KEEP ME COMPANY— VALARR X READER (part 2)
tags: everybody is a dork, especially Valarr (he giggles a lot), fluff (for now), the boys take care of reader (kinda), six seven joke, reader gets hit on, mischaracterization of Valarr, egg is adorable.
warnings: reader has a nightmare, mentions of starvation, reader has her period, blood, mentions of blood stains, aerion.
wc: 12k (?)
A/N: I had so much fun writing this part I hope u all enjoy !!! :D
You've seen this before, you know where you are. The stench of the Flea Bottom slums is the first thing you notice. Rotting fish, trash, and the unbearable heat. Then, you see it. The little corner shop you would steal those bruised apples from when you were able to feel your ribs. It never made sense why it was bad to steal when you needed to, you wanted to survive.
No, not this time.
Your boots scrape against the cobbled floor as you turn, retreating into the dark alleyway. The darkness covers you but offers no sense of safety.
Crunch.
A sudden sound is heard throughout the narrow passage. Your instincts are screaming at you to drop into a defensive stance, but when your muscles try to shift, you cannot answer to them.
"You there! Little thief, you stole from us didn't ya?" The voice is raspy-you've heard it before. You know the outcome.
You can’t move, you hear them coming towards you. It's not just one, it's two, it's three- its multiple, all with the same voice. The shadows stretch and continue multiplying. You know the outcome.
You try to run away, to move, to do something to defend yourself. You can't, you try to speak but nothing comes out- Why do you keep fighting back? You know the outcome.
"Not gonna run away? Well you little cunt, ready for your punishment then?" A cruel snicker echoes. You feel crowded- there are footsteps coming from behind you. But you know the outcome.
But why? I just wanted food! I'm hungry, I'm so hungry.
You strain your eyes, desperately trying to lock onto a face but their faces are terrifyingly distorted, smudged like wet charcoal, features melting into the blackness. A wicked laugh cuts through the dark and when they come closer to view there are no faces.
There is no one there.
A ragged, trembling breath escapes your lips, turning to mist in the moonlight. You aren't trapped in a dark alley. You are flat on your back, staring straight up at a vast, indifferent sky stitched with a brilliant tapestry of stars. The silver glow of the moon watches over you, quiet and still. Fumes of fire dancing along with the stars.
It was a memory. A phantom. There is nothing there.
You are safe.
But you are not safe from the discomfort in your abdomen.
The morning sun has barely cleared the tree line, but your camp is already filled with a chaotic energy. You sit on a low log by the fire Duncan had set up, your arms wrapped tightly around your stomach as a sharp, familiar cramp twists deep in your belly. Your face is pale, subdued by the dull, exhausting ache of your monthly bleeding.
The little boy you learned to be named Egg- furiously polishes Dunk's shield with a piece of oil soaked rag, his brow furrowed in concentration, while Dunk paces back and forth near the horses, checking the leather straps of Sweetfoot's saddle for the fourth time.
Dunk stops his pacing and looks over at you, his massive face clouding with concern as he notices your slumped posture. "Hey.” he greets, stepping over a huge rock. "You haven't gotten up- are you alright?”
"I'm fine, Duncan," you mutter into your knees, your voice tight as another wave of pressure squeezes your abdomen. You shift slightly on the hard log, wishing desperately for a hot stone wrapped in cloth or a cup of boiled tea.
“Oh.” He acknowledges, already knowing.
Egg looks up from the shield, his sharp, pale eyes darting between your pale face and your hunched back. He sets the rag down, his voice softening just a fraction. "Are you well? You look like you’ve eaten something rotten.”
"I said I'm fine," you snap weakly, though the bite is entirely missing from your voice. You squeeze your eyes shut, leaning forward to press your forearms harder against your stomach, waiting for the cramp to pass.
“I’ll go get some more firewood.” Egg says, dropping the shield as well.
Dunk is knelt by his pack, calmly sorting through a stack of old rags. Having known you this long, he doesn't blink an eye at this. He knows the signs. He simply picks out a few clean strips of soft, thick linen, sets them aside for you, and looks up with a quiet nod.
"I had a dream last night." You say, "I was in Flea Bottom, it was a memory in a way. I keep having the same dream over and over." The snaps of branches are heard. "I don't know why I keep having them."
"What was it about?"
A sharp twinge of pain shoots through your arse. "Ow!" you hiss. "It was nothing—I was just stealing again."
"I'll boil some water for willow bark tea," Dunk says softly. His deep, rustic voice is unusually gentle as he looks down at you. "You just sit tight."
"Thank you, Duncan," you mutter, curling yourself into a tight ball on the bedroll. "They’re never usually this bad... right?"
He offers a small, reassuring smile, but then his hand goes up to his brow. "Oh... is it showing?" Duncan asks, tapping the spot where he’d cracked his head twice against the low beams.
You shake your head, wincing slightly at the movement. "No. And I'm praying to the Seven it doesn’t."
"Good. I was worried Lyonel Baratheon was staring at it, but I forgot to ask you last night."
You shrug, shifting to find a comfortable spot. "Well, it’s not there. Since when is the Laughing Storm a friend of yours, anyway?"
"He's not," Dunk says quickly, turning to fetch the water skin. "We just spoke all night, is all."
"I saw that. About what?"
Duncan grips the handle of the container, suddenly very intent on measuring out the water. "Nothing. Just... regular talk. About what it takes to be a proper knight."
You give a slow nod, watching him. "I see."
Suddenly Egg bursts into the clearing, carrying a bundle of wood. He stops dead in his tracks, you notice his eyes locking onto the log where you sat. A small smear of dark red blood has stained the side of your coarse grey skirt.
The firewood clatters to the dirt. Egg’s face drains of all color, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight as his jaw drops in pure terror.
"She's bleeding!" Egg shrieks, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, hysterical wail. He frantically lunges forward, his hands flailing in the air as he panics. "Duncan! Ser! Look! She’s dying! Someone witched her! There's blood everywhere—she's going to bleed to death in the dirt!"
You let out a heavy, miserable sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as the boy’s screaming makes your head throb. "Oh, Egg, shut up. I'm not dying, you little turnip."
"But the blood!" Egg hovers over you, his chest heaving as he looks around frantically for a bandage, a genuine panic welling in his eyes. "You're bleeding from your skirt! Who did this? Did you get stabbed? Duncan, why are you just standing there? Fix her! Do something!"
Dunk slowly stands up to his full six, maybe seven foot height, looking down at the hysterical little boy with a look of pure, unbothered expression. He reaches out, clapping a massive, heavy hand onto Egg’s small shoulder to anchor him.
"Calm down," Duncan grumbles, shaking his head. "She ain't stabbed, and she ain't dying. It’s just... well, it’s just what women do. Every moon." He shrugs. "It's normal."
Egg blinks up at Duncan, his hysteria suddenly grinding to a screeching, utterly halt. He looks from Duncan’s completely calm face back to your thoroughly annoyed one. "What do you mean, what women do? They bleed? On purpose?"
"We do NOT bleed on purpose..." you mumble with an annoyed tone, though a faint, amused smirk cracks through your lips. "It just happens. Now go away before I use my remaining strength to throw my boot at your bald head."
Duncan slowly shakes his head, his massive hand remaining heavy on Egg’s shoulder. He looks down at the bewildered bald boy, his honest face settling into a firm, teaching expression.
"Well now," Dunk says, his rustic voice carrying a sudden weight. "Since you're a squire, and you're so keen on helping... this is part of the training. Ser Arlan always said a good squire takes care of everyone, not just the knight.”
