Work Text:
PROMPT: "Spare me the poetry of your leaving."
and i am dark. [i am a forest]
Ashara Targaryen leaned out, hennaed hands pressed against the weatherbeaten stone, bracing herself. Down in the courtyard below, her father and uncle rode into view with the rest of the Targaryen retinue, Maekar almost hunched in the saddle, whilst Baelor in sharp contrast was the epitome of princely poise. Her uncle had sent the wheelhouse bearing Ashara and her attendants ahead with his good-daughter, Kiera, whilst he and Maekar continued their search for the missing Daeron and Aegon. Ashara’s dark gaze swept over the small milling crowd now gathering around the royal mounts. But of her errant brothers, there was nothing. Only Aerion remained in arrogant attendance, much to her consternation. If any of her brothers were to abscond into obscurity, she much rather it were Aerion. Repressing the foul curse that flew to her lips, Ashara was about to turn away when an all too familiar swaggering figure abruptly caught her attention.
Brow creasing, Ashara watched the figure’s progress through the throng, ire rising afresh within her. Of course he would be here, another trial surely sent by the gods to test her sense of fortitude. Raising her chin, Ashara observed Lord Lyonel Baratheon hail someone in the crowd with a heavily beringed hand, before snatching a peach from a passing basket. It had been two years since she had last rested eyes upon him at Summerhall. His wild black curls were now streaked with silver, falling across his brow in the discordant disarray she so disconcertingly remembered all too well. No doubt new lines would be etched upon his visage by merciless time, undercutting the mocking curve of his lips. But he still carried himself with that characteristic careless grace, even when simply dressed in a mud splattered umber velvet cotehardie.
As he stopped to pat the flank of one of the Kingsguard’s magnificent steeds, much to its rider’s chagrin, Ashara withdrew from the casement. Adjusting her crimson veil, she retreated to the hearth, impatiently gesturing for the flames to be stoked higher. Face flushing, the servant girl rushed to do so, mumbling incoherent apologies. Ashara threw herself down onto the settle in a swirl of silk. She knew her mother would have been displeased at her discourteous manner, having instilled in her daughters to treat those who served them with tempered discipline. But in this moment, all Ashara could concern herself was the sardonic gleam of Lord’s Baratheon’s eyes, his scathing tones echoing down the days: I’d sooner marry a toothless whore than a fucking Targaryen –
“Ashara?”
She glanced up, startled. But it was only Kiera being handed by Ser Donnel into the carved chair opposite, her beautiful face concerned beneath her opal adorned caul. Upon having an audience, Ashara hurriedly arrayed herself more decorously. She had been too lost in her turmoil to even notice Kiera enter the chamber. Signalling for refreshment, Ashara worriedly noted the careful way the younger girl took her seat, as if one wrong movement would cause catastrophe. Wed to Ashara’s cousin, Valarr, Kiera had recently miscarried yet again, and had barely regained her strength when it had fallen upon her to accompany the royal retinue to Ashford.
Lady Jena had remained in King’s Landing, overseeing the matter of an almshouse for fallen women that her good-mother, Queen Myriah, had endowed, only for the queen to unexpectedly fall ill, leaving Lady Jena to attend to its ordinance. Ashara had argued to stay behind at Summerhall with her little sisters, and keep Kiera by her side, but her demands had been dismissed. Feeling it was currently expedient to cultivate the approval of the smallfolk, King Daeron had decreed a Targaryen presence was required at Lord Ashford’s tourney, before wryly adding a delicate feminine touch was also requisite. But with Lady Jena otherwise occupied, it had come upon Ashara to accompany Kiera and share the burden of duty. As for Lord Ashford’s tourney, Ashara no longer had the taste for such tawdry entertainments, not since her humiliation at the hands of Lord Baratheon. But the populace always appreciated a princess or so King Daeron surmised. Yet Ashara did not appreciate the askance glances or pointed silences her own presence always provoked in public on the rare occasions she’d ventured forth from Summerhall’s auspices. Therefore she did not quite agree with her grandfather for was she not a living reminder of what was perceived as his greatest political folly? She simply did not think the smallfolk would care to subjugate themselves before a princess so obviously bred of an enemy bloodline despite the Targaryen colors she bore on her back.
