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Daeron dreams of the North.
It is one of his few dreams that doesn't end in fire and ash—rather, it begins in bloom. Even with the harsh bite of winter winds on his cheeks that should chill him straight to the bone, he feels nothing but calm, an almost incomprehensible concept to him, a man haunted by the inevitability of death and destruction.
Beneath his feet, packed snow crunches as he steps forward—trying to see what this vision might have wrought. But he is stopped when a sound shatters the silence. In the distance, a howl echoes across the barren plains; it is sad and mournful—a wolf separated from his pack. Too far to get a response, even the blistery gusts can’t carry his call through the gap between them.
It's only then that he notices it, right at the toe of his boot, nearly trampled unknowingly—a small bud pushing through the frost. Against all odds, in this frozen landscape filled with endless drifts, a tiny flower defies the fates.
Kneeling in the snow, his hand trembles as he hesitantly reaches for the floret, feeling certain he will cause it to wilt and rot as all things seem to do under his touch. It doesn't, however, when his calloused fingertip gently brushes against it, the bud begins to bloom, petals opening to face him as if it's basking in his warmth, as if he is the sun.
When he stirs, his cheeks are wet—tears cold and damp against his skin, like he was weeping while he slept. It's not unusual for him to wake up crying; the horrors of the prophetic dreams that have haunted him since childhood are an endless chasm of grief he stands on the precipice of. Most days, he can barely get through without a wineskin, and even then, there's no relief when he closes his eyes.
But now, it is the beauty of the scene in his vision that still causes tears to gather on his lashes, his heart light in a way he thought it could not be. He holds onto that feeling as long as he can until the next dream of blood and flames chases it away.
It becomes more frequent as he and Aegon get closer to Ashford Meadow, but so do the dreams of the great, lumbering knight and the dead dragon. He thinks he can hide from it—from whatever tragedy awaits—by drowning in his cups in a backwater inn until that very knight walks through the door.
He doesn't even realize Aegon has gone until the next day, when he finally awakens.
His father comes to fetch him the day after, and they reach Ashford Meadow by nightfall. The news of what his brother Aerion has done reaches their ears shortly after. Daeron has already been well reacquainted with the back of his father's hand by the time Aerion and Aegon are brought back to the keep. He only wishes to get lost in a bottle of Arbor red when they tell him he will be standing with Aerion in a Trial of Seven on the morrow.
"Please, Daeron," Aegon repeats, quietly in the dark of his chambers.
He wants to refuse—wants to search through the cupboards for a bottle of wine he hopes the maids forgot when his father ordered them to clear the room of any alcohol, claiming he needed to be of a clear mind for the trial in the morning. But he makes the mistake of allowing Aegon to catch his eye, and he feels the crushing weight of his little brother's expectations.
"Father will be irate," he says softly.
"I couldn't bear it," the boy replies, far wiser in years than he should be. "If something were to happen to Ser Duncan, it would be my fault."
Daeron shakes his head. "It would be Aerion's fault," he corrects, but he knows the distinction does not matter to the boy. "Gather your cloak."
He supposes he deserves the knife to the throat when they finally find Ser Duncan; he had lied, after all, and well, how was he to know that the knight who accosted his brother was the same one he accused of stealing away into the night with Aegon—an unfortunate and poorly timed stroke of bad luck.
Even more so, considering Ser Duncan is the knight he's dreamed of—the one who crawled out from underneath the corpse of the great beast. "Did I kill it?" Ser Duncan asks as they stand alone in front of the Fossoway pavilion.
There's a throbbing behind at the back of his head, lingering like the dream he wishes he could forget. "That I could not say," he admits. He hopes that if rest finds him tonight, he will be blessed with dreams of the flower blooming amid the snowbanks and not of dead dragons. "We were dragon masters once—hard to believe. Now, they're all gone, but we remain." He falls silent for a moment before adding, "I don't care to die today."
"I don't care to die either," Ser Duncan says softly. This great behemoth of a man, speaking so gently, with a familiar fear pooling in his blue eyes.
Daeron feels it—the guilt of having ruined a good man's life. "It may be that I've killed you with my lie, and if so, I'm sorry," he says. "I'm doomed to some kind of hell, I know—likely one without wine." He walks off into the night after that, cloak held tight around his body.
He doesn't get far before he notices her—she stands at one of the stalls, quietly placing the flowers on display into a basket. Her wares must have sold well today, as there are hardly any left. Daeron intends to move past quickly, to slip back to the castle before his father realizes he's gone, but he sees it in the moonlight—the glisten of tears on her cheeks, not so different from his own.
Part of his brain—perhaps the last sober part—urges him on. What could he offer to a maiden in distress? He is not someone who comforts; he is only someone who ruins. Let someone braver, more capable, come to her aid.
Then he hears a small sniffle, and her hands quickly come up to her face to wipe away the fresh tears that begin to fall, while Daeron looks around—few people are walking around at this time of night, even fewer out here in the grassy fields of the makeshift town of silk. He treads loudly, the heel of his boot catching roughly on the gravel path, alerting the woman to his presence. At least let her not think him some untoward lecher creeping up on unsuspecting women.
She startles at the noise, clutching her basket and holding it close to her stomach as if it were a sturdy shield that might protect her. When she faces him, he sees her features more clearly—he half-expected a fairer maiden, but it is dark eyes that peer back at him, and he can see the black strands of her hair hidden beneath the gauzy shawl wrapped around her.
Even with her face reddened from her crying, she's a comely woman, certainly even more pleasing on the eye in the light of day, but in the dimness of the moon, backlit by torches in the distance, Daeron feels a stutter in his chest.
He clears his throat. "Are you well, miss?" he calls to her, edging closer, hands in plain sight where she can see them—not wanting to frighten the woman even more by appearing as though he intends to do her harm.
She wipes her face once more, despite knowing he's clearly caught her in the midst of crying. "Yes," she finally says. "Please accept my apologies, it's… been a trying day."
He's close enough now to see how her lashes fan against her cheeks as she glances down, embarrassment spreading across her features as she pulls her shawl closer. He tilts his head, staring down her body, then back up to her face. "You weren't hurt, were you?" he asks. He overheard some of the servants in the castle saying it was chaos after Aerion's rageful fit.
"Oh," she breathes before shaking her head. "No, nothing of the sort. It's only—" She wavers, looking at him as if she doesn't know whether she can trust him. She's smart to do so. "—I… I knew the puppeteer who… offended the prince," she explains carefully. "When you attend these tourneys, you become acquainted with the other merchants."
He can tell from the tears still gathered in her waterline and the wobble in her chin that she was more than a simple acquaintance with the puppeteer. Friends, most likely. It must have been terrible to watch a friend be brutalized in such a way—Aerion nearly took the girl's finger off. She and her troupe fled while attention was focused on Ser Duncan; she's probably halfway back to Dorne if she had any sense.
"You sell flowers, then?" he asks.
The sudden shift in conversation causes her to do a double-take as she looks down at the bunches of flowers in her basket, then back at him. "I do," she confirms, albeit there's suspicion in her tone.
