing heavier too. For a brief moment hope flickered. If you could keep him swinging long enough—
His next strike came suddenly faster than the rest.
You raised your shield to block it—
Too slow.
The blade slipped beneath the edge of your shield and drove forward. Cold steel punched through your side. It took you a few seconds to even comprehend what had happened, and then your world erupted into pain as your breath tore from your lungs in a broken gasp.
Your sword fell from numb fingers as you slid into the mud. For a moment you couldn’t even breathe. Above you the sky spun wildly.
Through the haze you saw Maekar stepping toward you with his sword still firmly in hand.
You tried to move but your body refused.
So this is it, you thought faintly.
He drew to a halt beside you, the thundering of combat around you fading into a distant clang. The pain was growing steadily now, from where it had at first you had felt vaguely numb but all you could focus on was him.
Through the narrow slit of his visor, you caught a glimpse of his violet eye, intense, and unyielding, burning with a fire that seemed to pierce right through the steel that separated you.
Then a simple thought struck in your mind. Would this really be the last thing you saw?
His blade lifted slightly, as you shut your eyes, waiting for the end. But it never came.
Your eyes fluttered open to find Maekar turned, looking across the battlefield. Something had changed.
Across the field a cry rose from the crowd. “Aerion yields!”
Your head turned weakly toward the sound.
It was over.
Maekar turned away from you without another glance, already moving to reach his son.
Relief washed through you in a strange, distant wave, with the realisation you had actually survived.
But the warmth spreading beneath your armour was growing colder. The chaos of the battlefield, which had roared in your ears only moments ago, receded further. The world now suddenly felt dreamlike, distant and muffled, as though you were underwater.
You tried to push yourself up but your arm refused. Perhaps just a moment of rest, just a few seconds with your eyes closed would help you gather enough strength to rise.
The sky above you was painfully bright. Then suddenly a shadow fell across your vision.
It was Prince Baelor.
Strong hands pulled you carefully from the mud. Pain flared sharply in your side, tearing a gasp from your throat as he gathered you against his side.
“You’re losing a lot of blood.” He said calmly, but urgently.
Another figure appeared beside him, mud-spattered and breathless. You felt them both carry your weight across the field, away from the crowd and the fallen riders. Every step sent another wave of sickening pain through your body, blood soaking through the gap in your armour.
You tried to keep your eyes open but the world kept slipping from your vision.
They laid you gently upon somewhere near the edge of the lists.
His hands moved quickly to the clasps of your helm.
“No—” you managed weakly, lifting a trembling hand at the realisation of what he was doing. “Don’t…”
“You need air,” Baelor said firmly.
The metal clasps came loose and you faintly felt your helm being lifted away. Cool morning air skimmed over your face.
You perhaps would never forget the look that crossed his face then.
His brow furrowed sharply, eyes widening as he took you in properly for the first time, no longer hidden by helm or visor. Baelor took everything in drifted from your clear feminine, now bruised, features to your hair that had been tugged loose to frame your face. The calm certainty he had just carried throughout the battle now vanished, replaced by something far more human.
Beside him Raymun froze. “Seven hells…”
Baelor’s gaze remained fixed on you, studying your face with stunned disbelief, as though trying to reconcile the bloodied knight he had fought beside with the woman lying before him now.
You found yourself staring back.
The world was fading fast at the edges now, but your eyes locked onto his face with a strange clarity.
You noticed things in fragments: the dark hair streaked with silver, the streak of blood across his brow, the tight line of concern tugging at his mouth. His eyes, you noticed were different colours. One a sharp, piercing blue like cold winter ice, the other a warm brown that somehow felt like the earth you lay on itself. They didn’t match, yet together they held you, twisting your thoughts into a dizzying tangle.
Suddenly you became aware of a metallic tang in your mouth.
Baelor leaned closer, one hand pressing firmly and painfully against the wound in your side to slow the bleeding. “Get the maesters now,” he said, his voice dropping lower, urgent but tempered by the weight of command.
But you barely heard him.
You were still staring at him, strangely fixated, as though his face were the only solid thing left in a world that had begun to drift apart.
But then all at once your eyes slipped shut before you could stop them and your body sagged in surrender against him.
And the last thing you saw, the final image to cling to, was him.
dunk truly is so y/n coded. attends his first ever event and is immediately caught up in the royal family's problems. lyonel baratheon parties with him and becomes his new bestie. he gets to bitch slap an evil blonde and walk away from it. accidentally becomes royal family adjacent after babysitting a lost baby prince. charms everyone he meets and gets free armour upgrades. everyone wants to fuck him—
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