ships: fem oc x daeron targaryan, fem oc x aerion targaryan, fem oc x lyonel baratheon
t.w.: canon divergence, dubcon, age gap, targcest, sexism, violence, etc. drucera targaryan was sent to essos after a sexually motivated attack against her, and she returns five years later and not much has changed. when things go awry at ashford meadow, drucera takes certain matters into her own hands; baelor never enters the trial of the seven, the myth of the unity of the house targaryen is in shambles, and a throne is at stake. this isn't proof read.
chapter one: oh child of dragon
“Your beauty has been so wasted on Essos,” Aerion breathes.
Drucera’s violet eyes remained trained on her brother Daeron as she accepted Aerion’s hug. Of course, he wasn’t going to mention that he looks so much like her, with their pale, silvery hair, the straight lines of their noses and the fullness of their lips. Aerion made no note of the stiffness of her arms around him.
Daeron nodded at her, coaxing.
“Nothing indeed has been wasted, brother,” Drucera found herself saying, her body drawing back from his. “Certainly not on Tyrosh.” Her mouth was soft, bent just so, the way she knew Aerion liked her to smile best.
Five years had done nothing to chill his affection for her, that much was clear. Aerion remained blocking the rest of the family from seeing Drucerya from where he had her standing on the pier. It had a perfect repose not to see him.
“Aerion,” Drucerya urged. “The rest of our family awaits.”
Aerion cleared his throat, his eyes suddenly focusing as if he’d been locked away in some dream. Some dreadful dream, Drucerya considered, if her other brothers' letters had any truth to offer. He stepped aside.
Drucera’s breath hitched in her throat. Her father never stood so straight or beamed so brightly in her memories.
She steadied herself on Aerion’s shoulder. “The land feels like sea now,” she laughed. She’d been aboard the Maidenroam for four days, not accounting the time they spent docked due to a minor but emergent loss of provisions badly packed aboard the ship.
Maekar sighed, a discontented look passing his eyes. “And it’s such a shame. Even if your departure from Tyrosh hadn’t been impacted, we would’ve been cutting it close in any case.”
“Cutting it close?” Dru bleated, drawing her cloak closer to her as she became fit to stand. Maekar held out one arm. From beside him, the children’s mother, Dyanna, took Dru’s opposite arm.
“Tourney at Ashford Meadow, I’m sure you’ll remember…,” Maekar began.
“I haven’t even a maid!” Dru found herself protesting, though sometimes it was Maekar and Dyanna’s obstruction of self that Dru truly protested. Dyanna’s hands patted down unruly bits of Dru’s clothing, placed her loose hair, subtly pulled and prodded at her chin and shoulders.
“We have a maid waiting,” Dyanna whispered against Dru’s hair as she leaned in close. “Your father had presumed you would wish for anonymity at the tourney, so yours will be the second caravan after Daeron and Aegon’s leaves…”
Dru drew a breath and glanced up at the orange horizon. From one place to yet another, she went.
—
It was in darkness on the third day of travel when Dru’s caravan finally met Ashford land. She was tucked safely away, feeling the rock of her small wheelhouse come to a rigid stop after a series of bumps that let her know they had hit a rocky, uneven expanse. She opened her wheelhouse’s door to find the two kingsguard assigned to her caravan were all too ready to simply fuck off.
The stars were out in full display, the air was scented with fire and spice, like warm apple cider and wine braised beef. Her stomach growled, though she knew the food at Ashford would pale in comparison to the food prepared by the staff at Summerhall.
And yet, there were other things on the princess’s mind before food. A bath, namely. Daeron. The music coming from the tents further on Ashford grounds, and the whooping and shouting of people in their exuberant celebrations of who knew what.
Yes, a bath. Then she would seek out whatever noble lady she saw first, and cling, and cling.
She gathered a bag of essentials, clothing, and headed for the river. She guessed where it was based on the parting of the trees, and her face was washed with pleasure at being correct. That’s what Dru loved best, being correct.
Free from the clothing which clearly marked her as one of House Targaryen, she sat in the cool water along a series of rocks, letting the water wash the ride from her bones. She even closed her eyes, letting starlight wash over her, too.
“Ahem,” came a voice, a feminine one.
Dru jumped a hair, and looked upward.
“Lady Jocelyn,” Dru gasped. She didn’t rush to cover her skin, though. She and Jocelyn Baratheon were practically from the same litter.
“Don’t you dare lady me,” Jocelyn whispered, her elbows resting over a rock to the upper right of Dru. “But I must ask. Why are you on this side of the river? It’s colder here.”
Dru snickered. “Didn’t you know? The side of the river closest to the festivities is warm because it’s full of piss from lords and smallfolk alike.”
Jocelyn broke into choked laughter. “Is that why there’s this sour taste in my mouth?”
That sent Dru into a fit of laughter she couldn’t remember having in the last five years. When she calmed, she said, with the edges of her eyes tinged in red, “What are we doing after this?” She stood, and began washing her hair with the bar of soap she’d brought from Tyrosh.
“My uncle’s tent is just on the other side of those trees,” Jocelyn said. “I was just finishing washing up when I saw your house land. Come to the front of the tent and tell the men that you’re a friend of mine. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
Dru chuffed. “You’re leaving me now? In this state?”
She briefly let a hand flutter across her soapy body.
“I know a few lords, if you’re that worried, sweetling,” Jocelyn laughed, pulling on her own clothes, apparently having been air drying while Dru washed up.
“Lords, lords,” Dru murmured. “I think I’ve known too many. You can have some of mine.”
“Mmm,” Jocelyn hummed. “I suppose I understand with your family. Aerion especially.”
“They say he’s changed some,” Dru said. The words floated between them, taking up an awkward amount of space.
