Chapter Text
"Suck it all in, my lady...!" Your handmaiden demanded, tugging at the laces of your corset.
"... I'm sucking in all I can..." You murmured under your breath, "Is this truly necessary?"
She looked at you as if you'd just sprouted two more heads, "Are you jesting? Half of Westeros is showing up to this tournament. You have to look your best."
"Yes but-... all this for what?" You asked, rather dumbly.
Your handmaiden gave one final, vicious yank. "For presentation," she said firmly. You made a sound that was not unlike a dying goose.
After what seemed like forever, she stepped back and inspected you. Her foot tapped against the floor, assessing what was missing.
There was a light rap of knuckles against the door, and a voice spoke, "Are you quite finished in there? It's been centuries."
"Yes, father." You sighed, amused, "Come in, before I suffocate to death."
The door slid open, and your father made his way across the room. Your handmaiden returned to your dress, nitpicking at the details. She tied the ribbon piece at your waist impossibly tighter.
"Careful, Mya," he said mildly to your handmaiden. "If you kill my daughter before the opening feast, I shall have to host a funeral instead of a tournament, and I’ve already paid the bards."
He came to stand by the window, glancing outside rather thoughtfully. In one hand, he held a peach, and in the other, a small knife.
Mya rolled her eyes. "My lord, if I do not lace her properly, every son of every lord from here to the North will think Lady Baratheon cannot be bothered to sit straight in her own gowns."
"Good," Lyonel said at once. "Let them think she has a slouch and a bad temper. It will keep them away."
You snorted. Mya, who had long ago given up pretending your father was a sensible man, stepped back at last and smoothed down the bodice of your gown. "There. Breathe."
"But I cannot."
She ignored you and bent to fuss with your skirts instead, "If you can find a way to sass at me, you can breathe fine. Do not be so dramatic."
"That is hardly reassuring, Mya."
You turned, carefully, (because apparently your ribs were now ornamental), and looked at yourself in the polished mirror.
Black and gold. Your father's colors, of course. The gown was light, though far more fitted than anything you might've chosen for yourself.
The sleeves embroidered with little designs in golden thread. The neckline was modest enough to keep your father from fainting dead. But flattering enough that Mya looked deeply pleased with herself.
"Well?" Mya demanded, looking around for jewelry.
"I look very expensive, Mya. Thank you." You said, tilting your head.
Lyonel barked a laugh from the window, "You are expensive, darling girl." He held out his hand, offering a slice of peach to you.
You turned towards him, and accepted the fruit gratefully, "... This all feels rather absurd, father."
"It is not absurd," your father said. "It is strategic."
"Strategic," you repeated flatly.
"Yes." He popped a slice of peach into his mouth. "Three days of jousting, feasting, dancing... and public humiliation. A perfect education."
You raised a brow, and chewed thoughtfully, "Education? For who? For me?"
"For you. And the men." He shrugged, "... Both."
You crossed your arms as best you could in the gown. "I was under the impression this tournament was being held to celebrate my introduction into the court."
"It is," Lyonel said.
Mya made a face.
He lifted one broad shoulder. "But if every peacock in the realm wishes to preen himself before my daughter, then I am content to let them. Better she sees how awful they are now than finds out after marriage."
You scoffed, "That is not entirely fair. Or true."
"What?" he said. "You think I do not know how these things go? One writes poetry... One swears he slew a mountain lion with a dagger."
Myra nodded her head, in quiet agreement. Your father continued, slicing another piece of peach, "By the end of the week half of them are bleeding out and all of them are lying."
"...So I think it's entirely fair. And true." He said, waving his knife to add emphasis to his words.
You smiled despite yourself. That was the thing of it. Your father could grumble all he liked. But underneath the bark, was a fondness few got to see.
He had been impossibly proud when your studies were completed. Proud enough to host a tournament. Proud enough to summon half the realm.
Proud enough, perhaps, to pretend this was all some great cautionary display of masculine idiocy rather than what it plainly was.
A celebration. For you. You moved forward, and took the slice of peach from his hand before he could protest. "Thank you." You said, quietly.
Lyonel stared at you, suspicious at once. "For what?"
