The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER ONE // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 3.3K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; descriptions of oral; use of the word "whore" but aren't we all; fantasy medieval beliefs about marriage and purity
The air in King’s Landing was heavy with humidity and the vile stench of the streets below the towering walls of the Red Keep. The day had begun with a damp wind that came from Blackwater Bay, carrying with it the smell of seaweed and fish that travelled with the sailors who had already halved their work day. It was followed by a flash of rain which temporarily alleviated the airs about the city. Then the rain mixed with the soiled waters on the streets of Flea Bottom and the smell regained its spot above all that lived in the capital. The true heir to the Iron Throne - the stench of King’s Landing.
Only the Gods would know why a city of such import was so terribly built that it stewed in its own filth. Like a haggard old man too frail to even leave his death bed for his chamber pot. Then again, it was the Gods on needed to thank for also devising the sweet scents of flowers and herbs. Their dried petals mixed in oils and water were the only scents that could overpower the stench.
And a bowl of such sweet concoction sat on the open window sill in Princess Visenya’s room. The lady herself was sprawled at the edge of her large bed with her legs propped up and a young woman between them. Visenya’s hair was spread around her head like a halo of ash. Long and silken waves of hair that mimicked the cinders in the hearth after a long night. All black and grey with flecks of golden brown like dying embers. Very little of the traditional Targaryen white but at least her dark violet eyes could stake her claim as a member of the illustrious family. And after all, the people in her family who could pride themselves on that most famous Targaryen feature, which were the locks of pale white hair, were few and far between. Especially after several marriages to Westerosi nobles of varied appearances.
The princess arched her back on the bed and a soft hiss slipped past her lips as the woman between her legs licked her folds with an expert’s confidence. Truly, there were whores in the brothels throughout the kingdom that couldn’t match Nira Waters’s prowess. And she showed off her talents most eagerly for Visenya.
‘Can you cease your fidgeting,’ a man’s somewhat annoyed voice came from behind an easel in the corner of the bedchamber. ‘I’m trying to get the curve of your thigh right.’
A high pitched moan died a sad death in Visenya’s throat and she rolled her eyes. Propping herself up on her elbows, she raised an eyebrow at the man who did not seem scared by the princess’s annoyance. In fact he appeared even more vexed by her further moving on the bed.
Nira’s mouth finally left Visenya’s cunt with a lewd smack and she also looked at the man. ‘Can ye blame ‘er, Rod? I ain’t called Goldmouth for my pretty smile and good conversation, ain’t I.’
Visenya smirked at the woman between her legs and bent down to give her a kiss. She tasted herself on her tongue and lips. She loved it, it felt truly and completely debauched. Very much unlady-like. Just the kind of behaviour one might expect to see from the young princess.
‘She is right, you know.’ Visenya purred as her lips left Nira’s. She then grabbed a thin, silken robe that was thoughtlessly discarded behind her in a heap, tossed a leg above the head of her lover and slid off her perch. Visenya wrapped the garment around her body and tightened the delicate belt at her waist. She padded across the bedchamber to where Rod was sitting with his canvas and easel.
The young man had seemingly no eyes for the sensual and sinful imagery that the two women were portraying. He had trained a deeply concentrated look at his painting with a paint-covered hand resting on his chin.
Visenya stood behind him and grabbed a goblet of the Arber Gold they had been enjoying since last night. The drink had turned too warm in its spot next to the open window and had soured by the elongated exposure to the sun streaming through. Visenya scrunched her face and placed the goblet back down on the small table. Mayhaps, she could grab another bottle from the kitchens after supper. She wrapped an arm around Rodrick’s shoulders and looked at his painting.
It was one of his few works that were not for everybody to see. He had grown in popularity amongst the upper echelons of Westerosi society, and particularly in the Targaryen court. His official position of court portraitist meant that his usual works depicted the royal family and the scores of children that it boasted with. Not erotic scenes between a member of said family and a Crownlands bastard. But he was a dear friend of Visenya’s, and an occasional companion in her bed along with his wife and assistant, Nira.
The latter had gotten up from the floor at the foot of the bed and took up the spot that Visenya had been occupying. She stretched and rolled onto her belly like a cat. Visenya gave her a quick wink before returning her full attention to the painting.
‘Wouldn’t it be best if you…’ Visenya extended a hand towards the canvas and drew invisible lines with her long fingers. ‘You see how my leg looks elongated here. The proportions are a little off between my hip and my knee.’
The princess was an astute artist herself. From an early age, her tutors had observed that she had a great talent and an eye for unseen beauty. Although those talents were expected to remain within the appropriate spheres of artistry. But Visenya had grown more curious about other subjects over the years. And that keen interest had led her to the acquaintance of other brilliant artists such as Rodrick and Nira. An acquaintance which had combined the professional with the occasional tumble in the sheets. Last night and this morning had been one such occasion.
‘Well, if you had sat a little more firmly, I wouldn’t have gotten distracted,’ Rodrick commented.
Visenya snickered and trailed her nose along the side of his throat till she reached the shell of his ear. ‘You could always join and… unwind a little before you continue your work.’
Rodrick sighed a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a whimper and looked at the smiling princess. He seemed very conflicted, wanting to fix his work while the paint was still wet and yet very intrigued by the princess’s indelicate proposition. He looked to his wife who enticed him with a smile herself and curled a finger, beckoning him in.
‘I guess…’ the man coyly smiled and let Visenya lead him by the collar of his billowy shirt and away from the easel. She walked backwards towards the bed where Nira was rolling back around and crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the bed. Visenya whipped Rodrick around and pushed him down onto the goose feather mattress. Nira wasted no time and began peppering open mouth kisses to her husband’s neck and face. Visenya observed the two with excitement and bit down on her bottom lip when Rodrick began to cradle his wife’s cunt in his palm. The two gave her expectant looks from the bed. The princess returned their gaze in feigned deliberation - should she simply watch her lovers enjoy each other’s body or join them?
The door opened with a loud clap against the wall behind it and interrupted Visenya’s train of thought. She turned quick as a flash to see the last person she had expected to make an appearance at that moment. It was her father standing in the doorway, a look of shock on his face. One might say that Baelor Breakspear had seen plenty in his life, but the sight of his scantily dressed daughter and a couple at varied stages of undress was enough to turn his olive-tinted face pale.
‘Visenya!’
‘Good morrow, father!’ She greeted sweetly, hoping to divert his attention long enough for the startled pair on her bed to gather some pieces of their clothing and get decent. She looked down at her own dressing gown which was too thin, semi-transparent, and definitely not an outfit she would normally wear in front of her own father. She crossed her arms to, at the very least, hide her hardened nipples.
‘It is midday,’ Baelor deadpanned.
He made a motion for the guard outside Visenya’s bedchamber to step away. Then half-closed the door to limit any curious chambermaids from seeing inside. Too bad that most of the maids in the castle already had a good idea of the princess’s indiscretions and some had even helped her sneak in and out of the castle more than once.
Visenya noticed that Nira had thrown her chemise and dress on hastily and the top garment was backwards. Whilst Roderick needed only to slide his feet back into his breeches and boots. Prince Baelor gave them the small dignity of looking out the window while they got dressed.
‘Your Grace.’ Nira mumbled and dipped in a curtsy. Rodrick bowed his head and murmured a brief apology to the Prince who returned a terse nod. The artist then speedily escorted his wife out of Visenya’s bedchamber, leaving the princess to share the awkward silence with her father.
Visenya waited for the click of the closing door. She pursed her lips, ‘Forgive the shock you must have experienced just now, father.’
Baelor sighed, ‘I am beyond that now. I’ve known of this… tryst for some time.’
Of course. The Master of Whispers surely spoke not only in the King’s ear but in his heir’s as well.
Baelor ran a hand down his face and moved towards the open window. Visenya inwardly cringed – the bloody painting was still there! She moved slowly but surely towards the easel and blocked her father’s view of it by standing next to him.
‘I suppose I cannot sit in judgement when plenty of princes have enjoyed the pleasurable company of other people in their youth.’
‘Some even past it,’ Visenya supplied and Baelor nodded. He finally looked down at his daughter with the kind of look only a father could muster. A horrid combination of disappointment and understanding. Seven Hells!
‘But you’re a lady.’
‘Oh, father!’ Visenya groaned. ‘I know! But I will not be denied things that would otherwise be so easily afforded to my brothers and male cousins.’
‘I understand that, but there are our wants and then there is the way of things. And the way of things in this world is more discriminating of ladies who engage in such behaviour.’
Visenya rolled her eyes.
‘Had I been born a Viserys, no one would’ve begrudged me those indulgences.’
‘Yes, but Gods deemed you were born a Visenya.’ Baelor’s soft voice grew stronger, firmer. It was the kind of timbre that demanded obedience. And Visenya was terrible at obedience.
‘Even your namesake was brought to heel in the face of matrimony.’
‘Should I then ask Valarr if he would take me as his second wife?’ Visenya challenged with a great degree of insolence in her tone. ‘Or would Matarys be expected to produce some heirs for the throne soon?’
‘The question of marriage,’ Baelor interrupted his daughter loudly. ‘Your marriage was what I was coming to discuss with you.’
Visenya put her face in her hands and rubbed her temples. ‘Gods be good.’
‘The small council sat in discussion today. And with the increasing number of improprieties you commit, I deemed their suggestions most wise.’
Baelor reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He held it up to the sunlight.
‘They have compiled a very short list of eligible lords-’ Visenya tried to protest, but Baelor did not heed her ‘-and I have decided to allow you the one freedom of selecting your suitor.’
Visenya grabbed the parchment and roughly opened it to see a truly brief column of names. The council really didn’t think much of her chances then.
‘You could’ve at least suggested a Dornishman,’ she said dryly. ‘I doubt a lord from the Westerlands or the Reach would appreciate a wife who already has more experience than him in the bedchamber.’
Baelor made no indication her comment disturbed him. ‘The council has agreed that these lords would provide the most beneficial matches for you.’
‘Right… and here I thought when you said you would never push me into an arranged betrothal - remember? it was but half a year ago - you actually meant it.’
‘I meant it, but you’re leaving me with no choice. You will inspect the list and you will decide.’ Baelor near shouted. His dark eyes bore into his daughter’s, both of them vying to strongarm the other with looks only. Visenya, however, had been startled by her father’s sudden outburst of anger. Yes, she’d seen him angry, but he’d never been angry with her.
She was his one and only daughter and as such she’d always benefited from being his treasured one. He doted on her and he had allowed her liberties that most fathers would withhold from their daughters, but it seemed that even his patience had run thin.
‘All of them will be in attendance at the tourney and I will expect you to make a decision by the time we arrive at Ashford. Once a man has been chosen, you will have the entire tourney to get to know him before your betrothal is announced upon its conclusion.’
Visenya lifted her chin. ‘And what if I refuse?’
Baelor’s face remained unchanged as he observed her. ‘You will not. Visenya… I am trying to appease the council and my father. Your marriage was discussed long ago but as I promised you, I was never going to force your hand. But you have forced mine. You are a princess and you will do your duty to the realm.’
‘Oh, yes! As a brood mare, what a duty!’ Visenya muttered under her breath, still Baelor heard her comment. Another pained sigh left his lips and he placed a large warm hand on the back of her neck.
‘Not all marriages are reduced to their base functions. I came to love your mother… very much. This is why I insisted on your right to a choice before the council. So you may choose someone whom you might grow to care for. I pray the Gods for a long life so I may see my only daughter happy and in love.’
‘Do you intend to live forever then?’ Visenya jested. She felt that this was one battle that she would not easily win. And hadn’t the master-at-arms always insisted that one must always know when to withdraw from a duel.
Visenya relented to give the list another look.
Ser Tybolt Lannister. Seven heavens, no. If she’d been desperate for riches, she might consider a match with a Lannister but she wasn’t. The goldheaded cunts were also known for their arrogance and conceit. No, Tybolt Lannister wouldn't do. And wasn’t he betrothed to Teora Kyndall? Poor girl. Some consider marriage to a Targaryen more stylish than that to a noblewoman of a minor house. But Tybolt was a definitive no.
Ser Humphrey Beesbury. Adorable. She would be sure to enjoy mead, and honeycakes, and whatever it is they had in the Reach. A Beesbury was sure to bore her to tears.
Ser Androw Ashford. Really?
Lord Medgar Tully. Another no. The poor man would probably know less of what marriage entailed than a maester.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon. Oh? She knew him.
The first time they met was when he visited the capital for a tourney or a feast of some sort, but it was such a long time ago. She had just turned sixteen and was in that awkward stage of womanhood when every young man (or woman) could enthral her. But he was four and twenty and certainly not interested in girls as young as her. No, he was interested in the sword, and the lance, and fighting Valarr in the courtyard until both were reduced to sweaty heaps in the mud.
The second and last time was… Valarr’s own wedding feast. She had spoken to Lyonel briefly but once again he did not seem interested in talking to her. Dancing and wine held more of his attention. And thinking back, if he did talk to her more extensively, her family might’ve gotten the idea of betrothing her to him right then and there.
Visenya scoffed at the prospect. She wouldn’t have learned all the pleasures of the world if she had been married then.
Had Lyonel managed to escape the chains of matrimony then?
Visenya considered him for a moment. For a lord of his station to have not married meant that he was not in any rush. And he was… thirty something with no wife and no heirs. Surely, he would be an easy pick to undermine the council’s plan and her father’s expectations.
That could work, Visenya thought.
‘Are you considering this?’ Baelor asked, evidently hopeful.
Visenya looked up from the parchment. ‘I think I see a clear choice. When are we to depart for Ashford?’
‘In three days' time,’ Baelor replied, scratching his brow. ‘Daeron has already left with Aegon.’
Visenya blanched at the thought. ‘D- Daeron?! Father, I would not trust him with the keys to the wine cellar. Let alone little Egg.’
Visenya groaned. She pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking.
‘And I suppose they left without the proper escort?’
‘Your uncle allowed it. Said it would be good for the lads to get an early scope of the terrain. And they do have a guard escorting them.’
Visenya pursed her lips. That wouldn’t do, she thought. She did not hate her cousin, he was a sweet man. He’d always lamented having troubled sleep and horrid nightmares that kept him up all night. She was quite jealous too that he could be so often deep into his cups yet invoke no ire from the family. But he was unpredictable when intoxicated and Egg was too little to manage the road with Daeron as his guardian.
‘I will go after them,’ she said with determination.
‘That would not be appropriate.’
‘I think we have determined that I am not an appropriate princess anyways, father. I can ride out ahead and catch Daeron in some inn before he drinks himself into a stupor or gets robbed. Escort or no. Either way, I will make sure he and Egg are safe.’
‘Take Mallister, at least. I will not have you ride out without a guard of your own.’
Visenya nodded. Mallister was her sworn knight and protector when she decided that the confines of the Red Keep were not to be endured. He was older than her father yet still large and powerful enough to be trusted with the life and safety of the princess. And he was one of the best riders; it only made sense that he should accompany her as she rides out to catch her cousin lest he gets set upon by bandits.
Baelor, trusting his daughter’s judgement on this, leaned down to kiss Visenya’s forehead before departing her chambers. She smiled at him and promised to see him at Ashford. The prince was halfway to the door when she made one final plea.
‘Please, do not punish Roderick for what I did. Or Nira. They need his position.’
Baelor smiled at his daughter. ‘His position is quite safe. He is an excellent artist and I should hate to see him leave court. Might I make a request of my own?’
Visenya nodded in response.
‘Hide that painting. It is far too much for any father to see of his daughter. Let alone for the rest of the household.’ Visneya groaned in despair. Gods, and this week had started off so well…
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; Explicit; slow burn; chapter specific warnings attached to each part
* marks chapters with specific warnings like smut, violence, etc.
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER TWO // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 4.5K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; descriptions of alcohol
It wasn’t a day later and the early morning fog hadn’t yet lifted from the city. Ser Mallister Buckwell was already waiting by the stables when Visenya met him there. She had packed a small satchel with a change of clothes, a handful of gold, and her painting supplies of course. She wasn’t going to be drooling over the knights at the tourney like some sycophant and she could use the spare time to enjoy a beloved activity. This was also what she had instructed her father to say if someone inquired about her sudden departure. A lack of drawing supplies in her chambers would support that claim.
‘Princess,’ Mallister greeted with the firm bow of his head. He too had made sure to strip his usual polished armour for a leather gear. The only indicator that he wasn’t just a regular man travelling across the kingdoms was the greatsword strapped to his belt. ‘I acquired a tent for you and picked supplies from the kitchens. That should do us just fine for the first few days.’
Tent would be alright in the grand scheme, seeing as the rains were more frequent this time of year. There was a part of Visenya that hoped she might sleep out in the open at least once in her life. Watch the stars above and huddle by the campfire.
She thanked the old knight. The stable boy, Harry, brought out her black stallion, pulling the beautiful creature by the rains. In his free hand, he held a scabbard.
Mallister made note of that immediately. ‘I am not sure your father will like the idea of you handling a sword.’
Visenya pulled the sword from its sheath - perfectly polished and ready - then clipped it securely to her belt. She smiled at the older man.
‘We don’t know what we might encounter on the road, Mallister. And do you doubt my skill? You taught me after all.’
Mallister gave a loud sigh. ‘I do not doubt you, princess. I worry your father might have my hide for giving you a weapon.’
‘Father won’t know about it, your hide is quite safe.’
Visenya placed a foot in the stirrups and climbed onto the horse’s back. The stable boy handed her the reins and nodded her way.
‘Safe travels, Nye.’
‘See you in a couple of months, Hal. Do stay out of trouble.’
Hal laughed, ‘No trouble will befall me when you’re gone.’
‘Guilty!’ Visenya softly kicked her heels into her horse’s sides and made her way out of the courtyard, getting further away from the shadow of the Red Keep.
The road was quiet and the only companions to the pair travelling west of the capital were the near constant showers. But the air was clear and Visenya rejoiced at being able to breathe with ease. During the first few days, they had taken the Kingsroad south to remain on the well tread path. The towering trees of the Kingswood kept them sheltered from the wind and rain. They took breaks to let the horses graze while the pair stretched their legs. Visenya brought a sketching journal which began to fill almost immediately. The pages were peppered with small silverpoint etchings of birds they encountered, their horses grazing, and early-spring flowers that Visenya thought beautiful.
On the morrow of the second day, the road before them split and from then on it was a straight journey down the Roseroad into the Reach. The forest fell behind them and out of eyesight, replaced by endless fields and lush meadows. For all the horridness of the rain that kept stalking their path, the land seemed to enjoy it most fervently. Such shades of green Visenya had rarely seen.
Inns and cottages dotted the landscape along the road, but the provisions Mallister had taken kept them on without having them stop in any of them. Visenya began to miss good company. Not that Mallister was a bad travel-mate, in fact he was quite funny when separated from the stiff structure of the capital. He had more than once, although begrudgingly at first, joined Visenya in an exchange of limericks and anecdotes. The man had lived a life and had plenty stories to share.
No, Visenya missed the artisans in the capital who had become like-minded associates of hers. Sharing passions for good art, good wine, a good shag. Visenya was starting to crave a good roll in the hay. Too bad that Roderick and Nira had stayed behind. Mayhaps, if she had no other alternatives, she could entice Lyonel Baratheon into her bed. See what all the fuss was about the man they called the Laughing Storm and be done with the whole charade.
What she was certain of was that she would not be following the council’s instructions. She would not be returning home married.
After a couple more turns of the sun and moon across the heavens, the horses were at the end of their strength and Mallister suggested they do stop at an inn to break the journey. Visenya only needed to hear the heavy panting of her stallion Tempest. The poor creature needed a good rest and she loved him too dearly to force him another mile.
The sun was hidden behind a cloud, spreading its dimmed light high over the land. Visenya could do with a drink of ale and something warm to bite down on.
The inn was not too shabby and thankfully warm. After handing their horses off to the stablehand, they ventured inside. The rain had followed them for yet another day, so the crackling fire in the inn’s hearth was a welcome sight. A stout woman walked into the main hall to greet them with a stiff nod and direct them to sit wherever. Visenya ushered Mallister to the table nearest the fire so they could let their cloaks dry and their backs warm up. With the hood away from her eyes, Visenya undid the wooden clasp in her hair that kept it up and let her damp curls roll down her shoulders.
‘Gods be good, lass. Has yer hair gone grey already?’ The old woman exclaimed in abject horror as she approached their table.
Visenya pushed a strand behind her ear and gave her a warm smile. ‘Born as such.’
The innkeeper nodded. ‘Thought yer man here had already driven ye mad. Mine own husband was the type.’
‘Oh, no ‘tis just uh… my uncle. We’re travelling to meet some family on the way to the tourney.’ Visenya clapped a hand on Mallister’s shoulder. She hoped to delicately inquire about any possible sighting of Daeron and Egg. Mayhaps the woman had seen them pass through.
‘Aye,’ the woman nodded, ‘plen’y of them lot we’d seen these last few days. Had a lad pass through last night, big feller. Tall as a mountain, that one.’
Daeron was tall, but Visenya would never call him a mountain. Maybe they’d already reached Ashford and this had all been for nought.