"Where do you procure your goods from?"
She blinks. "I have a small garden at home," she replies. "They don't all survive the travels, though, so I often gather wildflowers from the fields along the road."
He considers her for a moment, peering at the blossoms. "They are lovely." It's almost absentminded how he notes it, but they are a pretty sight—colorful and vibrant even in the dark of the night. The bouquets aren't particularly opulent—tiny things with flowers and sprigs wrapped in a waxy paper and tied with some twine. Still, the care that went into composing them is evident.
"Would you like one?" she asks, holding the basket up slightly as an offering.
There's a tight smile on his face. "I've no coin." He left the castle in a hurry, no time to think about frivolous things like coin purses.
"No coin necessary," she assures. She looks down at the selection in her basket as if painstakingly choosing one that might suit him before plucking a bundle up and holding it out to him—sunflowers and sweetpeas. "Consider it a thank you for checking on me. I did not expect such kindness from a stranger." Sincerity etches into her features, gratitude for compassion after a night filled with barbarity.
He gently takes the tiny bouquet, holding it close like it's something precious. With each second that passes, the likelihood of his father discovering his absence increases, but even still, he doesn't wish for this moment to end, not yet. "Would you allow me to escort you back to your tent?"
For the first time, a faint, barely visible smile appears on her lips. "That would be another favor I owe you then."
He should nod and part ways now; take her words as the out they are meant to be, and turn tail back to the castle, but he doesn't. "The pleasure of your company would be more than enough recompense, I fear," he says.
She draws her head back, dark stare settling onto his in a way that reminds him not of a maiden, but more of a beast of prey—as if she were sizing him up. If he were more dragon and less man, he might rise to the challenge, stand tall, and impose himself in a way befitting of his house.
Instead, he simpers under her gaze. Head slanting to the side, allowing her to consider him. She must notice the traces of his own tears streaking his face and the redness around his eyes from how deep in the cups he'd been earlier in the day before his father found him, and decides that he poses no threat to her because, where she might have rebuked him, she only nods.
"As you will, then," she murmurs.
They move in silence at first—the only sounds are their footsteps on the worn path and the crickets hidden in the tall grass. The rest of the world remains quiet, though. Even those who still loitered moments ago have finally settled in for the night—word, no doubt, is spreading about what awaits Ashford Meadow in the morning, and it’s not something anyone would want to risk oversleeping for.
"Were… were you meant to compete in the tourney?" she asks after they've been walking for some time.
He gives a huff of laughter. "Aye, my father intended me too, yes," he answers.
She glances over at him. "I've not been addressing you properly then, ser, I apologize."
He shakes his head. "Think nothing of it," he assures.
As they approach a small covered wagon, she slows to a stop. It's quaint, he thinks, the scent of flowers wafts from it, and tied to a nearby fence post is a chestnut mare, who chuffs at their presence, tail flicking as if she's annoyed by how late her owner is out.
The woman laughs, it's not dainty and delicate, but rather full and hearty—a sound he tries to commit to memory, the same as the warmth he feels spread through his chest. "This is mine," she indicates. "Thank you for escorting me, ser."
"Thank you for the flowers," he responds.
He hovers, but so does she. Her fingers grip the handle of her basket, and she gnaws at her bottom lip. The urge to bridge the gap between them rises in him, but he stays planted where he is. He is not a dragon. He is just a man.
His companion must be made of stuff braver than he is, though.
She takes one step, then two, and he feels the brush of something soft and warm to his cheek, just shy of his lips. When she goes to lean away, his hand is moving before he can think, catching her by the side of the neck, holding her in place before she can get too far. He can feel her breath on his lips as he angles his head down to meet her gaze.
"Your name?" he whispers, thumb tracing against the edge of her jawbone, skin soft beneath his touch.
"Should you like to know it?" she questions, eyes glinting in the moonlight—they are as dark as the earth, not empty, but grounding, like deep, rich soil that could grow anything it chooses.
"I should," he replies, leaning closer still.
"Lysa," she says. "Lysa Snow." His world tilts, and he swallows hard, but it is she who pulls away. If she notices how he pales, she doesn't comment on it, though she fixates on his lips for a moment as if contemplating taking the final leap but deciding against it, perhaps her own reserves of bravery running dry. "Good night."
She means to watch him go, drawing back as she holds her basket of bouquets—a flower in the snow. He blinks rapidly, mouth suddenly dry, and he manages a quiet, "sleep well," before spinning to depart.
He only gets a short distance away before she calls out, "And your name?"
Glancing back, he pauses. "Should you like to know it?" he asks, hoping she doesn't hear the way his voice wavers.
She smiles, it is open and given freely. "I should."
"Daeron," he tells her. He turns before he can see how he knows how her face will fall—the disappointment of drawing the attention of Daeron the Drunken, no doubt coursing through her right now, and it is not something he thinks he could bear to witness—not tonight, not from her.
He doesn't even move to tug his cloak off when he finally makes it back into the castle, merely collapsing onto the bed, boots and all.
He dreams of her.
Her.
No longer a small bud blooming in the snow, but given new shape, standing among the frost. She's dressed like a proper Northerner, in leather and heavy furs. She's facing away from him, staring out across the distance, and for the first time, through the drifts of snow and winds that whip through the air, he sees the Wall.
Even from so far away, it is a thing of marvel, jutting up from the earth so high he can hardly see where it ends. When she turns, it's like she sees him, and he notices the babe swaddled against her breast, tufts of blonde peeking out from the heavy blankets that protect them from the cold.
"Daeron?"
He awakens with a gasp.
Lysa Snow did not wish to watch the Trial of Seven.
The tantrum of a boy who thinks himself a dragon, which would no doubt end with the loss of life, isn't something she wanted to make a spectacle of. Still, Tanselle's tear-streaked face is permanently imprinted in her memories, and the sorrowful whispered goodbyes are a pain she'll carry in her heart for many years to come.
So she stands among the crowd with the smallfolk, worrying a handkerchief in her hands as she prays silently to the old gods for vengeance against the princeling. Treasonous sentiments, maybe, ones she would pay for with her life if anyone overheard them, especially so soon after the Blackfyre Rebellion, but in the safety of her mind, she did not care to suppress her wicked thoughts.
As the combatants enter the field, she watches Ser Duncan, the great wall of a man who smiled shyly and gave her a copper for a blossom just yesterday. She wishes now she'd given it to him for free, and perhaps it could've been a blessing on this cursed day.
Hush quiets the crowd as he implores the lords for their support—he only needs one more knight to fight alongside him, but he is pandering to lowly lords who have not an ounce of morality between them. Her Northern blood boils in her veins. They're cowards, the lot of them, and the gods—old and new—will remember them for it.
When Baelor Targaryen comes to stand with Ser Duncan against the accusers—against his own family—she believes he will make a great king—a man who values honor more than kin, who upholds goodness and protects kind men.
