𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne captivated the feast held by King Viserys in honor of his grandson, her presence and dance stirring much interest among the court. The murmurs of a possible union between the Seven Kingdoms and The Principality of Dorne swirled in the air, though beneath the revelry, rumors threatened to unravel such hopes.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Jealousy, Criston 'Rice Krispy' Cole, Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
The sun beat down mercilessly on the field, the clang of metal ringing out as one knight after another thundered across the jousting lane, their lances held firm. The air buzzed with the tension of each collision, the cheers of the crowd swelling like a wave each time two mounted warriors clashed.
Dust flew up from the hooves of their horses, and the ground shook with the force of the charges. Splinters of wood burst from the shattered lances, and the crowd roared. Knights that missed their marks wheeled around for another attempt, fresh lances thrust into their hands by eager squires, eyes wide with anticipation.
Most contests were settled swiftly. A single blow often sent one knight tumbling from his steed, his armor clattering loudly as he fell to the earth. The victor paraded triumphantly while the vanquished was left sprawling, sometimes unconscious, sometimes worse—lifeless.
The ground had already claimed several today. Their bodies were dragged away, while the winner would bask in the moment, trotting proudly toward the stands where a lady’s favor awaited.
It was brutal, yet the crowd relished it. Blood, broken shields, and the scent of sweat mingled with the afternoon air, intoxicating the onlookers who howled for more. It was hardly what you imagined as a fitting celebration for a name day. But then, war was never far from sport.
Another knight crumpled to the ground, and his opponent—the victor—didn’t hesitate to prance his horse over the fallen man, barely missing trampling him underfoot. The crowd roared its approval, unconcerned with the fate of the fallen.
You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. If a knight survived the fall, the contest turned into a duel on foot, steel against steel until one yielded—or bled out. The tournament showed no mercy.
Ser Criston Cole, in all his egotistical glory, was next. His white armor gleamed beneath the sun, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked dirt beneath him. He faced a knight of House Darklyn, their sigil clear on his tattered shield.
Cole lowered his lance, charging with such ferocity that the impact shattered the Darklyn knight’s shield to splinters, the wood and metal flying into the crowd as gasps erupted from the onlookers.
Without hesitation, Cole turned his horse, readying himself for another pass. This time, there was no contest—the Darklyn knight was dispatched with brutal efficiency, crumpling to the ground as Cole reined in his steed.
He removed his helmet, revealing a self-satisfied smirk as he sauntered toward the Royal Box. “I ask for the favor of the Queen Consort, Alicent Hightower,” he declared, his voice ringing out across the arena. The smirk on his lips was unmistakable, a show of arrogance that made the moment all the more uncomfortable.
Queen Alicent stood gracefully, her cold gaze sweeping over you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys before landing on Criston. The air between her and the Royal Box was frosty, her movements measured as she descended the steps to meet him. Her gown, rich green silk, shimmered as she approached. She slid her favor—a delicate ribbon—down the length of Criston’s lance, her eyes dark and unreadable.
“I wish you luck, Ser Criston,” she said coolly, her voice sharp enough to cut. The look she gave him was clear: win, or else.
She returned to her seat beside King Viserys, leaving an uneasy tension in her wake. You exchanged a glance with Jacaerys, who sat beside you, his brow furrowed. “Did you make a favor?” he asked quietly, his gaze flicking to the small bundle beside you.
You had. A small token woven from purple larkspurs with Isla’s help. Yet, you doubted any knight would ask for it. You were only seven years old, far too young for the attention of knights seeking favor. Courtship, after all, was a part of this tradition, and no knight in his right mind would seek a favor from a child.
“I did,” you admitted, nodding toward the carefully crafted ribbon beside you. “But I doubt anyone would ask for it.” If Merek had participated in the tourney, the favor would have undoubtedly been his. He was your older brother, after all, and there was no knight you trusted or admired more.
You could already picture him astride his white steed, his silver armor gleaming in the sunlight as he charged with the grace and strength that came so naturally to him. Merek was the Sword of the Morning, and though he bore the weight of his title with quiet dignity, his presence commanded respect on the field.
Jacaerys shifted in his seat, glancing at the purple favor. “I’ll take it,” he said, his words abrupt, but his tone sincere. The suddenness of the offer made you blink in surprise.
A laugh escaped you. “You’re not even in the tourney.” But there was warmth in your voice. The idea of Jacaerys taking your favor, even if it served no purpose, made the rejection of it by others sting less.
Jacaerys smiled, his hand brushing yours. “If no one else asks for it, I will,” he promised. You smiled softly, nodding as the next match was announced. Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, was up, facing a third son of House Footly. As the knights prepared, you glanced once more at Jacaerys, feeling a small swell of warmth.
Even if the world overlooked your favor, he wouldn’t.
The roar of the crowd surged as Ser Harwin Strong, known as Breakbones for his unmatched strength, readied himself for the next tilt. His massive frame loomed over his horse, the dark steel of his armor gleaming ominously under the midday sun. His opponent, the Footly Knight, looked small in comparison, the colors of his house pale and fragile against Harwin’s imposing presence.
You leaned forward slightly, your heart quickening as the two knights prepared to charge. The banners of both houses fluttered in the breeze, but the crowd's excitement was palpable—they knew who the favorite was. The Footly knight lowered his lance, the wood trembling in his hands. Across the field, Harwin’s lance was steady, aimed directly at the center of his opponent's chest.
A horn blared, and the knights surged forward. The ground shook beneath the horses’ hooves, a rumbling that vibrated through your feet and up into your chest. The Footly knight made the first move, but his aim faltered.
His lance grazed Harwin’s shield, but before he could recover, Harwin’s strike hit true. The impact was thunderous. Wood splintered as Harwin’s lance shattered against the Footly knight’s armor, sending him sprawling to the ground in a tangled heap of metal and dust.
The crowd erupted into wild cheers, the noise almost deafening as Ser Harwin rode victoriously to the center of the field. His helmet gleamed in the sunlight as he dismounted with ease, casting a glance toward the royal box. There was no hesitation in his step as he walked toward Rhaenyra, his broad shoulders cutting through the sea of spectators.
Your breath caught as the crowd fell silent, watching with bated breath. Harwin removed his helmet, his dark curls tumbling free, a confident grin on his face. His gaze was fixed solely on Rhaenyra as he knelt before her, offering his lance in a gesture that made the meaning of his request clear.
"I ask for the favor of the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," Harwin said, his voice booming enough to carry over the arena. Rhaenyra, seated regally beside Laenor, allowed a small smile to play across her lips.
The wind tugged gently at her silvery blonde hair, but her eyes never left Harwin. Slowly, with the grace befitting a princess, she stood, her gown of black and red shifting like molten fire as she descended the steps to meet him. The crowd watched in silence, hanging on her every move.
When she reached him, Rhaenyra carefully tied her favor—a ribbon of deep crimson—around the shaft of Harwin’s lance. The moment felt intimate, even among the throngs of onlookers. Her fingers lingered briefly on the silk, and there was an unmistakable spark in her eyes as she looked down at him.
“I grant you my favor, Ser Harwin,” she said, her voice soft but filled with unmistakable warmth.
The crowd roared again, but this time, there was something different about their cheers. The favor of a princess was not something to be given lightly. You could feel Jacaerys tense beside you, his gaze flickering to Rhaenyra and then back to the field.
He seemed to understand the significance, as did everyone watching. Ser Harwin rose to his feet, a glint of triumph in his eyes as he accepted Rhaenyra’s favor, his lips curling into a knowing smile.
If it were not for King Viserys’s unwavering protection, the whispers would have turned to open accusations. The legitimacy of Jacaerys and his younger brother, Lucerys, was questioned by many. Though Laenor Velaryon claimed them as his sons, they bore none of the striking Targaryen features—the platinum blonde with a metallic sheen hair, the violet eyes.
Instead, they seemed to favor the strong, dark looks of House Strong. The resemblance was too glaring for some, yet no one dared to utter such suspicions aloud. To question their parentage in the presence of the king was to court death. King Viserys made sure of that, and the court had learned to bite their tongues, lest they lose them.
Beside you, Jacaerys turned toward Lucerys, who was blissfully unaware of the tension that hung in the air. His younger brother, still innocent in the ways of court politics, grinned widely, his eyes shining with admiration for the man who had just bested his opponent in the lists.
"Ser Harwin is really the strongest man in the world!" Lucerys sounded, his voice filled with boyish enthusiasm. His words rang out, innocent and pure, as if the truth of Harwin’s strength was all that mattered to him.
Jacaerys, however, remained silent. He had grown up with those whispers—whispers that gnawed at him like a festering wound. Though he never spoke of it, you could see the weight of those rumors in his eyes. He had heard them all his life, questioning who his true father was.
