willow

21

[vintageverse]

The Silks of Lys | Chapter Three

chapter one. chapter two. chapter three.

possible pairings: baelor, maekar, duncan, daeron, aerion, valarr x fem!reader

summary: you come from the island of lys with a small group of your friends in search of opportunity and adventure. you find that this journey provides much more than you certainly anticipated.

word count: 3,281

note: politically, some of this might not make sense. just go with it.

Aerion strode slightly ahead of you, his body acting as a shield from the crowd. They parted, shooting you both curious glances as he led you towards the castle. He obviously paid them no mind, only glaring when someone wasn’t quick enough to move. Every now and then, he would glance back to check if you were still following, and each time he met his cold eyes with your worried ones.

You tried your best to keep up with his pace, jogging to eventually walk alongside him, taking peeks at his face as if the answer was lying right there for all to see. Unfortunately for your rambling mind, you only see his usual prideful expression.

You swallow, your heart pounding. “Was her name Shapra?” you ask suddenly, trying your hardest to gain his attention if only for a moment. The silence draws tight around you. “Is she hurt? Oh, gods…”

He sighs, looking down at you with a slightly irritated expression, as if your questions were inconveniencing him. “Enough with all these questions. You will see her after dinner.” You scoff; a scowl now etched onto your face. You couldn’t even imagine eating anything with so much fear dancing in your belly. At least you know now that she’s alive.

Perhaps this dinner will be quick.

The guards stationed at the castle door bow their heads as he passes through, acknowledging his presence through the slight movement as they’re required. It’s quiet the first time you step through the archway, though an echo grows as you both walk deeper.

You follow him through the stone hallway, inspecting the unfamiliar surroundings with curious eyes. Portraits of what you assume to be House Ashford’s ancestors line the cracked walls, each one older than the last–each more yellowed with age due to oxidized seals.

Your attention is caught by a single image: a long-dead lord staring from his canvas, his sword at his side, the blade's hilt smeared with rust that looks almost like dried blood. Most of the men pose like him, and the ladies also pose nearly the same: with their hands in their laps and what you can only assume to be a tired expression made slightly more graceful, no doubt the painters being bribed with the promise of riches.

More soldiers stand alert as you and Aerion enter a warmly lit dining hall, passing them while glancing at their stone-like expressions. If it wasn’t for the blink of their eyes, even you could be fooled.

A great table sits in the middle, ornate chairs all around, while a hearth burns angrily at the back wall. Even from here, you can feel the warmth kissing your pin-pricked skin. A feast lies in the middle, tempting hungry eyes and even hungrier stomachs, though you feel no hunger at all.

You gulp nervously when you see the people sitting in their respective chairs. Two older men, both with a three-headed dragon embroidered on their black doublets, sit in the two middle chairs.

Though they look as close as brothers while they converse, they couldn’t look any more different. The first has short dark hair, a slight gray making its way throughout. He sports a beard of the same colors as his head, and a strong nose sits upon his face. He smiles like it comes easy to him, the evidence being the deep smile lines that crease his cheeks even when he relaxes.

The other, the one with a permanent scowl etched deep, has white hair like Aerion—like you. From here, you see his well-groomed white beard take up the lower half of his face, making him look as sharp as steel.

You cannot hear much of their conversation as they keep it quiet, but you do catch what is probably just political nonsense. The dark-haired man sips from his silver goblet, his lips pinching for a moment at the taste before he swallows it down. The other merely swirls the mysterious liquid around, focusing as the man responds with his baritone voice.

When you trail your eyes away from them, you see Valarr. The sight of him seems to calm you somewhat, even when he sits there quietly and doesn’t take up much space.

One other man and a young girl sit at the table, both filling their plates with fish and fruit. The girl talks quietly to Valarr, though you can see that childlike innocence still in her eyes. Maybe she asks him about lancing, or perhaps about whatever princes seem to do?

Before you can study them any longer, Aerion clears his throat to make your presence known. You gulp again, and then all eyes are on you.

You sense their stares focus on your hair, even as you keep your gaze fixed on your feet. You do not dare look up—at least, not yet.

“I found her when we first arrived,” Aerion speaks without any grace, again treating you like an object of his amusement. When he steps up to the table and ushers you into the seat next to his, you sit and brave a glance upwards to the main man—the one with the easy smile. Even now, to a stranger, his smile does not discriminate, though it is smaller than before. You notice his eyes as you do. Exactly the same as Valarr’s, to which you glance at the younger man. He tilts his head in recognition when you do, and you swiftly turn back.

“What is your name?” he asks softly, holding eye contact with you even when your eyes trail to the other’s stern gaze, who looks between you and Aerion (who you suppose is his son).

You give it to him, softly, like you don’t quite know how to address him. He nods, satisfied with your answer, and gives you his.

Baelor. You repeat the name in your mind, studying it over and over. Valyrian? Maybe Dornish? He could be Dornish. You knew many Dornish people who ventured all the way to the free cities—they tended to be kind like him.

“You seem to be of Targaryen ancestry,” he starts, getting straight to the point while also dancing around any accusatory words. “Do you know your parents, child?”

You blink for a moment, then shake your head. “No, my prince. I was raised by an older woman. She didn't even know who my parents were.”

Aerion scoops some vegetables onto your wooden plate as you speak, though you pay him no mind and instead focus your full attention on the conversation.

He nods, and then glances to Valarr, who nods—to what, you are not sure until he speaks again. “My son, Valarr, spoke of you just before you entered,” he explains, and you blush. Valarr smiles at your shy demeanor, and you press your lips into a tight line to keep from smiling.