Egg blinks up at him, a sudden look of dread replacing his panic. "Training? Doing what?"
Duncan points a massive, calloused finger toward the wooden bucket by the wash basin, then at the pile of clean linens he had just set aside. "You’re going to take the water bucket down to the stream. Scrub out any stained parts of her skirt. Hey- look at me. When you come back keep the water boiled for her tea as I look around for some willow, and make sure she has whatever she needs without making a fuss. A knight protects the weak, Egg, and right now, she’s hurting. We need to look after her."
Egg’s mouth drops open. He looks at the bucket, then at your thoroughly amused face. The small boy just sighs.
"But—but ser!" Egg protests, his cheeks flushing a bright, embarrassed red. "I'm supposed to be learning how to polish armor and tend the horses! Not... not this!"
"Armor don't mean a thing if you don't have a chivalrous heart," Dunk grumbles, giving the boy a gentle but unyielding shove toward the bucket. "Even I know that. Go on. Go fetch the water, and don't let me hear another peep out of ya."
You lean back against the log, letting out a sharp, satisfied laugh that makes your stomach cramp just a little less. Though you feel blood rush down as you do. "You heard him, Egg. Well? Get on with it! And make sure to scrub out any sort of stain or I'll tell Duncan you flunked your lesson."
Egg lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh, muttering curses under his breath as his small hands reluctantly grip the handle of the wooden bucket and he trudges down toward the stream.
The mud of Ashford meadow clings to your boots, a gentle reminder of the damp morning air. You and Egg weave through the slow crowds, the smell of horse manure and smoke in the air.
"My stomach is doing flips," you mutter, pressing a palm flat against your abdomen to steady the stubborn, throbbing ache that’s been nagging at you since dawn. "I might actually throw up."
"Please do not," Egg says, kicking a loose stone with his toe. He looks up at you, his large eyes remarkably clear for how early it is. "Maybe you should go back?"
"I do not need to go back," you scoff, adjusting your skirt. Though you stop in your tracks when the two of you are behind a large baggage wagon. Glancing around nervously to check if anyone is looking. You bend down towards him as your voice drops in an urgent whisper. "But- are there... stains again? On my behind?"
Egg blinks, looking baffled for a split second before his eyes widen in realization. He quickly ducks around your side, inspecting the back of your grey fabrics.
"No, my lady," Egg replies, his voice dropping into that formal, slightly stiff tone he uses whenever he's trying to sound proper. "But I do believe a darker skirt would be best."
"Do not call me 'my lady,'" you hiss under your breath, swatting lightly at his shoulder. "There is no need to call me that."
Egg rubs his arm, though you barely tapped him, and shuffles his boots in the muck. "Right. Im sorry. But... I still believe a darker skirt would hide a stain better."
You let out a sharp, exasperated breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as another heavy cramp rolls through your belly. "A darker skirt? And where am I supposed to find one of those, Egg? Should I go ask about for any spare dye?"
"Well, no," Egg says, looking a bit sheepish as he glances at the sprawling camp around you. "But there’s a mercer's tent near the main gate. I saw some dark blue wool when we came in. We could… well, we don't have the coppers for it, but maybe I could talk him down?"
"With what? " You let out a weak huff, "Dunk needs every coin he has just to enter the lists and keep the horses fed. I am not letting you spend our supper on a piece of cloth."
Egg frowns, stepping a little closer so his small frame blocks you from the view of a couple of passing women. "I wouldn't use Dunk’s coin. Use your own. And besides, you look like you're about to double over. If you ruin that skirt, you won't have anything to wear, and then people will notice."
You look down at the boy, your irritation softening just a fraction at the genuine worry in his eyes. "You're entirely too practical for a boy your age, you know that- and I cannot spend my stags on something I do not need."
Before Egg can reply, Duncan's massive frame looms in the corner of your eye ahead, his face a mask of exhaustion and disappointment.
Egg quickens his stride, his small boots hurrying to catch up to your pace. "This is undignified, Ser."
"So hie back to camp and leave me be, if it pleases you," Dunk grunts.
"I’m not leaving you," you say, matching Dunk's long strides. "Not while you have to suffer ser Arlan dying over and over again in their courts. Though it seems they aren't even listening to you anyway."
"Nothing we can do about that," Dunk mutters, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
"But you’re a knight of the realm!" Egg spins on his heel to face him, walking backward now, his chest tight with sudden fury. "You can say fuck their permission. Ride right into the lists, call out that bastard Leo Tyrell, and turn his arsehole into a lance hole!"
You nod fiercely, a wild grin breaking out across your face. "I think that's exactly what should be done!"
Duncan stops in his tracks. He looks down at you, then at Egg, his massive shoulders dropping with a heavy sigh. "That's enough now. Both of you."
"Why do we treat these royal lapdogs like they're our betters anyway?" you ask, the thought tasting bitter on your tongue. "We all bleed the same red, don't we? Why is life different just because they have a lordly name?"
"Exactly," Egg chimes in, his eyes bright and dangerous. "They're just—"
"They are our betters," Dunk barks.
His voice drops into a low, genuine rumble that instantly cuts you both dead silent. He steps closer, towering over the pair of you.
"You are brazen for your own good, the both of you," Dunk says, his eyes fixing onto yours with a stern, heavy weight. "Ser Arlan was a great knight—you know that. Someone will remember him. They have to."
A light fog casts pale shadows across the dew kisses grass as you and Dunk made your way over the stone bridge, with Egg walking alongside. Dunk moved beside you, his massive hands holding tightly to the reins of old Chestnut, your steady but weary destrier.
Suddenly, a sharp, brazen fanfare from a horn shattered the quiet morning. You all froze, turning back to look. Near the edge of the tourney grounds, two men stood with their cheeks puffed out, blowing hard into long brass horns.
Dunk craned his neck, looking around until his eyes landed on a nearby onlooker. "Who's come?" he asked, his deep voice carrying over the noise.
The man turned, sneering up at Dunk’s massive size. "Can't you see the banners, you giant cunt?"
You bit your lip, forcing your gaze downward to try and stifle a laugh, but the humor vanished the moment the riders came into view. Two men on horseback trotted past, holding high the black-and-red flags of House Targaryen. Behind them, a massive retinue of knights and lords rode across the opposite bridge.
Egg looked up at the two of you, his eyes wide. He shifted uncomfortably, then looked back toward the bridge "I should go back to camp," he suggested quietly. "Make sure there's no thieves nosing about."
You nodded your head in agreement, and Dunk grunted, "Aye, I have an idea."
Egg took hold of Chestnut's reins, looking up at you and Dunk with an eager, hopeful expression. "Can I have a sword to run people off with? Or a mace?"
You opened your mouth to say something, but Dunk cut you off instantly. "You have a knife. That's enough," he told the boy firmly. Then, leaning down slightly, he leveled a stern look at him. "You'd best be out here when we come back. Rob us and I'll hunt you down, with dogs."
You raised a brow, shooting Dunk a skeptical look. "We don't even have dogs."
Dunk glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. "Hush! I'll find some."
"And where?" Egg asked, sounding entirely unimpressed.
Instead of answering, Dunk suddenly let out a sharp, booming bark. Both you and Egg flinched, stepping back in surprise at the sheer loudness of it. Satisfied with himself, Dunk gave a nod, and Egg rolled his eyes, turning Chestnut around to head back to camp.
With the boy gone, you and Dunk pressed closer to the crowd to watch the Targaryens arrive. The procession was grand and seemingly endless, winding its way all the way up to the gates of Ashford Castle. You both watched from the edge of the path, caught up in the sheer spectacle of royalty.