"For this." You gestured vaguely, at the gown, the noise drifting in from the courtyard below where squires shouted., "For all of it."
His expression shifted in that subtle, awkward way it always did when he was struck with tenderness and did not wish to be caught feeling it, "Hm.. well, yes." He shrugged, "You are my daughter."
"As if I could forget."
"Mhm." He narrowed his eyes. "And because you are my daughter, there are rules."
"Oh no."
Mya, traitor that she was, brightened and moved to stand by the door as if she too wished to hear the proclamation.
"Oh, yes." Lyonel held up one scarred finger. "You will not wander off alone."
You opened your mouth. He held up a second finger, and cut you off, "You will not accept flowers from any man who uses too much perfumed oil."
"That seems oddly specific." Your head tilted, both amused and bewildered. While you found it somewhat endearing, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was all… well, overkill.
"It is. They are always the worst sort. Pompous and-... Well, never mind. Just don't do it."
Then, a third finger. "And you will not dance more than twice with the same knight."
You scoffed, and shook your head, "Father I really don-..."
"Unless he is losing."
You blinked, "... Really?" You said, a bit surprised.
Lyonel nodded, "If he is losing, you may dance with him thrice. It builds character.." Mya snorted so hard she had to turn away.
"And," Lyonel said, now with a fourth finger raised like the hand of a septon delivering judgment, "under no circumstances will you allow yourself to be cornered by any Targaryen."
You should have known it was coming. Your expression shifted, and he snapped his fingers, catching it instantly.
"Ah, there it is..." He said, crossing his arms, "So that's what has got your stomach in knots, then."
You looked around the room, indignant, "My stomach is not in knots."
"Please." He held a hand up limply, "You're wound up tighter than a Dornish lute string." Mya made a little noise of agreement and, wisely, slipped out the door with the excuse of fetching your veil. Coward.
You sat on the edge of the bed opposite your father and smoothed your skirts over your knees. "It has been years."
"Good." Lyonel scoffed, "Thank the seven for that."
"Father."
"What?" Lyonel said. "I speak plain. They were trouble then, and I imagine they are just taller trouble now."
You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, "Not all of them. Surely." You shook your head, amused, and looked out the open window. Beyond the stone walls, the castle grounds had transformed into a bright and bustling sprawl of summer tents and fluttering banners.
Black and red dragons. Green fields and golden roses. Fancy sigils catching in the warm wind. By midday, the high lords would begin to arrive in earnest. Including them.
You had not seen the royal family since you were a girl running half-wild through summer corridors with grass stains on your hems.
Your mother had been a good friend of Lady Dyanna's. She had lived in at Summerhall. And during the late spring, and summer, your father would send you over, to spend time with her.
You could remember Dyanna’s perfume, candied fig and cinnamon... The sound of Prince Daeron laughing too loudly at something he ought not to.
Prince Aerion appearing out of nowhere with a frog cupped in both hands and the smile of a demon. You remembered scraped knees and stealing sweetcakes from the kitchens. And you remembered leaving one summer and not returning.
After your mother passed, Lyonel saw no reason for you to stay at Summerhall anymore. "I doubt they'll even remember me." You admitted, softly.
Lyonel’s expression gentled, though he tried to hide it, "They will. It would be impossible not to. You bit Aerion Targaryen."
"He deserved it." You reminded him, quickly.
He pointed the dagger at you. "Exactly." Despite yourself, you laughed. Lyonel’s mouth twitched. "If they do not remember you, they are fools. If they do... they are still Targaryens. So, I suppose it's the same either way."
You exhaled through your nose. "You really do hate them."
"I do, yes." He sighed, fondly.
"Even Prince Daeron? I don't remember him being as cruel as Aerion."
He gave you a look, "Hm... If I recall correctly, that one at least had the decency to be frightened of me."
"We were children." You grinned, "... Besides, everyone is intimidated of you."
"As they should be." He agreed.
A horn sounded in the courtyard below. Then another. The arrival call. Your stomach dropped all over again.
Your father heard it too. He straightened in one smooth motion. For a moment he simply looked down at you, his daughter, the child he had spoiled into sharpness.
Then he put both hands on your shoulders, "Listen to me." He said, "You are a Baratheon."