‘Well, I got more lamb delivered just this morning. And fish, if ye fancy.’
‘Lamb is good, thank you.’ Mallister told the woman. ‘And two flagons of ale, if you have it.’
‘Aye, we have some.’ The woman made her way to the bar where she plucked two flagons, looked inside, turned them over, and shook out any remaining drops of the previous pour.
‘I hope the seven heavens have no window into this world. Wouldn’t want my mother to see this,’ Visenya said. Lady Jena Dondarrion had been of the mind that a lady must refrain from drinking heavy beverages. A good Arbor gold or Dornish red were more appropriate womanly drinks.
Mallister huffed in amusement, ‘I am guilt-ridden enough as it is. Exchanging dirty jokes with a princess of the realm.’
‘I am a terrible influence on you.’
‘The worst.’
The innkeeper came back with the two flagons and placed them down onto the table. ‘Not much of it left, mind ye. Have a customer who drank near all of my mead and ale. Poor lad seems to be trying to meet the gods at the bottom of each cup.’
Visenya’s ears perked up like a cat’s. ‘You had one such man pass through?’
‘He’s still here!’ The woman exclaimed. ‘Mind ye, I don’t mind it if he’s paying, but he nearly finished all my reserves. I don’t got delivery coming till next week.’
‘Blonde man with sallow skin, is he?’ Visenya asked, hopeful.
‘Aye. Ye know the lad?’
The young princess sighed in relief. ‘My cousin, the one whom I was looking for. Has he taken a bedchamber upstairs?’
‘Aye, lass.’ The woman pointed her in the direction of the staircase, but there was no need for directions because the man himself was wobbly making his descent.
Visenya got up from her chair and was in front of her cousin in two strides. She took his face in hands and observed his sickly appearance. His skin appeared almost yellow in the light and his eyes were as red as poppies. Daeron looked back at her and seemed to be trying to focus on her face.
‘Vis - hic - enya. I dreamt your blood had drowned us all.’
He sounds like himself at least, Visenya thought somberly and took her cousin’s arm to lead him back to their table. She smiled at the innkeeper and thanked her for looking after him.
‘Can we add another portion of the lamb and some fish, too? I need to sober him up.’
‘Sure, lass.’
Visneya waited for the woman to walk away before she began her questioning. ‘Daeron. Daeron, look at me. Where is Egg?’
Her cousin groaned and placed one hand on his temple. His eyes seemed to scan the table and land on the nearest flagon, his hand reaching out for it immediately. Visenya was quick to notice and pulled it away from his reach.
‘Daeron,’ she warned softly. ‘Where. Is. Egg?’
‘He was right here.’ Daeron turned his head and pointed to the rest of the inn. When there was no one but the approaching innkeeper with the first round of food, he looked back at his cousin. ‘I swear I had him.’
‘Where is your guard?’
‘Left him at Tumbleton. Thought we could - hic - make our own way.’
‘Oh, Daeron!’ Visenya groaned. She turned to Ser Mallister, ‘What are the chances that Egg made his way to the tourney grounds by himself? We are not too far.’
The old knight inhaled deeply and took a swig of his ale. ‘It is not unlikely. I will inquire with the innkeeper. He could have been sighted.’
Visneya nodded for him to do so and gave her full attention to her cousin who had thankfully started digging through the first plate of roast lamb. His bleary eyes were searching the succulent meat for an answer to whatever litany of questions was on his mind.
Visneya pitied him; he was one of the few cousins she actually liked. He’d always been somewhat detached from reality which had become more exacerbated with each turn of the seasons and each drink. Despite his perplexing ramblings, he had never been cruel with his words or actions. He was at most difficult to understand, although the princess tried.
‘I am sorry, Nye.’ Daeron spoke almost soberly.
‘Do not fret now,’ she pushed some hair out of his face with a gentle hand. ‘Finish your food and then you’ll rest.’
Mallister returned in a brisk stride across the cramped space. ‘The woman has seen a little boy leave this morning with the man who delivered lamb. He was traveling to supply the stalls at the tourney.’
Visenya jumped from her seat. ‘I will go after him to make sure he has reached there safely.’
‘No, princess, I must come with you.’
‘Mallister,’ she interrupted his protestation. ‘I will ride with great haste. I have my sword on my side, and no roadside ruffian will stop me. I need you to stay with Dearon and leave tomorrow after he’s had some rest.’
She bent down to lift her cousin’s face and make him look at her as she instructed, ‘Daeron, I bid you stay with Ser Mallister. You two will travel on the morrow when you’ve had some time to recover. Is your horse still in the stables?’
‘Yes,’ the prince rasped. Visneya nodded and placed a hurried kiss on his forehead. ‘Do not leave Mallister’s side for any reason, do you understand.’
Daeron only nodded in response to her words. Visenya made one last plea for the knight to ensure that her cousin finish his entire plate. She grabbed her own portion and asked the innkeeper to wrap it up for her for the road. If she were to resume her travel, she could at least have something to sate her rumbling belly at some point.
With the roasted lamb shank wrapped tightly, she made her way to the stables where Daeron’s golden-coated filly was waiting on Tempest’s left side. Visenya grabbed her rolled up tent and transferred it onto the fresh horse, buckling it in place. She raised a hand to her own horse’s nose, smoothing his glistening black coat, and promised to see him soon. And with that final parting, she climbed atop Daeron’s horse and set off at breakneck speed towards Ashford meadow.
With any luck she would reach there by evenfall.
The filly was panting and neighing most excitedly. But before Visenya could think to stop and let her rest, she saw light beyond the treeline. Many lights, like fireflies in early summer. She’d made it! Now to find Aegon…
She slowed her pace and moved through the trees, the lights growing closer and closer. The distant cacophony of laughter and shouting soon reached her too. Then a single light appeared behind a line of hedges and the smell of firewood tickled her nose. Why would anyone camp so far away from the centre of activity?
Visenya climbed off of her horse and led it around the hedge. Inside the secluded area she saw a tree, a glowing fire, and by the fire-
‘Egg?!’
The little boy who had been sitting on the ground whipped his head in surprise. The flickering light revealed his initial shock which quickly transformed and the boy’s face broke with a huge grin. He jumped up and ran to hug the princess.
‘Nye! You’re here!’ Egg squeaked.
Visenya dropped the reins of Daeron’s horse to embrace her cousin tightly. The filly was quick to leave her side but she joined the other horses that were grazing by the hedge.
The Gods must’ve been smiling on her if she managed to find the boy so quickly. He was safe. And in one piece!
And… bald?
Visenya smoothed a hand down Egg’s head, expecting to find short locks of white hair but felt only skin.
‘Egg, what has happened to your hair?’
The boy pulled back, still smiling, and rubbed his smooth scalp. ‘I like it! Daeron said it’d be safer if no one could catch that I was a Targaryen.’
Visenya sighed, of course he did.
She wistfully smiled back at her cousin, ‘I see. Well, it will grow on me once the shock is gone.’
Egg giggled. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t want to come to the tourney!’
‘Well, I needed to make sure my cousins were safe. And father has… ideas about finally marrying me off.’
‘Yuck!’
Visenya laughed. ‘Indeed. Daeron is in that inn that you were staying at. He's with Ser Mallister. They will join us tomorrow. Now pack up your things and…’ she looked back at the three horses that had been waiting there earlier in confusion. ‘Where did you get these horses from?’
‘They are the knight’s,’ Egg explained.
‘What knight?’
‘I… Well, I don’t actually know his name, but I shall be his squire!’
‘His squire?’
Egg seemed to catch her bemusement and crossed his arms. ‘I have the skill.’
‘I do not doubt you, little cousin. But I would like to meet this knight first. Make sure he is not some common sellsword.’
‘He’s not. He’s a hedge knight.’ A step above a sellsword, but not a cause for concern. ‘I will squire for him, I want to make mine own way into the world.’
Visneya hummed in thought. ‘I know something of such desires.’ She paused, then finally relented. If Egg wanted to squire for this mystery knight, then she would trust her cousin. Despite his greenness, Egg had a wisdom to him that even some aged men could never boast. ‘But you must promise to introduce me to him on the morrow.’
‘He doesn’t know I’m a prince,’ Egg warned eagerly.
‘I figured by the ragged attire.’
‘Hey! You are dressed as common as me!’
‘Yes, but I wear it better,’ Visenya teased. She gave her cousin a one-armed hug. ‘I will make sure to be discreet. But I will need to at least see the man whom you wish to squire for.’
‘Done! Now go!’
Visenya chuckled at her cousin’s desperation for her to let him be a man on his own. She grabbed the reins of Daeron’s horse again and with a final wave in Egg’s direction, she walked towards the larger camp.
Now on to the next prong in her plans.
The pavilions and tents that had been erected were many and even more numerous in their colours. The blues of House Tully, the red of House Lannister. Tyrells with their roses and Fossoways with their apples. Brackens and Blackwoods, hopefully far enough from each other and never sharing a table as to not reignite the flames of their eternal feud.
Half the bloody kingdom had come!
Visenya reached a makeshift stable where she could leave her horse for a moment. She needed to find the Baratheon pavilion and speak with Lord Lyonel before her father had arrived. And as if the Gods had heard yet another of her pleas for a sign that evening, she made a turn left and made out the pavilion she’d been searching for. A grand yellow and black tent with a number of antlers that bordered the obscene. There were sounds of merriment on the inside although with the late hour, Visenya was sure that they had begun to subside. People were leaving in twos and in threes, wobbling on unsteady legs, pitchers and flagons still clutched in their hands.
Visneya could do with a drink. She made her way towards the pavilion, nodding to the two guards who were still at their post. One of them did not seem convinced by her polite greeting and held out an arm to stop her.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’
‘Inside,’ Visenya said with a raised eyebrow.
‘Do you think we’re just letting anybody in. My lord’s gathering is over, wench.’
Wench? What a cock. ‘I am sure there have been plenty of people who managed to make their way inside to drink on your lord’s coin.’
‘Well, we’re not letting anymore in.’
‘And I will be sure to let any late guests know of such rules,’ Visenya quipped back.
The ill-mannared guard’s face twisted in fury and he placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. To attempt to scare her off mayhaps. Visenya wasn’t moved by the feeble threat.
Before she could offer back an actual threat and educate the poor fool, the opening of the pavilion opened. And the Laughing Storm himself stumbled through, the antlers on his crown catching on the flaps of the tent.
It was too dark already to make out his features properly and the meagre lights of the torches around only gave clues. Lyonel Baratheon was most certainly looking more aged than last time she’d seen him. His face was still youthful, but the black coils of curls at his temples and in his beard had been peppered with white and grey hairs. Visenya noted that he was just as tall and broad as ever, having to raise her head up to look him in the eyes.
The two guards immediately bowed their heads and Lyonel waved them off. He made a step towards Visenya and seemed to be attempting to focus on her face in the poor light. He held in a burp which only made Visenya scowl. Why was she doomed to converse with drunken men today! When he seemed sure who he was standing before, Lyonel’s lips pulled into a grin.
‘Princess.’ He dropped into a rocky bow. The guard who had been admonishing her earlier like she was some pickpocket swallowed his tongue and Visenya shot him a triumphant smirk. Serves you right, cunt!
‘My lord Lyonel,’ she only deigned to lower her face a little in response to his courtesy. ‘I am here to speak with you.’
Lyonel’s face morphed into a confused expression. ‘And I am… going to bed. Care to join?’
He chuckled at his own jest and waved his hand in front of his face.
‘Tempting,’ Visenya replied, her purple eyes flashing a daring look at the man. Lyonel seemed genuinely taken aback by her brazenness. ‘But I must speak with you. Urgently. And it can not wait until morning.’
Lyonel sighed loudly and extended his right hand to direct the princess away from the opening of the tent. ‘I am at your service, princess. After you.’
Visenya shot one final look at the impertinent guard for his cheek and walked away with Lyonel. Despite being seemingly drunk, he wasn’t as unsteady on his legs as some of the other guests of his revelry. Visenya thought it must’ve been a result of his life at sea. She’d seen plenty of sailors in King’s Landing who seemed only ever truly balanced on solid ground with a belly full of ale.
Lyonel led her to a tent much smaller than his pavilion but no less great in style and comfort. The fire inside was made and the light bounced off of the golden-yellow armour displayed proudly next to a table that was littered with cold meats, fruit, and drinks. Visenya looked at the array longingly and her stomach betrayed her by growling loudly.
Lyonel made no show of hearing it, but grabbed two goblets and a pitcher from his table. He handed one of the ornamented cups to Visenya and poured her a generous amount of wine, nearly spilling it over the rim. He poured himself a drink too.
‘To your grandsire’s good health,’ he toasted and gulped down half the wine in his goblet. Visenya took a big sip of hers as well. She needed it for her hunger and for the courage. ‘I haven’t seen you in a few years, princess. You’ve… grown? Would that be an appropriate compliment for a young lady?’
Visneya rolled her eyes, ‘I suppose.’ She drank another sip.
‘Happy to see you’re unchanged in one regard,’ Lyonel added and when he saw no understanding from the princess, he clarified. ‘You still roll your eyes at me like a brat.’
‘Excuse me!’
‘You wished to talk, yes?’
Visenya decided to ignore his childish jibe and moved into her half-rehearsed speech. ‘Yes, I… I know it’s been some time since we’ve last seen each other, but you are a… decent man.’ Debatable, she thought to herself. ‘And I was hoping you might help me with a small issue that has arisen.’
‘I am at your service, princess.’ Gods, must he sound so annoying when using her title!
‘There’s no simple way to say this… the small council has decided that I should marry.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Due to some of my… behaviour. And one of the few lords whom the council has agreed would be an appropriate match… is you.’
Lyonel choked on his wine and some ruby red liquid dripped down his beard. ‘I’m flattered, but-’
Visenya stopped him. ‘I can see you’re in no rush to be married. I don’t happen to be either.’
The Laughing storm went quiet. His dark brows furrowed over his eyes that were starting to fill with questions. Visenya answered them for him.
‘I don’t mean that I wouldn’t marry at some point, but I suppose… not now. And certainly not to you.’
Lyonel gasped and his mouth formed a pout, ‘I’m hurt.’
‘Anyways, I came up with a plan that will foil that of the council. And get me - and subsequently you - out of this situation.’
‘How?’ Lyonel asked.
‘I will need you to court me. Or at least pretend to.’
Lyonel took a step closer to Visenya, leaving barely any air between them. This close she could smell sweet wine on his breath and another deeper, earthier musk. If he’d been any other man, she would’ve found it intoxicating. Right now she found it only distracting and annoying. Why was he so very difficult!
‘I don’t court, princess.’
Visneya smiled defiantly. ‘You will court me. And I will be flattered by your attention.’
‘And how would that hinder the council’s plan exactly? So far it seems like a convoluted way to just get me to marry you.’
‘But you won’t’
‘Precisely.’
Visenya paused to give him a moment to assimilate her words. Lyonel scrunched his brows even further.
‘If I do court you and abandon said courtship in a few weeks, the people will think that I have taken your virtue.’
‘Oh, please, that ship has already sailed, wrecked, and sunk. I lost my virtue years ago.’
That seemed a greater shock to Lyonel than anything she had said so far. And yet there was something else flickering in his eyes… like intrigue.
‘We can say that the courting produced nothing and part ways as,’ Visenya smacked her lips, ‘friends.’
‘Friends now, are we? And what do I get out of this… charade?’
Visenya had thought of this too, of course. ‘This peacocking exhibition is much more than just a group of men fighting with lance and sword. Yes?’
Lyonel only nodded.
‘Plenty of the men who have come to this tourney see me- see a princess of the realm, that is, as yet another trophy. Whether it be for themselves or for their sons, I am but a prize for their mantle.’ It sounded more self-disparaging than she intended but she was making her meaning known.
‘You will have prime access to said prize. All the other knights and lords will be sure to be trying to unseat you in combat. They will vie for the chance to defeat the great Lyonel Baratheon. Which would mean…’
‘They will be vicious,’ Lyonel supplied and the spark in his eyes flashed like wildfire. Because that’s what a man like the Laughing storm wanted above all, Visenya had discovered. A chance at a real challenge. ‘You make an… interesting point, princess.’
‘I know,’ she replied. The tent was getting warmer or maybe it was her woolen cloak. Visneya cleared her throat, pushing the heated lump that had formed there further down. ‘So? Will you help me?’
Lyonel Baratheon searched her eyes for a moment. Visenya did so too. He was still infuriatingly handsome as when she’d first seen him. The task at hand wouldn’t be so terribly hard to achieve. Especially with a man who was… easy on the eyes. And his eyes, two pools of blue-green, reflected Visenya’s own determination.
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER FOUR // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 5.6K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; descriptions of alcohol and drinking; Aerion is his own trigger warning; some explicit language 😉
The crowd syphoned out from each corner of the camp to gather around the lists. Torches blazed brightly in their sconces and illuminated the jousting grounds. The thundering of what seemed like a thousand feet shook the ground, and the excited shouting of the audience was enough to deafen the night. The knights were mounting their horses, squires were running to pick up their lord’s lance or tighten the belts of their saddle.
Two lines formed at each end of the tilts. Lords and knights of renown, representing the realm’s best houses south of the Twins. Their chests and shields bore the sigils and colours of their families. Intent to prove to all who watched that they were the greatest and most fearsome warriors. Visenya stood by her words; tourneys were nothing more than a grand peacocking exhibition.
After that unexpected kiss from Lyonel (which he had decided she needn’t dwell over), she had found Valarr’s pavilion. He - ever the kind and thoughtful brother - made sure she was given a comfortable cot and stayed with her out of a desire to make sure that no man would think to enter the pavilion while he was away to train. Visenya had to kick him around the arse, much to the shock of his squire, to get him out. Once he had left her, she had taken a short stool outside the tent’s entrance to focus on a pleasurable pastime of her own.
Despite the turn of events, also known as the fucking kiss, Visenya had put her entire attention on sketching. She flipped through previous pages, finding plenty of errors to correct. Then finding more and it was vexing her. She turned a new page, took a deep breath and began anew.
It wasn’t as if she’d never kissed anyone before. She’d shared such intimate affection with so many. Lately she’d been getting plenty of it from Rod and Nira. No, it was just that it came out of nowhere. And she hadn’t been touched by a lover in more than a fortnight. Mayhaps she should’ve set out a clearer plan so they both would’ve been prepared for-
CLASH!
The ear-splitting noise of lances connecting with armour brought Visenya back to the present. Her head whipped around to look through the champions atop their horses. Valarr was in an armour as dark as night but she could make him out atop his horse. A breath of relief left her chest. She did not doubt his abilities and the fact that nobody would truly be brave enough to unhorse an heir to the throne.
Then Visenya’s eyes hurried to look through the other men, searching. And she found her mark, at the end of the tilt that was nearest to the viewing stand. She saw a gleaming helm with two great antlers protruding from the top. A cloth-of-gold surcoat over an armour that was just as pristinely polished as the helm. A shield with a yellow field and a crowned stag.
Visenya followed his movements closely.
Lyonel appeared as confident on a horse as he did when treading the ground. He only needed to urge his horse with a sharp squeeze of his legs and the creature was swift as a flash of lightning to react. Lyonel’s lance was extended and the most startling sound was heard coming just beneath his helm; he was laughing. A thundering laugh that somehow rang louder than the sounds of the challengers, their horses, and the crowd combined.
Visenya bit down on her lip to contain a smirk at having the stories confirmed. She sat just a little forward in her place and continued following Lord Lyonel’s play a little more closely. He was as formidable as everyone had claimed and used his lance as masterfully as Visenya used a pen.
‘A good fighter, is he not?’ Baelor had turned to gauge his daughter’s opinion. She remained silent but gave her father a small nod to confirm his words. A good fighter and even better actor if you would believe it, Visneya mused. And he was just as adept with his mouth, his lips were warm and they had collided with hers in a way that just felt-
Another laugh and another clash of lances came roaring from the ground. Reality kept forcing Visenya out of her own mind. Good, she had agreed with herself that reflecting on that kiss was meaningless. If the plan succeeded and the false courtship fell through, she could go back to the capital and her friends who provided just as much affection as any black-haired lord.
The first match of the tourney came to an end as quickly as it had begun and the noble men and women in the audience were whisked away to feast at Ashford castle. The grand table at the end of the great hall was decorated lavishly and platters of food were already waiting there when the guests started filtering in. Visenya had been led to a seat next to her brother who in turn was on their father’s left. The seat next to the princess was left empty, presumably since Lord Ashford had been informed that she would be accompanied by Lyonel Baratheon.
He wasn’t coming.
She’d hoped he would, at least for an hour just so they could push their plan to the next stage. He was surely already several cups deep at another revelry in his pavilion and would prefer it to a stuffy dinner with the royal family. Visenya herself would’ve loved nothing more than to do the same. She reached for the goblet of wine and hoped the drink would dull her senses until she could actually enjoy her evening. Yet their duty as a family was to give their hosts attention while their hosts in turn would shower them with shallow praises.
‘Forgive my tardiness. I needed to change so I wouldn’t smell like my horse’s arse.’
