Chapter Text
The tourney traced its mythical origins to the pious code of chivalry, that which the Warrior dictated to all good men. To prove one’s strength in the most respectable of contests was coveted by all those with dreams of honor and victory and greatness to be recounted in poems and songs that echo throughout the halls of Westeros over food and drink.
The youngest of House Baratheon held no such romantic idealized notions. The tourney, in her eyes, was the most visceral and hedonistic of practices that she was, given the status and sex of her birth, allowed to bear witness to. Even if she was left to dance around the edges of it, a ghost haunting the golden stag-emblemed tents and the first row of the spectator stands, she burned with voracious desire to have even that. Piercing eyes drank in the mad circus of it all, the drunken feasting and discordant singing and frenzied whirling about the makeshift dance floors of her uncle’s grand tent. There she would sit, at the head of a space that ignored her almost entirely, bathed in candlelight that dimly illuminated the chaos that descended into further decadence as the liquor flowed strong and red. Perhaps a lord would cast her a lustful gaze every so often, and she in turn would wonder what it might be like to take the knife she had been using at dinner to provide her answer to their unspoken wondering.
Ours is the fury.
And the fury that was hers by birthright pulsed hot and insistent in her veins. If someone sliced into her skin her blood might burn the metal of their weapon with its acidity, a crimson poison that would explain all the emotions she felt that did not align themselves with her station. It took all her might, on the worst of occasions, to suppress the rage that she barely managed to contain in her body.
Yet she knew her position was a precarious one, and her addiction to the rush of sensation the event elicited in her was too precious to risk. When her uncle stumbled over to her with a drunken smile, wobbling in a way that indicated a return to his cot was not promised, she would give him a small one in return as he kissed her cheek before stumbling off to inquire over the whereabouts of her elder brothers. Her uncle had been the first to affirm her request to attend the tourney at Ashford Meadow, after all, and was ever the one to spoil her the most. The beautiful weapons that he had asked the blacksmith to craft for her were amongst her most dearest of possessions, two silver swords with delicate stag heads at their hilts and eyes of sapphires from the Summer Isles. They were the only things to delight her as much as the tourney did. That, and her own training, which too had only been allowed at her uncle’s amused insistence. Every lesson delivered to her brothers had been afforded to her as well, so long as it did not interrupt what her mother deigned to be a more pressing ladylike pursuit. Swordsmanship, archery, hunting, riding. Each had thrilled her in a way she could never replicate from inside the walls of Storm’s End.
She was eager to use her skills in practical combat, and did so more than a lady ought to. Usually when the defense of her siblings was on the line – insults hurled at her gentler brother or the consequences of the more mischievous one’s pranks – and had found herself on the receiving end of her father’s loud ranting and raving even though she had won on no questionable terms. When her brothers had been smaller, she had won most of their sparring sessions. Yet as they grew, the chasm between their physicality had grew wider and wider until she was never able to win the way she did when they were younger. It clawed at her chest, each time she could tell that one of them was holding back as she swung her sword with all her might, each time one would tell her to stay out of a fight. Vexing to the point of physical illness, she could tear her hair out over it if she dwelled on it long enough.
And so the tourney was, in truth, a double-edged sword that wounded her as much as it delighted her. To watch that which she could never have, no matter how she worked at it nor wished for it. For it was the brutality that captivated her the most, the freedom to give tangible form to the rage and anger and fury in a manner that earned accolades and remembrance. The raw and primal nature of it all, wrapped up in elaborate armor and painted jousting poles and the sacred vows of knighthood and lordship. Almost battle – a frivolous mocking of it in harshest terms – but the only time she’d come close to witnessing it. Her wish was a naive one indeed, but a naive one shared by many a young man.
Her eldest two brothers were participating in the event at Ashford Meadow, and it was true that she prayed for their victory and to have honor brought to their great and ancient house. But oh, what sweet and violent dreams plagued her at night, of such a thing being brought by her own hands.
It was just this that led her to the grounds of the joust in the earliest hours of the morning, when it was late enough that even the drunkest of lords had passed out into the branches of shrubbery yet early enough that the stable boys had not risen to tend to the horses. The only sounds were the chirping of cicadas in the taller grasses, making their bright spring melodies beneath a sky with a scattering of diamond stars, and the slight crunch of the ground beneath her boots. A cool night wind tossed her hair about her shoulders and urged her forward as if some unforeseen hand guided her towards that which she held such insatiable curiosity for. She had watched the first set of the joust that night and the clashing of lances and splintering of shields rung in her mind, as clear as the bell of a sept.