“They’ve lied,” Jocelyn answered. “Your father has merely missed you. Your brother is just as monstrous, if not more so, than he was when we were but small girl shaped things.”
Dru blinked. Her eyes darkened. In her mind, like some tremblesome vision, the sounds of the knives and swords she trained with Tyrosh clashed, echoing down her spine. “So be it,” she whispered bitterly. She still had her Tyroshi steel. It was not Valyrian, but it would do should she need it. If her family wouldn’t protect her, at least her father had given her a method to protect herself.
And if Aerion would continue his pursuit, if he would force her hand and her life, she would take him with her.
She took a resolute, solemn breath, steadying herself. “I’ll see you,” she said.
“Sooner than you think,” Jocelyn finished, tying a golden wool cloak over her shoulders, a silky, woven bow balanced against her throat. “Come laugh with me until day break. We’ll break a late fast.”
Dru finished scrubbing, watching as Jocelyn’s dark hair was made red by the firelight as she approached the tourney grounds.
A little later, she finished dressing. A pale red dress, merely a hint at her heritage, and a black cloak wrapped around her shoulders. The festivities at Ashford were louder than she’d anticipated, being shipboard and holed away in her own wheelhouse for days.
Imagine her surprise when it seemed like no one had warned the Baratheon men at the entrance that someone was coming. How completely unbecoming she felt asking for Jocelyn personally, and a guard firing back with, “Everyone knows the lady. Move along, comely brat.”
She doubted they could tell the color of her eyes by firelight, and the thought alone shifted her thinking all together. It was a rather Targaryen thing to be so inflamed by being told no. She succumbed to the pressure and fell back, in fact, disappointed in the novelty of having seen Jocelyn again just to be told to fuck off like any other little creature.
Dru instead went to a public tent, had dinner and piss warm ale. She returned to her wheelhouse for what she thought was the night, until at the very edge of a rather pleasing dream of offering her uncle strong Tyroshi coffee, a knock rapt at her door.
She opened it, and gasped. “Daeron?”
“I – I didn’t know you were sleeping,” he began, already talking himself out of it.
Dru pulled him inside the wheelhouse and let her lips crash against his. His lips were warm, soft, and tasted like southron mulled wine. The taste alone was enough to make her gasp for more, and she deepened it, on top of him in the moment it took to pull him into her temporary chambers.
His fingers tightened at her waist, momentarily digging into her ribs, as if she needed another way to breathe. Daeron’s head swayed, one hand piling into her loose hair, digits tightening. Finally, with his hand pulling at the roots of her hair, Daeron forced her to part from him. “Listen,” he bleated, sense suddenly coming back to him. “I’ve… I’ve lost Aegon.”
ships: fem oc x daeron targaryan, fem oc x aerion targaryan, fem oc x lyonel baratheon
t.w.: canon divergence, dubcon, age gap, targcest, sexism, violence, etc. smut with plot, aerion x dru. lol
chapter five: the hole in the moon
Her hands shook, measuring out the most minimal amounts of opium resin. The wheelhouse was warm, warm enough to collect sweat at the small of her back. Dru opened a window and tried to remember Baratheon’s instructions.
She didn’t want to kill him. She’d made that clear.
But she knew the way some things worked… she couldn’t trust Lyonel to be honest about the amounts. She couldn’t afford to discount his directions completely, however. Opium resin, valerian root so his mind would get tired before his body got heavy, powdered willow bark to smooth the edges, the theatrics, when he woke. Red wine dark enough to be black; that, she had on her own.
Lyonel offered no fix if Aerion suspected her made her drink, too. Her own resolution to this was mixing the only bits she was willing to use. A pinch of resin, something small of the valerian, a smidge of willow bark. She was heating a cup of wine on the small stove next to her breakfast bench and waiting.
The maesters sometimes used charcoal to induce vomiting, though she had none, she had ginger and the coffee she’d intended to share with her uncle. Chewing ginger wouldn’t last, but it would burn long enough for her to stalk away to wherever the Gods took her when all this was done.
She knew her curved Tyroshi blade was beneath her featherbed, but she knew she wouldn’t use it. She could if she wanted, though. And though she’d hang for kinslaying, for a moment maybe using it would heal something in her.
Dru poured the contents of a spoon into the bottom of a plain silver goblet and poured boiling wine over top. Stirring, the grains, apart from the willow bark, dissolved. She strained the contents back into its original bottle, tossing the cheesecloth out the open iron window. It was round, like the upper cabins of the ship that catalyzed her return to Westeros.
The faintness she felt in her head only afforded her a set of heavy breaths, but once those passed, her eyes followed a succinct line down the whittle wood pieces gifted to her by Nymerys. Dru wouldn’t say that she and the magister bonded over much apart from faith. His was his own making, he said, his Gods were Coin and Secrets. They would sit by an open fire in the evenings after their last meal and talk about the Gods.
The faith had grown old and matured in Westeros, but it was brought by Aegon the Conqueror, whittled into something she could understand by Nymerys’s own hand.
She loved them all, though they were plain. Maiden, Mother, Crone, they all stood together on a shelf. The Warrior, the Smith, the Father sat on a smaller, lower shelf. She supposed that though she knew there would be times she would beg for the hands of any of the masculine aspects, they must’ve known the weight that would take.
All the men in her life were worthless things. At their best, it felt as if they were little puppies freshly born, eyes and ears closed, mouths only open to nuzzle the nipples of a mother that had left them behind. At their worst, that Targaryens specifically, with the exception of mayhaps Baelor and his sons, they were but thoughtless children smashing their toys together and being surprised that they break, without even the dignity of withstanding it, let alone any stroke of choice made by the Gods above. Even her father. Sometimes especially Maekar.
It was the Stranger that rested on its own pedestal, away from the grouped masculine and feminine aspects.