The Ashford herald stepped forward, puffing out his chest as he greeted the vanguard. "Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and Heir to the Iron Throne!" The herald paused, clearing his throat awkwardly before adding in a noticeably flatter tone, "Uh... and his brother, Maekar."
Further up the line, a rich, commanding voice spoke over the murmur of the crowd. "My Lord of Ashford," the man said.
Between the distance and the sudden shifting of the crowd, you weren't much able to hear anything else. Dunk leaned his heavy shoulder against yours, straining his neck. "What'd he say?" he asked.
"He's just returning the pleasantries," you replied, rubbing your arms against the morning chill.
Suddenly, a younger Targaryen prince interrupted the two of you, his sharp, arrogant voice cutting right through your hushed conversation as he stepped into your path.
“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse,” He commands, his voice sharp.
Dunk stiffens, the brush freezing in his hand. He draws himself up to his full, towering height, a giant in the morning mist, and lets the reins fall. “I’m not a stable boy, m’lord. I have the honor to be a knight.”
Aerion pauses, his hand hovering in the cool air. Slowly, his gaze tracks up Dunk’s massive frame until he finally meets his eyes. A slow, mocking sneer curls the prince's lips, casting a dark shadow over his handsome features. His eyes slide away from Dunk, locking onto you.
“Oh, well… knighthood has fallen on sad days,” Aerion draws out the words, his breath misting faintly. He tilts his head, inspecting your ruffled clothes and the pale, tired look on your face. “Who’s this? A whore?”
The insult hits like a dash of freezing water. Your vision narrows. You grit your teeth so hard your jaw aches, making the tension in your face feel rigid.
“I am no whore!” you snap, your voice ringing out sharply in the quiet dawn. You take a sudden, impulsive step forward, your temper flaring before you can stop it. “And if I—”
The rest of the sentence dies horribly in your throat. The icy realization of who you are talking to hits you like a physical blow. You force your mouth shut, your jaw tightening so hard it aches as you desperately reel your anger back in, leaving the rest of your challenge unfinished in the cold air.
Aerion doesn’t flinch. His eyes glitter with a cruel, amused satisfaction. He likes that he provoked a reaction so easily. He lets out a soft, tittering laugh that cuts right through you.
“That’s right—you’re no whore,” he concedes, stepping just close enough for you to smell the cloying, expensive sweet-scent on his velvet cloak. He tilts his head, his smile turning razor-sharp. “A whore expects payment for her services. You simply give your mouth away for free. No… you're just a common bitch.”
The word hangs in the cold air. Before you can draw breath to bite back, before Dunk can step between you, Aerion turns on his heel. His fine cloak swirls, cutting through the morning mist as he saunters away toward the royal pavilions, completely dismissing you.
"That's not—that was—"
The words choke in your throat, your breath coming in rapid, angry puffs. Your hands are shaking with fury. A few nearby squires, up early to tend their masters' armor, are staring and whispering, their chuckles echoing in the damp air.
You turn sharply, walking away from the stables, each step jarring the dull, stubborn ache in your abdomen. Dunk calls out your name, his heavy footsteps starting to follow, but you keep your head down and press forward into the crowd, ignoring him. Forcing your hands into tight fists so no one can see them shaking.
The morning had barely begun, and Ashford was already turning into a nightmare.
From the muddy thoroughfare, the tavern looked exactly like what it was: a temporary, ramshackle structure thrown up in a hurry to capitalize on the tourney crowds. It was a crude hybrid of a crumbling timber frame and heavy, greasy canvas extensions that sagged under the weight of weather. A freshly painted wooden sign hung crookedly above the door, creaking on rusted hinges, though the painted image of a leaping stag was already peeling from the damp air. Outside the front was a path of heavy boots, forcing patrons to pick their way across the path of waterlogged wooden planks and discarded ale crates.
By the time you reach the tavern, your jaw is stiff from clenching it. The owner is standing right outside the front doors, counting a stack of empty wooden buckets.
“Oi, you,” the owner greets, barely looking up. He doesn't notice the tight, frozen expression on your face. “The well ‘round here ain’t working. If we run out of water inside, you need to go to the well near the tourney grounds to get more.”
A dull weight sinks into your chest. That far? You don't argue or say a word. You just give a stiff, silent nod before getting to work.
Over the next few hours, the tavern quickly fills with thirsty smallfolk, noisy squires, and low-ranking men-at-arms. You move between the crowded trestle tables in a blur, wiping down spilled ale, carrying heavy wooden trenchers of salt beef, and ignoring the rowdy laughter ringing around the room. Every time a customer shouts for service or accidentally bumps into you, you just tighten your grip on your tray and keep moving, using the physical exhaustion to lock down the humiliation still burning in your gut.
By midday, the tavern’s water casks are bone dry. Keeping your eyes glued to the floorboards, you grab two heavy wooden buckets and slip out the back door.
The Ashford tourney grounds were a chaotic maze of brilliant silk tents, churned mud, and highborn lords. As you finally neared the crowded well, you spotted a man of undeniable high birth standing right beside the stone rim, framed by the heavy folds of a Targaryen banner. He was politely dismissing a groveling merchant when your sharp, annoyed voice interrupts.
"Mind your coat, or you’re going to be wearing that cider." You pointed a finger toward the sticky puddle of spilled drink glistening on the stone opening of the well.
He blinks, looking at you as you walk past him. He turns toward you.
The man straightens, a practiced smile slipping into a mask of polite condescension. "My apologies, my good woman. I did not see you."
"Clearly," you said, letting out a sharp scoff as you set your empty buckets down with a heavy, deliberate thud. You wiped your brow with a dirt-smudged sleeve, looking him up and down like he was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "You highborns love to stand right in the middle of the walkways like you own the dirt. Some of us actually have work to do while you lot prepare to poke each other with what? Sticks."
The guards nearby instantly stiffen, but he raises a calm hand to stay them.
"You forget yourself," the man says, his tone gentle. "If you were speaking to a Prince, some courtesy is customary."
"Courtesy doesn't scrub the mud out of a spare tunic, and it certainly won't carry this water," you shoot back, rolling your eyes. You lean against your hip. "If you want courtesy, go back inside your silk tent where everyone is paid to lie to you. Out here, you’re just a pair of fancy boots blocking a well."
A rare, genuine flash of amusement crosses his handsome face, breaking through his practiced courtly manner. He looks at you, genuinely startled by the sheer audacity of your tongue.
"I could have you thrown in the stocks for such insolence," he says quietly, stepping closer, intending to use his high poised posture to intimidate you.
Instead of shrinking, you lean in, a mocking grin touching your lips. "Go ahead. But then who's going to tell you that your crimson cape has a giant splatter of horse manure right on the hem? Must've happened when you were practicing being important."
He instantly glances down at his cloak, his flawless composure completely cracking as his eyes widen in horror, before he realizes you are just staring at him with a smug, triumphant look.
There is no manure. You just tricked him into looking like a fool in the front of his own guards.
"You..." The man breathes, a mixture of disbelief and a strange spark of washing over him.
"Have a nice tourney.” you say cheerily. You hoist the bucket back up, deliberately brushing past his shoulder, leaving a damp smudge on his pristine doublet as you walk past him.
When you finally set the sloshing buckets down inside the tavern kitchen, you are pale, sweating, and pressing a hand firmly against your stomach.
The owner looks up from his ledger, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your exhausted state, the dark circles under your eyes, and the way you're hunched over. He lets out a short sigh, waving a dismissive hand toward the door. "Go on, then. Get out of here. You look half-dead and you're slowing down. I can tell you don't feel well. Come back tomorrow."