It was oddly tranquil in the silent hour, a far opposition to the bloody carnival that had been filled with jeers and shouts and the sounds of horses. Her footfalls felt too loud, disturbing the sacredness of the night. She came to a stop at one end of the lists, her eyes impassive as she studied the view from where she stood. She attempted to envision it from a higher viewpoint, if she were to be upon a horse rather than on foot. The wind rustled her hair once more as her eyes caught a sliver of moonlight reflecting off of a set of swords that sat against one of the tilts. Her chin turned, her attention immediately drawn to the weapons as her steps carried her slowly towards them. It was a wonder they had been left. It was surely some squire’s responsibility to see them all returned to their proper location, even if they were only swords to be used in the tournament. Yet she was hardly saddened by the misfortune the squire in question was sure to endure the following morning, once the sun peaked above the milky clouds.
She stood before the weapons for a moment, eyes studying them with curious intrigue, before she caught sight of one of a dark obsidian shade and an unmistakable sigil.
The three-headed dragon.
The Lady Baratheon knew that a few of the princes had come to participate in the tournament, due primarily to the lamenting of her brothers who did not wish to face the eldest of the younger princes in combat. She had not caught sight of any of them yet, nor had she during her previous visit to the capital. Her eyes did not fall away from the sword. Her hand outstretched, closing around the cold hilt of the weapon as she took it into her grasp. She lifted it slowly, detached observation on her features as she spun it in her hand. It was heavy, but not much more so than her own, yet made with a metal that felt different between the callouses of her palms.
Her stance lowered as she envisioned herself wielding it before a crowd of spectators that saw her as equal to every other contender. The pinnacle of foolish fantasy.
“Careful, my lady. You might hurt yourself.” The voice was low, nearly soft in its cadence, but did little to stop the jolting electricity of shock that crackled down her spine and rose the hairs on her arms. Ripped violently from her ridiculous illusion, her body spun around with an unsettling quickness so that her back was no longer turned to the mysterious stranger, who was shrouded mostly in darkness a small distance away from her. Her eyes narrowed in a flash of questioning that was equal parts anxious and angry. Her words lodged themselves in her throat, emotion disregarded in exchange for absolute disbelief at her own stupidity, at what situation her avaricious heart had entangled her in.
There was a moment where all she could hear was her own breath. The silence that followed was eternally drawn out as a thousand possibilities raced through her mind.
“I might,” The darkness made it impossible to clearly determine the identity of the stranger, but there was no guarantee that she could do so even if the brightest daylight. His voice was wholly unfamiliar and her eyes could supply no aid in the matter. Her grip upon the sword tightened as she stood before the man. Anxiety was dispelled with a single breath, anger fueled with the next inhalation. Something darker burned in her eyes, matching that which she harbored in her heart. “Or I might hurt you.”
The stranger’s reaction was not visible at his distance. There was additional silence as her words hung in the air between them, charging it with considerable anticipation. Then, she could hear the tiniest breath as he stepped forward slowly with his hands raised.
“I see that is not entirely unbelievable,” The voice was now tinged with the slightest edge of amusement that, good natured as it might have been, only served to ignite the lady’s anger further. At closer distance, she could see the contours of his face, the brown color of his hair, and the brightness of his eyes. His brow raised as he surveyed her, his lip quirking slightly at the corner. “I must say I do not wish for that outcome myself.”
A scowl twisted its way onto her face, more habit than anything calculated. With a small tilt of her chin, she kept the sword intentionally and meaningfully raised in his direction. Her voice lowered into unambiguous and decisive warning. “Then be on your way.”
“I would, my lady,” To the man’s credit, he seemed genuinely apologetic he had stumbled upon her. Nor did he seem intent on attacking her, as she had been initially fearful of. The man paused, as if wondering over his next words. His brief hesitation only made her more sure of her decision to stand her ground, sensing the moment of weakness as a shark might detect blood. “But I came to collect my sword and it seems you are … using it, at present.”
All fight was snuffed from her lungs as if a candle had been blown out.
The lady’s eyes snapped wider, shock and realization striking her at once as she understood the truth of the matter. A deep and horrifying dread filled her lungs as if she’d been sunk into dark and icy water. Sword still in one hand, she attempted the deepest curtesy she could muster given the way her head had quickly drained of blood, leaving her almost dizzy with regret. She had never been talented at the gesture on a good day. Her front foot wobbled.
