Chapter Text
In the golden glades of the lush Reach, just north of Highgarden where the borders met the rugged marches of the Westerlands, House Rowan had thrown wide the iron-studded gates of Goldengrove to host a magnificent tourney celebrating the king’s five-and-seventieth nameday, requesting many a noble house across the realm to come and watch made men contend against one another on horseback as honourable knights. Tents designated for the competitors – both highborn and lowborn – had been erected along the banks of the Mander River just outside the gates of the castle since the early light of dawn. Whilst squires and knights were engrossed in the task of settling into their canvas pavilions, polishing steel armour, and breaking their fast, two wooden wheelhouses clad in scarlet velvet and emblazoned with three-headed dragons rumbled across the drawbridge under the guard of three hundred armoured horsemen holding the banner of the House Targaryen sigil, bearing the sovereign and his regal family into the stronghold.
When the latched doors of the wheelhouses swung open within the paved courtyard, a hush fell over the assembled Reachfolk, every pair of eyes drawn to the silver-blonde entourage emerging into the open air; the king descended first with careful steps alongside the queen, their opulent, black cloaks trailing across the cobblestones. Behind them, their children – the Crown Prince and his sister-wife – followed in their wake. Escorted by a double line of the Kingsguard, whose white cloaks draped over shining armour, the royal procession moved across the courtyard toward the castle entrance. Stepping through the doors and into the great hall, the family was greeted by high-vaulted arches hung with silver banners depicting a golden rowan tree each – the coat of arms of the House Rowan sigil – and high above, slanting morning sunlight streamed through soaring lancet windows, illuminating the hall where local and visiting lords and ladies bowed and curtsied in respect as the Targaryens made their way to the high table, flanked by long wooden tables where the nobility sat in orderly rows, leaving the central aisle clear for passage.
Positioned by the door, the Lord Steward cleared his throat before announcing the presence of the royal family, watching attendants holding silver trays of sweet cakes rush to the perimeter of the hall, their backs against the wall. “Presenting His Grace, the king of the House Targaryen, the King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” he bellowed. The king stepped forward onto the dais in measured strides, his weathered face showing the toll of five-and-seventy years, whilst he acknowledged the ruler of Goldgrove. The queen followed suit, offering a nod and cordial smile to Lady Fowan. “Accompanied by Her Grace, the queen of the House Targaryen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms –
“– and Prince Jeno of the House Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone!” the Lord Steward continued, his voice resounding off the stone headers. The Crown Prince ascended the dais steps with poise – martial and intimidating –, his silver-blonde hair catching the yellow light of the sun whilst his gaze swept across the gathered nobility, one broad hand resting easily on the pommel of the legendary Valyrian steel longsword, Dark Sister. Beside him walked his sister-wife, her slender fingers clasped neatly over a belt of gold against her crimson gown – the colour complementing her husband’s leather doublet – as she inclined her head in a gracious greeting to Lord and Lady Fowan. “As well as Her Royal Highness, the princess of the House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone!”
Having never set eyes upon the royal family who resided on the east coast of Westeros, a faraway land for you who was raised in Brightwater Keep on the west coast, you watched them with scrutiny. Stories spoken in the courtyard of your abode had painted the dragonlords as larger-than-life figures wrapped in Valyrian myth, yet seeing them in the flesh revealed a strange mixture of otherworldly elegance and plain human fragility. You found yourself wondering why the Targaryens had chosen to travel in cumbersome wheelhouses – as you heard no flaps of massive wings and the squeals of dragons – across the dusty Roseroad rather than taking to the open skies upon dragonback; perhaps the king’s advanced age forbade the strain of high winds, or perhaps the crown preferred not to intimidate the lords of the Reach with the shadow of wings overhead. Regardless, observing the king and his cousin-wife seemed less akin to beholding gods made flesh and more like watching exceptionally fair nobles burdened by heavy crowns.
Your focus shifted to their children, and you noted how attentive the young couple appeared toward one another, how the princess adjusted the golden carcanet sitting fetchingly on Prince Jeno’s chest, how he grasped the tips of her fingers to press a lingering kiss on her knuckles with a sly smile… You pondered the strange, ancient Valyrian custom of marrying brother to sister, as Aegon the Conqueror had married both his older and younger sisters, and as Queen Rhaena had married her younger brother, Prince Aegon the Uncrowned. It seemed a comforting arrangement to be wedded to someone born of your own hearth, bound by trust, rather than handed off to an unknown lordling from a distant keep – yet you would never marry either of your brothers, for they were far too annoying, loud, and insufferable to ever entertain such a thought, and you were taken by a pair of companions from your youth. Still, your mind turned bitterly to Ser Chenle of House Lannister, the heir to Casterly Rock, whom your parents had presented two moons prior in hopes of securing a match; you recalled retreating to a hectare of woodland near your home to dig into the damp soil with bare hands before suppertime, deliberately staining your gown and knuckles like a wild fox to drive the fastidious lordling away, knowing no highborn man sought a lady willing to soil herself in the earth. Stabbing mindlessly at a piece of roasted goose on your trencher, you let out a dramatic sigh, wondering if you were ever destined to marry for true love rather than yield to prideful, egoistic men like Ser Chenle.
Knowing your second-eldest brother Doyoung had crossed paths with Prince Jeno whilst riding in knightly service and attending tourneys across the Seven Kingdoms, you shifted your seat closer to him along the legs and prepared to interrogate him regarding his past observations of the prince. Unfortunately, he caught the intent written plainly across your face, immediately leaning toward your eldest brother Donghyun – who sat on his other side – to initiate a detailed discussion about the condition of the tournament steeds. Who even discusses horses while breaking fast? Annoyed by his obvious avoidance, you reached beneath the table overhand and dug a finger directly into Doyoung’s side, poking his lower ribs repeatedly until he groaned and turned back to face you.
“What do you want?” he hissed under his breath.
You tilted your chin upward, leaning toward his shoulder, whispering conspiratorially, “How do you find the royal House, Brother, now that you see them in full state?” You gestured subtly toward the dais with your eating knife, waiting for his answer with expectant eyes.