You don't try to argue. You turn back, weaving through a dancing crowd. Stepping out into the fresh air, letting out a long, shaky breath.
With nowhere else to go, you wander back toward the edge of the marketplace, your boots dragging in the dirt. Through the haze of the afternoon heat, you spot two familiar figures sitting on a bench just outside an open-sided tent.
Dunk is hunched over, his long legs cramped under the low bench, taking a slow sip from a clay tankard. Beside him, Egg is slumped in his seat, his small chin resting in his hands, staring boredly ahead. They are both entirely focused on a rowdy game of tug-of-war happening in the muddy lane right in front of them, completely oblivious to the rest of the crowd.
Stepping quietly in the tent, carefully managing your breathing so the rustle of your clothes doesn't give you away. You creep up right behind the bench, lean over the space between their shoulders, and lightly poke them both at the same time.
Both Dunk and Egg flinched, jumping slightly on the rough wooden bench. Egg scrambled around to look at you, his wide eyes blinking in surprise, while Dunk nearly spilled his ale. The dark liquid sloshed dangerously close to the brim of his clay tankard before a massive, easy grin broke across his rugged face.
"Seven hells," Dunk gasped, letting out a booming laugh that vibrated in his chest and drew a few amused glances from the nearby crowd. "You nearly made me swallow my tongue. Where have you been? I looked for you after—" He caught himself, his deep voice softening as his eyes scanned your face, noting the lingering paleness beneath your skin and the subtle, protective way you held your arm against your midsection. "You alright?"
"I'm fine," you said quietly. You forced a small, tired smile to your lips, trying to smooth over the exhaustion in your voice to appease him. "The tavern owner let me off early, thank the gods." You fall against the wooden bench.
"Lucky," Egg muttered. He kicked a loose pebble with the toe of his boot, watching it skitter into the dirt. "We've just been sitting here sweating in the sun, watching these smallfolk pull a piece of rope back and forth. Duncan won't let me do anything fun. But you should have been there earlier, he completley messed up in front of a girl he fancied."
"The puppet girl! I knew it!"
You sat up straight, your exhaustion momentarily forgotten as a grin broke through your fatigue. You smirked, glancing back at Egg. "Let me guess. He didn't exactly charm her?"
“Worse,” Egg said, leaning in with a wicked, conspiratorial whisper. “He just stood there like a giant wooden post, staring at his own boots and stammering like a fool. He looked like he’d been struck by a lance before he finally managed to ask if she’d paint a favor on his shield. His ears are still burning.”
Duncan completley exhaled a long breath, rubbing his face with his hands in pure annoyance. But before he could open his mouth to defend himself, a roaring, jovial voice shattered the ambient noise inside.
"Yes! Hedge knight. You!”
You all watched Lyonel Baratheon walk up to where you were sitting. His expensive doublet was unbuttoned at the collar, dark patches of sweat staining the rich fabric.
Lyonel's eyes locked onto Dunk with absolute delight, then shifted to take in you and Egg. A hand came down hard on Dunk’s shoulder before tossing his drink out of his hands. “What is this piss froth? I need muscle," gesturing toward the muddy, churned-up tug-of-war match.
He examined all of your faces, “will you heed my call to war?”
You didn't hesitate. Eager to win something, you were the first one to spring up from the bench. Dunk and Egg shared a fleeting, surprised look, but they scrambled right up after you.
Within moments, you made your way through the shouting spectators to the very front of the Baratheon side. You reached down and wrapped your fingers tight around the thick, coarse hemp of the rope. It was rough, caked in dried mud and smelling faintly of old sweat, biting sharply into your palms. You adjusted your footing, digging the heels of your boots into the slippery, churned mud to find an unyielding grip.
Egg crowded in right ahead of you, his small hands buried in the coarse fibers. He glanced back over his shoulder, squinting up at you through the bright afternoon glare. "Scoot back a bit," he huffed, gritting his teeth as he tried to dig his heels into the dirt. You obliged, shuffling back an inch or two to give the boy some proper leverage.
The crowd around the lane had swollen into a massive, roaring wall of onlookers. The air was thick with the heat of packed bodies, the shouts of men throwing down last-minute silver pieces, and the smell of the damp earth beneath your feet.
"Hold it down!” Lyonel roars happily, clapping a heavy hand against Dunk's back as the giant took his place near the rear, his massive frame anchoring the line. "I’m thirsty!" The Laughing Storm darted away, casually snatching a half-full horn of ale straight out of a bewildered onlooker's hand to quench his thirst, drinking it down in one long, careless gulp.
You leaned back, locking your knees and preparing for the strain, when you glanced down at Egg. The boy had gone completely rogue with his technique, his legs were twisted and tangled around the heavy rope in a desperate attempt to pull the rope harder. The sight was so completely ridiculous, that the tight tension in your chest finally snapped. A loud laugh escapes your lips, the unexpected rush of air making you choke and cough.
Before you could even recover your breath, a sharp inhale escapes you when the rope jerks violently.
The strain hit your arms instantly. Your boots slid an inch, then two, through the slick muck, your fingers burning against the rough hemp. Just as your side of the line started to waver and slide forward, Lyonel Baratheon barreled back into the fray, stepping in directly behind you.
The presence of the Baratheon lord radiated an intense, competitive heat. He leaned over, facing the others, and screamed at the top of his lungs, "fucking pull!”
You felt the shift in power instantly. With one final, coordinated heave that made your muscles scream, your side yanks the opposite forward, sending them sprawling face-first into the mud.
The crowd erupted into a deafening wall of sound. High pitched whistles, roaring cheers, and drunken screams filled the afternoon air.
Before you could even catch your breath or untangle your raw hands from the hemp, a pair of massive hands hooked firmly under your arms. Dunk hoists you straight up into the air with an easy, booming laugh, tossing you up to celebrate the victory. You caught a glimpse of Egg right beside you, flying high above the shoulders of the cheering crowd as Dunk tossed him up next.
The Ashford meadow had transformed completely under the cloak of night. The chaotic, sun-baked roar of grounds had settled into a dense, smoky hum. You walked slowly beside Egg through the market lanes, taking it all in, though a quiet, heavy melancholy had started to settle over your chest.
Everywhere you looked, the camp was alive with a hazy, flickering energy. Iron braziers and campfires cast long, dancing shadows across the canvas pavilions, painting the faces of passing smallfolk and squires in warm, orange light. The air was thick and heavy, carrying a dozen different smells at once: the rich, mouth-watering scent of roasting pork fat dripping into open flames, the sharp tang of spilled ale turning sour in the mud, and the earthy, ever-present musk of trampled grass.
Through the din of the crowd, you could hear the night’s music bleeding together—a bawdy song being shouted from a crowded tavern tent, the frantic plucking of a lute somewhere in the distance, and the rhythmic, metallic cling-clang of armorers working late into the evening, their hammers ringing out against hot steel.
You wrapped your arms loosely around yourself, stepping carefully around a deep rut in the muddy path. Despite the warmth of the fires and the vibrant life buzzing around you, you felt strangely hollowed out. The day had been long and exhausting, and knowing Dunk was out there somewhere in the dark, desperately trying to haggle for a suit of armor he couldn't afford, made your stomach twist with a different kind of ache.
"Look at that one," Egg murmured, breaking the silence between you. He pointed toward a merchant's stall where a massive, jewel-encrusted broadsword was on display, guarded by two fierce-looking men-at-arms. "Bet it’s never even seen a real battle. Just polished to look pretty for the crowds."