You caught his faint smile, a weak attempt to mask the uncertainty that lingered beneath the surface. When his gaze met yours, you could feel the silent plea for reassurance. Jacaerys had always sought comfort in you, a steady presence amidst the doubts that shadowed his existence.
You clutched Jacaerys’ hand with both of yours, squeezing it gently but firmly. “My prince,” you said softly, your voice steady and sure. Despite being of the Principality of Dorne, your House Dayne sworn to Martell, it made no difference. Jacaerys—whether he looked Targaryen, Velaryon, or even Strong—would always be a prince in your eyes.
His eyes flickered toward yours, searching for reassurance in your face. You gave him a slight shake of his hand, grounding him in the moment, and in your loyalty. In a world where bloodlines and appearances could doom a man before he even spoke, your allegiance was clear. Jacaerys Velaryon was the prince you followed, and no amount of courtly whispers would change that.
A faint, grateful smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though the weight of his unspoken doubts lingered in the air. He nodded, just enough to let you know that your words had reached him. And though he had never voiced his fears aloud, the unspoken truth lay between you, heavier with each passing day.
But no one could question his blood. Not when he had a dragon. The birth of Vermax from his cradle had silenced many of the rumors, at least on the surface. Dragons only hatched for those with the blood of Old Valyria, and Vermax had bonded with Jacaerys from the moment the egg cracked open.
That, at least, was proof enough for many that he carried the blood of House Targaryen. And more than that, he was the heir, destined to follow in his mother’s footsteps, whether the realm accepted it or not.
He was a prince of the realm. And his dragon would be a reminder to those who doubted him that he was, indeed, of the blood of the dragon.
The tournament field as the final match loomed on the horizon. The air was thick with the mingling scents of earth and sweat, each breath heavy with anticipation. The crowd’s roars rumbled like distant thunder, an ominous reminder of the spectacle that was about to unfold. Today’s contest was no mere exhibition—it was a clash of titans, a contest between the sworn shields of the heir and the queen.
Ser Criston Cole, the Queen’s Sworn Shield, stood tall and unyielding in his polished ivory armor. His presence was a beacon of steely determination, his eyes like flint, scanning the field with a single-minded focus. His reputation as a fierce and relentless fighter had preceded him, and his confidence seemed almost to radiate from his very being, burning brightly in the fading light.
Opposite him, Ser Harwin Strong, the Heir’s Sworn Shield, waited with the raw, untamed intensity that had earned him the fearsome title of Breakbones. His armor, dark and imposing, contrasted starkly with Criston’s gleaming ensemble. Harwin’s eyes burned with a fierce resolve, the promise of brutal force evident in every line of his powerful frame.
As the horn blared, signaling the start of the final match, the knights charged with a thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath them. The ground trembled beneath their steeds, their hooves pounding in a rhythmic fury. Lances were held high, their deadly points aimed with lethal precision.
The collision was monumental. Criston’s lance met Harwin’s with a splintering crash that reverberated through the arena. The impact was so intense it felt like a shockwave, rippling through the ground and the air. The crowd's cheers crescendoed into a fevered roar, a cacophony of excitement and tension that seemed to envelop the entire field. The clash of metal rang out like a grim symphony of war, echoing through the stands.
Criston’s shield shattered under the relentless force of Harwin’s assault, the fragments scattering like broken glass. With a roar of fury, Criston pressed forward, desperate to regain control, but Harwin was relentless. His lance, now bereft of its shield, struck with a decisive blow, unseating Criston from his horse with a resounding crash. The Queen’s Sworn Shield hit the ground hard, the clang of his armor echoing sharply as he struggled to rise, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The crowd fell into a tense hush as Harwin dismounted with purposeful strides. “Bring me my sword!” he barked to the squire waiting at the side. The boy scrambled to obey, his face a mask of urgency. Criston, rising from the ground with visible effort, reached for his morningstar, which had been retrieved by another squire. The match had shifted, now turning into a fierce duel of skill and willpower.
You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat close together, your hands clasped tightly, the unity of your grip a small comfort amidst the escalating tension. You could feel the steady pulse of your heartbeat in your fingers as you held on to them, your gaze unwaveringly fixed on the arena.
Lucerys turned to you, his face a picture of anxious worry. “He’ll win…won’t he?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath. His eyes were wide, reflecting the weight of the moment, the uncertainty that clung to him as the match transitioned into a grueling contest of arms.
You bit your lip, the anxiety evident in the gesture, as Criston Cole swung his morningstar with a vicious intent that spoke volumes about his desperation. Each swing was a brutal testament to his skill and aggression, the weapon cutting through the air with a deadly grace. The determination in Criston’s eyes was palpable, and each strike was a calculated effort to subdue Harwin.
“I…I don’t know,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you squeezed Jacaerys’ hand tighter. You found yourself praying to the Warrior, only hoping that Harwin’s formidable strength and unyielding spirit would see him through to victory.
Criston’s morningstar whirled through the air, its menacing arc aimed to deliver a crushing blow. The sight of the weapon, swinging with such force and precision, made your stomach churn with unease.
With a determined roar, Harwin pushed through Criston's defense. He deflected the morningstar with a powerful swipe of his sword, then, with a forceful thrust, drove Criston back. The Queen’s Sworn Shield stumbled, his armor clanking loudly as he struggled to maintain his footing.
Harwin’s next strike was decisive. With a roar of triumph, he swung his sword in a sweeping arc that caught Criston off balance. The blow landed with a resounding crash, and Criston was sent sprawling to the ground, his morningstar flying from his grasp. The impact was so forceful it seemed to echo through the arena, the crowd erupting in a roar of astonishment and excitement.
Criston hit the ground hard, his armor ringing with a loud clang as he tried to rise. His breath came in ragged gasps, his once-proud figure now battered and humbled. Harwin stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion, the gleam of victory in his eyes.
The crowd watched in breathless silence as Harwin raised his sword high, a gesture of both triumph and challenge. “Yield, Ser Criston!” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the field with a commanding authority.
Criston, his pride bruised but his spirit unbroken, nodded in acknowledgment. “I yield,” he shouted back, his voice strained but clear.
A triumphant cheer erupted from the stands, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave that surged through the arena. Harwin’s supporters hailed him as the victor, their cheers mingling with the clatter of armor and the sound of clanging swords. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the field as the final moments of the match played out.
You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys sat side by side, your hands still clasped tightly. Lucerys’s eyes were wide with a mixture of relief and awe, his earlier anxiety replaced by a smile of triumph. “He did it!” he exclaimed, his voice full of youthful excitement.
You and Jacaerys exchanged a lighthearted laugh as Lucerys's exuberant cheers filled the air. The excitement was palpable, his shouts blending into the collective roar of the crowd. You leaned closer to Jacaerys, the warmth of his presence a comforting anchor amid the sea of elation.
“He deserves to be called the Strongest in the Realm,” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. Your words were meant to be reassuring, a quiet acknowledgment of Harwin’s remarkable victory. You glanced towards the victorious knight, who was now basking in the adulation of the crowd.
If any shadows of doubt about Jacaerys’ parentage lingered, if the whispers of Ser Harwin being his father held any truth, then today was a moment to be proud of. Harwin’s prowess was undeniable, a testament to strength and honor that transcended mere rumor.
Jacaerys’ eyes softened, and he leaned his head gently on your shoulder, a gesture of trust and comfort. The weight of the day’s tension seemed to lift as he allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of relief.
The tournament, with all its intensity and spectacle, was finally drawing to a close, and the satisfaction of Harwin’s triumph seemed to ease the burden of the day. You could feel the warmth of Jacaerys’ breath against your neck, the cheers of the crowd faded into a distant hum as you shared this quiet moment together, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the simple joy of the tournament’s end.
Harwin strode over to the Royal Box, where Rhaenyra sat with the regal poise that had become her signature. The queen’s eyes met his, a glimmer of pride and relief shining through her composure. With a deep bow, Harwin presented her with the lance, its shaft still adorned with the crimson ribbon she had bestowed upon him.
“Your Grace,” he said, his voice ringing clear in the twilight, “I crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty.”
The words hung in the air, a declaration of triumph and honor. Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her gown flowing like a river of flame as she stepped forward. The crowd’s cheers swelled, a roaring tide of approval and adoration.
As she accepted the crown of victory from Harwin, her smile was radiant, the culmination of her victory and the culmination of a day steeped in fierce competition and honor.
As noon arrived, the festivities continued in full swing. The field had quieted after the grand tournament, and now, amidst the lingering echoes of cheers and laughter, you, Jacaerys, and Lucerys found yourselves caught up in a playful game of tag. The warmth of the sun kissed your cheeks, and the gentle breeze rustled through the trees, adding a lively backdrop to your impromptu game.