“She was quite the spitfire when she found out I was a prince,” he says, amused, looking at his father, who wore the same look. You could feel heat spread to your ears, and you direct your attention back to your plate.

“What the fuck is happening?” The stern man speaks for the first time, looking at you and then Aerion, and then to Baelor.

“Watch your tongue, brother,” Baelor chides him. “We have a guest.” His words only earn an eyeroll.

“This is Maekar, my youngest brother,” Baelor introduces, and you nod your head to the man who looks at you with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. “You'll have to forgive him as he has quite a unique vocabulary.”

You smile awkwardly, and Aerion snorts next to you.

The night drifts by like this: soft conversation threading throughout the hall. Lord Ashford aims to amuse his guests, but Maekar can’t seem to stop rolling his eyes in disgust, and Baelor only laughs politely. His daughter, Gwin, asks you questions about your home, and you answer them truthfully. She is quite sweet, and at one point, she even moves into the empty seat beside you, eager for more answers.

They all listen as you speak, even when they pretend not to. By the time you’ve forced yourself to chew and talk and listen, the dinner comes to an end. Lord Ashford resigns to his chambers, and Gwin had already done so a while ago. Valarr leaves last, shooting you a secret smile that you try to return. That leaves you still seated beside Aerion, and Baelor and Maekar sitting across.

You clear your throat and then finally speak. “I was told my friend was here…” you trail off, looking to Baelor with desperation for him to explain. It’s quiet in the room, only the hearth crackling in the background and your pulse beating in your ears.

He nods once, rubbing his nose bridge with his pointer and thumb. He looked stressed, the grey hairs speaking more than anything else.

“She was caught stealing,” he explains, exhaling at the look you send him. You sputter, trying your best to explain that your friend would never do such a thing. Before you can say anything, he lifts his hand up for you to stop. You do, gulping at what’s to come.

“She was caught in Tybolt Lannister’s tent at night, taking gold dragons. She thought she was alone, and when he awoke, he didn’t hesitate to turn her in.” You exhale at his words. “Unfortunately, the punishment for theft of such a high value is giving the offending hand.”

You gasp out, covering your mouth to keep yourself quiet. It couldn’t be. Your Shapra? Stealing money from a random lord?

He stands from where he sits and circles the table slowly, placing his hand on your shoulder to offer the support you didn’t know you needed.

Pleas escape your tongue when you grasp his forearm. “Please, do not punish her. She’s a good girl,” you beg. He only looks down at you, not saying a word. Your furrowed eyes look up at him from where you sit, their purple looking deep into his blue and brown.

He sighs through his nose, this time walking towards the hearth to stare into its flames. His hands are behind his back as he thinks.

“Tybolt wishes for the charges to be upheld,” Maekar speaks instead of Baelor, still sitting with a leg crossed over the other. He swirls a deep red wine in the silver goblet, his attention on you. He certainly was a stern man. His attention almost made you want to shrink under its natural scrutiny, but you don’t. You wouldn’t.

“I will do anything, my princes,” you say, a sudden determination flooding your veins. Your friend would not lose a hand. Baelor turns to face you, and Aerion still sits beside you, though he doesn’t provide any comfort whatsoever as he smashes walnuts with a knife. “There has to be another way.”

Baelor sighs and nods. “There is. She could have a trial by combat, though she would have to choose her champion, and they would have to agree.”

Your brows furrow at the idea, looking to Maekar to see what he thought of this. His eyes, surprisingly, do not roll. He only hums at his brother's words, stroking his chin with his thumb and pointer.

Where would you get a champion from? You were a stranger to almost every person here. Who in this place would risk everything for a stranger? The question echoes in your mind.

“I will fight,” Aerion says suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. You spin your head to face him, a grateful look on your face.

“Absolutely not,” Maeker says, shaking his head as he glares at his son. Baelor turns to his brother and then back to you, offering a sad smile.

“I’m afraid none of us could. We cannot afford more tension between the crown and the Lannisters. She will need to find a champion, though you may help her.”

You close your eyes, fearful for what’s to come. “May I see her?”

You find yourself in a stuffy stone cell, standing in front of the sleeping girl whom you’ve been looking for all this time. She sits with her back against the wall, her head on her knees. She shivers each time a cool breeze makes its way through the barred windows.

From here, you can hardly recognize her. She looks small and weak, not like her usual self. Her short hair is caked in mud, no doubt from being slammed on the ground, and her arms sport nasty bruises and scrapes that have healed over.

“Oh, Shapra,” you whisper to yourself, kneeling down to her height. You rest a hand on her hard strands, and she jumps when you do—her wide eyes looking directly into yours as if you were a stranger. The look is soon replaced with recognition, and she launches herself at you, nearly knocking you over.

She cries into your neck, repeating “I’m sorry,” over and over again. You hug her even tighter, whispering how much you missed her these past few days. Then you stand up, pulling her up so you can study her wounds.

She looks down as if ashamed, but you grab her face in between your hands and make her face you. “We need to get out of here,” you say, pulling her with you through the cell and past various guards that don’t spare a glance. She looks at them in confusion, not expecting to be let go so quickly.

“Wha–,” she begins, but you are quick to shush her, telling her that you will explain when you’re back to your pavilion. She does as you say, not talking at all as she limps beside you through the castle hall. You try your best to support her, both of you walking very slowly as you make your way outside. Some people are still out, drinking heavily whilst laughing with friends, and others are all over each other like they think they’re hidden in a tent. You grimace at the sight and direct your attention back to the dirt path.