Across the field, she sees a familiar face sitting upon a horse donned in armor—he'd all but run away from her last night. She twists and tugs at the silk in her hands—a gift from her sister on her nameday some years ago. Arsa spent a fortnight embroidering it with colorful, little flowers.
"Something to remind you of spring for when the winter gets cold," her sister said.
But she is a Northerner—a Stark in all but name—no matter how far she traveled from the North or how many flowers she grew. She is not a child born in the sweet warmth of summer. Winter would always be burrowed into her bones, and it would always call her home.
She wonders if Daeron feels the same—if the fire in his veins calls out as the ice in hers does. The song of ancient magic that still binds his blood to Old Valyria so far across the Narrow Sea may yet still linger even years after the Dance of the Dragons saw fit to bring the Targaryens to ruin.
It couldn't be a mere coincidence, she thinks. That so many years ago in the Godswood, she saw a vision of a boy with a face of sorrow and the shadow of a dragon. She never understood it—even now, she knows not what the old gods were warning her of.
By chance—or maybe fate—their gazes meet. Unsurety pinches his brow, and she tries to smile, but there is a fear in his stare that makes her falter, and then slowly, he reaches up patting his belt, and that's when she sees a flower tucked there—her flower: something beautiful and soft—and his.
The corners of her lips quirk up, and he manages a tight smile of his own as the rest of the knights fall into formation before he puts his helmet on. A tense quiet fills the arena, and Lysa thinks she might be sick for a moment from the way her stomach swirls as the horn is blown.
The first charge is so quick, and her heart leaps into her throat when she sees Daeron unhorsed; he doesn't get up, and she feels like her ribcage collapses in, eyes glazing over with tears. Bringing her handkerchief up to her lips, she prays a little louder; the gods would hear her even over the shouts and sounds of battle.
The skies are so grey, and with men and horses running every which way across the field, it's hard to keep track of where everyone is. As blood is shed, it mixes with the mud, turning black and viscous. The violence of it all should be too much—a proper lady would look away, unable to stomach the brutality of it all, but her gaze stay transfixed on the field, jaw set with the gravelly voice of her father in her ear.
"The world can be so cruel, Lysa," the shadow of Brandon Stark whispers. "But we cannot shield ourselves from it. To overlook it is not peace, it is ignorance. We must bear witness."
She watches each thrust of Prince Aerion's sword into Ser Duncan, every swing of his flail, every block of his shield.
She will remember his cruelty.
And she will remember what he was willing to sacrifice for the sake of it.
"The maester sent for herbs for Prince Daeron's wounds," he hears from the hall. The Northern twinge of the voice is familiar, and he thinks to flee, but the drop from the window would surely kill him.
When the door opens, Lysa Snow stands in the threshold, her basket hooked at the crook of her elbow, and her shawl draped around her shoulders. She looks rather serious, lips set in a line, and her brow sterner than he'd ever imagined it could be. When she walks, it's quietly, boots hardly making any noise against the stone floor, and with a resolute creak, the doors shut behind her, leaving them alone.
She doesn't say anything as she approaches his bedside, setting her basket down on the end table before taking a seat at the edge of his bed. The bouquet she'd given him two nights earlier sits on the nightstand in a simple vase, save for the single flower he'd adorned himself with for the trial. Her heart surges at the sight, heat spreading up her cheeks.
He sits straighter as she retrieves a mortar and pestle along with a few herbs and begins grinding them into a paste. Her hair is long, he notes, cascading down her back with only the front tied up and away from her face—it's a simple style—Northern—meant for utility and not frivolity. His hand twitches, aching to run his fingers through her tresses, but instead he grips the bedsheets.
"Did the maester really send for you?" he asks, voice hoarse, watching her with curious eyes.
"No," she answers calmly, still not looking at him.
It's fortunate her lie so easily swayed the guard standing sentry outside his room. Her determination was sometimes a fault, and she'd already posited several other ideas for how to get into Daeron's room before she'd even snuck into the castle. It would not be the first time she's scaled a tower, and her brother, Lonnel, always told her she was quite nimble.
A smile tugs at his lips at her audacity—at the cheek of her answer, to so blatantly admit to deception. When their eyes finally meet, his breath hitches in his throat. Carefully, her hand catches his chin, angling his face toward her so she can look more closely at the deep gash along his cheek—the maester did a poor job of mending it, and it would no doubt scar quite badly.
She holds his face so gently, as if he were something precious—something she wanted to keep. "I dreamed of you," he whispers as he turns his head in her grip, catching her eye.
Her face softens, frowning at the blood that pools in his left eye. "Was it before or after you nearly were trampled by your own horse?" He thinks there's a bit of humor laced in with the heavy dose of admonishment, but it only makes a small smile form on his face.
"Before," he replies. "For many years now."
She chuckles, airy and in disbelief. "For many years now, you say?" she hums as she gingerly moves his face back into the position so she can better see the wound before dabbing the poultice along its edges. He winces, but there's a near instant relief of the persistent burning he'd been enduring. With her so close, he can smell the florals on her, mixed with the scent of the rain that fell the evening before.
"Since I was a boy," he answers.
She pulls back slightly, ceasing her administration as she regards him with a pinch to her brow. "Truly?" She looks like she doesn't believe him, but she wants to, she realizes. When he nods, she regards him for a few moments longer before resuming, and then quietly, "Tell me of these dreams."
"I'm standing in the snow," he starts, watching the attentive concentration on her face. There's a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, so faint he wouldn't have noticed it from afar. "And I look down and see a small flower sprouting up from the drifts, and when I touch it, it begins to bloom."
Amusement lights up her face as she tries to hold back a smile, inspecting her application with a scrutinizing eye before leaning over to set the bowl aside. "And am I the flower or the snow in this dream of yours?"
"The flower," he replies, causing her to catch his stare once more. His eyes flick down to her lips, then back up at her. "And then the dream changed."
"Do your dreams often change?" she asks as she grabs a rag from her basket and wipes the paste from her fingertips, though the scent of chamomile and lavender will stick to her skin for the rest of the day. She tosses the soiled cloth back into the basket before settling her hands in her lap, giving him her full attention.
"No," he says. "No, they don't."
"What changed about it?"
"You were no longer a flower, but a person," he explains, and she chuckles. "You were staring at the Wall and…" Her face turns grave at the mention of the Wall, as would be most Northerners' reaction to such a tale. They knew better than most what the Wall kept out from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms; wildlings and graver things you ought not name in the flourishing warm winds of spring. "—you had a babe."
He watches as surprise floods her features, eyes widening and mouth falling open as she leans back. "Perhaps you hit your head harder than you thought?" she offers.
"You said my name," he finishes.
"Daeron?"
His hand reaches out for hers, grasping at it, interlacing their fingers together. Her skin is not soft and delicate—there are calluses from days of hard work and riding horseback. "I don't know what it could mean," he says. "But my dreams often come true."
She's quiet for a moment, contemplating his words. "I dreamed of you, too," she whispers, as if it were a secret, and his body goes rigid. "Only once—in the Godswood when I was young. You were there with me, and your shadow was in the shape of a dragon."