He brushed a stray crumb from his linen cuff, giving the elevated dais a single glance – awfully indifferent if you were to describe it – before meeting your gaze. “Unrefined.” He picked up his trencherman’s knife, casually slicing a piece of bread as if the prince was merely another arrogant jouster upon the tilting yard, contemptible by royal blood.
“Surely that is an exaggeration!” you protested softly. “The queen and the princess carry themselves with exquisite grace in both demeanour and posture, behaving as true highborn ladies of the realm – just look!” You pointed to said royal ladies before resting your hand on the table. “However… the king and the prince possess stern visages; I would fear to catch their gaze directly.”
Your second-eldest brother reached for his silver goblet, taking small sips of wine and offering a dry smirk. “My words referred only to the prince, Little Fox; he carries himself with the arrogance of a knight who believes his crest renders him invincible. As Ser Jaemin Velaryon’s squire, he was reticent, following his cousin around and fetching this and that and polishing armour; however, after his king-father knighted him, the prince simply delights in pressuring his men around –”
“– Is there nothing commendable about him, then?” you pressed on, leaning closer.
Doyoung paused, turning his bread between his fingers. “He is disciplined in the lists, I shall concede that. Ser Jaemin ensured he mastered proper balance and footwork before ever permitting him to hold a tourney lance, so his technique is sound. But his temper flared easily when a bout did not favour him. As for the rest of them…” He took another sip of wine before continuing in a hushed tone. “I know very little. The king and queen remain distant figures, keeping to their private chambers or council tables, and the late youngest princess, Daella the Sweet, passed when Prince Jeno was two-and-ten and his sister-wife was barely nine. We know only the idle chatter spoken in high halls.
“Though I must admit, the princess possesses a dignity that commands respect, as she carries the heavy mantle of her bloodline without needing to bellow or flex steel, moving through the court with a composure few ladies can match. When she spoke, though rarely, it was as if the world had slowed and quietened down and the sun had shone brightly. In certain tourneys, she brought her children to see the prince joust. Prince Viserys bears a striking resemblance to her, being endowed with the same fair complexion and gentle demeanour.”
A playful grin spread across your lips as you caught the subtle softening in his voice. “Oho… and why such high praise for the princess, Brother? Do I detect a lingering fondness?”
He nearly choked on his wine, setting his goblet down with an abrupt clatter as a pink flush rose along his cheek. “Nonsense – and keep your voice down! I merely acknowledged Her Grace as a highborn lady. When I was a boy first squiring in the Crownlands, years before you were even born, I admired her from afar as any young page might admire a royal figure. It was simple. Childhood. Reverence. Nothing more.”
“A childish devotion!” you gasped, resting your hand over your chest in mock astonishment. “To harbour such feelings for the Crown Prince’s wife, and to speak so critically of her brother-husband – why, that approaches treason!” You leaned back slightly, confident in the notion that a threat of your mother’s sharp reprimand would bring him to heel. “I shall report your words to Mother the moment we return to our pavilion. Or better, I shall report this very instance.”
Before you could stand up, Doyoung reached across your lap and pinched your cheek firmly between his index finger and thumb, twisting just enough to draw a gasp. “You shall do no such thing.”
“You are hurting me!” you whined, slapping his wrist away whilst rubbing your reddening cheek with a frown. He scoffed and turned back to his plate with an amused tilt of his head whilst dusting off his hands as if he had just touched the earth.
The eldest Florent scion chuckled from his brother’s other side, now absorbed by the squabbling. “Sister, if you wish it, let us inspect the tent erected for us outside and leave Doyoung to entertain the lords and ladies as proxy. He has hurt you; he must face the consequences of upsetting our little fox.”
“What a sound idea, Brother.” You beamed, sticking your tongue out at Doyoung to provoke him further.
This was Doyoung’s true horror: left defenceless in a hall full of formidable matriarchs seeking to secure advantageous matches between their daughters and lords or lordlings. “I do not agree with this scheme,” he declared hastily, his posture straightening as his eyes flicked toward a group of court ladies nearby. “You two shall not abandon me to those vultures!”
Donghyun casually picked up a candied grape from the wooden fruit platter in front of him, tossing it into his mouth with an easy grin. “Oh, but Lady Minah Tarly and Lady Momoka Greyjoy have been eyeing your handsome face for the past hour. I believe they deem you an ideal match for themselves. Do not forget Lady Caron, who attempted to lock you in with her daughter just last week in Ashford – the one who plays the harp so aggressively. I caught a glimpse of her before we settled on our seats, and it seemed she was searching for you.”
Your second-eldest brother glared between the two of you, his hands gripping the edge of his chair as if preparing for an ambush. “If either of you steps foot outside this hall, I shall tell Mother about the missing casks of Tyroshi pear brandy and autumn beer – and precisely who stole them.”
“He would not dare!” you exclaimed, your torso tilting forward to your brothers.
“He certainly would,” the eldest replied, shaking his head. “Though if you truly desire her keeping quiet against the vultures, Brother, you might consider offering our sister more than mere insults regarding the royal House.”
Doyoung let out an exasperated sigh, begrudgingly reached for the platter of lemon cakes set near the centre of the table, and slid the largest piece onto your trencher. You took a bite of the pastry with a victorious grin, settling comfortably back into your seat, as he said, “Fine. Eat your sweetmeats and keep your tongue still, Little Fox, before Lady Caron decides we both require lessons upon the harp.”
By noontime, the grounds surrounding Goldengove buzzed with nervous commotion, though the actual jousts had not yet begun; inside the pavilion allotted to House Florent, however, you sat slumped in a carved oak chair, already grumbling as the sun began to bake the thick canvas walls. You harboured a deep disdain for the tedious obligations of courtly life, resenting the fact that custom forced you to sit inside a humid tent whilst wearing layers of stifling fabric when you wished for nothing more than to remain at Brightwater Keep. Your gown of deep blue velvet – fitted snugly across a gold and blue brocade bodice with fine front lacing and sheer, cream-ruffled lining along the square neckline – proved entirely too warm for the midday heat, its bulbous puff at the shoulder of your tight sleeves binding your arms in weighty decorative trim. Even worse was the padded crescent headpiece pinned tautly atop your copper hair – encrusted with seed pearls that cascaded down your elaborate braid in delicate strings – and the golden chain with an amber teardrop pendant rested heavily against your head and collarbone as the weather grew scorching. You could have spent peaceful mornings sleeping late, donning lighter and simpler gowns, sampling chilled sweet wine, reading leather-bound tomes, and embroidering a litter of kits sniffing the flowers you had grown in the garden along the hems of your handkerchief. But no, Mother needed you to attend, for she would be perturbed if three of her children missed the Rowans’ tourney.