You gave a faint, tired hum of agreement, your eyes drifting away from the shiny weapon. Your mind going back to Sweetfoot, such a gentle horse. But of course, in the need of coin you must do what you can.
"Come on," you said softly, gently placing a hand on Egg's shoulder to guide him away from the crowded thoroughfare. "Let's just walk a bit more. Dunk will be back soon enough."
You both drifted through the edge of the market, the vibrant noise of Ashford washing over you as you waited in the cool night air.
The three of you retreated to a corner of a cramped, low-ceilinged tavern, huddled around a mug of sour cider you couldn't bring yourself to finish. On the scarred timber table, a solitary tallow candle flickered against the draft, casting long, dancing shadows across your faces.
Suddenly, a massive burst of cheering erupted from the front of the house, rattling the heavy tankards. You leaned back against the wall, your eyes narrowing as you scanned the smoky room, trying to piece together the drunken shouts over the din. You wanted to know exactly what had the locals so damn excited.
"No turning back now, I suppose..." Duncan says, making your attention drift back to the two. Remember- the old man lived nigh on 60 years, yet he was never a champion."
"There's a bug in my cider..." Egg interrupted flatly, poking at the liquid with his finger.
"Sweetfoot…” you mumble softly, head resting on your hand.
"I know, but if I could call myself a champion of Ashford Meadow... even for an hour..." His eyes shine with hope, "maybe... maybe some great house might take us into its service, I mean- imagine. We wouldn't need to worry about food- coin, anything of the sort. Perhaps even House Targaryen might take us."
You instantly scoffed, shaking your head so hard a strand of hair fell into your eyes.
"I'll not serve a single one of those highborn cunts. Not after today. Not after one of them called me a whore right to my face. Duncan."
Dunk gave a slow, sympathetic nod, a low grunt rumbling in his chest."That's right."
"A whore?" Egg says, something clicking in his eyes. "Was he- silver haired?"
"Aren't all targaryens silver haired?"
"No- I mean, I don't think so, I've heard there are brown haired Targaryen's. Baelor Breakspear has dark hair."
"Ah, well- he was silver. Silver and ugly."
Egg grins before looking at Duncan, "But do you suppose the dragon house employs many hedge knights, ser?"
"Enough of this." Clearing his throat roughly to change the subject. "I'll have you know Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard is but the son of a crabber."
You raised a skeptical brow, attempting to take another sip of the sour cider. It hit the back of your throat, making you violently shudder as you forced it down. "Who in the seven hells is that?"
"I met him earlier today, before you took your... leave."
"Ser Donnel?" Egg questioned, leaning forward. "Of Duskendale?"
"Yeah..." Duncan said proudly, "the very same."
He snorts, "His father owns half the crabbing fleets in Westeros!"
Dunk’s proud expression instantly withered into a dark scowl. "What?!"
You buried your face entirely in your hands. "By the gods, Dunk…" you groaned into your palms.
"And how would you know?"
Egg shrugs, "I like fishing."
Suddenly a loud horn interupts the sound of laughter in the tent. The walls literally vibrated with a sudden, deafening crescendo of cheers from the meadow outside.
"It's time!" Egg says cheerfully.
Dunk rose to his full, towering height, and you scrambled up right alongside him.
"Right, come on," Dunk said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Let's go."
Spilling out into the cool night air, you were instantly swallowed by a sea of surging bodies. The atmosphere was electric, thick with the scent of roasted meats, spilled ale, and trampled grass.
"Come on you both, pick your feet up!" Dunan says, looking back over his shoulder, though with his massive strides, he began to cut through the crowd like a ship slicing through waves, rapidly leaving you and Egg behind.
"Do you see him?" You ask Egg, frantically shifting on your tiptoes.
"No! Here, lift me up!" Egg yelled, stopping dead in his tracks. "I'll try to spot him!"
Without a second thought, you hooked your hands under his arms and hoisted him up, letting him onto your shoulders. He grabbed your forehead for balance, pointing a small finger wildly into the press of people. "There! Straight ahead! Are you fine carrying me?"
"Just tell me where to walk!" you gasped, gritting your teeth and pushing forward. Egg was light, but maneuvering through a packed crowd with a boy on your shoulders was like wading through molasses.
Following Egg's frantic steering, you ducked and wove through the gaps. Another thunderous horn blast echoed across the meadow, and through a parting in the crowd, you finally spotted the back of Dunk's large head.
"Ser Duncan!" Egg screamed from above you, his voice cracking. "Ser Duncan!"
Duncan spun around, his eyes scanning the crowd wildly until you frantically waved your free hand.
"Oh," Dunk said, a sheepish look crossing his face as you finally caught up. "I thought you both were right behind me this whole time." He reached out with his massive hands, effortlessly lifting Egg off your shoulders and setting him on the ground. He looked at you, a bit concerned. "You alright?"
"Yeah," you breathed, wiping a bead of sweat from your brow. "He's not very heavy. Just wiggly."
Egg giggled, grabbing a hold of Dunk’s tunic so he wouldn't get lost again.
The three of you pushed through the grand wooden gates of the tourney grounds, and the scale of the event hit you all at once. The night was ablaze with hundreds of towering torches, their fiery light glinting off the polished armor of roaming guards. Your eyes darted to the brightly colored banners waving in the wind. Tyrell—five. Hardyng—six. You nodded slowly to yourself, trying to commit the layout to memory.
The main stands were a claustrophobic wall of shouting spectators, but your eyes caught a sudden break in the crowd right at the very front rail.
"There! We can get right to the barrier over there!" you yelled, pointing out the opening to Dunk and Egg.
Dunk’s eyes locked onto the spot. "Aye, I see it. Move!"
Slipping through the gap, you suddenly had a full view of the entire lists, situated directly across from the elevated seats. The sensory assault was staggering: the hot, musky breath of massive warhorses, the rhythmic clanging of armor, the deafening roar of thousands of voices, and the frantic ringing of bells. It made your head spin with exhaustion, yet your eyes were glued to the knights parading below.
"What is all this for, exactly?" you asked, leaning closer to Dunk to be heard over the racket.
"Aye, no clue," Dunk admitted, looking around. "Something about a nameday, so I've heard."
"It's Lord Ashford's daughter's nameday," Egg answered knowingly. "The jousting is in her honor. The victors of the tourney get to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty."
Your eyes widened, staring at the elevated seats. "Gods... that’s actually beautiful."
Right at that moment, a cocky jouster trotted past your section, his chin tilted upward in an display of pure arrogance. He reined in his horse right in front of you, drew a large, whole fish from his saddlebag, and held it high. "For the new gods and the old!" he roared. Then, to the crowd's delight, he shoved the fish into his mouth and bit it clean in half, tossing the tail into the dirt.
You erupted into cheers alongside Egg, clapping loudly, but when you looked at Dunk, his face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust. You burst out laughing and swatted his massive shoulder.
Around the staging area, the air grew tense. Challengers were shouting for their gear, their voices sharp and tight against the roaring crowd. "Lance! Shield!"
Then, a sudden shift went through the crowd.
A young man entered the staging area just below the barriers. He moved with a swift, unforced command that instantly drew every eye in the arena. He was clad in magnificent, black-plated armor that caught the light of the high torches like a dark mirror, polished so brightly it seemed to glow.
“Helmet!” the challenger barked. His voice was clear, resonant, and carries an authoritative weight that easily cut through the surrounding din. A squire scrambled instantly, lifting a heavy, beautifully crafted steel helm to present it to him.
