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Your house, although powerful, had issues with feeding its people. The earth in your area was hard and rocky, and plants rarely took root. A political match was needed to keep your people from starving. Your father had arranged a marriage between you and Steffon Fossoway. It was a good match, giving both houses something they desired: food for your people, and political power for House Fossoway.
There was one slight problem. You didn’t like your future husband. Not even slightly. There was nothing truly wrong with him. He wasn’t abusive or cruel, but those were the only good attributes one could assign to him. Sure, he could be called honorable, but that was on a good day, and when he had nothing better to gain. He was also rude and condescending, and always sure that what he said and did was right.
He would parade you around on your arm, introducing you as his future lady to be. You’d bitten your tongue, tasting blood as you’d held yourself back from pointing out that you did have a name, and getting married to him would not erase that. At feasts, there was rarely a moment's peace, and you’d sit, bored out of your mind as he told and re-told the same stories over and over and over, and you felt as if you could fall asleep. Or die of boredom. Preferably the latter.
You couldn’t even dull the boredom with wine or cider, as he would soon pluck your cups away, insisting that ladies shouldn’t be drinking such things. Which was unfortunate, because you loved House Fossoway’s apple cider. If you’d be allowed to drink all you wanted, you’d survive the marriage with it alone.
There was also another, not-so-slight problem. You’d fallen inadvertently and hopelessly in love with his cousin and squire, Raymun. You’d not meant to, obviously, but you’d been pulled together like moths to a flame, and now, you were seeking silent moments and secret kisses wherever you could. He was considerate and kind, honorable, in a way his cousins could only dream of. He let you sneak sips of cider from his cup, and snuck you and your ladies apple tarts whenever he could.
Now, Steffon is trying to find you at a feast and has managed to track down a few of your ladies. They tell him they have no idea where you have gone. When in reality, they have just shown Raymund to the secluded corner behind the kitchen tent, where you are hiding.
“Your lady seems quite the slippery sort.” Ser Lyonel hums in amusement as he winks at your ladies, who blush and giggle before they hustle away.
“Ah, she’s just shy.” (You aren’t, you just didn’t like the people he spent time with. Except Ser Lyonel, but he seems impossible to hate). Steffon waves his hand in the air, some cider sloshing over the rim of his mug.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up when she starts missing me.”
You are perfectly happy where you are, outside in the drizzle, Raymun’s cloak stretched over you both, giggling and kissing like idiots in love (which you were). You’d draped a brown overskirt to cover your easily recognizable bright yellow gown, and to the rare people passing by, you are just two young working people having their moment out in the rain.
“I wish - we - didn’t have - to - hide.” His sentence is fractured as you keep kissing him, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest.
“Me neither.” You mutter against his lips, and you feel a sting of guilt.
You know your honour would be ruined and that your future marriage would be wrecked if this came out, but you cannot stay away from him. You’d tried, you’d both tried, but that had just ended in three sleepless nights, Raymun having a concussion from his mind wandering at the training field, and your embroidery looking more like a donkey than a horse. So you’d agreed that when it came time for the wedding, you’d just have to stop and accept the reality. Now, you could fool yourselves a bit that everything was going to, somehow, work out.
*****
The trial of seven is over, and everyone is dealing with its outcomes. The mood, all around, is joyful. Ser Duncan has won, the prince had yielded. Sers Beeabury and Ser Humfrey Hardyng were seriously injured, and Daeron Targaryen is possibly blinded in one eye, but there were no casualties in the trial. The flashes of everyday joy feel brighter, somehow. Children laughing, the smell of fresh bread, lovers twirling each other into their arms. Sers Duncan, Lyonel, and Raymun don’t speak, they just stand and breathe, watching the life go on around them.
A flurry of bright yellow heads is headed their direction with alarming speed.
“Raymun. Raymun!” He hears your voice calling for him and turns just in time to receive the tornado of movement that is you into his arms.
“I have the most amazing news!” You press kisses all over his face. He’s stunned. There are people everywhere, they can see everything.
“The engagement-“ He stammers, but you are too excited to let him speak.
“The engagement is off!” You announce with joy.
