Pairing: Raymun Fossoway x Baratheon! Female Reader
MASTERLIST (story synopsis also found here)
Warnings: friends to lovers, slowburn, GOT typical sexism, mild canon divergence, canon-compliant violence, description of violence/gore, canon-compliant death of minor characters, mild angst
word count: 13,600 ish
A/N: The Trial of Seven continues 🚨 if you’re still reading this, thank you. and welcome to anyone new🖤 This is probably the part I’m the most proud of. There will be at least 1 more part, but more than likely 2, before I take a slight gap to work on my lyonel spinoff fic, or dabble back into my Harwin series. BUT, that being said, I do have long term plot ideas for these two. Anywho, please enjoy, and I hope you have a wonderful weekend 💚💛🖤
🖤 If you prefer not to read long format fics on tumblr, this is also cross posted on AO3, the link is on the masterlist 🖤
The horn bellowed, and the very bones of the viewing stand shook as its echoes resounded throughout Ashford.
Mud flew into the air as the two teams of seven men a piece and their mounts charged forward. They collided with one another at an alarming and deadly speed.
The Trial of Seven had commenced.
Pure and utter chaos ensued from the very first charge, quenching the thirst of the most bloodthirsty amongst the gathered crowd, while scarring those with gentler constitutions.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury was dismounted by one of the members of the Kingsguard, having been a touch too slow to avoid taking the full brunt of a war lance. Ser Humfrey’s shield did little to mitigate the damage dealt by the harsh impact, and his body was flung violently off his horse and down to the ground. Though the distance across the field prevented you from being able to see the full extent of his injuries, what you could make out left you shaken. Ser Humfrey remained still and motionless in the mud as his mount completed the charge through the opposite end of the field, all while lacking its rider.
Somewhere behind you, Lady Deana Beesbury let out a horrified, bone-chilling scream. The sound was so unnivering, you shivered. As she wailed, others around her sprung into action, shouting to fetch the Beesbury’s maester, or anyone else who might possibly be able to aid the fallen knight.
But all of their cries were scarcely heard over the rest of the swarming crowd. The audience roared to life as the competitors clashed and the carnage began.
You were unable to speak, glued to your spot by pure fear as the violent horrors unfolded before your very eyes. Neither Lady Alynne nor her cousin joined in the audience’s glee. The former grasped at your hand, though whether it was for your comfort or her own, you could not say. You allowed the contact and gripped her hand in return, grateful for whatever little reassurance you were given.
Prince Aegon Targaryen went on the other side of you, having eyes for little others beyond his master and older brother.
Dunk had gotten a late start to the initial charge, and his horse had remained still while the others on either side of him took off. Only the Seven knew what could have been going through the hedge knight’s mind. Upon seeing this, Prince Aegon rose to his feet, shouting at his master, and perhaps his horse, to proceed with the charge.
After a moment, Dunk and Thunder sprung back to life, and raced forward. Dunk charged for Prince Aerion, but his momentum was interrupted when Prince Aerion speared him directly with his war lance. At impact, a large chunk of the wooden shaft broke off and lodged itself into Dunk’s side.
Nobility and common folk alike gasped.
Prince Aegon winced beside you, but he made no comment. He merely eased back down into his seat, though he was not at ease.
His elder brother’s horse charged to the opposite side of the tourney field, where its master yanked on the reins to make the turn. After discarding the broken lance, Prince Aerion withdrew a flail from his side.
You winced yourself as Dunk managed to pull free the broken lance that had been embedded within his gut. In a gesture that had to have been as much cathartic as it was practical, Dunk threw down his shield. It had been cracked in two by Prince Aerion’s initial strike.
By the time Dunk recovered, Prince Aerion and his horse had converged upon him once more. Dunk had no chance to see the impact coming, and when Prince Aerion struck him with the flail, Dunk fell, and he fell hard. He was knocked right off his horse and into the sloppy muck below.
Your eyes flitted about rapidly across the field, as you watched the men battle for their lives.
Ser Humfrey Hardying was beaten off his own horse by a second member of the Kingsguard. Lady Deana’s woeful cries intensified as her brother crumpled into a heap upon the ground. Ser Robyn Rhysling, who had dismounted Prince Daeron Targaryen in the initial charge, caught the attention of the Kingsugard then. Another, the same Kingsguard who had felled Ser Humfrey Beesbury, joined his white-cloaked brother in the pursuit, and the three engaged. Though the fight was two against one, Ser Robyn proved a capable fighter, and was able to fend off both men.
Raymun - Ser Raymun- seemed to be blind to all others except Steffon, just as Steffon kept his entire focus on him. The other men on the field seemed content with allowing the cousins to settle their grievances with one another, and few paid them more than a passing glance.
Immense relief flooded you when Raymun, and his beloved horse, survived the first charge, and then the second. Though they fought brutally, the Fossoway cousins initially appeared to be evenly matched. Or perhaps Raymun’s anger simply brought an edge to his blade that compensated for the additional years of training Steffon had had over him.
However, the joy you felt upon Raymun’s survival was short lived as your focus was snatched by another altercation happening across the field.
Your father had engaged the third member of the Kingsguard during the first charge. The two fought for some time, but eventually, your father was able to get the upper hand and dismount his opponent. Much like Ser Humfrey Beesbury and Ser Humfrey Hardying, the Kingsguard fell to the ground in a grotesque manner, and was unable to rise to his feet. Though your father had been successful in deposing his initial opponent, his attention, much like your own, was stolen by another fight a few paces away.
After a brief respite, Dunk managed to get back on his feet. He and Prince Aerion fought once more, sword against sword, though the Targaryen prince had an advantage of a shield that the hedge knight unfortunately lacked. The two exchanged devastating blows, and you knew that the damage being dealt between them could keep a master’s hands busy for days. When Dunk was able to slice a particularly nasty cut to the upper thigh of the prince, you heard Prince Maekar call out to his son from across the field.
The Anvil stormed forward, landing a particularly brutal blow to Prince Baelor’s helm, and knocking his older brother aside. The Hammer fell to the ground with a wet plop, though he did not stay idle for too long. As Prince Baelor cradled his head with one hand, he used the other to hoist himself up and off the ground.
Your father commanded his horse forward, determined to cut Prince Maekar off before he could get his hands on Ser Duncan. What your father had not seen, nor anticipated, was Prince Maekar picking up Ser Steffon’s discarded lance from the ground.
Prince Maekar’s arm was tried and true, and he thrust the lance up into the chest of your father’s horse. A hand clapped over your mouth, and the gasp that escaped you barely registered in your own ears. The horse reared backwards, gravely injured. You shot to your feet, helpless but burning alight in panic and rage.
The poor creature tried to veer, perhaps in an attempt to spare its rider, but it was fruitless. The horse fell backwards, pinning one of your father’s legs beneath its massive body, and effectively trapping him.
…
…
…
You had never been to war.
Nor had you ever seen battle with your own eyes.
And yet, frivolous though it was, you wondered if what you felt upon your return to Storm’s End was even remotely similar to a soldier returning home after suffering a disastrous defeat.
The sun shone brightly upon the wheelhouse as it came to a halt in the courtyard. It was a notably beautiful, but entirely uncommon day in the Stormlands, especially in light of the season. Late Summer was known for its storms, the most powerful of which raged on in the Stormlands. Rain should have been falling down upon the earth with vigor, and the sky should have been lit with lightning, not the gleaming sun. And yet, it was as pleasant a day in Storm’s End as it might have been in the capital from whence you had departed.
Another omen of ill tidings this day is to bring.
To say that your grandsire, Lord Baratheon, looked displeased as you stepped out of the wheelhouse and back onto the grounds of your ancestral home would have been a dramatic understatement.
Your father, Ser Lyonel Baratheon, stood beside the Lord of Storm’s End, fidgeting with excitement and bearing a smile whose brightness rivaled that of the sun.
Night and day.
You approached them slowly with great hesitancy.
“Sweet Girl!” your father proclaimed jubilantly, stepping forward first and planting a quick peck to your cheek. Then, he held you out at arms length, inspecting you for any signs of injury. “It’s so good to have you home at long last. I trust these past few months were not too treacherous? I know the smell of King’s Landing alone is practically intolerable. And how was your journey back? Did the weather give you much trouble?”
You did not know where to begin, nor which of the multitude of questions to answer first. You were too preoccupied with the sour look upon your grandsire’s face.
Your father did not take offense to your lack of response. “Forgive me, you must be weary from traveling. You should go inside and rest. I’ve asked the cooks to prepare your favorite meal for supper- we can speak all about these past few months then.”
Lord Baratheon chucked, though it was entirely devoid of humor. “Lyonel, have you forgotten yourself? The girl’s return is hardly a cause for celebration. I need not remind you how unwise it is to reward a child for their failings.”
The smile you attempted for your father’s sake alone faltered.
But your father ignored Lord Baratheon, and appeared entirely unbothered by the older man’s unkind remarks. “Your chambers have already been freshly tidied, of course,” he informed you, grinning once again. “Go on now, get yourself settled in.”
At his encouraging nod, you slipped past him to enter Storm’s End proper. But as you walked by Lord Baratheon, he had some parting words of his own. A demand, rather.
“Once you have freshened up, come and speak with me in my study.”
…
…
…
A few hours later, you entered your grandsire's study. Apprehension filled every fiber of your being.
The Lord of Storm’s End was seated behind his desk, occupied with some various scrolls of parchment. When he noticed your arrival, he silently beckoned you to sit in one of the spare chairs across from him. You heeded him without delay.
As you waited in the uncomfortable silence, you were reminded of a very similar scene. The circumstances were awfully reminiscent of just a few months prior, of a conversation the two of you had had following the funeral of your cousin Martyn.
Lord Baratheon remembered the conversation, too. “Well, well. We have found ourselves here once again.”
You swallowed inaudibly, trying to soothe your jittery nerves.
“A few months ago, I gave you a charge. Do you recall what that charge was?”
“Yes, Grandsire. You tasked me with going to King’s Landing, and to serve as a lady for Prince Maekar’s daughters.”
Both girls were young. In the end, the girls had needed more of a watchful eye than a true lady in waiting, but it was an honor to have been asked to serve the royal family at all, and in any capacity. You had treated your charge as the honor it was- until things had begun to go awry.
Lord Baratheon pressed, “And?”
This was where he deemed you to have failed. Not in the respectable duty that you had been charged with by Prince Maekar Targaryen, but in the ulterior motive that your grandsire had pressured you to achieve under its guise.
“You asked me to secure a marriage alliance with Prince Valarr.”
He hummed. “And were you successful in this endeavor?”
You both knew the answer well enough. Forcing you to have the conversation so plainly melt you feel childish. Foolish, even. And yet, you still felt compelled to answer him. “No, My Lord.”
“No.”
Lord Baratheon finally did you the courtesy of dropping his attention upon the parchment before him. He turned his full attention to you instead, and looked at you with critical, harsh eyes.
“I received news that Prince Valarr is now betrothed to Lady Kiera of Tyrosh. As we speak, the royal family prepares for their wedding. It will be no small affair, I am sure, being the wedding of the future king… All the while, you have returned home to Storm’s End, unbetrothed, and with even less suitors vying for your hand than when I sent you to King’s Landing.”
You bowed your head in shame, unable to bear the implication of his words. He might have spoken the truth, but that did not lessen the blow it struck.
“I tasked you with securing your own future, and with doing your part to improve House Baratheon’s standing with the Crown. But you have failed at both, and I shall never be able to properly convey to you the true depths of my disappointment.”
You wrung your hands, eager for an escape that would not be granted soon enough. “I swear to you, I tried to do as you bid me, My Lord. But in the end, there was nothing more I could have done. Prince Valarr could not see me as his future bride.”
“Do you think the Targaryens are the only ones who have ears in the Red Keep?” Lord Baratheon countered. “You cannot fool me, girl. I heard the whispers. They say the prince was absolutely besotted with you for months. Until one day, when he simply was not.”
You scarcely needed the reminder, it was too painful still. “I’ve met Prince Valarr’s betrothed, Grandsire. Lady Kiera is kind, and honorable. She’ll make a good queen for the realm.”
“Your questionable judgement aside, what good does the Tyroshi girl’s betrothal do for us? Tell me, how does House Baratheon benefit from a royal marriage, when no one of our blood is a part of it?”
A redundant question.
“What could you possibly have done to drive Prince Valarr away?” Lord Baratheon demanded, his anger steadily rising. “Did you offer him offense? Or act in another way unbecoming of a proper, noble lady? … Are you so intent on displeasing me for the mere sake of it, that you would willingly sabotage your chance to sit beside a king?”
You wanted little else but to divulge the information you had been harboring. Unfortunately, the consequences of Lord Baratheon becoming privy to such information far outweighed the benefits of it. Uncomfortable and shameful though it was, you had planned to bear the brunt of his extreme displeasure and disappointment, knowing that by doing so, potential bloodshed was prevented. It was a price you were willing to pay.
Lord Baratheon took your lack of a response as an answer to his posed question. He sighed deeply. “Between you and your father, I do not know who is more eager to drive me into an early grave.”
As you refused to tell him the truth, you offered him what little words you could. “I am sorry, Grandsire. I shall strive to be less of a disappointment to you.”
He was not swayed by your apology. He dismissed you with a wave of his hand. “This conversation has run its course. Off with you now, girl. Once more, I must make haste to repair the damage that you and your father have dealt our house. And, most regrettably, that will be no easy task.”
You rose, offered him a curt, respectful nod, and turned to leave.
As you walked out of his study, the Lord of Storm’s End made one last remark.
“If a prince cannot deem you suitable, why should some mere lordling desire your hand instead?”
…
…
…
On a hill overlooking Storm’s End and the sandy coast of Shipbreaker Bay, there was a meadow. Beneath the patches of wild flowers and grass, many a Baratheon- and even a few of House Durrandon- were laid to rest in the earth below.
It was in that meadow that you found yourself some time later. You knew it would not have been proper to wander the halls of Storm’s End aimlessly, not while tears ran down your face. So instead, you sought the privacy that only seemed to be had in the surrounding grounds.
A stone marker noted the place where your cousin Martyn had been buried. Just a stone’s throw away, his own father, your uncle, rested as well, beside his late wife.
While you could not tell the truth of your time in King’s Landing to your grandsire, or even your father, you believed that you might have confided in Martyn, had he still been alive to hear your tale. Perhaps that was a reason you had been drawn to the meadow.
Though you could not breathe what ailed you aloud, simply being near your kin did wonders to ground you. You let your tears flow freely, hoping the release would allow you a clear mind in a few hours time.
Suddenly, there was a shuffling about the grass from behind you. You jumped like a startled animal, and whirled around to face the intruder.
“Easy there,” your father exclaimed, offering up his hands in surrender. “My sincerest apologies. If I had known you’d be so skittish, I would have announced myself.”
You grasped at your chest, your heart still beating wildly from the scare. “What are you doing here, Father?”
“I’ve a similar reason to be here as you, I suspect,” he replied, taking another step forward and coming to stand at your side. “I like to visit my brother on occasion. It wasn’t his fault Mother and Father favored him more.”
