Chapter Text
By the time Vaeryn reached Ashford Meadow, the encampment was already booming with knights, squires and smallfolk.
She rode slowly, followed closely enough by her sworn shield, Ser Alard, though he tried to keep a courteous distance to allow her the thin illusion of solitude although his eyes never did quite leave her.
She liked watching. Liked paying attention to things others didn’t.
Like a knight polishing his helm again and again, a squire asleep against a bundle of spears, mouth hanging agape or a banner sewn in haste, its lion missing half a tail.
Her brown hair was braided tightly, though the white streak at her left temple caught the sun. The pale echoed in her eyebrow and lashes on the same side. She, like her father, favoured her grandmother, her skin warmer than her brothers.
Vaeryn had not arrived with her family. She had no wish to linger for days at Ashford, enduring forced courtesies while the men spoke of glory as though it already belonged to them.
She wondered how Valarr settled amongst it all. She had not bothered to write as it had only been days since she’d last seen her twin but the journey felt different without him.
A voice to her side caught her attention, interrupting her thoughts. Near a green pavilion stood two young men. One was slim and muscular, wearing his pride as though it was his cloak. The other was broader, built solidly, his stance careful rather than proud.
Vaeryn pulled on her horse, Handsome, and only slowed enough to briefly watch them.
“…if you’re hoping to impress anyone tomorrow, cousin, you might try not falling on your arse first,” the proud one called.
He moved well, quick on his feet and when he caught sight of Vaeryn riding past, he straightened subtly, and his strikes grew sharper and harder.
The other didn’t look up.
He met the first blows rather cleanly,, waiting for an opening.
The proud one gave him none.
The flat of the woods blade caught the stockier one across the face.
There was a dull crack.
The stockier one staggered back, clutching his nose.
A few of the watching boys laughed.
The proud one stepped away, lowering his blade with exaggerated ease. “You’re even slower today,” he said. “Still not ripe, cousin.”
The stockier one rubbed his thumb beneath his nose, staring at the red smear.
She gave a faint, dismissive scoff and turned her horse on without another glance, whatever interest she might have had already gone.
She had barely moved forward when she heard it, low and muttered, not meant for her to actually hear but stupidly said too loudly. “Bastard Targaryens. Always convinced the world exists only to admire them.”
Her head snapped back to them then, braid whipping as she fixed the stockier youth with a glare, her eyes narrowing at him.
He looked up too late, shock flashing across his face but she was already moving again by the time he registered his mistake, dismissing him as easily as she had noticed him.
She rode on to the entrance of the Ashford estate. A herald caught sight of her sigil and lifted his voice. Her father and brothers were already waiting within the courtyard.
The Courser beneath her shifted its weight as Vaeryn swung down lightly/ She stroked his neck once in quiet thanks before handing the reins to a waiting stable boy. Her smile was brief but warm, her tone polite as she entrusted the animal to him, as though it were not a creature worth more than most men’s armor.
Only then did she turn fully toward her father and brothers.
“Vaeryn.”
She grinned.
“Father.”
Baelor opened his arms and she went to him, laughter breaking free. She looked younger like this. Valarr stood just behind Baelor, smiling and Matarys next to him, tried desperately to appear taller.
Baelor released her at last with a final squeeze of her shoulders, he looked to his sons and smiled. He raised his hand and stepped back, allowing his children some time together.
Valarr had not stopped watching her. “You look angry,” he said mildly.
Vaeryn glanced at him. One brow lifted now. “Do I?”
“You do,” he insisted, nodding. “You always do. It’s your eyebrows. They go like that when you’re thinking.”
“No they don’t.”
Matarys grinned. “They do. Like when Aerion dares to look at you.”
Valarr huffed a quiet laugh beside them.
She nudged his boot with her own. “Careful.” Her mouth twitched despite herself.
“What house bears an apple for its sigil, brother?” she asked lightly, as though she didn’t truly even care for any answer. As if she was just testing the toughest.