“Sister, someone awaits outside,” Donghyun cooed, reaching to poke your cheek with a teasing finger to draw you out of your sulk.
You slumped further into your chair, letting out a low groan that made the fabric of your bodice tighten. “Who could be bothering me at such an ungodly hour? Must I step outside and let the sun burn my skin to a crisp before the heralds even blow their trumpets? Are they not permitted to step inside? And could someone open the flaps? It is blistering here!”
Before Donghyun could answer, Doyoung pushed aside the entrance flaps, stepping into the tent with a broad grin playing on his lips. “You will be exceedingly pleased once you lay your eyes upon our visitor, Little Fox. Come, up you get before I carry you out myself.” Without waiting for your permission, he reached down, grasped both of your wrists in his hands, and hauled you off the chair, dragging you directly toward the sunlit opening.
The instant you stepped out into the high-noon breeze, the thick canvas flaps fell back to reveal Jaehyun of House Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, standing in the golden light, his tall frame dressed in a finely tailored doublet of pine-green and gold and brown linen breeches. All of your lingering irritation vanished in a breath, replaced by a surge of pure delight at the sight of his handsome face and dimpled smile. Abandoning every lesson of courtly decorum your septa had ever taught you, you gathered the heavy skirts of your gown to run across the dew-kissed grass, throwing your arms tightly around his neck. Jaehyun let out a warm and rumbling laugh, his long arms wrapping around your waist to swing you off your feet for a brief instant before setting you down gently, his fingers smoothing the tumbled hair back from your brow.
“Still running through tourney grounds like a wild creature, I see,” he murmured, full of affection, and his brown eyes crinkling as he looked down at you. “It brings me great joy to see you, my lady.”
“I was about to melt into the floorboards! You arrived just in time to save this damsel from utter distress.”
He stepped back slightly, his long fingers gently encircling yours to lift your right hand, bending his body as he pressed a peck against your knuckles. His eyes gleamed as he straightened himself and met your gaze, his dimples deepening. “You look radiant, Little Fox,” he flattered, his thumb brushing the back of your hand.
The lordling had always possessed a charm that made everyone around him instantly feel at ease, a quality born from years spent roaming the sunlit gardens of Highgarden together during your shared youth. You fondly remembered long summer afternoons spent hiding beneath the sprawling maze of thornless roses, where he would dutifully search every stone alcove until he found you, never once scolding you for tearing your silk hems or losing your ribbons in the bushes. Whilst other young lordlings at court sneered at your unruly nature, he had always embraced your spirited disposition, happily sharing his lemon cakes with you beneath the shade of the ancient weirwood tree in the godswood and joining your brothers in calling you ‘Little Fox’. And as the heir to Highgarden, he carried a heavy burden upon his broad shoulders. Yet, he never permitted the strict demands of his birthright to dim his gentle nature, as he had been your patient protector throughout childhood, stepping in whenever your septa had threatened to lock you in your bedchamber for neglecting your lessons.
And you… you held a deep affection for him – never wavering – that built upon years of shared laughter and the comfortable warmth of a true companion who knew every flaw each of you possessed and loved you all the more for them. Seeing him now, standing tall in the colours of his House amidst the bustling tourney grounds, brought a wave of reassuring comfort that washed away the displeasure of the heat. His dimpled smile was a welcome beacon of home, reminding you of simpler days before grand court politics swept him away and impending betrothals began to dictate your life; but despite it all, you had managed to travel from Brightwater Keep to Highgarden whenever the Tyrells held court or whenever he invited you and Doyoung over, eager to have your company again. Because in a sea of strangers and scheming nobles, Jaehyun remained your constant ally, the one person who could make even the most tedious courtly obligation feel like a delightful adventure.
You shied away, letting out a bashful laugh and smoothing the sumptuous folds of your gown, and cast a playful glance toward your brother. Doyoung merely scoffed under his breath, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, stepping away from the pavilion right behind you and grasping his companion’s shoulder on his other side and offering a hearty greeting to the lordling. “It has been too many moons, Jaehyun. How fared the ride from Highgarden?” he questioned.
“Tiring, but pleasant enough – though Father kept our retinue at a steady pace to ensure we arrived well before the royal procession. Of course, you as well know the Lord of Highgarden is terrible at managing time, so we arrived much later after the morning meal; I feel quite embarrassed that my parents and I were not present in the eyes of the king and his family,” Jaehyun answered, rubbing his nape. To substitute his sheepishness, he shifted the topic by saying, “Moving on, how fared your own preparations on the road?”
Your brother let out a weary laugh, adjusting the leather strap of his sword belt. “Father kept me in the armoury until dusk every evening back home, ensuring my lances were straight and steel polished to perfection. Between inspecting tournament steeds and enduring endless complaints from my sister about the heat, I have barely had a moment of rest.”
“Only because you insisted on being solemn and determined to win. Do you truly think you could catch the attention of the princess, Brother?” you interjected, giving him a sly smirk and turning eagerly back to Jaehyun before Doyoung could utter a single word of denial. “How is Highgarden? Are the roses in the upper terrace blooming as richly as they did last midsummer?”
“Even more so,” the lordling assured you. “My mother was asking after you only last moon, wondering if you had finished that tapestry of Garth the Gardener. For all the Tyrell and Florent feuding, you have grown on her – to an increasing extent. She will be pleased to see you on your next visit to Highgarden.”
“I finished the borders just before we departed! I would be honoured to show her the result.” You linked your arm through his without hesitation when Jaehyun offered his elbow to you whilst Doyoung fell into step along his other side. “Tell me, who else has arrived? Has the encampment grown as vast as the heralds promised?”