For a few moments, neither of you said a word. The only noise throughout the meadow was the soft rustling breeze, and distant echoing of the gulls.
“I haven’t interrupted something, have I?”
You hastily wiped away the tears littering your cheeks. “No.”
Your father was tactful enough to not call you on your bluff. “The talk with Lord Baratheon went well, I presume?”
You half-smiled at the attempted jest. “He merely wished to convey the depths of his disappointment in me, is all. Rest assured, the message was heard, and well understood.”
He frowned at that. “I hope you do not take his words to heart.”
“And why should I not?” you countered. “He’s every right to be disappointed in me, as do you.”
“Dissappointed?” Your father let out a deep sigh, and grumbled. “The others fucking geld me… Come along now, Sweet Girl. Sit with me.”
You blinked at him. “… On the grass?”
“What, has a few months in the capital made you so prim and proper that the idea is simply preposterous?” he teased. “Yes, take a seat with me. On the grass.”
You rolled your eyes, and you did not miss the manner in which your father’s face lit up, as though relieved to see your usual demeanor briefly shine through the current morose. Following his lead, the pair of you walked a few paces away from where your dear kin rested, and turned to face Shipbreaker’s Bay. While your father plopped down onto the grass without a thought, you were a bit slower to mirror his actions, arranging your skirts with care as you went.
The sun shone quite brightly by then, and you were forced to squint as its rays beamed directly into your line of sight. Despite that, the view was far worth the small amount of discomfort. On the particularly unusually sunny day, Storm’s End could clearly be seen in all her glory, surrounded by the rocky waters of the bay.
Your father sighed in pure contentment as he took in the view for himself. “It never seems to lose its wonder, does it?”
You shook your head in agreement, thinking of the many nights in King’s Landing when you peered out a window, desperately longing for the same view that was before you now. “No, it does not.”
“While you were away,” your father began, relishing in his story telling as he so often did, “your grandsire invited Lady Mary Connington and some of her kin to Storm’s End. They stayed a while, as our guests. Did you know that?”
“No, I did not know.”
“The girl is barely your own age.” He frowned deeply, and shuddered. “Scarcely appropriate to take to wife. Although, Lord Baratheon did not seem to share my opinion.”
“And what became of it?” you wondered. “Is Lady Mary still here?”
“Seven Hells, no. I convinced her that Storm’s End is terribly haunted, and the poor girl believed me. By the time Lady Mary departed for Griffin’s Roost, she would not have married me for all the wealth in Westeros and Essos combined.”
You shook your head in mock disapproval, fighting a smile. “Grandsire must have been displeased.”
“Oh, he was absolutely furious. Do not mistake me, Lady Mary is a kind and lovely woman. But far too young. I’ve a feeling that the two of you might have gotten on well enough, though.”
“Perhaps I’ll have to take her on as one of my ladies,” you suggested, half-seriously.
“I doubt Lady Mary would be agreeable to your request, but I wish you luck all the same,” your father chuckled. After a beat, his expression softened, becoming more serious. “While the Conningtons were here, I could not help but think of you, and how you were. I hoped you were well, of course. And happy… But do you know what I wished for most of all?
“What?”
“I wished that you would not wed Prince Valarr,” he confessed, boldly and without an inkling of shame. “I knew that if you were to wed the prince, Storm’s End would no longer be your home. No, you’d be wed, and then you’d be off to Dragonstone- and eventually, you would return to King’s Landing.”
The confession left you at a loss for words. Your father spared you from struggling to calculate a response by continuing.
“I know, I know. Looking back, it was all terribly selfish of me. I should wish better for my daughter. I should wish for the best. But you are a Baratheon, Sweet Girl. Storm’s End is your home, and your place is here. Do you not feel it?”
In my very bones. “Of course I do… But what I feel does not matter.”
“It is all that matters,” your father disagreed passionately. “We are creatures of feeling, of instinct. Your grandsire has forgotten that. Either through time, or grief, I cannot say. But as for you and I, we must hold steadfast to our true selves.”
“Is this all to say that you are not disappointed in me?”
Your father let out another side. Unlike Lord Baratheon’s, it was less forced, and more contemplative.
“I regret to inform you that disappointment in this life is entirely too common. When I was a boy, I was disappointed when I realized that nothing I achieved would amount to the accomplishments of my brother, least of all in our parents’ eyes. After he passed, and my nephew after him, I was even more disappointed when I realized that, despite all my shortcomings, I was to be Lord of Storm’s End. Now, I am no stranger to disappointing others, nor am I a stranger to feeling disappointment myself. But you? … I have never, ever been disappointed in you.”
Tears began to well in your eyes once more. This time, they were of another nature than sorrow.
“Well,” you began after a few moments, choosing your words carefully as you went. “Even if you are not disappointed in me, I am afraid I have not failed to disappoint myself.”
“And why is that?”
It felt silly to speak the words aloud, but it was the truth. “I truly thought that I would be queen someday.”
Your father took a moment to weigh his response. “As much as I loathed the thought of you marrying the Young Prince, I will not deny that I believe you would have made a fair queen in time… Far better than that silly boy probably deserves, anyway.”
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Father.”
He threw his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. If you do not wish to divulge the specifics, far be it from me to force you. This is not particularly a comfortable conversation for me, either.”
You rolled your eyes again, the gesture conveying that even though you did not wish to elaborate on your feelings, you did not bear a grudge against him either.
“It’s at times like this that I wish, more than ever, that your mother was still here. She’d offer you far better consolation than I, and all without managing to put her foot in her mouth.”
Whether or not it had been the intent, the particular phrasing drew a short laugh from you.
“And, though I am not her, nevertheless, I shall try my very best.” Your father smiled, though it was dampened by a lingering shadow of melancholy, tucked away behind his eyes. “Heartbreak, much like disappointment, is all natural as well. I was a young man when your mother died, but that was some time ago. Tell me, do I still seem lost in my grief? Unable to trudge on?”
“Well, you do seem rather lonely at times-“
He waved a hand, and you ceased your teasing. “My point still stands. I was a young man then, as you are but a young woman now. You will have your heart broken again, just as you will also break a few hearts yourself. Life is far too short to be greedy with love, and yet entirely too long to abide without it.”
The profoundness of his statement would not truly resonate with you until several years later. But at that moment, you made your best attempt to reason with it.
“And what if I never find it?” you asked, worry lacing your voice. “What if love is a luxury that I will never possess? … I may have failed to secure this betrothal, but Grandsire will not be deterred for long. He will find other suitors for me.”
“He will,” your father agreed, though not without some regret. “And when he puts these men in front of you, entertain them, if you feel that you must. But do not commit to wed any one of them, not unless it is truly your choice.”
You let out a single, joyless laugh. “Is that another reason why you drove Lady Mary away, because she was not your choice? … Will you ever marry again?”
“I’ve an heir already. I see no need for me to take another to wife.”
You shot him a wary look. “An ‘heir’ whom Lord Baratheon already believes to be insufficient.”
“Fuck what he thinks,” he denounced with vigor. “If my father was that concerned with the Baratheon line of succession, he would have married again himself, and had a few more children to strengthen his line. But in all these years, he hasn’t, and he won’t. Instead, he has decided to force us into marriages that neither of us want.”
Your attention fell to the grass beneath your hands. Stubbornness ran fiercely in Baratheon blood, and it was never demonstrated so clearly to you as in the opposing wills of your grandsire and father.
Your father called you by name then, and in addition to the seriousness of his tone, it recaptured your focus at once.
“We do not need to live by his will. We only need to outlive him. I have no need, nor want, of a son. And while I do not have any genuine intentions of remarrying, I will gladly pretend otherwise. I will entertain the idea so long as I need to, in order to grant you more time.”
“Time to do what, precisely?”
“You are my heir,” he avowed, with such deep sincerity, you did not dare question it. “And if you are to be Lady of Storm’s End one day, you will need to find a man worthy of standing beside you. A man strong enough to aid you in times of need, but gentle enough to not allow his pride to be wounded by your own strength. A companion.”
Your heart was still wounded from the events that had transpired in King’s Landing. But while you could scarcely give a serious thought to securing another betrothal, it made it no less inevitable.
Your father continued. “Now, I will not lie to you- men like that are far and few between. You may need to scour all Seven Kingdoms to find someone suitable… But I’ve never known you to shy away from a challenge.”
It would be a daunting task… But more than worthwhile.
“How about we make a pact?” your father suggested.
“A pact? … As in a blood oath?”
“What?” he furrowed his brows. “Seven Hells, no. What are we, Starks?”
You both let out a laugh.
“We will make a pact, a mutual agreement,” he clarified, with a mirthful twinkle still in his eyes. “We will each do our best to pretend to adhere to Lord Baratheon’s wishes regarding marriage alliances. But I vow to steal his focus, and to delay him as much as I can, so that you may have the time you need to find a man who is truly worthy of standing at your side.”
It sounded far too good to be true. Then again, your father had never given you reason to doubt him. “And what is it that I vow to?”
“You must promise me this- you must promise that you will not settle for just any man your Grandsire puts before you. You are to be the lady of a great house someday, so you must choose your husband wisely. You must use discernment. But if you have done so, and you are certain in your choice, I will not oppose any match you may suggest. And, I vow to do my best to convince Lord Baratheon to support the match as well.”
You thought over his words for a few moments. What he asked was simple enough, in essence. But only time and effort on your part would allow what he asked of you to be achieved. For better, or for worse, you had little other choice.
“Are we in agreement?” he asked.
“Yes, I agree.”
Your father beamed. “Perfect. Now that we have settled that matter, let us speak of no more.”
He shot to his feet, wiping grass off his bands in an unbothered manner. Then, he turned to offer you a hand, which you gladly accepted.
“I can practically smell the kitchens from here,” your father said as he helped you to your feet. “Shall we go and ready ourselves for dinner?”
You followed him through the meadow, beginning to make your way back. While you did not feel well, you certainly felt better than you had been when you had set out from Storm’s End just a little while ago.
After walking in a few moments of comfortable silence, it was broken by your father.
“I’ve one more favor to ask, Sweet Girl, if you’ll allow it.”
You chuckled. “Of course.”
“You’re still young,” he noted. “Do not rush into a marriage on anyone’s behalf, least of all your grandsire. And, should some years pass, and if you still have not found someone suitable, might I suggest simply picking the man whom you can tolerate the most? … If he gets too irksome, rest assured that I will always be happy to kick him in the arse on your behalf.”
…
…
…
Ser Humfrey Beesbury went down in the first charge.
For several, dreadfully long moments, Raymun had lost sight of him. When Raymun was finally able to put eyes on the heir to Honeyholt, his dread did not dissipate. Ser Humfrey remained where he had fallen, laying face down upon the dirt of the tourney field. Utterly still and unmoving.
He did not get back up.
Raymun’s ragged breathing resumed.
Perhaps Ser Humfrey was merely wounded… so much so that he was unable to continue to fight. However, Raymun did not have much time to agonize over the fate of his friend and recently self-appointed mentor, as Steffon gave him no rest.
Not that Raymun gave Steffon any reprieve either.
He’d managed to stay atop Crispin in the first charge, as did Steffon upon Wrath. In a rare stroke of good luck, the tourney lance did precisely as Prince Baelor claimed it would. The wooden pole burst into many pieces against Steffon’s apple-adorned chest plate, startling his older cousin so much that he dropped his heavy war lance.
After the impact, their steeds ran straight through to the other end of the field, where their riders directed them to whirl around and proceed with another charge.
The faintest glint of light from across the field told Raymun that Steffon had withdrawn his sword. The gravity of the situation was not lost on him. Raymun had sharpened that same sword many times, and he knew, perhaps better than anyone else, the damage it could deal.
Raymun dropped the broken remains of his tourney lance, and reached across his waist. As Crispin began to make the tourney, he withdrew the loaned Beesbury sword from the sheath at his side. Crispin reared in the excitement, but Raymun held on steadfast.
For the second time, the Fossoway cousins charged at one another.
As Raymun contemplated the weakest point of Steffon’s armor to target, he did not notice that Steffon meant to follow the example of Prince Aerion Targaryen. Just before their second collision, Steffon turned his wrist, tilting his sword in Raymun’s direction. However, he held the sword low, down by his waist.
Steffon meant to strike his horse, not the rider.
Raymun yanked the reins hard, managing to steer Crispin out of harm’s way just in time.
His mind reeled as he processed how close they had come, and just how narrowly they had avoided what could have been a lethal blow for the poor horse. If Raymun had any lingering doubts about whether Steffon meant to fight honorably, they were now assuaged.
As his Crispin galloped to the end of the tourney field from whence the first charge had commenced, Michael Morrigen lunged forward, offering Raymun another tourney lance. Raymun dismissed him wordlessly with a firm shake of his head.
Their quarrel was about honor. And though Steffon did not intend to fight with it, Raymun was in no rush to sully that which he had just been charged with. He would fight fairly, even though Steffon would not.
“Cease this folly, Raymun!”
Steffon’s voice bellowed all the way across the field. The sheer rage within him carried it over the clanging of weaponry, the braying of horses, and the grunting and cursing of men already consumed by altercations of their own.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury had still not engaged. But his words from earlier echoed in Raymun’s mind.
Men blind with anger can be careless, and they make many mistakes. Do not allow yourself to be one of them. Let Steffon choke on his own rage.
Precisely as Ser Humfrey had forewarned, Raymun watched as his older cousin slowly began to unravel. Years of training and careful instruction from various masters at arms was being undone by the anger that threatened to swallow Steffon whole.
A priceless advantage, rendered useless by the greedy indulgence of a temporary emotion.
Raymun felt that anger, too. And while the temptation to give in to it was all too palpable, Beesbury had not led him astray thus far.
Channel your anger, hone it into focus, Raymun reminded himself, repeating Ser Humfrey’s sage advice.
On other parts of the field, men continued to battle. While Steffon prepared for a third charge, Raymun dared to scan the field hurriedly, seeking another friend of his who he desperately hoped was faring better.
Dunk and Aerion had both dismounted, and were wrestling in the mud. In the blink of an eye, Aerion gained an advantage, pressing his full weight atop of Dunk, and forcing a dagger though his hand.
Without another thought, Rymun urged Crispin forward, taking off in their direction with great speed. As he passed, Raymun lowered his sword, and raked it across Prince Aerion’s side. The momentum propelled the Targaryen up and off of Dunk, granting his friend a brief respite.
It would have been a lie to say Raymun did not relish in the painful cry that escaped from Prince Aerion’s mouth. However, his joy was short-lived.
Though Raymun’s mind had temporarily strayed from Steffon, his cousin had not forgotten about him. By the time Raymun turned around to refocus, Steffon and Wrath were already waiting for him. Thankfully, Steffon spared Crispin this time- opting to swing his sword near perfect to the level of Raymun’s neck instead.
Raymun just barely managed to deflect the blow with his shield, though it cost him. A large chunk of wood went flying through the air, and a few splinters slipped through the visor of his helm.
He cursed under his breath, blinking rapidly as Crispin raced back to the opposite end of the field. Raymun’s breathing grew more labored, echoing in his helmet loudly as panic threatened to creep in.