Growing up, Ashara used to wish in vain for pale hair and lilac eyes to quell such sly disparagement. But now she no longer cared as much. Ashara had become exhausted by her attempts to all but apologize for the dark hues of her skin and hair. By the gods, why should she anyways? She may have been a ‘fucking Targaryen’ as Lord Baratheon had once so coarsely put it, but she was also a proud daughter of Dorne. Now she tried to revel in her rightful heritage and delight in dressing in Dyanna’s vesture and veils, anchoring her own identity outside of the dragon’s reach.
“Ashara, you seem… troubled,” Kiera pressed, taking a delicate sip of refreshing blackberry wine as the servant set the stone costrel down, chilled by being kept in the castle well. “Is it your brothers? I am sure my good-father will discover their whereabouts. It is not the first occasion Daeron has caused distress with his absences as you are aware.”
Ashara glanced pointedly at Ser Donnel now standing by the doorway, hand resting on his sword pommel. Catching her eye, he inclined his greying head and swept out of the room, hurriedly followed by the scuttling servant girl. Once, Ashara had long cherished a secret immature infatuation for the handsome knight. Now she valued his discretion and loyalty above any hopes she’d had of possessing his heart. Not that such hope would have ever been fulfilled either way, she wryly mused, not unless Ser Donnel wished to lose his head for dishonour. “No, I just had the misfortune of espying Lord Baratheon in the courtyard below,” she said bitterly, slumping afresh in her seat, glad her old septa was not here to see her. “The gods do indeed seek to test me.”
Kiera immediately leaned over, resting her hand atop Ashara’s in sisterly sympathy. Nothing would have pleased her more than to see Ashara advantageously bound to a man of gentle manners and fine judgement as she had been. But indeed not to Lord Baratheon either, who was of such paradoxical reputation. Back in Tyrosh, Kiera had become unfortunately entangled with one of her ladies-in-waiting who had been of a similar temperamental disposition to Lord Baratheon, with snapping eyes and a mercurial tongue. But Kiera had been dazzled by desire, only for her beloved to suddenly cast her aside for another. Her subsequent marriage to Valarr had been made for reasons of state, but true affection had swiftly grown between them. Kiera knew she had been truly fortunate in this aspect. But she did not see why Ashara should not enjoy the same privilege.
Yet Ashara was now long past the first flush of maidenly youth and should have long ere since been wed. It would not do to delay any further especially since Ashara had long desired to cradle a babe of her own in her arms, echoing her own happy childhood. At first, the unusual situation had perplexed Kiera but Valarr had confided his uncle and aunt wished their children to wed for affection and not advantage just as they had. After all, Maekar’s status in the succession had long allowed him and his offspring a greater degree of freedom than Baelor and his progeny possessed. Maekar had long opposed various alliances suggested by King Daeron for Ashara, arguing they were unsuitable or she was too young or that she was needed at Summerhall still, whilst his elder sons also tellingly remained unfettered. Then there had been the spectacle caused by Lord Baratheon’s discourteous conduct, before Dyanna’s untimely death had halted talks of a possible betrothal between Ashara and Manfred Dondarrion.
But love was a luxury the dragon could not hoard amongst its treasures. If it came into their possession, it was only because it was a boon bestowed by the gods. Kiera suspected Dyanna’s passing had only served to increase Maekar’s defiance against the king’s decrees, perhaps as a way of honouring his late wife’s wishes. But the king had long been displeased by his son’s resistance, and was now trying a different tact by pressuring Maekar to at least agree to the young Aemon being sent to the Citadel as a maester. Yet Maekar had also resisted this as well. If he aspired to keep his children free from the shadow cast by the Iron Throne, Kiera sadly believed it was a fight Maekar was doomed to lose.