Dunk tapped on Egg’s leg, his massive brow furrowed as he scanned the glittering black armor and the proud, sharp tilt of the young man's jaw. “Who’s that?” Dunk asked.
“Prince Valarr,” Egg answered without a single second of hesitation, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “Baelor’s son."
The words hit you like a physical blow. Prince Valarr. A Targaryen.
"Second in line to the Iron Throne," Egg continued seamlessly.
“Shield!” the Prince commanded.
Your stomach dropped into your boots. It was him. The very same man you had boldly mocked to his face just hours ago. For a terrifying, split second, a wave of cold panic flared in your throat—but then, a sudden, fierce rush of pride swallowed it whole. A strange, electric thrill surged through your chest, adrenaline bled throughout your body.
“Seven fucks!” you yelled out loud, the exclamation bursting from your throat before you could stop it.
Beside you, Duncan's head snapped toward you with a thoroughly bewildered expression. Next to him, Egg paused mid-sentence, his brow knitting together as both of them stared at you like you had lost your mind. You merely grinned like a lunatic, your heart hammering against your ribs with pure adrenaline.
Dunk turned his gaze back to the lists, studying the prince. "He's... the favorite, I'd wager." He glanced up at Egg.
"I'll take that bet, ser. And you?" Egg asked, looking at you.
"I'll wager he's incredibly dumb," you shot back, your grin widening.
Egg grinned as he looke at you from Duncan's shoulders. "I'll not take that bet."
Down below, the heavy black helmet dropped over Prince Valarr's head, completely masking his face in steel. With effortless, practiced grace, he vaulted into his saddle. His coal-black destrier stamped its hooves into the soft dirt, snorting a cloud of white vapor into the cool night air.
The roaring crowd suddenly swelled down into a tense, breathless murmur. The collective anticipation of thousands of people hung thick in the air, broken only by the rhythmic thud of horses kicking the dirt. You opened your mouth to say something to Dunk, but before a word could form, a booming voice shattered the silence from the upper stands.
“LORD ASHFORD FUCKS HIS SHEEP!"
The arena froze for a fraction of a second. A dead, breathless silence gripped the stands as the words echoed off the stone barriers, and then the crowd absolutely erupted into a riot of laughter.
You buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking as you giggled uncontrollably. Peeking through your fingers, you quickly glanced up toward the high lord's pavilion, praying to the Seven you'd catch the exact moment Lord Ashford's face turned the shade of a bruised plum.
Beside you, Dunk looked as though he wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Standing seven feet tall made it spectacularly difficult to blend into a crowd when someone nearby had just shouted about livestock relations.
"Well..." Duncan mumbled, his massive neck turning a furious, deep crimson that rivaled the Lannister banners. He cleared his throat, staring fixedly at his own boots as if they were the most fascinating things in the Seven Kingdoms.
Egg, completely unbothered, looking incredibly proud of whoever had thrown the insult. "Do you think he actually does, Ser?"
"Egg, hush," Dunk choked out, desperately trying to pull the boy's hood down. "We're trying not to get thrown in the dungeons before the tourney even starts."
Then, the herald’s horn blasted a piercing, violent note that shattered the humor and ignited the tourney.
CRACK!
The sound of clashing wood and steel echoed through the grounds like a thunderclap. One lance shattered into a thousand flying splinters, and a knight was violently lifted from his saddle, crashing into the dirt with a heavy, metallic thud. The crowd went absolutely feral, jumping to their feet. Beside me, people were slamming their hands against the wooden barrier, screaming and cheering at the absolute madness of it all.
Before the dust could even settle, the heralds called the next group. Across the lists, Ser Abelar of House Hightower spurred his mount forward. Prince Valarr did the same, his black destrier exploding into a furious gallop. The ground trembled beneath the thundering hooves.
But they weren't alone. The impact split the air like a lightning strike as multiple pairs of knights clashed simultaneously down the divided lanes, turning the lists into a beautifully orchestrated chaos of shattering oak and pounding hooves.
To the far left, Prince Valarr's shield caught the brunt of Abelar’s strike; the painted wood splintered, but the prince held his seat with terrifying precision. His own lance struck true, driving dead-center into the Hightower breastplate. The seasoned wood exploded into kindling, and the sheer kinetic force of the hit rocked Abelar violently back in his saddle. Yet, with a brilliant display of riding, Abelar leaned beautifully into the stirrups, absorbing the shock without losing an inch of canvas. Both men wheeled their mounts at the end of the track, completely unscathed, saluting each other with their shattered stumps.
Right beside them, Leo Tyrell rode with his legendary, effortless elegance. His lance slid off his opponent's shield with a calculated tilt, catching the man right beneath the chin-guard. The challenger's helmet flew off into the mud, but the knight merely sat blinking in the torchlight, rubbing his jaw with a sheepish grin as he reined in his horse.
In the center lane, Ser Humfrey Hardyng ran a tremendous course against a Westerman in Lannister crimson and gold. The Lannister’s lance caught Hardyng squarely in the visor, sending a shower of sparks into the air, but Hardyng held fast. Their lances exploded into kindling at the exact same millisecond.
Meanwhile, Lyonel was already making the stands shake. His thunderous laugh boomed over the noise of the horses as his lance shattered squarely against Ser Androw Ashford's shield. The young Ashford heir caught the full, brutal weight of the Baratheon charge and was nearly unseated, his boots slipping from the stirrups. But with a desperate, impressive display of horsemanship, Androw gripped the mane, threw his weight forward, and righted himself to a massive wave of relieved cheers from the local Ashford smallfolk.
Through the dust and the flying splinters of the first pass, all the knights remained whole. Valarr, Tyrell, Hightower, and Baratheon began wheeling their snorting horses back toward the pavilions to fetch fresh lances, while the crowd went absolutely wild, shouting names and waving colorful banners in the crisp night air.
During the brief lull as the squires rushed out, a small hand suddenly tapped my shoulder.
"Ser. Put me down, ser," a young boy's voice insisted.
You turned to see Duncan, blinking as he broke out of a daze. With a confused look, he lowered the bald-headed boy, Egg, from his massive shoulders. Free to move, Egg quickly scurried through the pressing crowd toward the front barrier, with Dunk looming right behind him. They pushed their way up to where you were standing, right in front of the gate.
Amidst the surrounding chaos, you noticed Dunk’s chest heaving. You tore your eyes from the field to study him carefully, catching the tight, strained look on his face.
"Are you sick?" You asked, voice softening with genuine care.
Dunk swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the distant pavilions where the knights were preparing for the second course. "I—yeah. I'm fine. Just... remembering stuff."
You gave a slow, understanding nod, guessing he was thinking of his old master, Ser Arlan, before turning your gaze back to the spectacle.
There was barely time to dwell on it before the silver horns blew again, signaling the second pass. The smallfolk erupted into wild cheers as Valarr wheeled his stallion back around, perfectly balanced, completely unbothered by the previous impact. He tossed the broken stump of his lance to the dirt, his movements fluid and full of an innate, royal grace.
Valarr and Abelar lined up once more. When the signal dropped, they tore down the lanes.
The second charge was even more brutal. Valarr leaned into the strike, his fresh lance striking Abelar dead-center in the chest with the force of a catapult. The wood exploded. The sheer kinetic force lifted Abelar entirely out of his stirrups, launching him backward through the air. He crashed heavily into the dirt with a brutal, metallic screech of twisting, grinding armor, landing in a motionless, groaning tangle of limbs and dust.
The crowd went absolutely wild. A roaring sea of cheers echoed across the Ashford meadow as thousands of smallfolk screamed, completely ignoring the other tilts happening simultaneously across the field. Valarr had won.