“Shapra!” You hear the yell before you see the owner. You carry the girl through the flaps, and Orlos immediately runs to her other side to support her. You both carry her to her cot, sitting her down gently, careful not to touch her bad ankle. She sighs in relief as soon as she feels the soft cot.

That’s when Faeya enters from the fabric-covered corner where she does her dances, her eyes immediately widening. She hastily walks to her cot, pulling out a pouch filled with herbs and bandages. She was a magnificent healer because, somehow, even with the deepest cuts, she could heal them so that no scar remained.

“Gods, Shapra,” she whispers as she nears, sitting on her knees to inspect the wounds. The injured girl hisses as she pokes and prods at the angry skin.

When Faeya begins, Orlos immediately pelts Shapra with questions. Before she can even answer, Faeya shoots him a warning look that shuts him right up.

“Why was she released?” Orlos asks you instead.

You sigh, burying your face in your hands. “She wasn’t, not really.”

Both he and Shapra look at you in confusion. You tell them you will explain once Faeya is done, and they comply. You didn’t want Shapra to faint with the mixture of the panic you feel and the pain she feels.

When Faeya’s work is done, she wraps the herb-soaked wounds in thick linens and tells her that she’ll need to change them daily to prevent infection. Her fingers prod the girl’s right ankle next, which earns her an immediate hiss. “Not broken, just sprained.” She diagnoses, and you all let out a breath. If it were broken, she would be off her feet for a while. A sprain, while painful, is just a bit better.

Soon, Faeya stands and immediately looks down at Shapra. “What did you do?” she asks simply.

Shapra blinks, looking down at her wrapped arms and legs. It could be either embarrassment or shame; maybe both. For a moment, she just stares at her hands, picking at the skin around her fingers. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet and full of worry. "We weren’t selling much, and I don’t want this trip to be for nothing. Didn’t think he’d notice," she says in her accented voice, shrugging, but you see the way her chest rises and falls—too quickly. Her lips tremble, and she looks away while blinking away the wetness in her eyes. There is regret on her face. "I... I didn't mean for this. I just wanted to help."

Still, a tiny flicker of hope glimmers in her eyes as she glances at you, as if searching for reassurance or a way out. You sigh, not at all looking forward to explaining what has to happen.

Orlos sighs down at her, a look of pity crossing his face. She was trying to help, but what she did was bad. Very bad.

You clear your throat, and they all look at you with questioning looks in each of their eyes.

“The punishment for stealing is giving your hand,” you say as softly as possible. The words seem to drop into the still air and freeze, slicing through the silence. Shapra cries out, clutching her chest as if to hold herself together, her breath shallow. Orlos closes his eyes, cursing under his breath, and even Faeya pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders. For a moment, it feels as though the air has turned to iron, pressing in on all of you with heavy dread.

“Would she even survive that?” Faeya asks herself. You shrug anyway. Infection, or even blood loss, can be a quick death that not even kings can survive.

“Prince Baelor gave me another option,” they look at you, immediately with hope filling their eyes. “Trial by combat. You would choose your champion.” They all deflate, the hope leaving their bodies as fast as it came.

“We know no one else,” Orlos says, sitting down at the edge of Shapra’s bed with his head in his hands. It was true.

“Maybe we can find someone who dislikes the Lannisters?” Shapra asks, and you nod at that. Perhaps, but you couldn’t even begin to think of who.

You lie back on your bed, legs hanging off the side as you look at the weathered top of the pavilion. You couldn’t even stay mad at Shapra because she did what she felt was right, though it couldn’t have been any more wrong.

You could already feel the stress creeping up your spine and into your veins. What could you possibly do? You truly had no chance at winning if you had no fighter, and you only have two days to find one.

Still, you force yourself to think. Perhaps Gwin could speak to her father on your behalf? Beg him to help your friend? She was kind to you at dinner. There were always sellswords around, though you didn’t have much money, and you were sure they didn’t fancy pretty fabrics.

Your thoughts bring a flicker of hope. It’s faint, but it's there in the back of your mind, urging you to keep pushing. Tomorrow, you would talk to anyone who might listen. You would not give up.

thank you for reading! love y'all <3

taglist: @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @jellyforbrains @amndstuckinwonderland @qardasngan @rose7777798766

[vintageverse]

The Silks of Lys | Chapter Two

chapter one. chapter two. chapter three.

possible pairings: baelor, maekar, duncan, daeron, aerion, valarr x fem!reader

summary: you come from the island of lys with a small group of your friends in search of opportunity and adventure. you find that this journey provides much more than you certainly anticipated.

word count: 2,738

note: here it is! hopefully no mistakes hehe

A cool breeze ruffles distant banners, carrying air thick with the scent of spiced meat and smoke. The day moves more slowly than it did yesterday, especially when you walk the grounds with growing familiarity.

Your lunch costs you three copper pennies for a meat pie. It sits hot in your hands, steam rising from the crispy bread that encases the savory meat. The steam is seized by the cool breeze, the delicious smell wafting to the many hungry strangers standing in line behind you.

When you eat it, red grease drips down your fingers like a light stream. You lick your palm and wrist, begging the gods to keep your seafoam gown clean and spotless. You moan around a mouthful, savoring the salty taste. It almost reminds you of fresh salted herring from back home—eaten as quickly as possible after being caught from the sea, then cooked over hot stones.