“Vaster, in truth.” Jaehyun grinned as the three of you stepped onto the main thoroughfare. “Lords and knights from every corner of the realm have pitched their tents along the riverbanks. Though I suspect there are fewer knights from the Iron Islands, for Lord Yuta is ill; thus, he sent his older sister in his stead. His subjects are quite fond of him, and since he is confined in Pyke, numerous knights had chosen to stay.”
“What a strange sort of devotion. How have you obtained these particulars?”
“The Lord Reaper sent a raven to Highgarden informing Father of his absence.”
“And not the Rowans?” you questioned, narrowing your eyes.
“I believe he did write to them… though I am unsure.”
As you, your brother, and your friend began to amble through the wide avenues between the tournament tents, your mind glided back to a parchment letter, one that Jaehyun had sent via raven several moons prior; receiving that missive at Brightwater Keep had filled you with endless excitement, for written within his precise script was the thrilling news that Ser Jonathan of House Baratheon, the heir to Storm’s End, would be riding west to test his skill against the knights of the realm. That single detail alone had prompted you to spend three entire days with your seamstresses, carefully selecting the gown you were currently wearing; you had chosen this garment not merely to showcase the colour of your House’s sigil before the court, but specifically to capture the gaze of the Baratheon knight who had held a sweet place in your heart since your childhood days at Highgarden.
Those years at the Tyrells’ abode had been shaped by the compassionate presence of Jaehyun, who had always served as your steadfast shelter at court; yet, whenever Jonathan entered the frame, the sunny quiet of the Reach seemed to give way to something grander and far more stirring. Whilst Jaehyun would patiently sit beside you in the sprawling garden to share pastries and gossip, Jonathan would pass through them in sweat-stained arming doublets after a spar with Donghyun, his raven-black hair damp against his forehead and his brown eyes – a token of his Tyrell lineage through his mother – fixed on the sparring ring. You remembered leaning against Jaehyun’s arm, whispering endless questions about the Baratheon lordling, only for him to chuckle good-naturedly, apprise you that Jonathan was his cousin, and tease you about your reddening cheeks.
Your affection for Jonathan had taken root during an autumn morning when you had dropped your favourite blue ribbon of silk, made to be tied around the base of the braid your septa had just plaited, into a murky garden fountain. Whilst she had chided you for your carelessness, Jonathan, who had been passing through the main courtyard after breaking his fast, stepped forward without hesitation; dressed in his yellowish tunic, he had retrieved the wet ribbon from the cold water, carefully wringing it dry before presenting it back to you. It was the first time he had interacted with you, and the tender smile he had offered in that moment cemented him in your thoughts forever, transforming a simple childhood fascination into a honeyed, lingering fondness that years of distance could never diminish.
One memory in particular remained vivid in your mind: a magnificent evening feast at Highgarden when you were at the age of eight, and he at the age of five-and-ten. You had been sitting at the high table when unexpected fingers brushed against your waist beneath the hanging tablecloth, seeking to startle you with a mischievous tickle; alarm had spiked in your chest, immediately bringing forth a piece of knightly advice Jonathan himself had imparted days prior – that a highborn maiden ought to defend herself without hesitation using whatever weapon lay closest at hand. Driven by impulse and his own counsel, your fingers had clamped tightly around a fork resting beside your trencher, thrusting its pointed tines directly into his skin near his collarbone before your mind could even register who sat beside you. The lordling had gasped, recoiling as small drops of crimson bloomed against his white tunic whilst a burning shame settled deep in your stomach; mortification had consumed you the moment you recognised your victim, yet pride had forbidden you from offering an apology for taking his words so literally. When he spent the following fortnight pursuing you through the rose arbours – presenting armfuls of golden blossoms, whispering earnest entreaties, and pressing lingering kisses to the backs of your knuckles –, you had merely held your head high, nursing your mortified dignity in stubborn refusal to grant him spoken absolution.
Unable to keep your tongue from staying silent any longer, you looked up at the Tyrell lordling with wide eyes. “Has Jon arrived at the grounds yet? Tell me he did not encounter delays along the Kingswood! Where are his warhorses stalled? Do you think he remembers me? Oh, how should I acquit myself in front of him?”
He chortled. “Peace, sweet lady, he is here. Jon arrived after I did with his new squire, Sion Dondarrion, and has been down at his pavilion after making certain his destrier is fit for the tilts. And as for your worries, you need not behave demurely; you are fine the way you are.”
Doyoung snorted with amusement, shaking his head and walking to your other side, only to pull at your ear playfully. “She has asked about Jonathan every single morning since you wrote to her. You would think the man was the king of the Seven Kingdoms given how she frets over his arrival.”
“I do not fret!” you protested, bumping your shoulder against his arm whilst keeping a firm grip on the other man’s sleeve. “I merely wish to know if our friend survived the journey from Storm’s End! Is it so wrong to inquire after him who once spent moons in the Point or weeks kissing my hand to apologise for a foolish prank? Though I admit I was at fault for stabbing him.”
Jaehyun smiled warmly as he patted your hand where it rested on his forearm. “He looks forward to seeing you, rest assured. Though I must warn you, he is still quite cautious around silver forks when maidens are present. It was his fault for giving you knightly counsel of striking at your assailant; therefore you were not at fault.”
Your brother burst into laughter at the reminder of the Highgarden feast, whilst a blush crept up your cheeks, though you could not suppress the bright grin spreading across your face at the thought of seeing Jonathan again. Jaehyun guided you along the bustling thoroughfare of the camp where young squires hauled wooden buckets of well water, and polishers worked tireless hands against steel graves; banners of gold, silver, and azure fluttered against the midday breeze, creating a vivid sea of heraldry that stretched as far as the tree line of Goldengrove. You adjusted the puff of your sleeves with light fingers, making certain that none of them looked deflated for the reunion you had dreamed about through countless silent moons at your abode ever since Jonathan had left for the Riverlands to squire for the late Lord Mallister’s son, unaware of how the passage of time had rewritten the ties of your youth.