Visenya almost got a neckache with how quickly her head turned to find Ser Lyonel taking up his seat next to her. He wore a beautiful black vest, embroidered with gold thread, over a billowy shirt in the same dark shade. Whether he had intended it or not, his attire matched perfectly with her black velvet dress and its gilded embellishments. Exactly what a courting couple would be expected to do.
‘A clever play with the clothes,’ Visenya said softly. She popped a grape in her mouth and let its juices mix with the taste of the wine on her tongue. Lord Ashford had surely had their best reserves opened especially for the occasion.
Lyonel let a servant fill his goblet and lifted it in toast. ‘To the success of our endeavor.’
Visenya followed along and they both drank deep. It would be a long night of pretence and she needed the dullness in her senses that came through drink. Hopefully, her father would be too busy with their host to pay much attention to them. Her brother was already roped into their discussion so they could rely on little to no curious ears to eavesdrop on their conversation.
‘I must say, the stories of your… prowess on the tourney field don’t do you justice.’
‘Did I impress you then, princess.’ Lyonel rotated his body so he was facing her profile and placed one hand on the table, encasing her in a space of his own body heat and scent. What could that be that she could sense on his clothes? An earthy tone that reminded her of laying in the grass in the Kingswood or settling up by the fire on a cold evening.
‘I fear I will inflate your ego far too much by confirming that.’
Lyonel laughed at that and the sound was much different than the one Visenya had heard earlier that night. This wasn’t a crazed laugh meant to strike terror in the heart of his opponent. It was a genuine howl of merriment.
‘So did the kiss from earlier help in any way? With the great plan that is?’
Visenya hummed, ‘Indeed. It helped the plan, of course. I saw your opponent in the match tonight was particularly motivated.’
‘Not even close,’ Lyonel groaned and leaned back in his chair. ‘He tried, of course. And failed. I hope the morrow brings a better challenge. Or I should turn to your brother for a proper foe.’
‘He would be glad of it, I am sure.’
They continued to engage in conversation in between bites. This was the longest they had ever talked and despite the rougher first impressions of him, Visenya was beginning to see a different side to him. He was charming when he wanted to be, and no less witty in his remarks than her. He wasn’t duplicitous like other lords she had had the misfortune of crossing paths with.
The wine was flowing freely and Visenya felt more relaxed than at the start of the evening. And then the one person she had hoped to avoid at all costs and spare herself the headache, strolled into her line of vision just on the other side of the table. There were none of her many relatives that she could not stand the sight of, bar one. Aerion walked up to them and leant his hands on the table top, looking like a vulture on a treetop with a carcass in its view.
‘That must be the suitor then, dear cousin.’ He was quite evidently drunk and each word was filled with his usual malice.
‘Begone, Aerion. I have no time for your venom.’ Visenya hissed.
Her cousin inclined his head and pouted mockingly. ‘That is no way for a lady to be speaking.’ His eyes moved to the man on her left. ‘Lord Lyonel.’
‘Prince Aerion.’
‘Are you sure you are not making a terrible mistake with this one? Terrible wife material.’
‘Aerion, do not embarrass me.’ Gods, she so wished to have her sword on her at that moment.
‘Embarrass you?’ He cackled. He leaned back a little but the game of cat and mouse appeared to bring him great pleasure. ‘Have you shown him your silly scribbles yet. I would not bother with this one, milord. Some would think she’d rather behave as a commoner than a lady.’
‘You’re a horrid cunt.’
‘And you’re a whore.’
Lyonel rose from his chair; not fast and abrupt, but measured. Like a great wave that was growing in height as it began to reach the shore. His eyes darkened and Visenya could see in them the sea at the prelude of a storm. He appeared calm but his body was taut like a bowstring. Even at the same level, he was so much more taller than her cousin, and he towered over him by a full head. Visenya’s eyeline was leveled with his arms and she noted that his right hand was clenching and unclenching at his side. She quickly scanned the room and a scarce few had noticed what was happening between the two men. So she took her chance to escape the situation before a scandal broke out.
She pried Lyonel’s fist open and slid her own hand inside, her other hand touching his upper arm gently. ‘Milord, care to take a turn outside? The air has grown rather stale here.’
And before she could give Aerion a moment to continue his verbal assault, she pulled Lyonel away and through the nearest doorway. She recalled her way around the corridors and made it out into the castle’s courtyard quickly. Once they were out into the air, she let out a deep breath, her body relaxing after being all clenched up much like Lyonel’s fist. She had released his hand and her palm was prickling as if stung by a hundred bees.
‘He should not have spoken to you in this way,’ he finally said.
Visenya looked up at him and gave a placating smile. ‘Oh! Trust me, he has said much worse. I apologize if he caused you insult.’
‘It’ll take more than some little shit of a princeling to insult me.’
Visenya chuckled at his comment. ‘Well, I suppose you’re right.’
Lyonel looked back at the castle entrance then to Visenya who tried to read his expression. He was much calmer now yet the memory of his features turning somber had been startling. Not in the manner that would bring her to fear him, but it did make her think that there was a much deeper wealth of emotions to the man. Far beyond what he presented to the world.
‘I have a small gathering at my pavilion tonight,’ he finally spoke. ‘I was planning on escaping there for some real fun.’
It is as if she’d been waiting the entire evening to hear those words come out of his mouth. ‘Lead on!’
The Baratheon pavilion was practically bursting at the seams with people. There were several tables that were pushed to the furthest sides and some of the guests were using them as either seating or an extension of the dancefloor. The commotion grew as people cheered upon seeing their lord and host’s arrival to his own celebration. A cup was thrust into his hand by a round, bearded man, and Lyonel downed it with a flare. Visenya chuckled and watched as part of the drink trickled down his beard. With the cup empty, Lyonel used the back of his sleeve to wipe his mouth, spread his arms wide and shouted to the gathered crowd.
‘Who brought this watered down piss! Give these people a proper drink!’ A manservant in bright yellow immediately sprung up to complete his lord’s request. Visenya chuckled at what was a sudden yet not unwelcome change in his behaviour. He appeared in his element and it made her relax as well. The manservant rushed back, carrying a glass bottle in hand and gave it to the lord himself. Lyonel poured a small amount, tossed it out to clear the cup of the previous liquid, and filled his cup.
‘Find the lady a glass,’ he shouted over the ruckus to the manservant, but Visenya stopped him.
‘No need,’ she said and grabbed the bottle out of Lyonel’s hand. She smirked back at him and lifted it to her lips, taking a deep and satisfying swig. And by the Seven! That was one truly fantastic wine! Rich and smooth, it trickled down her throat like warm honey. And it was strong. Lyonel’s eyebrows shot up and his moustache twitched with the inklings of a roguish grin that was pulling at the corners of his mouth. Visenya smacked her lips and cried, ‘Gods, this is good!’
Lyonel finished what was left in his own cup and threw it behind him. Then stretched one of his arms out to her and there it hovered for a moment. A moment that was more of an invitation. And Visenya thought of nothing but wanting to take him up on his offer. Because the promise of good fun, good music, and fantastic wine, was what she’d been waiting for. What she’d been needing since stepping into the role of a dutiful princess for the tourney. In that very moment, just for tonight at least, she would get to be herself once more.
Visenya grinned and took his hand. Lyonel laughed and the sound carried over the lively music. He spun her around once, eliciting a girlish giggle from the princess, and rushed them both towards the middle of the dance floor where people began to make room for their lord and his guest.
‘You can’t be dancing in this dress.’ He yelled.
Visenya held up a finger and took yet another swig of the honeyed wine. She handed him the bottle, then pinched the sides of her dress where it brushed her knees. She hoisted the garment up and with practiced precision tucked in inside her belt, thus lifting the hem of her skirts so it fell just above her calves. ‘Better?’
‘Perfect.’ Lyonel grinned wildly and finished what was left in the bottle, handing it off to whoever in the crowd. He placed a warm and heavy hand on her waist, pulling her sharply into his chest. Their free hands found each other and their bodies began to move energetically to the beat. The music playing was lively and the two bounced on their feet. Lyonel spun them around and Visenya shrieked with laughter.
Oh, how she had missed this sense of freedom!
Soon the lights in the tent and the faces of the attendees blurred together like wet paint. And before long, Visenya could not care to know if anyone would recognise her or think her indecent. She was there, with wine in her belly that was making her feel warm and light, and Lyonel who was dancing with her like she was just a maid at a fair. The music changed, the beat remained ever so fast. Visenya trusted her body to remember each step while her eyes remained fixed on Lyonel’s bright and colourful eyes. The firelight of the makeshift chandelier reflected off of them in the most wonderful way. Partners exchanged during the dance, Visenya felt other hands coming to hold hers briefly or to grab her waist though she cared little for any other person. Until she reached back around the circle and her fingers touched the coarse palm of the man who’d hogged her attention for the entire evening.
His face came closer and Visenya’s heart and stomach began to jump like they too wanted to join the dance. His lips were close now, so close she could smell the sweet wine on his breath. She wanted to taste it. But his face moved to the side of her own and his mouth lingered just above her right ear.
‘I shall go find a bottle of my personal reserve,’ he spoke softly and the timber of his voice only proved itself an even more intoxicating opiate. It was like he was seeping milk of the poppy right into the shell of her ear.
‘I will wait for you here then,’ Visenya murmured back and when Lyonel pulled away he shot her another devilish grin. With that said and with a lingering touch on her upper arm, Lyonel’s body moved away from hers, his heat departing too, and he melted into the sea of people. Visenya’s hands rose to her hair where some of the pins had loosened in the dance. Some she had even lost so she made do with what she had left. The back of her neck and the crown of her forehead were both damp with perspiration so she stumbled towards the edge of the pavilion where the brisk evening wind was blowing gently through a gap in the fabric. There was a table beside her, cluttered with abandoned flagons and pitchers of ale, but she refrained from stealing a drink. She wanted to wait and taste what Lyonel would bring for her.
‘Of course, I would find you at the biggest revelry on the campground.’
Visenya’s head spun around too fast and her vision blurred, but she made out the face of none other than Roderick walking up to her.
‘Rod! Gods, what are you doing here!’ She shrieked for joy and rushed to embrace the man as he drew nearer. ‘I did not know you would be coming to the tourney!’
‘Arrived today with a few of the late stragglers,’ Rod explained. ‘Was not all that surprised to find you here. I want to know, however, about you and your dance partner.’
Roderick snatched a flagon from the nearby table and took a sip to hide a very obvious and very nosy smirk.
‘Lyonel Baratheon? What about him?’
Roderick raised an eyebrow. ‘Last time I saw you dancing with a highborn man you kneed him in the bollocks. And here you are, not even threatening him with violence.’
‘Last time it was a Dondarrion cousin and he was being a cunt. We should be glad if the damage to said bollocks was enough to spare future generations of such men.’
Roderick cackled. ‘Sure. But tell me more of this… situation.’
‘Well…’ Visenya sighed. ‘Father and the council have it in their minds that I should marry now.’
‘They’ve wanted to marry you off before but your father held off on it.’
‘Yes, but they’re hearing enough whispers of my loose behaviour to make them worry. Thankfully, father has disabused them of the notion that they can just arrange a match for me. Instead they made up a list and he had me choose a man.’
‘And… you’re betrothed to Lyonel Baratheon?’
Visenya shook her head. ‘Gods, no! He is helping me pull the wool over their eyes, you see. It’s a brilliant plan, because when our courtship comes to an abrupt end, they’ll be convinced that I am very much… unmarriageable.’
‘I don’t know about that, but…’ Roderick trailed off and sipped his drink.
‘What?’
‘Are you sure this is not a perfect match? You and the Laughing Storm?’
Visenya scoffed and gave him a good natured punch to the shoulder. ‘Preposterous! What would make you think that?’
‘To begin, you both seem to enjoy a good revelry. From what I hear people say of him, of course.’
‘That means exactly nothing when it comes to marriage.’
‘And secondly,’ Roderick rushed to interrupt her. ‘You two seem like… a perfect fit.’
‘Do not jest.’
‘I do not!’
Visenya rolled her eyes dramatically, but Rod’s words proved to be stronger than any sobering tonic she might’ve taken.
‘And here I thought you only rolled your eyes at me.’
‘Milord!’ Visenya saw Lyonel approach and her lips pulled into a tense smile. He had stripped himself of the embroidered vest and his shirt was open even wider now, showing off a vast expanse of his chest which was covered in tiny, black curls. He handed a goblet to Visenya and she practically inhaled the first sip. That wine was even better than the one she’d tasted at the beginning, all sweet and buttery.
‘Er… Milord, let me introduce Roderick Mallory. Rod, this is-’
‘Lord Lyonel.’ Rod bowed his head in respect, but Visenya could see the conspiratorial smirk he was trying to hide. ‘I had heard tales of your incredible revelries and am now glad to have witnessed one firsthand.’
‘Rod is an artist at the court,’ Visenya supplied.
‘Not quite as skilled as this one right here,’ Roderick complimented and she cursed him in her mind. What was he trying to accomplish here?! ‘But you must excuse me now, I must go to bed.’
‘No, stay!’ And now he was leaving her with her treacherous thoughts.
‘I must. I will be a father soon and must learn to retire before the hour of ghosts.’
‘Nira is with child?’ Roderick nodded, a very pleased smile stretching his wide mouth even wider. That must’ve been why she was not accompanying him. Then Visenya gasped and clutched her chest in feigned shock. ‘Is- is it mine?’
‘Hardy har har, Nye. She already beat you to the joke.’
Visenya punched his shoulder a little harder this time. ‘That is a criminal offence, but I will forgive it this time.’
‘Oh, how generous you are, your highness!’ Rod dipped to the floor in a maidenly curtsy. ‘I shall leave you… and your lord.’
I should’ve punched him harder, Visenya thought and watched his back-stabbing, smirking face retreat before it disappeared completely out of the pavilion. She then attempted to glance discreetly at Lyonel only to find him already peering down at her face. His eyes were a little hazy with drunkenness but they were as alive as she’d ever seen them.
‘I think I need some air. Do you mind?’ It wouldn’t be a complete lie since the pavilion was so stifling and it smelled of sweating bodies and spilled ale.
‘Not at all.’ Lyonel walked right behind her as they made their way into the quiet beyond the cloth walls of the enormous tent. The evening air was crisp and drawing a deep breath of air felt much easier. The torches still burned brightly along the paths though not nearly as bright as the moon. And although clouds had gathered in the sky above, obscuring the stars, the moon filled the night with its soft silvery light.
Lyonel and Visenya began to walk, in what direction neither of them were entirely certain. Visenya’s legs were a little more unsteady than his, even with her exemplary drinking capabilities, and she felt her shoulder brush his on more than one occasion. They walked and they drank in the silence that the night afforded them.
‘Roderick is your friend?’
Visenya nodded and sipped from her goblet. ‘Him and his wife. She assists him in his work.’
‘And you’ve slept with both of them.’
The princess looked at him and the way he said the words almost caused her to laugh. He did not speak with ire, nor disapproval, nor did he sound disgusted by the thought of her nonexistent virtue. Most lords would’ve turned their noses at a highborn lady who behaved - in their eyes at least - as a common whore. Hers was the duty to be pure and virginal until her husband took her maidenhead. Quiet and meek, and never privy to the vast pleasures of this world.
‘On many occasions,’ Visenya suppressed a chuckle. They had seen her naked more times than her own lady’s maid. Not always in the carnal sense but also as the occasional subject of their joint artistic projects. ‘That does not shock you.’
‘No,’ he murmured and the softness of his voice when they were alone was such a stark difference to his usual much louder way of expression. ‘I do find you fascinating.’
‘Fascinating is another word for strange.’
‘It is another word for attractive, too.’
‘Oh, so you find me attractive then, milord?’
‘Lyonel.’ The sudden halt in their step caused Visenya to nearly stumble over her half-hoisted skirts. She looked up at him in question. ‘You keep calling me Milord.’
‘It is proper.’
‘I think we established you’re not quite so proper yourself, princess.’
‘Now you are doing it.’
‘Then we both should stop.’
Oh, he wanted to be a frustrating arse again! However, Visenya could not hold onto the corners of her mouth as they lifted just a little. You two seem like a perfect fit, Rod had said. A perfect fit when it came to vexing each other.
‘Lyonel,’ Visenya spoke his name, each vowel lingered on her tongue like the honeyed wine.
‘Visenya,’ he returned the courtesy and she’d never been more startled by how well her name sounded coming from him. She blinked away the haziness from her eyes and planted them firmly on the path ahead. They continued in silence and the occasional sip of what was left in their goblets. ‘You never said why you do not wish to be married.’
Visenya hiccuped. ‘I thought I did.’
‘No, you stated that you will at some point marry but never specified why you are holding back,’ he clarified. ‘I have a sister. I speak from a semblance of… understanding that whole business.’
Of course! Visenya remembered hearing of the lady. She had been presented in front of her grandparents some years ago, then married the first son of the Lord of Evenhall and became a Tarth. There had been a tourney, the old Lord of Storm’s End had thrown in celebrating his grandson’s birth. But that was what… nine years ago. Lord Lyonel’s nephew must be just the age to desire joining tourneys himself one day.
‘I want to marry, of course.’ Visenya looked down at the inside of her goblet. The last few drops of wine dared her to spill her own thoughts and feelings. What is there to lose? It was all for the better execution of their plan. The plan…
‘I don’t want a cage.’
‘Who would be brave enough to cage you?’
‘A madman.’
Laughter came from between Lyonel’s lips. Visenya chuckled at the thought herself.
‘I enjoy life. I enjoy my life. Outside the castle, outside all that fucking protocol. I cannot tell you how much I despise the stiffness I must always portray, but it is my duty. According to the world.’
‘Fuck the world!’ Lyonel had turned his face to the skies and yelled it out into the quiet night. Visenya shushed him and leaned against his shoulder to stifle her giggles.
‘That is perfectly easy for you to say. But the gods deemed that I should be born a woman, a princess. And all the expectations that come with that are- seven hells, I’m too drunk to make sense.’
‘You make perfect sense, don’t be daft.’ He said and wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her steady and upright. Visenya could manage just fine but she would be lying to herself if she said she did not enjoy his touch. His strong arm reaching for her felt right… in this moment at least.
‘I don’t want to be my husband’s trophy! To be put up on the wall the way you display your antlers, and be used only for my family name. And then there’s children, of course. If I marry… fuck, I’d love to have children some day. But then again any lord would want me to push an heir after heir. And my pleasure - any pleasure I might derive from… intimacy, true intimacy - will be reduced to its base function.’
Visenya shook her head. Her fears were always more bare with drink in her system. Every horrid scenario that she had ever pictured crystalising in her head. And faceless, cruel men haunted her with their hands reaching for each piece of her until there was nothing left.
‘Grandmama taught me art, encouraged me to live. One might blame it on the customs of her people, but… she showed me what life can truly be like. Beyond courtly duty. And if I marry… it will be to someone who will be my true equal and who will see me as one too. Do you understand?’
Her face turned up to find him studying her intensely already. His brows were furrowed yet in his eyes she saw he understood. Pretending and playing a part, she knew he did play a part at times as well.
You two seem like a perfect fit.
‘I understand,’ he replied at last and although laced with a drunken lilt, his words rang true. They were even closer now, chest to chest. Visneya could swear she could feel his heart against her bosom. Or was it her own? It was beating steady but faster than its natural rhythm as if it could remember the beat of the music they had danced to.
Visenya thought that if he dipped down, lifted her chin, and pressed his lips to hers… she would let him. She would welcome a kiss from him and return it eagerly. She would melt into him, let his lips mould her own so they would never forget each other’s shape.
A perfect fit.
‘Visenya.’ Lyonel’s voice was but a whisper when he spoke her name again. A warm, inviting whisper.
‘Lyonel.’ She said his just as softly.
He groaned deep in his throat and closed his eyes shut. His forehead dipped down so it was barely touching Visenya’s. Just a little closer, she prayed and knew she would be horrified by her own neediness once the effects of the wine wore off. But she needed him, she wanted him. ‘I would take you right now. Right here in the dirt like a rutting stag.’
‘Nothing is stopping you.’ She was eager to say, smirking at what was a fitting analogy coming from the lord of House Baratheon himself. His large hands fisted the gathered skirts at her waist and pulled her even closer. His body was as hot as fire and as solid as marble, and she could feel every part of him. From his muscled chest to the distinctive hardness in his trousers. Visenya’s hands came up to clutch at his shirt’s sleeves, creasing the fabric between her fingers.
‘I am drunk,’ he groaned again. One of his hands rose to her face and cupped her jaw.
‘So am I.’
Seven hells, why would that stop him?
‘Forgive me, princess.’ His head moved back an inch so he could look down at her and conflict brewed wildly in his eyes. His next words were said so gruffly they sounded closer to an animal's grunt. ‘If I take you, and I intend to. One day. I want my wits about me. I want to peel each piece of clothing on your body and see every inch of skin clearly. I want to taste your fiery cunt and drink dragonfire. I want to fuck you until my cock is the only one you will think of or want.’
Visenya choked on the most pathetic whimper.
‘And I cannot do all that - give you what I know you desire - when I have been drinking all evening.’
