Chapter Text
Orange banners hanging from every available space in the long corridor read, "Our Sun Shines Bright." Indeed, bright out of her father's arse-, Alerie’s cynical thoughts were interrupted by a maid rushing by and narrowly missing a head-on collision with an oncoming servant.
“Begging your pardon, my lady. Oh Alerie, 'tis only you. These bloody princes have us running in circles,” she panted. Finally meeting Alerie’s gaze, Anora shifted the basket of clean linens from one hip to the other.
Alerie’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the princes. While Gwin had been raving about them since Father shared they would be arriving for the tournament, Alerie did not feel so hospitable. Noble men, especially princes, were not good news. If the rumours from Kings landing were to be believed.
Best to be avoided indeed.
“I saw Gwin spying outside the hall”, Anora mentioned offhandedly, “She hoped she’d be able to fall in love with that young Aemon, but they says he's been sent to the citadel.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure she's devastated", Alerie deadpanned, secretly worrying on Gwin's growing nosiness. It would have been fine if not for the Heir to the Iron Throne being present.
“I will see you tonight, Anora”, not waiting for the girl's reply, Alerie bustled down the hall with renewed purpose.
Though her father claimed the tournament was to celebrate Gwin's 13th nameday, he would not wish her to actually be present in any way except to be silent and obedient. This was truly a laughable thought. Despite the tourney being held in her honour, the underlying purpose behind her father hosting such a large tourney was to boost his prestige with the great lords of the realm he invited. Namely, the family that ruled above them all. The Targaryens.
With fearsome reputations and histories to match, “Fire and Blood” didn't really inspire much excitement or want of introduction. Though there were many of this day, smallfolk and nobles both, that didn’t hold the fear that the Targaryens had once inspired. She heard whispers at the weekly markets and grand tables alike.
Raymun, her closest cousin, had planted that doubt years ago. When her mother was alive, every year they would travel to her birthplace, Cider Hall. Where all of the Fossoway extended family would gather for the annual spring uncorking of last autumn's barrels.
While the drinking and merriment kept the adults occupied, Alerie and Raymun would climb the tallest apple trees in the orchard and hide from Steffon. Even as children, the heir of Cider Hall had been arrogant and cruel, often delighting in humiliating Raymun to Alerie's anger. When she told her father of Steffon's misdeeds, he simply replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “The japes of lads are none of your concern, young lady.”
So Alerie had brought it upon herself to deal with the brute herself. Collecting the upturned stones from nearby ploughed fields, she hid in the largest tree and laid wait till the hour of the ghost she knew Steffon would take his drunk wanderings to view all he was to one day inherit.
Awoken from his slumber by a rowdy song of a maid and a fisherman with a big anchor, she felt Steffon’s presence and took her aim.
With a loud crunch, she heard it make contact. And then a strangled scream she knew with whom the contact was made.
Through a fit of giggles, she yelled, “Stay away from Raymun, you vermin.”
Without a backward glance, she ran back to the hall to cling to her mother's skirts. Heart still racing till sleep found her.
The next morning, Steffon stayed sulking quietly as his mother fussed and doted over her “poor beautiful little boy.”
The damage was satisfying to see in the light of day. Steffon's once straight nose had a large lump and his eyes were varying shades of blue like the ocean in the clear sun. When the crowd's eyes were on him, Steffon glared with rage at Alerie. She only smiled innocently back, giving him a faux shy wave.
That was the family's last spring celebration at the hall, as in the summer Gwin was born. And her mother was lost.
Snapping back to the present after her thoughts of Raymun had led Alerie astray, she found her sister standing in the entrance hall.
“Alerie, where have you been? The dragons will be here at any moment. Father has been saying he will have your head if you are not found.” Alerie felt herself dragged by her too-long, ornamental sleeve by her pestering sister out the main doors. Suddenly hit by the strong rays of the sun, there was too much to take in. Her father and eldest brother, Androw’s stressed expressions and words of displeasure at her late arrival. Then Robert jokingly gave her a friendly elbow, and lastly Gwin's barely concealed excitement through her fidgeting and fixing her dress.
“Alerie,” she paused, looking up with those brown doe eyes all of the Ashfords seemed to wield to get what they wanted, “stay back so as not to let the princes see you, okay?”
With a look of displeasure from her father,
she supplied, “What, we all know Alerie has no plans of marriage, why not let her help me look eligible for once?” A frown marred her delicate face.
“She will marry, no matter what her plans may be, Gwin.” Not deigning any of them any further annoyed looks, he plastered a large smile over his face, and Alerie soon saw and heard why simultaneously.
“Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honourable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good”, the town crier announced, he went on, “Prince of Dragonstone, hand of the King… and heir to the Iron Throne.”
Astride a large dark horse sat an unassuming man. Alerie had expected white hair and a scary expression, but the hand had obviously favoured his mother with dark eyes and hair. He was dressed rather modestly, too, not in the regalia she was used to seeing noble men don for these occasions. Though as the heir, she supposed he could dress however he liked.
“And his brother Maekar.”
Now this man was the picture of the Targaryen arrogance and disdain she foresaw.
Prince Baelor greeted her father, and he presented Gwin as had been planned. As he shook hands with Androw and Robert in turn, she felt his eyes land on her lastly.
As Alerie tried to look as polite but dull as possible, she found he was gazing at her with hollow eyes.
“Myra…”, he breathed, too softly for those but Alerie and her father to hear.
Her father quickly intervened, “Your grace, my eldest, Alerie Ashford. She indeed looks like her late mother.”
“I apologise… I… It has been a long journey,” still staring into her soul, he turned back to her father, finally.
“Let me show you your rooms, your grace.” Lord Ashford snapped at the young servant to show them the way her family proceeded inside.
Alerie stood still in her profound confusion. The Prince had known her mother, and well enough to recognise her after all these years?
Broken from her trance by the sight of one of the Targaryens' retinue of horses rearing in panic and kicking a stable boy in the face. At a run, she took off, grabbing the chestnut folly by the reins with soothing words of comfort. She looked up to find that a very tall man had done the same. They made eye contact.
“Stable boy, make sure the horses are well taken care of.”
He frowned, “Do I look like a stable boy, my Lady?”
Alerie looked him up and down from his roughspun tunic to his belt made of rope, settling him with a raised eyebrow at last.
“Well, perhaps I do, but I am a knight, Milady. Here to compete in the tourney.” He looked earnest in a way she found faintly pathetic.
“Fetch a healer for the injured man, too.”
And with a swish of her body, all Duncan was left with was a view of her dark auburn hair that clashed with her bright orange cloak and an unpleasant feeling of belittlement.