When he turned Cripsin about, Raymun saw Steffon dismount. As his cousin sent Wrath on his way with a smack to the horse’s rear, he cried out to him once more.
“If you are your own man now, then you will fight me like one!”
Raymun’s rising panic immediately ceased, the stowed away anger looming over him again as Steffon’s goading settled in. It would have been easy, far too easy, to run Steffon down at that moment. But that was assuming Steffon would be unable to get in a strike and take down Raymun or his horse.
Additionally, Prince Baelor had told them to keep their mounts for as long as they could. It seemed foolish to squander that advantage… And yet, as the Hand of the King was engaged in combat with Prince Maekar across the field, Raymun noted that both men had since dismounted. It was not just them, either- most of the men remaining upon the field had since taken to foot.
Against the prince’s advice, Raymun followed Steffon’s suit, dismounting and sending Crispin on along. As Raymun watched his horse trot away, he briefly wondered if it would be the last time.
Michael Morrigen will take care of you, Pal.
With a battered shield in one hand, and his sword in the other, Raymun rose to his full height, straightening his shoulders and peering down the length of the field. Fighting assumed around them, with various men weaving in and out of his line of sight. But the Fossoway cousins only had eyes for one another, and it was this focus alone that kept Raymun from rushing over to Ser Humfrey Beesbury’s aid, and from taking a moment to dare to look over towards the viewing stand, to where he knew you were seated.
Raymun did not run. He preserved his energy. The moment had been years in the making- what were but a few more moments?
Down the field, Steffon surged forward, sprinting towards him with a speed Raymun had not seen from him since their youth.
As his cousin drew nearer to him, Raymun mentally and physically prepared himself to finally face the bully that had long since tormented him.
As his horse lay dying, Ser Lyonel Baratheon lay with it, inadvertently keeping the poor creature company as one of his legs was pinned beneath the better part of the horse’s body.
For a long while, far too long in your mind, though in actuality, it had only been but a few drawn out moments, your father was eerily still. Was he stunned? Most definitely. Was he injured? You hoped not, but it was also incredibly likely.
Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion had also risen to their feet. You may have been their charge, but you knew it was their loyalty to your father that truly kept them on edge as the Trial pursued. The two men had fought beside your father for years before becoming a proper part of the household Baratheon guard. You had been so lost in your own worries, you had, admittedly, not given much thought to how it would feel for them to witness your father’s potential demise.
Finally, your father broke free of his daze, and began to wriggle himself free. It was only when he began to slowly rise back onto his feet was Alynne able to coax you back down to your seat. You heard shuffling behind you as the two men presumably followed your lead.
Which one of us shall jump over the barrier and take to the field first, I wonder?
The outlandish proposition almost forced a laugh from your lips, mad though that would have been.
Your father’s mighty helm was now short of a golden antler, having been damaged in the fall. You wondered what else- namely, what bones- had also been damaged. But your father gave no outright suggestion of injury. Alas, he needed but a moment to reenter the fray of battle with as much ferocity as was to be expected of the Laughing Storm.
After having received a blow from Prince Maekar’s mace, Prince Baelor had recovered by then too. Together, the pair successfully drove back Prince Maekar, who was positively adamant in his attempt to reach his son. Mace, battle-axe, and longsword clashed. But the Anvil was determined, and before long, he slowly began to weaken the resolve of the Hammer and the Laughing Storm.
Prince Aerion and Ser Dunk still fought fiercely, and were at one another’s throats. Literally, at every other moment or so. Awful, and, you feared, irreparable, wounds were being exchanged between them.
Ser Robyn Rhysling was still fending off two of the Kingsguard, though he was rapidly fatiguing. It was unclear just how much longer Ser Robyn would be able to defend against them.
Beyond them, Raymun and Steffon, both having dismounted, had begun to duel on foot. The fight between the cousins was particularly vicious. A genuine fear began to brew within you- would Steffon actually kill Raymun? … Would Raymun be forced to kill Steffon?
Though several members of the royal family were upon it, it was chaos that truly reigned on the field. One, two, perhaps three men had already paid the ultimate price. The men that remained were becoming unrecognizable, both physically and in spirit. Violence bred more violence as more and more blood was spilled.
How long? How long would the gods continue to feast and gorge themselves upon the ruthlessness before they were satisfied?
Steffon came for him without end, swinging fiercely. Though Raymun had initially hoped that his rising fury would dilute Steffon’s aim, it had yet to take effect.
Raymun managed to block the first few blows with his sword and chipped shield, though soon enough, Steffon’s strength and experience earned him an upper hand. Before he knew it, Raymun was rapidly losing ground.
Steffon kept on the offensive, forcing Raymun back one, two, three steps as he tried to stave off the blows being rained down upon him.
As Raymun took a fourth step backwards, he unknowingly put his weight on a patch of uneven ground that had been torn up by one of the horses. His ankle caught, twisting unnaturally, and forcing him to his knees with a pained yelp.
Steffon capitalized on the opportunity Raymun had laid bare before him. A punch Raymun had not seen coming struck him square across the face, knocking him down to the ground completely.
Disoriented, Raymun lay in the dirt, gasping for air. Steffon loomed above him menacingly. Perhaps he deliberated whether his next move would be swift and painless, or drawn out and agonizing.
The end was near. Either the end of the Trial- or his end. He could feel it hovering, breathing down his neck.
For all the confidence Raymun had felt, and despite knowing that taking Steffon’s place in the Trial was the honorable and just thing to do, Raymun suddenly felt entirely inconsequential. Small. Who was he, truly? Steffon bested him in age and years of trained experience. All Raymun had was a self-imposed sense of honor. And now, that honor would be the end of him.
I am going to die, Raymun realized, not in despair, but shock. Steffon is going to kill me.
Ser Humfrey was not coming to save him. Ser Lyonel had aided him once already that day. Twice was too much to hope for. And you- you. You had been so worried about Ser Lyonel, Raymun knew better than to have hoped to have crossed your mind.
But if he had, and if you deemed him worthy for but a moment of your attention, you would watch his cousin triumph over him. You would bear witness to Steffon delivering the final blow.
You deserved to be spared the ghastly sight. Raymun knew that, but he was running out of options. He was running out of time.
Steffon kicked him hard in the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs once again.
“You stupid, stupid fool,” his cousin spat down at him, his voice mildly muffled from his helm. “Imagine the grief your father will give mine, when they learn that I had no choice but to put you down like a mad dog.”
Raymun had not thought about that. What would his parents think, when his lifeless body was dragged back to Cider Hall? Would his father spurn his nephew, or even rebuke his own brother? His mother would most likely be consumed by her own grief- if she did not try to exact her revenge upon Steffon, first.
Steffon chided, “House Fossoway has no need for traitors amongst our kin, Raymun.”
He was falling prey to Steffon’s provocation, but Raymun ceased to care. “The only traitor to our kin is you, Steffon.”
Steffon kicked him again. Proper armor would have given Steffon more resistance than the leather. Raymun heard something within him crack, and a near-blinding pain flooded his senses.
”I’ll be bringing home a lordship to Cider Hall. If I spare you, what exactly will you have to offer them?”
The sword Beesbury had loaned him laid just out of his reach- he’d been a fool to drop it when his ankle had twisted. Fighting through the agony, Raymun crawled towards it, slow and steady. It was somewhat of a miracle that Steffon had stopped paying him mind, too lost in his own visions of grandeur to perceive Raymun as a viable threat.
“Then again, if you are not so eager to meet the Stranger, perhaps I should let you live,” Steffon suggested thoughtfully. “You could spend the rest of your craven life right on my heels, forever indebted to me. What say you to that, Raymun the Reluctant?”
Raymun’s fingers finally brushed against the pommel of the sword. As subtly as he could manage, he made the final stretch, capturing the hilt in a tight grip. “I’d rather die.”
“Truly? Have it your way, then.”
But Steffon was not quick enough to escape the blow, and Raymun’s swing hit true. Steffon reeled backwards, landing on his arse in a dazed stupor. It was his armor alone that protected him from what otherwise could have been a catastrophic slice clear up the length of his chest.
Raymun pressed his advantage, gritting his teeth as he sprung back up onto his feet.
Raymun was down on the ground, visibly in pain.
Steffon hovered above him, a predator closing in on its prey. You no longer doubted Steffon’s willingness to kill his cousin.
But he couldn’t. How could the gods grant victory to someone like Steffon, while allowing Raymun to die? Raymun, who had only ever tried to be a good, loyal squire to his cousin, even though Steffon was less than deserving of him. Raymun, who had already demonstrated several times that he had no qualms about helping someone in need, even when doing so meant he risked his own safety- risked his own life.
He was a rarity amongst the majority of all the men in Westeros. And the gods were going to let this extraordinary man die.
You hoped aid would arrive, but it never came. Both Ser Humfreys were down, Ser Robyn fended off against two Kingsguard, and Dunk, Prince Baelor, and your father were all occupied with fights of their own.
Steffon continued to taunt Raymun, who still had not risen. How long will he torment him? How long will he prolong the inevitable?
Your mind screamed at you to avert your eyes, to spare yourself the gruesome sight. But your heart… Your heart commanded you to focus, to keep your eyes on Raymun. He was owed that, at the very least.
Suddenly, Raymun caught Steffon off guard. He grabbed his dropped sword and slashed upwards towards his cousin. A loud clang echoed from Steffon’s breastplate, and he tumbled backwards.
Laughter threatened to spill from your lips as immense and sheer relief washed over you.
You shouted your encouragement across the field, hoping it would reach Raymun. You were not alone in this, either- dozens of others echoed your praise. It seemed that Raymun had quickly become a favorite of the audience.
You watched as Steffon shook his head, and rose to his feet with angry huffs. For the next few moments, you watched the cousins continue to exchange blows. It was only when you felt condiment that Raymun had regained his momentum that you dared to look away.
Prince Aerion and Ser Duncan were down in the mud once again. Prince Aerion was moving, albeit very slowly, in an attempt to stand. However, Dunk remained where he was, down on his knees.
It became apparent that despite his size, raw strength, and admirable showing at the beginning of the Trial, Dunk had begun to lose some steam. The countless years of training Prince Aerion would have received were proving to be superior to Ser Duncan’s meager apprenticeship under Ser Arlan of Pennytree.
Prince Aegon rose to his feet beside you and took a step forward, looking down onto the field. “Get up.”
Dunk spat out blood.
“Get up, Ser!” Prince Aegon commanded him.
It was not a royal order. Rather, it was merely a boy beseeching a man whom he had come to admire, someone he plainly cared a great deal about.
Somewhere in the periphery, though you could not tell whether it had come from one of the nobles around you, or from one of the common folk across the field, another man echoed Prince Aegon’s sentiment.
“Get up, Dunk!”
Prince Aerion lifted the visor of his helm, looking to his foe with disdain and desperation plain upon his face. “Yield!”
Dunk remained on his knees, seeing but not hearing.
“Yield!” Prince Aerion snarled again.
More blood dribbled from Dunk’s mouth. Then, as though gently pushed aside by the faintest of breezes, the hedge knight leaned over, and unceremoniously plopped into the mud.
Though his eyes were still open, Dunk went gravely still.
Murmurs surrounded you as the fate of Ser Duncan the Tall and the judgment of the Trial was suddenly uncertain.
As Prince Aegon continued to plead for his master to rise, you were tempted to comfort him. But what comfort did you truly have to offer the boy? You had barely believed in the necessity of the Trial to begin with. By then, you were entirely disillusioned by it.
The Trial of Seven had been presented as a noble affair. It’d been cloaked in religious righteousness, and it all but assured that the victorious party truly had the favor of the gods. But you had since seen the brutality of it with your own eyes, and you were of a different mind.
The Trial was little more than a facade, an excuse for men to embrace their inner barbarity. It was permission for them to commit violence without consequence, all under the guise of a higher purpose.
A farce.
And now, just as you had feared, men, good men, would perish, while wicked ones survived to live another day.
If the gods were real, they ought not to have allowed such a distasteful waste of life to happen in their name. Then again, perhaps they were merely apathetic, and were simply amused by the squabbling of mortals.
Prince Aerion had finally regained his footing, though not without struggle. He glanced over at the hedge knight briefly, and then turned to the crowd. Purple eyes wildly searched for Lord Ashford. Once the quarry had been found, he made his declaration.
“He’s dead!” he cried, voice hoarse with exhaustion and pain. “It’s over!”
Dunk had fallen.
Raymun tried to reach him, but Steffon had blocked his path. Beyond his cousin, just a few paces away, Prince Baelor and Ser Lyonel fought with Prince Maekar. All three men, while determined, had begun to show signs of fatigue.
While spite had briefly renewed his strength, the increasing amount of injuries Raymun sustained from Steffon’s endless battering had begun to take their toll. Raymun was able to favor his good leg as he continued to fend Steffon off, but there was no way to avoid the pain dancing across his ribs, as every move he made set it ablaze. His head pounded fiercely as he tried to focus on breathing evenly.
“Imagine the grief your father will give you,” Raymun drawled, echoing Steffon’s words from just a few minutes prior as he raised the sword and successfully blocked another incoming strike, “when he learns that his only son and heir got his arse handed to him in combat by his younger and much less experienced cousin?”
Steffon growled angrily, and it was at that moment Raymun realized that his words hit just as sharp as any slices, and as deep as the punches he’d been able to land thus far.
“Goad me all you’d like, Raymun,” Steffon snapped back, bitterness coating each and every word. “Far easier for a dead man to speak freely, than for a live one to mince his words.”
Despite himself, Raymun barked out a genuine laugh. “I won’t be dying today, Steffon.”
And for the first time since that morning, Raymun actually believed it.
Without warning, he lunged forward, and tackled Steffon down to the ground with all the momentum he had.
With each second that passed, and Ser Duncan the Tall did not rise to his feet, your heart sank further. When his eyes slipped shut, it became difficult to breath.
“Get up, Ser Duncan!”
Prince Aegon’s watery voice wavered between dismay and grief. It broke your heart to see the hedge knight killed, felled by a lesser man. That pain was only magnified when you were forced to witness the boy before you accept the truth, and begin to grieve his master.
It felt wrong. And it certainly felt unjust. But it felt like the end, and that much was indisputable.
Lord Ashford signaled for the horn.
“WAIT!”
Prince Aegon’s screech shattered through the crowd, which had been momentarily silenced as they watched the somber scene unfold with bated breath. But the young prince had seen something that everyone else had not.
Dunk’s eyes shot open, and he gasped for air.
Upon later reflection, you would have described what transpired next as nothing short of divine intervention. For it seemed that the gods themselves had finally chosen to intervene. They pulled at his strings, puppeteering Dunk to rise onto his knees. Once he had made it that far, Dunk used his sword for support as he slowly climbed back up to his feet.
Had it been under any other circumstance, you would have deemed the look of utter disbelief painted upon Prince Aerion’s face to have been absolutely hilarious.
But the fight was not yet over, the battle not yet won. Dunk may have struck some sort of bargain with the Stranger, but there was still a dragon to be felled.
“Up, up, up!” the crowd cheered him on, lowborn and highborn once again intertwined in a rare display of unity.