He stepped back and when Visenya glanced above his shoulder, she could make out the red dragon on black flag and the entrance to Valarr’s pavilion. She wanted to say something, persuade him that he couldn’t just leave her like that, all hot and with her cunt quivering for him. But she listened to his words and decided if not tonight, she will ensure he will fulfill all the filth he growled against her face. There were still two days of the tourney. She would take him to her bed one way or another.
He took one of her hands and pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles before their bodies parted completely. ‘Good night, Visenya.’
And as she stepped towards the bowels of the black and red pavilion, she replied. ‘Good night, Lyonel.’
Next chapter
A/N: Thoughts? I had to give you all a little morsel, I couldn't have you frothing at the mouth!
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC
CHAPTER THREE // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 4.4K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; descriptions of alcohol; Lyonel + his poopy mouth, of course
A/N: This took slightly longer than planned, but I wanted to get it right. I want to thank everybody for their kind messages! I've been a bit poorly the last few days and reading how excited people are is really making me feel much better! Thank you 🥹🌸
Visneya tossed around on the thin sleeping mat and good night’s rest evaded her like a plague. She managed to close her eyes and drift off for a while after setting up her tent. The makeshift bed was not the issue; Visenya had picked up enough from Ser Mallister to know how to select a comfortable sleeping area.
There was a spot a little way behind the Baratheon pavilion, at the edge of the tree line. It was secluded and concealed her from prying eyes as she stripped her clothes and gave her body a dry scrub to remove the sweat and dirt of the trip. Once her father arrived with the rest of his party, she’d join him at the castle to have a proper bath. She couldn’t stand the grime and stench that clung to her skin like summer heat.
The tourney campground was silent with only the constant chirp of crickets to be heard. And Visenya’s stomach growling. The lamb shank that she’d taken from the inn sated her hunger but not for long. It was nigh on two days that she hadn’t had a proper meal. Gods only knew how those poor souls amongst the smallfolk survived with such scarcity day-to-day.
Then Visenya’s mind, ever her worst enemy, decided that instead of sleep she would better think of Lord Lyonel’s table. The plates and bowls piled with cheese, and grapes, and salted pork. And then there was Lyonel himself, picking on morsels and washing them down with more wine. His body had swayed with the memory of the music he had enjoyed during that night’s festivities.
Visenya had seen that his energy and attentiveness were running short by the minute. She’d shared her plan with him and they were in agreement. He would help her get her father and the council off of her back for a little while, and he would get more bloodthirsty challengers on the jousting grounds once they saw that he had the sole attention of a princess. An intricate game of politics that was surely to be successful.
Right?
Visneya groaned loudly, smacking her arms down onto the mat. Had she made a mistake in choosing him? He was possibly more debauched than her, with a renowned love for merriment. That much they had in common. But he was also a pig-headed Baratheon: arrogant, rude… and unashamed of his naked glory, evident in how quick he was to strip and bare his own skin to her before Visenya could even deign to leave his tent.
Hopefully, he was going to be an easier ally on the morrow. With less drink in his belly.
With no further hope for rest, the princess sat up and crawled out of her tent. It was close to the hour of the nightingale, but not yet early enough for sunlight to crest on the horizon. Visenya slipped into the clothes she’d worn the day before. Then packed up quietly, hoping to find a better spot tonight. She was sure her father would insist on her taking up quarters at the castle. However, she intended to enjoy some time on her own, away from protocol and propriety.
As soon as she had collected her things and ushered the gilded filly away from the treeline, Visenya noticed that others had begun to stir around the campground. Servants and workmen who rose with the roosters, not afforded the comfort of a lengthy sleep. The stalls began to wake and the smell of warm baked bread wafted from nearby.
Visenya felt a rush of energy and her feet carried her swiftly towards the direction of the tempting smell. She would explore the grounds some more but a nice bannock to break her fast would be much appreciated.
With every passing hour, more people began to emerge from their tents and pavilions. Nobody bothered Visneya and she was glad of it; she’d perfected the art of blending in with the crowds at King’s Landing. The tourney grounds were a breeze by comparison. And since her hair - which on a normal day looked more like she’d rolled it in soot - was dirty and clasped at the back of her head, nobody would even guess that she might be a Targaryen. Her eyes were the only ones that would’ve given her away if Visneya gave them a chance to look more closely.
A few hours later, after she had finished familiarising herself with the area, a great stir was felt in the crowd. Visenya was sitting atop Daeron’s horse, sketching her surroundings and the people milling around the stalls. She looked up from the page to see the all too familiar black flags emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon.
‘They’re early,’ Visenya hummed and looked down at the filly. ‘Shall we head there then? I wouldn’t mind getting out of these clothes and having a bath.’
The horse huffed and shook her head.
‘I hope that wasn’t directed at me,’ she warned with no real malice in her words. She was in need of a bath. She gently kicked the filly with her heels and led her towards the bridge where the Targaryen party had just passed through.
There were enough people in the courtyard of Ashford castle and all engaged in their own tasks. Visenya was grateful that she didn’t have to bother with another guard who thought himself high and mighty. She left Daeron’s horse in the stable and bit the young boy who worked there care for her until the prince himself arrived. Out of the corner of her eye, Visenya spotted the gleaming white armour of the King’s guard. A pair of them. Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Donnel of Duskendale. They were gathered around a fire with some of the Ashford guards and sharing a drink. Visenya walked towards them and Ser Donnel grinned when he saw her approach.
‘Princess! I did not know you would be coming.’
‘Good to see you, Ser Donnel.’ Visneya nodded his way with a smile of her own. ‘I left a day or two earlier. Made it here just last night.’
‘There were no lakes to bathe in on your way here,’ Ser Roland jested and earned himself a good natured punch to the shoulder from the princess.
‘I will attend to that momentarily. Do you know where my father would be?’
‘Mayhaps breaking his fast with lord Ashford. They made their way up some time ago.’
They asked for the directions from another of the knights gathered and he pointed Visenya to the main door. ‘Once you’re in, it’s straight up the grand staircase, then a left turn and you should be there.’
‘Thank you, ser.’
‘Milady,’ the knight replied and bowed his head respectfully.
Ashford castle wasn’t grand by any standards. But anything paled in comparison to the Red Keep. It was a much smaller keep to start but it was warm and dry. Servants busied themselves and there was a perpetual look of worry etched on each of their faces. Typical, Visenya thought, hosting the royal family had that effect on people.
Following the guard’s instructions, she managed to find her way around. Although once she turned a corner, she nearly collided with a man that was so tall she worried his head might be dragging along the ceiling.
‘I’m very sorry, m’lady,’ the poor man flushed and lowered his gaze. ‘I did not see you.’
‘It is quite alright,’ Visenya assured him. ‘I wasn’t trying to be seen. I should be sorry for bumping into you. Consider me a pebble in your path.’
‘I would not dare to think you a pebble,’ he said and Visenya was surprised to notice that he actually meant his words. His honesty was surprisingly refreshing.
The man was nearly twice her size yet he carried himself with hunched shoulders and his head even lower. Visenya noticed the greatsword on his hip and the shield that was half slung over one shoulder. A knight mayhaps? He wasn’t dressed particularly well and the rough-sput woolen cloak over his wide shoulders was frayed in places. A hedge knight then?
‘Are you here for the tourney?’ she inquired.
‘Oh, yes!’ The man stumbled over his words, but his excitement was evident. ‘Just got me an approval from prince Baelor himself.’
‘The prince is known for his benevolent nature,’ Visenya observed.
‘Indeed,’ the man nodded. ‘Excuse me, m’lady, but I need to get my shield fixed. I shall bid you farewell.’
‘Good day to you, ser. And good luck!’
He thanked her as they walked around each other and went their separate ways. Visenya smoothed a hand over her hair, trying to contain the crown of frizz along her forehead that refused to be bound. She finally dusted off her cloak and made her way inside the great hall.
‘Visenya!’ her father called out, the creased features of his face softening instantaneously. And a beaming smile made its way onto his lips as if flowery spring itself had entered the room. He got up from the long table where he’d been sitting with what Visenya assumed was Lord Ashford and her own uncle Maekar. Baelor walked was before his daughter in two strides, arms opened wide.
‘Father!’ Visenya hugged him tightly.
‘Gods, you reek,’ her father muttered for only her to hear.
She rolled her eyes playfully. ‘I know, but in my defence I was travelling without a full retinue. And I arrived very late last night.’
‘I thought you said she’d gone on a trip for her scribblings.’ Visenya heard the ever-so-cheerful drawl of her uncle’s voice.
‘Good morrow to you too, uncle.’ She greeted just as dryly. Looking beyond her father’s shoulder, she found her silver-haired uncle scowling at the food they’d been given. Glad to see you continue to bring such light into each room you enter, she wanted to say but they were in company. Such retorts were best left when the family was in private.
‘Lord Ashford,’ Baelor began and pushed Visenya toward the table and the man himself who was standing behind it. ‘May I introduce my daughter, Visenya.’
The princess curtsied and Lord Ashford returned the courtesy with a deep bow of his own. He was a small man with a wrinkled, yet not unkind face. He did however wear a glaring bronze chain over an embellished robe. The old man had surely searched the family chests for the finest attire in order to impress his royal guests. And bootlick while he was at it.
‘A true beauty, if I may say so.’ Lord Ashford praised.
‘Although she looks like she’s rolled in the dirt,’ Maekar commented gruffly. ‘Do you have an excuse for embarrassing the family by presenting yourself in such a state.’
‘Maekar,’ Baelor warned firmly. ‘Forgive your uncle. Daeron and Aegon have been lost on the road.’
‘Oh, they’re not. I found them both.’
‘What!’ Maekar bellowed, rising from his chair.
‘I was travelling with Ser Mallister and we encountered Daeron at an inn not far from here.’
That revelation caused her uncle to groan. Most likely from both relief and despair at the thought that his eldest son was loitering in some roadside inn.
‘Are they here now?’ Baelor inquired.
‘I left Mallister at the inn with him to ensure Daeron rests before completing the journey.’
‘And Aegon?’ It was Maekar’s turn to ask.
Visenya thought of little Egg. Remembered his plea for her to keep his presence on camp grounds a secret so he may squire for his mystery hedge knight. And with Daeron still way away from the tourney, she could keep that secret safe. Either way, she had to find Egg and let him know that his machinations had a limited time.
And therefore she had to lie. ‘He’s with them. With a measured pace, they should reach us in a day. I trust Ser Mallister to keep them safe.’
‘But you made your way on your own?’ Visenya recognised the worry in her father’s features and realised she needed to give a good reason for her early arrival.
‘I needed to speak with… Lord Baratheon.’
Baelor’s eyebrows rose so high up they almost disappeared into his hairline. Then a curious smile appeared on his lips. ‘You have made a decision then?’
‘He is a good match,’ Visenya shrugged. ‘I can make no promises that our courtship will amount to anything.’
‘It gives me great pleasure that you are at least giving this a chance,’ Baelor said and gently touched a finger to her chin. Visenya felt a horrible ache in her chest for lying to her father, but she had made her choice. Matrimony would not ensnare her so easily.
‘Now you must go and wash before you begin to attract flies.’
Lord Ashford stepped forward. ‘We were not made aware of the princess’s arrival, b-but I will personally ensure that she is given the proper accommodations.’
‘Worry not, milord.’ Visenya held up a hand. ‘I should like to simply bathe and change into something more comfortable. I do intend to stay at the campsite.’
‘Visenya, the tourney camp is no place-’
‘I will be perfectly safe. Surely Valarr has already erected his own pavilion and I will make sure that my tent is as close to his as possible.’
Baelor knotted his brows in thought. Visenya knew he could never say no to her and she was asking for this one small liberty.
‘I will allow it on the condition that you stay in your brother’s pavilion - for your own safety.’ Visenya began to protest but her father shot her down. ‘And that you appear at tonight’s feast with Lord Baratheon to respect our gracious host.’
Visenya looked at Lord Ashoford who had puffed up his chest like some great bird. She smiled and spoke with a measured sweetness that was drilled into her from an early age. ‘If his lordship would have us.’
‘But, of course, Your Highness.’ Lord Ashford then turned to one of the serving girls in the corner and snapped his fingers at her. ‘Tell the kitchens to prepare water for the princess’s bath.’
‘She may take it in my chambers,’ Baelor instructed softly. Then turned back to face his daughter. ‘I brought a chest with your clothes. I need you looking your best for this tourney. After you’ve changed, I will have the chest sent to your brother’s tents.’
‘Thank you, father!’ Visenya rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, made one final curtsy to the other men in the room and followed the servant girl who promised to take her to prince Baelor’s chambers first.
With the grime scrubbed out of her skin and the road washed out of her hair, Visenya looked more like the elegant princess one would expect. The servant girl who had helped her bathe, then change into the first dress they’d pulled from the chest, had combed her long ashen waves and styled them with a small braid at the back.
Visenya now walked back into the tourney campground. And the stark difference to her reception when she first arrived was evident. People moved out of her way, some bowed their heads. Some wouldn’t place her features immediately, some would recognise her at a glance. When a young woman with a stiff posture and a head raised high, walked along the dirt path wrapped in a dress of crimson red and midnight black, people noticed. And the pieces of the puzzle fit together in their minds, causing a flutter of whispers to stick to her back like sap.
‘Princess!’
Visenya heard the distinctive bellow of Lyonel Baratheon who was walking up the path towards her. In the midday light, he was much clearer to see. Hair falling around his face in ringlets, beard and moustaches likely smoothed with pomade. He was clothed in a long, bright yellow doublet and dark trousers. A leather belt was wrapped tightly around his waist to hold up his sword and Visenya saw the glimmer of a single golden earring on his ear. Had she not seen it last night? It fit with the whole tale of a well-honed sailor and dashing adventurer that had reached the gossiping circles of the capital.
Lyonel’s boots squelched in the mud as he stopped before her and bent down to kiss her hand most theatrically.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Visenya told him quietly with a half-smile. ‘We already have the eyes of half the people in this camp.’
‘Oh, I’m doing this for the other half.’
‘I see…’
Lyonel grabbed her arm and wrapped it around his as he led her away towards the place where the sounds of exuberance were the loudest. They passed a stall that served refreshments and just beyond it was a spot in the muddy grass where a group of people were competing at tugging on a rope.
‘So what has the great mind conjured up for this plan of ours?’ Lyonel asked after grabbing two large goblets from the stall, throwing a large golden coin on the countertop for the bartender, and led Visenya towards a bench that was nearest the competition.
‘I will have you know that the less we do, the more we’ll reap when it comes to results.’
‘A princess and a farmer,’ Lyonel commented lightly as he handed her her own drink. ‘What can’t you do?’
‘Make you take me seriously apparently,’ Visenya muttered into her cup. The wine was too sharp for her preference but a good vintage nonetheless. Despite his behaviour, she would be remiss if she did not compliment his taste. Though she would not give him the satisfaction of telling him out loud.
Just then Lyonel outstretched one arm and laid it most accidentally across the edge of the table, right behind Visenya’s back. ‘What is our strategy here?’
Visenya looked around discreetly and noted that there were several young men - commonfolk and gentry alike - that seemed to be observing and commenting on their closeness most vigorously.
‘What you are doing now seems to be getting the attention of the crowd.’
‘I am, if nothing, a good performer.’ He made a show of leaning just a touch closer. ‘Now you must laugh as if I said something wildly entertaining.’
Visenya feigned a chuckle which she demurely hid behind her hand. ‘If only you had said something actually funny.’
‘Having trouble with your act, princess?’
Visenya turned her head to face him, his nose but a few inches away from hers. His eyes were much clearer than the previous evening but no less alive with that same flame. The tip of his tongue slipped out for the briefest moment to wet his bottom lip and that in itself felt like a challenge.
‘Baratheon!’
A beefy hand landed on Lyonel’s shoulder. Visenya pulled away quickly and a huge gulp of air suddenly entered her lungs, making her head light. She cleared her throat and looked up to find a short, round man with a golden rose emblazoned on his chest.
‘Care to test your strength?’
Lyonel, who had not graced the man with a single look and had maintained his gaze on Visenya’s face, finally whipped around. ‘Piss off now. I am speaking to the lady.’
Visenya saw a perfect possibility to further their plan. ‘My lord, play nice.’ She placed her palms on Lyonel’s chest and smoothed down the front of his doublet. He gave her a curious look like she’d either grown a second head or had just slid out of her dress. ‘Do take up the challenge and win my favour.’
‘Ha!’ The Tyrell man seemed to have taken the bait. ‘That sounds like a proper challenge! I can see a few men on my side who would make the lady better company. What do you say, Baratheon?’
The two shared a meaningful look. Visenya raised an eyebrow. Your turn, it said. Then Lyonel took another gulp of the wine, handed her his cup, and got up to select his champions.
Visenya sat back, most pleased with herself, and followed the proceedings with great interest. Lyonel noticed someone behind them, soon returning to the open space with the incredibly tall knight she’d collided with at the castle and- Egg! So that was the mystery knight he would squire for. At least now she could relax about who her little cousin was running around with. That man was a gentle giant, she only hoped he would muster a more unrelenting side of himself on the tourney ground.
It did not take long for others to answer the Laughing Storm’s call to join his side.
‘Hey! Dry those palms, you clam-handed cunt!’ he scolded the man in front of him. ‘We’re not in your sister’s chambers now.’
Visenya shook her head and a genuine laugh rolled out of her mouth at his crassness. Lyonel gave her one look, a devious smile, and they all began to pull.
The two teams started with no significant change to their positions and the heavy rope was extended to its limit. Feet dug deeper into the mud, the crowd cheered on for their favourites. Lyonel was, of course, loudest of all. He threatened, he shouted for his companions to pull harder. Egg was at the head of their line and his sweet face was scrunched up in effort. Visenya was happy he could get a chance to enjoy something true and not be forever sheltered in the gilded cage that was the Red Keep. It was why she had strayed away from the traditional path of a lady and a princess; she too wanted something true.
Lyonel’s hands left the rope while the other contestants were still vigorously pulling. Many protested but he walked away and towards Visenya herself.
‘What are you doing?’ she laughed incredulously. Others were growing more angered by his early departure from the game. Lyonel, however, could not care less for their complaints. He took his cup from Visenya’s hands and took another swig. His eyes found hers again and for a split second they resumed their silent dance of mutual observation.
‘I’m thirsty, cunt.’ He bellowed at a particularly angry man. Visenya noticed that little Egg’s legs had lifted off the ground and he was wrapped around the rope like a clingy cat.
‘Milord, you better go back there and win my favour!’
Lyonel threw the cup behind him to return to the game at hand. On his way he smacked the shy knight on his behind and with renewed vigour he shouted for his comrades to ‘Pull!’
The ground gave way to their opponents and their feet began to slip. And once the first man on the other side fell face first in the mud, Visenya jumped out of her seat before she could even help it. Lyonel’s team was ecstatic, so was the crowd. Ale flew in the air. Congratulatory pats on the shoulder were given to the victors and less exuberant ones landed on the backs of the losers. Egg jumped for joy, the shy knight joining in and picking him easily off the ground. Lyonel celebrated with them and nearly climbed atop the mountainous man himself.
‘Congratulations to the winner!’ Visenya smiled when he approached her. But before she could even utter another word, Lyonel wrapped one arm around her waist, the other at the back of her head, and by the time her mind could calculate the next moves… he was kissing her. His lips glided along hers like butter on a hot knife. Visenya felt the scratch of his beard on her chin and that of his mustache just below her nose. The kiss felt good, it felt glorious. And after nearly a fortnight of missing that kind of sensation, it made her whole body come alive.
Lyonel pulled away too soon. He turned his head to face the Tyrell man who had brought forward the challenge. ‘This is how you win the favour of a princess, cunts!’
Some men cheered him on, others looked positively murderous. Visenya felt only confusion and then it dawned on her. It was another performance, a part of the charade they had agreed to. Nothing more. He would get his vicious challengers this way and she would trick her father for a while. Perfectly sensible that he would kiss her in this moment. And yet… something deep in her chest began to twist and turn. An unfamiliar restlessness and altogether an unwelcome one.
‘You did well, milord.’ Visenya praised him once their bodies separated fully. ‘Perfectly executed.’
Lyonel opened his mouth, about to say something in response, then Egg came trotting over with the large knight in toe. He looked between his cousin and the lord of Storm’s End at the tail end of their very public display of affection. Visenya was reminded of his talent for astute observation. Those big, dark purple eyes knew how to peer through people. She only hoped he wouldn’t see her slight dejection after Lyonel’s sudden kiss.
‘Ah! Princess, this is Ser Duncan… the Tall.’ Lyonel introduced them.
‘We have already met,’ Visenya’s lips pulled into a polite smile. ‘I must say the moniker fits the man.’
Ser Duncan bowed his head low although she could clearly watch the flush on his cheeks creep up to the tips of his ears. The man was possibly too sweet for a knight. And yet there weren’t nearly enough of his kind so she greeted his presence with delight.
‘Thank you, m'lady. This here is my squire, Egg he’s called.’
‘Milady.’ Egg grinned and bowed the way a common boy was supposed to - clumsy but ernest. Visenya wondered when he would reveal his true origins to Set Duncan, but she knew better than to ruin that for him. No, she needed to focus on her own plans.
Visenya looked up at Lyonel, peeling herself off of his side. ‘I must go now, milord.’