Jacaerys and Lucerys darted around the garden with youthful exuberance, their laughter ringing out like a merry chime. You, equally spirited, chased after them with determined glee, your dress swirling with each quick step. The game was a joyful reprieve from the grandeur of the tournament, a chance for the young princes to unwind and revel in the simple pleasure of play.
The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the faint aroma of feast preparations. In the distance, the sounds of nobles conversing and glasses clinking hinted at the festivities to come. Tonight’s grand banquet in the Throne Room was anticipated with great excitement—a celebration of Jacaerys’ eighth name day that promised opulence and splendor.
As you played, nobles from across the Realm mingled and drank merrily in anticipation of the evening’s festivities. The garden was abuzz with conversation, their voices a blend of animated chatter and laughter.
Many had brought their young daughters, hoping to catch the young prince’s eye. However, despite their efforts, their attempts seemed to fall flat. Prince Jacaerys, blissfully unaware of their designs, was absorbed in the joyful company of a certain Lady of House Dayne—namely, you.
The nobles’ eyes followed the game with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, but it was clear that the prince’s attention was fully engaged with you. Jacaerys’ infectious laughter and genuine delight were focused entirely on your shared game, his gaze rarely straying from your smiling face.
The nobles’ reactions ranged from curiosity to thinly veiled disapproval. They whispered amongst themselves, casting sidelong glances and speculating on the motives behind House Dayne's presence. Their murmurs hinted at a simmering bitterness, directed not only at you but at the perceived intrusion of a Dornish girl so close in age to the prince.
It seemed as though their animosity extended to their own daughters, who had envisioned themselves as potential princesses. Their aspirations were now thwarted by your presence—an outsider from a land they considered beneath them.
Your hand connected with the back of Lucerys, and he squealed in delight. “You’re it!” you called out, your voice full of playful mischief as you darted away. The younger prince’s face lit up with a competitive grin as he set off in pursuit of Jacaerys.
Lucerys, his small legs pumping with energy, chased after Jacaerys, who was laughing and shouting, “Don’t go after me, go after Wren!” The words came out in a burst of breathless laughter as Jacaerys veered off to the side, making a feint in your direction before doubling back to avoid the eager pursuit.
You ran across the garden, your heart racing with the thrill of the game. The lush greenery and the vibrant flowers blurred past you as you increased your speed, though you could feel the weight of your dress pulling against you.
The fabric, though beautiful and rich, was heavy and cumbersome compared to the lighter dresses you were used to in Dorne. The heat of the sun and the effort of running in such attire left you panting, your breaths coming in short, quick bursts.
Finally, you slowed to a halt near a cluster of blooming lilacs, their fragrance mingling with the earthy smell of freshly cut grass. You bent over, hands on your knees, and gasped for air. The warmth of the sun felt pleasant on your flushed face, but you couldn’t help but think how a lighter dress would have made this chase far easier.
The fabric of your gown clung slightly with sweat, and you could almost hear the distant laughter of Jacaerys and Lucerys, now engaged in their own game of tag. You took a moment to catch your breath, the gentle rustle of the breeze through the trees and the distant clinking of goblets at the banquet setting a serene backdrop to your respite.
"It was insult enough for her son to become heir, but for her to openly display such depravity amongst the public, shame upon her!" The voice was sharp, cutting through the afternoon air like the hiss of a drawn blade.
You froze, the playful smile that had lit your face moments before draining away. Heart pounding, you ducked instinctively into a dense cluster of bushes nearby, the prickly branches tugging at the fabric of your dress as you crouched low. The rich scent of damp earth filled your nose, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the lilacs that bloomed around you. Hidden among the foliage, you strained to listen, your breath shallow, afraid to even let the rustle of leaves give you away.
The voice had been unmistakable—Queen Alicent. Her words were laced with venom, the indignation clear in every syllable. You peeked through a gap in the branches, your heart sinking further when you spotted her in the distance. She stood tall, queenly in her emerald and gold, her face set in an expression of disapproval so stern it looked carved from stone. Walking beside her, his expression a mirror of her displeasure, was Ser Criston Cole.
His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword as they moved through the garden, their steps slow and deliberate, as though the weight of their conversation was not meant for anyone else’s ears.
Yet here you were, an unintended witness. "It is unseemly, Your Grace," Ser Criston said, his voice a low rumble of agreement. "To flaunt her... indiscretions so brazenly. The Princess has no shame. And neither do her children."
A chill slid down your spine at his words. You felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, but the fear of being caught held you fast. You bit your lip, blood pounding in your ears as their conversation continued. "Her children," Queen Alicent said bitterly, her voice almost trembling with anger.
"Bastards, every one of them. The realm knows it. I know it. She knows it. Yet, the King... he refuses to see what is right in front of him. Or worse, he sees it and does nothing."
Criston glanced around as if wary of unseen listeners, though neither he nor the queen had yet spotted you. "King Viserys would rather blind himself to the truth than admit it, Your Grace. But the people... they are not so easily deceived. They speak of it in the streets, in taverns. They whisper, louder with each passing day."
"Whispers," Alicent spat.
"What good are whispers when the crown ignores them? It emboldens her, you see? She flaunts her children as if they are the trueborn heirs of House Targaryen, as if Laenor ever fathered them. The insolence, the arrogance..."
Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you listened. The tension coiled in your chest like a serpent ready to strike. The Queen's words were filled with poison, dripping with the bitterness she had long harbored. They were not just idle complaints; they were accusations, a deliberate attack on Princess Rhaenyra and her sons—your friends.
Your friends… you thought of Jacaerys and Lucerys, laughing so carelessly only moments before. How could they know the weight of the hatred that simmered so close to the surface, the contempt that their mere existence seemed to inspire in the queen and her sworn shield?
“Then there is that Dayne girl,” Queen Alicent said, her voice laced with an undertone of disdain as she picked at her fingers. Her gaze was distant, as though she were scrutinizing a troublesome stain on her own gown. “I would have taken her under my wing myself, considering how I sympathize with her plight—leaving her home in Dorne and all. Yet, of course, Rhaenyra has already done so.”
Her lips pursed in frustration, and she bit at them, a habit you had noticed in moments of deep irritation. “It’s quite the scandal,” she continued, a bitter edge sharpening her tone. “Talk about a union between her and Jacaerys—an idea I believe was suggested by the King himself, if memory serves.”
Ser Criston Cole, ever the silent sentinel by her side, shifted his weight slightly, his expression unreadable. “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied. “Such a union would indeed bring together significant houses, and the notion of cementing alliances through marriage is not lost on the court.”
Alicent’s fingers drummed lightly on the hilt of her sword, a sound that seemed to echo with her frustration. “It’s not merely a matter of alliances,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, almost as if she feared someone might overhear. “It’s the audacity of it. Here we have a Dornish girl, a mere child from the desert, paraded around as though she were of equal standing to the Targaryens themselves.”
She shook her head, her eyes narrowing with barely concealed animosity. “And to think that Viserys, in his infinite wisdom, would even entertain the notion of binding Jacaerys to her. It’s an insult to the very fabric of our house and the integrity of our bloodline.”
Criston’s eyes flickered with a hint of concern. “Your Grace, the King’s ideas often seem to defy conventional wisdom. Perhaps he sees something we do not.”
Alicent’s gaze turned sharp, her frustration boiling over. “Perhaps,” she conceded, though her tone was far from forgiving. “But let us not forget the power of perception. The court’s eyes are sharp, and the whispers grow louder by the day. If Rhaenyra were to secure such an alliance, it would not only bolster her position but undermine ours.”
You shifted slightly in the bushes, trying to get a better view, but the dry leaves underfoot betrayed you with a sharp crunch. Both Alicent and Criston turned sharply in your direction, their eyes narrowing as they scanned the garden.
Your heart nearly stopped. For a terrifying moment, the piercing gazes of Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole swept over the very spot where you crouched, hidden among the shadows of the lilacs. The branches and blossoms rustled faintly, as though whispering their own secrets, and you held your breath, praying to the Old Gods and the New that your concealment was sufficient.
Criston Cole, his armor glinting ominously in the dappled sunlight, stalked closer to the bush you were hiding behind. Panic surged through you as his shadow loomed near, and before you could make a move, a strong hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder.
You flailed instinctively, a muffled gasp escaping your lips as you were dragged roughly to the side. “Shhh,” a voice whispered urgently, the sound barely more than a breath against your ear.
You looked up in bewilderment, the initial shock fading as you met the gaze of Prince Aemond. His distinctive head of frosty silver hair, streaked with soft blonde undertones, gleamed in the filtered sunlight. The scent of fresh parchment and cedar wood—a blend both subtle and distinctly regal—permeated the air around him.