Prince Aerion looked distraught and exhausted. But among the exertion, there was something else, a tiny trace of something you had never before seen upon the prince’s face.
Fear.
Raymun had dropped his sword. Unlike the first time, he had set it aside willingly, of his own volition. He climbed atop of his cousin, trapping him beneath him with his weight.
Steffon thrashed about as Raymun reached for his neck, incorrectly assuming that Raymun meant to strangle him. After a few moments of struggle, Raymun managed to remove Steffon’s bronze helm. He chucked it as far away from them as he could.
Once Steffon’s helm no longer presented a barrier, Raymun took to raining blows upon him with bare hands. He punched, and punched, and punched, until his knuckles began to bleed.
It would not do to kill his cousin, no. You were right- Steffon needed to survive the day. And, if that meant Raymun had to forgo the sword, and was reduced to pummeling his cousin with his own bare hands, then so be it.
Punch. For Delena Mullendore, who had been shunned by Steffon, and left without his support.
Punch. For Ser Duncan the Tall, who Steffon had vowed to fight for, only to betray him in his hour of greatest need.
Punch. For Ser Humfrey Beesury, fate unknown, who might not have participated in the Trial of Seven at all, had Steffon not chosen to complete Prince Aerion’s team of seven.
Punch. For you… Well, Steffon wasn’t exactly Prince Aerion Targaryen, but Raymun reasoned that you could probably forgive him for the convenient substitute.
When it came to the punches he dealt on his own behalf, Raymun lost count.
Having finally noticed the cracked skin of his hands, Raymun halted his fist in midair. By then, his breathing had quickened, and he was practically heaving for air. Steffon, still pinned beneath him, coughed and gasped for air himself.
Perhaps it was foolish for Raymun to willingly remove his own helm. I’ve already indulged in a fair amount of foolery thus far, he rationalized. What is the harm in one more moment of it?
Raymun reached behind his neck, and removed the helm from his head. He breathed deeply, welcoming the fresh air that filled his lungs freely. His breathing was not so loud then, but the quiet did not last for long. It was soon replaced with the clashing and clanging of weaponry around them.
Once Raymun had taken a few moments to himself, he looked back down at Steffon. His cousin stared up at him with wide, shocked eyes, as though Raymun was absolutely mad.
Perhaps he was.
“Ready to end this?” Steffon questioned him, still panting for air. He had the audacity to sound mildly amused. “Stop gloating. Be a man. Put us both out of our misery, and kill me now.”
Steffon had always considered him to be a coward. It was not lost on Raymun how Steffon, in his defeat, was so quick to beg for his own end. All just to spare himself a few moments of embarrassment.
Raymun scowled down at him. Pathetic.
Steffon’s spinelessness had nearly diminished all the fight left within him, but Raymun knew that he could not rest just yet.
“I can’t kill you,” Raymun confessed. “I won’t kill you… But that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy this, not while I still can.”
“Now what are you-“
Raymun slugged Steffon right across the face, the hardest punch he delivered thus far. Even his own hand admonished him for it.
With Steffon temporarily subdued, Raymun reached for his shield. It was chipped, and in serious need of repair. But when Raymun lifted it up into the sun, which had begun to break through the clouds, the green apple upon it shone, bright as a beacon.
Raymun brought the shield down with as much force as he could muster, aiming it directly into his cousin’s side.
Steffon howled in pain as his ribs cracked, and he tried to roll away, fleeing him.
In more ways than one, Raymun let him go.
The tide of the Trial of Seven had turned.
You did not particularly enjoy violence, and you certainly did not relish in it.
But watching Raymun land blow after blow upon Steffon, and choosing to spare his life, despite their complicated history, and especially after having had several opportunities to end it… It stirred something deep within you.
Defeating his cousin in combat, in addition to humiliating him, at a Trial of Seven that would doubtlessly be immortalized in the histories would not be enough to undo the damage that Steffon Fossoway had dealt to his cousin throughout their lives. But, by the Seven, it sure seemed to be a damned fine start.
From what you had come to learn about him, you already admired Raymun a great deal. If it were possible, the nobleness of his decision to spare Steffon only made you admire him more.
You were becoming terribly fond of him, you realized. The notion scared you less than it probably should have.
Raymun rose to his feet slowly, leaving Steffon to cradle in upon himself in the dirt. With his chest heaving as he attempted to regain his breath, your own was stolen from your lungs when he finally lifted his head, and his eyes met yours across the field.
There was an overwhelming sense to run- to run to him. But you did not have the time, nor the courage, to reflect on why that was.
Your father and Prince Baelor had once again managed to gain the upper hand on Prince Maekar, and were finally able to subdue him as Dunk finally incapacitated Prince Aerion.
Dragging his foe through the muddy battlefield littered with blood and gods knew what else, Ser Duncan the Tall trudged towards the viewing stand with determination and sheer force of will. Prince Aerion struggled as he was tugged along, but all his efforts were in vain.
Once the hedge knight locked eyes with Lord Ashford, he grabbed Prince Aerion by the collar, and hauled him to his feet.
“Tell him!” Dunk demanded with a rough growl. “Tell him!”
Tell him! Tell him! Tell him!
You leaned forward in great interest, as did many others around you.
Prince Aerion Brightflame’s face was bruised and bloodied, his eyes wide with fear and pain. It was a far cry from the sinister prince who had wreaked havoc on the puppeteers tent just the previous night, who had maimed a defenseless woman without a thought or care, who had commanded chaos with all the confidence of a bard commanding the strings of his lute.
When the accuser breathed out his next words, they were so softly spoken, you strained to hear them.
“I withdraw my accusation.”
Dunk released his hold, and Prince Aerion Targaryen fell into the mud.
The horns bellowed, but even they were drowned out by the nearly deafening cheers of nobility and small folk.
Prince Aegon shot up to his feet in a rush, sprinting away before you had the chance to stop him.
You looked back down onto the field, seeking Raymun out one more time.
He was injured, that much was certain. And while the extent of his injuries were unknown, he was up, and walking without aid, even though he limped. Raymun blinked blankly a few times, before he finally looked up at you.
He gave you a small smile.
The gesture alone was worth all of the turmoil you had endured- and more.
Reassured of his safety and feeling tremendously better off for it, you then turned your attention to your father, who had disengaged from Prince Maekar and was attempting to catch his breath. He let his sword fall to the mud, and as he took a step back, his knees buckled beneath him.
Concern cut through your relief like a knife, sharpening your focus as you stood. “Someone fetch Maester Kaegan!”
Unbeknownest to your father, you had previously given the maester clear instructions to make his way to the tourney field prior to the Trial of Seven. Though you hoped your father would not have need of him, you did not want to risk Maester Kaegan being so far, all the way back at the Baratheon camp. While your instinct had been proven correct, you were not pleased about it.
Though you had not addressed anyone in particular, it was the young woman at your side who heeded your command first.
“I’ll make great haste, My Lady,” Alynne promised, beckoning a few of House Cafferen’s guards to follow. The group departed, weaving through members of the nobility who had risen to their feet in applause.
You followed shortly behind them, with her cousin, Ser Rogar, and Ser Sebastion on your heels, making way for the tourney field.
As you were about to descend the steps of the viewing stand, you saw that Michael Morrigen had reached your father by then, and was attempting to steady him.
Raymun, Dunk, and Prince Baelor were nowhere to be seen.
With a nearly insurmountable amount of adrenaline coursing through him, Raymun did not notice the limp in his step until well after he and Steely Pate had aided Ser Duncan off of the tourney field and underneath one of the access tunnels along its outskirts.
For a lack of better words, Dunk looked worse for wear. He was covered in dirt, grime, and blood. His lips were bruised and bloodied, and his left eye was swollen entirely shut. Raymun doubted he looked much better himself. But- gods be damned- Dunk was alive! They both were!
And still… not all had been so fortunate as they. Even though they were shadowed under the archway in a feeble attempt at privacy from the many straying eyes of the crowd, Raymun could still hear Lady Deana Beesbury’s sorrowful cries in the distance. It did not require a remarkable intellect to surmise what was causing her despair.
There will be time for that, Raymun promised himself, helping Steely Pate lower Dunk onto a nearby bench. There would be time to process all that had happened in the past day. There would be time to pay his respects to Lady Deana, and to any other families who might have been impacted by the Trial.
Time to grieve.
The sword, once again sheathed and hanging from his hip, felt the heaviest it had ever felt since Ser Humfrey had loaned it to him. To think that not more than two hours had passed since he had been knighted by Ser Lyonel… it was practically unfathomable.
Ser Lyonel- he had been injured too, Raymun recalled. Just how grievous the Laughing Storm’s wounds had been, Raymun could not say. But as he had helped Dunk off the field, he caught a glimpse of his squire, Michael Morrigen, hurrying to his aid. You would join them, Raymun suspected. With any luck, Raymun hoped you were slowly making your way from the field, leaving all of the death and violence behind.
A wave of dizziness loomed in the peripheries of his mind, but Raymun gritted his teeth, and fought through the fuzziness and unease. He might not have been able to help Ser Humfrey Beesbury, but there was one friend he could still be of assistance to, and Raymun was determined to do just that.
“Taken quite the beating, haven’t you?” Steely Pate jested as he visually skimmed over the various fastenings of Ser Duncan’s armor.
Perhaps Dunk was in more dire of a state than Raymun initially believed him to be. If Steely Pate, of all people, was inclined to make light of the situation, that did not bode very well.
Steely Pate gave a disapproving hum. “I’ll have to cut that armor off of you, I’m afraid. Will you lend me a hand, Ser Raymun?”
Raymun nodded sharply. “Of course, just tell me what to do.”
“Raymun!” Dunk exclaimed with wide eyes and a mild start, as though he had just realized that Raymun was standing before him. “Raymun, the others- has anyone died?”
Steely Pate gave Raymun a look of caution. For the briefest of moments, Raymun contemplated sparing Ser Duncan, and to simply give him a vague response. His friend’s body was already broken and bruised. Why deal additional strikes to his mind and heart? … Then again, he would learn of Raymun’s deception eventually. Dunk was more than deserving of the truth, no matter how painful it was for Raymun to speak it aloud.
“Beesbury fell in the first charge… he did not rise again,” Raymun recounted, voice solemn, but steady. “Hardying was gravely wounded, but I do not know how he fares.”
For Lady Deana Beesbury’s sake, Raymun vehemently wished the Stranger would spare him.
Dunk looked distraught by the news, understandably so.
Hoping to lessen the blow, Raymun added hastily, “I managed to rack a few of Steffon’s ribs, though.” At least, I hope I did.
Dunk grunted in pain as Steely Pate continued to inspect his armor. “You did not kill him, then?”
“No.”
“Good… But Steffon won’t forgive you for standing against him, Raymun.”
No sooner would Raymun forgive Steffon for his betrayal, either. “I should hope not.”
“And what of Prince Daeron?” Dunk asked then. “Did he survive?”
“Yes, Ser,” Prince Aegon Targaryen answered. “He fell in the first charge, just as he promised you he would.”
Raymun had not noticed the young boy’s arrival in the tunnel. But there Prince Aegon was, lingering hesitantly a few paces away from them as he strived to get a better look at his master.
“His dream was wrong then,” Dunk declared drowsily, sounding more and more incoherent with each passing moment. Raymun did not know what Dunk spoke of, but he did not press for details. “There is no dead dragon, after all… Unless Prince Aerion died… Did he?”
“No, Ser,” Prince Aegon answered him. Raymun could sense the boy’s concern for his master rapidly growing. “You spared him. Remember?”
Steely Pate grabbed Raymun’s closest arm then, silently demanding his attention without raising the suspicion of Dunk or his young squire. Steely Pate directed Raymun’s line of sight to Dunk’s lower left side, where he had initially been struck in the first charge. The damage done by Prince Aerion’s lance was- regrettably- brutal. The rings of Dunk’s armor had been forced deep into his flesh by the impact.
Raymun staved off a grimace as Dunk continued to ramble on in a haze.
“One moment I feel drunk… and the next, like I’m dying.”
“The lance drove the rings of your chainmail into your skin,” Raymun informed him, tactfully omitting the apparent depth of the wound. He consciously wedged himself closer to Steely Pate, practically standing shoulder to shoulder, hoping to block the extent of Dunk’s injuries from the naturally curious eyes of Prince Aegon.
Dunk hissed and groaned in pain as Steely Pate examined his wound further.
“We’ll get him drunk,” Steely Pate proposed to Raymun. “And then we’ll pour boiling oil onto it. That’s how the maesters do it.”
And then dig out the rings from the depths of his flesh? Raymun could have shuddered at the very thought, had he not been so intent on keeping a strong composure for Dunk’s benefit.
Wine, not oil… Oil will kill him.”
The soft and yet indisputably calm voice still managed to give Raymun a small fright.
Prince Baelor Targaryen appeared at the end of the tunnel, still donning his helm and full armor. Like Dunk, Prince Baelor’s armor showed signs of damage by various dents and scratches, and a sheen coating of blood appeared on splotches across his face. The Hand of the King’s movements were slow, and a little sluggish, but he was up on both of his own feet, and all without the assistance of another.
Prince Baelor planted his sword firmly into the ground beside him. “I’ll send Maester Yormwell to have a look at him, when he’s done tending to my brother.”
As though he was a man possessed, Dunk lurched forward. It was all Steely Pate and Raymun could do but to follow him as he moved, aiding the hedge knight into a kneeling position before Prince Baelor Targaryen.
“Your Grace,” Ser Duncan beseeched him.
Despite the unspeakable and perhaps nearly endless list of injuries he had sustained, Dunk’s posture before the prince was as pristine as Raymun’s, when he had been knighted just a short while ago.
“I am your man… Please. Your man.”
Raymun could count the number of times he had personally seen Prince Baelor Targaryen on one hand. And yet, every time Raymun had seen the Hand of the King, Prince Baelor had always exuded a calm, if not somewhat politely detached, demeanor.
But at that moment, Prince Baelor appeared visibly moved by Ser Duncan’s pledge of loyalty.
“I need good men, Ser Duncan,” he agreed, laying a comforting hand upon Dunk’s shoulder. “The realm needs…”
Prince Baelor trailed off as he lost his balance, and he stumbled backwards a single step. Dunk swayed forward, although it was unclear if he too had lost his own balance, or simply meant to follow after the prince.
Raymun and Steely Pate rushed forward, grabbing Dunk by the shoulders, again helping him to reclaim his seat upon the bench. Dunk cried out in pain once more, and Prince Aegon flinched in sympathy for his tribulation.
“Ser Raymun,” Prince Baelor called to him. “My helm, if you would be so kind.”
“At once, Your Grace,” Raymun answered, leaving Dunk only once he was reassured that Steely Pate had settled him.
As he hobbled over to Prince Baelor, Raymun was able to take a better look at the armor- and the man beneath it- as he approached. Like he had assumed of Dunk, Prince Baelor was more battered than Raymun initially believed him to be. The closer he drew, Raymun began to realize, very quickly, that something was terribly amiss.
“The visor.. The visor’s cracked,” Prince Baelor informed him slowly, though Raymun had not asked.