After passing beneath the soaring wooden arches defining the main pavilion avenue, the three of you arrived before the encampment of House Baratheon. The pavilion stood taller than most, constructed from canvas dyed the rich, buttery hue of autumn grain and topped by a broad banner depicting the black crowned stag leaping proudly above a field of gold; outside the entryway stood two unfamiliar guards whose appearance stood in stark contrast to the stormlord guardsmen nearby, as one wore a black-purple surcoat over his polished silver armour – you suspected this was Sion Dondarrion, the heir to Blackhaven and squire to Jonathan –, and the other wore a surcoat of burnt orange over a rough bronze chest plate, holding a spear resting against his shoulder. You gave the foreign soldier little thought, assuming he was merely a hired guard or an envoy from the southern Marches, and stepped straight past the closed entrance flap alongside your brother and Jaehyun, your eyes eagerly searching the interior for the Baratheon knight you had cherished in secret for many a year and missing the foreign soldier hesitantly opening his mouth to protest against the trio entering the tent.
The interior was comfortably furnished with brown bear pelts, carved oak chests, and steel stands holding hefty tournament armour that gleamed softly under the midday light filtering through the canopy. Yet the scene that met your eyes upon crossing the threshold caused the breath to freeze inside your throat, piercing your chest like an unseen arrow released from a longbow. Standing near a low table laden with jugs of liquor and green grapes was Jonathan, his tall frame leaning down over a striking young woman dressed in a flowing gown of bright orange; his large hands rested tenderly on her waist whilst her fingers toyed with the collar of his tunic, their lips joined in a passionate snog – lascivious. Neither your brother nor Jaehyun suspected the tender affection you had harboured for Jonathan since maidenhood – to them, your eagerness to see him was simply the innocent fondness of an old friend for the cheerful days of your youth –, yet as you watched the couple part with a gasp and laugh, an overwhelming wave of envy flared in your chest toward this exquisite, tanned lady who possessed the key to his heart.
“Ah, forgive us for our unseemly indecency so early in the day!” Jonathan apologised with a hearty chortle, stepping forward to clasp your brother’s hand in a vigorous greeting, then to Jaehyun, before turning his gaze toward you with the easy warmth of an old friend. “Look who has arrived! I thought you would never grace me with your presence. My lady, it brings me immense joy to see you again after so many years. Allow me to introduce my bride – the Princess of Dorne.”
Sour bubbles rose into your throat from your stomach, threatening to choke you as the unbearable reality and a nauseating ache settled in your chest. The years spent daydreaming, the days meticulously choosing a gown for the tourney and waiting to reunite… all of them shattered into worthless shards of glass in an instant. Your blood ran ice-cold, and you felt the pain within you threatening to strip away every shred of composure you possessed; however, drawing upon every stern lesson your septa had engraved into your skull since your youthful days, you forced your muscles to obey, forcing the swelling bile back down where it originated. And you gathered your skirts on each of your sides, bending your knees and sinking low into an immaculate curtsy. When you finally rose, you clasped your hands together and offered the Dornish princess a polite smile, perfectly constructed to shield your mortification – not a tear was permitted to breach your lashes, nor did a single tremor mar your countenance.
“We are enlivened beyond measure for your happiness, Jon, and it is a true privilege to welcome the future Lady of Storm’s End to the Reach,” Jaehyun uttered, his deep voice carrying a balance of good-naturedness and the noble decorum expected from the heir to Highgarden, as he bowed gracefully.
The Dornish princess inclined her head, her persimmon veil shifting fluidly across her shoulders as an amused expression played upon her lips. “I recall your face from the wedding, Jaehyun,” she noted. “My husband mentioned how feverishly he begged you to strike him before he reached the sept, convinced that such fortune was merely a dream.”
The lordling laughed as he adjusted his posture. “In truth, my lady, Jon was most persistent in his request.”
Turning her observant eyes toward your second-eldest brother, the princess tilted her head with curiosity – much like a cat. “And which noble man stands beside you?”
“Ser Doyoung of House Florent, at your service, my lady,” Doyoung responded, bowing low, then straightening his posture and gesturing toward you, “and this is my –”
“– Sister. Y/N Florent. An erstwhile acquaintance of your husband’s,” you interjected sharply before your brother could finish.
The princess’ eyes lit up with immediate delight, a chortle bursting from her lips as she clapped her hands. “Ah, Y/N! Pray, allow me to call you by your name. Jonathan has entertained me with the tale of your silver fork on the night of our wedding – a marvellous recount, truly. What an utter delight it is to finally meet the maiden who forced the proud heir of Storm’s End onto his knees to plead for your favour.”
And her cheerful tone faded into a muffled buzz as the ambient chatter of the pavilion slipped away entirely – the world was decelerating… the movement of their lips sluggish… the buzz was quietening. The sight of Jonathan standing married before you tore through your chest, compounded by the cruelty of his outright neglect: he had shared the childhood story of you wounding him – amusing his Dornish wife with recollections of your past –, yet through all those long moons separated by four-hundred-and-fifty miles of land, he had not dispatched a single raven to Brightwater Keep; he had never sent word of his betrothal, nor had an invitation to his nuptials ever reached your hands. Jaehyun had been summoned to witness his vows, whilst you had been completely erased, tossed aside like an unwanted trinket – treating your very existence as an afterthought. To know that you had nurtured a passion for years, clinging to the very same silk ribbon he had wrung dry and a handful of dried golden roses that you had pressed into your books of legends told before 1 BC, turned every piece of your devotion into pure… burning… shame.
Another dizzying wave of nausea swept through your body, making the wooden flooring beneath your slippers seem to tilt violently, and cold sweat formed at your hairline as your chest constricted, making each breath thin and hollow. Searching for stability, your right hand reached blindly into the space beside you, your fingers locking onto the fine velvet of Jaehyun’s sleeve, digging your nails deep into the fabric to keep yourself standing. He felt the trembling pressure against him, his eyes darting down to read the pale tension across your face at once; without hesitation, he slid his large hand over your knuckles, squeezing your fingers within his palm to anchor you to the present moment. Smoothing the atmosphere, the sound of your surroundings flooded back into your senses, an action so powerful that your head jerked subtly, and he neatly steered the interaction toward its conclusion before your composure disintegrated completely.
You heard him say, “My lady, Jon. You must forgive us, but Lord Florent awaits our return at his pavilion to review the seating arrangements before the heralds sound the opening trumpets. We must take our leave, though we wish you both every joy during the tourney.”