As the prince guided his horse back down the line, he kept his head straight, acknowledging the roaring grandstands with a polite, practiced bow. But as he passed our section, he glanced my way. His dark eyes locked onto mine for a fleeting, intense second before he looked away. You catch him doing it again just a moment later—a quick, subtle turn of his head. You didn’t think much of it at the time, assuming he was looking past you
Before Valarr even reached the barriers, the heralds blew their silver horns one final time, announcing the concluding match of the evening. The crowd erupted as Ser Lyonel Baratheon thundered back onto the field. His opponent was a formidable knight of the Reach, clad in gleaming silver plate.
The collision was the loudest one yet. The Reach knight’s lance shattered beautifully against Baratheon’s shield, but the Laughing Storm didn't even flinch. His own lance caught the challenger right in the center of his crest. The knight's horse swerved wildly, and the man barely managed to cling to his saddle, slumped helplessly over the horse's neck as the beast bolted down the track.
Lyonel threw his head back, his booming, boisterous laughter echoing all the way to the back row of the stands, sending the smallfolk into a total frenzy as the night's events came to a thrilling close.
By the time the tourney finally drew to a close, your throat was raw from hours of screaming and cheering. With the adrenaline of the final victories pulsing through the air, you and Egg—who had been yelling right alongside you all night, turned to each other and shared a fierce, celebratory hug.
In the rowdy celebration that followed, a pair of older, velvet-clad squires pushed past your row, heavily flushed from too much arbor gold. One of them, a smug youth with a hawk-like nose and a family crest you didn't care to read, stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of you.
"Well, what do we have here?" he drawled, leaning a bit too close, his breath sour with wine. "A fierce little thing. Come celebrate the Storm's victory with us at the pavilions, love? We've got sweet wine and better company than a giant and a bald stable boy."
Before you could even draw breath to curse him out, Dunk stepped forward. He didn't say a word. He simply let his massive, towering shadow fall over the two.
The smug smiles instantly evaporated. Swallowing hard, paling under the torchlight, and scrambling backward into the crowd without another word. Egg let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter behind you, sticking his tongue out at their retreating backs.
Dunk stared after them for a long moment, making sure they weren't coming back, before he finally let out a long, heavy breath and rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly sheepish. "S-sorry," he mumbled to you, his ears turning a bit red. "Felt like they were crowding you."
"Crowding me? Dunk, you practically eclipsed the sun," you said, a smirk tugging at your lips as the tension broke. "But thank you.”
Dunk offered a small, awkward smile, shifting his massive weight from one foot to the other. "Aye, well. Silk and velvet don't give a man manners, I suppose…”
"And a real stable boy would have bitten his kneecaps off," Egg muttered from below, crossing his arms and glaring in the direction the squires had fled. "He called me a bald stable boy. I should have kicked him in the shins, Ser. I could have taken him."
Dunk snorted, reaching down to cuff the boy gently on the back of his head. "You'll do no such thing, Egg. You're a squire, not a pit dog. Besides, I think they got the message. But if they come back…”
You laughed, looking at the two, a few cheers of the Ashford tourney still roaring around you. "They definitely did. Come on, let's keep moving before we’re left with drunks.”
The torches illuminating the lists were beginning to burn low, casting long, eerie shadows over the empty tracks, and the festive atmosphere instantly shifted. Tens of thousands of spectators all realized at once that the spectacle was over, and the race to get back to food, drink, and a warm bed began.
Leaving the tourney grounds is a nightmare. The easy energy of the crowd completely curdles the moment everyone tries to squeeze through the exits at once. You are pinned shoulder-to-shoulder in a sluggish, suffocating river of humanity—drunken smallfolk reeking of cheap ale, exhausted squires lugging heavy armor, and noble carriages forcing their way through the mud while their guards shove people out of the path. The noise is a deafening roar of shouting, laughing, and crying children, and the dust kicked up by thousands of boots makes the humid night air almost impossible to breathe.
By the time the three of you finally break free into the Ashford marketplace, things only get marginally better. The stalls are still lit by sputtering torches, merchants screaming over the din to sell leftover meat pies and carved wooden trinkets to lingering tourists. Every step feels like lifting a lead weight, the persistent, dull ache in your lower abdomen sharpening with the constant jostling of the crowd.
When you finally reach the stone entryway of Ashford town, where the crowds begin to thin into the quieter streets, you stop.
"I want to be alone for a bit," you say, your voice flat with exhaustion.
Dunk looks down at you, his gentle eyes instantly understanding. He knows how long your day has been, and both he and Egg are well aware of the toll your period has been taking on you all week.
"Aye," Dunk says softly, offering a reassuring nod. "Go on. We'll head back to camp and get the fire going."
Egg looks up at you, his bright eyes scanning your tired face. He hesitates for a second, shifting his weight. "Do you have a knife on you?"
A small, tired smile tugs at the corner of your lips. "I always do, Egg."
"Okay. Good," he says, satisfied, though his boyish concern is endearing. "Don't be too long. I'll keep an eye on Duncan,” offering a small smile of his own.
You cut across the tall, dew-slicked grass, heading toward the edge of the woods near the main entrance of Ashford. The area was hidden by a dense thicket of old willows, their sweeping branches creating a natural curtain against the rest of the world. You follow the distant, rhythmic sound of rushing water until you find a quiet spot
The grass is cool and damp beneath you as you sit down, burying your face in your knees for a long, quiet moment to let the lingering cramps settle. When you look up, chaos feels a million miles away. There are no shouting lords, no crushing crowds, no suffocating heat. There is only the soft, silver moonlight dancing across the rippling surface of the river and the vast, starry sky stretching out above you. The air is clean, your breath is your own, and you finally feel completely safe. Hands against your abdomen.
“I caught sight of you at the tournament.” The voice is gentle but unexpected. You flinch slightly, hands falling from your stomach as you look over your shoulder.
Standing a few inches away from you is Prince Valarr of House Targaryen- as you had just found out. But unlike the earlier Targaryen you met, this one actually seems... peaceful.
He did not look at you yet; his eyes traced the night sky, quietly observing the perfect, pale curve of the moon.
“Hard to miss me, I suppose.” you state, leaning back on one elbow. “I thought a peaceful prince like you would be tucked away in silk sheets by now.”
“I am a man grown.” He says simply, eyes still on the sky. "Not a child to be put to sleep."
You roll your eyes, “You're terribly, hopelessly serious, you know. Very dull, my Prince.”
That caught him. His eyes lowered down to yours, the silver moonlight catching the sudden amusement in his gaze as a soft chuckle escaped him. “May I sit with you?” he asked casually—so casually it caught you off guard.
“Sure, keep me company.” You pat down on the dirt, “So long as you don’t mind getting your arse dirty.”
“A small price to pay.” Valarr looks at you, then back up at the moon, a faint smile lingering on his face before he carefully lowers himself onto the dirt, completely ignoring the muck staining his fine tunic. Once settled, he glances over. “Did the tilts please you?”
"They were exciting enough, I suppose. If you like watching men hit each other with oversized sticks." You studied the sharp angles of his face under the moonlight. "Why are you out here, anyway?"
“I was just taking a walk to clear my head,” Valarr says, pulling his knees up and resting his arms across them. “And frankly, if I had to sit through another hour of my cousins bickering over castle seating arrangements, I was going to throw myself off the battlements. The pavilions are suffocating tonight."
“A midnight stroll after a day of jousting? Aren’t you the least bit exhausted?” you ask, turning your head to inspect him.