Magister Nymerys had spent particular time on this idol. An eerie kind of sensation passed between them when she detailed her thoughts and belief on the most shadowy figure of the Seven. Time, death, rebirth, pain, melancholy, a being whose hammer was even more absolute than that of the Warrior’s, set more lives to the blade than the Smith’s. Neither female nor male, a being that just is. She felt that sensation then, as her wheelhouse’s door opened.
The weight that had set her staring on the cloaked stranger’s figure lifted.
Aerion’s jaw was already set. Mayhaps he thought she would beg or fight, barring her own little plan which she set apart from herself as soon as she met his pale violet eyes. Something dark passed across his face, something separate from the both of them, spiritual. It was here and gone, as the Stranger comes and goes. A different weight reached into her guts and yanked, forcing her to stand.
Neither said anything as Aerion climbed the pair of stairs, the house swaying some with his weight.
Dru wrung her hands against the silky fabric across her belly. Tyroshi silk was like the silk of Pentos; though it was opaque, it left nothing to the imagination. She had no doubt the lapse in Aerion’s pitchfork tongue had more to do with the raised fabric over her nipples, the slight warping of the silk as it rested against the trimmed hair between her legs.
He tried to hide his surprise or pleasure or both, momentary flickers over his features.
“Wine, your Grace?” Dru said, her voice wobbly to her ears. There were two silver chalices on her breakfast table, and the prepared wine had cooled. The one nearest to Aerion was already filled most of the way with wine that hadn’t been affected at all, and she poured a dash of the bottled wine over top. She then filled the cup nearest to her with only the wine from the bottle. Aerion watched, his brows knitting.
He didn’t trust her.
She needed him to do exactly as she thought he would.
Dru picked up the only partially poisoned chalice and held it out to him.
“You can have that one, sister. I’ll take the other.”
She forced her face and body not to react. She put her cup to her lips and drank. “So be it.” Swallowing, she set the drink down and handed him the one he requested. “Did you have Aegon’s big knight killed?” She held his chosen cup out to him. He took it, sipping mildly.
The prince stalked toward her. The corner of her mouth lifted. He seemed to be different now. Less a dragon he so wished to be, much more a garden snake that needed stamping for its aggravation alone. “I might have, had Aegon not appeared,” he replied, the picture of severity. “But Waite and Yorkel heeded his own words before my own.” There was something damning in the thread of his breath, but Dru hardly allowed it to paint any sense. “I opted for a Trial of Seven for dawn.”
She knew saying anything might dysregulate him. So, Dru opted instead to brush her thumb against the wide bend of his cheek bone. His skin was cool to the touch, hard bone underneath. Her fingers dipped into the soft cropped hair splayed wild around his head. His hand shot to her wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Feeling you,” Dru whispered, a ghostlike voice rising from her throat. It was her own, from some far off, but ultimately true place. “I want this done with as little pain as possible. I love you.” Dru let a shudder erupt from her chest, her hands daring to wrap around Aerion’s face. “It would make it a lot easier on me if you tried to love me like I love you.” Aerion downed the rest of his cup before letting it drop to the floor. Dru jumped mildly at the tinging sound it made, metal against bare wood.
His eyes were downcast. She could feel a very real burn from them, down her jaw, down her throat, along the narrow straps of her silky gown. His jaw was still set, his tongue rolling against his teeth and cheek. The callused skin of his thumbs caught along the silk laying loose at her hips, his fingers digging into the fat of her haunches. Then his nails. She could feel the shearing of the silk underneath his fingers like talons, the pressure rising, a yelp unbidden between her teeth. “Like Daeron loves you?”
“Please, Aerion. Not my gown.” Her eyes felt hot, corners prickling already.
His tongue played at the edge of his lip, his smile rising smugly. “Then… Take it off, Drucera.”
Neither of them moved, not until Aerion lifted his chin, the violet of his eyes seeming so much stormier than average. He dropped a hand to his hip. Dru only heard the unclasping of a sheath. Aerion’s blade split a single strap of her gown, the knife’s edge pricking the upper meat of her chest unevenly. Dru’s lungs emptied on their own, a sound as sharp as the blade Aerion had unsheathed.
She loosened the other strap, letting the gown fall. Aerion’s breath warmed her clavicle, his tongue moving to soothe the wound. Drucera drew in a breath, a hot, fat tear cascading down her cheek. Her lungs burned, but if Aerion noticed, he made no note. His nose caressed her throat, rising to press his lips to her cheek, a hand rising to grip her by the throat. She felt his teeth graze her flesh, and began forcing more air into her lungs.
Dru’s arms fell like dead weight against his shoulders, forcing leverage as Aerion gave her none. She knocked her cheek against his briefly, forcing his mouth closer to his. She let their mouths crash together, a bitter mix of blood and wine.
There was no sound outside the wheelhouse. Not even crickets or other night creatures. She could scream if she wanted to. Someone would hear.
When their kiss broke, and his hands gentled, one moving into the length of her silvery hair, the other’s thumb weighted against her nipple, Dru backed toward her feather bed, her own hands beckoning Aerion by the waist of his leather chausses.
If she screamed, if someone came, someone would see the evidence of the poisoning, even if Aerion were too narcissistic to see it himself.
In Tyrosh, her maid’s name had been Dianara Niqueys. She was tall, skin showing golden in the sun, with wise, soft eyes. Her hair had been the same blue black of Magister Nymerys, mayhaps some shades lighter. She’d held a wealth of information in a slender body, though it had ample curve. Dru couldn’t remember looking at a woman in Westeros the way she’d grown to look at Di.
An ache erupted in her chest, slithering down her spine like the man-snake attempting to coil between her legs. She’d likely never see Dianara Niqueys again, and yet, the butterflies tickled at the inner lining of her stomach at the mere thought of her.