The princess’ small smile stretched into a sweet one, though you swore it was patronising. “Oh, do take your leave, Jaehyun. And do ensure your little companion gets plenty of rest before the jousts – she looks positively faint from the heat! Walk leisurely back to your pavilion, for returning in haste could heighten the dizziness.”
“Yes, give Lord Florent my warm regards. We must share a jug of Dornish Red before the day is out.” Jonathan merely gave a careless wave of his hand – which you believed was peculiar, for he would never do such a thing to his longtime companions. A hearty grin spread across his face as if nothing were amiss, then he turned to you. “Y/N, you must acquaint yourself with my wife, for she has fascinating stories about Dorne and her kin’s culture.”
‘Little companion’… acquainting myself with her… I beg his pardon!
Pride, grief, and unadulterated rage surged through your blood – hot and immense and uncontrollable – that washed away the instinct of your noble decorum. You were not a child to be petted, nor a foolish maiden to be pitied whilst he played the radiant groom and his wife played the knowledgeable maester. Ripping your arm free from Jaehyun’s grip, you shouted, “Why did you never write to me?” Your voice resonated wildly across the wide tent as Jaehyun leapt forward, his broad arms wrapping securely around your waist to hold you back just when you attempted to take a stride toward the newlyweds. “All these years – not a single raven!
“I had waited for you, waited for a damn raven to perch upon the rookery in Brightwater Keep and for the maester to hand me a roll of parchment, waited like an imbecile, hoping that one day – one day! – I would receive words from you.” You paused, catching a breath. “I… I understand that you might not have had the time, for you were just a young boy squiring a knight from the Riverlands – but were you not able to seek Lord Mallister’s maester to aid you in delivering a letter? Jon, it is only writing. Anyone could find a brief respite to write a letter.
“And what about the years after you were knighted? Did you never think of me? I had only heard about you from Doyoung and Jaehyun, heard about the dispute at the Point and how you joined the troop. Yet you had the time to write to them, but not me? Am I just a ghost of your youth? And I… she… you and the princess – if you harboured someone in your heart, you could have at least told me. W–We were meant to be friends! Friends apprise each other of their lives! Why did you invite Jaehyun to your wedding and leave me without a single word? Have you changed so drastically that you forgot about me? You are a wretched friend, Jonathan Baratheon!” you cried out, pointing a trembling finger directly at the man who broke your heart. “I regret letting you into my life! I regret every moment I spent missing you!”
Jonathan stood frozen, his mouth slightly open – struck dumb – before his bride, cousin, and companion, who gasped in unison at the breach of court etiquette. Doyoung’s face went pale as he moved swiftly in front of you to block the sight of the Baratheon knight from you, and you thrashed against Jaehyun’s hold as you spewed out colourful words you would have never used, trying to charge forward. Realising that attempting to drag you backwards by your waist was futile against your squirming, he changed his tactic and ducked his shoulders, swooping down and hoisting you bodily over his left shoulder as if you were nothing but a sack of grain, locking a thick arm over the back of your thighs. You beat your fists against the green velvet covering his back, screaming accusations into the air and your heels kicking uselessly against the air, yet he heeded the blows no mind, striding out through the flaps.
“Let me go! I have not struck his face yet!” you yelled, but he kept his grip firm, ignoring the gaping stares of the two armoured men you saw at the front of the tent and of nearby knights and squires whilst he carried you away. “I said, let me go, or for the love of the Seven, I will strike you, too!”
Your brother trailed close behind, his jaw set, eyes narrowed, and cheeks red in embarrassment, and Jaehyun guided his and Doyoung’s steps toward a secluded apple orchard situated near the House Florent pavilion, where leafy branches provided a canopy away from prying eyes. Setting your feet down upon the grass beneath the shade of a tree, he turned to face you fully, his handsome face marked by genuine guilt, reaching out to grasp your hands within his own. You glanced behind him and saw Doyoung standing nearby, yet shuffling closer until he stood beside you, looking as equally culpable as Jaehyun; now, you started to suspect there was something amiss.
“I owe you a sincere apology,” the lordling murmured, and you forced yourself to lock eyes with him, craning your neck upward due to the height difference. “I attended their wedding four moons ago, yet whenever I sat down to write to you, I could not bring myself to put the news upon parchment, for I was afraid how you would react. I failed to realise that, even without the specifics, you would respond exactly as you did.”
“Hold on, you did not tell her?” Doyoung asked, his eyes widening in astonishment as he manoeuvred around Jaehyun. “I knew of the wedding, of course, but I assumed you had shared the news! You correspond with her constantly – how could you allow her to walk into that tent entirely unprepared?”
Jaehyun shifted his posture, casting a defensive glance toward your brother. “In truth, I refrained from mentioning the betrothal under the assumption that you had already shared the matter, given how endlessly you shelter her from every unpleasant truth. You coddle her too much.”
“Shelter her? Me?” Doyoung scoffed, pointing an accusing finger at Jaehyun. “Listen to yourself! You speak as though you hold a husband’s claim over her!”
You breathed out a weary sigh, pressing two fingers against the bridge of your nose and rubbing the area in exasperation. “Brother, Jaehyun. I am still standing here, and you both need not quarrel on my account. I was merely taken unawares,” you insisted, though your brother let out an incredulous noise, plainly unconvinced by your attempt at composure, “for I had no inkling that Jonathan had taken a wife, and while such news is a blessing for House Baratheon – truly –, the sting remains. He offered not a single missive regarding his current life or his nuptials, nor did he bother to seek my presence. I can understand his invitation reaching you, Jaehyun, given your blood ties as his cousin. But you, Brother… you could have informed me regardless.”
“I know, and I am truly sorry for causing you distress,” Jaehyun murmured.
“And as I,” your brother interjected.
“Yet… why?” you pressed on, searching both their faces for a shred of truth. “Why would he cast our bond aside? Do either of you possess any inkling as to why he severed all ties with me?” When both of them offered only helpless shakes of their heads, a chill settled over your shoulders, a hollow laugh leaving your lips. “Seven above… not even you two have an answer. He truly has changed, has he not?”
“Little Fox, you need not trouble yourself over Jonathan.” Doyoung reached out to pat your arm. Seven Hells, had he hoped that he could offer some measure of comfort from… patting my arm?