Aemond’s eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto yours with a mixture of concern and determination. His grip on your hand was firm but gentle, a contrast to the tension that rippled through the garden. “We need to move,” he said in a low, controlled voice, his gaze flickering back towards the path the Queen and Ser Criston had taken.
Before you could fully process what was happening, he guided you swiftly away from the bush, pulling you into the cover of a nearby alcove shrouded in shadow. The scent of the garden’s blooming flowers mingled with the cedarwood aroma of Aemond’s presence, creating a disorienting blend that heightened your senses.
In the relative safety of the alcove, Aemond’s expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained vigilant. “You should not be here,” he said quietly, his voice a hushed murmur as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile cloak of secrecy surrounding you. “It is dangerous, and you have overheard something that could stir trouble.”
Your mind raced as you tried to gather your thoughts, the gravity of the overheard conversation sinking in. “Prince Aemond,” you said, struggling to maintain a steady voice. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just—”
Aemond held up a hand, silencing you with a gesture. His eyes, cold and assessing, bore into you with an intensity that belied his calm demeanor. “Now that you know the truth,” he said, his voice a low, deliberate whisper, “are you going to continue befriending Rhaenyra’s sons?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. You stared at him, confusion and hurt mixing in your gaze. Was he suggesting that your friendship with Jacaerys and Lucerys was not genuine? Was he implying that the only reason you spent time with them was to advance your position or gain favor?
The warmth of the garden seemed to drain away, leaving behind a stark, uncomfortable chill. The once vibrant colors of the blooming flowers now seemed muted and distant, as though the very essence of the garden had shifted with the weight of Aemond's question.
You hesitated, grappling with the weight of his words. The delicate balance of your position in the court, the playful game you had enjoyed moments ago, and the whispered secrets you had overheard all seemed to converge in this singular, daunting question.
“Of course I am,” placing a hand over your heart, your voice trembling slightly. “They’ve been nothing but kind to me. Jacaerys and Lucerys, they—” You faltered, searching for the right words, “—they see me as a friend.”
Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, but a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity or concern—passed through his eyes. “And if it were to be known that you are associated with them, do you understand the potential repercussions?” he asked, his tone sharp but not unkind.
You nodded, feeling the weight of his words sink in. “Yes,” you replied, though the full scope of the danger still felt like a distant, abstract concept. “But friendships, especially with them, mean something to me. I’ve come to care for them.”
Aemond studied you for a moment longer, his gaze unwavering. “Be cautious,” he finally said, his voice softening slightly. “The court is a treacherous place, and allegiances are often tested. If you value your safety and your place here, you must tread carefully.”
With that, Aemond stepped back, his presence receding into the shadows once more.
Isla and Sienna worked diligently as you stood before the grand mirror, their skilled hands adjusting your gown with practiced care. The dress, a mesmerizing shade of amethyst, seemed to shimmer with every movement. Layers of delicate tulle cascaded down to your ankles, creating an ethereal effect as if you were cloaked in a sky adorned with twinkling stars. Embedded within the fabric were tiny stones that caught the light, making the gown sparkle like a constellation.
“You’ll be the most beautiful lady at the ball, my lady!” Isla gushed, her eyes sparkling with admiration. Her excitement was contagious, filling the room with a noticeable sense of suspense. The gown, with its delicate shimmer and graceful flow, was indeed a sight to behold.
Sienna, whose gentle smile reflected in the mirror, stood beside Isla, her hands smoothing out the final creases. She was a recent addition to your service, brought to you by Rhaenyra, who had insisted that you should have more than one maid to attend to your needs.
Sienna’s experience was evident in her graceful movements and the ease with which she handled your gown. “However did you find a dress like this?” she asked softly. Her voice was tinged with awe, and it was clear from her tone that such opulence was a novelty to her, given her experience with the more austere fashions of the Red Keep.
Isla glanced over her shoulder at Sienna, her pride evident. “Lord Julius had it commissioned and shipped here just for her ladyship!” she announced, her words imbued with a touch of reverence. “He wanted her to have something truly special for the ball.”
Sienna’s smile widened, her appreciation clear. “It’s magnificent,” she said, her gaze lingering on the gown’s sparkling stones. “I’ve seen many exquisite gowns in my time, but this… this is something entirely different.”
You stood in front of the mirror, the gown’s elegant layers shifting with each breath you took. The combination of the shimmering fabric and the intricate design made you feel as if you were floating in a sea of stars. The light from the flickering candles danced across the gown, casting gentle shadows and highlighting its every delicate detail.
The two maids continued their adjustments with careful attention, ensuring every pleat and seam was perfectly in place. The soft rustle of the fabric and the occasional murmur of their voices filled the room, creating a sense of calm amidst the excitement.
A knock resonated through the room, and Sienna gracefully moved to answer it. She opened the door, revealing Ser Merek standing in the hallway. His attire was a striking reflection of Dornish elegance, though carefully tailored to avoid any undue attention from the more conservative lords and ladies. The deep, rich colors and intricate embroidery of his outfit paid homage to Dornish style while blending seamlessly with the more restrained fashions of the court.
“Ser Merek,” Sienna greeted with a respectful bow, her voice carrying a note of reverence. The soft rustle of her skirts and the faint scent of lavender lingered as she stepped aside to let him in.
Merek stepped into the room, his gaze immediately drawn to you. His eyes softened with a mixture of pride and admiration as he took in your appearance. He adjusted his cuffs with a practiced flick, then turned his full attention to you, a warm smile spreading across his face.
“Don’t you look lovely, sister,” he said, his voice rich and sincere. His compliment was accompanied by a look of genuine pleasure, reflecting his approval of the effort that had gone into your ensemble. The way he spoke conveyed more than mere words—it was a heartfelt acknowledgment of the transformation you had undergone, and a sign of his supportive presence.
You returned his smile, feeling a surge of affection and gratitude. The bond between siblings was evident in his gaze, and his words were a comforting reassurance as you prepared for the evening’s events. The room seemed to brighten with his arrival, and the warmth of his praise added a final, reassuring touch to the preparations.
“Thank you, Merek,” you replied, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “I’m glad you think so.” Merek’s eyes crinkled at the corners with a fond smile.
Sienna and Isla flitted around you, their fingers deftly working through your hair, which had been left loose and free as you had requested. They brushed and arranged it with practiced ease, their delicate touches a contrast to the more intense preparations you had undergone earlier. The final touches involved a collection of silver hairpins, each one set with small, glittering stones that caught the light and added a subtle shimmer to your appearance.
As the two maids carefully pinned your hair, your thoughts wandered back to the unsettling conversation you had overheard between Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole. The implications of their words hung heavy in your mind, the weight of their discussion about alliances and marriages casting a shadow over the otherwise festive mood.
You cleared your throat, the question slipping out before you could fully consider it. “Am I set to marry?”
The question hung in the air, and the room fell into a stunned silence. Sienna’s hands paused mid-air, the silver pins she held momentarily forgotten. Isla stopped her brushing, her eyes wide with surprise. Merek, who had been adjusting his own attire, looked as though he had been struck dumb, his mouth slightly open as if he had choked on his words.
Merek’s reaction was the most pronounced. His usually composed demeanor faltered as he struggled to regain his bearings. His eyes widened, and he cleared his throat with a conspicuous cough, his face flushing slightly. “What... what makes you ask that?” he finally managed, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and concern.
In the world of highborn families, where alliances were often forged through marriage, the idea of being betrothed wasn’t entirely unexpected. Children your age were frequently betrothed, their futures often decided long before they could voice their own desires.
It was a common practice among the highborn, designed to secure alliances and preserve bloodlines. You imagined that, in all likelihood, you would be wed to another house from Dorne—perhaps one of the Yronwoods or Allyrions. Your mother had been a Manwoody before marrying your father and adopting the Dayne name, so aligning with another prominent Dornish house seemed plausible.
Sienna and Isla exchanged uneasy glances. Their hands had paused mid-motion, the delicate hairpins momentarily forgotten as they awaited your explanation. The festive atmosphere that had once filled the space now felt distant, replaced by the knot of uncertainty that your question had stirred.
You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, attempting to downplay the gravity of the situation. “Just curious is all,” you said with a casual air, carefully omitting the specific details of the conversation you’d overheard about the potential marriage between yourself and Jacaerys.
Your gaze met Merek’s in the mirror, and you offered a reassuring smile, though the lingering worry in your eyes belied your outward calm. Merek, his expression softening, nodded with understanding. “Curiosity is natural,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of sympathy. “But any decision regarding marriage would involve you, and your wishes would be taken into account.”