As Ashara offered a strained smile, Kiera released her hand, before carefully resuming her original position. She was painfully regaining her former physical vitality, but she secretly feared embarking on the journey to Ashford could set her slow progress back. But she still remained greatly low in spirits, even as she strove to conceal her grief. Valarr had petitioned for her to remain at Summerhall, but the king had been adamant her presence was required at Ashford alongside Ashara, a full tally of Targaryens. If the maesters avowed Kiera was well enough, then she would obey. Her good-father and Valarr had seen to her every comfort, but Kiera would have much preferred the comparative serenity of Summerhall. Of course she had an obligation to duty; Kiera had been raised to respect such responsibility, but by the Mother, she did not wish to be on display this day.
Ashara picked up the stone costrel before pouring herself a brimming goblet of blackberry wine, wishing in vain for something stronger. She could certainly use it. But no doubt Lord Ashford’s gold was stretched enough as it was. “It is no matter, Kiera,” she then lied, taking a deep swig, “Lord Baratheon is free to follow wherever his boots take him, and I am at perfect liberty to pretend he does not exist.”
“Perhaps Lord Baratheon’s feet may take him to the edge of a most obliging cliff, then,” Kiera said sweetly, adjusting her dagged sleeves.
Ashara choked on her wine. “Or to the nearest stinking midden,” she gasped, recovering herself. “Surely he would feel most at home there.”
“Shit is drawn to shit, is it not?”
Ashara held Kiera’s pointedly innocent gaze for a long moment before both girls broke down into wild peals of laughter, Ashara slopping wine down the front of her gown in the process, staining the elaborate fretwork of the embroidered dragons in flight across her bodice. But in that moment she did not care. Let the gown be ruined. What was one gown in the grand scheme of things?
“Even that would be too good for the knave,” Kiera said tartly, pushing a stray curl of pink hair out of her kohled eyes. “Your father should have castrated him for his effrontery. To so publicly court a princess of the blood only to spurn her in front of such an audience as he did, deserves to be at least soundly lashed.”
“It was my lady mother who had to be restrained from gelding him,” Ashara corrected, swirling the remainder of her wine in its goblet, feeling the familiar bite of grief sink its maw into her heart. “My poor father had a time of it persuading her otherwise.”
“Well, I cannot fault her” –
Ashara glanced at Kiera in surprise as the younger girl seemed to freeze, her goblet caught half way to her carmined lips. She followed the path of Kiera’s shocked brown stare to the now open door where Lord Baratheon stood unexpectedly framed. His black brows were raised in silent question as Ashara’s horrified gaze found his. How long had he been standing there? How much had he overheard? So lost in their mirth they had not noticed the creak of the door opening ajar. Then the sound of heavy footsteps, along with a raucous cackle followed by a chorus of raised voices emanating from the vestibule beyond, hurriedly restored Ashara to herself. She awkwardly made to rise, Kiera doing the same albeit more gracefully, goblet still in hand.
“Your Graces,” Lyonel said smoothly, sweeping them an extravagant bow. “I did not expect to be doubly blessed by such beauty this fine morn.”
Kiera’s pretty mouth pursed in contempt. “And I did not expect to feel so unexpectedly… nauseated,” she said coldly, gathering her ebony skirts as she set the goblet down. “Pray excuse me, Lord Baratheon, I find I must retreat to my chambers all of a sudden.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, clasping his hand sorrowfully to his chest, fooling no-one. “I shall light a candle in the sept for your swift recovery.”
Kiera shot him a scathing side glance as she edged around him, drawing back as though he were diseased. But as Ashara made to follow, Lyonel suddenly held up his beringed hand, halting her. She stopped in confusion, causing her crimson veil to slip from her bare shoulders where the deeply cut neckline of her silk gown curved scandalously against her skin, forcing her to draw the diaphanous veil around her anew. Lyonel’s gaze dropped to her exposed flesh, seeming to study every single freckle much to Ashara’s fury, before travelling to the wine stains soiling her bodice, wherein he then tilted his head to the side in mocking judgement. Even now, the bastard still sought to insult her with his impudence.
“May I beg an audience with your fair self, my princess?” Lyonel drawled, dragging his gaze back up to Ashara’s infuriated face. “If it does not… importune you, that is.”