With a surge of indignation, you spun on your heel, the fabric of your skirts swirling about your legs as you strode away from the secluded orchard, each footfall across the trampled grass of the tourney grounds echoing your humiliation and deepening your sense of outrage; the vibrant colours of the banners fluttered in the breeze, casting playful shadows on the ground, but there was nothing playful about the turmoil within you. Bursting through the entrance flaps of the House Florent pavilion, you were met by the sight of your parents standing near the centre table; Donghyun was also present, leaning slightly forward, as if trying to catch sight of your mood. Four handmaidens busied themselves nearby, whispering among themselves, their eyes darting between you and the elegantly arranged wooden trunks against the far wall; among them stood Doyoung’s squire, Riku of House Redwyne, the heir to the Arbor, who was polishing your second-eldest brother’s armour.
As Doyoung approached, intent on following you inside, you pivoted sharply at the threshold, lifting your hand to bar his entry. His expression flickered with surprise, confusion crossing his features, but you held your ground. “Not another step.” You turned to your attention to the servants and squire inside. “Out! All five of you, leave this tent at once.”
Riku and the handmaidens hurried past you into the bustling thoroughfare; they bowed their heads in a gesture of respect as they made their swift escape, the faint rustle of their skirts blending with the ambient sounds of the market around you. The young squire, flustered and intent on following orders, nearly stumbled over a large cask of pepperwine that had been prepared as a gift for the royal family; his eyes widened in alarm as he clutched the edges of the cask to regain his balance as he steadied himself. Meanwhile, the handmaidens dispersed like startled sparrows, their delicate slippers whispering against the soft, grassy ground beneath them; they ducked gracefully beneath the flaps the squire had parted, their movements synchronised with the frantic energy of the moment.
Your mother stepped forward, her brow furrowed as she surveyed your dishevelled appearance. “Child, what in the Seven is the meaning of this commotion?” she asked, setting down a golden goblet on the centre table. “Have you taken ill, or has the noontime sun overcome you before the opening ceremony?”
Your lord-father approached with his arms crossed against his chest as your eldest brother stepped up beside him to study your flushed face. “Why are you barring your brother at the flap on a day meant for celebration? This is no time to be causing such a commotion; we are not at Brightwater Keep.”
“I am fine, Mother, Father,” you responded. “I merely require privacy to… to prepare my hair without a crowd hovering about. Pray, leave me be.”
“You drove your maids away. How on earth are you to prepare your hair alone?” Donghyun inquired, striding toward the flaps to exit the tent and call in your two handmaidens before you could even protest.
Your parents exchanged puzzled glances, but they relented without further questions asked, stepping through the entryway to tend to their duties among the visiting noble houses as your handmaidens entered the tent. Left somewhat alone in the spacious pavilion, you paced across the layered rugs whilst the quiet settled around you; every breath felt heavy in your chest, your deep blue gown mocking you with how meticulously you had prepared for a man who had forgotten your existence. Your knees finally gave way, causing you to sink onto a pile of plush cushions tucked into one corner of the tent, and you buried your face in your hands, allowing the bitter tears you had held back all afternoon to spill over your lashes, uncaring that your handmaidens were watching you weep.
“My lady, may we assist you?” the elder handmaiden asked quietly, standing near the edge of the cushions with a silver basin and a folded linen handkerchief. And you glanced up, seeing that she kept her eyes dutifully lowered toward the rug, her demeanour meek.
“I–In a moment. I just need to… compose myself,” you managed to reply in a small voice, though raspy, pressing the palms of your hands against your eyelids before accepting the square of linen offered to you. Your eyes stung with the hot touch of your tears, and you could only bring the handkerchief to your face, hand trembling as you dabbed the remaining salt from your cheeks and blew your nose into the cloth to clear your runny nose.
The second handmaiden, not much younger than the first, sat wordlessly beside her peer, cradling a small jar of lavender ointment and a wooden comb in her lap – and they remained as such: motionless, silent. Yet, they offered deference rather than unwanted pity, giving you space to reclaim some small semblance of dignity. How foolish I must appear to them – the daughter of Lord and Lady Florent, weeping upon a heap of cushions over a man who had not remembered me. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of the couple devouring each other’s lips, of how taken he looked by his Dornish bride, of his careless wave, of the princess’ patronising sweetness, and of their hollow pleasantries. How many moons in Brightwater Keep had I squandered, foolishly dreaming of a grand reunion, only to be dismissed as a mere artefact of his youth?
As your breathing gradually returned to a steady rhythm, you felt the gentle shift of the two handmaidens as they lowered themselves gracefully onto their knees on the plush cushions that surrounded you; their presence was a welcome comfort as they prepared to tend to your hair, a ritual that had become familiar. With deft hands, the eldest handmaiden carefully unpinned the delicate crescent headpiece that had become askew during the fraught moments on Jaehyun’s shoulder; the silver embroidery on the padding glimmered softly in the ambient light before she placed it on a vanity tray. The moment she untied the short, silk ribbon securing your braid, your copper hair cascaded down your back in a wave of tousled strands. You felt her fingers work through the tangled locks left by the capricious midday breeze, wielding the comb with expertise and dividing your hair into neat, even sections. With each stroke, she smoothed the strands, weaving them together back into an elegant but tight braid that would hold through the day’s adventures. Meanwhile, the youngest of the two handmaidens – her movements imbued with a tender care – dabbed a hint of water from the basin – rosewater – onto a soft cloth; she gently smoothed the fragrant liquid along your hairline, where the sun’s warmth and your outburst had left your skin flushed and warm. The soothing scent enveloped you, mingling with the calming atmosphere, as she carefully eased the tension around your brow, her touch as light as a whisper. You could feel the stress of the day begin to melt away as their skilful hands continued to work, transforming the disarray into a masterpiece.
A soft rustle near the side canvas broke the stillness, followed by the sweep of heavy fabric as your second-eldest brother slipped quietly into the tent, defying your explicit command. You straightened instantly upon the cushions, preparing to demand his departure; you drew back your shoulders to project strength, though your eyes remained red and swollen. Before you could speak, Doyoung raised a hand to stay your voice, kneeling before you and taking your hand in his, and your handmaidens bowed their heads before leaving the two youngest Florent siblings alone. “I have been turning this entire scene over in my head since we left Jonathan’s tent. My sister would not lose her temper over nothing to the point of driving everyone out,” he said softly. “While you sulk in here, allow me to say this: you harbour affection for Jonathan, do you not? I had not known until today; it made sense as to why you were incredibly upset over the news of his betrothal.”