You miss your little island just thinking of the fish. You lived in a humble clay house with a roof of wood slats and open windows facing the sea. The floor was intricate marble, and the house was furnished with many colors that complemented each other quite nicely. You remember waking in the morn. You would look out the window as the warm, salty air wrapped around you, like an invitation to step outside and begin the day anew. You remember when you’d return to the quiet abode, eager to lie down and fall asleep and repeat the next day.

You only hope that the friend you left it to in the meantime enjoys it as much as you do.

You chew the last bite, almost sad it’s over, but the warmth in your belly is almost as satisfying as eating the pie in the first place. You lick your salty fingers until they taste of the skin on your bones and walk away from the smells and towards the tourney grounds.

The first thing you hear is the clash of metal against metal. It makes a sound unfamiliar to you, like an unpleasant grating that has the ability to produce migraines. You wince but continue on, spotting two men sword-fighting, not at all like the children you saw playing with dull wooden blades. Even in practice, they fight like they’re in battle, drawing blood when they nick the other accidentally, though neither apologizes nor stops.

Mud is kicked up as they move hastily around one another. If you didn’t fear the danger, you would almost describe the fighting as a beautiful dance. Their feet are experienced, that you can tell.

For a moment, you lean against the wooden fence separating you from them and just watch with an obvious fascination.

“Who are you?” a deep voice rumbles from behind you. You turn and immediately face a brown-headed man with a silver streak running through his hair. Encased in thick lashes, his eyes catch your notice next. The two colors, one brown and the other blue, contrast with each other like a silent war–fighting over which eye will draw a stranger first. You find the choice difficult.

You state your name hesitantly, wondering if he’s at all related to the strange man with your features from before. Is he as arrogant as he is? Or is he kind like Dunk?

He nods, his mismatched eyes raking over your features like he’s studying to remember. He traces your white tresses, your lilac eyes, then your beet-stained lips with a curious tilt of his head.

“Are you a bastard? Of whom, I wonder?” he asks, still studying you, though now a bit closer. There is a curiosity in his bluntness, almost searching. The question hangs between you, and you don’t know whether to agree or deny. Are you what he speaks of? A bastard?

You sputter at his question, caught off guard by its brazenness. A flush of shame burns inside of you for a moment.

“I never knew my parents,” you say finally, your voice softer than you intend but with finality. You rub your arm with your palm. You grew up with a kind lady who passed years ago, much too old to be your true mother, and you never met your father.

You suppose that when you were born, you must have looked up at the woman whom you’ve never known. You can only hope that she looked down at you with anything but disgust. Did you scream until your raw, pink skin turned purple? Or were you a quiet, curious little thing? Did you trace her features, almost like you could remember them?

Was she as kind as you? Was she brave or curious? You always wondered.

He nods, seemingly accepting your answer. Then he steps closer, now leaning against the wooden fence. He looks at you as you direct your attention to the fighting men in the mud.

“I’m Valarr,” he says softly, drawing your eyes to him. Though it’s small, he has a pleasant smile directed your way. You blush slightly and nod your head in greeting.

“Nice to meet you, Valarr,” you reply with a gentle smile, aware of your own curiosity. “Are you a knight?” you ask suddenly, wondering if he will be fighting in the lists.

He shakes his head, directing his attention to the fighters still going at it. You can tell that he’s hiding something, but you don’t push, as pushing never got you anything.

You find yourself talking to him for hours. You both lean against the fence, walk the perimeter of the training yard, and sit at the base of a nearby tree. While you sit on a thick root that emerges from the dirt, he sits in front of you on a patch of grass. From this distance, you can see his features up closer than before. As he plucks some stray grass from the ground, rolling it between his well-groomed fingers, he speaks of his experiences with the sword and shield.

You find yourself opening up more than ever before, especially to a stranger. You talk of your home, your friends, your hopes and dreams; he listens on with attentiveness you haven’t quite experienced before. It’s refreshing.

“You’re telling me you’ve never ridden a horse before?” he asks with genuine surprise, his eyebrows raising as he looks at you. You laugh behind your hand, and he smiles at the sound.

"I've never had a reason. Back home, I was always a perfect walk from anywhere I needed to go," you say, shrugging and resting your chin on your knees. He shakes his head at that, leaning back on his palms. It truly seems unbelievable, but it's true. You did love horses, though, just not enough to attempt to ride one.

A comfortable silence spreads between the two of you. Neither of you rushes to fill it. The cool breeze brushes over both of you, and his dark strands fall into his face. You snort and lean forward, brushing them out of his eye with a light touch.

“There, perfect,” you whisper. He looks at you with an unfamiliar glint in his eye. It’s warmth, you suppose, and maybe even a bit of wonder. You shyly smile and lean back from him, resting your back against the tree trunk once again. His reserved smile widens a sliver, but you do not comment on it, nor does he.

Time passes between the two of you so quickly that you don’t even notice the lowering of the sun until you have to squint to really see him. He looks up as you do, chuckling like he finds this amusing.

“When did that happen?” he asks more to himself, but you hum anyway. He stands first and offers you a warm hand, which you take. He hauls you up, and you balance onto his forearms for a second before gaining your balance. You walk side by side, towards the bustling sounds of the grounds.

“Prince Valarr!” a booming voice calls from in front, and a big man walks towards where you both stand. You blink, and then your eyes widen in shock. He was a prince! When you send him a wide-eyed stare, he meets it with a slight grimace. He definitely didn’t want you to know.