The silver moonlight washes over his face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw.
“Not particularly. At least, not anymore.”
“If you say so.”
He shifts slightly, his dark eyes curious as they settle on you. “And what brings you out to the dark?”
You lean back fully, pressing both hands into the earth behind you to support your weight, taking the pressure off your aching middle. “Simply existing, your Grace. It’s what I do best.”
The river ripples against the bank, a soothing, rhythmic sound. Out of the corner of your eye, you can feel his gaze lingering on your profile, steady and quiet in the dark.
“You can drop the 'Grace,'” he says softly. “Call me Valarr.”
You turn your head, locking eyes with him and raising an eyebrow. “First names already? My, you must fancy me quite a bit to throw away court manners so quickly.”
Valarr lets out a sudden, startled laugh, the sound bright and clear against the sounds of water. He shakes his head, looking down at his boots in amusement. “Are you always this exhausting to speak with?”
“Only with the people I actually want to tease,” you shoot back smoothly.
He nods, a quiet, comfortable smile settling over his features as he absorbs the jab. The silence stretching between you now feels entirely detached from the madness of the Targaryen pavilions.
You tilt your head, letting your eyes drift over his streak of silver hair. “So... a Targaryen.”
"I am."
"Do you fly on dragons?"
The question catches him entirely off guard. Valarr blinks, a brief look of bewilderment crossing his features before a wide, boyish smile breaks across his face. He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh. "No. I'm afraid we ride on horseback like everyone else."
"You mean to tell me the great House Targaryen rides on horses rather than flying through the clouds?" Your brow furrows, your head tilting as you look at him with exaggerated disappointment. "The singers make you all out to be gods of the sky. I feel cheated."
Valarr’s smile turns a bit wistful, his eyes dropping back down to his feet. "The singers like the old stories better than the truth. The last of our dragons died more than fifty years ago. Before my father was even born." He shifts his knees, resting his head on his hands. "There are only bones left in the Red Keep now. Great, hollow skulls that don't breathe any fire."
You look at him, letting the weight of his words settle in the cool night air. The moonlight catches the slight slump of his shoulders.
“Bones,” you repeat softly, your voice dropping to match the quiet rush of the river. “That sounds lonely.”
Valarr lifts his head from his hands, turning his face to look at you. The wistful shadow in his dark eyes lingers for a beat before a faint, curious smile touches his lips.
“It can be. People look at my family and they still expect the fire. They expect us to burn brighter than anyone else. Sometimes... it feels as though we are in the shadows of the past, trying to play the part of the men who used to ride them.”
You let your eyes trail down the fine fabric of his tunic, comparing it to your own clothes- smeared with dark riverbank mud.
"Well, you certainly didn’t look like a shadow out there today. You handled that lance like you actually knew what you were doing. I might have even cheered a little."
A genuine laugh breaks through his solemn mood, the sound low and rich.
“A necessary theater. The realm likes to see that the dragons still have teeth, even if they're only made of tourney steel.” He shifts his weight, sliding a bit closer until his shoulder is almost brushing against yours. The heat radiating from him is a stark contrast to the damp chill rising from the water. “But you didn't answer my question from earlier. Why are you out here alone?”
“Simply existing,” you say, though you can't help but let out a small, tired breath, your hands subtly pressing against your abdomen again to ease the dull ache- you do notice less pain now. “And frankly, because I wanted quiet. Down here, the river doesn't care who your father is.”
Valarr tracks the movement of your hands, his eyes dropping to your stomach for a brief, quiet moment before returning to your face. There’s an unexpected gentleness in his gaze, a sudden sharpness of attention that sends a small thrill right back through your chest.
“No,” he agrees softly, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that makes your skin prickle. “The river doesn't care at all what you tell it. But I find that I do.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Is that genuine curiosity, Valarr, or are you just unaccustomed to people who don't bow when you blink?”
He reaches out, his fingers hovering just an inch above the dirt near your hand, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin.
“Perhaps both.”
You shift your weight, leaning back a bit further onto your elbows, your eyes narrowing with a sudden, playful spark of mischief.
“Tell me something, Valarr. Do you actually know how to read? Or does a maester have to follow you around whispering the big words into your ear?”
Valarr blinks, entirely caught off guard by the sudden turn in the conversation. Then, a proud, incredibly handsome smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He sits up a little straighter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can read quite well, thank you. In fact, I know another language as well.”
He can’t stop smiling
You roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. “Oh, brilliant. A bilingual dragon. Well, don’t just sit there boasting, then. Speak!”
Valarr fixes his dark eyes on yours, the teasing smirk slowing down into something much softer, much more deliberate. The silver moonlight catches the intense, focused depth in his gaze as he leans in just a fraction closer. The rushing river seems to fade into the background as he parts his lips, his voice dropping into a low tone that sounds like velvet.
"Ao issi gīmī ñuha aōhos."
The words sound completely foreign, it feels heavy, ancient, and undeniably romantic. Your breath hitches slightly, your heart doing a foolish little flip against your ribs before you can catch yourself.
You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing. “And what does that mean?”
Valarr maintains his deadpan, intense expression for a agonizingly three seconds. Then, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and a thoroughly wicked grin breaks across his face.
“It means,” he says smoothly, “'You have mud on your nose, and your left boot smells of horse manure.'”
You stare at him, your jaw dropping slightly in sheer disbelief. “You absolute villain!” You reach out and playfully shove his shoulder—which feels like trying to push a solid stone wall, though he allows himself to rock back a bit, laughing openly.
“You asked me to speak it!” he protests, his laughter bright and clear against the night air. “I merely spoke the truth of our surroundings.”
“And here I thought it was something important,” you scoff, pushing yourself up from the dirt and brushing the loose grass and river mud off your clothes. Your middle gives another dull throb, a clear sign that it’s time to head back. “I am taking back that compliment about you being peaceful. You’re a menace.”
Valarr rises to his feet in one fluid, effortless motion, looking down at you. “Are you leaving already?”
“I must,” you say, crossing your arms against the midnight chill. “If I stay any longer, you'll probably start insulting my lineage in ancient tongues.”
“Only if you continue to tease me,” he counters, a faint, hopeful smile lingering on his face as he steps into your path, just close enough that you have to tilt your head up to look at him. “Will I see you here tomorrow?”
You offer him a brilliant, fleeting grin, taking a step backward into the shadows of the path leading toward your camp. “Only if you manage to remember this spot. Prince Valarr. It would be terribly embarrassing if you got lost.”
Valarr lets out a quiet, defeated chuckle and shakes his head. “I shall do my best to spare myself the embarrassment.”
You turn on your heel, stepping away into the darkness, but you look back over your shoulder one last time, locking eyes with him through the moonlight.
“Goodnight, Prince Valarr.”
“Goodnight,” he murmurs back, his voice carrying softly over the water, watching you until the shadows fully swallowed you up.
You step completely into the thick embrace of the willow trees, the dark leaves brushing past your shoulders as you find the faint dirt path leading back toward your camp.
He waits until the gentle rustle of your footsteps entirely fades into the distant hum of the camp. Only then does he let out a slow, breathy sigh, shaking his head at the audacity of your teasing.
Finally turning away from the creek, he begins the walk back toward Ashford Castle. He doesn't stride with his usual courtly grace; instead, there’s a distinct, buoyant bounce in his step. Walking past the flickering campfires and sleeping pavilions, he keeps his head down, desperately trying to look like a serious Targaryen prince, but every three steps, the memory of you shoving his shoulder hits him all over again.
That night he only had one thing he wanted to dream of.