You lifted a brow, "That sounds suspiciously like the start of a war speech."
"It often is." His mouth quirked. "You are cleverer than half the men coming here, and twice as well bred as the rest. You do not need to impress anyone. If they fail to appreciate you, that is their misfortune."
Your throat tightened. "And if any silver-haired princeling gives you trouble," he added, voice turning disdainfully once more, "you come find me."
You smiled faintly, "I thought I wasn't allowed to be cornered by Targaryens."
"You are not."
"But if I am?"
"Then I shall corner them back."
That made you laugh outright. Mya returned at that moment with your veil, took one look at the two of you, and sighed deeply. "If you’ve finished plotting murder, my lady, the procession is beginning."
________________________________________________________________
By the time the formalities were over, and after a speech from your father that somehow managed to be both gracious and faintly threatening... you were half-mad from smiling.
Lords bowed and pretty ladies curtsied.
Knights looked at you with varying degrees of ambition. One very handsome Reach boy even kissed your hand.
You were beginning to understand your father’s point about peacocks. Still, there was a thrilling sort of madness to it all. By midday, with the more notable arrivals still drawing a crowd at the main yard, you found your opportunity.
No one, for one glorious moment, was looking at you. So naturally, you slipped away. It was hardly difficult. You ducked behind a line of servants carrying wine and made for the outer field where the tournament pavilions had been raised in neat rows.
The noise softened there, replaced by the creak of leather and the buzzing of beetles. You passed tents striped in crimson and gold, white and blue... Any color imaginable, really.
You slowed, your anxiety momentarily paused by your delight. You'd always loved this part. The before. The sharpened anticipation in the air. The sense that by sunset someone would be triumphant, someone would be humiliated...
And someone would definitely throw up in a decorative hedge. Probably yourself, if you were to be honest. You smiled to yourself and turned down another row of tents. Then promptly walked straight into a young man carrying a saddle.
"Oh!" you gasped, stumbling back.
The boy yelped. The saddle tipped. You caught one end on instinct before it hit the dirt, "Sorry! sorry, my lady-...."
"It was my fault," you said quickly, helping him right it. "No harm done." The boy blinked, red-faced, and bowed himself nearly in half before hurrying away.
You watched him go, amused. Then you looked up, and froze. Black silk canopies. Dragon banners… Squires, in expensive apparel, moved briskly between trunks and weapon stands.
And at the center of it all, half-turned away as a servant adjusted the clasp at his shoulder, stood a young man in riding leathers. His short, silver-white hair catching in the sun like polished steel.
Before you could decide whether to retreat, someone else emerged from the open flap of the largest pavilion carrying a goblet. Tall. Broad-shouldered. And a little rumpled already, despite the hour. His golden locks far less disciplined than the other's. His expression was softer, or maybe just dazed. You couldn't tell.
Prince Daeron. Older now, obviously. He looked a little worn at the edges, despite being only a year your senior. But still with that same boyish tilt to his lips.
He glanced over at you, absentmindedly, and frowned. Not in displeasure exactly. Maybe in recognition, trying to catch up with itself. Before either of you could speak, the first prince turned.
Prince Aerion Targaryen had grown into exactly the sort of man one might expect from a child who delighted in chasing people with snakes. Sharp-jawed, with violent violet eyes. And dressed as though he expected the world to admire him. Beautiful, in the way dangerous things often were.
qHe looked you up and down once, quick and dismissive, taking in the gown... the lack of escort... And, naturally, he drew the worst conclusion possible. "You there," Aerion said coolly, as if summoning a kitchen girl. "Find whoever’s responsible for these tent placements and tell them my horse is not to be stabled beside that one."
He pointed with visible offense toward a nearby Friesian who had done nothing except exist.
You stared at him. For one heartbeat, two. Then your brows rose slowly. "Your... horse?"
Aerion looked faintly irritated by the question. "Yes...? Mine. Unless the beast has suddenly become self-governing."
Daeron made a choking sound into his goblet. You turned your head. He was staring at you now, his eyes wide with horrified dawning realization. "Aerion," he said, too late and with the air of a man stepping toward disaster, "I do not think she is-..."
"...- What?" Aerion snapped, "Is she a whore you've called for? Already? Are the tents even properly set up, Daeron?"