Merek’s eyes locked with yours through the mirror, his gaze a steady anchor amidst the whirlpool of your thoughts. The warmth in his eyes was a comfort, though it was clear he was not entirely at ease with the notion of you contemplating marriage at such a tender age.
“You still have a long ways to go before worrying about such things,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of reassurance and playful exasperation. As he spoke, he reached over and gently pinched your cheek, his touch light but affectionate. “You’ll have to cease eating cakes if you wish for your betroth not to run away,” he teased with a grin that softened the serious edge of his words.
The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, even as you felt the familiar warmth of a flush creeping up your cheeks. With a playful huff, you slapped his hand away. “Hmph! Says the one who’d try to use me to garner attention from the ladies back home,” you said, rolling your eyes at the memory of his mischievous schemes.
Merek’s laughter, rich and warm, filled the room as he gave a slight bow, his expression a mix of amusement and affection. “Guilty as charged,” he admitted with a grin that spoke of shared secrets and familial bonds. His eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, reflecting the light of the candles that flickered softly around you.
He extended his hand toward you, the gesture both elegant and inviting. “Shall we go?” he asked, his tone light but filled with genuine warmth. You took his hand, feeling the reassuring firmness of his grip. The touch was steady and grounding, and you walked with Merek toward the ballroom.
“House Dayne of Starfall!” The herald's voice rang out through the great hall, carrying the announcement with a resounding clarity that cut through the low hum of conversation.
You and Merek descended the sweeping marble steps, each step echoing softly on the polished stone. The grandeur of the hall was a feast for the senses: the air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats and spiced wines, and the flicker of countless candles cast dancing shadows upon the walls.
As you approached the King and his family. King Viserys sat at the head of the long, ornately decorated table, his presence commanding and regal. Princess Rhaenyra, elegant in her black and red dress which was adorned with golden embroidery, flanked him with a poised grace. They were the focal point of the room, and the murmurs of the assembled guests fell into an expectant hush as you and Merek presented yourselves.
You executed a deep curtsy, the layers of your amethyst gown swirling around you like a cascade of twilight stars. Merek followed with a respectful bow, his demeanor both polished and genuine. “Thank you for inviting us to such a grand event, Your Grace,” Merek said, his voice carrying the appropriate blend of formality and warmth. “House Dayne wishes good fortune upon Prince Jacaerys.”
King Viserys acknowledged the greeting with a nod, his expression a blend of courtesy and benevolence. Princess Rhaenyra offered a smile, her eyes reflecting a hint of the pride she must have felt for her son. The air around the high table was thick with the scent of rich wines and the subtle perfume of royal guests.
You scanned the hall, noting with a slight frown that Jacaerys was not yet present. The feast, being held in his honor, seemed incomplete without him. Perhaps he would make his appearance once all the guests had arrived and settled.
As your gaze swept across the high table, you caught sight of a familiar figure. Lucerys, sitting at one end of the table, waved enthusiastically in your direction. His smile was bright and genuine, and he mouthed something you could just make out through the distance and the murmurs of the crowd:
“You look very pretty.”
King Viserys's voice carried through the vast, candle-lit hall, his words imbued with the gravitas of his position and the warmth of his intentions. “We are most honored to have House Dayne present on my grandson’s eighth name day,” he declared, his gaze sweeping over the room with a paternal pride.
“It fills me with joy to witness that the relations of the Seven Kingdoms and Dorne are healing after many years of conflict. This bodes well for a new era of peace and unity.” His statement was met with nods of approval from many, the atmosphere charged with a sense of hope and renewal.
The King’s eyes then settled on you with a glimmer of mischief and expectation, as if he were a stage player delivering his lines with deliberate effect. “And perhaps in the future, House Targaryen and House Dayne will develop a closer relation as well.”
The air in the Throne Room grew thick with tension as his words hung in the air. The room fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the clinking of glasses. Queen Alicent's posture stiffened noticeably, her face a mask of barely concealed displeasure. Her fingers, clasped around her wine goblet, tightened until her knuckles were white.
You and Merek stood at the center of this charged moment, caught in the spotlight of royal intentions. The weight of the King’s words pressed down upon you, making the room feel both grand and claustrophobic. Merek’s face was a study in surprise and discomfort, his usually composed demeanor momentarily faltering. He glanced at you, a mix of concern and confusion in his eyes, recognizing the gravity of what the King had implied.
Merek had always been aware of your growing friendship with Jacaerys, but he had dismissed any notion of significance, considering it a mere product of youthful camaraderie. The sudden shift in royal discourse, however, made the possibility of a betrothal not just plausible but imminent.
You shifted slightly, trying to process the implications of the King's words amidst the stifling atmosphere. The murmur of the nobles, who had resumed their conversations with a blend of curiosity and speculation, served as a backdrop to your introspection.
To spare you from the growing discomfort, Princess Rhaenyra's voice cut through the silence with the practiced ease of someone well-versed in courtly charm. “What a beautiful dress you’re wearing, Lady Dayne,” she remarked, her words laced with genuine warmth. Her gaze swept over your gown, the amethyst fabric shimmering in the flickering candlelight.
Her smile was gracious, her tone kind, but as her eyes met yours, you detected something just beneath the surface—something that made your heart quicken in unease. It was subtle, the way her lips curved ever so slightly, a hint of amusement or perhaps knowing.
You couldn't quite place it, but an inkling tugged at your thoughts, as if she were privy to something you were not. The murmur of the court continued around you, but in that moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just you and Rhaenyra. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, lingered for a heartbeat too long.
Swallowing your sudden apprehension, you placed a hand over your heart, the weight of the dress grounding you in its luxurious folds. “You are far too kind, Princess,” you replied with a humble nod, your voice steady though your mind raced.
For a fleeting moment, you wondered if Rhaenyra knew more than she let on—about the King's earlier words, about your growing friendship with Jacaerys, about... something. But just as quickly as the thought appeared, you brushed it aside. You were overthinking, surely. This was a feast, a celebration, and Rhaenyra’s compliment was nothing more than that—a simple, well-meaning gesture.
You straightened your spine, forcing a smile to your lips, but the air felt heavier now, every glance and word weighed with unspoken meaning. Merek gave a slight nod, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, and guided you toward your seats. You moved gracefully, though the subtle tension in your limbs betrayed your inner unease.
As you settled into your place, the herald continued announcing house after house. The lords and ladies of the Crownlands came first, draped in rich velvets and brocades, their sigils gleaming in the firelight. They made their bows and curtsies to the King, offering blessings to Prince Jacaerys. The Stormlanders followed, their appearance more rugged, though no less proud, each house carrying the weight of their legacy with them.
You watched it all with a detached fascination, though your mind drifted in and out of the ceremony. The colors and crests blurred together—the bold gold of the Westerlands, the deep reds of the Riverlands, the cool grays and blues of the Vale. Their words all echoed the same formality, their faces wearing masks of courtesy and ambition.
Merek leaned toward you slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, feign indifference." His gaze met yours, cautious yet reassuring, a silent warning beneath his words. The ripple caused by King Viserys' statement had drawn too many curious eyes in your direction, some filled with intrigue, others with calculation.
You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. Merek’s advice was not just a brother's concern; it was a shield, a reminder that in a room full of powerful families, every glance could hold hidden intent. You kept your posture relaxed, offering only polite smiles and nods, though you could feel the weight of those watching, assessing.
The laughter and chatter of the hall seemed distant now, muffled under the heavy awareness that hung in the air. You could sense Queen Alicent's gaze linger longer than most, the sharpness in her eyes unmistakable even across the room. Rhaenyra, too, was watching, though her expression was softer, unreadable.
You turned your head slightly, pretending to admire the tapestries along the walls, letting your indifference show. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to that,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Merek to hear. His hand briefly touched your arm, a silent gesture of support.
“You will,” he said quietly, his tone steady. “But not alone.” The clink of goblets, the murmur of voices, and the soft shuffle of gowns and cloaks filled the silence between you.
The trumpets blared, their sharp notes cutting through the murmur of the hall, and in an instant, every noble rose from their seats, the rustle of silks and velvets filling the space. The drums followed a deep, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep, reverberating in your chest.
You stood with Merek, your gaze drawn toward the grand entrance where the music seemed to crescendo. Every eye was fixed on the doorway, the anticipation in the room palpable. The air felt charged, thick with expectation. The banners of House Targaryen, crimson and black, fluttered above, their three-headed dragon catching the candlelight.
Whispers surged through the crowd like the distant rumble of a coming storm as the heavy wooden doors groaned open. All eyes turned, the once-muted conversations now reduced to anxious breaths and darting glances. You couldn’t help but fiddle with the hem of your dress, the amethyst fabric slipping between your fingers as the herald stepped forward, clearing his throat with a cough that echoed in the vast hall.