The man looked genuine in his confusion, a spectacular act on his part. ‘The day has only just begun.’
‘I must see to some things. My father has requested that you join us at the castle after the joust tonight, but I would understand if you are otherwise occupied.’
Lyonel nodded, ‘If that is what the prince wishes.’
‘Indeed.’ Visenya wished Ser Duncan and Egg well, wished them both tremendous luck, and promised to seek them out again. If not to blend into a nameless young woman along with her cousin then at least to be close if he needed her. She curtsied for Lyonel and rushed away. She needed to refocus and consider her scheme more carefully. And consider the horrible realisation that she’d actually, truly enjoyed him kissing her.
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER FIVE // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 4.9K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; descriptions of alcohol and drinking; description of violence; some explicit language 😉
Visenya.
She had heard her name spoken, whispered, shouted, moaned. She had heard it coming from family, from friends, from lovers. She knew where it originated, knew the root of the name as it was recorded in the histories, and knew the full story behind the last woman who shared her name - the first Targaryen queen of Westeros and rider of Vhagar. She could not boast having the great Visenya’s might, nor even a dragon. But the name carried with itself so much. And yet when Lyonel said it back to her, it might as well have been entirely foreign.
Visenya.
His lips moved around the vowels the way they moved around the rim of his cup. The sounds poured out of his mouth as easily as his booming laughter. He spoke her name and she felt it as her own; she felt like the only Visenya that ever had been or ever would be.
Visenya.
She recalled each moment of their walk in the early hours. The memory was, of course, clouded and parts of it blended together. But the words he had said at the end, the promise he’d made… the feeling of his large hands grabbing at her waist, bunching up the gathered fabric there… pulling her closer. She remembered each second clearly, remembered her body reacting to his touch and his filthy words like that of an inexperienced maid. Gods help her, he was going to drive her to madness.
Visenya.
Why could he hold such power over her? She had shared the bed of enough people to think herself seasoned in the sensual pleasures of the world. She had tasted and tested plenty of things to know that she would have quenched her needs. But the thirst that was brought upon by the mere promise of attention from the Laughing Storm had her reeling.
‘Visenya, are you listening, daughter?’ Her own father’s voice came close to her ear, putting a swift end to her mental battle. Visenya looked at where he was sitting beside her and saw the slight concert written across his features. ‘You have been in your own world all morning. Are you unwell? Shall I call for a maester?’
‘No!’ Visenya put her hand over his which was holding onto the chair’s armrest. ‘I am good, father. Just… tired, I suppose.’
‘Does that have anything to do with you leaving last night’s feast with Lord Lyonel?’
Visenya sighed deeply. ‘I thought I was discreet enough as to not insult our host.’
‘Do not fret, your absence remained unnoticed by most,’ Baelor said softly. ‘Safe for your own father, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Visenya chuckled.
Baelor remained silent for a moment, his eyes inspecting the tourney grounds as another joust was set to begin momentarily. ‘Should I worry about Lord Lyonel doing anything… untoward last night?’
I would take you right now. Right here in the dirt like a rutting stag. Visenya’s face grew hot.
‘Not at all! He invited me to his pavilion, there was dancing and wine. I must’ve overindulged. Lyonel walked me back to Valarr’s pavilion at the end of the night.’
‘Lyonel?’
‘Lord Lyonel.’
Prince Baelor then grinned, legs crossing and hands settling in his lap. He looked more like a cat that had just snatched a fish steak off of the kitchen table.
‘I am glad to know that you both are becoming better acquainted. I will discuss the finer details of your official betrothal and wedding with him at the end of the tourney. I believe he will expect us to honour his family and hold the ceremony and wedding feast at Storm’s End. We may be looking at more travels in the months to come, as long as the weather improves.’
Visenya listened to her father but her mind was beginning to tear itself apart. Had she misjudged the flawlessness of her plan? If it failed and her father did push for a marriage between her and Lyonel, what would happen then? She shook the doubts out of her mind; her father would never force her and she was completely sure Lyonel wouldn’t marry her. He thought her interesting, yes, he wanted to bed her, but for all she knew he had expressed no desire to truly marry anyone at all.
‘What are you drawing now?’
Her father’s questions caused her to look down in her lap and see that in her distraction, her hands had found the one thing that gave her peace - her art. Visenya had stuffed the journal in a small cloth bag on her way out of Valarr’s pavilion in the morning. She had intended to find Rod at some point in the day and discuss what she’d drawn already on her journey. However, the last three pages did not contain landscapes and scenes from the campgrounds. She had filled them instead with sketches of two strong, calloused hands. Veins protruding from sun-kissed skin, tiny scars and large golden rings on lithe fingers. And even in her distraction, she had faithfully recreated the signet ring of the man himself. He has fine hands, Visenya thought to herself.
‘Just studies, father. Nothing important really?’ She finally replied and slammed the journal shut, securing it back inside her bag. If she had given her father another look, she would’ve noticed the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. However, her attention was quickly drawn to a figure approaching the lists.
Aerion’s armour was recognisable from afar. The gleaming black steel, a crest of red and gold flames atop his helm. His horse huffed and beat the ground in nervous anticipation. The creature was restless and in Visenya’s chest grew a sense of unease. If her uncle was here, she could be sure her cousin would behave. She turned to look behind, only to find other highborn spectators.
‘Father, where is my uncle?’ She whispered in her father’s ear. Baelor leaned his head towards her so they would not be overheard by Lord Ashford who had taken his seat beside the prince.
‘Maekar left to search for your cousins. When Ser Mallister did not arrive with them this morning, he grew anxious.’
‘There have been floodings in this part of the country,’ Visenya mused. If her uncle found Ser Mallister and Daeron on the road, and Egg was not with them… she could feel the weight of her lies beginning to grow. She had to find Egg and warn him of this.
Aerion rode closer to the stands and she could see his horrible, smirking face looking up at them. He bowed his head then rode off to select his opponent. ‘Father, I don’t want to watch this.’
‘If you leave now, the people will think the family disapproves of your cousin.’
‘Oh, I disapprove of him very much. You know what he’s like when uncle is not around.’
Aerion had stopped before Valarr’s tent. It was unlikely that he would challenge his own blood and Visenya suspected that he only went to him first out of a desire to mock. Valarr would rarely get challenged at tourneys, highborn knights wouldn’t dare harm him and lowborn challengers wouldn’t be allowed the chance to knock on his shield. And Aerion would use that knowledge as a weapon in his arsenal.
‘You must wait until Aerion finishes.’
Visenya could do nothing else, she had to obey her father’s word in that case. He was right in saying that if she left as her cousin took to the lists, it would be interpreted poorly in the eyes of the gathered nobility. She slid down into her chair and hoped he would not treat his father’s absence as consent to do as he pleased. And what pleased Aerion was always something terrible.
He selected Ser Humphrey Harding. A man sitting behind Visenya began to explain to someone next to him that Harding was a good knight, well-trained and with two victories already under his belt at the tourney. One the previous night and one that very morning. Had she missed half the morning jousts already? She did not consider she had been so lost in her own mind.
Aerion and Ser Humphrey had assumed their positions. And then they were off, horses galloping forward and lances raised. Halfways down the tilts, her cousin moved his lance and his body away from the charging Ser Humphrey who lost his balance and nearly slid off his saddle. In the process he lost his lance too. Visenya twitched nervously in her seat. The two reached the opposite sides of the tilts, Aerion turned his horse and readied his next assault. Ser Humphrey’s squire threw him another lance and he charged down once more. The din of the crowd was akin to thunder. The horses neighed as they drew closer and closer, and Aerion’s lance dipped down too low until it collided not with armour or a shield, but with the neck of Ser Humphrey’s white horse.
A scream-like gasp came out of Visenya’s throat and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Ser Humphrey was on the ground, leg crushed by the flailing animal. There was so much blood and the poor animal was screeching as it lay in horrible agony. Ser Humphrey screeched too. Aerion turned his own horse lazily and gazed at the horrified crowd. Someone threw a lump at him and soon many of the spectators, angered by her cousin’s purely evil act, began to clamour in disdain. Some jumped over the fences that separated them but the Ashford guards were quick to hold them off. Very soon they were joined by the Kingsguard themselves, their white armour and cloaks being the sole thing that Visenya could use to make them out in the mob.
She looked right towards her father and saw disgust in his eyes. It was muted and controlled, but it was there. Pure and unadulterated.
Another man made his approach towards the tilts slowly and with a poleax. He was walking straight towards Ser Humphrey and his horse.
‘Father, I cannot watch this!’ Visenya said quietly. She wanted to be anywhere but here, and anyone but her related to her evil cunt of a cousin.
‘Go. I will excuse you to Lord Ashford.’
Visenya gripped her father’s hand in gratitude and slipped away from the stands. Her feet carried her down the steps in great speed and she did her best to tune out the screams of that poor creature as it was taken out of its misery.
With the tourney ground sufficiently far away and with her cloak pulled over her shoulders to keep the spring showers at bay, Visenya moved along the stalls. She wanted to hide, to become nobody. She wouldn’t blame the people if they recognised her and spurn her away, her cousin had done plenty damage to their family name for one day.
‘Visenya!’
She turned around. Rod was making his way down the path towards her. His mouth was pulled in a tense smile and Visenya was sure that he too had witnessed the horrid scene. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and directed her towards the cover of some larger stalls.
‘He’s a monster,’ Visenya hissed.
Rod squeezed her shoulder and moved beside her to examine the wares of a spicer. ‘Need I remind you that you are nothing like him and no one in their right mind would think that.’
Visenya walked beside him, keeping her eyes low. ‘I know that, Rod. Though he is not making it easy for the rest of us that are not foul little fiends.’
Next to the spicer there was a small stand where a silk merchant sold anything from rolls of silks and satins to ready-made dresses and shirts. Visenya found a long shawl that was hanging on display - it was ochre in colour and reminded her of a dress her Grandmama wore once. It was beautiful yet simple enough, and it matched her pale yellow cotton dress. Visenya handed the trader the amount needed and took the shawl. The slight man behind the counter pointed her to a mirror he had hung outside his stall “for the ladies”. She put up her hair in a loose coil at the back of her neck and wrapped the shawl around it, pulling the fabric down towards her forehead so it hid her hairline perfectly. It was a fashion Grandmama had brought from Dorne. When Visenya was just a tiny thing and the other children mocked her for having hair like an old crone’s, she would ask the queen to wrap it in the same pretty way the Dornish ladies of the court did. Through the years, Visenya had only ever returned to that style when trying to be someone other than Visenya Targaryen. When walking through the streets of King’s Landing, nobody had given her a second look when her peculiar and very distinctive hair was hidden away.
Rod came back to her side and looped his arm around hers, moving on from the stalls. The rain had slowed as it had been doing for the entire day although it didn’t seem like the funny weather would make up its mind any time soon.
‘Should I find us a nice alehouse where we can get silly drunk and dance atop tables?’ He tried to jest, managing to elicit a small chuckle from Visenya.
‘A drink would be wonderful actually,’ she replied. ‘If only to wash away the day and forget that tomorrow I have to endure more of that fucking jousting.’
Rod hummed in thought, ‘I bet you wouldn’t mind seeing a particular knight in the lists.’
Visenya gave him a deadpan glare which only made the man beside her wiggle his eyebrows like a fool. ‘I did not take you for a great jester, Roderick.’
‘Oh, I am hilarious! But on a serious note…’ he paused and held Visenya’s gaze, ‘what is happening with Lord Lyonel?’
What was happening indeed. She thought she’d had a very good control over the situation, but as it stood out she was losing her mind over the tiniest interactions.
‘I- I am unsure,’ Visenya said quietly. She did not wish to lie to Rod, he who had been her friend much longer than he’d been one of her lovers. He knew her as well as he knew himself, and mayhaps would help untangle the yarn of confusion that was her own mind. ‘My father began talking of… settling the details of betrothal and-’
‘And that scared the devils out of you?’
‘Yes! He seemed, dare I say, elated by the prospect of me finally marrying.’
‘He is your father and you are his beloved, precious daughter. Of course, he would be happy.’
Visenya scoffed, ‘That in itself is an issue. He will be crushed when I tell him that Lyonel has no intention of marrying me.’
‘I think you might be too,’ Rod said more to himself than to her, but Visenya heard it. ‘Despite what this plan of yours intends… I think you are growing attached to him as well.’
Visenya would’ve denied it if she herself did not feel it to be true. She would not deign to call what she felt even remotely romantic, but she had begun to see a kindred spirit in Lyonel. Someone who enjoyed living as much as her. Someone whose carousing could rival hers. And whose words and touch burned like dragonflame.
‘Look, I am the last person who would tell you what to do. You have a head on your shoulders and you are smart enough to figure it out. But would the world end if you did indeed marry Lyonel Baratheon?’
‘The fact is that he doesn’t wish to marry. That is precisely why I selected him out of all the other pompous lords the council had suggested. He likes his jousts, and his wine, and his revelries, and… that is fine by me.’
Rodrick did not speak but hummed to let her know he was listening. Visenya groaned in desperation. ‘I cannot think of this any more for the day. Let us find someplace where the tankards are as big as my head.’
‘We have just reached one such place.’
Visenya looked up from the path and saw the familiar yellow canvas walls and numerous antlers that made up the Baratheon pavilion. Sounds of celebration and the familiar sliding notes of a fiddle spilled outside like waves. Visenya looked to the man beside her and drawled, ‘You brought me to the Baratheon tent for a drink?’
Rod feigned a gasp and touched a hand to his face. ‘Is that the one! Oh my! Well, we are here already and there is sure to be drinks inside.’ He grabbed one side of the canvas at the entrance and pulled it open, urging Visenya to walk through. She narrowed her eyes at him but relented. She could do with something strong to warm up her body.
Inside it was swelteringly hot. There were plenty of people, gathered around the tables, with tankards in their hands. The music swelled and Visenya could swear it was the same band of minstrels that played the night before. But, of course, the grandest sight in the tent was the man who had had the audacity to take centre stage in her own thoughts as well.
Lyonel had stripped off his shirt and the same antlered circlet he wore the night she arrived at camp was sitting atop his mop of dark curls. Around his waist and over his breeches was a skirt of yellow and black strips which swung around as he twirled on the table.
‘Oh, Alice was a special lass, born bereft ‘er thumb,’ he drunkenly sang, holding himself up by the chandelier. Visenya shook her head in amusement; it made sense that he would spend his off time entertaining himself and his guests. ‘Lost a digit tending flock, now feeling awfully glum. Oh!’
His crowd sang along and clapped to the rhythm.
‘Now who does that remind me of.’ Roderick said and wrapped an arm around her shoulders once more. Visenya slapped his chest in jest and snagged two tankards of ale from a passing servant girl. She smiled at her in thanks and noticed that despite the great number of attendees and what was most likely an enormous workload for her, she was smiling brightly in return. Hopefully, it could be an indication of how Lyonel treated those who worked under him. Visenya had spent enough time with regular folk to know how horrid some lords could be to their staff.
The pair at the entrance clinked their tankards together and drank from the cold ale. It was slightly bitter, but as the liquid flowed down her throat, a sweet taste of fruits cut through that. Visenya could be completely sure of one thing about Lyonel Baratheon - he served a good drink at his celebrations. No wonder that half the time he was as pissed as he was at that very moment.
As he was singing to those gathered around, he was joined by none other than another unpleasant cousin. Visenya could recognise the flaming red hair anywhere as it was the colouring of her own younger brother Matarys. And he had inherited it from their mother, Jena Dondarrion.
Lyonel wobbled down the end of the table and then he seemed to notice who had entered the tent. An enormous grin took over his features and his eyes shone brighter. ‘My - hic - lady.’
He used a man’s head as a crutch as he stumbled off of the table and made his way towards Visenya who was even more entertained by his behaviour than the song. She had heard others twice as good and thrice as filthy.
‘Lyonel,’ she greeted through a smirk that she attempted to hide behind the rim of her tankard. She also hoped that neither of the two men would notice her face heating up. If they did, she would blame it on the conditions of the tent. And not on the memory of the same man who was now standing before her with half of his attire missing saying the filthiest things to her last night.
Before either of them could say a word to each other, her buffoon of a cousin caught up with Lyonel and tapped him on the shoulder. Ser Manfred was a couple of years older than her though not at all any wiser.
‘Milord, you must give the people another chorus,’ he near-shouted in Lyonel’s ear, who looked on the verge of punching his teeth out for it, but to his benefit the red-headed man was struck upon seeing Visenya. ‘Demon woman!’ He shrieked.
‘Manfred. How are your bollocks feeling these days?’ Beside her Rod snickered and pretended to have instead choked on his ale. Manfred’s face turned a similar colour to his hair and stepped away from Lyonel, trying hard and failing at holding on to his dignity. He pulled the lapels of his fur lined coat down and straightened his back. Visenya raised an eyebrow.
‘Forgive me, milord. I will leave here at once, I cannot be in the same place as this woman.’
He rudely pushed past Visenya who only smiled. ‘At least this time he compliments me too.’
‘The picture of chivalry, that one.’ Roderick added and the two snickered.
Lyonel watched on in adulation. ‘That cunt has been dancing a jig on my fucking nerves for years.’
‘Not only yours,’ Visenya told him through a sigh. ‘Glad I still bring fear to his heart.’
‘You’ll have to tell me about it then.’ He boomed with drunken laughter. ‘He’s been getting more brash each year.’
‘That sounds perfect!’ Roderick was quick to agree. That little bastard was up to something. ‘How about we drink some more and Visenya can tell you all about it.’
‘Fine idea!’ Lyonel bellowed. ‘Come!’
A few hours and a few pitchers of the ale, mead, and some wine later, Visenya felt sufficiently light and dizzy. Her head was swinging from side to side or it felt so to her at least. Lyonel had directed them to a table with plenty of seats, but a man like him could never be seen as conventional, so he decided they should sit on the table top itself. Rod had made himself scarce once more, to Visenya’s dismay at first, though with each sip and each cup finished, she could hardly care any less.
She leaned in and out of Lyonel’s space, feeling the heat of his body lure her. She was in the middle of retelling him a tale of the time she had slipped past the guards at night to experience the taverns and breweries of King’s Landing for the first time. He laughed when she shared her tales, drank with her, and at some point he’d rested his left arm on the table right behind her backside. Visenya could not care if that had been intentional or if anyone had seen. She leaned against him fully, her head falling to the crook of his neck.
‘You are hiding your hair,’ he observed.
‘Much easier,’ she began to clarify though her words slurred together which in turn made her giggle. ‘Hard to recognise me.’
‘I recognised you.’
‘You-’ she touched a finger to his nose, ‘-know my face. Cannot hide from you.’
‘No, you cannot.’ Lyonel was leaning further in. This close and Visenya could just about focus on his eyelashes that were fluttering over his enchanting eyes. Then his nose brushed against hers. Just a touch of skin that was barely there, but Visenya could feel it through her entire body. Kiss me, she asked him in her mind.
‘Milord!’ A drunken voice interrupted their moment and Visenya wanted something sharp to throw at the man. ‘A song, milord!’
Rod came out of nowhere, tripping over his legs, and reached for Visenya’s arm. ‘Nye, I entered a bet you knew a better song than the one about that chit with the three thumbs or whatever it fucking was.’
‘Lord Lyonel knows a hundred score songs that would make your little friend blush, boy!’ That same man argued.
‘Shut your fat fucking mouth, ya lame donkey’s arse. My friend will show you!’ Rod argued back. Then he turned to Visenya with pleading eyes. ‘Nye, I beg of you. I put half my money on this.’
Visenya groaned, ‘You are such a fucking pest, Rod.’
But the jibe only made him grin. ‘Sing the one that bard wrote for you,’ he suggested as quietly as he could so only she and Lyonel would hear him.
‘The bard from the… ah, yes!’ She giggled drunkenly. That would be a good one. She straightened her back and extended her arms in preparation for her performance ‘Beware, milord. I am about to embarrass you!’
‘I would like to see you try,’ he told her, amused, and leaned back to give her space.
Visenya cleared her throat while Rod made everyone shut up and listen.
‘A lass I saw three nights ago, she struck me to my core.’ She began confidently. She wasn’t sure if she could remember all 16 verses the lad had written about her, but the first four would do just fine. ‘She drank and danced all night and kissed just like a seasoned whore. She cursed two men and stabbed one twice, she wasn’t very tame. But the lady with the silver hair, she set my cock aflame.’
The gathered crowd erupted in cheers at the last line. Once they got the hang of the rhythm, a number of hands shot up to start clapping along.
‘The lady with the silver hair, the lady with good tits. If she had shown them off to me, I would’ve lost my wits. A chance indeed it would’ve been but she cared not for me. For the lady with the silver hair was fucking other three.’
Lyonel’s laughter boomed beside her and it spurred Visenya along.
‘The first was an assassin and he struck her with his knife, he sheathed it deep inside her arse and made her bounce all night. The second was a poet and he rhymed against her cunt. The third was nuzzled in her tits - she was the first one’s girl!’
‘Oh!’ The people shouted back at her.
‘The lady with the silver hair, the lady with good arse. I wish tonight she might come close, so I may have my chance. I want to sing my songs to her and sit her on my thigh. If gods be good, my cock she’ll take right through my open fly.’