Raymun promised him reassuringly, “I will take a look at it, Your Grace.”
It was not only the visor, but the helm itself that had been cracked in two. The Young Prince Valarr, who had presumably loaned the armor to his father for the Trial, would need to have extensive repairs done to the suit before it would be feasible for him to compete in another tourney. It was fortunate that Prince Valarr would have the means, and the craftsmen at hand, to make the repairs swiftly.
“My fingers,” Prince Baelor said then, lifting a still-gloved hand. He looked at his appendage peculiarly, as though he did not recognize it as belonging to his own body. “My fingers… they feel like wood.”
Once Raymun made it around to Prince Baelor’s back, he looked towards the nape of his neck, where he should have been able to unfasten the helm. However, the metal had been bent and crushed, molded together almost completely. It was unclear to Raymun where the helm ended, and where the backplate began.
He might have been a squire, and had assisted Steffon with his own armor many times, but he certainly was no armorer. “Goodman Pate- a hand?”
Once Steely Pate steadied Ser Duncan enough that he was able to sit upon the bench without assistance, he hurried over to Ramyun without further delay. Steely Pate saw the same sight before him as Raymun had, and he frowned.
“The helm is crushed down the back, Your Grace,” Steely Pate informed the prince. The craftsman’s eyes were unwavering from the armor before them, as though it was a puzzle. A challenge, even. But Steely Pate, while concentrating deeply, did not appear too worried, and Raymun was able to take heart from that, if only a little. “It’s smashed into the gorget.”
“My brother’s mace, most like,” Prince Baelor supplied. He leaned over, and his head tilted in Raymun’s direction, as though he was conspiring to share with him a secret. “He’s strong.”
“That he is, Your Grace,” Raymun agreed, returning the prince’s soft smile with one of his own. Thank the Seven that only Steffon had had eyes for him during the Trial. Had Raymun stumbled into Prince Maekar’s path, he might not have been standing there.
“This is very good steel, Your Grace, to have stopped such a blow,” Steely Pate both observed and praised. “If you had donned any other armor this morning, you might not have been so lucky.”
“Tell that to my son,” Prince Baelor chuckled dryly. “I shall owe him a new helm, I fear.”
Raymun placed a steadying hand on the prince’s shoulder to steady him as he swayed. “Under the circumstances, I daresay he will forgive you, My Prince.”
“Let us hope so, Ser Raymun.” Prince Baelor smiled once more. “But I suppose it is a relief to hear, to know that his armor is sturdy, should Valarr have taken the beating that I have this day.”
“A fair point indeed, Your Grace,” Steely Pate agreed heartily. “...Here it comes.”
Steely Pate grunted lightly with the effort as his hands strained under the tension of separating the crushed metals.
Prince Baelor flinched. “That feels…”
Steely Pate tugged upwards sharply, freeing Prince Baelor’s head from the crushed helm. For a moment, all was silent in the tunnel, and all four men- and young boy- were able to take a much desired breath of relief. But the silence was soon shattered by a wet sploshing that echoed off of the surrounding stone.
What Raymun saw then would haunt him, in waking and dreaming hours, from that day, until his last day.
Red gushes of blood and other matter Raymun could not have described, even if he had the knowledge to, rained from the back of Prince Baelor’s head. A large, gaping wound was where the back of his head ought to have been. The sight was awful, both physically, and for what it implied.
“Gods be good,” Steely Pate whispered in horror, evidently reaching the same conclusion as Raymun had.
Dunk sat up straighter, suddenly alert to the fact that all was not so well after all.
“No!” Prince Aegon gasped, sorrow etched deeply into every part of his small face.
Despite the mortified faces of those around him, Prince Baelor seemed relatively unphased by their collective shock. He blinked once, twice. Then, a queer looked flashed across his face, as though the prince was mildly inconvenienced by something. He reached behind his head, feeling what was there- and seemingly understanding what was not.
Prince Baelor withdrew his hand calmly, and looked down at the blood and guts that coated his gloved fingers with mild interest. He turned- as though to say something further to Steely Pate and Raymun- but no more words fell from his lips.
He swayed backwards, barreling towards the ground. Dunk scrambled forward, doubtlessly fighting excruciating pain to ensure that Prince Baelor did not land in the dirt. Steely Pate and Raymun jumped into action too, helping him bear the weight of the fallen prince.
Prince Aegon watched them all with wide, watery eyes.
Raymun glanced up at the boy, and in a sterner voice than he ought to have addressed a member of the royal family, gave him an order. “Go and fetch Maester Yormwell, My Prince… And your father, Prince Maekar.”
Prince Aegon hesitated, reluctant.
“Now, Aegon!”
Startled, the young boy jumped in his place. But he recovered his composure a moment later, and immediately fled the tunnel to do as he was bid.
It was senseless, fetching the maester. The Hand of the King was well beyond any mortal help, and Raymun knew it. But he also knew there was no benefit in forcing the young boy to witness any more of the matter than he already had.
Prince Baelor lay, eyes open but unblinking, in Ser Duncan’s arms, with Steely Pate and Ramyun’s steadfast support. In the distance, Raymun could hear Prince Aegon shouting and crying out for aid, as well as the clamoring of nearby members of the crowd who would be keen to know what was transpiring.
Though Dunk desperately pleaded for him to rise, Prince Baelor did not heed him. Steely Pate shook his head in shame, but he offered no words of comfort. The adrenaline began to ebb from Raymun’s body, leaving nothing but pain and emotional fallout in its wake.
The scene was so upsetting, Raymun was forced to tuck his chin into his chest as he stifled his own tears. For all his complicated feelings towards the Targaryens, he had never, ever, wished for this.
Fire, extinguished.
Blood, spilled.
Prince Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King, and Heir to the Iron Throne, was dead.
🖤please do not hesitate to let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist🖤
Pairing: Raymun Fossoway x Baratheon! Female Reader
MASTERLIST (story synopsis also found here)
Warnings: friends to lovers, slowburn, GOT typical sexism, mild canon divergence, canon-compliant violence, questioning of religion/gods, non-explicit but still obvious sexual references
word count: 10,800 ish
A/N: Trial of Seven Time 🚨🚨🚨 if you're still reading this fic, thank you. if you're new, welcome.🖤 to compensate for my extended absence, I should have Part 8 up by this Thursday 7/9. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this part. 💚💛🖤
🖤If you prefer not to read long format fics on tumblr, this is also cross posted on AO3, the link is on the masterlist🖤
“Knight me,” Raymun bid Dunk. “I will take my cousin’s place.”
Dunk did not move. He stared at him blankly, as though he had misunderstood Raymun, or perhaps not heard him at all.
Raymun stopped his approach at just an arm’s lengths away. Slow and steady, but with absolute certainty, he took to one knee, sinking gradually into the soft mud beneath him.
“Ser Duncan, knight me.”
Dunk’s brows furrowed, his eyes squinting as visible confliction swept across his face. And even though Raymun had already made up his mind, and was confident in his decision, his friend’s initial reluctance still gave him pause.
Does he doubt my skill with a blade? Or my courage? … Raymun hoped, above all else, that Dunk did not doubt his resolve, nor his willingness to uphold the oaths he would swear to uphold.
Steffon had chosen to sully House Fossoway’s honor. And, through a stubborn sense of loyalty he had been seldom shown in return, Raymun felt that he had little choice but to restore it. No matter the personal cost.
“Raymun, I…” Dunk struggled to find his words. “I should not, Raymun.”
“You must,” Raymun insisted. There was little time to waste. “Not for my sake, but for your own. Without me, you have only five men to fight at your side…. And you cannot win with five, Dunk.”
An ugly claim, but a true one.
When Dunk’s lips pursed into a fine line, Raymun knew that his attempts to persuade his friend to see reason were fruitful. A famous warrior, two presumably well-trained princes of the realm, and three members of Kingsguard would ride against Dunk and his champions. Not to mention Steffon.
Five men, skilled though each of them might have been, would not be enough to defeat those who awaited them.
"Raymun has the truth of it, I’m afraid.”
The Laughing Storm came to a halt at Dunk’s side. He glanced critically down the tourney field, where the men they were to battle made their final preparations.
Just as it occurred to Raymun that the Laughing Storm himself not only knew, but had actually addressed him by name- and all the implications that might have entailed- Ser Lyonel continued on.
“It is not ideal, but give us six good men, and our odds could certainly be far worse… Seven Hells, when you consider they’ve a drunkard and a rotten oath-breaker on their side, we may even have a fair match.” He did not laugh, but his words carried mirth as he nodded down to Raymun. “Go on, Ser Duncan. Any knight can make a knight, after all.”
Raymun looked back up at Dunk, waiting patiently.
Ser Lyonel stood firm. He meant to witness the knighting, Raymun realized. To have his knighting witnessed by such a renowned warrior? A great honor, in and of itself.
Dunk relented, offering no more verbal protest. He reached across his waist, resting his palm on the pommel of the sword. However, once again, he hesitated, making no further move to withdraw it from its scabbard.
Ser Lyonel narrowed his eyes ever so slightly as he watched Dunk pause. The movement was so subtle, had Raymun not been watching both men with bated breath, he was certain he would have missed it.
The horn bellowed again, loud and deep, reverberating throughout the field and causing both Raymun and Dunk to flinch. Lord Ashford himself stepped out and onto the field, having come to confer with both the accuser and the accused one last time before the Trial commenced.
“Lord Ashford will want to speak with you,” Ser Lyonel observed. “It’d be best not to keep him waiting. You go on ahead, Ser Duncan. I shall give Squire Raymun his knighthood.”
“You mentioned Ser Steffon was to fight for Ser Duncan?”
You had been so entranced in watching the scene unfold across the tourney field, it took you a few moments to realize that Lady Alynne had posed a question.
The conversation between Raymun and Steffon did not quite reach your ears, but there were a bounty of visual queues that offered suggestions as to its nature. Steffon’s casual stance, Raymun’s tense shoulders. Steffon’s languid movements, Raymun’s sharp ones.
“He is.” But even as you spoke the affirmation aloud, your doubt began to grow.
Suddenly, Raymun gave Steffon a harsh shove, and your pulse leapt. You were not the only one watching the altercation between the two cousins, and at the new development in their heated discussion, some of the nobility around you gasped. Excited and conspiratorial murmurings quickly followed.
The intrigue and gossip fodder was the least of your worries. You were far more concerned about Steffon’s retribution, and how Raymun might suffer for it.
Steffon shoved Raymun back. Though it was rough, Raymun was fortunate enough to keep his footing.
The older of the Fossoway cousins stomped off, huffing deeply as he made his way over to where Raymun had secured Wrath. Steffon swung himself up into the saddle, and with a sternness the poor horse did not deserve, turned Wrath about sharply.
Steffon galloped away, leaving Ser Duncan’s side of the field and making way for Prince Aerion and the rest of his chosen champions.
“What is he doing now?” someone behind you demanded, to no one in particular.
“He’s headed the wrong way!” exclaimed another.
But you knew what had happened, and the sigh that slipped from you was deep. Fire burned behind your eyes as Steffon slowed Wrath to a trot before Prince Aerion. The prince acknowledged Steffon with a single curt nod.
A bargain had been struck between them. And though you did not know the details of their agreement, it was clear that the arrangement was built entirely not he facet of Steffon thwarting Dunk.
You fool!
Your face felt sickly warm. No longer with nerves, but with sharp and nearly painful embarrassment. Not but an hour ago, you had spoken such kind words of Steffon. Reminding Raymun that his duty, unfavorable though it might have been, was to do his part in ensuring that Steffon survived the Trial.
You wanted to believe most people were capable of change. So few people were entirely good, or irredeemably evil. But, as it was becoming painstakingly clearer to you by the minute, Ser Steffon Fossoway was not like most people. Neither was Raymun.
Raymun.
Would he still be expected to squire for his cousin?
Alynne whispered your name, effectively tearing you from your thoughts. She directed your focus back across the opposite end of the field. What you saw there caused your heart to sink into your gut.
Raymun was down on one knee, looking up at Dunk and your father with what you could only imagine were large and beseeching eyes. Grasping any of the words exchanged between the men was still an impossibility, but it took no Maester to discern what Raymun was asking of them.
“He means to take his cousin’s place.”
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”
Ser Lyonel’s sword caught a glimpse of brief sunlight before it came to rest lightly upon his right shoulder. If Raymun moved his neck but a few breadths, the deadly weapon would nick his neck. Even though it was a great honor being bestowed upon him, so too was it an exercise of considerable trust.
Then again, Ser Lyonel was placing a lot of faith in him too.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”
The sword lifted, rising above his head and coming to rest upon his left shoulder.
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”
Raymun’s hands twitched. He steadied one on his knee propped up before him, and let the other clench into a loose fist at his side.
“In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.”
He could feel the pulse of his heart taking off as though it had a mind of it’s own, spreading all throughout his chest and up to his throat.
“In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong of body and mind.”
Raymun was relieved that the oaths required no speaking on his part. At that moment, he doubted that he could have trusted his voice.
“In the name of the Crone, I charge you to rebuke ignorance, and strive to seek the wisdom found in others and within yourself.”
Despite the myriad of distractions surrounding him, Raymun found that his loathing of Steffon was an efficient tool for keeping him grounded in the present. Even so, he had to stifle a snicker of disbelief. These cannot be the same vows that Steffon swore to.
“In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to uphold these vows from this day, until your last day.”
Ser Lyonel withdrew his sword, and smoothly slid it back into the scabbard at his hip.
“Rise, Ser Raymun of House Fossoway.”
Raymun’s feet set into motion of their own accord. He was nowhere near tall enough to look Ser Lyonel in the eye, but the Laughing Storm chose to meet his line of sight anyway. What he saw within the eyes of the seasoned warrior was more than mere acknowledgement. It was more profound. It was a mutual understanding.
“Do you feel any different?”
Though Raymun was caught off guard by the question, he answered it honestly. “I don’t reckon it has fully set in yet.”
Ser Lyonel gave him a small smile. “It will. Until then, you best go and see to it that your horse is readied. My squire Michael will aid you, should you need him.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
For everything.
Crispin was secured to the fence running along the back of Ser Duncan’s side of the field, right where Raymun had left him. As he placed a soothing hand on the horse’s neck, the severity of what Raymun had done hit him at full force. Just as Ser Lyonel said it would.
Though Raymun did not regret his decision, knowing he would have made the same behest again if it meant helping a friend, there was no denying the truth now.
Raymun was about to risk his life, and the life of his loyal mount.
Was it possible for one to feel the Stranger’s presence? … If it was, Raymun could sense it then. A predator circling the field, stalking the victims that were about to offer themselves upon a silver platter, each one ripe for the plucking.
I shall not be one of them. Not while Steffon continued to live in such dishonor. Steffon’s survival could no longer be his concern. If it came down to the two of them, the only survival that mattered was Raymun’s own.
He’d need a sword, a shield, and a helm. If only he had something more suitable than the minimally protective leathers he donned. But Raymun had never had a full suit of proper armor, not like Steffon and the other knights upon the field had. Until a few moments ago, there had never been a need.
Raymun reached to his side, and immediately cursed under his breath.