“Announcing!” The herald’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. His chest swelled as he prepared to speak, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down upon you. The gathering stilled, every noble straining to hear.
“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of House Targaryen!”
The announcement reverberated across the Throne Room, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to hang suspended. Your gaze, like everyone else’s, was fixed on the grand doorway. The flickering torchlight illuminated the dark hall beyond, casting long shadows as Prince Jacaerys stepped into view.
Jacaerys moved with a grace beyond his years, the poised elegance of a prince who bore the weight of legacy with every step. His cloak billowed behind him, the silver dragon of House Targaryen intertwined with the seahorse of House Velaryon, the sigils catching the light and drawing the eye.
But it wasn’t the familiar black and red of his Targaryen blood, nor the silver and sea green of Velaryon that stirred the crowd.
There were whispers, soft at first, then rising like the hum of bees in the summer air. A few gasps punctuated the silence that followed. Your breath caught in your throat as you noticed it too. His doublet wasn’t the colors of his houses.
It wasn’t black.
It wasn’t red
It wasn’t silver or sea green.
It was…
“Amethyst.”
The same shade as the gown you were wearing.
Your heart skipped a beat as realization struck. This was no coincidence. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, watching you, then him, then back to you. Eyes darted from noble to noble, trying to read into the meaning of it all. Even Merek, standing rigid beside you, couldn’t conceal his confusion. You could feel the weight of a hundred questions without a single word being spoken.
If you and Merek had seemed a coordinated pair, then you and Jacaerys were two gloves of the same hand. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown so precisely that it felt intentional—no, it was intentional. The shimmering stones in your skirt caught the light just as the embroidery on his chest did, as if you were meant to stand beside him, not apart.
The whispers grew louder now, like ripples spreading across a still pond, each one carrying more weight than the last. You could feel the eyes of the room shifting between you and Jacaerys, reading into every stitch, every thread of your matching attire. Even the King’s earlier remark about future ties between House Targaryen and House Dayne suddenly felt less like idle conversation and more like an unspoken declaration.
Merek stiffened beside you, his fingers tightening into a fist. He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. “What game is this, sister?” But you had no answer, only a growing sense that the night had been carefully orchestrated, and you were unwittingly part of its grand design.
King Viserys stood, his commanding presence drawing all eyes to him. The room fell into a heavy silence as he raised a goblet, its ornate surface catching the flickering light of the chandeliers. His voice, though softened by age, carried the weight of authority and warmth.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, esteemed guests from every corner of the realm,” Viserys began, his gaze sweeping across the gathered nobility.
Viserys raised his goblet higher, his expression one of pride and hope. “Let us toast to Prince Jacaerys. May he grow in wisdom and strength, and may his future be as bright and illustrious as the stars that grace the night sky.”
At his signal, the herald called out, “To Prince Jacaerys Velaryon!” The guests rose, their voices joining in a chorus of toasts and cheers. The clamor of glasses clinking together rang out like a joyful symphony, mingling with the soft rustling of fabric and the low hum of conversation.
The room’s applause swelled and reverberated like the roar of a distant sea, its waves crashing against the walls and echoing through the hall. You took a delicate sip of your apple cider, its cool sweetness offering a brief respite from the charged atmosphere. The music began, a stately melody drifting through the air like a gentle breeze.
From across the room, you caught Jacaerys’ gaze. Rising gracefully from his seat, he made his way towards you, each step deliberate and assured. His cloak, adorned with the intricate sigils of Targaryen and Velaryon, seemed to flow behind him like a river of dark velvet.
You could feel the weight of the room’s collective gaze upon you, the air thick with expectation. Jacaerys’ approach was like a beacon cutting through the murky sea of guests, drawing all eyes toward the center of the hall where the dance floor awaited.
As he reached you, Jacaerys offered a courteous bow, his hand extended in a gesture both refined and familiar. His smile was warm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of the tension he carried from the evening’s earlier events. “My Lady,” he said, his voice carrying a note of earnest charm,
“May I have the honor of this dance?”
You placed your hand in his with a nod, feeling the firm yet gentle grasp of his fingers. The touch sent a pleasant shiver through you, a stark contrast to the chill of the cider still lingering on your lips. The music swelled, and Jacaerys guided you onto the dance floor.
As you moved in time with the rhythm, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you amidst the swirl of melodies and the gentle rustle of your gowns. The tension of the evening gave way to a moment of shared grace. Jacaerys’s movements were fluid, his steps precise and confident as he led you through the dance.
Every glance and touch felt magnified, the connection between you both seeming to bridge the space between the grandiosity of the feast and the personal intimacy of the dance. The dance floor was bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers, casting a golden hue over the scene. The scent of roses and polished wood mingled in the air, heightening the sensory experience.
As you twirled and swayed, the music swelled to its crescendo, the notes wrapping around you like a cocoon. For a brief, timeless moment, you were no longer a guest at a grand feast, but simply two young souls enjoying the delicate art of the dance.
Jacaerys led you into a graceful turn, his hand steady on your waist as the music lifted and carried you both across the polished floor. The swirl of your gown, with its amethyst hues catching the light, mirrored the soft shimmer of his doublet. It felt as though you were two stars orbiting within the same celestial dance, perfectly in sync.
Around you, the room blurred into a haze of vibrant silks and whispering nobles, but all you could focus on was the rhythm beneath your feet and the steady beat of Jacaerys’s presence. His feet were careful but uncertain, his gaze focused on the floor more than on you, as if he feared stepping on your toes.
You tried to ease the tension by smiling at him, your own movements light and practiced. “You’re doing fine,” you whispered, your voice soft with reassurance.
Jacaerys glanced up at you briefly, a flicker of a smile crossing his face before he looked down again. “I’m trying not to trip,” he admitted, the slightest hint of embarrassment in his tone.
You stifled a small laugh, squeezing his hand gently. “You’re doing much better than the last time we danced. Remember? You stepped on my foot, and we both fell into the fountain.”
A grin tugged at Jacaerys’s lips, his confidence boosted by the memory. “I’m trying to forget that part.”
The music swelled, and you guided him into a simple turn, your movements practiced and sure. Around you, the hall seemed to melt away—draped banners of black, red, and green blurring into the background. The curious eyes of the nobles seated at the tables were far less intimidating when you focused only on the dance.
For a moment, Jacaerys looked up, meeting your gaze properly. His smile was softer now, more genuine, as if he felt a little less burdened by the expectations of the night. “You look really nice,” he blurted out, his face turning a little red as soon as the words left his mouth. “I mean—your dress.”
“Was it your idea to match?” you asked, still perplexed as to why Jacaerys had chosen to wear colors so starkly different from the usual Targaryen black and red or Velaryon silver and sea green. The deep amethyst of his doublet mirrored your gown in an almost uncanny way, as though the two of you had been planned as a pair for the evening.
Jacaerys, cheeks flushed from the dance and the weight of so many eyes on him, shook his head. He glanced subtly toward the high table where his mother sat, watching you both with an approving smile. “It was Mother’s idea,” he admitted quietly, as if sharing a secret.
His hands found yours again, guiding you through another slow turn. “She said it would... 'symbolize unity,'” he added, though his tone suggested he wasn’t fully sure what that meant. “Besides, why do you think Sienna was brought into your service?”
The name caught you off guard, but the memory clicked into place—the handmaid who had been brought to your side by none other than Princess Rhaenyra herself. You hadn’t questioned it at the time, thinking it a gesture of kindness, but now you felt a different kind of unease creeping into your mind.
Your brows furrowed, and you nearly missed a step in the dance. “Her Highness arranged for Sienna?” The realization was unsettling. The Princess had always been kind, treating you with warmth whenever you came to the Red Keep, but there was something unnerving in the way Jacaerys said it now—something that suggested this was more than a mere gesture of friendship.
Jacaerys, noticing your brief stumble, steadied you with a firm hand on your waist. His expression was a mixture of concern and a boyish pride that he could guide you, even in this moment of awkward revelation. “To aid you, of course,” he said. “Mother thinks of you often... more than you might realize.”
You blinked, your mind racing. Was this part of a larger plan? Rhaenyra had always been politically astute, and House Dayne’s ties to Dorne made you valuable. Where you really being played with?
The final notes of the song echoed through the hall as Jacaerys gently led you through the last steps of the dance. His hand, warm against your waist, guided you effortlessly, though both of you were still weighed down by the silent undercurrents of your conversation. You curtsied as the music drew to a close, your heart pounding not from exertion, but from the implications of everything you had just heard.
Jacaerys released your hand with a graceful bow, a fleeting smile playing on his lips, though his eyes still carried that guarded, knowing look. “You danced beautifully,” he said, his voice soft, though his words felt like they were trying to patch over something much larger.