She couldn’t afford to stall any longer. The more occupied Aerion was, the sooner it would all be over. Again and again, she kissed him, her own hands prodding at the muscle winding taut along his ribs. Warmth sprang up her back, and she supposed it must’ve been the first wave of the wine. Suddenly, she minded less and less who he was, what he wanted from her. Her heart was awash with need. Need for Daeron, need for Dianara.
“Touch me,” she murmured, letting her eyes slit the way that always made Daeron’s own darken. Aerion’s hand wound a length of her hair into his fist, and he pulled her mouth to his. Shuddering against his lips, Dru sat on her featherbed, spreading her legs for him. He allowed her to lean back, letting her hair free length by winding length. Aerion’s gaze was locked on her sex. His palm rested against her mound, his thumb slipping between her folds.
She fought the urge to shut her eyes; he’d always hated when she did that. Instead, she let a hiss escape. Aerion parted her open, his lips collected in part pucker and part snarl. Aerion pelted spit against Dru’s clit, and she tried to fight the shockwave of arousal. His thumb spread the wetness across her aching clit before letting his digit sink into her.
He said nothing about her closing her eyes this time, not as a shallow, breathy moan passed between them. Dru even let her head fall back, baring all for him.
His knee dropped to the featherbed, his free hand dropped to the leather ties of his chausses. “Wait,” Dru whispered. “You’ll wish you waited. Let me show you what I learned in Tyrosh.”
“Fuck Tyrosh,” Aerion growled. “I need you now.”
Dru bit her lip. “Humor me. Let me show you, then fucking come here and take me. Then fucking break me if that’s your wish, my prince. It won’t take long. I only need you to watch me.”
Though heat flashed like the fires from the seven hells, he stiffened his lips. “Then show me.”
Her hand found her sensitive bud and she began rubbing circles around it. “Kiss me, kiss me,” Dru begged, Aerion’s eyes narrowing in perverse confusion. He removed his thumb from her core, readjusted, and let his body cover hers. He slipped off his doublet, and sheared the ties of his chasses with the knife she’d neglected to fight him for. The leather slipped down his thighs, his cock having strained too long beneath them.
Dru spit into her own hand and found his length. His cock felt heavy, painful in her hand, stone covered by velvet. He sighed heavily, as if her touch had been the only thing he’d wanted. And it occurred to Dru that mayhaps that was true. Mayhaps she had spurned him for Daeron all those years ago, and if that had been all, she still couldn’t forgive, but she could gather a piece of glass from the broken mirror each of them seemed to stare into when looking for themselves.
Heat. Love. Passion. It was writhing in her blood, and all the fear disappeared as she guided Aerion’s hand back to her entrance. “Please, my prince, my moon. Help me.”
Aerion’s fingers squelched as they entered her, two of them curving into a hook and pulling, slight but enough. Dru shivered, her knees beginning to shake against his ribs. She half heartedly continued to stroke his cock, her other hand continuing to circle her clit. Tension rose, and Aerion wrapped his arm around one of her legs as the trembling became a quake. She began breathing heavier, a low, erotic growl rising from Aerion’s chest, the vibration mixing with her own, tickling the inside of her thigh.
Finally, Aerion leaned down, his mouth brushing hers, almost if the prince was asking. Dru let go of his cock and grabbed him by the hair, her fingers joining in a hold she knew would be painful. Aerion’s hand withdrew partially, then reentered her core with force, knuckles expanding just to wretch a scream from her throat. “There she is,” Aerion seethed against her mouth, stifling her cry. “Little dragon tried her best to keep her claws to herself, didn’t she?”
At that, her cry bubbled into something like a laugh. “Keep going,” she whimpered, teeth at the edge of drawing blood against her bottom lip. “You’ve almost got me undone.”
Dru was weaker now, less thoughtful of her environment. An arm reached out to brace herself against the wall, and she felt Aerion’s teeth drive lines across her chest, whimpering as they dragged as gently as he knew how across a nipple.
Prickling pain seared the walls of her cunt as she tightened around his fingers, the world around them suddenly dropping out from beneath her. She only heard the barest sound of a wall of squelching wetness surge between Aerion’s fingers.
Dru’s head was swimming now, Aerion’s fingers withdrew from her. The aching empty space was quickly filled to the hilt with his cock. Her own nails dug into his shoulder, a pathetic whimper torn from her throat.
“Shh, shh, princess,” Aerion whispered. Dru thought she heard a mild slurring. “Unless you want all of Ashford to hear me fucking you.”
Her heart almost leapt out of her chest. It was there, Aerion was beginning to slur his speech. She looked up at him, begging for a sliver of moonlight to see his eyes. She pushed him back by the shoulders, his face flashing pale and half lidded by the light boring in from the small window.
“I love your cock,” she bleated, acid at the back of her throat. “You’re going to fucking tear me apart.” It felt like someone else was speaking now. Someone small, just who she needed to be.
A self satisfied smirk rose on Aerion’s face, his hands biting bitterly into the fat of her hips. It was true enough, at least. The underside of his cock was angled in just such a way that her entrance would have made her sore.
But she was numb. Her body felt heavy and weightless at the same time, and she fought the weight of her eyelids. She moaned, moaned, because there was a good feeling. Like a kind of love she hadn’t felt in years warmed her spirit, like the gods themselves were cradling her in their arms.
And then Dru would realize in a disconnected, despondent way that it was the milk of the poppy. It wasn’t any god of any faith but the machinations of Lyonel Baratheon.
Right. Right. She was poisoning her brother and herself in the process, for some purpose of her own for which she could no longer remember, and oh yes, she was rocking because her brother’s cock was inside her and it almost could’ve been bliss if it had been her other brother.
The rocking slowed. She no longer felt Aerion inside her. She took a sobering breath and forced her eyes open wider, shooing the darkness away. Aerion’s hand was at his temple. He was swaying.