“My prince,” The words were choked out, painful and wretched. To her horror, she realized she could not remember the names of any of the Targaryen princes in that moment. Perhaps she should have spent less time in the yard and more in the library, attending to lessons concerning the current state of the Realm. If she had truly offended him, he could demand her head with a wave of his hand. Or the head of her uncle, or brothers. She vaguely recalled rumors that a few of the princes were irrational and unstable, rancorous and often drunken, and her stomach gave a nauseating lurch. Agonized and desperate to rectify the nightmare she had cursed herself with, distressed contrition sat heavy on her lips. “I must offer my deepest apologies. I did not mean to offend.”
The prince observed her evenly for a moment before he spoke, his voice still calm in cadence and even in tone.
“No,” He said quietly, taking another step towards her as he observed her still. And then his eyes narrowed a little and a small smile ghosted about his lips as he ran a hand over his hair. Surprise settled in the lady’s mouth. “It seemed what you meant to do was run me through with my own sword. Not the end one dreams about, in truth.”
It was, undoubtedly, a capital offense to raise a sword at a member of the royal family. The lady could not remember exactly what that crime would be officially titled, but it would matter not when it would end with her head severed from her neck regardless. Her wrath and pride had come to claim their price in blood after all. Her mother had said it over and over.
Grasping for some semblance of propriety, she cast her eyes down to the dirt and mud of the list. Swallowing any lingering pride, she attempted to prostrate herself further in attempted apology. Yet the words did not come as smoothly as she might have wished, given her circumstances. “If I … If I had known …”
Her throat closed.
The man gazed at her, eyes still vaguely between disbelief and hesitant amusement as he stood before her. A heartbeat of silence, and then another raising of his brow.
“So if I were not a prince, you would have done it then?”
She sucked in a quick breath that came into her body rather forcefully, her eyes all but rolling as she cast her gaze over to the empty stands, still haunted by the ghosts of rowdy spectators. The line of questioning was one she would avoid if given the choice. But if he wished to inquire, rather than call for her head, she would entertain it. The lists were a stage, after all.
“I did not know your intentions,” The lady clarified, returning her eyes to the prince before her. She matched his raised brow, asserting her words as if they were obvious truth and excuse for her actions. “If you were some lord, they might have been ill.”
The prince considered this for a moment. Her quick recovery seemed to have peaked his intrigue, and the nature of it might save her yet. He acquiesced graciously with a small dip of his chin, his expression thoughtful. “That is true. You might have shouted for help, first.”
His response earned a rather unimpressed gaze from the Lady Baratheon, who was left to consider grimly the fate of a woman who was not so proficient with the sword as she. Something a man such as the prince would not have contemplated, she imagined. “There is no guarantee anyone would have heard, nor that help would have arrived in time.”
She lifted his sword, twirling it effortlessly around in her grip as she gazed at it impassively. Despite the dark color, it still shone with the glint of silver moonlight at the tip of its sharp blade. Her expression changed to one of certainty.
“This sword undoubtedly would have.”
His light eyes followed her gaze, not leaving her once as he looked upon her. The prince did not seem to be in a great hurry to steal his sword away from her hands, his eyes trailing down to study the way she held the weapon in her grip. Consideration gave way to subtle acknowledgement, both of the situation she proposed and of the practiced way she held the sword. His voice lowered a touch. “That it would.”
Lady Baratheon found the prince’s unexpected docility to be oddly disarming. There was something about the way he gazed upon her, curious rather than affronted, that made her shoulders lower and her own expression mirror his. She could have continued to articulate her heartfelt remorse over her actions, but she had never been a very good liar. Not when the truth of her emotions always shimmered in her eyes and shone in a crossing of her arms or a shaking of her head.
It was this neutralizing quality of his that caused her next words to slip from her lips like river water over mossy stones.
“You would not have shouted for help,” She pointed out objectively. Her eyes narrowed again, stubborn certainty glittering in sharp reflection of the stars above. The lady continued: “If someone attacked you in the late hours, you would have defended yourself.”
He hummed in quiet agreement. “Because I am capable of it.”
Annoyance flashed across her face, unmistakable even in the darkness of the night. A curl of her lip, a burning in her eyes that made her desire to correct him physically all too obvious. The prince’s own widened with intrigue at the expressiveness, dancing about her face as if to ensure he did not miss a detail that composed her irritation.
It bled into her words, as if it sunk down through her skin and came up through her throat and over her tongue. Bitter sarcasm that stung with whiplike speed and precision. “And I, so evidently, am not.”
The prince’s expression wavered as he shook his head. She caught a glimpse of a strand of his hair that was lighter than the rest, a bright silvery lock that appeared to be made of pure moonlight. If his whole head had been that shade, she surely would have known his identity at once. His bright eyes held hers steadily as he dipped his chin again, glancing once more at the manner in which she held his sword.