“Father was not pleased when Steffon took Aerion’s side. Said it shows he’s not trustworthy, not a good quality for a husband to have. That he wants me to have a good one.” You’re breathing hard, excited, and speaking fast, but you do not care.
“But- But that’s not all.” You give his hands an excited squeeze, jumping in place.
Your gown fluttering around you, a cloud of fabric.
“We are to be wed come spring!” You cry, kissing him all over again. He just stares at you, mouth hanging open.
“W-What?”
“After my father told his advisor that perhaps we were not a good match. With Steffon, I mean. I…” You trail off, blushing.
“I suggested that maybe we would be a good match. Then, my house would still align with your house. And-“ your blush deepens.
“And that you’ve shown yourself to be brave and honorable as you took your cousin’s place on Ser Duncan’s side, siding against the Kingsguard, when you were only freshly knighted. Y-Your father met with mine just before. It’s official now.” You finish, breathing heavily, after speaking for so long, too excited and flustered to breathe in between words.
Raymun just stares, trying to wrap his head around the situation.
“Kiss the girl, you stupid plonker!” Ser Lyonel calls from the sidelines, not one for pretending that he hasn’t been eavesdropping on the whole conversation.
“She’s standing there, singing your praises, and you’re just staring? Are you fucking dim?” This seems to finally reach him.
And Raymun kisses you. Deep, elated, and filled with love. Your arms wind around his shoulders, holding him tight as he holds you close by your waist. People around stop to stare before huffing and going along with their day, but neither of you pays them any mind. You separate and stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment, not speaking, just thanking the gods.
But your peace is ruined by a thundering shout.
“Raymun! Come here, cousin, you lady-stealing, good-for-nothing, little bitch.” Steffon is marching towards you four, slipping in the mud in his rage.
“He’s angry.” Dunk points out helpfully. You see Raymun squaring up for a fight, but you have had it with fighting for today.
You pull Ser Lyonel’s dagger out of its sheath, as Steffon blunders to a stop, and press its tip to his abdomen. He stiffens, eyes wide as he takes you in, as if seeing you for the first time.
“Raymun didn’t steal me away,” you correct evenly, “my father made the choice as you showed what kind of a man you truly are today, out on that field.” You gesture with contempt, eyeing him like he’s something stuck to the bottom of your shoe.
“I’m a Lord now.” He exclaims, as if it will solve everything.
“I don’t care if you’d just been given sainthood. I’d rather die an old maid than be married to a man who sells his honor for a title.” You spit, rolling your eyes, taking a step back.
“Now, leave us be, or we’ll see how big a pair of apples you truly carry.” Your hold on the dagger tightens as you give a wague gesture towards his crotch with the blade, and he pales.
“You cannot threaten me.” He sputters, but still takes a step back.
“Threaten you? Is someone threatening you?” You look around, in feigned alarm.
“Ser Lyonel, do you see anyone threatening this brave knight?” You ask the man who looks like this is the best entertainment he has had for years, and he shakes his head.
“I do not, my lady.” The lord answers, grinning widely.
“I am a witness to a calm conversation.” Steffon’s shoulders slump, and he slinks away, but not before throwing one last poisonous look in Raymun’s direction, who answers it with heat.
A stunned silence rings for a moment.
“I think I am in love.” Lyonel’s loud laugh breaks it, and everyone seems to collectively inhale. Blushing faintly, you return his dagger to him.
“My apologies, Ser Lyonel, I didn’t have time to ask for your permission.” Bashful, you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.
“None needed, my lady. Any woman who threatens a man’s apples is welcome to my daggers.” He gives you a wink, which Raymun is quick to note, and pulls you to his side.
He pulls you away for a step, staring at you like he’s seeing you in a new light.
“You just did that. For me.” His voice is stunned, but affection is shining in his eyes.
“Of course, you silly man,” you give an affectionate eye roll, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “but I do require something from you.” You bat your eyelashes at him, and he laughs, pulling you closer.
“Anything, my lovely.”
“Apple cider.” He laughs, warmly, deeply.
“And Apple cider you shall have, as much as you want. Sers, do you want to join us?” Sers Duncan and Lyonel gladly do, and you head for the Fossoway tent.