“Aerion?” Dru said, hoping her own voice didn’t sound slurred. As if it would matter to him, three sheets to the wind.
“I-I’m… Sorry, Dru. I’ve lost it.”
Aerion fell swiftly, but Dru caught him before his head hit the wall. “You have, haven’t you?” She snorted. When Aerion didn’t respond, she lowered him to her pillow, and slipped the blankets out from underneath him. She thought about letting him catch a chill, but decided against it.
She let out a heavy sob, finally able to remove herself from the facade she’d quickly cobbled with the desire not to suffer his wrath. Dru slipped out from under his legs, straightened them, thinking something, something, circulation and so on. Then she lifted a hand and brought it down as heavy as her heart could manage across the side of his face. She listened to the echo of the clear clap for as long as she could remember it.
And then…
Her body couldn’t sag now. She could not lay next to him. She could not wake up next to him.
Lyonel.
In a stark moment of recollection, she could smell the dark roast Tyroshi coffee sealed somewhere in her wheelhouse. Its exact location was lost on her, mayhaps a drawer. She fumbled around her shelves and drawers, knocking over items and even hearing a glass break. Eventually, she did find it, its scent permeating everything as she loosed the sachet free from a leather bag from beneath her bed. She slid her gown back on, hitting her head against the wall in the process. But after that, it was just the boots that gave her trouble, as her cloak was nearly a second skin.
The big knight.
The Trial of Seven.
She bounced out of the wheelhouse, not even caring to shut the door behind her.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she hissed, tears streaming down her cheeks again as she ran like a baby deer through tall grass.
As she disappeared into a thicket of thin, gangly trees, she had the stark notion she’d gotten herself lost. She couldn’t force her voice to carry, however. Dru knew with a sobering alertness what she’d done to Aerion was wrong, though as righteously funny a certain Baratheon might have found it.
Okay, Drucera. Focus. She took a breath and slowed. She was under the cover of the trees now, and the land was all aglow with an eerie light. The moon. Dru glanced upward. The moon was full, in its most full guidance phase.
There was a dark spot across its face, a hole. The spot moved slowly, and Dru realized the spot was in her vision.
She remembered the way to Lyonel’s tent. She shouldn’t have gone for the trees. She’d just have to cross the river that split the meadow from the main thoroughfare. Glancing backward, the wheelhouse’s shadow stood tall against the grass.
“Fuck it,” she whispered, and stalked toward what remaining emberlight was ahead.
She managed the river slowly.
She managed the wet mud, she managed the darkness as the trees gained thickness.
In the sea of pavilions, however, she was lost. She drew her cloak closer to her and fought a shiver. She just needed the fucking coffee. And then she needed a better plan.
Dru stumbled outside one of the only pavilions left with sound, tripping over a rock. She landed on her hands and knees. A soft voice called out, though she could hardly understand what the person was saying. Eventually brown eyes met hers, the woman’s dark hair tied up high. Her brows were knitted, but as her mouth moved, dimples deepened her olive toned cheeks.
“Alexia Dondarrion?” Dru’s voice was slow and heavy as she gripped the woman’s shoulders.
Alexia was crouching now, wrapped up in a sea of fine black and purple clothing. Dru bleated a laugh.
“You look like seven hells, sweetling,” Alexia told her, hoisting Dru up from the ground. “Lady Jocelyn told me you’d found her earlier. Or she’d found you. Whichever came first.”
“I’m going there, to be sure,” Dru replied. “Listen – I need to speak with Lyonel Baratheon. Can you show me his pavilion? It’s so dark out, Lex.”
Alexia squinted at the ancient nickname. “Ser Lyonel?”
“Yes,” Dru said. “Yes, I – I – He’ll understand.”
“Drucera,” Alexia whispered against her hair. “Lyonel Baratheon fucking hates House Targaryen.”
“So be it,” Dru told her. “I doubt he’s ever had Tyroshi coffee, and unfortunately, I can go nowhere else to make it. Not without having to explain why I’m making it in the first place.” Dru burped up acid, and then swallowed it down. “And besides. It’s said that House Baratheon descended from a bastard Targaryen, so he’s just going to have to accept my pre-dawn call.”
Alexia let out a squeaky laugh. “You’ll owe me for waking up that particular heir this time of night.”
Dru finally relaxed as her arm wound around Alexia’s shoulders. “What are you doing awake, might I ask?”
The other lady snorted a laugh. “I came across some lord’s son who promised me a freshly strung lute. What would you have done?”
“I’ll get you a better instrument,” Dru said, a comic resolve edging her tone. “I’ll buy you your own traveling band, and some of the members of the troupe might even be handsome. Or pretty, as you prefer.”
Alexia barked a short laugh that could rival a Baratheon’s any day. “I’ll hold you to it then. Ser Lyonel’s pavilion is coming swiftly.”
It was mere steps, and Dru and Alexia were at a canvas door Dru knew to be familiar.
“Should I…?” Dru began to question.
The pavilion was completely dark, and there was no telling if Lyonel was inside or somewhere else, abiding whatever little hedonistic tendency he found to fulfill.
Alexia cleared her throat. “He’s inside, your grace. He is, but there are others. It’s going to be awkward, but if it must be done, it must be done, as you say.”
Dru let go of Alexia and grabbed the canvas edge. “Go,” she whispered. “I’ll see you.”
“Aye,” Alexia said, stepping backward, but not quite leaving yet. “I’ll see you in.”
Turning away from the lady, Dru stepped into the full darkness of Lyonel’s pavilion.
“Ser Lyonel?” She called. There wasn’t sound at first, but then there was a burst of movement. Dru held up her hands. “Lyonel!”