“The evidence is still being taken into consideration, my lady. I mean no offense.” He spoke with such calm and concise conviction despite the dripping disdain she had just confronted him with. It made her eyes drop for a moment, consideration weighing on her mind.
“…You did not offend me.” She said finally. Another lie, another scowl pulling the corners of her mouth downward.
A smile, genuine and knowing, spread across the prince’s face as he observed her poorly concealed petulance.
“I did.” He affirmed, nodding his head as her eyes snapped up to discern the nature of his easy words. Once she was certain they were not mocking, a dry look settled over her features as she fixed him with a gaze of unamused disbelief.
“…You are a prince,” She enunciated the title properly, drawing the word out over her tongue. “You could hardly offend anyone.”
The prince gave a soft and amused breath at this, before correcting her gently. “No one is allowed to be offended by me. Yet I imagine it happens anyways.”
This earns him the smallest hint of amusement, leaping about her eyes as she leans back to study him once again. It is the first emotion besides anger and shock that he has managed to elicit from her. Her observation adopts a more considering quality as she extends the sword in her hand out to him.
“Then perhaps I shall return this to you and offenses from both parties might be forgotten.” Lady Baratheon proposes, the metal shining as she offers the hilt to him.
The prince nods in agreement, crossing the space between them. At such close distance, she can see plainly his beauty. Brilliant eyes of different blue and green shades shine beneath a thick brow, and the light strand in his hair perfectly frames his high cheekbones and noble visage. An evenly balanced contradiction between delicate and strong, the sort of dignified countenance that would have her ladies’ maids fawning and tittering with flushed cheeks at the mere sight of him.
As his fingertips brushed hers, the sword between both of their grips for a moment, she believed she could share in that senseless attraction. That she could be convinced to flutter her lashes and hide behind a fan if only to hold that intense, quiet gaze for a moment more. But what the Targaryen prince additionally stirred in her was jealousy.
It burned like an unruly hearth in the hollow of her chest, licking ferociously at her ribcage as she felt the callouses of his hands that were rougher than her own. His beauty only served to worsen it. The darkness of his sword, which he would wield in defense of his honor in the tourney upon the morrow to the cheers of a crowd who could do nothing but adore him, sucked her in as an unavoidable gravity. She held onto it for a moment, his hand overtop of hers, as she imagined it was her in his place instead. Adorned in elaborate armor and riding a horse the color of a moonless night sky, lance pointed firmly ahead at a worthy opponent. He was everything she wanted to be. And far more gracious than she would be, if she had been blessed with what he had. The envy sickened her, raw and adamant, choking her with the strength of it.
When she lifted her eyes to meet his, her own widened in soft realization.
She drew her hand back as if burned, opening and closing it at once while it fell to her side. Irritation flickered over her face, but this time it was in defense of herself. His eyes had been too patient, too deferring. Once again, she was left distinctly unnerved and unsure.
A soft cough was given to clear her throat, her eyes darting down to the sword as she gave it a meaningful look and a tiny frown.
“You will be needing that, if you hope to win.” Lady Baratheon said quietly. The different sections of the tourney would begin the following nights, before the final rounds of the joust. A contender would need to prove proficient in each part.
The prince was silent for a moment.
“I do. And I hope to,” Her low tone was matched, and she did not lift her gaze to meet his. Several seconds of silence passed, counted to her slightly increased heartrate. She had grown too comfortable with speaking freely in front of him and cursed herself for the foolishness of it.
The prince’s next words only served to affirm that. “I would offer to crown you queen of love and beauty should that happen, if it were not already predestined.”
It took much of her self-control to prevent a ridiculous expression of distaste from decorating her face as her eyes shot up to squint at him. She pressed her lips together in an attempt to not snort at the nonsensical notion of it all. “The young Lady Ashford is the reason we are all gathered here after all. She is most deserving, surely.”
The tourney was thrown in honor of the girl’s birthday, and from what Lady Baratheon had seen of her, she would likely cause quite a scene if another were to steal the spotlight during her special event. Not to mention the offense that would be delivered to Lord Ashford, even from a prince.
“Indeed,” The prince said, another smile gracing his face as he gave her one last look before turning away from her, sword in hand. With his back to her, she could barely hear the next words he spoke.
“Nor do I think it would truly please you, Lady Baratheon.”
She was left to blink after his retreating figure, heading towards the camp and into the darkness. Inhaling a sharp breath, her eyes drifted up to the moon, wondering how much it had eavesdropped that night.