"... I should hope not." you cut in, feigning patience, "A stable boy would be much more useful in this situation."
Aerion’s expression sharpened. There it was, that old spark of affronted hostility, alive and well after all these years, "I beg your pardon?"
"You may," you said.
His eyes narrowed. Daeron, meanwhile, was looking between the two of you as if he’d just stumbled upon a wildfire and was deciding whether to run or watch.
You folded your hands before you and offered Aerion the prettiest smile you possessed,"I was under the impression royal guests were meant to arrive with manners packed among their trunks," you said lightly. "How strange. Did yours get lost on the kingsroad?"
For a moment, Aerion simply stared. In utter shock at the insolence shown. Never, in all his years, had he ever been treated with such upfront disrespect. Something flickered. Recognition pulled across his face. His mouth parted the slightest bit.
"Gods," Daeron said, sounding half delighted and half appalled. "It is you, isn’t it?"
You turned to him then, and the years seemed to collapse all at once. He looked so much older than the boy you remembered, and yet not older at all. The same sheepish smile trying to appear despite the awkwardness was still there.
And the same tendency to look as though he had arrived somewhere entirely by accident and hoped no one would ask him to explain himself, ".... Prince Daeron," you said softly.
A startled warmth reached his eyes before he could stop it. "Seven hells...," he said under his breath, almost laughing. "You’ve gone and become a proper lady."
You looked down at your gown. "Against my will, I assure you."
That got a real laugh out of him. Aerion was still staring at you as if the past had personally insulted him, "You," he said at last.
Daeron let out an incredulous noise. "That is what you lead with?"
"What would you have me say?" Aerion snapped, "...You should not even be here, unescorted especially." He shot, towards you.
Before Daeron or you could respond, somewhere, in the distance... A horn sounded from the yard, calling the nobles toward the lists. The sound rolled over the tournament grounds and at once, the camp around you lurched into motion.
You glanced toward the sound, then back to the princes. "Oh," you said, suddenly aware of exactly where you were. "I should likely-..."
"Yes," Aerion said at once.
"No," Daeron said, at the very same time.
Aerion turned his head slowly. "...No?"
Daeron ignored him, looking at you instead with that helpless expression of a man already regretting what he was about to involve himself in, "Yes... You should likely be heading back," he said carefully, "but..."
He looked around at the fact that you were, unfortunately, quite visibly alone. His mouth twitched like he knew exactly how ridiculous he was about to sound, "...if Lord Baratheon discovers you’ve been wandering the royal encampment unescorted..." he paused, "I’d rather not be accused of abandoning you to certain death."
You blinked, "That’s very kind of you, your grace."
"It is not kind," Aerion cut in. "He is only trying to save his own hide.."
Daeron sighed. "That too."
You folded your hands behind you, tilting your head. "But you’ll escort me?"
Daeron hesitated for half a heartbeat, just enough to be endearing, "We will... If... if you’ll allow it."
"What? We?" Aerion scoffed loudly, "Do not involve me in this. I have no obligations towards her."
"You’re the one who pointed out she was unescorted."
"Yes," Aerion said, affronted, "which was meant to be criticism, not an invitation."
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Daeron offered you his arm. For a moment, you looked at it. Then at Aerion, who looked as though he would sooner fling himself into Blackwater Bay than participate in any of this.
You slipped your hand lightly through the crook of Daeron’s elbow. "Lead on, then," you said sweetly. Daeron went just the slightest bit stiff.
Aerion's lip curled, "Oh, this is humiliating for you. For us."
"Only for you," you said.
He gave you a look that promised vengeance. You rather enjoyed it. The three of you fell into step toward the lists, threading through the bustling lanes between pavilions. It was all absurdly familiar.
Daeron kept himself slightly to your left, guiding you around loose tent ropes and puddles. While Aerion stalked on your right with the expression of a prince being marched to his own execution.
The silence was deafening. And after just a moment, Daeron cleared his throat, "I must ask, my lady... For Aerion's sake." He glanced down at you, "Are you still in the habit of biting princes?"
"What?" Aerion whipped his head towards his brother, "What are you fucking on about?"