Out of the darkness, Lyonel Baratheon laughed. “You made it out, princess?”
ships: fem oc x daeron targaryan, fem oc x aerion targaryan, fem oc x lyonel baratheon
t.w.: canon divergence, dubcon, age gap, targcest, sexism, violence, etc. dru receives aid from an unexpected source. intro to lyonel baratheon. warning for next chapter: dubcon, fem!oc x aerion.
chapter four: eyes of fire
She had to think. It seemed the world was empty now, a little ruin on the horizon. A mirage. While she knew this was only a flea to the gods, she felt just small enough for that bite to hurt. Dru was pushing down the initial shock, pushing down what questions and fears came up first to remind herself of the fact of things.
Her uncle, Baelor, would be deciding with her father what to do. She trusted him to find a savory solution to the mold beholden trauma that was Aerion’s existence. It wasn’t her this time. It wasn’t her. And if it wasn’t her, then she had nothing to lose now. Not anymore than she already had.
And if she had nothing to lose, certainly not the love of a brother, then…
She let a hand cover her mouth as she ran to the golden tent she’d been turned away from not but hours earlier. If the men at the entrance had anything to say about it then, they said nothing as she came careening like a comet. Her gaze scrutinized the partygoers as they sang about a woman in a cloak of feathers, the body underneath soft and fine, hair dark as wine.
Booming laughter came from every direction, hoots and hollers, too, in spite of the hour.
Dru didn’t bother with appearances now. “Jos!” She shouted, “Jocelyn Baratheon!”
She let her eyes dart around the tent, hearing a deep snicker behind her. “There are at least four Jocelyns in this tent that I know of, girl. Specifics will be required to find the one you need so badly.”
Dru twirled on a heel, her eyes alit with condemnation at the voice. A man just taller than her, black hair, wine colored cheeks. She squinted. She hadn’t thought of anything to say yet, whether it would be polite or not.
Instead the man sobered with intense curiosity in his eyes. “Ahh, you’re looking for my niece, clearly. But you don’t have the look of someone needing girlish banter and dreamy laughter.”
“Lord Baratheon?” She could see herself clearly now. Chaos incarnate. A disaster barreling through anything in her way if she didn’t stop. She could only imagine what the Baratheon man would say next.
“Someday,” the man said, eyes narrowing on Dru, brow lifting. “I don’t doubt Jocelyn would be soothing right about now, but tell me, what’s a Targaryen girl doing in my tent?”
Dru’s hands went to the bodice of her gown as she stood a little straighter. “I… I cannot say…” She saw the flaw in her thought process, that her friend would have the knowledge to help her. The truth of it was she wasn’t exactly certain of the help she wanted in the first place.
“Where are your sworn men? Where’s your maid, girl?” The man lifted a golden chalice to his lips and drank deep, lips and teeth momentarily turning a deep purple.
“Off,” Dru replied, just as her thoughts were gathering for the better. She couldn’t kill Aerion, she wasn’t a kinslayer. And besides, knowing him, someone would do it for them all one day. She needed him down. Just down for a night, the wish he was dragon asleep while she could collect and coordinate. Dru gave the Baratheon a cursory glance, top to bottom. “But I think you might do, if you would.”
He nearly choked on his wine, dribbles bursting from the corners of his mouth. “What could you possibly mean by that?”
“I need less ears and eyes, my lord,” Dru stated.
His lips pulled into something straight and devilish, eyes darkening the way all Baratheon eyes did when it came time to play. “Come then,” was all the Baratheon said as he urged Dru toward the back of the tent with a ringed hand. He placed his antler crown on his own table. He snagged a pack of matches and a wooden pipe from that same table, and told his own sworn men not to follow him. Dru glanced backward to the revelry under way once more, and spied a confused Jocelyn looking up from what looked like a hanging chair made of real antlers.
Outside, the rain had stilled. Much of the tourney grounds and pavilions had quieted, though the celebrations remained. “Which one of the dragon cunts are you? Too young to be Daenerys, and you’re too silver to be Aelora…”
“You cross me, lordling,” Dru snapped. “You know me only a quarter swell the kind to be calling me a cunt.”
The Baratheon snickered, striking a match against a pad inlaid on one of the rings of his finger. He used the match to light a pipe. Bitter scents wafted the air, mayhaps a mix of common tobacco and sweetleaf. “You came running into my own tent, hollering for my own blood. That’s cunt behavior if I’ve ever lived to see it.”
They each held the other’s eyes long enough for the Baratheon to exhale. “I’m called Lyonel,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Now spin your spell, dragon witch.”
“Drucera,” she answered, crossing her arms underneath her cloak. “I… need to put someone down. Not forever. Just for the night.”
“Define down, lady,” Lyonel replied, lips poised around the stem of his pipe, surprisingly not antler shaped.
“Like I could think he was dead,” Dru blurted. “But not. Just out. Will hear nothing, feel nothing, at least for a few hours.”
Lyonel’s eyes trained themselves to the ground, the corners of his mouth unable to keep from rising. He scratched an eyebrow. It seemed like he couldn’t look Dru in the eyes at the revelation, a low ripple of laughter rolling off his tongue as he smiled with his teeth. “My niece has had nary a fever since she was a girl, so she says. And it was her that seemed the most sense to seek out? A small collection of knights and lords and even some princes, and it hadn’t occurred to you yet your best bet would be exactly someone like me?”
“I… Forgive me, I – I’ve met you once, something like eight years ago,” Dru murmured, her cheeks heating. She found herself laughing some small sound, embarrassed suddenly by the entire experience. Maybe it was Lyonel’s sweetleaf wafting over her, or the air, or just the remaining confusion after watching her own get bludgeoned exactly the way he deserved….
A shiver ran down her spine. “Gods be praised,” she whispered. That big knight was probably dead now. And she’d left her youngest brother to watch it happen.