He frantically searches her face, looking for any indication that she is lying—simply jesting or making fun of him, but there's only an earnest candor in their dark depths. "I'm hardly a dragon," he says softly.
"I'm hardly a flower," she retorts, a smirk playing at her lips.
"I suppose you're right," he says, thumb tracing the inside of her wrist right where her pulse ticks just below the surface of her skin. He can feel the way it quickens at his touch. "You're far more beautiful than a flower could ever hope to be."
She slants her head, leaning just a fraction closer to him. "You flatter me."
"Flattery has nothing to do with it," he assures, and he pitches forward as he tugs her closer. The lack of space between them is hardly appropriate, and he doesn't know whether the ache in his ribs is from the bruising or how much he longs to close the distance.
It's a delicate type of torture to hang just on the edge of something that would no doubt ruin both of them, but Daeron, selfishly, wanted nothing more than to be devastated by this woman. Flickers of dragon fire light up within him, and he tips his head until he can feel her breath against his lips.
Just outside the door, there's a clatter—no doubt a servant dropping a tray, given the hushed apologies coming from the other side, but it's enough to break the spell.
Blinking, Lysa leans back as if remembering herself, drawing her hands away from his grip before smoothing her palms down the skirts of her dress. "I should go," she says uncertainly. "I only meant to check on you. I was—" She frowns, trying to avoid his gaze now. "—I was worried for you."
She intends to get up, but he can't let her, knowing he might never see her again if he allows her to go, and he still doesn't understand the meaning of his dreams or hers. Panic wells up in him as he clutches the hem of her shawl. "Stay," he pleads.
To his credit, she stops, confliction heavy on her face. "Is that wise?" she asks lowly.
"No," he says honestly. "But I want you to."
She chews her lip, staring at Daeron—the Prince, she reminds herself. She thinks of her place in this world—a bastard from the North—and knows it would be kinder in the long run to leave now. But there is such sadness in his eyes, and it makes her heart ache.
"House Beesbury is holding a wake for Ser Humfrey," she starts. "I thought I might go to pay respects—" She pauses, afraid she might be overstepping. "—It might be good for House Targaryen to offer their sympathies."
His stare falls to his lap, as if this means rejection, and when she stands, she hovers at his bedside, watching his crestfallen appearance. With every bit of the courage of her own house—one she could never claim—she captures his chin with her thumb and forefinger, tilting his face up as she bends at the waist.
The kiss is soft, but it has her skin buzzing. There's a slight chap to his lips, one she finds she doesn't mind at all as she deepens the kiss, but only slightly before pulling away before he can even think to take hold of her, and never let her go. Her heart thuds against her ears, and he's looking at her with a dazed expression as if he doesn't know whether he is in the waking world or not.
"I hope to see you there," she murmurs, curtsying briefly before she gathers her basket and makes toward the door. When she chances a glance over her shoulder back at him, she sees him tenderly touching his own lips, and a satisfied smile twitches on hers.
The wake for Ser Humfrey is more lively than Lysa thought it'd be, though she makes sure to give a wide breadth to the casket swarming with bees—a tradition wholly House Beesbury's. Stepping carefully, she avoids disrupting the game the children play in between tables, smiling kindly at the lords and ladies. She receives a welcome from them, particularly the lords from the Eyrie and Riverrun who recognize her.
If they look down upon her when she turns her back, she knows not, but being the daughter of Brandon Stark, albeit a bastard one, means she is owed a minute amount of respect—even if it is only to her face.
She sees Ser Duncan sitting at a table with the newly knighted Ser Fossoway and his betrothed, if the rumors swirling about and their inability to separate their faces from one another for a period of time longer than four seconds is any indicator. The larger knight is well beaten and bruised—she's not sure how he's even managing to stay upright after the onslaught he received yesterday. She hesitates, unsure if she should—or even has the right—to approach, but Ser Duncan catches her eye, and they both share an uncertain look. Her hands fold in front of her, a strained smile on her face, before she hesitantly walks toward him.
"Sers… my lady," she greets the table before focusing her attention on Ser Duncan, surveying the darkening purple of his skin and how swollen his left eye is—she was sure he'd lost it when Aerion stabbed through his helm. "Are you well, ser?" she asks. "Have you been to see the maesters?"
"Aye," he nods before swallowing as if it pains him, fingers flexing around the gnarled staff he's been using to hobble around. "The wounds were grievous, they said."
Lysa frowns, brows drawing up in concern. "But you will be alright?"
If his face wasn't so badly mangled, she thinks he might look at her with gratitude for her thoughtfulness, but as it stands, he can only offer her a grimace instead. "I will manage, miss, you need not worry about me," he assures.
"Still," she starts. "If you should find yourself in need, I have some talent with healing herbs and poultices."
White cloaks catch in her periphery, and she sees Daeron and two Kingsguard enter the tent—the festivity doesn't stop, not for him, though that doesn't stop a few sideways leers from being thrown their way, not as if the Prince notices. Ser Duncan doesn't seem to take heed of them, focused on her and her kindness.
"I want to thank you." Lysa does not know whether this will be a comfort to him, but she feels it is something she owes to the brave knight. "I am glad you were there to help her—" There's a sting in her eyes as she thinks of Tanselle's face—tearstained and so, so frightened. "—It is… It is a comfort to know that there are good men like you in the world."
"You are most gracious, miss," he murmurs, gaze settling down on the table he sits at as if he feels himself unworthy of such a thing.
She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She does not wish to linger; let the man have the privacy of bearing the guilt of surviving without spectators to it. "Be well, ser," she says before nodding goodbye to his two companions as well and taking her leave. She means to make for Daeron, who has already perched at another table with a goblet of wine, his Kingsguard standing sentry nearby, but someone else catches her attention first.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon sits close by, and when his dark stare meets hers, he crooks a finger, beckoning her over. She stills in her path—stare narrowing marginally at the man—realizing she could not pretend she hadn't seen him now, and then, almost obediently, she walks to him, bowing her head in deference. "My lord," she hails, suspicion heavy in her countenance.
"I've seen you—" He points at her with his cutlery, a piece of meat still skewered to the end. "—selling your pretty, little flowers in the market."
"Yes, my lord, I—"
"Does the Warden of the North know you're here?" The grin itching at his face sharpens her expression into a glare, as if she is dropping the mask of a docile commoner, beleaguered to be in the presence of a lord of his standing. She should have known the Laughing Storm would recognize her.
Memories bubble to the surface of her sister's sixteenth nameday—Lady Stark was keen on securing a fruitful match for Arsa. She invited many different lords to Winterfell for the celebration. Lysa and Lonnel were meant to make themselves scarce.
For all of their father's affection toward them, they never wished to draw the ire of Lady Stark, so they watched from the wings as people danced and drank and made merry. Lonnel, ornery even in his youth, refused to dance with Lysa, leaving the girl to dance on her own in the darkened hall to the jolly music echoing through the Great Keep.
When a dark-haired lord stumbled into the hall, drunk and grinning, he declared her a sad sight before taking eighteen-year-old Lysa into his arms, swinging her around as she giggled so much her cheeks hurt on the morrow.