“Missing something?”
Raymun turned to see Ser Humfrey Beesbury watching him carefully, his squire at his side.
“I was in such a rush this morning, preparing the horses,” Raymun recalled with disappointment. “… I must’ve forgotten my sword at camp.”
Of all the days to make such a foolish mistake, Raymun…
“Well, there is no need to go all the way back for it now,” Ser Humfrey declared. “Here, take this one instead.”
Upon his master’s gesture, Ser Humfrey’s squire took a step forward, presenting Raymun with a sword of considerable size.
Raymun refused to reach for it. “I couldn’t possibly, Ser.”
“Do you plan to face Steffon without a sword?” Ser Humfrey was amused. “Go on, Ser Raymun. Test the weight of it, be certain it will suit you.”
Though still reluctant, Raymun begrudgingly took the sword from Ser Humfrey’s squire. Even though it was still secured in the scabbard, Raymun could tell the sword’s weight was comparable to his own.
“It’s a kind offer, Ser Humfrey, truly. But I cannot take your sword.”
“Which is precisely why you will not be,” Ser Humfrey answered simply. “You’re going to borrow the sword, Raymun. And once all this unpleasantness is over, and everyone has departed Ashford, you’re going to return with me to Honeyholt. We can round out your training there, and you can earn the sword, honest and proper.”
Raymun did not know what to say. There’d been no time to consider what would happen to him if he survived the Trial. However, he knew that making an immediate return to Cider Hall- despite whether Steffon survived- would be a folly. Ser Humfrey offered a solution to a problem Raymun had not even known he’d had.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury left him with little more than a nod, and he and his squire returned their focus to tending his own horse.
As they walked away, Raymun withdrew the sword from the scabbard, confirming his suspicions about its weight. He would feel comfortable enough with it, he had little doubt. The make of it too- it was nearly impeccable craftsmanship. Loan or not, it was far better than Raymun needed, far better than he deserved. He made a mental note to tell Ser Humfrey as much at a more opportune moment. After resheathing the sword quickly but carefully, Raymun secured it at his hip.
“Ser Raymun?”
Raymun did not recognize the voice, but he vaguely recognized the man who approached him next. He was built solid, with a bald head not unlike that of Prince Aegon’s, and a beard that Raymun reckoned could have rivaled that of the wildlings up in the North. Raymun had seen the man in passing a handful of times over the past few days, in the merchant’s row. He had been the one to accompany Dunk to the field, the one Dunk had presumably sought out after departing from Fossoway camp earlier that morning.
As though the man had read Raymun’s mind, he offered, “The name’s Steely Pate.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“If it’s all the same to you, we can skip the pleasantries, and get straight to business. I’m a craftsman, but more importantly, I’m an armorer, Ser. And I cannot help but to have noticed that you’ve none of your own.”
Raymun felt silly asking, but it was worth a shot. “I don’t suppose you’ve any armor you could lend me, then?”
“Lend you? No. Sell you? Perhaps. But either way, and most unfortunately, I’ve no plates at this short of notice that I would feel comfortable giving to you. The fit of armor is important, Ser Raymun. It has to be precise. I’d not have you ride off to battle in my armor, only for it to be the death of you.”
Raymun swallowed audibly at the thought.
He understood Steely Pate’s reasoning, but Raymun also knew that his leathers would offer very little, if any, resistance to lances or blades. Could he be evasive enough to avoid any serious blows? It did not seem likely.
Steely Pate might have sensed his unease. “I may not have full armor, but I do have a spare helm I can offer you. It was a bit too snug on Ser Duncan, but if it will fit you properly, consider it yours.”
If that was the only true piece of armor Raymun could don in the hopes of protecting himself, he had no other choice. “I’d appreciate that greatly. But I won’t take it for nothing.”
“If you insist on paying me for the work, far be it from me to deny you. I’ll go grab the helm, it’s just over there.”
Raymun said nothing more as Steely Pate went to retrieve the helm. As he waited, his gaze fell upon his shield, which was still temporarily secured to Crispin’s saddle. A bright red apple, the same shade as Steffon’s cloak, stood against a field of gold. House Fossoway’s signal was no direwolf, or kraken, or even a stag. But it had always brought him comfort whenever he saw it.
Now, it taunted him.
Steely Pate returned then, happening upon Raymun as he remained transfixed on the shield.
“There is another matter you may wish to discuss, Ser,” he said, in a gruff manner, but not unkindly. Raymun was beginning to sense that was simply the man’s way. “The puppeteers made for Dorne last night. But the girl-“ Steely Pate did not need to elaborate on who he spoke of- “she had painted Ser Duncan’s shield for him, and left it with me for safekeeping. Said she was concerned the tree might need some touching up, so she left me a small bit of paint, too.”
Raymun finally tore his eyes away from the shield to look at Steely Pate.
“Now, I’m not much of a painter myself,” Steely Pate continued, a knowing glint in his eyes. “But perhaps you can find some use for it instead?”
You watched as your father bestowed knighthood upon Raymun Fossoway in a solemn silence.
It was incredibly admirable for Raymun to uphold an oath he had not sworn himself. Of the many things Steffon owed his kin, Raymun assuming Steffon’s place as one of Ser Duncan’s champions had to have been the most prominent. While you were happy for Raymun to have been bestowed the honor, and by your father, no less, the establishment of his knighthood created additional complications you could not have foreseen.
You could not admonish Raymun for it- he was a man grown, and you were certainly not his mother. But you worried for him, admittedly a great deal more than you had the right to. You struggled with making sense of your conflicting feelings, none of which you had had time to adequately prepare yourself for.
Your companionship might have been short lived, but it was no less sincere for that. Would the gods be so cruel as to take Raymun from this realm just as swiftly as he had entered into your life?
“We cannot delay any longer, Ser Duncan.”
Lord Ashford, who had departed his seat in favor of taking to the field, conferred with Ser Duncan and Prince Aerion Targaryen. The three men were close enough to the viewing stand where you, and others sitting in your proximity, were able to understand a few of the words being exchanged.
“It appears that you have only managed to find five champions,” Prince Aerion observed, smug and unbothered. His charger swayed from side to side anxiously.
In comparison, Ser Duncan’s mount, Thunder, as Raymun had supplied earlier, was calm and steady as his master confirmed what you already knew.
“We’ve six champions, My Lord. Ser Lyonel is knighting Raymun Fossoway as we speak. We shall fight Prince Aerion and his men, six against seven.”
While not ideal odds, they were not too terrible either.
Prince Aerion shook his head vehemently. “That is not permitted, I’m afraid.”
Does he speak the truth? You knew little to nothing about the intricacies of a Trial of Seven, only that it had been seldom invoked in the entire history of Westeros. And, besides your father, you doubted many in Ashford knew a great deal about the subject either. Prince Aerion could twist the rules in his own favor, and hardly anyone would be none the wiser.
“You must find another knight to join you, Ser Duncan,” Lord Ashford ultimately agreed with the dragon prince, though he was visibly less joyful about it. “If you cannot, you will be declared guilty of the crimes you stand accused of.”
“That hardly seems fair,” Alynne said under her breath.
On the other side of her, her cousin sat taller, straightening her shoulders and narrowing her eyes in steely resolve. “Few things in this life are fair, Cousin. Even to those who are the most deserving of it.”
Ser Duncan looked up to the viewing stands. Your eyes met for the briefest of moments, before he looked over the rest of the crowd. Thunder walked back and forth before the viewing stand slowly, as Dunk began his heartfelt plea.
“M’Lords and M’Ladies, none of you seem to have remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree. But I remember some of your faces, for I was his squire, and we served many of you.”
Dunk went on to acknowledge specific men, such as Ser Manfred Dondarrion, and even the Grey Lion Damon Lannister himself. Despite the direct address, neither of the two men seemed particularly moved by the hedge knight’s words.
As Dunk continued, your focus drifted back towards Raymun. The knighting had been completed, and he was making his way back to his horse.
And to get armor, you desperately hoped.
“All knights vow to defend the innocent,” Dunk continued, eyes never straying from the people he hoped to appeal to. “And I swear to you, by the old gods and the new, that is all I did.”
Even at this, no man rose.
Despite every seat upon the raised podium having been filled- with the exception of Lord Ashord’s chair- you were reminded once more of several absences.
You wished Prince Baelor was present, or even Prince Valarr. They were the only members of House Targaryen whom you knew were capable of challenging Prince Aerion and his malicious whims, even if they had not always been inclined to do so.
There was a desperate need for a voice of reason amongst the steadily intensifying madness.
“I may not have been of Ser Arlan’s blood, but regardless, I have always followed his example. As your sons will yours. And so, I ask you now- who will stand and fight with me?”
Having witnessed the alleged crime with your own eyes, your opinion on the subject was a bit biased. But without that knowledge, you wanted to believe that Ser Duncan’s words would have persuaded you, had you the means and training to join him in his fight for justice. Dozens of the knighted men sitting around you were trained, with proper armor and study moments. But still, they were hesitant.
Is it a fear of death? … Or a fear of retribution from the Crown?
You could understand the fear of injury or death. But you were well aware that the Stranger eventually came for all. And for many of these men, there would never be a more noble cause to fight for in their lifetimes. To see them squander such an oppurunity… the frustration sickened you.
Cowards, you cursed, every single one of them.
But then, excited murmuring filled your ears. A man- but not just any man- had finally risen to his feet.
It was the Brute of Bracken, a man whose renown rivaled that of your father’s. And for him to join Ser Duncan’s cause? It would make their defeat less certain, and their victory that much more feasible.
All eyes were upon the Brute of Bracken then, and hope threatened to overcome you and Ser Duncan alike.
…
The triumph of the moment was immediately shattered by the vile passing of wind.
Fits of laughter erupted around you, but you grimaced. Alynne’s cousin cursed the Brute of Bracken under her breath with a particular bitterness. The language was far from ladylike, but entirely fair, and more than well-deserved.
Dunk had lost all patience for the childish antics of the privileged few and uncaring. “Has courage deserted the noble houses of Westeros? I will not believe it is so!”
The laughter soon faded, with some having taken offense to the hedge knight’s reprimand. An uncomfortable silence quickly fell over the field.
“ARE THERE NO TRUE KNIGHTS AMONG YOU?”
…
Doors on one end of the field were thrown open with a reverberating bang. A fine black stallion broke through the fog and mists, galloping onto the field and claiming the attention of all eyes in attendance.
“The Young Prince!” someone exclaimed, voice laced with excitement.
You were in a state of disbelief. Had your sharp words the previous evening actually resonated with Prince Valarr? Had he decided that enough damage had been done by Prince Aerion’s hands? Did he finally intend to take a stand against his cousin, once and for all?
As you watched the oncomer properly take to the field, you saw no reason to believe the mystery knight was anyone but Prince Valarr himself, given that the man seated upon the stallion’s back donned the prince’s black armor and helm. But there was something distinct about the rider’s gait that did not align with what you knew.
The rider and horse came to a halt before Ser Duncan. The knight reached up, removing the helm with minimal effort.
But it was not the Young Prince who had come to Ser Duncan in his hour of greatest need.
“I will take Ser Duncan’s side!” Prince Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King, and Heir to the Iron Throne, declared.
Across the field, the common folk burst into thunderous cheering and applause. It was no secret that the Hand of the King and Heir to the Iron Throne was particularly beloved by them. Meanwhile, the nobility, many of whom harbored more complicated feelings towards House Targaryen and the royal family, were not so quick to react.
But hope had been struck anew with you, and you rose to your feet, joining in the applause. Alynne and her cousin followed, as did Ser R
A newfound sense of hope overcame you, and you rose to your feet regardless, joining in the applause. Alynne and her cousin followed suit, as did Ser Rogar and Ser Sebastion behind you.
One by one, other nobility rose to their feet to offer their respect.
Prince Maekar rode across the field, presumably attempting to speak some sense into his older brother. However, you suspected that any attempts to dissuade Prince Baelor in participating in the Trial would be fruitless.
Though Prince Valarr might have been his father’s son, he still had a great deal to learn. And Prince Baelor intended to teach by example.
Raymun urged Crispin back onto the field with haste. In one hand was his recently acquired helm. In the other, a freshly painted shield.
With Steely Pate’s assistance, Raymun had just finished putting the finishing touches on the shield when he had heard the crowd erupt into massive cheers. He was anxious to return and see for himself what had riled them up so. Perhaps Dunk had been able to find a seventh champion after all.
Said champions had already taken up their mounts and converged, forming a circle with Dunk at its focus. As Raymun approached the men, he overheard a few brief snippets of conversation being exchanged among them.
The first was casual, jabs exchanged between two men who knew each other well.
“My sister will kill you for this.”
“Perhaps. Though not if she manages to get her hands around your neck first, I’d wager.”
And there was another. It was more formal than the first, but not without respect.
“Were you aware that your daughter came to Lord Ashford’s keep last night, My Lord?”
“Did she, now?”
“She sought an audience with me, and told my son that she wished to speak in the defense of Ser Duncan.”
“Mhmm.”
“In doing so, she made some allegations regarding Aerion’s behavior, and the Crown’s unwillingness to protect the realm at large from my nephew.”
“… I see.”
“Her critiques were… harsh, but decidedly fair.”
A chuckle. “That’s my girl.”
Raymun slowed Crispin to a walk as Dunk came into view, although his friend did not immediately spot him.
“Where is Raymun?”
“Ser Raymun, if you please,” Raymun cheekily replied, smiling grimly as nerves forced themselves out of him in the form of ill-advised humor. As he halted Crispin at Dunk and Thunder’s side, the five other men turned their attention to him, and Raymun scanned each of their faces in turn.
When Raymun finally realized who Ser Duncan’s seventh champion was, his jaw dropped.
Prince Baelor Targaryen chuckled dryly at him. “Well, Ser Raymun, it seems that you’ve arrived just in time.”
Little wonder the crowd went berserk!
But did Prince Baelor truly mean to risk his own neck for Dunk? …It certainly seemed that way, despite how preposterous the notion seemed upon initial consideration. But would Baelor be able to draw his sword against his own blood?
Then again, was Raymun not prepared to do the very same?
Given the circumstances, Raymun felt that he’d been left with no other option than to ride against Steffon. Perhaps Prince Baelor felt that he’d had no other choice, either.
Despite Raymun’s underlying feelings about House Targaryen, he could not deny the semblance of respect that he now felt towards the Hand of the King. For Prince Baelor to be willing to fight for the likes of Ser Duncan, and for him to take a stand against not only his nephews, but his own brother? The gesture was a bold one, and it spoke volumes about Prince Baelor’s character… Or, at least, how he wished his character to be perceived.
Raymun’s manners returned to him in a flash, and he snapped his gawking jaw shut. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
“You’ve given no offense, Ser Raymun,” Prince Baelor deflected smoothly, as though it was second nature. “Rest assured, this will be a treacherous experience for each of us. But you and I ride against our own blood, Ser Raymun, and the horrors shall be all the more terrible for it, I imagine.”
Raymun felt himself pale.