She glanced between the trees back somewhere close from where she’d come, heard no screaming. Mayhaps something else was happening then.
“Walk with me,” Lyonel said. “I have more ingredients to milk of the poppy than you’ll ever need.” His voice was so rich, calm, even. It soothed Dru’s spirit instantly.
Dru sniffed only half as miserly as she’d been some moments ago, and followed Lyonel deeper into the woods. There was another smaller tent just out of the way. There was no light inside it, likely no one else in it either. “Why are you helping me?” Dru questioned, wary as Lyonel pushed the canvas door inside the darkened space. “Some desire to get on Prince Maekar’s or Prince Baelor’s good side? I hate to insult you, but they don’t even know I’m doing this… And I’m sure they’ll be displeased before they are anything else.”
Lyonel opted not to respond at first, cracking another match across his ring. He began lighting candles that were spread sporadically across a table. Instead, he sat. “You’ll tell me why I would help you. I’m rather certain it is an interesting, mightily undignified tale.”
Dru sat across from him, warmed by the orangey-yellow glow of the candles. They cast shadow across everything, shading Lyonel’s face like some well regarded artisan’s painting. She rubbed the silky inside of her cloak between her fingers. “My younger brother broke the hand of the puppetess in the big tent for killing a dragon that looked like Balerion the Black Dread.”
He sucked his teeth. “That could certainly be it,” Lyonel bleated. He scratched at the dark hair on his jaw. “But that isn’t it, is it? It never is with your house.”
The inner lining of Dru’s cloak brushed her lips, and she lifted her brows thoughtfully. “Do you think I owe you an explanation? Is that something I owe you?”
An antagonistic look flickered across his features, but soon his features smoothed. “No, Lady Drucera. I shouldn’t hope to be owed something like that. But you are asking for poison to knock your brother out, as you say. Would that not beg a question in your little corner of the world?”
“Oh it would, Lyonel,” Dru agreed, “But the questions that would get asked would send me back to Tyrosh. I suppose that’s the moral of the story here.” Maybe it was the moral of her story in any case; memories clinked themselves back up some ladder from the dark recesses of her mind like iron shackles and weighty chains begging to belong to her ankles again.
Lyonel smoked his pipe once or twice more, brows knitted in silent thought. A knuckle rested against his temple, and his elbows rested against the table. “Well. I suppose it has no reason to matter to me.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke worthy of a real life dragon, then began batting a hand at the tainted air. He shot up with a candle in his hand, and began rummaging around his pavilion.
Dru took a moment to lean back in the creaking chair she’d taken, taking in the scents of earth and spice. Lyonel Baratheon seemed to be hedonistic in almost every way, down to the way even his tent smelled. It was comforting, natural, masculine. “He told me to wait in my lodgings. Said he was going to punish me, too,” Dru blurted. She fiddled with the gold ring around her finger, a gift from Magister Nymerys. “I know it’s going to happen anyway, little lord. But I’m not going to suffer alone this time.”
She’d expected him to laugh. To make any number of insulting jokes commonly made by Baratheons, Fossoways, any number of folk made in references to her male line. No one ever said anything about her mother though, and they seemed less fraught with hurling insults at Targaryen women, lest they were as criminal as the men.
The light from the man’s pipe lit his face in harrowing orange light as he glanced back at her. His face was taut with something she couldn’t understand. He had no reason to be angry with her family’s treatment of her, either way. As he’d said, she was just a mere friend of his niece. After a pregnant silence, he found what he was looking for. A bag, leather ragged from use. Lyonel sat. “So… Mayhaps we should go over some things…”
Dru listened, watching the canvas door, though Aerion could not have guessed her there had he tried.
ships: fem oc x daeron targaryan, fem oc x aerion targaryan, fem oc x lyonel baratheon
t.w.: canon divergence, dubcon, age gap, targcest, sexism, violence, etc. dru helps daeron fix his mess.
chapter two: so we will
It was somewhat of a trek to Lord Ashord’s castle, its towers tall and flagged, armored and commonly clothed men and women alike gawking at the pair as they went. Only Dru was stopped, kindly asked who she was. It was most oft Daeron that explained, momentarily becoming the kind of man that Maekar might respect, mayhaps even like. Once any questions were answered, however, he merely shifted into Daeron again.
Dru had listened: Daeron knew it wouldn’t take long for their father to come looking, and as he had no other ideas of what to do, he finished the ride to Ashford. Knew she was placed a small distance from the tourney grounds, the hustle and bustle of all the pavilions erected in celebration of Ashford’s daughter.
He couldn’t quite explain how he discovered that Egg was gone, but knew well it was of his own accord.
“He wanted to come,” Daeron mumbled. He wasn’t drunk now. He was nursing tremors. The way his hands shook, it wasn’t only from anxiety.
“You could request a formal recusal,” Dru muttered, letting their feet fall in step as they followed a squire toward Ashford’s quarters. Their uncle maintained a temporary residence there for the event.
“And do what, Drucera?” Daeron questioned. “I won’t rule, and that’s better. But without even what I have now, where would I go?”
Dru felt her lips curl, and she donned to look away from the miserable look in Daeron’s eyes.
The halls of Ashord castle were dimly lit, even by noble house standards. The tourney itself, and the nightly festivities, must’ve been truly drawing from Lord Ashford’s reserves. They followed the squire to an area with a concentration of Ashford’s own guard and were taken to a room where only Baelor remained.
Daeron sat down first, hardly without a pleasantry.
“Your Grace.” Dru curtsied mildly.
At that, one corner of Baelor’s mouth curled upward. “You weren’t saying your graces the day you left,” he said. He looked like he could’ve said more, mayhaps an astute jab of some nature, but Baelor’s eyes seemed to focus as he glanced between the siblings. “Aegon?” Baelor leaned up in his tall backed chair.