That was as much as she recalled off the top of her head, but it seemed enough for the gathering of drunken people and servants who were half-drunk themselves. Tankards, cups, and all manner of drinking vessels were raised in cheers to her performance. The man who had challenged Rod came over to hand him a little coin purse and then reached for Visenya’s hand. He planted a big, wet kiss on the back of her hand. ‘Great little tune, lass!’
Visenya laughed and thanked him for his kind words. She looked right and saw Lyonel clapping for her too. ‘Very good. I will have to - hic - surrender.’ He slurred.
‘Hmm,’ Visenya leaned against him again. ‘I promise to be a gracious victor.’
Lyonel laughed again and Visenya was becoming dangerously accustomed to the sound. Mayhaps, just a little while longer… past the tourney’s end, she might ask him to visit her in the capital. Take him to the taverns she frequented, go incognito, and be just Visenya and Lyonel. Without the rest of the world to tell them what they should do, or who to be. Just the two of them, this close.
The opening of the tent flapped open with a crack and Visenya saw her brother enter, a wild look of worry in his eyes. He searched the crowd for her until he found her staring back. He walked further in and behind him… Ser Mallister?
None of the attendees were in a state to recognise that a prince of the realm had entered. And mayhaps for the better; Valarr walked around the clusters of people while Visenya, sobering with each step he took towards her in that state, slid off of the table and put down her drink. She saw that same look of worry in Ser Mallister’s lowered head. What could’ve happened? Had her uncle discovered her lie? Had something happened to Daeron or, gods forbid, Egg?
‘Sister,’ Valarr sighed and embraced her briefly. ‘I was looking everywhere for you. Figured you might’ve disguised yourself somehow.’
‘Is everything alright? Father-’
‘Father bid me find you. There has been an accident at some puppet show across the camp.’
Visenya’s face grew cold. She recalled stopping to watch some of their performances. The puppets were beautifully painted and the stories delighted children and adults alike. Visenya whispered, ‘Valarr, tell me what happened.’
Her brother shook his head and sighed. ‘Not here.’ He then saw Lyonel hanging just over Visenya’s shoulder and bowed his head stiffly to the other man. Whether he was surprised by his state of undress, Valarr did not show. There were other things on his mind as it appeared. ‘Milord, I apologise, but I must escort my sister back to the castle.’ He then took her hand and began leading her towards the exit with great haste. She had no time to look back, only to reach for her discarded bag, and follow her brother and Ser Mallister out of the tent.
Next chapter
A/N: Oooooooh, things are gearing up! Thank you all for your messages and engaging with my story! I'm sorry it took longer to post, I had a bit of trouble getting this one finish but also wrote a whole ass song for Visenya.
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER SIX // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 7K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; descriptions of abuse and violence; mentions of past abuse; unprotected sex
He had attacked a girl, a young puppeteer from the Dornish troupe that put on plays of old children’s tales. His guards had chased off the audience and torn apart everything in sight. Aerion had beaten the girl and broken two of her fingers. For the crime of performing something that offended his shrivelled, little heart.
Ser Duncan had been the only man to intervene, striking Aerion and kicking him to the ground before he was apprehended by the guards. He might’ve lost his life then and there had it not been for little Egg who’d revealed his true identity in order to save the hedge knight.
‘Where is Ser Duncan now?’ Visenya asked her brother once he’d finished retelling her the events of the evening. They had reached the courtyard of Ashford castle as the rain began to fall much harder over their heads.
‘In the dungeon. There will be a trial in a few hours to determine his fate.’
Visenya scoffed, ‘I would sooner give Ser Duncan the weight of his offending arm and leg in gold and proclaim him a hero of the realm for what he’s done.’
‘He attacked our cousin,’ Valarr snapped.
‘Why do you defend that wretch? You of all people should know what a monster he is.’ Visenya stopped in her tracks to stare at her brother in disbelief. ‘He attacked that girl. And now a good man will stand trial for putting a stop to Aerion’s cruelty.’
Valarr licked his lips and toyed with the ends of his leather gloves. Visenya knew him to do that only when he was nervous. ‘Daeron has too levelled an accusation against the knight. Claimed he abducted Egg from the inn. He begged you to ride on ahead and discover them before the situation got out of hand.’
Visenya’s eyes widened until they were the size of saucers. She looked at her brother then at Ser Mallister who had stayed quiet through the entire walk. ‘He did what? Why would Daeron- it is a lie!’
‘Whether it is or is not, the accusations are there. Now, you are to head upstairs to father’s chambers for your safety.’
Visenya crossed her arms in defiance. ‘I will do no such thing.’
‘Sister, please.’
‘Fine! But I will speak to father about Daeron’s lie.’
Valarr nodded in response. Visenya was about to leave and head through the front doors of the castle when he stopped her with a hand on her upper arm. ‘Before you speak to father, I shall have a change of clothes brought to you. You reek of ale and wine, sister.’
Ser Mallister escorted Visenya to the guest wing without a word. The only noise that broke the oppressive silence of the castle corridors was the clank of his armour. He must’ve arrived no more than a few hours ago since he had changed out of the light mail and leather attire she saw him wearing but three days ago. In its stead was white enameled armour and white cloak.
‘I am sorry, princess.’ He spoke at last, though his usual deep and authoritative voice came out too soft for a man as battle-hardened as him. ‘Had I known your cousin would lie for you-’
‘He did not lie for me,’ Visenya responded quietly. ‘I do not understand why he would do such a thing. What happened on the road? Why were you delayed so?’
‘I made sure the prince stayed away from drink.’ Ser Mallister began. ‘But he had barely anything but ale for days before we’d arrived. I could not force him on the road ahead in his sorry state.’
‘I see… Thank you, Mallister. I too am sorry, I should not have left you to deal with him on your own.’
She looked up at the old knight whose face softened when he saw the worry etched into her own. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and squeezed just a little. It transported Visenya back into her childhood, to various moments like when she’d just gotten in trouble with a tutor or had scraped her knee when sneaking into the training grounds to learn the sword with Valarr. He had always been mindful of her, always treated her as if she were his own child. ‘I am glad to see you well, little one. Go now and I will find out when your father will be able to see you.’
Visenya nodded and turned to find the door to her father’s chambers. She pushed it open; the room neatly organised and with the fire burning in the hearth. Ser Mallister closed the door behind her and left her on her own. Visenya took off her soaked cloak and placed it on a chair near the fire where it might dry quicker. Her hands rose to undo the already loosened headwrap, placing it with the cloak. Her hair was damp and curling in ringlets around her face. She only now began to feel the creeping cold into her bones. She put her bag aside, unlaced her boots, removed her stockings, and sat by the fire to warm up. The last thing she needed was to catch a cold.
With her toes and fingers a little less stiff, Visenya reached behind her to undo the laces of her dress and remove it, leaving her in her chemise and stays. She took a sniff of her dress and scrunched her nose at the distinctly punchy smell of stale ale. She then folded it haphazardly and threw it on the chair with the rest of her clothing.
Now to the business at hand, Visenya thought, crossed her legs and put her head in her hands. Ser Duncan, that sweet mountain of a man who seemed like the kind of person who would apologise to an ant if he tread it under his foot, would not escape punishment so easily. Aerion would’ve been greatly embarrassed by being struck and would want a sufficient punishment. Seven hells, Visenya knew him well enough to know he might even want to enact the punishment himself. A cold chill ran down her back like an icy stream.
If Egg were in the castle, he would have firsthand knowledge of what had transpired and what they might do to help the poor hedge knight. And if Daeron were sober and in full possession of his faculties, he would earn himself a clout to the ear for adding fuel to an already raging fire with his false accusations.
The door latch clicked open and Ser Mallister entered, drapes of fabric slung over one arm. He averted his eyes respectfully when he noticed Visenya in her undergarments and placed what he carried on a cupboard by the door.
‘Your father has summoned Ser Duncan to the small library on the floor below. Prince Aegon is with him.’
By the time the door closed behind him, Visenya was already on her feet and rushing across the room to don her fresh clothes. In the small pile there was a dress of wine red wool, hemmed with necre beading, and a fresh pair of cotton stockings. She threw the dress on in a hurry, lacing it in the back, then forced her feet through the stockings and still muddy boots in a flash. Ser Mallister was waiting outside and had to rush to catch up with her as she speedwalked through the corridor and down the steps of the guest wing. On the lower floor, there was a single door guarded by a couple of the Ashford guards - likely sent away after delivering the prisoner to her father. Warm light flickered through a gap between the heavy wood and the floor. That must be it, realised Visenya and pushed past the guards and through the door before Ser Mallister could tell her to wait.
Egg was in the room, stripped of his shabby clothing and in garments that were closer to what he’d be expected to wear at court. He was holding a silver pitcher to his chest like he’d just been scolded. And Ser Duncan, still very much a hulking figure even in a chair, sat across from her father. With only a table between them, weighed down by dozens of open books and scrolls. All three people in the room looked at her arrival with surprise.
‘Father! This is not right!’
‘Visenya.’
‘You cannot allow Aerion to get away with his monstrous deed. Ser Duncan-’
Prince Baelor looked tired, but his next words were firm. ‘Ser Duncan and I need a moment alone. You will take your cousin and leave us. I will speak with you later of your own involvement.’
‘My involvement?’ Visenya shot back. Baelor rose slowly from the chair and propped his arms on the table.
‘Did you not lie to me and your uncle about Aegon’s whereabouts?’
Visenya stammered out a few pitiful sounds, unable to form a retort to what was very much the plain truth. Little Egg came to her defence. ‘I asked her to keep my secret safe, uncle!’
‘That is not the issue at hand, Aegon. My daughter lied to my face, endangered your safety, and is as guilty of deceiving Ser Duncan as you are.’
Visenya lowered her gaze and her eyes caught the sight of the hedge knight staring at her. He did not appear angry although he had every right to it. Her father was right, she was as much to blame for putting Ser Duncan in harm’s way. She could’ve told him that his little bald-headed quire was indeed her cousin. He would’ve been aware, he would’ve been prepared. But she’d been so distracted and consumed by her own foolish plans to draw that very obvious conclusion.
Visenya prided herself on being intelligent, yet she’d never been a bigger fool. And the worst part of it all was that, without intention, they’d made a fool out of poor Ser Duncan too.
‘Leave us,’ Baelor said with a curt finality.
Visenya curtsied in a flash and escorted Egg out of the room. Ser Mallister was still waiting outside when they closed the library door behind them. The Ashford guards were gone. Visenya bid the old man step down for the night as she would manage without an escort in the castle. She could see he needed rest. Once he was gone, Visenya looked down at Egg and asked, ‘Where is Daeron now?’
‘Father put us in a bedchamber next to his so we might be under supervision for the rest of our stay at Ashford.’
Visenya scoffed, ‘You two are not the members of this family who should be supervised.’
Egg said nothing to that. His arms were clasped behind his back and his head was bowed in what was evidently a great deal of shame. ‘I just… I really wanted to be a squire. I want to be his squire. He’s a good man and a good knight.’
‘Hey!’ Visenya bent down so she might find his eyes and gently held his face in her hands. ‘What’s done is done. What we should focus on now is helping Ser Duncan through this. Yes?’
Egg simply nodded and forced a tentative smile onto his lips. Visenya pulled the lad into a hug and felt his little arms wrap around her neck.
‘Let us find Daeron and fix this then,’ she told him softly. The pair of them separated and set off back towards the guest wing of the castle. At that late hour, there was not soul to be seen or heard in the vast, empty halls. The clap of their shoes on the hard, stone floors produced the only sound until they made it up the steps to the guest wing.
Daeron was half-hanging off of his bed when they found him and the sound of the door opening and closing made him groan audibly. ‘Seven fucking hells, begone!’
Visenya spied an untouched pitcher of water by his bedside and went to pour him a glass. Ser Mallister had said that trying to sober him had taken most of the last two days, the travel into Ashford had not been very easy on her cousin. Daeron picked up his head from the mattress, lips trembling as he spoke. ‘Visenya?’
‘Drink.’ She lifted a glass to his lips and had him take small sips. His hands reached up to hold the drink on his own, but the tremors told Visneya that he would likely spill the water all over himself if he tried. She spent the better part of the following hour slowly nursing him to a semblance of consciousness, wiping his sweaty brow and having him drink until the pitcher was dry.
Daeron did not speak, neither did his brother and his cousin. Visenya could see that Egg was terribly upset by all the events that had transpired. Ser Duncan’s arrest, his own role in it, his brothers’... it was all too much for a lad of ten.
As Visenya was helping Daeron sit up in bed and prop his back against the pillows, the door opened once more and the last person she wanted to see strolled through. There was a large red lump in the corner of Aerion’s mouth and it was strikingly obvious even in the dim candle light of the room. She saw his vicious eyes, and his infuriating smirk, and she snapped. Aerion’s smile was quickly wiped away when Visenya rushed him.
‘You. Evil. Little. Shit.’ She hissed, teeth clenched. Her hand rose in the air and came down with a loud smack against the un-bruised side of his face. Aerion’s head whipped around with the force of her strike and his hand shot up to touch the cheek. His violet eyes darkened with malice when he looked back at his cousin.
‘Is that how the great dragon behaves? Huh?!’ She cried out. ‘Assaulting women over an imagined slight!’
Aerion’s eyes were close to black with fury. ‘How dare you strike me, you fucking whore!’
‘I will strike you again if I must,’ Visenya bit back. ‘Go ahead and break my fingers too. Gods know that you are no true knight if you attack an innocent over a mere fairytale.’
‘She was no innocent. What that little cunt did was treason, an insult to our house. To me. TO THE FUCKING DRAGON!’
‘And that gives you the right to hand out justice as you see fit.’
‘I will have my justice on the morrow,’ Aerion growled back like a raving beast. ‘I have demanded a Trial of Seven. And when that stupid oaf is seen for what he is - a gutter rat with no standing amongst his betters - I will have his head.’
‘Ser Duncan is a truer knight than you could ever hope to be,’ Egg jumped to his friend’s defence.
‘Shut it, you little fool.’
Aerion made a threatening step towards Egg, but Visenya stood her ground to protect her little cousin.
‘You are no dragon.’ Visenya whispered the words she knew in her heart would strike absolute terror in his. And two pairs of violet eyes battled with each other, one filled with outrage and the other - with disgust. She took a step closer to him. ‘You are a worthless, pathetic worm. And when you die from your own cruelty and foolishness, I will dance upon your ashes.’
Next thing Visenya felt was the hard ridges of Aerion’s rings connecting with her face. Searing, hot pain shot through the entire left cheek. Visenya’s tongue darted out, tasting the blood that was bubbling up on her bottom lip. Her hand rose slowly to touch her sore cheek, her cold fingers bringing only a momentary relief to the stinging skin.
Egg, for all his smallness, rushed to put his body in front of his cousin as a shield. One of his little hands found one of hers and gripped it tight, just like he’d done when he was much younger and Aerion had frightened him. And even if fear gripped his heart now, Egg did not show it.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
Maekar appeared in the doorway, most likely brought here by the commotion. His pale eyebrows were furrowed and his mouth was twisted in an angry frown. Visenya straightened her back and turned her face so he would not see her injured cheek. She did not need his pity, nor his ire however justified it would’ve been. A fragment of her anger was directed at him too. Had he been a more present father when the need first arose, mayhaps they would not have been in their current predicament.
‘I was just coming to tell Daeron about the Trial, father.’ Aerion explained in a sickly sweet tone. Oh, how Visenya wanted to pull out his lying tongue right out of his mouth! ‘The three of us will defend this family’s honour.’
‘The three of us?’ Egg asked then realisation seemed to strike him. ‘Father, you cannot! Please!’
‘Do not speak to me of what I can or cannot do, Aegon. To bed, all of you!’ Maekar bellowed. ‘I will have no patience for any more disturbances tonight.’
He then grabbed the back of Aerion’s collar and flung him towards the door, slamming it shut behind them.
Egg whipped around to look up at Visenya. ‘He cannot do that! We need to stop him!’
‘I’m afraid he can.’ Daeron groaned as he rolled out of bed. ‘If it’s a Trial of Seven, he will see it as his duty to fight with Aerion.’ He looked at Visenya guiltily, eyes flicking to her bruised face. ‘And myself as it seems.’
‘What is a Trial of Seven?’ Visenya asked.
‘A different form of a Trial by Combat. Seven knights on one side, seven on the other.’ Daeron explained through a deep sigh. ‘It’s fucking ancient and grandiose. Perfect for my brother.’
‘I need to find Ser Duncan!’ exclaimed Egg. ‘I am his squire, I must help him!’
Visenya studied his fighting-ready expression. ‘Where do you think he would go first to find those six other knights?’
The three of them had cloaked themselves in black to scurry out unseen from the castle. The rain provided additional protection from unwelcome eyes as they hurried down the muddy slopes towards the tourney campground. The cold air and rainwater brought some relief to Visenya’s injured cheek though she was certain she looked a right sight. Egg pointed to a single tent where the lights had not yet completely gone out and the canvas walls shone in the gloomy night. He stepped through the entrance, Visenya close behind him.
Ser Duncan was indeed inside, drenched to his bones. Beside him was a smaller lad, with boyish whiskers around his mouth. Likely some other knight’s squire. Judging by the abnormal amount of apples around the tent and the distinct sour smell of cider, Visenya concluded this could be no other family but the Fossoways. And the lad, more likely than not, a Fossoway himself. Ser Steffon’s blood mayhaps? Ser Duncan’s eyes grew wide when he saw them enter.
‘Egg!’ his eyes then flickered towards Visenya. ‘Princess! What are you two doing here?’
‘I am your squire, ser!’ Egg said simply. ‘You will need someone to arm you.’
The hedge knight’s face softened at his declaration. ‘Does your father know that you’ve left the castle?’
‘Gods, I hope not!’ Daeron spoke with a groggy voice. He shook the rain off of his cloak and unclasped it, discarding it atop a chair. Visenya was unsure if his sudden appearance would be seen favourably by Ser Duncan who he had falsely accused. And, of course, her doubts were confirmed on the spot when the large hedge knight bolted forward, grabbed a knife from a nearby table, and flung her cousin against the nearest bench quicker than she could react. Egg screamed for him to stop and Visenya rushed to grab ser Duncan by the arm to hold it back. The man was built like an ox and thick underneath his shabby clothes, so the princess had almost no chance to stop him from stabbing Daeron unless she put herself in the line of the blade.
‘Are you mad coming here!’ He screamed. ‘I should drive this through your neck.’
‘Ser Duncan, please!’ Visenya tried to placate him while still hanging off of his arm.
‘I’d sooner you pour me a cup of wine,’ Daeron gasped.
‘Cousin, shut up!’ He was not making his case easier by mouthing off to a man who had a knife to his neck.
‘Fuck your wine! You lied about me.’
Daeron scoffed, ‘I had to say something when my father demanded to know where Egg had gotten to. Should have blamed it on my cousin here I guess.’ He nodded in Visenya’s direction and she rolled her eyes. If there was ever a single unifying trait in her family, that was their penchant for not knowing when to shut up.
‘Please, don’t hurt him!’ Egg pleaded and Ser Duncan finally relented, releasing Daeron from his grip and moving a few paces back. Visenya swooped in to make sure that the knife had never been close enough to cut. Daeron was unscathed, thankfully, though still sweating and shaking profusely. She sat on one side and Egg plopped down on the other.
The Fossoway boy was still staring at Ser Duncan in astonishment. The hedge knight shrugged at him, ‘He can’t kill me twice.’
‘My father is going to join the seven accusers, ser.’ Egg began.
Ser Duncan, pacing about like a cornered animal, did not seem surprised by his words. ‘Of course, he will. He must redeem his sons’ honour.’
‘Not that I ever asked to have my honour redeemed.’
‘Daeron, shut your mouth before I shut it for you,’ Visenya scolded.
Daeron sighed and leaned forward to rest his weight onto his knees. He told the hedge knight that he intended to look gallant in the first charge, but would forfeit after that if Ser Duncan could knock him on the helm. It was a stupid idea though it could work in order to spare Daeron from a proper fight. He’d never been one for fighting, he did not even care enough about riding to name his own horse.
‘My father has commanded the Kingsguard to fight as well,’ added Egg guiltily.
Ser Duncan’s shoulders sagged, almost on the brink of desperation.
‘Only the three,’ Daeron clarified. ‘Ser Mallister is my cousin’s sworn protector, he would not go against her word if she told him so.’
‘Yes, and he surely knows that if he joined Aerion’s side, he would be dead to me. The poor man would never survive the anguish!’ She chuckled, but the stretching of her lips caused the cut there to reopen with a prcikling pain. She winced and held up the back of her hand to it. That brought the attention of all other men in the room to her. Ser Duncan made a cautious step in her direction and once she lifted her head, his face turned even paler upon fully seeing the injury there.
‘M’lady…’
Visenya offered a tense smile in return. ‘I am afraid my cousin’s brutality is not always directed only to those outside his own family. I will be fine, ser, do not waste your pity on me.’
Ser Duncan did not seem swayed by her words and it only endeared him more to her.