You nodded in return, trying to ignore the way your mind kept circling back to his earlier comment. "As did you, my Prince," you replied, falling into formality as you curtsied again, your gown swaying gently around your legs.
Before you could exchange another word, more children began to gather on the dance floor, their laughter breaking the tension. Lucerys, grinning widely, bounded forward, pulling a reluctant Baela along with him. "Come on!" he called to Jacaerys, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Don’t leave me out here alone!”
The sight of Lucerys, eager and carefree, brought some levity to the moment. Jacaerys chuckled, glancing at you as if to say duty calls, before stepping toward his brother. You followed suit, grateful for the distraction. The herald announced the next song, and soon the hall filled with the sound of flutes and harps, their light, playful melody coaxing more of the noble children from their seats.
Children from the noble houses of Westeros—Baratheons, Lannisters, Masseys, and even a few other minor houses—joined in, their laughter a strong disparity to the silent, watchful eyes of their parents at the tables. You soon found yourself spinning and twirling with other children as the music picked up pace.
The significance of the earlier conversation, the tension at the high table, even the calculating stares from the adults, faded away, replaced by the giddy rush of movement. Your feet slid effortlessly across the smooth stone floor, your gown billowing around you as you spun with one child and then another.
You twirled once more, the world around you spun in a blur of colors—golden candlelight, shimmering silks, and the vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls. Yet, even in the midst of this joyful dance, you couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that something larger was at play. It clung to the edges of the evening like a shadow, always there, just out of sight.
You cast a glance toward the high table where Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra sat, their eyes following the movements of their children—of you.
The music continued, the rhythm shifting to a slower, more deliberate pace, the laughter and chatter of the children softened, replaced by quieter movements and more formal steps. You had just caught your breath when a figure approached from the side, moving with a grace and purpose that immediately drew the attention of everyone around.
Aemond, his champagne blonde with silver frost hair catching the candlelight, stepped forward. His presence commanded silence, the playful energy in the room instantly shifting to something more subdued. He was taller than most boys his age, with an intense gaze that made him seem older than his years.
He stopped in front of you, bowing with an elegance that felt rehearsed, but there was something genuine in the way he extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Lady Dayne?” His voice was soft, smooth, his eyes narrowing at a certain direction behind you.
You hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flicking to where he was looking only to find Jacaerys standing there, his face unreadable, though his jaw clenched slightly as he watched. But there was no reason to refuse—Aemond was a prince after all, and you knew it would be improper to deny his request.
You nodded, placing your hand in his. “Of course, Prince Aemond.”
The music swelled around you, soft and flowing, as Aemond expertly guided you into the steps of the dance. His gaze never wavered, watching you closely as if weighing his next words carefully. “You’ve become quite the centerpiece of tonight’s festivities,” he remarked quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“The colors you and Jacaerys wore have not gone unnoticed.” His hand rested lightly at your waist as he guided you through the steps, his touch careful, though his posture was rigid, controlled.
You glanced at him, unsure of his intentions. There was a weight to his words, a subtle hint of something more beneath the surface. “It was a surprise to me as well,” you replied cautiously, keeping your tone neutral. “His mother arranged it.”
Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable as he spun you in a graceful turn. “It seems there are many surprises in store tonight. I wonder how many of them were planned without your knowledge.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, sensing that his comment held more meaning than simple small talk. He had always been an observant boy, more reserved than the others, and his words often carried an edge of insight beyond his years.
The two of you danced in silence for a moment, the music filling the space between you, before Aemond spoke again. “It is rare for someone from Dorne to be invited to such a grand feast. I imagine your presence here is... significant.”
You felt a shiver run down your spine, though you weren’t sure why. The Targaryens were a powerful family, but Aemond’s words carried a weight that suggested he was offering more than mere conversation. “I suppose that’s for my older brother to know,” you said carefully, trying to deflect his probing. “I am here only to enjoy the festivities.”
Aemond’s smile tightened slightly, though his eyes never left yours. “And yet, I find myself curious. House Dayne holds great influence in Dorne. Perhaps, in time, your presence could sway more than just the opinions of the court here.”
You blinked, surprised by his candor. Was he truly suggesting what you thought? Aemond’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly as he led you into another turn, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There is strength in aligning oneself with the right people, Lady Dayne. The Greens have long valued loyalty, and we reward those who stand with us.”
The implication hung heavy in the air, and you struggled to keep your expression neutral. Aemond was not just offering friendship—he was subtly suggesting something far deeper. The Greens, led by Queen Alicent, were vying for influence against Princess Rhaenyra and her supporters, the Blacks. His offer, veiled as it was, spoke volumes.
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a cloak. “You speak of alliances,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. “And yet, I am but a girl from Dorne.”
Aemond tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “A girl from Dorne, yes. But a girl who is clever, who understands more than she lets on.” His tone softened slightly, almost... earnest. “Perhaps we could be friends, Lady Dayne. I would value that greatly.”
Before you could respond, the dance came to an end, the music fading as the other children returned to the floor. Aemond released your hand with a formal bow, but his eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, his meaning clear even if unspoken.
You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could say anything, Jacaerys was at your side, his expression darkening as he stepped between you and Aemond. “I believe this is where we part ways, Uncle,” Jacaerys said, his voice cool, though there was an undercurrent of tension that was hard to miss.
Aemond regarded his nephew with a quiet smirk, unruffled by the interruption. “Of course, my Prince,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping Lady Dayne all to myself.”
Without another word, Aemond turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the crowd of dancers. You could still feel the lingering weight of his words, and Jacaerys’ sudden presence beside you only heightened the tension.
“Are you alright?” Jacaerys asked, his voice softer now, though there was a flicker of jealousy in his eyes. His hands, still warm from the previous dance, hovered protectively near your own, as if to remind you of where your loyalties should lie.
You nodded, though your thoughts were far from settled. “Yes,” you replied, offering a smile to reassure him. “Just a dance.” But even as you said it, you knew that Aemond’s words would stay with you long after the music ended.
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After reading the first TWST novel and seeing how Yuu/Grim's first meeting with Ace went there, I decided to write a drabble about how that encounter went with my Yuu, which I'll put underneath the cut.
Also, I've gone back and edited An Unlikely Team as well as Grim/Ace's chapters in An Unlikely Friendship, although there was only a minor edit in Grim's chapter as compared to Ace's chapter which got a whole different dialogue added in the final scene thanks to me getting inspired by the novel.
I hope y'all enjoy the new content! 😊💕
He’s definitely up to something.
That was the first thought that crossed your mind upon meeting Ace Trappola, a first-year student who introduced himself after approaching you and Grim while you both were studying the seven statues on Main Street that, for some reason, look exactly like popular Disney villains.
Grim, however, obviously felt differently since, ever since Ace showed up, he’s been amicably chatting with the redhead about the statues, all the while not looking the least bit suspicious of Ace.
Meanwhile, you’ve been working on cleaning the surrounding area, which is the job that had been assigned to both you and that procrastinating monster, because you really don’t want to risk getting in trouble with Crowley for not doing your job since said job is the reason you now have a free place to stay as well as a means to make money for food and everything else you'll need to survive in this strange, foreign world you've somehow found yourself in.
Plus, you had wanted to put some space between you and Ace since you don’t trust him and that fake smile of his, especially since he’s wearing the kind of fake smile that looks so genuine that only someone like you who’s grown up surrounded by adults, who use their professional fake smiles to take advantage of others for a living, would be able to see through his façade.
The whole time you’ve been cleaning, you’ve been surreptitiously scrutinizing Ace, trying to figure out what his hidden agenda is, all while simultaneously listening carefully to all the information he provides about the statues - information that matches well with what you know about the Disney villains they resemble.
Except for the fact that everything Ace says makes these villains sound like actual decent people who are worth revering rather than the scoundrels they were in the movies from your world.
Every time you hear Ace compliment the people the statues are based on, you have to fight the urge to scoff since so much of what he says is just so difficult for you to believe.
I can’t believe these villains’ stories got so twisted that they became people who are seriously revered in this world. You incredulously shake your head. Even worse, the Queen of Hearts’ story is pretty much the same as it was in Alice in Wonderland, meaning these people seriously didn’t mind a crazy queen who decapitates people as a regular form of punishment.
Just what kind of world have you found yourself in?
You wearily massage your temple. Hopefully, all that nonsense is just a part of this world’s history and not its present. Otherwise, I’ll need to steer clear of the part of the world where the Queen of Hearts reigned for the sake of my own well-being, although I can’t see myself leaving this school anytime soon, considering traveling requires money among many other things.
Obviously, I’ll need to do some more research on this subject. You muse. If I’m gonna survive in this crazy world, I need to learn as much about it as I can since knowledge is power.