Valarr glanced at her. “Green?”
“Red,” she said at once.
His brow lifted, “Are you certain it wasn’t green?”
“It was definitely red, brother.”
Matarys’ posture straightened at once, as though he’d been called to recite. His mouth opened, then quickly enough, closed. His cheeks flushing. “It’s…I know that one.”
Valarr spared him only a moment before offering, “Fossoway.”
Matarys nodded then. “Yes! The Fossoways. From the Reach. They’re not very grand but they’re respectable enough.”
Matarys was still looking pleased with himself. “I would have had it anyway,” he insisted. “I knew it was the Reach.”
“I’m sure you did,” Valarr said. “Since you’re already so well versed in the Fossoways, you may make yourself useful. Find Maester Hollis and ask whether the red or green branch sent the casks of cider. I’d rather not be served the lesser out of ignorance.”
Matarys hesitated. “There’s a difference?”
“There is,” Valarr said simply.
Matarys straightened, not about to admit he didn’t know it and gave a short nod. “Very well.” He left at a brisk pace, already composing the question in his head.
Vaeryn glanced sideways at Valarr and smiled. “You’ve sent him chasing apples.”
Matarys had gone. The courtyard noise filled the space he’d left.
Valarr did not look at her when he said, “You have never cared about the Fossoways before.”
Vaeryn kept her attention on the yard ahead. “I care about all the houses sworn to us.”
“You didn’t ask about their loyalty. You asked which branch.”
“That is hardly scandalous.”
“No,” he agreed. “Just specific.”
She said nothing.
“A red apple or a green one?” he went on lightly. “That seemed very important to you.”
“It was relevant.”
“To what?”
She hesitated half a breath too long. “To… context.”
“Context,” he repeated.
“If a man is going to mutter remarks about me, I prefer to know whether he speaks as a red or a green.”
Valarr’s mouth curved faintly. “Ah. So there was a man.”
“There are many men.”
“Not many you’d bother to sort by orchard.”
She shot him a look. “He was loud.”
“I thought you said he muttered.”
She stilled.
Valarr finally turned his head. “You said it yourself. He did not intend for you to hear.”
“He didn’t.”
“And yet you did.”
“Yes.”
“And now you wish to know whether he meant you to.”
Her composure slipped, just slightly. “I only said—”
“You said, ‘if a man is going to mutter remarks.’ Not ‘if they are going to.’” His voice teetered on the verge of a laugh. “Very singular.”
Vaeryn looked away first. “You are insufferable.”
“And you,” Valarr replied gently, “are curious.”
She scoffed but there was no bite in it. “About his audacity.”
“Of course.”
He let it rest there, which was even worse than pressing further.
Vaeryn folded her hands neatly in front of her lap, raising her nose at him. “Do not look so pleased with yourself.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
His faint smile did not fade. “Curiosity suits you better than anger.”
Her irritation softened into something quieter. She glanced again at the field, then frowned. “Kiera would have loved this, all the festivity, it’s such a shame–“ she said, immediately regretful.
“…that was unkind, considering the circumstances,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Valarr looked at her then, properly. His smile was small but genuine. “She and I both know you don’t mean it.”
“I know,” Vaeryn said. “But that doesn’t excuse it.”
He studied her for a moment, then smiled gently. “Don’t fret. I’m sure there will be little princelings running about soon enough.”
Vaeryn huffed. “You’re an optimist.”
“I have to be,” he said. “One of us should be.”
Baelar, who had stepped back to allow his children some time to chat, soon reappeared. “Speaking of little princelings, Ashford brings together a very convenient collection of promising young men, Vaeryn.”
Vaeryn turned on him instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re plotting.”
“I prefer considering,” Baelor replied with a wave of his hand.
Valarr’s mouth twitched. Vaeryn folded her arms. “If this is your idea of subtlety, it’s appalling, Father.”
Baelor only smiled down at her. “You have not yet named a champion to ride in your honor.”