You lifted your chin. "Well, to answer the prince’s deeply urgent concern... no. I do not make a habit of biting royalty."
"Charming." Aerion drawled, dryly.
"You used to think so, yes." You hummed in reply
"I was nine."
"And yet," you sighed, "still somehow the same."
Daeron made a soft noise, like he was trying very hard not to enjoy this as much as he clearly was. To fill the brief silence, he glanced toward the musicians assembling near the lists. "Do you still spend your days with books and songs?" he asked.
A question asked not just out of politeness, but memory. You looked up at him. "I do," you said. "Though I’ve gained a greater appreciation for poetry than I had as a child."
Daeron smiled. "Have you?"
"Mm." You nodded thoughtfully. "There’s a poet in my father’s court just now. Sabrina of House Carpenter."
Daeron blinked. "I can’t say I know the name."
"She’s wonderful," you said at once, brightening. "Sharp-witted and very romantic when she wants to be."
Daeron looked, quite unfairly, as if he was genuinely interested in everything you said. Aerion scoffed beside you. The sound was so abrupt and disdainful that both you and Daeron turned to him.
"Of course you like her," he said.
You stared. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He lifted one shoulder. "Frilly love poems. Very fitting." Daeron winced.
"Do enlighten me, then, prince. What do you prefer?" You frowned, arching a brow.
Aerion’s chin tipped upward, and there it was again: that impossible, infuriating arrogance. "Heavier ballads," he said, with all the self-importance of a man announcing statecraft. "Something with actual substance. Rebellion. Rage Against the Tyrant."
You looked at him. Then at Daeron. Daeron’s mouth twitched. Oh, that was rich. You turned back to Aerion, "Isn’t that a bit ironic?" You asked, wondering if he meant it to be that way.
Aerion frowned. "What?"
You widened your eyes just slightly. "Nothing."
"No," he said at once, suspicious. "What?"
"Truly, it’s nothing at all," you said. "Only... one might think a prince, particularly this prince, would be rather more partial to the tyrant than the rage against him."
Aerion's eyes narrowed, "I do not understand the jest."
"Oh, that is obvious," Daeron said quickly.
You lost the battle then and laughed outright, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Daeron broke with you, bowing his head as a grin finally won over his composure.
"Disgraceful." Aerion muttered, "Both of you."
By the time the three of you reached the noble stands, the first rows were already filling. And there, standing near the front with his arms folded and his expression darkening by the second, was your father.
You felt Daeron tense beside you. Aerion, to his credit, did not look especially concerned. Your father’s eyes found you first. Then your hand tucked through Daeron’s arm. Then to Aerion.
Daeron murmured, "I may die."
Aerion, under his breath, said, "Then let me have your books."
Lyonel descended the last two steps toward you like a gathering storm, "My lady."
"Father." You replied, bowing your head in greeting.
Daeron immediately straightened, all awkward charm evaporating into pure survival instinct, "My lord, I assure you, it is not what it appears-..."
"Hm?" Lyonel said, not catching the prince's stuttered words.
Daeron faltered.
"... What?" Lyonel added, louder this time, as though Daeron were a very distant and uninteresting bird. "Go away. I think I heard your father calling for you, princeling."
Aerion looked scandalized. Daeron blinked, "My lord, we were only-..."
"Returning my daughter?" Lyonel said. "How noble. You have my everlasting gratitude. Now be gone."
Aerion drew himself up. "Lord Baratheon, if you think I would ever intentionally-..."
"Excellent," Lyonel interrupted, not even looking at him. "You may go too."
Daeron caught his brother by the sleeve before he could say anything else disastrous, "Come along," he muttered.
Aerion allowed himself to be dragged a single step, then looked back over his shoulder at you.
For all his vanity, and his sharp little sneers... There was something almost curious in his face now. Like he’d found a puzzle he disliked on principle, but intended to solve anyway.
You watched them go. Daeron glanced back once, and tried to give a polite smile. Your father let out a slow, dangerous breath beside you, "Absolutely not."
You looked up at him, all innocence, "Whatever do you mean?"
You smiled a bit to yourself, and Lyonel gave you a look. Then, with a firm hand at your back, he steered you toward your seat as the trumpets blared and the first riders took the field.