You recognize the man who gets closer as Lord Baratheon, but this time he doesn’t wear that gaudy helm on his head. He looks better than he did last night when he was drunk out of his wits. Well rested, you suppose.

When he nears, he claps Valarr on the shoulder in a rough greeting. Valarr greets him like a prince should—with poise and maturity. You couldn’t say the same for the older man.

“Well, aren't you a sight!” he bellows and lets out a booming laugh. You shyly send him a smile and mumble a ‘thank you’ before turning your eyes to Valarr, who hides his teasing smile by sucking in his lips. You stomp on his foot when Lord Baratheon turns his attention to someone he recognizes, storming over to greet them the same way, you assume.

“You could be thrown into a cell for maiming a prince, you know,” Valarr teases when Lord Baratheon’s out of earshot, and you only offer another eye roll and put your hands on your hips.

“You lied,” you say accusatorily, quirking your eyebrow for an explanation.

“I didn’t lie, I just didn’t say anything,” he says with a shrug that earns him a glare this time. He smiles guiltily, rubbing his neck.

“Same thing!” you say, not quite a yell but an exclamation. He at least looks guilty. You sigh and rub your forehead. “If you had told me, I wouldn’t have treated you any differently.”

Your words earn you his full attention, and he tilts his head. Considering this was your second time talking to a prince, you couldn’t exactly say you were intimidated.

“That…means a lot to me. Thank you,” he says and smiles wider than he has. You nod.

“I should probably go,” you announce, backing up to leave. He almost has a longing look in his eye, but you brush it off. Suddenly, he takes your hand into his and places a gentle kiss on the back of it. The feeling sends shocks up your arm and throughout your body. You blush at the feeling, and he only waves as you break apart.

When you turn fully, your dress trails behind you like smoke, and your hips sway as you do. You look back one final time, and you find that he’s still standing on the dirt path, watching you go. You shake your head, as if trying to rid yourself of the heat on your cheeks, and you disappear from sight.

By the time sunset breaks and black spreads through the starry night sky, you made your way back to your pavilion while taking careful steps through the crowds. As always, Faeya was out and about, flirting with many lords in hopes of making hefty coin for the day. She circled an older man, his belly protruding from his much-too-tight doublet. He barks out words rather than speaking softly and intelligently, as Valarr did. The difference was quite damning, you thought to yourself.

As your attention turns, you realise that Shapra is still nowhere to be found. You worry your lip at the thought, looking around a little bit longer, hoping that you’ll see her. You don’t.

You then spot Orlos still manning the cart, repairing a fine lace with utmost focus as he has no customers at the moment. His pink tongue sticks out from between his lips, furrowing his brows as he loops more thread through the piece. His fluffy brown curls hang over his brows, and you make a mental note to cut the strands shorter just as he likes them.

You make your way to Orlos, leaning against the wooden cart as you do. He looks down at you with an expectant look on his face, like he wants you to spill your entire day to him.

“I met a prince,” you announce casually, shrugging your shoulders and checking over your nails. His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he leans his chin against his palm.

“A prince, huh? What's he look like?” he says in a thick accent, humor dancing on his face as his lips quirk in a teasing smile. You offer him a roll of your eyes, scoffing at his question.

“He was handsome,” you reply lamely, and he groans at your lack of information.

“Keep your secrets then,” he mutters and turns to a lady who’s now looking through the collection of sheer fabrics. You snort out a silent laugh, still leaning against the cart. All of a sudden, your eyes land on a familiar short crop of white hair—the unkind man from yesterday. No guards follow him, and he walks through the camp with his head held high, though it appears more arrogant. People hastily move out of his path, though he doesn’t blink an eye, almost as if he expects it. You narrow your eyes at the sight, scoffing when he shoulder checks a drunk man who cowers in fear. In fact, everyone around him seems to cower.

He was cruel, you could tell. You’d met many cruel men living on Lys, all with the same look in their dark, beady eyes. They would take and take and take, until their hunger for evil was sated; they didn’t stay full for long.  Was their destiny, decided from the start of their existence, truly only evil? You wondered how men like them came to be. Perhaps they molded themselves after conquerors, hoping that their little lives would be much more meaningful than they actually were. They always seemed to die young.

You turn away from the sight, not wanting to watch any longer. All is well until said man stops directly in front of you, arms crossed over his chest. He looks down his nose at you, a wide smirk on his face. Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second, not at all expecting him, before settling back into their normal size.

“So we meet again,” he remarks, amused, eyes trailing down your frame as you look at him again through your lashes. You tilt your head, studying him right back. He would not intimidate you.

“So we do,” you respond simply, your eyes traveling around him to the watchful eyes of people pretending not to watch. His hand comes up and touches your silver strands with a gentle hand, just like he did when he first met you. You look at him as he does.

His smirk only grows wider, finally letting go and stepping to the side so he can lean his left shoulder against the cart to face you. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. He was quite strange.

You pay him no mind, instead stepping away from where you stood in order to walk away. His hand catches your wrist in a tight grip, pulling you back. You stumble from the tug and shoot him a glare.

“I wish to show you to my family,” he says like a command, like you're an object purely made for amusement. Your glare doesn’t let up as you struggle to rip your wrist from his iron grip.

“I do not think that’s wise, my prince,” you say, eyebrows furrowed in contempt. He only laughs at that, letting you go finally.

“Fuck being wise,” he says with a shrug. You don’t even think his proposal over, shaking your head 'no'. You would not dine with him, and if his family were anything like him, you would not dine with them either.