“That is absurd!” you snapped, pulling your hand back to cross your arms across your chest as you stared down at the rug to avoid his gaze.
“He is a married man now, Sister. Wallowing in grief over a man who belongs to another will bring you nothing but misery, for he has chosen his path across the realm.” Doyoung scoffed, shifting to sit beside you, and murmured, “There are… other noble lords… who are far more deserving of your thoughts and your heart.”
“Such as…?”
“Chenle Lannister.” His brows wiggled, a jocular smile spreading across his face. “Mother deems him fit to be your husband, even when you appeared in the great hall with dirt staining your gown. His lord-father is considering an autumn wedding in the next year; you could even acquaint yourself with his elder sister. You would not be lonely there; you would have a friend to embroider with, or whatever it is you do when I am away.”
You gasped, dropping your arms to clutch your skirt. “A–Absolutely not! Ser Chenle is… is egocentric, and he spent most of his days with his squire; I have an inkling that he might not… prefer maidens.” Your brother raised a brow at your suspicion, though you added, “And his sister lives in Castamere as their uncle’s heir – how could I befriend the future head of House Reyne when she is occupied with the affairs of state?”
“Then… Jaehyun,” he suggested earnestly. “I know you… hold a genuine warmth for him especially. You cannot deny this truth, for I am your brother, and you are terrible at keeping secrets from me.”
You pulled your knees toward your chest, exhaling a breath that rattled against your ribs. “Are my thoughts so transparent to you?” you asked softly, resting your chin atop your knee. “Do I wear my heart so plainly upon my sleeve for the entire court to inspect?”
“Not to the entire court, Sister, but to me,” he responded. “I have watched you steal not-so-subtle glances at him whenever we visit Highgarden, just as I have seen him abandon every courtly duty the moment you enter a courtyard or hall. While Jonathan left you to pine over old tokens across long leagues, Jaehyun has remained at your side through every season, attending to your comfort without ever demanding your favour in return.
“Do you recall a year ago when I rode down into the Red Mountains to drive back Dornish reavers and was forced to linger at Highgarden while my shoulder mended from an infected wound? It was during my recovery there that I chanced upon a series of parchments he meant for Jonathan’s eyes alone,” he continued. “The heir to Highgarden, renowned for his stern composure among the chivalry of the Reach, wrote of you as though he were a Grand Maester compiling an encyclopaedia of your finest virtues. He filled entire margins recounting the exact shade of your gowns, describing how you looked beneath the sunlit gardens in his home, and even outlined a dozen verse fragments comparing your smile to the spring blooms among the Mander. He penned line after line detailing the sweetness of your laughter, wondering if a minstrel might set such words to a lute. If… that is not the parchment of a young lord hopelessly besotted with a maiden, then I am no knight of Brightwater Keep.”
You stared at your brother with your mouth agape, your breath catching in your chest as a warm tint of red flush mounted across your cheeks and ears. “Verse fragments?” you repeated in a hushed, incredulous tone. You looked away toward the far corner of the tent, your pulse fluttering as you tried to reconcile the image of the lordling with the passionate writer your brother described. “Jaehyun wrote verses about me to Jon? Y–You are making a sport of me, Brother – he is an honourable heir to a Great House, and he would never pen such absurd, romantic drivel. Our Houses have spent centuries trading bitter glances over claims to the Reach; even if Lady Tyrell has lately warmed to my presence and treated me with unexpected kindness, Jaehyun would hardly go so far as to waste ink composing ballads for a Florent.”
He, amused, let out a sigh as he shook his head at your stubbornness. “Do you truly believe our invitations to Highgarden are merely politeness?” he countered, leaning forward over the cushions. “Why do you think Lord and Lady Tyrell have opened their grand halls to us so graciously outside of holding court, setting aside centuries of grievances over whose right it is to be Lord Paramount of the Mander since after the Conquest? Why else would Lady Tyrell ask after your tapestry of Garth the Gardener, eagerly expecting you to bring it on your very next visit? It is because their only son fell headlong for a Florent maiden. Jaehyun confessed to me that he went before his parents and begged them to soften their hearts toward our House when he was seven, urging them to put old animosities to the side so he might invite us into their home, all to ensure he could remain by your side. Lady Tyrell’s growing fondness for you is no mere chance either – it is the fruit of her son’s endless devotion.
“I speak nothing but the truth, Sister, and should you refuse to believe, seek the lordling himself,” he insisted, reaching out toward the silver tray resting atop a cushion to lift your delicate crescent headpiece the handmaidens had set aside earlier. Moving behind you with a fond smile, his long fingers carefully pinned the ornament onto your head, complimenting the intricate woven braid of your hair, and secured the piece with meticulous care so as not to pull a single strand. “The opening jousts will commence soon. Let the ghost of Jonathan Baratheon remain in the past where he belongs, and focus on the present moment… preferably with Jaehyun. I must admit that I have always supported the notion of you ending up as his lover – considering the years Jon spent as a squire for Lord Sicheng and never stepping foot in the Reach after being knighted –, while Donghyun supported the notion of you ending up as Jon’s lover. I believe he owes me a hundred dragons now that Jon is married.”
“What! And a hundred dragons?” you echoed, your voice rising in disbelief at the sheer absurdity of his confession, as you turned your head toward him with wide eyes. “My own brothers placed a wager upon my hand? You both turned my maidenhood into a common tavern gamble?”
Doyoung chortled, standing up and raising his hands in mock surrender. “Consider it a silver lining, Little Fox; at least one of your brothers possesses the foresight to back the superior suitor,” he drawled, striding toward the pavilion’s exit before you could throw a cushion at his head. “Do not keep Father waiting for the jousts! Oh, and try not to look so surprised when Jaehyun comes to claim your hand for a dance during the feast. In fact, he has told me that he is considering asking for your hand in –”
“Do not finish that sentence!”
“– marriage.”
“Doyoung!”