Startled again, Ashara straightened her spine on reflex, girding herself as though for battle. By the gods, what did the whoreson have to say to her after all this time? Exhaling sharply, Ashara then nodded at Kiera to go, silently signalling that all was well. The other girl hesitated, her face troubled, before reluctantly leaving much to Ashara’s relief. It would not do to engage in a war with words with Kiera present, upsetting her even further. Kiera needed tranquility, not the trouble Lord Baratheon trailed in his detestable wake. Not that Ashara was eager to draw attention either. With servants a stone’s throw away, as well as the guards and other inhabitants of Lord Ashford’s abode, a duel of wits with Lord Baratheon would soon swiftly draw an audience she would not appreciate. But Ashara was curious despite herself over what he had to say, as well as unwillingly impressed at his absolutely reckless audacity in approaching her again. He knew the Targaryen family would be in attendance and yet still he had left the sanctuary of Storm's End to come here.
It had been two years since Lord Baratheon had humiliated her in front of all at Summerfall during the tourney celebrating her twentieth name-day. Ashara had been naïve then, more than ripe for romance during those long drowsy days, with the sun high in the heavens and nary a cloud to gallop like horses across the wide field of the sky. Like many another lord and lady, the widowed Lord Baratheon had been just one of many guests at Summerhall, albeit arriving later than the rest. He had chanced upon Ashara playing monsters-and-maidens amongst the fountains with her younger siblings, clad in simple green silks and with a chaplet of lilies cast across her brow. At first, he had mistaken her for merely a Dornish nursemaid, with flashing dark eyes that reminded him of drifting deserts and clashing spears. He had been intrigued and then swiftly enamoured even when he had soon realised his error; that she was a Targaryen and not to be trifled with. Or so at first.
His attentions had become pronounced, and publicly so, with Lord Baratheon solely seeking Ashara’s favor in the lists. Then every evenfall, he danced with only Ashara or her little sisters and then Ashara again and again until Dyanna Dayne had to physically remove her daughters from the proceedings always accompanied by much laughter. He had charmed Dyanna whilst Maekar had reserved judgement, studying Lord Baratheon from afar with narrowed eyes. Maekar long knew the stag had no love for the dragon. But regardless it had been taken for granted by all that Lord Baratheon would eventually approach Prince Maekar for his daughter’s hand until the humiliating moment he crowned Elinna Caron his queen of love and beauty, riding straight past Ashara whilst wearing her favor, a crimson riband bearing a pattern of embroidered black flames that she’d bound around his arm for all to see.
“My father is abroad nearby, Lord Baratheon,” Ashara then said, rousing herself from her reverie, “and like myself, he does not appreciate those who… digress.”
“Digression disagrees with the dragon’s digestion, does it then?”
Ashara arched a brow, wondering at herself for being so calm in the face of this particular storm. After all, he had abandoned her without explanation and exposed her to public spectacle. Afterwards, her father had merely ignored the insult to save face despite Dyanna demanding otherwise. Daeron had tried to give some scant comfort, with an awkward pat on the head here and there, but as always he'd been too lost in his own turmoils to offer anything more. Her sisters had been confused and hurt by Lord Baratheon's shunning of their company, whilst her little brothers talked wildly of poison and assassination until a distracted Dyanna hushed them. The only mercy was Aerion had been away visiting in King's Landing or he would have escalated the situation. Not because of any great fraternal love for his sister but because he would not have tolerated any slur cast upon the honour of their House.
But she could still hear the hushed whispers and mocking laughter rippling through the stands. That evening after he’d crowned another his queen of love and beauty, Ashara had slipped out to his pavilion seeking answers, only to overhear his epithets - I’d sooner marry a toothless whore than a fucking Targaryen. Words that still swept through the empty corridors of her consciousness even now. But once, she had been learning to love him. Yet now all that remained was rage, such anger as he stirred rooted within the wreckage of her heart.
As Ashara studied Lord Baratheon's mocking face, she finally realised he had nothing to say to her after all, being only here to inflict further humiliation upon her. “By the gods, I have long tired of your childish japes,” she suddenly snapped, rounding on him. “Spare me the poetry of your leaving by removing your sorry personage from my path or I shall summon my father forth to order you flogged...”