Perhaps it was a trick of his mind, but Raymun could have sworn he felt Steffon’s eyes upon the back of his neck even still. Steffon was irate with him, that much was undisputable. Although, that was hardly a novelty…
Would Steffon actually kill him?
“Do not panic,” Prince Baelor commanded. Though Raymun sensed he was being addressed specifically, the Hand of the King was courteous enough to shift his attention to the group at large. “Remain in formation, and keep your mounts for as long as you can. These men mean to see you dead, and they will fight savagely.”
“As will we, My Lord,” Ser Humfrey Hardying proclaimed, his chin held high.
If Prince Baelor was reassured by Ser Humfrey’s display of confidence, he did not show it. “If both of the accusers or the accused are slain, the gods will have made their judgement, and the contest will be over. Otherwise, the fight will continue until all seven men of one side or the other have yielded- or perished.”
Seven Fucking Hells…
Before Raymun could stop it, the meager breakfast he’d managed to swallow that morning fought its way back up. He leaned over in a rush, bowing deeply over himself the contents of his stomach were emptied onto the ground below.
On the other side of his horse, Raymun heard Dunk do the same.
Ser Humfrey Hardying made his opinion of their plight known with highly amused cackling. “Green fucking boys!”
Raymun groaned, and once he felt confident that his stomach was sparse, he slowly rose back up to right himself in the saddle. He spat one more time disdainfully into the mud below, and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Better green than wormy.”
Ser Lyonel smirked at him, and Raymun felt a peculiar sense of honor in having humored the Laughing Storm without having been the butt of the joke. “I presume we can rely on you to keep Ser Stevron occupied, then?”
“Gladly,” Raymun affirmed in a low tone, feeling the trepidation begin to ebb from his body.
“Even if Ser Raymun engages Ser Steffon, there are still six other men on the field to contend with,” Ser Humfrey Beesbury noted. “Your Grace, what of the Kingsguard?”
“Take heart, Beesbury,” Prince Baelor answered him. “My brother erred when he ordered the Kingsguard to fight for his sons. Their oath forbids them to harm a prince of the blood. Keep the other men occupied, and I shall handle the Kingsguards.”
Ser Robyn Rhysling’s mouth twitched, though he did not quite smile. “Is that honorable, Your Grace?”
Prince Baelor did not immediately reply. When he did, his words were soft spoken. “The gods will let us know.”
“Mother loved you best, huh?”
All heads turned to Ser Lyonel, who had posed the seemingly irrelevant question.
Though Prince Baelor did not dignify the assumption with a response, his lack of acknowledgement was an answer enough.
“Shame,” Ser Lyonel muttered, shaking his head in pity. “No man fights so fiercely as one neglected by his mother.”
“I’ll kill the both of them for this.”
Though they had been Lady Deana Beesbury’s words from a few rows back, you could not have phrased the sentiment better yourself.
All fourteen men rode to their respective sides of the fields to confer with their squires, and one another, one final time.
As you watched, you wrestled with your own thoughts. You were still undecided if you felt proud of Raymun, or if you wished to be cross with him. Had you not made it plain enough to him just how worried you were about your father? Though you sincerely doubted it had been Raymun’s intention, now your sources of considerable concern had doubled, though your capacity to handle the emotional weight had not.
With every passing moment, it was becoming painfully clear that your relationship- whatever its nature- could soon be forced to an untimely end.
The crowd around you swayed and shifted as someone skillfully weaved through them. After a moment, the individual came to a stop at your side.
Prince Aegon Targaryen looked down at you, his face a clever mask that was currently bare. “Might I sit beside you, Lady Y/N?”
Unable to trust your voice, you gave him a terse nod and shifted over to make room. As the boy took his seat, something that felt an awfully lot like shame began to creep into your bones.
Though you felt a great deal was at stake, it was possible for the young boy to lose far more in the Trial of Seven than you. Whilst you fretted over your father and friends, there was a chance that Prince Aegon would lose his master and uncle, if not his father and two of his brothers.
“Are you worried, My Lady?” Prince Aegon asked, so softly you might not have heard him, had he not been right beside you.
You offered him a small smile. “Ser Duncan’s cause is just, and the gods will see that it is proven so. I have little reason to worry, My Prince.”
Blessedly, the boy appeared to have bought your lie. Prince Aegon nodded to himself reassuringly, and settled into his seat.
“May the Seven bear witness to our solemn and bloody offering.”
Down in the middle of the field, Lord Ashford’s Septon, a young man who appeared but a few years younger than the boy at your side, proclaimed the final prayers.
“May they peer inside our mortal hearts to find the truth.”
The Septon looked to Ser Duncan, and then to Prince Aerion Targaryen.
“May the Warrior grant victory to the innocent, and reveal the guilty in their falseness.”
The Septon’s focus turned to the sprawling crowd of commoners, and then to the crowd of seated nobility opposite of them.
“May death sustain life.”
As a girl, your septa had instilled many prayers into your young mind. However, as time had passed, and you had become a grown woman, you had begun to question the Faith that so heavily dictated the culture you grew up in. In even more recent years, you were guilty of being driven to prayer only in times of desperate need.
Much like the present.
But what was faith, if not being devoid of all other choices, and purposefully choosing to sustain one’s belief in spite of it?
You watched as Ser Duncan and his champions took their places.
Your father placed his helm over his head, and lowered the visor. Though you had found it somewhat comical in the days prior, you finally began to understand just what your father had meant by the helm intimidating his opponents. There was no laughter to be heard from the man beneath the helm now- only a storm.
Raymun placed his helm over his head next, and as he did so, you studied him carefully. Though you could not see much from a distance, Raymun’s movements appeared slow and steady. His focus was on the opposite side of the field, where you imagined Steffon was looking upon Rayun with the same amount of loathing.
Squires handed the men their lances, and all prepared for the first charge.
“Be vigilant. Don’t die.”
Those had been Prince Baelor Targaryen’s parting words. If only they’d been simple orders to follow.
Raymun closed his eyes, and let out a shaky breath. Despite his own nerves, Crispin remained calm and steady beneath him. He shook his head, willing himself out of the stupor before it settled, and tried to settle his nerves.
Across the field, Steffon’s hot gaze burned through him. Wrath fidgeted upon his hooves. Perhaps the creature would buck his cousin off, and spare Raymun the trouble altogether- but Raymun did not think himself so fortunate.
A gallop to his left signaled that he was no longer alone. Ser Humfrey Beesbury slowed his horse to a halt a few paces away. Raymun gave him a stiff nod, having finally torn his eyes away from his cousin.
“Steffon is furious, Raymun,” Ser Humfrey said, acknowledging the subject of his ire. “And I can tell you are just as well. But remember this- men blind with anger can be careless, and they make many mistakes. Do not allow yourself to be one of them. Let Steffon choke on his own rage. He may try to kill you, but if you can channel your anger, hone it into focus, and try to keep a level head, you can depose him.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“Would I have lent you my sword if I thought you would fall in the first charge?”
Raymun did not need to answer.
Ser Humfrey smiled at him fondly, the gesture small but sincere. “Keep your wits about you. I will have mead in my pavilion afterwards, Ser Raymun. We will talk more then.”
He galloped away, off to take his place next to his Good Brother, on the opposite side of Ser Duncan and Prince Baelor Targaryen.
The way Ser Humfrey Beesbury spoke- by referring to an after- did wonders for soothing Raymun’s nerves. There was a before the Trial of Seven, and there would be an after. Whether or not he believed in it himself, something for Raymun to look forward to gave him purpose. Courage.
He could only hope you would not be too displeased with him.
Ser Lyonel came over a moment later, and halted his black steed with ease. He meant to ride at Raymun’s side, then. It seemed the honors- and horrors- were to exist in equal measure that day.
Michael Morrigen stepped forward, coming up from the horses’ flanks to stand between the two of them. In one hand, he held the golden antlered helm of the Laughing Storm, in the other, he held a tourney lance. Prince Baelor had advised them all to use one, though Raymun could not help but think that their opponents’ heavy war lances were far more formidable.
Ser Lyonel raised a curious brow in his direction. “Are you ready?”
“Not at all, My Lord.”
“Good,” Ser Lyonel replied, his smile disappearing beneath the helm as he lowered it over his head. “Arrogant men get themselves killed first. Perhaps I shall pass you on the second charge then, eh?”
Raymun swallowed thickly.
Michael reappeared, though this time, he looked up at Raymun. “Ser?”
Raymun took the helm first Steely Pate had sold to him first, and tugged it down securely over his head. As the metal encased his skull, his breathing echoed in his ears. As he grabbed the tourney lance next, he thanked Michael, but the squire lingered.
“Do your best to survive, Ser,” Michael requested in a hushed voice, so as not to be overheard by his master. “It will be a long journey back to Storm’s End if you perish.”
Though a part of him feared it was a mistake, Raymun could not bring himself to seek you out in the crowd. He had seen where you had taken your seat, and he needed only to have looked up.
But he simply couldn’t. If he saw anger, disappointment, or perhaps worse of all- apathy- within your beautiful face, he knew all the courage he had since mustered would vanish.
Raymun lowered the visor of the helm over his eyes. His left hand tightened on Crispin’s reins, and the other gripped the tourney lance in a vice.
“The realm is in greater need of you now than I, Squire Raymun,” you had said to him. “It’d be best not to keep her waiting.”
Your words drowned out his echoey breaths, and he clung to them with fervor.
The horn bellowed, the horses charged forward.
And the Trial of Seven commenced.
…
…
…
At long last, summer had finally returned to the reach.
The change in season brought more than just longer days and simmering heat. Additional labor was brought on to help with the abundance of harvest. But the changes were not limited to out in the orchards. Major shifts had also made their way to the inner workings of Cider Hall. And for better, or for worse, Raymun Fossoway knew his life would never be the same again.
Though inarguably past the age of childhood, though perhaps not quite yet a man fully grown, Raymun had found himself in an awkward in-between stage of life. As the only son of a second son, it had yet to be established what role he would play for House Fossoway, and as a result, he often considered himself to be without much purpose or direction. Thankfully, the awkwardness was somewhat alleviated when he began his squiredom for his elder cousin and heir to Cider Hall, Steffon Fossoway.
Steffon hadn’t been particularly kind to Raymun during their youth. He’d had little need of Raymun then, having had other friends of his own age. In hindsight, Raymun could understand Steffon’s reluctance to have a younger kinsman tagging along with him wherever he went. But even after Raymun had grown a bit, and found himself able to do most things the other boys could- riding, hawking, swimming in the Mander- Steffon had still shown very little interest in him.
Thus, it quickly became apparent that it had not been Steffon’s decision to take Raymun as his squire. Rather, the arrangement had been made between their fathers, both of whom had been very adamant. Perhaps Raymun’s uncle and father hoped the pact would foster a closer relationship between their sons. Or perhaps it was merely an easy means to keep the minor branch of the Fossoway tree in line. Whatever the true purpose, neither Steffon nor Raymun had been too keen on the idea. Steffon had ultimately agreed so as not to incur his father’s wrath. Raymun had simply hoped to appease his own sire with his compliance.
For many months, Steffon drilled him mercilessly. Raymun had managed to pick up a few beneficial tidbits of knowledge regarding horsemanship, archery, and basic swordsmanship. However, more often than not, most of Steffon’s lessons felt more akin to games of torment, the severity of which was only exaggerated under the bright, gleaming sun.
Despite Steffon’s relentlessness, being his squire gave Raymun his first sense of true purpose. There was certainly no shame to be had in being knighted- someday, that was. And Raymun would have contented himself to such a life, serving his uncle, cousin, and House Fossoway in the best way he could. If the duty he owed his house meant a chance that he would likely never take a wife, never have children of his own, he would have found a way to be at peace with his lot.
It was not until he’d been ensnared in the clutches of young love that Raymun dared to hope for more.
The changes within Cider Hall had also brought new faces to its halls. Among them was a girl Raymun’s age, who’d been brought to Cider Hall as a new companion for his other cousin, Steffon’s sister Selyse.
The girl and his cousin Selyse had been watching Raymun and Steffon spar in the training yard on one particularly hot and dreary afternoon. Steffon had once again managed to disarm Raymun- as he so often did- before kicking him down to the ground.
As Steffon trudged away to wash up before supper, the girl had left Selyse’s side, and crossed the training yard to hand him his sword. Raymun had squinted his eyes, barely able to register her face with the blinding sun.
Her name was Delena, and she was the fourth daughter of Lord Mullendore of the Uplands. House Fossoway, though of lesser renown than some other houses in the Reach, offered Lord Mullendore’s daughter more opportunity than her own. Even if Delena was unable to find a suitable match for herself, her brief absence from her home helped lift the burden placed upon her father. Lord Mullendore would be able to focus on securing marriage matches for his three older daughters first.
Once the acquaintance between Delena and Raymun had been made, a companionship was soon to follow. And in turn, the companionship then bloomed into something more.
Lingering glances in the training yard, or hovering in one another’s presence for longer than what was deemed necessary. Warm, though objectively improper, hushed conversations in the sparse halls as the heat of day gave way to a barely cooler night.
By midsummer, Raymun had been completely swept away with infatuation. Emotionally charged words had been hastily professed and exchanged, and intimate boundaries had been crossed. Perhaps Raymun ought to have known better, but he’d had no doubts about the seriousness of his feelings. If anyone were to discover the depth of the true depth of their affection- before the proper measures could be taken- the pair would be doomed. Unfortunately, Delena more so than he.
But Rayumun had a plan.
…
“Once Steffon knights me, I can go anywhere.”
The two sat on a patch of soft grass, deep enough into the orchard so as not to be discovered by either happenstance or intent. The moon illuminated the night sky, the stars were remarkably bright. The moment was terribly picturesque.
Delena turned to him with a curious look. “Where will you go?”
Raymun contemplated this for a moment. “To whichever lord will have me, I suppose. My uncle says one can never have enough household guards. I reckon someone like Lord Hightower, Lord Florent, or even Lord Redwyne will be of the same mind.”
“You would be away from Cider Hall for some time,” Delena reminded him, looking as though she dreaded the very thought.
“Earning coin,” Raymun clarified, though not without sympathy for her plight. “Earning coin for us. I cannot live in Steffon’s shadow forever. Nor would I ask you to continue to serve Selyse- not unless you wanted to. It would only be for a few years. And we won’t need much, just enough for a house, and a small bit of land we can farm, maybe.”
Perhaps he’d only a year or two, if Raymun continued to work as he had been. Before dawn, and well after lessons with Steffon had ended for the day, Raymun worked with the stable hands to care for the horses. Even in childhood, he’d always particularly enjoyed them. Though Steffon looked down his nose at him for it, Raymun’s uncle had been less particular about who did the work- so long as the work was done. Raymun had been paid for his effort, too, a small amount though it was.
Hoping to lighten the mood, Raymun added, “My father likes to say that good things come to those who wait.”
Delena’s concern melted into a soft smile. “A lifetime with you is certainly well worth the wait.”
…
Deep in the throes of young love, it had not occurred to Raymun to take the words from Delena’s mouth as being anything other than the truth, spoken from the heart.
…
Steffon was late to their morning training session in the yard.
Again.
