Aurion was ready for this damn day to be over. He had spent the better part of it cleaning weapons, shoveling manure, and polishing armor that definitely wasn't his problem. All he wanted now was to drop these oats off at the stables and get a drink. Maybe even two. The sun was setting, casting long, gloomy shadows across the cobblestones, and the evening chill was creeping in from the sea.
Leave it to Ser Gregor to cheap out on stable service, dumping buttercup's care onto him. He liked child labor a little too much.
Unfortunately, the universe decided his tiresome day needed a little excitement to spice it up.
A young woman—wild-eyed and clearly running from something. She was dressed in a ragged brown dress, like someone had thrown a sack on her and hoped for the best. Her hair was stuffed under a scarf that was barely holding itself together, and she was moving through the market with the sort of urgency that suggested she'd just stolen something—or was about to.
Aurion didn't care much at first, until he noticed the two guards in polished armor right behind her, pushing through the crowd like they owned the place. They were looking for trouble. The trouble was wearing a very torn dress and running way too fast.
"Come back, Lady Maris!" one of the guards shouted, like he was trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably. "Your father will have our heads if we return without you!"
Aurion rolled his eyes. Seriously? Some noble brat running from her responsibilities? He was honestly too tired for this.
The lady—Lady Maris, apparently—looked back over her shoulder, eyes wide with panic, and sped up. She darted between carts like she was auditioning for some action flick, her bare feet slapping against the cobblestones.
"Lady Maris, please!" the second guard called after her, clearly exasperated. "You can't keep running!"
Aurion, irritated beyond belief, shifted the weight of the oats in his arms, debating whether he should just step aside and let this play out. He was really hoping for a peaceful trip to the stables.
Lady Maris wasn't just running. She was creating a scene. And Aurion, being the kind of guy who'd rather not be associated with unnecessary drama, knew this was going to end badly for him somehow.
Lady Maris, in her mad dash to escape, plowed straight into him.
One second, Aurion was minding his own business, just trying to get the oats to the stable without making any more of a scene than necessary. The next second, Lady Maris was tackling him like she was trying to break the sound barrier, sending his arms flying outward and the bundle of oats flying.
There was a moment of stunned silence as the oats—his precious, precious oats—flipped end over end and then landed—on the ground. In a puddle.
Aurion stared at the mess on the cobblestones, heart sinking. It wasn't the oats that bothered him the most. It was the fact that he was just about to be done with this damn chore, and now the universe had decided to kick him while he was down.
Aurion stood there for a moment, watching Lady Maris disappear into the crowd, her ragged dress flapping like a wounded bird desperate for flight. She was gone—poof—as quickly as she had come. The two guards were right on her tail, dodging market carts, shouting at vendors to get out of the way, and generally making a spectacle of themselves. One of them was yelling something about "Your father will have our heads if we don't bring you back, Lady Maris!" while the other seemed to be about one step away from tripping over his own armor.
This was coming out of his nonexistent paycheck; he just knew it.
-
Aurion's shovel scraped against the stone floor of the stable with all the enthusiasm of a man who had just discovered the meaning of misery. The stench of manure was thick in the air, and the sight of his sweat-soaked tunic only added to the list of things that made him hate his life just a little bit more.
Lady Maris, he thought, as he scooped another mound of muck into the wheelbarrow. What a delightful disaster she is.
At least it wasn't a complete disaster. If he squinted, he could almost pretend the oats were still intact, like some cruel joke. The universe had a great sense of humor: dump a bag of oats on the cobblestones and watch a grown man break.
"Oh, sure, this is what I signed up for," Aurion muttered to no one in particular. "Man of the people, savior of the oats. This is my calling."
His shovel clinked against the stone again, and he threw another load of manure into the wheelbarrow, imagining he was tossing it straight at Lady Maris. Why not? She'd probably enjoy the warmth.
He'd spent half the day cleaning weapons and polishing armor—armor that wasn't even his, mind you. He didn't even own armor. But apparently, that was just part of the glamorous life of being a glorified stable boy. And then there were the oats. Ah, the oats.
At least I didn't get run over by a runaway noblewoman, he thought bitterly, recalling how Lady Maris had barraled into him like some wild animal, sending his precious oats flying through the air like a cruel comedy act. And then, of course, her panicked escape as if the world would crumble if she didn't dash away at that exact moment. No wonder she runs so fast. Can't have anyone catching her and ruining her perfectly messy, dramatic exit.
