Chapter five : Aerion Targaryen x OC fanfiction
Summary : Aerion Brightflame never plays the knight. So why did he just become a minor lady's champion in a trial by combat?
Chapter 4 chapter 3 chapter 2 chapter 1
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆Slow burn, the political game in 209 AC in Westeros, tourney arc, Aerion Targaryen x OC
The mud squelched beneath Lynissa's boots as she walked, each step a small battle against the weight of everything that had just transpired. Beside her, Aerion Targaryen moved with the easy grace of a man who had never known uncertainty—his silver-gold hair catching the dying sunlight like spun moonlight, that infernal smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
He looks like a man who has just won a joust, not one who has plunged himself into the middle of a political mess.
Lynissa was acutely aware of her appearance. Her braided hair had surrendered to the chaos, strands escaping in wild tangles. Mud caked her arms, her face, the ill-fitting armor she still wore—her brother Emil's armor, the weight of it a constant reminder of his cowardice. And the blood. She could feel it, dried and cracking on her cheek where Lucion Lannister's dagger had caught her.
"Here." His voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, calm as still water. He extended a handkerchief—fine white silk embroidered with the three-headed dragon in crimson thread. "For your face."
She took it, and her hand was trembling. She hated that. Hated that her body betrayed her when her mind had already processed, catalogued, and filed away every moment of the confrontation.
Lucion's leer. Dahlia's scream. The rush of adrenaline as I grabbed Emil's sword. The shock on his face when I landed that first blow—
The entire meadow was watching. She could feel their eyes like physical weight—the other noble houses, the servants, the smallfolk who had gathered to witness the tourney's drama. Who wouldn't stare? A Targaryen prince, a man infamous for his disregard of propriety and convention, had publicly declared himself champion to a minor lady from the Crownlands.
"Thank you, my prince," she said, and was relieved to find her voice steady.
She pressed the cloth to her cheek, watching his profile—that absurdly perfect nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his short curls mimicked dragon scales. "I did what any knight should have done, my lady," he said, and there it was again—that smirk that suggested he was in on some joke the rest of the world had not yet been told.
They held each other's gaze a moment too long.
What does he truly want? The question burned in her mind like a brand. Aerion Brightflame cared nothing for knighthood, nothing for chivalry. The entire realm knew it.
"Though truth be told, that was a stupid thing to do."
Her head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"
The words came out sharper than intended. She caught herself immediately—this man had just saved her, saved Dahlia, saved the Stokeworth name from scandal—but the offense simmered beneath her carefully composed surface.
"Wearing your brother's armor and punching a Lannister," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, his tone almost conversational, "was not the right choice, Lady Stokeworth."
"Why?" The word escaped before she could stop it. "Because he's a man?"
"He's bigger. Stronger. And most importantly, trained." His purple eyes gleamed with something unreadable—amusement? Interest? It was impossible to tell with him.
"I am too," she said, too fast, too defensive.
Foolish. You sound like a child trying to prove themselves to a parent.
The smile he gave her was different from the smirk—amused, intrigued even. It transformed his face, made him look less like the monster everyone described.
They had reached the Stokeworth pavilions, and before Lynissa could formulate a response, Agnes was there, her lady's maid's face a mask of barely contained terror and relief.
"Lynissa!" Agnes threw her arms around her, heedless of the mud and blood. "The Seven be praised, I thought I'm never seeing you again"
Ser Marlon appeared behind her, his weathered face creased with concern that quickly transformed to gratitude as he spotted Aerion. "Thank you, Your Grace, for your gesture. House Stokeworth will not forget this."
Aerion did not acknowledge him. His gaze remained fixed on Lynissa, and she felt pinned by it—like a butterfly to a board.
"I am a man of my word, Lady Stokeworth." His voice carried clearly, meant for all to hear. "If anyone should speak ill of your sister's honor, they will answer to me." A pause, weighted with something she could not name. "I shall leave you to rest."
She stared at him, searching for the lie, the scheme. What is he really after?
"Thank you," she managed, the words feeling inadequate for what he'd done.
He nodded, and she watched him walk away—that confident, almost arrogant stride, silver hair catching the breeze. When he was gone, the servants descended upon her, ushering her into the pavilion, and she let them, too exhausted to resist.
Lynissa sat on her cot, freshly bathed and dressed in a simple linen dress, she stared at the handkerchief in her hands. The red dragon stared back.
Agnes entered, carrying a candle. "The whole tourney is buzzing," she announced, her voice carefully casual. "Prince Aerion definitely knows how to cause a scene."
Lynissa lifted her gaze. "Yes. And now I am tied to his hip for the Seven know how long, because I owe him."
"Why do you say it like it's a bad thing?" Agnes set the candle down and began lighting others, her movements precise. "After the... sacrifice you made today, having his favor is good for your image. For House Stokeworth. He is a prince of the blood, and men desire what important men want."
Lynissa's face twisted with confusion. "What are you saying? He is not an honorable man, Agnes. They call him the monsterous! You think he did this for me? For Dahlia? For our house?" She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. "He did it for his entertainment. His amusement. I've heard the stories and I have no time for his childish games."
But even as she said the words, she remembered the look in his eyes when he'd said are you now? —that flash of genuine warmth, of interest. The way he'd watched her as if she were a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Aerion Brightflame. The prince who might be mad, who might be brilliant, who might be both or neither.
The tent flap rustled, and Ser Marlon's voice came through the canvas. "My lady? A raven has arrived from Stokeworth."
Lynissa rose at once, the handkerchief slipping from her lap to the floor. She did not notice. She was already crossing to the tent's entrance, her heart hammering against her ribs with a fear she would not name.
Emil had fled in shame, but he had ridden home . He was supposed to protect them yet he fled like a coward, away from the tourney and its dangers.
The message was brief, written in Emil's unsteady hand:
Sister, I have arrived home safely. Father is asking for you. I will not apologize for what I did—I cannot, not when I feel the shame of it still burning in my chest. But I will say this: I am sorry you had to be braver than me. I am sorry for little dahlia. Come home when you can.
Lynissa read the words three times, then folded the parchment then she turned back to Agnes, her face was composed once more—the mask she had learned to wear, the armor she could not take off even in the privacy of her own tent.
"Send word to the servants," she said"We leave for Stokeworth at dawn."
Before Agnes could answer an ashford steward stepped in with one of their servants "lady lynissa you've been summoned by their royal highness prince baelor and maekar Targaryen. "
She looked stunned , what did the targaryen princes want with her.