Daeron was the first to attempt to speak, but Dru quickly interrupted. “The truth, Daeron. The truth.”
There was a certain level of heat that entered Baelor’s eyes, but it was quickly quelled. Of any Targeryan, Dru was grateful that the one with the most mild temperament was sitting before them.
There, Daeron repeated the facts. He hadn’t ever intended to come to Ashford, and the boy was all the more disappointed in that. Described the look of the knight that may have had something to do with Aegon’s disappearance. Baelor pursed his lips. “Then you must find him, if you’re so certain he’s come with the big knight to Ashford.”
“You’ve seen the knight, haven’t you?” Dru questioned, warmed by the familiarity of the look that passed her uncle's eyes. There was an underlying, good natured knowing there. There was always some game amongst the Targaryen clan afoot, and yet, Baelor Breakspear typically remained heartily ahead of the curve.
“Just today, in fact. Before you arrived,” Baelor answered, lifting a brow. He rested once more in his chair, head cocked to the side some. “He wished to enter the lists. He’s out there somewhere, and so is Aegon.” Baelor cracked the joint of his thumb thoughtfully. “Though, I would part ways prior to seeking our boy out. You know how some people are when your father’s off.”
Aerion was like something airborn, infecting all things with his presence though he wasn’t in the room.
“Fine enough,” Daeron said, sighing heavily as he rose from his chair, wrapping his dark cloak tighter around his shoulders.
The pair slipped away from Baelor’s temporary chambers. Daeron and Dru walked slowly, both with a staggering sense of procrastination. More than once, Dru would peek out of the corner of her eye and find Daeron’s violet eyes boring a hole into her. This part felt good. Knowing, or at least believing, that he missed her just as much as she missed him. That if they had the ability, they both might dare indulge their senses further.
Dru felt an intense heat at the back of her neck, and it wasn’t merely her cloak.
Some years earlier, they had found themselves alone in the hot springs in Winterfell for some little lord’s birthday. It was long into the night, and even Aerion had fallen asleep. The pools below the Stark castle remained hot no matter what, deep black waters, the rocky edges of each pool their only support, little torches lit along the walls, their only light.
They were younger then. More naive.
Daeron hadn’t just begun talking about his dreams, but they were becoming more common. One the nights that she and Daeron were daring enough to sleep in the same bed together, he slept like the dead some nights. Hardly moved, hardly breathed. Those were the nights Daeron would wake up in a sweat.
Dru pulled herself back from the baths, just how she’d kissed him then, too, holding onto the ridge of the pool. How slow to react he’d been to her lips, though his hands had found her waist then. “Do you remember Winterfell?” Dru found herself reaching for Daeron’s hand. He took it, his palm warmed by his own cloak interior.
“Yes,” Daeron answered.
“We should leave,” Dru whispered. “Go somewhere no one knows us.”
She could feel his body shudder, wracked with mild tremors. “I should like nothing more,” Daeron answered, after a long, sobering breath. “But I’ve dreamt of you.”
“Yes, we’re all doomed,” Dru snorted. “You’ve said that. But first we’ll live. I want to live, Daeron.”
They continued walking a spell, Daeron smiling in a way that could only be described as sad, but these days he always seemed a little sad. And Dru knew sad wasn’t the exact word. When Daeron’s dreams did eventually come true, and there never seemed to be any stopping them though he tried, he became defeated. Beautiful and defeated and pained and loving and all these bitter tasting things Dru could hardly manage to define clearly.
“You were lit in a dark place, and you were running, sword in hand. You were chasing something out of reach, untouchable. Swinging the blade and all. Then comes this enormous stag.” He stood at an open window, listening to the night’s rain as it was coming down. He closed his eyes, his lips parted. Dru glanced as some little lordling and lady passed in them, and fought the urge to touch his face. “The stag impaled you, but you weren’t in pain for long. You transformed, and carried the stag away with you, its points still pressing into your belly.”
A chill whipped in Dru’s hair. She considered Lady Jocelyn. “What do you think it means?”
“I cannot say,” Daeron murmured, making his way down a long stairwell. “But it doesn’t seem that us leaving together from Ashford is plausible.”
Dru stopped, letting Daeron’s hand drop. He continued some steps and glanced back. “W-What?” She questioned, brows knitting. “Why wouldn’t we leave Ashford together?”
“Come,” Daeron beckoned, though he waited for Dru to break the space between them.
“We could pray,” Dru bleated. “Surely the Seven can change something they’ve already ordained.” She did eventually come in step with him, and they began again. “Surely the Mother would listen…”
Daeron let out a genuine ripple of laughter, lighter than she’d heard in some time. “I will never tire of your optimism,” he said. “But I think you’ll find your faith will fall short this time.”
Dru’s face soured, feeling the rain pat against her shoulders. “You might’ve at least said that into my ear. I could’ve felt your warmth.”
The night ahead was wide open before them, lit by torches and the laughter of lords and smallfolk alike. They each lifted their hoods and considered where they would go, knowing that Egg was out there, and so was the big knight, and the future, too. Daeron’s shoulders seemed to feel the weight of what she’d said. “You ask too much of me. You care so deeply. Can you not see the absolute pit I peer into?”
Dru turned to face him, and gazed up at him. “If what you always say is true, then the Targaryen line is doomed to die. But you and I will live first, like most of them. We’ll live first, Daeron.”
He didn’t look so sure. Then he shut his eyes, and pressed his forehead against Dru’s. “So we will.” He lingered there a moment, then pulled away just as all the warmth was returning to Dru’s chest. “I say we part ways to find Egg. I hear Aerion’s afoot.”
about: drucera targaryen returns from tyrosh after five years to find herself embroiled in political drama after political drama at the behest of her family and the family of her friend. fix it fic. baelor lives, but other horrors remain.