As the wheelbarrow filled up, Aurion's mind continued to wander. You know what would've been nice? A little bit of thanks for cushioning her fall would have been nice. I don't even want a full feast, just maybe a 'Hey, sorry for ruining your day' or, I don't know, a coin for my trouble. But no. I'm just a prop in her little escape scene.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and glanced around the stable, making sure no one was watching. He'd almost convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, he'd earned a break, but no—he was here, slaving away in silence while the rich little princess ran off into the sunset.
-
The yard felt like a furnace, the heat smothering Aurion from every direction. Bundling himself in boiled leather and whatever padded scraps he could find clearly wasn't the secret to surviving the afternoon sun—who would've thought? His body screamed in protest, muscles quivering beneath the strain, but Ser Gregor didn't care. He rarely did.
"Come on, boy, you're moving like a corpse!" Gregor barked from behind him, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.
Aurion's jaw clenched, but he kept his sarcasm in check, at least for now. Buttercup—his lovely, judgmental steed—snorted beneath him, flicking her tail as if she, too, was growing tired of the endless torment. She was a beast, no doubt about it, but she was as stubborn as her rider. Every time Aurion nudged her forward, she shot him a look as if to say, You really think I'm going to make this easy for you?
"Right, sorry, Ser Gregor. Should I turn water into wine next?" Aurion muttered under his breath, but Gregor didn't hear him, or maybe he did. Either way, he didn't respond.
With a sarcastic roll of his eyes, Aurion gave the reins a tug and forced Buttercup into a slow trot, his limbs screaming in protest. The horse was smooth enough, but every step felt like another nail in the coffin of his already battered pride.
Gregor, on his massive charger, cut a formidable figure, riding at a casual pace as though he had all the time in the world to watch Aurion flounder. He didn't even have to try. The man's form was perfect, his posture as unshakable as the stone walls of the castle.
"Get that lance up, boy. Do you want to die in a tournament or on the battlefield?" Gregor shouted.
Aurion sighed, lifting the lance with all the grace of a man trying to hold up a log. "Why not both? A duel in the tournament, followed by a dramatic death on the battlefield? Sounds like a solid plan."
Gregory didn't even crack a smile. Typical.
The old knight charged, his lance aimed like a spear of judgment. Aurion tensed, his heart skipping a beat. He had no time to think, just react. His hand tightened around the reins, and Buttercup, sensing the tension, picked up speed.
The moment was coming. The collision of lances was inevitable.
Focus, Aurion, he told himself. His breath came in short bursts, sweat stinging his eyes. The lance in his hand felt awkward and unwieldy, the wood slick with his grip. He steadied his breath and adjusted his posture, still far from perfect, but it was getting there.
As Gregor's lance closed the gap, Aurion swung his own. It wasn't a thing of beauty—more of a wild, desperate attempt than a calculated strike—but it was better than his last. Just barely.
The two lances collided with a sharp crack, the force of the impact jolting through his arms and shoulders. Aurion's heart raced as the shock rippled down his spine, nearly knocking him off balance.
Gregor's lance flicked off his, and the old knight barely flinched. He reined his horse back and looked down at Aurion with an unreadable expression. "Not bad," he grunted. "For a corpse."
Aurion bit back a grin. "Glad I'm finally showing signs of life," he quipped, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Should I expect a gold star for that performance?"
Gregor gave him a flat stare. "Keep it up, and you might make it through this training without killing yourself."
That was as close to praise as Aurion was going to get from the gruff knight, and honestly, it was progress. A year ago, Gregor would've probably told him to go back to bed, too weak to even mount a horse properly.
With a grimace, Aurion nudged Buttercup forward again, feeling the sweat sting his brow as they circled. "I'm glad I'm improving," he muttered, "Beecause at this rate I'll need ten years to grow competent."
Gregor didn't respond, though there was the faintest quirk to his lip.
He didn't have to say anything else for Aurion to know: the knight wasn't impressed, but he was finally starting to see some of the effort paying off. That, at least, was something. The trick now would be to survive the next round of lances without faceplanting into the dirt.
And who knew? Maybe next time, Gregor wouldn't look like he wanted to throw him in the stockades again.