She brightened, all irritation vanishing. “That’s because I want you and Ser Alard, of course,” she said quickly looking over to her sworn shield who was too busy chatting to the stable hand, she stepped closer and tugged lightly at her fathers sleeve. “Please.”
Baelor laughed, loud and unrestrained. “I am well past the age of playing gallant for the stands.”
“You’re not,” she insisted, pouting now without shame. “And it wouldn’t be for the stands. It would just be for me.”
He looked down at her, his eyes warm with pride and love. “You do have a talent for winning most of your battles,” he said gently, “but this one, my little love… I fear I must yield. I’ve no armour with me, and even K cannot conjure steel from thin air.”
Vaeryn scoffed, “Father, you’re a prince, heir to the throne. If you want armour, you’ll get it.”
He smiled at that. “Perhaps,” he conceded, “but today I would rather sit beside you than chase after horses and ceremony. Some victories are quieter than others.”
Vaeryn huffed, “I suppose I’d much rather you by my side than getting knocked off your horse in front of the entirety of the Reach,” she teased with a smile.
Valarr nudged his sister playfully with his shoulder. “You mistake him,” he said lightly. “He’d fall magnificently.”
“There is no such thing as a magnificent fall,” Vaeryn replied with a scoff.
Gravel crunched softly behind them as Ser Alard came to stand just a half step back. He bowed his head in quiet acknowledgment.
Vaeryn turned, patting Alard on the shoulder. “It seems I am reduced to a single champion this time. Do try not to disappoint me, Ser Alard,” she said sweetly. “Ashford is watching.”
The shift in the air came as the three walked the halls to Ashford.
Valarr felt it first. His posture stiffening as if some internal warning had sounded. Baelor’s hand settled at Vaeryn’s back.
Maekar appeared around the opposite corner. At his side walked Aerion.
Aerion smiled.
Vaeryn’s expression did not change but her spine stiffened all the same.
“Well,” Aerion said lightly, eyes already on her. “If it isn’t my favorite cousin.”
She inclined her head. “Aerion.”
“No warmth?” he asked, amused. Baelor’s fingers tightened, just slightly.
Maekar stopped beside them. “Brother.”
“Maekar,” Baelor replied. His gaze flicked to Vaeryn, lingering just long enough to register her composure. “Niece.”
“Uncle,” she said smoothly.
Aerion smiled. “You look taller,” he remarked. The way he said it made it sound like an accusation. Like she dared do something without his permission.
He shifted half a step around her. “Shall I show you the halls?”
Vaeryn did not answer immediately.
Maekar’s voice cut in, dry and impatient. “A walk would not hurt.”
Baelor’s expression did not change. “If Vaeryn wishes it,” he said, calm but firm.
Maekar’s mouth thinned. “She is not made of glass, brother.”
“No,” Baelor replied evenly. “She is not.”
Valarr shifted closer without appearing to move at all. “I could accompany—”
Maekar laughed softly. “Gods, must she travel with a procession?”
Valarr’s jaw tightened, “It is not a procession.”
“It’s beginning to resemble one.”
Maekar exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is absurd. Aerion is her kin, not a sellsword bastard dragged from Flea Bottom.”
Baelor’s eyes flicked to Aerion. “Of course.” There was something in the way he said it that made Maekar bristle.
“You have always been overly cautious, brother,” Maekar said, a sharp edge creeping in. “Not everything is a battlefield.”
Baelor met his gaze. “No. But some men behave as though it is.”
Aerion’s smile widened at that.
Valarr stepped forward now, no longer pretending neutrality. “She does not need to go anywhere she does not wish to.”
Vaeryn lifted her chin slightly. “I am here,” she said.
The men quieted.
Maekar looked at her with faint impatience. “A simple walk, Vaeryn. We are not discussing treaties.”
Baelor’s voice was softer. “You are not obliged.”
Aerion tilted his head, eyes looking at her in open mockery. “Unless you are afraid.”
Baelor did not look at Aerion when he spoke. “Choose freely.”