Plus, you’re genuinely curious about this world’s “Great Seven” and want to see if there are any more commonalities between them and the movie villains from your world whom they so greatly resemble.
“Pretty cool, huh? Not like some piddling weasel.”
You’re abruptly pulled away from your thoughts when Ace’s previously friendly and cheerful voice suddenly becomes noticeably cold and malicious.
While Grim makes a surprised sound, you quickly focus your now narrowed gaze on the redhead. So he’s finally making his move. It’s about time. Now, I’ll finally find out what his deal is since I couldn’t get any clues from his earlier behavior when I was watching him.
“Pfft! Ah ha ha! I can't hold it back anymore!” Ace declares as he starts laughing, hard enough that he doubles over. “It’s too funny! I can’t breathe!”
For several seconds, his loud, wild laughter fills the air, and during this time, you give Ace an unimpressed look while Grim just stares at him with wide eyes, appearing stunned.
Once he eventually manages to compose himself, Ace wipes away the tears of mirth from his eyes. “Come on, you're the ones who turned orientation into a fiasco, right?”
“You two seriously stand out.” Ace sneers as he points at you. “A total normie, the perfect punchline to a disappointing joke. Every eye in the school focused on you last night, and you can’t even use a drop of magic.”
Completely unfazed by his mocking words, you maintain your unimpressed expression, which you can tell bothers him because his face briefly appears annoyed when you don’t give him the kind of reaction that you know he was hoping for.
Since he clearly won’t have any fun with you as his target, Ace quickly moves onto his next one and points at Grim. “And a monster who wasn’t even summoned by the Dark Mirror in the first place but crashed orientation anyway and got beaten to a pulp by my dorm leader.”
Wearing a cold smile, Ace gives both you and Grim a once-over before saying, “You’re perfect for each other.”
“W-What are ya-” Grim briefly stammers before scowling, “Ya don't gotta be a jerk! Comin' at us all of a sudden like this!”
“It’s not all of a sudden, dude.” Ace smirks, “The look on your face when they picked you up and tossed you out was hilarious! It took everything I had not to burst into laughter right in the middle of the ceremony!”
After giving you and the cleaning equipment that’s beside you a particularly withering look, Ace snickers, “So, in the end, neither of you got admitted, and now, you're janitors? SO lame!”
Upon realizing that Ace seriously is only here to taunt you and Grim, the tension in your frame eases as you roll your eyes. Really? That’s it? I was worried he might be someone secretly dangerous since his fake smile is so convincing, like the ones I always saw back in my world, but he’s really just an immature brat. I don’t know if I should be relieved or disappointed.
In direct contrast to you, who has calmed down now that you’ve realized Ace is no threat to you, Grim becomes increasingly more irritated. “Shaddup, you! I’m gonna be a student at this school in no time!”
“Nuh-uh! No way!” Ace shakes his head. “You're so clueless you don't even know who the Great Seven are. Not a one of them! Maybe before you try getting into the academy again, you ought to take a second crack at kindergarten?”
Unable to help yourself, you dryly retort, “Really? YOU’RE the one who’s saying someone should go back to kindergarten - the grade that so obviously suits you way better?”
Caught off guard since you’ve been silent pretty much the whole time he’s been here, Ace, along with Grim, turns to look at you in surprise.
Soon after, Ace’s surprise turns into annoyance. “And what’s THAT supposed to mean?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious? Even though you could’ve been doing way more productive things with your time, you instead went out of your way to come taunt us ‘cause you hated how much attention we got thanks to the orientation fiasco, like an immature, jealous brat.”
“Not only that, you’re getting in our way when we have work to do.” You huff before making a shooing gesture. “So can you just leave already? I have way more important things to do than listen to someone whose opinions I don’t give a damn about.”
Once he overcomes his surprise, Grim starts guffawing, “Way to tell him, Henchman! That’ll teach that jealous brat not to mess with the Great Grim! Myahaha!”
“I am NOT jealous!” Ace scowls, “Why the hell would I be jealous of losers like you two who are only still around ‘cause you got lucky enough to get a job cleaning up all of the WAY more important people’s trash?!”
After saying that, Ace angrily stomps over to where you’re standing and jabs a finger at your chest, glaring all the while. “You have a lotta nerve looking down on me when I actually earned my place here fair and square after working my ass off, unlike you who just waltzed right in and did whatever you pleased. A magicless loser like you has no place at this school, so get off your damn high horse already before you get knocked off.”
Completely unfazed by his anger since you’ve gone up against far scarier people in Japan’s underworld, you boredly swat away his finger. “I’m not looking down on you.”
Faster than he can react, you reach out and grab onto Ace’s shoulder with a tight enough grip that makes him cry out in pain.
Using your grip on his shoulder, you push down with enough strength to force the redhead, whom you quickly realize has no real fighting experience, to his knees.
In hopes that he will refrain from bothering you and Grim in the future if you give him a scary enough warning, you fiercely glare down at the shocked boy who’s now kneeling before you. “NOW, I am, and if you don’t want to end up in way worse shape, I highly recommend that you leave me and Grim alone and just focus on your studies like a good little student.”
As expected, upon being on the receiving end of your heated glare, Ace flinches and becomes noticeably paler.
Unfortunately, it would seem Ace Trappola is not as smart as you had originally thought he was since, rather than follow his instincts, which have surely identified you as an opponent he has no hope of ever beating by this point, Ace, whose fear quickly turns into ire, instead immediately shoots back up to his feet and tries to grab you by the collar of your hoodie. “You arrogant bastard! Don’t you dare make fun of me!”
Naturally, you smoothly avoid his hands since he’s nowhere near fast enough to grab hold of an experienced fighter like you.
“Alright, Henchman, you’ve done your part! Now, it’s time for your amazing boss to take over! Myaaaaah!”
Catching you and Ace off guard, Grim, who had been laughing on the sidelines up until this point, decides to get in on the action and proceeds to use his fire magic on Ace who just barely manages to avoid Grim’s fireball attack.
“Whoa!” Ace exclaims before turning to scowl at Grim. “What are you doing?!”
Grim smirks, “Now that my henchman’s had a turn, it’s time for me to dole out some payback ‘cause no one makes fun of Grim, Master of Fire, and gets away with it! I'll make ya regret messin’ with me!”
Ace scoffs, “You wanna throw down with me, shorty? You got some guts.”
Realizing that the two boys look like they seriously intend to fight, you face-palm. This is not what I was hoping to accomplish when I tried to intimidate Ace. If I had known this would happen, I wouldn’t have done anything to him.
Just when you think this situation couldn’t possibly get any more exasperating, several NRC students, who had been on their way to class, start approaching the area where you, Grim, and Ace are, obviously curious about what’s going on between Grim and Ace.
Upon realizing that a fight is about to happen, the crowd of boys starts jeering and cheering, earning themselves an exasperated look from you. Boys…
Deciding it’s better to ignore the crowd for now, you quickly get in between Grim and Ace. “Enough! Grim, you can’t use your magic to fight here! If you cause any property damage, we’ll both get in serious trouble with the Headmage, and I do NOT wanna have to deal with that! And I bet you won’t be happy either when your tuna funds get taken away!”
Much to your annoyance, rather than heed your words, Grim scurries around you, moving fast enough that you can’t catch him. “Relax, Henchman! The only thing gettin’ damaged here is Ace’s ugly mug! Myahaha!”
Right after saying that, Grim launches another fireball at Ace. Unfortunately for the monster, his attack misses its mark just like it did last time, although it’s because of a completely different reason.
Instead of moving to dodge the attack like he did earlier, Ace, after pulling out what looks like a pen with a red gem on it, summons a gust of wind that knocks away Grim’s fireball before it can reach him.
Ace smirks, “Ha! How do you like that?”
As Grim complains about Ace blowing away his fireballs and the redhead taunts him in return, you just blink. Huh, guess magic can control elements here like it can on TV back in my world. Good to know.
Seconds after that thought crosses your mind, realization suddenly dawns on your now pale features. Wait a minute. Fire and wind together? Oh no…
Realizing that this is a recipe for disaster, you shout, “Both of you, stop! If you keep mixing fire and wind magic together, you’ll-!”
Before you can finish that sentence, Grim, who has chosen to completely ignore you, angrily fires off another fireball at Ace, which the redhead once again blows away with his wind magic.
Unfortunately, unlike last time, the fire doesn’t simply get diverted to an area where it can’t harm anyone. This time, it hits a target.
The worst possible target.
Horrified, you watch as Grim’s attack, which became stronger thanks to Ace's wind magic fanning its flames, just as you had feared would happen, lands a direct hit on the Queen of Hearts’ statue, causing the statue to become completely engulfed in flames. Oh, shit. We are so screwed...
And, of course, you were exactly right.
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