Maybe.
Probably.
Eh.
-
The archery competition was in full swing, the sharp twang of bowstrings echoing across the tournament grounds as arrows flew, some finding their mark, others falling short. The crowd's cheers and groans blended into a low murmur, a backdrop to the real spectacle—the noble families in their luxurious boxes, watching the games with all the drama of a well-rehearsed play.
Aurion sat in the stands, arms crossed tightly over his chest, barely glancing at the archers as they took their turns. He was supposed to be watching, supposed to be engaged in the spectacle of it all, but his mind kept drifting back to something far less entertaining: the damn oats.
He could still see it, the way Lady Maris had crashed into him, sending his precious oats flying across the cobblestones, splattering into a puddle like some cruel joke from the universe. And all she did was run. Disappear into the crowd, like he was nothing more than a bystander in her little escape scene. Not a single word of apology, not even a glance back.
Aurion's grip tightened on the wooden railing in front of him as his gaze shifted to the royal box. There she was. Lady Maris, sitting perfectly still beside her father, Lord Borros Baratheon. The girl clearly taking after her mother, only possessing her father's eyes—she looked every bit the noble lady she was, untouched and unaware of the mess she'd left behind.
His eyes narrowed. There she was again, not even pretending to be concerned. It was almost as if the whole incident had never happened, like he was some lowly servant, not even worth the acknowledgment. Aurion could feel the heat rising in his chest, the anger bubbling up every time he thought about it. He tried to force himself to look away, to focus on the archery competition, but his eyes kept darting back to her.
Lady Maris didn't seem to notice him at first, her gaze fixed on the field in front of her, her posture perfect and composed. But then—perhaps she felt the weight of his stare—her head turned, just slightly, and for a brief moment, their eyes met.
Aurion's expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he locked eyes with her. The nerve of her. The gall. Not even an apology, not even a hint of acknowledgment. She'd ruined his damn oats, and she had the audacity to sit there like nothing had happened.
But as soon as their eyes met, Lady Maris quickly averted her gaze, her face cooling into a mask of indifference. Her gaze flickered to the field, then to the people around her, anywhere but at Aurion. The moment was fleeting, but it was enough. She was avoiding him, avoiding confrontation.
Huffing to himself, he finally decided to do what every family did – bury his true feelings deep down and avoid the topic. It was better this way, Maris Baratheon was going to be afterthought once he made enough money to retire on an island. When the Targaryen's started to kill themselves with their flying nukes he would far away from the fighting.
Preferably drinking out of a coconut.
Or a pineapple.
If they existed in this world.
-
The tournament carried on below me, knights and archers parading their strength, but her thoughts wandered from the action. Maris was supposed to be watching, supposed to be engaged in the spectacle, but all she could think of was him.
Oat boy.
As she had dubbed him during her flight from her father's guards.
His silver hair had caught my attention the moment she'd seen him, glowing in the marketplace. Even when it was covered in grime and dirt it stood out in such a way that it was impossible to ignore—unnaturally bright, almost as if the light itself bent toward him. His eyes, too—those deep purple eyes, burning with something mystical, hauntingly so—they weren't the kind of eyes you saw on just any man. They were the eyes of someone with a history, with a bloodline that had passed down through centuries, carrying the weight of something ancient and powerful.
A Targaryen bloodline, to be exact.
At first, she had dismissed it. But the more she thought about it, the more she couldn't help but wonder: Could he be one of them?
Could he be a dragonseed?
It was commonplace for dragonlords to sire bastards upon the locals of Dragonstone and Kings Landing. The very term dragonseed had been born because of the flood of silver haired bastards roaming the crownlands. He was most likely some unfortunate spawn of a Targaryen prince or even King Viserys himself.
Maris pondered the possibilities, clapping politely as the last arrow was shot and the cheers erupted. Her father grumbled at the display, never a fan of archery his favor already given to the melees and jousts.
Turning to her sisters, she saw Cassandra bored out of her mind. Ellyn merely smiled and clapped along. Floris was distracted by a story told to her by Lord Swan's heir, Brandon. Whatever Floris truly thought of Brandon's attention, she hid behind a polite giggle and a pretty smile – which only seemed to embolden the boy.
Rolling her eyes, Maris returned her attention to Oat boy. Hoping he would do something to alleviate her growing boredom.