Vaeryn shook her head once, always the diplomat. “I’m capable of walking and not getting lost,” she said. “And of ending that walk when I so wish.”
Valarr’s eyes flicked to Aerion, a warning.
Baelor’s hand rested lightly at the small of her back for half a heartbeat before finally falling away.
Aerion’s smile sharpened, pleased at the friction he’d managed to draw from the room.
Maekar gave a dismissive flick of his hand. “There. Settled. Must we turn every breath into a contest?”
And as Aerion stepped aside for her, far too close, Baelor’s gaze followed them, his lips turning down at the edges as they turned a corner.
They moved off together, though Vaeryn tried to keep just enough distance to make the choice visible.
After a few paces, she spoke. “Where is Aegon?” A pause. “And Daeron?”
Aerion did not answer at once. Instead, he made a soft sound in his throat.
“There it is.”
She did not look at him. “There is what? I asked a simple question.”
“And I heard the real one.” His mouth curved. “Aegon is likely where he always is, probably attempting to be dutiful. As for Daeron…” He gave a soft breath. “He will be away in some whore house, drowning his sorrow in his cups.”
“He does not require your commentary.”
“Oh, I think he does.” Aerion’s smile widened. “He requires a great many things.”
She turned her head then, “Speak plainly, you bore me.”
“I am.” His eyes raked over her, slow and deliberate. “You’ve always liked them fragile, haven’t you?”
Silence.
“The wounded ones who look at you as though you’re the goddess Syrax herself.” His mouth curved. “It must make you feel very powerful.”
“You presume much, cousin.”
“I observe.” He leaned closer. “He watches you as though you are the last cup on the table. As though if he doesn’t drink from you soon, he’ll die of thirst.”
Her breath hitched.
Aerion saw.
“And you let him,” he continued softly. “You’ve always let him ache. It’s almost kind what you do, Vaeryn. You never touch him, never claim him but you keep him close enough to allow him a slither of hope.”
“That is enough.”
“Is it?” His tone sharpened. “Or do you prefer him like this? Pathetic and half ruined already, so you won’t have to do much work yourself.”
Her fingers curled into her skirts.
“You think I do not see it?” he went on, his smile thinning. “You could have him with a word. And yet you allow him to rot in it all.”
The corridor seemed colder.
“Have you chosen your knight yet?” Aerion asked lightly, as though they had been discussing nothing of importance. “The one to parade about with your pretty little favor?”
“I have,” she replied, not looking at him. “Ser Alard shall ride for me.”
He stopped.
Then he laughed.
“You are wasting yourself.”
“I am not.”
“How painfully dull,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I thought you might choose someone with more… appetite.”
“Ser Alard is honorable—”
“Capable, honorable, obedient,” Aerion waved a hand, one side of his mouth twitching up in disgust. “How safe.”
He leaned closer then, voice lowering to a murmur, “Meanwhile, the one who truly wants you drowns himself because he cannot decide whether to worship you or curse you.”
She didn’t speak, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction but the look in her eye was something she could not control.
Aerion saw that too.
“You should be careful,” he whispered. “Men like that don’t tend to survive longing. They either break or they burn. They’re always such weaklings.”
That did it.
Vaeryn stopped walking.
The halls had fallen quiet around them, She turned to face him, her face indifferent, denying him the reaction he so wanted.
“You confuse cruelty with insight,” she hissed, teeth bared. “And obsession with understanding. You always have.”
For a fraction of a second, his smile faltered.
“I choose men I truly trust,” she continued. “You choose men who fear you.”
She stepped around him, her arm brushing his sleeve. Then, she paused, looking over her shoulder, “If you do see Daeron,” she smiled, “tell him I was asking.”
Aerion’s top lip curled, his brows furrowing as he watched her walk away.
Behind her, Baelor’s hand moved and remained steady at the small of her back. Valarr exhaled slowly once distance formed between them.
Behind them, Aerion smiled again.