He looks at you, his faux kindness slowly draining from his stare. Has no one ever told him no? He smiles again, this time more forced than before. “I have your friend. She described you.”

You look at him then, really look. Your eyes widen, a gasp leaving your lips as you soak in his words. Could it be?

“W-what? How—why?” you panic, grabbing his arm as you ask. He doesn’t move as he truly studies your face.

“Come with me, and you shall find out,” he says, knowing well you would not refuse now. You can only hope, as you leave the grounds with him, that Shapra’s not hurt.

thank you for reading! <3

taglist: @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @jellyforbrains @amndstuckinwonderland

[vintageverse]

The Silks of Lys | Chapter One

chapter one. chapter two. chapter three.

possible pairings: baelor, maekar, duncan, daeron, aerion, valarr x fem!reader

summary: you come from the island of lys with a small group of your friends in search of opportunity and adventure. you find that this journey provides much more than you certainly anticipated.

word count: 3,365

note: there should be no descriptive features for any race, just hair color and eye color! if you find any, please let me know so i can fix it <3

A thick fog hung in the air after heavy rain, carrying the scents of animals and cooked meat that lingered. Highborn and lowborn alike stomped through muddy paths, trading and laughing, while children from all different houses ran amok and playfighting with wooden swords. The sight was loud and chaotic, but lively in its way.

An Essoi cart wove through the crowd, draped in silks and ringing metal bells. Onlookers paused to stare at the peculiar colors and the tan-skinned man steering his horses through the ruckus. Drawn by the attention, a white-haired woman peeked out from the fabric, eyes widened in wonder. She met the many stares with a violet stare of her own and smiled shyly as they gazed at her as if she were a myth. She looked to the many knights who walked past in leather armor and offered a gleeful wave to the squealing children. She loved people–they fascinated her.

As they find a spot to set up shop, a hand clasps your wrist. You turn to Faeya, your Bravossi friend. “Don’t wave. Some have bad intentions and will take advantage,” she says, releasing you. You watch her, then drop the fabrics and hide again. Faeya could be blunt, even rude, but it was because you were family.

And then finally, after days of travel, a final tug on the reins brings the two horses to a halt, signaling the journey’s end. The cart comes to a stop, and the girls inside sigh in collective relief, aware that new challenges and opportunities await them.

"You think we’ll sell much?" a Myrish girl named Shapra asks curiously, her fingers worrying the small coin pouch tied to her belt. You glance up from folding small handkerchiefs in your lap, catching her anxious expression.

"If we have half your luck, we might just go home with a carriage full of Westerosi gold," you reply teasingly, trying to calm her mind. Shapra snorts at that, but the unease doesn't entirely leave her eyes. Faeya, who sits next to her, pays her no mind and steps out of the cart. Her dark skin shimmers as sweat meets the sun. She shakes her coily dark hair out of its tie and sighs at finally escaping the stuffy cart.

Shapra rolls her eyes at Faeya’s silence and looks to you, but you only shrug. She follows Faeya out, steps onto the ground, and squeals as her feet land in a pile of mud. You giggle at the short-haired girl’s misfortune, earning a sharp glare and playful snarl. You squeak at her look and quickly escape the carriage, dodging her playful slap. Lucky to have learned from her mistake, you avoid the mud with ease.

“I take back what I said! I hope we don’t have your luck!” I say, laughing, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

You stretch your arms high in the air, shaking off the many days of sitting in the wooden wheelhouse. “Free at last!” you exclaim. You look around at the many people, and they look back at your group with curious eyes. You couldn’t blame them; you all were far from home. At least you offer them a welcoming smile. While most smile back at you, you can tell they are staring at your white locks with surprise.

Suddenly, Shapra grabs your arm and yanks you to the half of your four-person group. You gasp and slap her arm. “You scared me!”

She offers an evil giggle; you roll your eyes in response.

By the time the sun dips and the sky begins to turn a pinkish orange, your spacious pavilion is set up high. The cart is open for business. Orlos, the tan-skinned man from before, sits in the cart, bargaining with the many lords and ladies. Orlos is a kind-hearted man. He spent most of his life moving—either with his parents, or now alone, since his parents passed years ago, leaving their livelihood in his trusted hands.

“Best silks in all the free cities!” Orlos booms, his voice in a gleeful tone as he beckons people to touch the beautiful fabrics he’s selling with a proud smile on his face.

Faeya is roaming the tent, offering a special deal on private dances. Many men who pass look at her with eagerness in their eyes, though only one is selected from the crowd at a time. She pulls a red-haired man who’s seemingly wealthy into the tent with a sly smile on her face, and they both disappear between the two flaps. You shake your head with an amused smile on your face. People would describe Faeya as a whore, but you disagree. She was a dancer, a performer, a free woman with a heart full of hope—hope for a better life and for experiences shaped by her own choices.

Finally, your eyes drop to Shapra. She was a dear friend, if not the dearest. She was nice at times, but above all, carefree. She was more boyish than expected, and you jokingly called her your little brother, which always made her smack you. She kept her brown hair short and shaggy, dressed in pants and tunics, and even so, her face was a sight for sore eyes.

As she drinks with a small group of hedge knights a few steps from the tent, her fingers absently dance along a dagger's hilt at her belt. The men speak quickly in the Westerosi tongue, and you see Shapra's brow furrow as she tries to keep up with their language, which she is not fluent in. Now and then, she mutters a Myrish word under her breath and pauses, searching for the right Westerosi expression before laughing along. The knights seem amused, trying to repeat her Myrish phrases and failing, but Shapra only grins with that unbothered confidence that makes her so easy to love.