‘Who do you have, ser?’ Egg asked him, the hedge knight gave another shrug. This one more self-depricating than the previous.
‘Raymun’s cousin…’ That wasn’t a very extensive list.
Egg seemed to think over the same thing for a moment before declaring, ‘I can bring people, ser. Knights. I can.’
‘I’ll be fighting against your family.’
‘My father will be well guarded, and you won’t kill Daeron. He told you he’d fall down.’
Their conversation stalled, the tent grew quieter. Ser Duncan was mulling over Egg’s words, likely considering what was left in that whole equation. And there was, of course, the most glaring factor…
‘And Aerion?’ Ser Duncan asked. ‘You’d see him dead.’
‘He hurt Nye and… when I was little, Aerion used to come into my bedchamber at night, put his knife between my legs.’ Visenya looked away in fury. She knew the story well. She’d been the one to offer little Egg a sanctuary in her own room on more than one occasion when they were younger. Aerion only began to torment him when Visenya had made sure he’d lose interest in her. Guilt still ate at her over it. ‘He had too many brothers, he’d say. Maybe one night, he’d make me his sister. Then he could marry me.’
Raymun Fossoway snickered at those words and several pairs of eyes turned to him, none really amused by what he did. He apologised immediately.
Daeron cleared his throat. ‘Egg has the truth of it. And as you can see,’ he looked left towards Visenya, ‘Aerion can be quite the monster.’
‘And he threw my cat in the well, too.’ Egg was quick to add more to the plethora of his brother’s evil-doings. ‘He said he didn’t, but he did. He thinks he’s a dragon in human form! That’s why he was so wroth at the puppet show.’
‘A pity he wasn’t born a Fossoway,’ Daeron said, looking towards Raymun. ‘Then he’d think himself an apple and we’d be a deal safer.’
That appeared to rile the Fossoway lad so Visenya jumped in to steer the conversation.
‘What other knights have you thought of to ask?’
Ser Duncan glanced her way. ‘Ser Steffon believes that his friends at camp would be up to the task. A Lannister, uh… Ser Otho and Ser Lyonel, too.’
‘Lyonel!’ Of course, he would be the perfect ally. Daeron gave her a queer look which Visenya could not decipher. It was the look he sometimes gave people like he knew more of what lay ahead of them than they themselves. It made her blood run cold so she turned away from him. ‘I will go speak to him myself. I already have an… understanding with him of sorts.’
‘I will escort you!’ Egg jumped up from his seat and came to her side. The two bid a quick goodbye to the rest of the men in the tent before departing the warmth of the Fossoway tent.
The rain had slowed again, but their feet dragged and squelched in the mud, making the trek to Lyonel’s tent more arduous than it could’ve been. The two moved between sleeping tents and stalls, passing by fire pits with dying embers. Visenya held onto Egg and his own smaller fingers were clutching at hers, all while thinking how to best approach the subject of Lyonel joining Ser Duncan’s side in the Trial.
When she’d left the Baratheon pavilion, he’d been even drunker than her. He would not be easy to rouse, Visenya herself knew how cantankerous she would get when woken up in the midst of a drunken slumber. Though the present circumstances would have to be an excuse enough. He will finally have his proper challenge, she shuddered at the realisation.
A single guard was posted outside Lyonel’s tent. And it was the same cunt from that very first night. The one who’d refused Visenya’s entry to the Baratheon pavilion. Rain drops were clinking on the surface of his helm and the man seemed moments away from sleep as he yawned.
Though his desire for rest quickly dissipated when Visenya pushed the hood of her cloak back and stood before him with Egg.
‘Not you again!’ The man protested like a petulant child. ‘If you’ll have my head for insulting you, then at least wait till I’ve had a piss. I’m near bursting.’
Visenya scoffed, ‘Do not flatter yourself. I need to speak with Lyonel.’
‘My lord is sleeping. Come speak to him in a more reasonable hour.’
‘I am afraid it’s urgent!’
‘Then you will speak urgently with him on the morrow! To wake him now will only anger him.’
Unwilling to waste any more precious time, Egg found his moment and dove right between the guard’s legs and into the tent. The man stammered out a surprised objection and attempted to grab him which gave Visenya her own chance to shove the man out of the way. She entered just as Egg was emptying a cup of wine over Lyonel’s face and the man woke with a furious roar. He tumbled out of his cot, hands reaching for a weapon. As he rose to his feet, Visenya swiftly moved in front of Egg to put a hand against Lyonel’s chest. She halted his advance and after he shook away what appeared to be wine out of his eyes, he stared down at her. Anger turned into reluctant compliance, compliance turned into pure outrage when he noticed the state of her face. He blinked away the remnants of slumber as if that haze might be to blame for deceiving his eye. But there was no mistake, although Visenya fervently wanted him to ignore it so she might get to the reason why they’d roused him.
‘Who did this?’ Lyonel asked through a menacing frown.
‘It does not matter right now-’
‘It does not matter?’
‘Milord, I tried to stop them,’ the guard had barged in as well. ‘The little rat jumped between my legs.’
‘He wasn’t letting us in!’ Egg fought back and shook off the guard’s hand from his shoulder when he tried to pull him back outside. Lyonel held up a hand to shut him up without his eyes ever leaving Visenya’s.
‘Ser Duncan’s life is in peril, Lyonel.’ She told him. ‘He needs your help.’
‘Visenya…’ he spoke calmly though the tension in his brow contradicted it. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘Never mind my face! Lyonel, Ser Duncan is to stand a Trial of Seven at dawn, against my cousin Aerion.’
‘Did Aerion do that to you?’ Lyonel persisted with questions about the stupid bruise and Visenya was growing impatient. For a man of his experience and no small amount of wit, he was being maddeningly difficult sometimes.
Seeing the situation at a clear impasse, Visenya knelt beside her cousin and bid him listen to her. ‘I will explain it all to him, Egg. Go back to Raymun Fossoway and find more knights. We do not have the benefit of much time.’
‘Go with him,’ Lyonel told his guard. ‘Make sure the boy is safe!’
‘Yes, milord!’
Egg nodded in thanks to Lyonel, then grasped Visenya’s hand one last time. The opening of the tent flapped open and closed quickly when the boy left with the Baratheon guard on his tail. The large, well-furnished tent was certainly more lavish than the Fossoway one and with the better lighting, Visenya could note some aspects that she’d missed the first time she’d been there. For starters, it was hotter than a steam house with its very own fire pit dug into the centre of the tent. The fire had begun to die out but the blazing embers still radiated copious amount of warmth. Visenya let out a deep breath and reached for the clasp of her cloak, hastily undoing it and flinging it towards a nearby chair. When she turned to face Lyonel again, she found him unmoving and still very much furious.
‘I apologize we barged in as we did, but it really is very urgent.’
Lyonel was breathing heavily through his nose, ‘That is not what I care to know right now. Did Aerion do this to you?’
His words were terse and filled with unbridled outrage. Visenya sighed, ‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to kill that cunt.’ Lyonel reached for the scabbard of his sword which was leaning against the head of his cot. Visenya dove after him and pulled him away from the sheathed weapon by the front of his shirt.
‘Lyonel. I am fine, I slapped him and he slapped me back. But I gave as good as I got.’ That was almost true, if it wasn’t for the heavy rings Aerion had a taste for decorating his fingers with.
‘And that is supposed to make it better? He. Struck. You.’
‘It is unimportant.’
‘It is not unimportant, Visenya!’ Lyonel looked at her as if she had landed a blow to his own face. He stepped towards her, Visenya remaining firmly planted in her spot, until they were toe to toe. Lyonel’s face was but a breath away now. Visenya felt her heart beat so violently in her chest, she worried that poor thing might crush itself against bone and sinew. She could not choose whether to focus on the man’s eyes or his mouth which spoke each scorching word with staggering determination.
‘You come to me with your face all marked up, and you think I will ignore it that easily? You are important. Your safety is important. To me. And as Gods are my witnesses, I will strike a thousand blows to that craven little twat for what he’s done.’
She kissed him.
Or he kissed her.
Visenya could not tell for their faces had been so close. But she could not care to deliberate. She could only focus on that sensation she had felt but two days ago. What she had been craving since that sudden kiss after the rope tugging challenge. She craved it even more now after his impassioned declaration.
His lips were warm and tasted of wine, and when he parted them to glide his tongue hungrily against hers, she tasted even more of it. It was better than having the drink flow down her throat. Her head was swimming with that exhilarating intoxication.
And Lyonel kissed like he’d been starved for an age.
Their hands roamed everywhere. Fingers searching for skin to grab a hold of and pieces of clothing to remove. Lyonel’s touch was hotter than a blazing fire as he pulled her flush to his own body. He grasped the strings that held her dress together at her back and pulled them roughly. Visenya heard the sound of fabric tearing though she cared less if her dress had been ruined. It loosened and Lyonel’s lips travelled fervently down her chin, her neck, her breasts. He pulled the garment away from her chest and gently sucked on the supple flesh, eliciting a string of breathy moans from Visenya’s mouth.
He walked her backwards without his mouth ever leaving her skin and with a single swipe of his arm cleared the table next to them of all its clutter. Then picked her up just as easily and put her down on the edge of the surface. Visenya grabbed the back of his hair, fingers tangling in the tiny curls, and pulled him back. A guttural groan tumbled from deep within Lyonel and his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment. Visenya smirked to herself, pocketing that knowledge for a later time.
If she ever got the chance to have him like this again.
She reached for his loose shirt and pulled it up, discarding it as soon as Lyonel had slipped his arms and head out. He dipped down to kiss her again, softer and slower this time, one of his hands caressed the injured side of her face like his very touch might break the skin further. His fingers travelled lower until they gripped the front of her dress and pulled it down. Visenya shimmied out of the garment and kicked it away from herself, left with only her undergarments, stockings, and boots.
Lyonel then knelt before her to take each of her feet and slip them out of their own confines. The sudden change of pace allowed Visenya to observe him and commit the sight to memory. Allowed her hands to glide across his shoulders and discover tiny freckles and healed over cuts. Her breath hitched in her throat when Lyonel looked up at her, his stormy eyes blown wide with desire. His skillful hands encircled one of her now bare legs and while peppering the skin with kisses, he made his way back up until he reached the bunched up hem of her chemise.
She whimpered.
Only thin linen separated him from her quivering cunt. She wanted his mouth there, wanted him to - as he himself had said - drink her dragonfire. But she wanted him inside her, to possess her, and fuck all thoughts of what would come to pass in mere hours out of her mind.
Visenya pawed at his shoulders, mewling desperately for him to come up once more, and Lyonel obeyed most eagerly. He stood up and pushed some strands of her hair away from her face before sealing his lips to her once again. They moved in tandem, a unique dance of their own with their hurried panting providing the melody. Visenya’s fingers reached between their bodies to undo the lacing of his breeches and release him from his confines. She gasped when she grasped his hardened cock in her hand. He was not shockingly long like a few men she had lain with, but he was not at all small either. The shaft was girthy and twitched most eagerly in her palm. Lyonel gasped into her mouth when she moved her hand along the length of it once, his forehead falling against hers. Visenya scooched closer to him on the table top. She spread her legs wider to let him settle in between them and guided his cock to her quaking entrance.
Her body was screaming for him to take her, to enter her like a long awaited traveller. Her folds were dripping with arousal and when the head of his cock pushed ever so carefully between them, Visenya let out a strangled sigh. Lyonel did not restrain his reactions either. His hands gripped her hips hard, finding purchase in the pliant flesh there to push himself deeper still. When he bottomed out, he stilled to let her adjust. A deep groan slipped past his lips and Visenya could feel him trying to hold back. Don’t, please, don’t. Take me, take me, take me, she wanted to scream. She rolled her hips along the surface of the table and gave him a clear sign she needed him to move.
And so - obediently - he did.
Lyonel set a hard and fast pace, driving his cock inside her cunt like a man who would face death come sunrise. He fucked her roughly and with little sound safe for his primal grunts and growls. He kissed her mouth, her jawline, her neck. His teeth nipped at the soft skin of her shoulder.
Visenya wailed and whimpered. Her nails dug into his back, clawing at him and trying to pull him even further in. She wanted him to melt against her like two candles who burned too close to one another. She wanted him imprinted on her skin.
The pace quickened, their breaths did too. One of Lyonel’s hands shot up to grip the back of her neck and his body trembled with his closing release. His other hand delved between their bodies, beneath the hem of Visenya’s chemise, and rubbed hurried circles into her bud of pleasure. Tension coiled inside her core, a familiar and much missed sensation. Touching herself was enjoyable, but being touched by a lover was mind-bending.
Visenya’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. A high-pitched moan was ripped from her chest as Lyonel made one final deep thrust inside her and then stopped, his own body trembling with the power of his release. Visenya felt him spill inside her, his seed a warm tidal wave. Her legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him further in. Lyonel whined against her shoulder, twitching and shaking, and hugged her body closer.
They stayed like that for what could have been just a few minutes. It could also have been close to an hour. The only sounds in the tent were their own trembling breaths and the pop of the dying embers. And when Lyonel pulled out, it was slow and careful. He picked her up from the table and lowered both of them onto a pile of animal skins beside the firepit. Visenya could feel his release ooze between her legs and coat her inner thighs with a sticky sheen.
Lyonel let her curl against his chest and wrapped an arm around her back to keep her close to him. Their legs tangled together. Near complete silence resumed its reign over the tent as they both began to catch their breath.
‘There is to be a Trial of Seven then?’ Lyonel finally asked, staring at the canvas ceiling of his tent. Visenya looked up at him, observing how the determined spark returned to his eyes. She gave a brief summary of the events of the previous evening. And for the entirety of her relaying the account, Lyonel remained quiet. She told him of Aerion attacking the puppeteer, Ser Duncan coming to her aid and in the process beating up her cousin. His arrest and finally her cousin’s decision to hold a Trial of Seven. By the end, she skipped the part of her slapping Aerion and him returning the gesture, for she did not want to reignite that argument.
‘He means to embarrass Ser Duncan and have his head since he believes no knight will come to his side.’
Lyonel nodded somberly. ‘Your cousin is a cunt and he is wrong. The hedge knight is worth a hundred of that little prick.’
‘I can only agree. Should I find your squire and rouse him?’
Lyonel tilted his head to place a lingering kiss to her forehead.
‘Stay,’ he murmured. ‘He was far drunker than me last night. There’s no chance of waking the boy, I will have to arm myself.’
‘I will help you.’ Her words made Lyonel grin. ‘I’ve helped my brothers into their armour once or twice, I know what to do.’
‘I believe you.’ He laughed softly. ‘A Trial of Seven, eh!’
‘I know you have wanted a real challenge since the beginning, you will get your chance now.’
Lyonel nodded again and pulled her in even closer, rolling onto his side so they could lay chest to chest. ‘Rest now. It won’t be close to dawn for another couple of hours. I will wake you.’
And Visenya let herself relax into his body, lulled by Lyonel’s heartbeat into a brief but needed sleep.
Next chapter
A/N: Fucking finally, amirite! Sorry this one so long to come out, but I knew it had to be perfect so I had to take my time. Hope you enjoyed it!
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER EIGHT // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 6.1K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; angst; emotional hurt/very little comfort; some s*icidal thoughts but nothing happens obvi; arranged marriage
They put her up in Baelor’s bedchamber.
At first it seemed cruel. Why would anyone think it a good idea to place a grieving daughter amongst her father’s belongings? Somewhere where his scent still lingered even after the man himself had departed this world. His bed was made, his clothes were folded on top of his trunk. It felt as if he was still there, as if he might enter the room at that very instant, proving this all to be some sick and twisted dream. But it was no dream and Visenya knew that however long she stared at that oak door, her father would not walk through it.
A tub was brought in for her. They filled it with water. And one of the handmaids helped the princess out of her tattered dress and cloak. Visenya could not move. She let those careful hands guide her out of each piece of fabric. They freed her feet from her sullied stockings and boots, and let her lower herself into the water.
Timid, tender voices told her they would leave her be. Told her a fresh nightgown was laid out on the bed. Told her someone would come by later to remove the tub. And they left.
Visenya was alone again. Alone with her grief and the ghost of her father in every piece of him left in that chamber.
She washed herself slowly, mechanically. A bar of lye soap was left on a stool by the tub, along with a cotton towel and large pitcher from which a thin column of steam climbed up into the air. Visenya lathered her hair with the sweet scented soap and dipped her head back into the water to work it into her roots. Then she cleaned her skin and scrubbed it with a washcloth. She did not stop until every part of her body had been attended to. Then she stood up in the tub and doused herself with the water from the pitcher.
It was all she could do to have a semblance of control over the situation. The simple act of bathing herself, something so mundane, was now the only way to feel like a normal person. Like the walls of her life were not crumbling around her into dust.
Visenya dried herself and fetched the nightgown. It was one of her own and too fine. Her belongings were likely brought up to the castle and somewhere in that chamber. But she could not will herself to look for her trunk, nor go through the hassle of finding a simpler garment. She dressed herself and curled in bed, atop the covers.
The pillows were large and smelled like her father. He had inherited Grandmama’s love of Dornish scented oils and ouds. Visenya remembered spilling a glass jar of his in her youth. The smell was so strong, it lingered for days on end. She only wanted to try it. Did her father scold her? Did he yell? He might have, the small bottle was half full before Visenya had dropped it. And another one would have had to be sent by ship from Sunspear. For some reason she could not recall what followed. She just remembered that her father always smelled so nice, like sandalwood and amber. And that smell still lingered on where his head had rested.
Her eyes were dry as bone. Visenya did not think she had the energy to cry even if she wanted to badly. And when the door opened, she did not even care to shoo off whoever had come in. Then the mattress dipped and she had to lift her eyes, finding Rod perched on the edge. He smiled mournfully and without a word laid his head down on the other pillow. Rod reached for her hand and held it tight. He did not need to say anything, his presence was enough. He who had been left an orphan on the streets of King’s Landing with only an uncle to teach him his trade before he too was claimed by the Stranger. Rod knew of loss, he knew even more of it than her, and for a moment Visenya felt ridiculous to grieve so fiercely when others had faced worse.
The two friends laid together in silence. Rod held her hand until Visenya’s body could not bear it any longer and shut off. Sleep came quickly but provided no rest. The events of the day began to play over in her dreams. A horrid and torturous theatrical. Moments that had been lost to her in the heat of the moment were becoming clearer. Like shell being peeled off from an egg. She could see her father speaking to the other knights, then the first charge, one of the Humphreys being propelled off of his horse by a lance, Daeron lying in the mud, Aerion attacking Ser Duncan, her father and Lyonel fending off a frenzied Maekar. And then her father’s head in her hands, blood seeping into her palms like a stream, the light in his eyes fading away.
Visenya woke up with a start.
Sunlight streamed through the window, soft and bright. Had morning come already? There was a maid in her room, busying herself with stoking the fire and setting out clothes for her to wear. Rod was gone. When Visenya touched the other side of the bed, there was no lingering warmth and she figured he must have slipped out earlier to avoid a scandal. The last thing she needed was to be discovered with a man in her bed in this place. The maid spoke in hushed tones like to a frightened animal. She informed her that her uncle the prince had asked for her to be readied in time for the funeral.
Baelor’s funeral. Papa’s funeral.
Visenya’s chest ached horribly. It was a deep pain, spreading its ugly roots and making each pump of her heart feel like an arduous task. She wanted to lay back and refuse her uncle’s call. She wanted to melt into the bed and into what was left of her father’s smell.
But she complied.
The maid helped her into one of her black dresses - why on earth did she ever agree to have so many made in that unhappy colour? - then braided her hair, and styled it in a low bun at her nape. She offered a veil that Lady Ashford herself had supplied for the princess’s comfort and privacy, but Visenya refused it. She did not wish to hide her anguish, and if Aerion had been roped into attending the funeral as she expected, she wanted him to see it all. She wanted him to feel it as raw as she felt it herself, like a thousand daggers stabbing through her chest.
The pyre was erected on the bank of the river Cockleswhent. It was a peaceful enough place though not nearly as grand as Visenya believed her father deserved. Her heels dug into the stiffening mud as they made their way down to the river bank. The grass swayed with each gust of wind. The sound of running water provided the sole tune for no bird nor beast would make a sound. It was as if the surrounding nature knew of the solemn event that was taking place and had fallen into a deep hush.
Valarr did not speak when they made the walk down the hill, mayhaps for the better; what was there to say? They were now both without a mother and a father. That kind of loss was never easy to put into words.
Visenya cast her eyes forward and kept her back straight. She breathed in and breathed out. Her uncle stood on the other side of her brother though it was hard to see if any of her cousins had been added to the vigil. Visenya did not care to look further, her eyes were trained on her father’s body atop that pyre.
They had dressed him well, in a black velvet tunic with their houses sigil stitched neatly over his breast. A golden helm over his head without a visor so that all may look upon his face. His skin, once soft bronze in shade which darkened once even slightly exposed to the kiss of the sun, looked grey and unnatural. Waxy. His lips were pressed together in a hard line so unlike him. Visenya lamented, he used to smile.
A torch was lowered onto the pyre and Baelor Breakspear’s remains went up in flames. They were blood of the dragon, fire would be their only tomb.