The tardiness had been a habit of his as of late. And while Raymun was more than happy to bide his time- lest he had to suffer Steffon’s presence for any longer than what was truly necessary- that particular day was an exception. During supper the previous evening, Steffon’s father had made a point of announcing his intention to swing by the training yard the following morning. He wished to see for himself how far Raymun’s training had come- and how efficient of a teacher his son had proved to be thus far.
Raymun pounded on the door to Steffon’s bedchamber, the sense of urgency to beat his uncle's arrival to the yard outweighing his fear of inciting Steffon’s anger.
After a pause, he heard his cousin’s groggy and muffled grumbling from the other side of the door.
“Steffon, you best make haste!” Raymun hollered through the wood, beating his fist against the door one last time for good measure. “Your father will wring both of our necks if we aren’t already out in the yard when he arrives!”
For Seven’s sake, the sun had already been up for some time. Not to mention, it was late enough in the morning that Raymun’s uncle would have already seen to any urgent matters, and would have begun his typical stroll of the grounds.
The door sprung open. Steffon stood just on the other side of it, frowning deeply with deploy furrowed eyebrows. He was only half dressed, with a lone hand on the waist of his pants to keep them from falling down his hips.
“What’s gotten your knickers in a twist, Raymun?”
“Have you forgotten that your father is to stop by the training yard this morning?”
“No, I have not forgotten. However, I had a particularly long night, and my head is pounding something fierce. So, should you pound on my door one more time, know that I will snap your wrist- and break your hand.”
A long night? Raymun knew Steffon carried on all sorts of sordid affairs, with some being more ill advised than others. But Steffon typically had the better sense to be more secretive about them.
“Listen,” Raymun said, lowering his voice, opting to ignore Steffon’s threat, as he often did. “I’ll be on my way to the yard now. If your father shows up, I’ll keep him distracted. I’ll tell him you were helping Selyse with a favor, or something else of the like. That should give you enough time for your lady friend to return to where she ought to be.”
Steffon considered his offer. “A solid plan- if Selyse has not begun to look for my lady friend already.”
“What?” Raymun sputtered, doing a double take. “What do you mean by that?”
With a shit eating grin, Steffon stood tall, and used his spare hand to push open the door further. As more of his cousin’s bedchamber was revealed, and against his better judgment, Raymun’s eyes darted inside.
“Steffon? What is it? … Oh.”
Delena fell silent as her eyes settled on Raymun. Hair tussled, she hastily lifted a sheet over herself in a needless desire for modesty. It was nothing Raymun had not already seen before.
He just hadn’t known Steffon had had the privilege, too.
Raymun blinked dumbly a few times, his brain slow to catch up to his heart, which had already begun to process the betrayal before him.
“Rotten luck, dear Cousin,” Steffon sneered at him, smugness seeping from every inch of him. “But you know the ladyfolk these days. Finicky, always seeking out the best of men. Not that I blame the girl, mind you. Why settle for an apple of the minor branch, when you can have the heir to Cider Hall instead?”
Raymun said nothing. Anger and embarrassment fought for control over him, and in the end, neither were able to get the edge. He merely stood there, incapable of speech. Unable to act.
“Go on to the training yard, Raymun,” Steffon suggested then, moving to close the door. “I’ll be along in a little while.”
Before the door slammed in his face, he thought he might have seen a shameful look flash across Delena’s face.
But perhaps it was only his imagination.
…
In the end, embarrassment won out.
Raymun could scarcely think without feeling ill. Just how long had the dalliance between Delena and Steffon transpired before Steffon had enlightened him? All those days, watching Raymun train in the courtyard- did Delena’s eyes ever drift to Steffon instead?
And Steffon- Steffon. Perhaps that betrayal cut him a bit deeper, for it had been dipped in truth. Steffon had been right. What lady would want the likes of Raymun, when they could have someone of Steffon’s ilk instead?
Raymun did not know whether Delena had ever had any intention of waiting for him to secure a future for the two of them. Nor did he know whether her affair with Steffon continued. But he ceased to care about either.
And though he was gravely tempted, his duty to Steffon, and a stubborn sense of honor towards Delena, compelled Raymun not to breathe a word of the matter to anyone.
…
Delena had been trying to corner him. Raymun refused to speak with her, and had been able to find something convenient- or a blatant lie- to use as a means of escape. For several months, he was successful.
But one morning- when Steffon had been late to their morning training session yet again- he happened upon Delena lurking in the corridor leading to Steffon’s bedchamber. On such short notice, and with no one else present, Raymun’s only option was to turn and flee.
Which, Raymun would easily admit, he attempted to do.
“Raymun, wait!”
He pretended not to hear her as he turned on his heels.
“You must speak with Steffon on my behalf!”
Raymun rolled his eyes, but he did not look over his shoulder. “Oh, must I?”
“Raymun… Please.”
It was only the solemness of her tone that halted Raymun in his tracks. For a few moments, he battled within himself as he deliberated his next course of action. Though he suspected he would come to regret it, ultimately, he caved, and slowly turned to face her.
Delena sounded distraught, and very much looked it too. Unshed tears lingered in the eyes that used to regard him with such warmth. Now, they were wild, desperate. “I am with child, Raymun.”
The word slipped from his mouth before he could think better of it. “Congratulations.”
“Steffon refuses to speak with me,” Delena added, either unphased by his response, or driven to proceed in spite of it. “He does not believe the babe is his.”
“Is it?”
Delena shot him the same look of shame he thought he had seen when he had caught her red handed, laid bare in Steffon’s bed a few months prior.
“You have every reason to loathe me, Raymun. I do not blame you for what you must think of me, I know that what I have done is unforgivable… But, for what it’s worth, I had every intention of waiting to see what you made of this life. What sort of life we might have made together.”
Raymun did not know what to make of Delena’s claim. He was not certain he dared to believe it.
“But I had run out of time, and waiting was a luxury I could no longer afford. My father had begun talks to marry me off to some Florent, and I had to act quickly,” she admitted meekly, wringing her hands. “When Steffon showed interest in me, when he began to pursue me, I chose to let him.”
It was news to Raymun that Steffon had - allegedly- chosen to court Delena first. Still, it was news Raymun had been content with never unearthing.
“I would have been the Lady of Cider Hall. It may not have been ideal, but Steffon would have lost interest in me eventually, perhaps taken a lover or two. He would have been so enamored with his own affairs, I doubted he’d notice if I had taken to one of my own.”
It felt like being doused with cold water, the realization that Delena had known him even less than Raymun had believed. He would have once sacrificed a great deal for a life with her. Having to share with the woman he loved with his older cousin had never been among those sacrifices. Her musing also showed how little Delena knew Steffon, too. Whether Steffon loved Delena or not, he would have never tolerated sharing his wife with another man, least of all the younger cousin he thought so poorly of.
Raymun did not acknowledge her suggestion. “So the babe is Steffon’s, then?
“Yes. No matter how much I may wish it to be otherwise.”
He could not begin to consider the implication lingering beyond her words.
Instead, he could only do something he hoped he would not live to regret.
“I will speak with him.”
…
Of course, Steffon did not wish to speak with Raymun either.
“I’m not saying the babe isn’t mine. I’m saying that the babe cannot be,” Steffon clarified, choosing his words carefully. “Do you understand? Could you imagine just how cross my father would be? He has a better marriage match for me in mind than some minor lord’s fourth daughter.”
Despite the anger, the way Steffon spoke of the woman Raymun had once loved disgusted him.
He could scarcely believe his ears. “What about her? Her family will disown her, Steffon. The mother of your child will be out on the street! How will you sleep at night, knowing what she may be forced to do just to survive? To keep your child fed?”
“I know this is a sensitive subject for you, Raymun,” Steffon acknowledged, though his considerate front masked something more sinister. “But Lady Delena has made her bed, and now she must lie in it. I gave strict instructions for her to be provided with moon tea. If she did not have the good sense to drink it, the consequences are hers alone to bear.”
…
Delena was pacing the corridor by the time Raymun finally returned. When she noticed his approach, she gave him a hopeful look that made his chest ache.
“Would Steffon speak with you?” she asked. “Did you convince him to see reason?”
Raymun sighed and bit the inside of his cheek. “He will not claim the babe, Delena… Nor will he marry you.”
Her face fell. Something clenched Raymun’s heart in a painful grasp. It became tedious to breathe.
“I understand.”
“Steffon will not claim the babe, but he does not mean to leave you entirely without support.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, Raymun?”
Raymun withdrew the pouch of coins from his pocket. It did not amount to much, but it was still a considerable amount. Blood, sweat, and even a few tears had earned him the coin. It was all the savings he had managed to accumulate from his work in the stables.
It was all the coin he had meant to save for a future together, a future they were never meant to have.
“Steffon asked me to give this to you,” Raymun lied, with much greater ease than he would have ever thought possible. “It is not much, but it should be enough to pay your way to Oldtown, with some left to help until you are settled there.”
Raymun had heard cities tended to have better opportunities for unmarried women in her condition. Whatever awaited her in Oldtown, or wherever she chose to venture next, he hoped she would find a better life than the public shame that awaited her if she did not depart.
Delena took the pouch of coins, opened it slowly, and thoughtfully looked over its contents. “I had held out hope for a betrothal, even still. But if this coin has truly come from Steffon, then it is a great kindness from him nonetheless.”
If only you knew.
Delena stepped forward so fast, Raymun flinched when she pressed a kiss to his cheek. The action that once made his heart flutter left him feeling like death itself had made a home amongst his ribs.
“Thank you, Raymun. I will not forget this, nor will I forget you.”
With as much swiftness as she had once appeared, Lady Delena Mullendore slipped by him, and fled from his life.
Before Raymun could decide what to do next, another voice spoke aloud in the corridor.
“What sort of trouble have you found yourself in now, Raymun?”
Raymun’s breath caught, and he jumped in his place. “How long have you been there?”
His mother, the Lady Rosamund Fossoway, born Oakheart, stepped out from the shadows and fully into the candlelit corridor. A small and slight woman, though with a personality strong enough to more than make up for it, his mother had a knack for going undetected. In another life, one where she married a man in a higher societal standing than Raymun’s father, she might have been able to put her gift to better use than to simply collect the whispers about Cider Hall.
As his mother approached him, there was a sympathetic look in the dark brown eyes that matched his own. “Long enough to know that the blame does not truly lie with you. Enough to know that Steffon would not have given that poor girl a single copper.”
Raymun did not dispute her claim.
“I was aware you had acquired a certain fondness for the girl,” his mother confessed, taking him by surprise. “Though I must admit, I did not know the depths of which your affection ran.”
Raymun scratched idly at the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. Of all the topics that he felt he could discuss with his mother at ease, romantic affairs- particularly those that ended rather abysmally- were not among them.
Blessedly, his mother did not press him. “Why did you give her your own coin, Raymun? And why did you not tell her the truth of its origin?”
Her tone was more probative than demanding. She sought to understand his reasoning, not berate him for his decision.
“She needed help, but she did not want it from me. And, as you’ve said, Steffon refused to help her.”
His mother tilted her head thoughtfully. “You are better kin than Steffon deserves.”
“For all the good it does me,” Raymun replied gruffly, his eyes falling to the carpet beneath his feet as the recollection of shame and embarrassment threatened to wash over him again. “Don’t worry, mother. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“Never say that,” his mother pleaded, her voice gentler now. “Do you believe all are fated to be wed to the first one we pledge our hearts to? Why, if that were true, I’d be married to a Redwyne. And you- you might not be standing here at all. And I loathe the thought of a world where you are not in it, my kind boy.”
Raymun finally met her eyes once again, finding the look within them to be most sincere.
“There will be another, Raymun. Several, perhaps. You can trust them, and they will return your affection without expecting a single thing in return. But you cannot give up on them before you even make their acquaintance.”
Though his heart still ached, her words gave him as much possible comfort as he could have expected.
“Take the time you need to lick your wounds and mend your heart,” his mother advised him. “But do not reject love when it calls to you again, for it will find you. Steffon may have gold, and some day, a keep of his own. But there are hundreds of other men just like him. The realm needs more men like you, Raymun. The realm needs young men who have what you are already so fortunate to possess.”
His brows furrowed. “What is that?”
She smiled softly. “A good heart.”
…
…
…
A/N: Part 8 should be up on Thursday 7/9. Thank you for reading! (and as always, please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist)
Book Corlys would never have spoken of Rhaenyra’s oldest sons that way, but ALSO and more importantly SEASON ONE Corlys would have never spoken of them that way
“History does not remember blood. It remembers names.”
(And yes, I’m in total agreement that this quote is a perfect argument for why he wants his sons legitimized now. This post is strictly about how inconsistent it feels for him to say what he said, and HOW he said it, of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. But ALSO his sons’ legitimization is such a non-issue in the book, Rhaenyra agrees to it with Jace’s persuasion.)
I’m not gonna understate how terrible it must be for him to have lost his wife and home. But I was hoping for a bit more consistency in characters across seasons. The amount of time show-wise that has passed since he said that is a few months at most. Just seems a little off, you know?
And I don’t even blame show-Rhaenyra for not rushing to legitimize them, the reasons she gave made perfect sense. And she NEVER said that she wouldn’t legitimize them eventually, she just couldn’t have it be literally one of her first acts since reclaiming the throne.
Am I the only one gets disgusted when people call Rhaenyra's first three boys "Strong boys". This is mostly from TG supporters, and honestly it feels like a dehumanising tactic.
The boys are Velaryons, legally or Targaryens in every other matter.
I hate when ppl call Jacaerys ,Lucerys and Joffrey ' strong boys' . The boys are Velaryon ,their surname is Velaryon ,they will be remembered as Velaryon and dragonriders.
Ppl also alway act like Laenor is not a part in this . Laenor litterally legitimate the boys at their birth within his marriage with Rhaenyra. He claimed them as trueborn sons. They had the back up of King Viserys i , Daemon , Laenor , Corlys ,Rhaenys and House Velaryon . Even consiously the suport of Aegon ii as he offered terms to Rhaenyra where he would regonize Lucerys as the true heir of Driftmark
house of the dragon season 3 episode 2 spoiler below
Aemond stabbing an old (book canon) and unarmed man in such a sneaky manner is giving the same energy as when he punched Baela when they were children AND when he used his gigantic dragon to hunt down and kill Lucerys and Arrax
the dude just seems entirely incapable of picking a fair fight, despite holding himself in such high esteem. so is it a subconscious fear of losing, or something else?
maybe if he had actually challenged himself when it mattered, the bad thing that happens to him when he faces you-know-who wouldn’t have actually happened🤷🏼♀️
life has been life’ing again and I won’t have the next chapter of ours is the honor ready as soon as I would have liked. Part 7 is over 7,000 words at the moment, but I still have some ways to go.
I’m thinking of cleaning up some sections that don’t need too much editing to post a preview snippet or two to prove that I AM working on it, it’s just coming a bit slower this time🥲
But I’m excited to eventually share what I’ve cooked up so far. If you’ve stuck around this long, I appreciate your patience with me🖤
13,000 words and counting, including some touchy feely flashback scenes that are probably cheesy af but i also feel are needed to break up the utter gore of the trial😅