Lord Baratheon looks very much the same, perhaps with a few more grays sprouting through his curls than years prior, and the trial left him battered in the aftermath of the battle, though not as severely as Ser Duncan.
She is not senseless enough to think that the man thought any more about dancing with the bastard of Brandon Stark in a darkened hall than he did his morning piss.
"It is with his blessing that I left Winterfell, my lord," she says.
"Is that right, Lady Snow?" he hums. The title hits her right where her pride ought to be, a pride other nobles might think she didn't have the right to—one she holds onto all the same. "And just what have you been doing in the South?"
"I didn't know Lord Baratheon concerned himself with the ongoings of Northern bastards." Her tone borders on insolence, but it only makes his grin widen—as if pleased to see the wolf bare its teeth. Lysa is not naive enough to think her barb will throw him off her scent, though. With a sigh, she answers, "I've been traveling around to tourneys."
"Ah, so reveling and selling your little flowers, is that it?" he jeers as he takes a bite. "Living as the smallfolk do?"
She tucks her hands behind her, hiding the way they clench into fists. "Lord Stark thought it pertinent for a young woman to experience the South," she says, entirely unconvincing to anyone who knows Lord Brandon Stark.
His brows draw upward. "Ah," he says as he chews on the tough meat. "So he sent you off to explore everything the South has to offer with not even a single one of House Stark's guardsmen?"
Her lips form into a thin line as she thinks of Quentin, one of her father's guards—strong and skilled beyond measure with a sword, but far too gullible and sweet on Lysa to think her capable of deception. "I left Winterfell with one…" she says carefully.
His tongue pokes through his cheek as he watches Lysa, not bothering to hide the amusement that lights up his face. Lyonel Baratheon is not a stag—he is a proper cunt, she thinks sourly. "And after?" he asks.
"I suppose, Lord Baratheon—" Disdain drips from her tone. "—you may surmise what you will from my lack of accompaniment."
The smile suddenly falls from his face as he settles back into his chair, gaze not leaving hers. "You should return to Winterfell, Lady Snow," he advises in an uncharacteristically somber way. "The South is not safe for wolves—" He pauses, leaning forward, voice softer than she ever expected it could be. "—and I'm sure your father is very worried for you."
Lysa blinks, as if taken aback by the warmth that invades his voice. Her shoulders drop, and the defensive posture she assumed as she approached the table finally relaxes. "Thank you for your concern, my lord," she says.
A moment of silence passes between them before Lyonel finally takes pity on the woman and waves his hand. "Off with you," he tells her.
She bows her head and continues on her path—seeing Ser Duncan limping away from Daeron with a frown carved into his face, then he disappears out the tent's entrance. Carefully, she strides toward the table where Daeron is sitting, intending to go around to the other side and sit opposite him, as if she’s looking for a free spot to sit. Instead, hands reach out, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her down onto the bench he's straddling between his legs, a surprised noise escaping her as her bottom hits the seat. "Sit," he orders softly.
She tries to ignore the way heads turn toward them and the whispers that start to spread from ear to ear, but it is clear Daeron does not care or even notice, as he takes a long gulp of his wine.
Craning her neck to look at him, she notices the grave expression on his face, as if his conversation with Ser Duncan left him in a dour mood. He appears more put together than he did this morning, at least—his sandy hair is pulled back from his face, and he wears the usual red and black of his house. If it weren't for the glazed look in his reddened eyes, she might think he looks quite regal in his attire.
She pauses to observe his face—still handsome, she thinks, even with the gash running across the side of his face up toward his ear—appearing much less angry now thanks to the poultice she'd used earlier.
"You seem displeased," Lysa says. She doesn't comment on the way he grips his cup of wine with one hand and fiddles intently with the hem of her shawl with the other, as if the feel of the finely woven fabric against his fingers somehow calms him—like a child soothing themselves with their favorite blanket.
"It is nothing," Daeron replies as he takes another swig of his drink, the deep red of the wine staining his lips. "Why did Lord Baratheon have need of you?"
The serving maid places a cup in front of Lysa with a smile, though the girl gives a cautious look to the Prince before whisking away. Lysa picks up the cup, staring into it with a scowl. "He only wished to discuss my father," she answers lowly.
"And a bastard has much to say about their father, then?"
A coldness passes through her as her fingers tighten around her goblet. It is a sting she should be used to by now, but she did not expect it from him. He sees it the instant the words leave his mouth that they've wounded her, and his hands cup her jaw, not caring about propriety as he leans in, trying to catch her eye, though her gaze remains firmly ahead.
"I did not mean that," he murmurs. He can feel the way her jaw tightens beneath his grip, and how she swallows as if trying not to cry. It makes her feel daft to let such words still affect her—she is a Northerner, petty insults should carry no weight. "I didn't mean it. That was unworthy of me."
"It was," she says quietly, blinking back the tears that gather, unwilling to let them fall. She takes a deep, steady breath and sips her drink. "But it is not untrue—I am a bastard, and there is not a soul in the seven kingdoms who would let me forget it." Her dark eyes burrow into his being as she, at last, turns her stare to him.
"Forgive me," he begs tenderly. "I am a drunk, and a fool—"
"—I fear those may go hand in hand, my prince," she interrupts. It is a barb that should needle him, but instead her prodding comforts. He saw how she stood before Lord Baratheon with her hands behind her back, clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened. That was anger—this is something else.
"Perhaps I could be yours—" he starts. His eyes look like they were forged in the North—an ice-blue so pale they look as though they've been carved from the Wall itself. He tips forward, head slanting to the side as if he intends to kiss her.
Her hand comes up, pressing into his chest and stopping him from closing the gap between them, but she can still smell the wine on his breath. She is mindful of where they are, even if he is not. The whispers might not reach him—but they most certainly would reach his father—or worse, hers. Her gaze strays back toward where Lyonel Baratheon sits, hoping he doesn't take notice of them.
"—I've no need for a drunk," she says.
"What of a fool?" His hand, which was holding his cup, reaches up to grip the one she has on his chest, fingers lacing through hers and holding it firmly to him. He implores her with a single look, and heat spreads up the sides of her neck.
She dips her head down, looking up at him through dark lashes as if warning him to be cautious, but the tenderness in his expression as he looks at her only causes her resolve to weaken. She doesn’t feel like a wolf. The warmth of his hand around hers makes her feel like a well-trained mutt, keening at a scratch behind the ear. "If it is forgiveness you seek, you have it."
"I wish for a great deal more than that," he says.
"I'm afraid I don't have much else to give." She has no lands, no titles—her only claim is the blood that runs in her veins. What could she offer to a prince that he did not already have? "Besides, I will be leaving on the morrow."
A frown forms on his face as his brows furrow—hurt flashing across his face at the news. "Where will you be going?" he asks.
"North," she informs. "Back home."
"And where is it you call home?"
"Winterfell," she says after a moment of indecision. She watches the way realization dawns on his face.
"Then you're—"
"—Brandon Stark's bastard, yes," she confirms.