You smile to yourself because seeing all your friends together, enjoying themselves, is all you could ask for. And then you make your way through the tourney grounds, dodging drunk, handsy men and rambling ladies who stare a hole through your head. You simply ignore the looks and pull your violet shawl tighter around you with the makeshift hood atop your head. You walk for a couple of minutes more until you accidentally bump into what feels like a boulder—until you look up.

"Seven hells, who the f—" the man starts to say, but his annoyed look quickly turns to awkward surprise as he sees you looking up at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows. You quickly stammer an apology, but he holds out his hands and shakes them at you.

“Milady! I apologize!” He says hastily, and you blink in confusion. At the same time, you both instinctively step back from one another, uncertain and flustered. The mirrored gesture draws a flicker of recognition, and after a heartbeat, a small smile breaks out on your face, followed by a quiet giggle.

"You don’t need to apologize. It was me who wasn’t watching," you say softly, tucking a silver chunk of hair behind your ear. For a moment, his gaze lingers, tracing the pale strands. Was it simple awe, or had he recognized something in you? The question settles unspoken in your thoughts, and the sounds of the tourney resume.

His eyes widen suddenly at the sight, and he bows down onto one knee. “You must be a Targaryen! I’m very sorry, princess!” he says, then bows his head down towards the muddy path he kneels on. For a beat, your heart jumps into your throat and ice pricks along your skin as all the eyes in the crowd fix on you. You gasp at the sudden movement and look around at the staring people, your ears and cheeks turning beet red.

You hastily tug his arms up as a sign that he should stand, and you shrink into yourself. “I’m no princess, m’lord!” You say hastily, and he stands up with a confused look on his face.

"B-but your hair...it's as white as a Targaryen’s," he says, sounding confused. You tilt your head to the side.

“I am sorry, but I know not what you speak of. I am Lyseni—from Essos,” you explain to the giant in front of you. You do not know what this Targaryen name means.

“Oh! Well then, my apologies, m’lady.” He says and bows his head awkwardly, and you can't help but giggle again at his awkward movements. He looks down at you as you giggle, and a blush returns to his face, and he smiles awkwardly. He is a big man with shaggy brown hair, though he seems to be harmless and even sweet.

“You are very tall, m’lord,” you say and look up at him with wonder. He sputters at your words and shakes his hands at you again. He truly is a giant man as he towers over you–even as he shrinks into himself.

“I’m no lord. I’m just a knight, m’lady. Ser Dunk, my name is.” He says and relaxes somewhat as he does. He even smiles shyly and rubs the back of his head with his right hand.

Your eyes study him as he explains. He is quite handsome and has a charm that you don’t find all that often. He even seems like a gentleman. “Dunk. I like that name,” you say and rock back and forth from your heels to toes.

He sputters again and flushes a bright red before looking away and mumbling out a “thank you”. You both sit in silence for a moment more before you start again.

“Any food ‘round here, Ser?” You ask, tilting your head in curiosity. He ponders for a moment but then nods his head as if remembering.

“I was actually heading to that tent. It’s noisy, and I can smell chicken.” He says and sniffs the air. A smile breaks out on your face at his words, and without another word, you loop your arm around his and pull him towards the large tent with people entering and exiting. He stumbles behind you in shock, quickly regains his footing, and you both walk to the tent side by side. You can feel his gaze as you both enter but choose to look around the spacious tent instead. Candles are everywhere, providing ample light, and people dance manically to the upbeat music. You giggle at their carefree attitude and quickly sit on a bench so that you can help yourself to bread and soup in the middle. Ser Dunk follows your lead and picks up a humongous turkey leg with wonder in his eyes. You snort at the sight.

He turns to you with curious eyes as he digs in, and you smile as you eat. “You look so happy,” you explain, and he blushes once again. He chews for a few moments and nods at your words.

“So do you!” He says over the noise.

By the time we’re done eating, the dancing has only gotten more powerful and chaotic. The people around you get up to dance, yet you and Duncan stay still, eating your fill. You must’ve both been very hungry.

“I never knew a lady to eat like me!” He says, loud enough for you to hear. You raise your head to look at him, clearly caught off guard as crumbs stick to your face. He laughs at your face and quickly brushes the crumbs off with his thumb without even thinking. He pauses suddenly, just realizing what he did, and tugs his hand away and turns back to his food. You watch him for a second and decide to ignore it, too.

“I eat more than everyone in my company,” you say simply, shooting him a grin. He smiles back, clearly relieved that you changed the subject.

“Aye, I can believe that m’lady!” He says, laughing with food in his mouth, and you follow him. You both laugh for a few more seconds, and you speak suddenly.

“(Name),” you mutter gently, and he looks to you with a confused expression. You snort. “My name, I never told it to you.”

He blinks for a few seconds more before swallowing deeply and nodding. He repeats the name to himself, which makes you blush. You can tell that he’s the type to never forget it.

The noise around you is still rambunctious, but when a man with an antler helm speaks loud enough for everyone to hear, the pavilion floods with thick silence. He seems a bit drunk, and his words seem to have left his head for a moment.

As you listen, you lean towards Dunk’s side slowly and whisper a question to him. “Who’s he?”

He clears his throat softly and responds as quietly as he can. “Lord Baratheon. His house animal is a stag.” He explains, and you nod plainly. The antlers make sense now, as well as his playful demeanor. You suppose that when you’re strong and powerful, you never worry about judgment from others lower than you.