People walked over to offer words of condolence. Even her cousin Manfred, though the words were meant for her brother and what she received was a terse nod.
The very last man in that line of titled mourners was Ser Duncan who limped over to her first. His face was covered in small cuts where his helm had taken the worst of the damage, and he was hunching over his wounded side. Despite his pain he was there, and Visenya cherished him all the more for it. She extended her hand to him and he bowed his head when it was in his grasp. There was such agony in his eyes and so much remorse. Visenya feared her words of comfort in the tent the day before had not been enough. It did not help when she caught her brother utter, ‘Why would the gods take him and leave you? Begone, Ser Duncan.’
The hedge knight, a man as tall as a mountain, hunched his shoulders even lower and limped away without a second word. Visenya glared at her brother, lips trembling in anger.
‘You have no right to say such things to him.’
‘I have every right,’ was Valarr’s stiff reply. ‘It is because of that man the realm lost its finest.’
‘Our father made the choice to defend him. To stand and fight with an innocent man. If you must lay blame… lay it on our cousin.’
She looked away, furious with how her brother had scorned the hedge knight. Ser Duncan did not deserve the derision for upholding his vows, nor the blame for something he had no hand in. Visenya glanced towards her uncle who was barely holding himself upright. After the death of her aunt, a woman he adored above all else, he had been inconsolable. He’d walked the corridors of the Red Keep as little more than a wraith. Now, he looked completely and utterly destroyed. And just as silent in his grief as Visenya herself.
But Aerion was nowhere to be seen.
The pyre had started to collapse in on itself, the remains of her father turned to ash, and people slowly filtered away from the riverbank. Visenya had not said another word to her brother during the entire time they stood vigil. It was him that spoke at last.
‘Let us return to the castle.’
Visenya remained fixated on the crumbling pyre. ‘If it is all the same to you, I should like to stay. Just a little longer.’
She saw Valarr nod out of the corner of her eye. He turned on his heel and began the climb back up the hill, leaving her to the guardianship of the dying flames.
She breathed in and breathed out.
Visenya felt another join her in the silence. A tall figure, dressed in black, and despite the smell of ash and smoke, she sensed a familiar woodland fragrance wash over her.
‘He fought with honour,’ Lyonel spoke first.
Visenya barely managed a nod.
‘I passed through the camp on my way here. Songs are already being composed of his life and deeds. The Hammer will live on in ballads whilst men still sing.’
‘And what those ballads will fail to mention,’ Visenya drew in a sharp breath, ‘is that he was kind. And had a sweet smile.’ At last… tears began to form like heavy raindrops in her eyes. Her whole body trembled like a leaf. ‘And h-he had a… a daughter who lo-loved him.’
She could not hold herself up anymore. She had no strength left and once the tears began to roll down her face, her legs gave out from underneath her and she crumpled to her knees. Lyonel caught her at the last moment and wrapped his arms around her back. She wept against his chest. Her hands clutched his leather vest, clinging onto him for dear life. When the tears finally came, they did not stop. All of her well-trained composure, all that courtly stoicism ingrained into her from an early age, went up into the air like smoke from the pyre.
Lyonel held her and smoothed a hand over the back of her head until her wails had turned into pitiful hiccups. She sniffed and lifted her face to look at him. In all of the commotion of the previous day, in all her excitement upon seeing him unharmed, she had failed to see just how many blows he had taken. The scars of the battle that were now much more plain to see. One of his eyes was encircled by a deep red and purple ring of puckered flesh. His forehead was marred by smaller bruises and cuts. Her hand reached up to hold his cheek before she could think on the tenderness of the act itself.
Lyonel placed his own hand over hers and murmured, ‘Do not fret.’ He held out his thumb and wiped away the last remnants of tears from her cheeks. Then he helped her back up, his hands holding her close to his solid chest so she may regain her balance. Visenya sniffed again and wiped away the wetness on her face. She did not care he had seen her so vulnerable; she put her entire trust in him and knew he would not ridicule her in this moment of immeasurable despair.
And it was only them on that small field after all. Until they weren’t.
‘Visenya!’ Came the strained call of her own uncle. She scanned her surroundings and saw him walking back down the hill towards her and Lyonel. The latter made a small step away from her; likely out of propriety, but the loss of his warmth felt worse than a stab to the heart.
Maekar approached slowly and she noticed just how red and tired his eyes looked. He made no comment on their closeness, instead he said, ‘Valarr said you were still here.’
Visenya nodded. ‘Where is Aerion?’
Her uncle cleared his throat and clasped his shaking hands behind his back. ‘I have decided to send him to Lys. He left early this morning.’
‘Good.’ Visenya said simply, with a voice as hard as stone. ‘For if I ever see him in King’s Landing again… I will put my sword through his lying mouth. And neither you, nor the Kingsguard, nor the fucking gods will stop me.’
If Maekar was shocked by the sheer violence of her statement, he did not show. She understood him enough to know he was as angry as her, if not more… but it was anger that came too late. He frowned and tilted his head towards the smouldering pyre.
‘You will not be returning to King’s Landing with us.’
He might have just as well have slapped her across the face with those words. ‘...What?’
Maekar cleared his throat and turned his attention to the man beside her instead. ‘Milord Lyonel, my brother… he told me you and my niece were courting.’
Visenya began to stutter. ‘Th-that is not-’
‘I believe he intended to ask for an official betrothal… upon the tourney’s completion. And I- I need to uphold his wishes.’
Next to her, Lyonel nodded stiffly. Visenya attempted another interjection, ‘Uncle! I cannot- you cannot-’
But Maekar ignored her. ‘I have asked my men to draw up a contract of betrothal. If it is… possible, I should like to hold the wedding upon evenfall. Get this done and my niece will travel with you back to Storm’s End.’
‘No!’ Visenya cried out and Maekar finally deigned to give her his full attention.
‘Visenya… My brother is dead.’ His jaw twitched as if suddenly scaled by hot water. ‘Our family has lost its strength and with his passing… I will not let it falter now. The council had already discussed it, your willfulness ends now. So you will either marry Lyonel Baratheon or I will send you to another lord who will have you.’
She looked up at the man beside her. Lyonel’s brows were knotted over his stormy eyes. He stared at her uncle. She begged in her mind for him to look back at her. She wanted to plead and scream for him to say something. Tell him no. Tell him you’ve already had me. Tell him I am spoiled goods. Tell him you do not wish to marry. For that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? It was why she had picked him out of that list of men. She had picked Lyonel because she believed him to enjoy his freedom… like her. Unbowed by mere convention. Surely he could not be so easily forced into a rushed arrangement such as this.
‘I will take her to wife,’ Lyonel replied with stiff determination. ‘She will be safe under my protection. I give you my word. Have the contract sent to my tent and I will have my advisor look it over.’
Maekar let out a deep sigh. ‘Thank you. And I will send word of the ceremony once I have discussed the details with the septon. Come, Visenya.’
Her uncle took her by the arm and pulled her numb body away. All the words she might’ve wanted to say were stuck to the walls of her throat like a morsel that was too thick to swallow. Visenya looked over her shoulder and found Lyonel finally staring back. There was little emotion in his eyes, and what was left in the growing space between them were his words. I will take her to wife. And now her heart, already heavy with grief, was weighed down by another emotion. Guilt. Bountiful and horrible guilt which fed on what was left of her like an insatiable vulture. For all she did to distance herself from her cousin’s image and comportment, she realised she was not so different from Aerion in what she’d done. She had caused this with her stupidity and carelessness. And now Lyonel would have to bear the responsibility of this cruelty she had forced upon him.
The rest of that godawful day stretched into eternity. Visenya was escorted back into her chamber, her father’s chamber. Nobody came to see her for hours, save a few maids who brought her a platter of food at midday. Piles of meats, cheeses, and fruit were there on offer but how could anyone expect her to have an appetite. Her stomach had folded in on itself, constricting painfully inside her.
She pondered starvation. She could bar the door and wither away in that chamber. But she denied the Stranger the satisfaction of claiming her a day after her own father’s passing.
Visenya watched the food for a long time before she moved towards the platter. She forced a couple slices of roast beef and some cheese down her throat, and chewed. She chewed until her jaw hurt and her teeth clamped down on what was little more than mush.
She might as well have chewed on sand, the food felt tasteless on her tongue.
Visenya dropped down in a chair by the roaring fire, despairing. Would this agony hang over her for the rest of her days? Would everything she ate or drank turn to ash in her mouth? She pulled her knees to her chest and curled in a ball. The loss of her father felt even stronger now.
The guilt reared its ugly head and struck her right in the chest. Her deception felt even crueler now that he was gone. Baelor died believing her a good and honest person when she was no better than Aerion. She lied and she thought she could get away with it, when in fact she had spun her own web.
I could run away, Visenya considered the possibility. With enough friends and allies amongst the artisans of King’s Landing, she would surely find some manner of sanctuary until a boat could take her someplace else. Mayhaps Dorne, for its culture which she felt connected to through Grandmama. Or the Free Cities, although that would put her too close for comfort to her cousin. Could she even escape? She stared blankly at the window across the bedchamber. It was wide enough for her to slip through in case a guard had been stationed at the door. If it were Ser Mallister she could have him escort her back to the capital before her absence was noticed.
But could she run away?
Would she be able to live with herself if she chose the coward’s way out. Absconding to Essos was a tempting thought and she surely would love to live as Nye of Nowhere. She would paint miniatures and sell them to wealthy ladies to pay for lodging and wine. She would follow her own path in this life much like a hedge knight. But she would always carry the burden of guilt. For escaping her duty, for escaping her responsibilities… for leaving Lyonel to deal with the consequences of her own actions.
How would she be any different than Aerion? He at least was sent away by his own father, and Visenya was debating fasting herself into a pyre or fleeing into obscurity. She still would have left destruction in her wake for someone else to pick up.
And she would not, as gods bore witness, let Lyonel suffer her mistakes.
The light outside the bedchamber window had begun to dim. The sun was completing its arch across the sky and the last stretches of golden red light had hidden behind the western treeline.
Visenya had not moved an inch and her legs had grown stiff. The platter of food stared back at her invitingly though her stomach vehemently refused another morsel of food. She felt herself grow sicker and sicker, and considered crawling over to the chamberpot to empty what little she had in her belly.
Her contemplation was soon interrupted by a pair of maids who scurried inside the bedchamber, long ivory fabrics in their arms. Her own chemises had been washed and Lady Ashford had offered yet another kind gesture to the princess in the form of an ivory dress.
A wedding robe.
Heartbeat quickening, Visenya felt on the precipice of a fainting spell. Her head was light and she returned to that state of numbness. She breathed in and breathed out. Simple mundane actions that she could focus on instead of the hands that prepared her. If either of those sweet girls had spoken to her, Visenya had not heard. She wanted back into the enormous bed, sinking into the pillows that held her father’s scent.
After mine own wedding ceremony, of course. The thought itself was like a nasty jest.
One of the maids, a girl much younger than Visenya, pulled a mirror before her so she may gaze upon the final touches. The Lady Ashford was a slightly taller woman than her, standing just over five inches above her, and the train of her dress extended much further than it was meant to. Visenya realised she would have to hold onto the front of her dress when walking lest she land onto her face. The thought made her chuckle inward; that would make a splendid end to the worst day of her life. The maids had made small alterations where the garment needed it, but other than that and its length, the dress was… it was fine, pretty even.
One of the maids pulled out a long, black cloak from atop the pile of folded garments of her father’s. A cry for her to stop was on Visenya’s lips until she realised the girl’s intentions. She had taken it to serve as her maiden’s cloak. As a bride she would need to walk to the altar under the symbol of her house before her husband took her under his own protection. And in such short notice that would have to do.
Visenya gazed at her reflection. Everything atop her borrowed, everything was someone else’s and not her own (save, of course her undergarments). She could not muster any feelings of joy and excitement. Was it not what every bride was supposed to be feeling on her wedding day? What her mother had told her she would feel? Elation, eagerness, some cautious trepidation. She felt none of that; only grief and guilt.
‘I wished to ensure you were ready.’
Maekar had paused at the door, one hand reaching for the nearest surface to grab onto. His marred features were drawn and even more tired than he’d looked during the funeral. The whites of his eyes were still bloodshot and he walked - nay, staggered over to her like a man who had aged a hundred years in this one day. Visenya turned slowly and stood still under his gaze. Her uncle’s face twitched painfully, but held any outward expression of emotion at bay. For the young princess, however, it was not so hard to miss.
‘You look fine indeed,’ he rasped and his hands slowly rested on her shoulders. Visenya offered him a smile though she could not be sure if it had been entirely reassuring or looked more like a spasm. Her uncle thanked the maids for their good work, and once the door clicked behind their retreat, Maekar pulled his niece to his chest. Visenya felt like crying again. After a day of having seemingly lost the ability, now she barely held the tears at bay.
Maekar’s breathing was shallow and a broken sob choked him as he said, ‘I’m sorry.’
Was he apologising for the wedding or for her father? Somehow Visenya guessed it was both in equal parts. Though she figured his agony stemmed from his own remorse for causing the deadly blow. He had to live the rest of his days with the knowledge that he had unintentionally felled his beloved brother. Visenya wrapped her own arms around his waist and squeezed him tight.
‘I do not blame you, kepa.’
Her soft-spoken admission only elicited another sob from the man. Maekar pulled back and schooled his expression into something close to dignified though his eyes revealed the truth. ‘Your own father should be here to see you wed. He… He only ever prayed for your happiness. I am sorry to have had a hand in taking that away.’
Then he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out something small. Light flickered off of the object and it only took Visenya a moment to realise it was her father’s signet ring. It was beautifully crafted, made of gold and bearing the image of the three-headed dragon. Her father had always worn it on his middle finger and oft fiddled with it when in need of keeping his hands occupied.
Hands that she would never get to hold again.
‘Valarr bid me give this to you.’ Maekar handed her the ring though Visenya was loath to take it.
‘The signet ring should go with the heir,’ she said and cast her eyes away from the golden band. ‘Valarr did not mean this, surely.’
Especially not after she had scorned him for how he behaved with Ser Duncan. The two siblings had never been particularly close, growing even further apart as the years passed. Their duties and interest caused a rift a long time ago and now that rift might as well have turned into a chasm.
‘Valarr assured me of his wishes.’ Maekar took her hand and placed the ring in her open palm. ‘You were his favourite, he said. Baelor… loved all three of you, but you were his sweet girl.’
My sweet… the last words that he’d ever said to her. Visenya pressed her lips hard and chose to look at the ring for she knew the tears were coming. Had she looked at her uncle’s own tear-streaked face, she might have lost the battle with her emotions entirely. She tried the ring on for size and as expected it was too big for her but sat neat enough on her middle finger. She would have to take it to be re-fitted before they left Ashford.
Before they left for Storm’s End. Her new home. Lyonel’s home.
Gods, what must he think of her now?
Visenya breathed in and out again. There was no sense in dragging out this torture any longer. She steeled her back and gave her uncle one final nod to signal her readiness. The sooner she could have this wedding done, the sooner she could be in bed. To suffer the silence and her own feelings in peace.
Maekar held her arm with care as they made their way to the Ashford sept. It was a small annex to the castle itself and not grand by any standards. The wooden statues of the seven looked on above those gathered. And there were not many of them as it appeared. Lord and Lady Ashford were in attendance, of course. Daeron, leaning on a crutch to hold himself up, had chosen the furthest spot from the altar as his viewing place. Visenya did not miss the glossy look in his eyes, not from drink but from milk of the poppy. Not a better alternative though he must have been in considerable pain from his injury. Maester Yormwell and two other men who had served her father as advisors on the journey, likely the ones who would have had a hand in her betrothal contract. Nothing had made her feel more like a heifer on the market than that simple realisation.
Rod and Egg were there too. Her little cousin was dressed in a fine black doublet while Rodrick had donned the best clothes he had brought along for the journey. Nobody could fault him as there was no way of knowing there would be a funeral and a wedding at a bloody tourney. The two gave her small and hopeful smiles as she approached which Visenya could not return. She was holding herself up by sheer spite now, unwilling to be that pitiful girl that snivelled all the way down the aisle.
On the Baratheon side, there were not many others. Two men Visenya recognised from the revelries in Lyonel’s pavilion. The younger one, a tall lad with a full brown beard and icy blue eyes, looked her over like he was inspecting goods at the market. His eyes asked “is this all?” and Visenya did not know how to answer. Yes, she had her name and her uncle had likely offered a sufficiently enticing dowry to make up for the rushed aspect of this marriage. But what else was there to her… truly? The older man beside him had more grey in his bushy beard and less coldness in his eye, though he too was not particularly impressed by her. The rest she did not know, but they all had the unifying traits of true Baratheons - great stature, hair as black as a raven’s wing (even with the onset of greys due to age), and striking eyes. Eyes like Lyonel’s who followed her slow approach just as intensely.
Her uncle had taken her far enough and let stand beside her betrothed. The castle’s young septon began the prayers to the gods. There was no turning back now. Visenya found she was reaching for her father’s ring to turn about her finger anxiously as she could not bring herself to look at Lyonel during the first half of the ceremony. She focused on the words of each prayer instead. The gods must have had a jolly good laugh at her situation. They’d taken her father and now they would take her freedom.
Lyonel’s too, she couldn’t forget.
When they were called to repeat the promises to each god, Visenya mumbled through the words. Her throat was closing again and the air was too heavy with the smell of burning tallow and incense. She managed to sneak a shaky breath once the septon took up the task of calling for anyone who would challenge the match.
Nobody moved, nobody spoke.
The lad smiled tentatively at Visenya and asked her to face her betrothed. She turned slowly and reached for his hands as instructed. They were warm and held hers gently, one of his thumbs coming to rub her knuckles almost absentmindedly. Visenya attempted to look up through her lashes with discretion, but as soon as she did she could not look away. She would be a liar if she did not admit that he was handsome. His black curls were sleeked back with pomade. He was clothed in black silk and leather, and a yellow cloak was slung over his shoulders. It was held together by a single golden chain with two stagheads for each clasp. In the soft candle light, the scars of the battle were obscured and only in his eyes did the flames dance.
She wanted to speak up and ask him why he would do this. Ask why he would agree to this marriage when he too knew their courtship was nothing more than a sham. A lie. He could still object, he could tell her uncle that she had lured him into her bed. Yes, she would be ruined, but why would it matter. Was it honour that barred him from ruining her? Was it kindness?
Visenya flinched when she felt her uncle’s hands remove her cloak. Lyonel dropped her hands, reaching for the stag clasps to tear his own mantle off his shoulders, and wrapped the heavy garment around her. Thus Visenya passed from one family to another. From fire and blood to storm and sea.
‘With this kiss I pledge my love,’ they said in unison under the instruction of the septon. What love was there to hope for? Visenya recalled their drunken walk through the camp all those days ago when she had revealed her own fears regarding marriage. She had told him she did not wish to be caged. Yet now she had caged him too. Two beasts of the wild caught in a trap they could not hope to escape.
Lyonel spoke the following line first, ‘And take you for my lady and wife.’
‘And take you for my lord… and husband,’ Visenya stammered in return. She expected Lyonel to say something, anything at all. She would take a jape, one of his humorous retorts, an insult even. But he stayed rooted in his spot, hands hanging at his sides. The maester pronounced them man and wife.
One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.
Lyonel glanced at the young septon and asked if that was all. The lad seemed puzzled by the odd query but confirmed it for him. They were man and wife. Nothing more was to be said or done, so Lyonel nodded mutely and walked away from the altar. His men followed him without a word either. A thundering of heavy feet departed the sept, leaving it barren and somehow much larger than how it initially appeared.
Was it foolish to imagine they might have a moment together after this? Visenya held no hope of consummating the marriage for there was no point. And no one would surely expect her to given that she was in mourning. Yet Lyonel’s sudden departure felt worse than Aerion’s strike.
Visenya turned to face her uncle and smiled sadly. She did not wish to cry in front of those who were left in the sept and needed to make her own hasty retreat. ‘I think I shall withdraw to bed, uncle. I will see you on the morrow.’
She thanked Lady Ashford for the dress before she went. Her feet carried her swiftly up the steps towards her father’s chamber. Once in the sanctuary of the warm abode, she shakily removed Lyonel’s cloak from her shoulders and slung it over the back of the fireside chair. She kicked off her shoes then began furiously pulling at the strings of her dress, tears welling up in her eyes with a brutal force. Her breathing had picked up in speed when the ivory robe did not budge as easily as expected. But after a few tugs, it loosened enough for her to push it down her legs and step out. Her stays were next but they at least came off with less strain.
Visenya went over to the bed and snuck underneath the bedding, head buried in the comfort of the plush pillows. Her tears were flowing freely now and her strangled whimpers accompanied the crackle of the fire. She cried for her father, for her family. She cried for herself and Lyonel. And the final stab to her breaking heart, just as exhaustion hit and she began slipping into unconsciousness, was the painful realisation that Baelor’s comforting scent had all but completely faded from the fabric of her pillow.
Next chapter
A/N: Well they're married now at least! I'm so sorry to be dragging you all through so much pain with these last two chapters but better days are coming for Visenya and Lyonel, I promise!