Daeron knew that the Lord of Winterfell had two bastards—two children sired before he and his wife were married nearly two decades ago. The Northerners treated their bastards differently from elsewhere. It isn't unusual for illegitimate children in the North to remain with their father and be raised with his family—a nearly unfathomable thing here in the South.
Bastards still weren't welcomed at court, though—despite the reputation his own great uncle cultivated, but Brynden Rivers is an exception, not the standard. It's no surprise he's never met Lysa Snow—or her brother, the Northern lords, especially Brandon Stark, often kept to their own.
The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and his attention briefly leaves her, seeing that the imposing stare of Lyonel Baratheon is fixed on the two of them. "Walk with me," Daeron declares as he stands, taking her hand with him and forcing Lysa to her feet.
She should dig her heels in—refuse to do so. A reprimand for denying a prince would be kinder than what will befall them if she goes along, she thinks, but she can't find it in herself to deny him—or herself.
So she allows him to haul her out through the flap in the Beesbury tent.
The world outside the tent is beginning to darken—a quiet settling among Ashford Meadow. "Where are we going?" she asks as she pulls her shawl around her, a cool spring chill in the air. The Kingsguard fall into step behind them as they exit the tent—distant enough that Lysa doesn't feel them at her back, but close enough that she hears the scuffling of their boots against the gravel and clanking of their armor.
The festivities for the tourney are winding down—most merchants have already packed up and left, and many of the nobles are doing so as well. The birdsong through the trees is beginning to fade as night approaches, replaced by the chattering of nighttime insects and the gentle rustling of tall grasses swaying in the breeze. It smells like warm earth and sweet flowers, almost untouched by the blood and death that soaked the soil just a day earlier.
Daeron doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk, ignoring the curious leering that watches them as they move through. "I do not care," he finally says, breaking the tense silence that had started to build between them with each step further from the tent they take.
She knows immediately what he means, something they've been toeing around since she told him her name two nights ago—he does not care that she's a bastard. A scowl tugs at her lips as she glances up at him. "The world will," she says. "The whispers will—"
"I care not for whispers," he insists.
"But you will," she urges, coming to a stop in the middle of the path. There is no one around, not here, just at the threshold of the forest beyond the meadow. The final stretches of golden sunlight stream through the glade in patches as tiny fireflies begin to flicker to life in the shadows. "One day they will become too much, and you will care."
"I won't," he promises softly, like he has the ability to make such a lofty vow.
A scowl deepens on her face, and her brow turns stern. Fury spreads through her, not hot like fire across hot coals, but cold like right before the bite of frost takes root. She does not wish to feel this way—to have such resentment, but the cruelty of her birth is often an injustice that consumes her.
She feels angry—angry at Daeron for looking at her like she is more than just a bastard, angry at the world for making her believe that is all she can be, angry at her parents for their indiscretions that led her to such a life.
"They won't allow it," she argues, tone biting and contemptuous. "Your father, the king, the realm—they will not allow it."
"Why should we ask them for permission?"
She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again as if she doesn't know what to say to such blatant disregard. "Because there will be consequences—consequences that you might not have to bear, but I surely will." Tears flood her eyes—these burn, and she hates the sensation, furiously trying to blink them away. "You—you are a prince, any transgressions of yours will be swept under the rug, but I… I am a bastard and a woman. I will be the one to face the vitriol. I will be the one they call a… a whore—a witch who beguiled you. They will rake my name through the mud—rake my father's name through the mud, and I… I cannot stand to make him ashamed of me." By the time she reaches the end of her tirade, her voice softens to a near whisper—sounding more broken, like a despondent wolf's howl.
His stare flicks to the Kingsguard who stand a distance away, pretending they hear nothing of Daeron's discussion. He sends them a warning glance and a signal to stay where they are as he leads Lysa further toward the wood.
"What if we ran away?" he asks in a hushed murmur as they come to stand under a tall oak.
Her eyes widen. "We… we can't run away," she hisses.
"Why not?"
She sputters, the notion of explaining to a prince why they cannot simply flee being ridiculous. "Because we barely know one another!"
He clasps her hands with his in front of them, thumbs caressing circles into her skin as he looks down at her, though Lysa staunchly refuses to return his gaze, instead settling on tracing the pattern of his undershirt. "I've known you for years," he mumbles.
"In your dreams, Daeron," she huffs as she corrects him. "That is not the same."
"It is different, though," he asserts, carefully pulling her closer still. "Most of my dreams end in fire and ash."
She glances up at him through her lashes. "How do you know this one will not?" she shoots back.
He pauses, maybe for the first time realizing what it is he is asking of her. "I… I don't," he admits. "But—" Daeron stoops lower, holding her hand to his lips—the hand he's yet to let go of. "—the dreams I've had of you must mean something, and—" His eyes are wet she realizes, and guilt creeps inside of her for how she's spoken to him. "—the way it feels like my chest will cave in every time I look at you must mean something as well."
She's quiet.
"Tell me you do not feel it, too," he says.
"You know I cannot," she mumbles.
She cannot deny that her heart lightens when she looks at him—it is foolish and nonsensical. A bastard should know better, she tries to reason with herself, but she's never experienced such a thing before. It is a sensation she wishes to drown herself in.
"Is this feeling not worth pursuing?" he asks, looming closer as he leans his head down, just a hair's length from capturing her lips with his. "Tell me it isn't, and I will not vex you with such matters again."
She can smell the Arbor red on his breath, feel the heat of his lips so close to hers. "Daeron…" she whispers, tipping onto the balls of her feet. His hands come up, dragging her the rest of the way as their lips press together. It's better than she remembers it.
He exhales against her mouth, something low and satisfied as he tilts his head, and she digs her fingertips into his waist, and even as the bruises along his sides pulse with pain, he can't find it in himself to care. As his tongue swipes against her lower lip, he pushes her backward, walking her toward the safety and privacy of the growing shadows beneath the tree—out of the line of sight of his Kingsguard and anyone else who might happen upon the path.
"I could love you," he murmurs against her mouth. "If you'd let me."
She gazes at him from half-lidded eyes, breathing out a quiet "Daeron" that only makes him want to take her right against this tree. He brushes a kiss to the corner of her mouth before trailing down to her neck, right over her pulse, nipping the delicate skin before thrusting up against her. Her breath gets caught in her throat as she feels the thick length of him in between the layers of her skirts and his trousers.
Her fingers tangle up in his blonde locks, and his hair falls from the ponytail he'd drawn it up into. A gasp escapes her as his teeth bite into her throat—not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark. "Wanna taste you," he mutters fervently into her ear, sending chills through her spine.
She doesn't even realize what's happening until he's kneeling on the ground in front of her, not caring as the damp soil sullies his pants, beginning to ruck up her skirts. "Daeron!" she inhales sharply, halting him in his tracks.
"Wanna taste you," he repeats, gazing up at her with eyes still wet with tears, pleading as his hands trace up her outer thighs. He holds his forehead against the front of her, murmuring into her skirts, almost desperately. "Please, let me taste you, please."