By the time the Baratheon lord is finished talking, Duncan leaves you to explore the pavilion, and you slip out quietly. You didn’t say goodbye, but you have a good feeling this isn’t the last time you’ll be seeing each other. You hope for that, at least.

​Morning comes softly, warm sunlight spilling through the tent's thin fabric and painting golden patterns across the floor. The air feels damp and cool against your skin that sticks out from the wool blankets that engulf you.

You slowly sit up, stretching your limbs high up as the stray cats would back on Lys. Your skin prickles in anticipation of yet another day of new experiences, and you reach for the seafoam gown that hangs nearby. The cold silk is weightless in your hands and smells of lavender. As you dress, it whispers over your body rather than hugs it, and its translucent sheen reveals the soft lines of your form.

The Lyseni embrace openness–always have. The body is neither shameful nor hidden, but a beautiful creation, though you do remember where you are. Westeros is not known for such openness, so you choose a gown that veils your privates beneath shimmering folds. Though your breasts and peaked nipples remain exposed, the fabric is cool and almost thrilling against them.

You smooth your right palm down the front, feeling the silky texture and the softness of your skin peeking through.

Before you can even leave the tent, a random lord rushes out—no doubt someone that Faeya had yesterday. They’re always so eager but leave so quickly. It’s a shame. You shrug and make your way out, and to your chagrin, the mud has dried somewhat compared to yesterday. You sigh, breathing in the crisp morning air, and stretch your hands high. Immediately, eyes are drawn to you, but you still ignore them and walk through the bustling crowd.

You can only see Orlos manning the cart, no sign of Faeya or Shapra. You sigh out in slight nervousness, but trust that your companions are safe.

As you walk around the grounds, a sudden horn blows, and people gather to watch guards and horses ride over the bridge. In tow, flags are raised with an interesting-looking sigil. From here, you assume it’s in the shape of a dragon. You tilt your head in curiosity, and a sudden body presses up against your back. You turn and see the man from yesterday.

“Ser!” you say happily, sending him a kind smile. He smiles widely back at you and leans down slightly to talk with you. He looks the same, though his hair is a bit messy and his eyes are red with sleep, which you assume is due to too much ale.

“Who is it?” he asks, and you shrug.

“The sigil was a dragon,” you say simply, and his eyes widen somewhat. Before you can say or ask anything more, he pulls you along with him, and you simply follow. You trust him enough to do that.

As you walk side by side, you get the sudden urge to ask. “Where’re we going?”

He hesitates before answering, and you can tell he's being truthful when he speaks. "I want to enter the lists, but I need someone to vouch for me. For my knighthood. Someone from their house is bound to know Ser Arlan," he says, determined, though there’s a flicker of nerves beneath his steady gaze. His jaw sets as he adds, "If I can’t ride in the lists, I might as well go hungry. This is my only chance."

“Ser Arlan? Was he your father?” I ask curiously, looking up at him again. He shakes his head negatively and sighs.

“He was a knight I squired for.” He says with a final simplicity. Not commanding nor rude, but not yet ready to share. You assume something happened but ignore it. He’ll tell you when you’re ready.

By the time both of you stop, you’re standing in a stinky horse stable with stableboys passing through with eagerness to make some coin. They lead in all different types of horses, ignoring you two in the process. The horses eat the hay scattered throughout the stable floor, and you pet one with a gentle palm on the nose. It nibbles at your hand with its lips, and you snort as it does.

Suddenly, a horse steps in front of your path, and a young-looking man speaks arrogantly to Dunk. “Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse,” he commands in a bored tone. You blink at the sound and furrow your eyebrows in slight disgust, but as you trail your eyes up his body, you spot white hair, much like your own. You can’t see his eyes, but you bet they mirror yours–you only wonder if they’re violet or amethyst.

Dunk clears his throat nervously. “I’m not a stable boy, m’lord,” he says, and that catches Aerion’s attention. As he trails his eyes over Dunk, his eyes suddenly land on you. The look that engulfs his face makes you hide somewhat behind Dunk, not wanting that attention on you again. He furrows his eyebrows in wonder and hastily gets off his horse, walking right up to you whilst shoving Dunk to the side.

He looks for a moment, and you look back under your eyelashes, and then he proceeds to grab a lock of white hair that is separated from your hair and rubs it between his thumb and pointer. He does so as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You blush and look to Dunk for help, but he only stares as the man in front of you does so.

“Blood of my blood,” he mutters, looking you up and down. His eyes grow in intensity, locking in on your breasts and your curves before trailing back up to your eyes. When you see his eyes, you’re met with a rich amethyst–darker than yours, but no less beautiful. You hesitate, but clear your throat and back away from the white-haired man.

“I’ve never met someone like me,” you say awkwardly and walk to Dunk’s side instinctively. He follows, though he does not crowd you as much as he did before. He is quite an attractive man. With cropped white hair and a strong jaw like stone, he could possibly be the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

He hums to your words and studies you for a second more, but steps back suddenly. You furrow your brows in worry, tilting your head in a silent question that he answers by walking away backwards before turning away and disappearing within the castle. You look up at Dunk with a look of confusion, and he only mirrors you. You sigh and lean against a bale of hay.

a/n: please let me know if there's any mistakes! thank you for reading :)

[vintageverse]

Is it okay now to mention how fucking fine Imane Khelif is??? My god, I’m in love and so gay. She’s also a fantastic fighter. So damn good. 😤