She bites her lip as he glances up at her. "Alright," she says with a nod.
The cool spring wind against her is the next thing she feels as he hooks one of her legs over his shoulders. He doesn't waste time, not knowing how long it will be until his Kingsguard decides to ruin this moment. She helps him by holding her skirts out of the way, white-knuckling the fabric as he pushes her small clothes to the side.
The sound he makes is borderline a whine. "Gods," he mutters. "You've got the prettiest cunt." Her cheeks flush, and the bustle of her skirts is too much for her to see his face, so she looks up through the canopy of the tree instead. The first press of his tongue against her immediately has her head lolling back into the rough bark, not caring as her hair gets caught on it.
The second press, more sure now, makes her toes curl.
And then he's licking her intently. The noises are obscene and sloppy, but Daeron moans as the taste of her coats his tongue. His fingertips bore into her thighs with a bruising grip as he grips her firmly against his face. Her other hand finds the back of his head, fingers lacing through his hair, which only fuels him as his tongue dips into her core, like he's hungry to drink the nectar straight from the source.
The coil in her stomach begins to tighten.
Daeron sucks at the most sensitive part of her, and she whimpers out his name. "More," she demands, fingers gripping his locks harder. A moan vibrates against her cunt from the sting at his scalp, and he can do nothing but oblige. Equal parts of his own saliva and her own spend dripping down his chin as he pushes a single finger into her. He's rewarded with her keening his name, hips thrusting up against his face unabashedly, taking what she wants from him.
He wishes he might have taken her somewhere nicer, preferably a place with a bed, if only so he'd have a single hand free to palm himself through his pants as the scent and taste of her carves into him, his cock throbbing with each gush of her that graces his tongue. When he plunges a second finger into her cunt, her gasps pitch up, walls fluttering around the intrusion.
As he crooks his fingers inside her, her eyes roll into the back of her head as her entire body begins to tingle, her abdomen impossibly tight, and her nails dig into his scalp now. The firm swipe of his tongue settles into a rhythm that dizzies her mind, leaving her struggling to breathe. "'m close," she gasps.
He keeps the pace, desperate to have her cum on his tongue. He can feel the ripple of the muscles in her thighs flex as she moans out his name, louder now, and even if he wants to hush her—to remind her of the Kingsguard not so far away—the sweet sounds she's making so close to her end are not something he will deny himself. She holds his face to her cunt as the waves of her release wash over her, caring not if he can breathe, until her grasp loosens as the sensations settle into the gentle ebb of a tide. Though if it weren't for the leg he'd hauled over his shoulder, she has no doubt she would be boneless on the grassy floor.
He allows her to use him for support until she regains her senses, and when he stands, his chin is glistening, her spend dripping down to his neck. She does not even mind as he presses another vehement kiss to her lips, letting her taste herself on him as his hands insistently clasp her sides, drawing her closer. "I want to have you," he murmurs against her mouth.
"My wagon is not far from here," she breathes out. Her fingers hold the lapels of his coat, unwilling to allow him to lean too far away as if he would do so. "Just through the path there."
Mischief glimmers in his gaze, and she has to stifle a giggle as he takes her hand once more, and they dart down the shadow-covered trail, leaving his Kingsguard unaware that the prince has stolen away once more. The tall grass tickles up her calves, and her heart flutters in her chest as they run together. Laughter is heard more freely as they reach her small covered wagon, out of breath, but no less energized.
When Lysa climbs into the back of her wagon, she glances over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow her with a crook of her finger.
The sun has nearly set, and they are left fumbling in the haze of twilight toward the back of her tiny covered wagon, toward where she has set up a small bedroll with a plethora of blankets and pillows to alleviate the discomfort of travel. A giggle bubbles up in her as she tosses her shawl to the side while Daeron's hands find her waist, chest pressing into her back as he kisses just behind her ear. Twisting in his grip, she walks backward until the back of her knees hit the edge of her makeshift bed. When she collapses onto it, she takes him with her, their mouths melding together almost instantly, and he does his best not to crush her under his weight.
"Daeron," she breathes out in between desperate kisses, arching up against him. His hands drag up her body, trying to become acquainted with its curves, though he becomes frustrated by the layers she wears.
Reluctantly, he pulls away. "Off," he demands, already lifting her skirts to assist.
The simple dresses she's adorned since traveling are far easier to navigate than the corsets and heavy wool-lined skirts she wears in Winterfell. They manage to undress her with only a bit of clumsy stumbling, but her laughter when her dress gets caught on her hair only makes his stomach coil with something far deeper than lust.
He can see the outline of her body, still barely visible as the last remnants of the sun dip down for the night, and his mouth goes dry. "You're so beautiful," he exhales, hands instinctively caressing up to palm her breasts, thumb tracing along the sensitive skin as goosebumps trail in his wake. The weight of them only causes his cock to twitch in his pants.
Leaning back over, he lays a peck onto her lips before kissing down her neck to her chest, sucking at her nipple to raise it to a peak, enraptured by how she gasps beneath him, leaving him rutting against the mound of blankets they lie on top of, chasing some friction.
With one hand tangled through his hair, her other tugs at the collar of his shirt. "You're wearing too much," she says lowly.
He lets out a soft chuckle before pulling back just enough to slip off his jacket and unlace his pants. She takes a moment to light some candles, the firelight flickering and casting shadows on the wagon's wooden walls, letting her enjoy the sight of him. Her dark eyes stay on him as she reclines on a pile of plush pillows, biting her lip as she watches him remove the last layers of his clothes, noticing how the muscles on his back flex as he removes his shirt and tosses it aside.
"Daeron." It's almost a whimper, and he sees the way her legs loll to the side, presenting her dripping cunt to him. He can still taste her on his tongue, and the heady blend of her scent lingers in the air with his own. His breath leaves him in a strained stutter as he takes hold of his cock, stroking it languidly up and down a few times before kneeling on the bed just shy of being between her legs.
"Tell me what you want," he mutters lowly.
"Want you to fuck me," she says in a whine, and his eyes almost roll into the back of his head at the crude words from such a lovely mouth, wrenching his hand from his cock as he feels the telltale tightening in his abdomen. "Please, Daeron."
"Temptress," he whispers to her, wondering if she knows the way her voice affects him—how close he nearly came to finishing before they'd even started. His own selfishness will not allow her to beg any longer as he slots himself between her legs. The bottom of his cock rubs through the damp lips of her cunt, coating himself in her essence, and she can feel the outline of the thick vein that runs up his length.
She grabs him by the sides of his face, careful of his wound, tender even in her moment of desperation, and drags him down into a fevered kiss. Canting her own hips up, she chases the delicious friction between the two of them, sighing wistfully at the sensation. His touch is hot against her skin, and it's almost overwhelming.
Lysa can't remember it ever feeling like this—like she is burning from the inside out with want.
Daeron nips at her bottom lip once before leaning back onto his knees, staring down at her where she lies wanting and waiting—his, he thinks.
She's his.
He pushes the head of his cock against her and slowly begins to slide in. Her face twists up at the pressure, gasping softly and reaching her hands up to grab his forearms, nails biting into his skin. He goes gradually, aided by how wet she is, and it doesn't take long for her to adjust to the thickness of him. It's Daeron who stops to inhale deeply, the squeezing in his abdomen treading far too close to release when he hasn't even fully seated in her heat yet.
She makes him feel like a wet-behind-the-ears lad who's never experienced the touch of a woman before, and his cheeks burn with embarrassment and maybe a blow to his pride. "Lysa," he groans. "Gods, you feel divine."
She can't help herself, craving more of him, and she lifts her hips, urging him to sink into her, and it's almost his undoing as he whines, hands snapping to her hips in a bruising grip as he halts her movement. "Daeron, please," she begs.
"If you don't want me to spill too soon, you'll keep still," he tells her.
A devilish smirk forms on her lips, and experimentally, she tightens her walls around him, taking pleasure in the way he gasps out her name and thrusts forward all at once, bottoming out inside of her. The feeling of him fully seated inside of her only brings her satisfaction despite the way he pinches just at the fullness of her hip. "Minx," he hisses, though there's no heat to it, only adoration in his blue eyes.
As he adjusts to the tight wet heat of her cunt, he cages her in, perching himself on one elbow as he leans over her, pulling out before thrusting back in. The reaction is immediate—her breath catches in her throat, and he's fascinated with the way her breasts bounce, repeating the motion to see it again, and again, and again.
As he settles into a rhythm, he cranes his neck down to kiss her, his other hand delicately holding her jaw, swallowing down her moans as she wraps her legs around his waist, driving him even deeper inside of her. A familiar feeling coils inside of her stomach, and greedily she wants to cum again. One hand reaches down in between them, intent on speeding up the process, but Daeron snatches it up.
"Tell me what you want," he exhales as he doesn't even stutter in his movement. Sweat gathers at his brow, and his thumb presses into her pulse, while his mouth fixates on the junction between her shoulder and neck.
"I want to cum," she whimpers.
"Not yet," he says, thrusting hard in a particular way that makes her let out a noise of surprise.
She arches up against him, lips capturing hers before murmuring against his, "Please, Daeron."
The resolve he thought he had wavers at the desperation in her voice, but even still, he shakes his head. "Not yet," he denies.
He thinks she will simper, but instead, she hooks a calf around his, hand on the opposite shoulder as she turns them in one swift movement. Daeron is stunned as he finds himself beneath her, Lysa poised on top of him with a smug expression as she begins to move her hips.
His hands instantly find her waist, a whimper escaping him at this new angle, giving him an excellent view of the way her breasts bounce up and down with each thrust of her hips as she grinds herself down onto him.
It's tantalizing, the way her hips gyrate, and he digs his fingertips into the meat of her ass, allowing her to ride him—to use him. "Lysa," he moans.
"Is this pleasing enough for the prince?" she questions as her hands find purchase against his chest.
"Yes," he whispers. "Yes." His cock twitches inside of her, and she grinds down on him in a way that makes light explode behind his eyes. "Please, please," he begs.
One hand trails up to cup his jaw, thumb tracing his lower lip, and he opens his mouth, sucking on the digit. "Are you close?" she asks, out of breath, but she's teetering on the precipice and refuses to stop now, even as her thighs burn. The steady drag of his thick cock inside of her makes her walls clench.
"Yes," he confirms, nodding his head as if it pains him. "Wanna cum in your pretty cunt, please."
Bending down, her lips find his, and she murmurs against them, "Then cum."
The warmth of his seed fills her as his hands grab at her sides, his hips thrusting up into her as his release washes over him—he's moaning her name, whimpering it like it is salvation, and tears streak down the sides of his face.
As he thrusts up deeper into her, she feels herself fall over the edge, knuckles white as she grips onto him, gasping as her vision blurs, a prickling sensation beginning at her toes that floods the rest of her body. He moves her up and down his cock, working them both through their releases as she just struggles to stay upright. When the feeling dissipates, she goes limp on top of him, and his arms come around, wrapping around her and holding her close as he presses a kiss to her sweat-slick temple.
Gently, he rolls her onto the bed, grabbing a rag from one of her little shelves and beginning to clean her up so tenderly it makes tears cloud her eyes. When he is done, he tucks in next to her, finger tracing down the slopes of her face as they stare at one another, and she thinks it would not be so bad if this moment lasts forever.
He falls asleep first—and when he awakens in the middle of the night, the candles having long been blown out, he thinks he sees the silhouette of her fidgeting with something. "Lysa?" he calls out sleepily, questioningly reaching out for her.
She turns, caressing a cool hand to the warmth of his cheek to soothe him. "Go back to sleep," she quietly says.
He lacks the energy to fight and wakes again before dawn. The sky remains dark, though a hint of orange begins to emerge over the horizon, and the morning dew is fresh on the grass. He takes her again, slowly this time, almost lazily, hooking her leg up with his arm as he slides into her from behind. His nose buries into the crook of her neck, gasping out her name as she arches back into him.
When they are finished, he dresses quietly, while she watches with her face pressed against the pillow.
"I will be back," he promises as he kisses her, smoothing back her frizzed hair with the tenderness of someone who loves her. He spares her several more glances over his shoulder before he finally leaves.
When he is gone, she prepares the wagon. As she tacks up her mare, in the distance, she sees a small, cloaked figure wander out into the woods, quick and light in their strides—she wonders if they are stealing away in the dawn as well. Then, just as the first birds begin their song, she departs.
There is a profound sense of loss at the sight of the empty spot where her wagon used to be—the wheel tracks still fresh and heading north. Daeron stays there for far too long, sure that he will draw his father's ire at his tardiness, and when he finally mounts his horse with the rest of the Targaryen retinue, he's already emptied three wineskins.
If his father notices his melancholy, he makes no mention of it—the disappearance of Aegon setting him off before they even leave Ashford Meadow, no doubt they would hear about it the entire way. Even Daeron is not foolish enough to think it genuine anger, though. His father is frightened for his youngest son in the aftermath of Baelor's death, and with Aerion being sent east, he wishes to keep what little family they have left close.
They're three days into their journey back to Summerhall when he finds it—they've stopped at an inn, and Daeron is searching for his coin purse hidden in the pockets of his jacket, his father making it clear he would not be paying for his eldest son to get lost in his cups along their travels.
The feel of parchment brushes against his fingertips, and he stills, ignoring the expectant look from the barmaid as he curiously pulls it from his coat. It's a small note, folded and slightly crinkled. His eyes are bleary, and the sour taste of too much wine lingers in his mouth as he unfolds it, hands shaking.
He wills his vision to focus, squinting as he tries to read the neat, unfamiliar handwriting:
'Meet me in the North.
Yours,
Lysa'
The next morning, as Prince Maekar unconsciously counts his ducklings while preparing to depart the inn, he comes up one short. He counts again, and then once more to be sure, before realizing who is missing.
"Where the fuck is Daeron?!"