Targaryens are known to have queer costumes, an unusual tradition in which the brother and sister wed each other in order to secure the line of succession as pure as possible. Well, it is not always the Targaryens that have such habits, who says tha...
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~129 A.C~
:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:
(No silent readers pls thx)
OLDTOWN The sun rose pale and steely over Oldtown, casting long shadows across the courtyard stones. A dull chill still clung to the air, but the noise of soldiers, armor, and horses shattered the stillness with metallic clarity.
Men shouted. Hooves clattered. Steel glinted. Pages ran with scrolls. Green Targaryen banners, Hightower crests, and golden-and-green standards flapped above the lines of soldiers organizing into their regiments.
Alayne stood near the center of a group of young knights and squires, her helmet pulled low over her face. The armor she had taken — light, simple steel with only a faint scratch of sigils — was a little loose at the shoulders, but nothing damning. A thick scarf wrapped high around her neck helped obscure the curve of her jaw, and the shortened red hair was tucked beneath the helm.
She said nothing. Just listened. Waited.
Ser Gwayne Hightower stood tall on the raised stone steps, reading names off the long scroll handed to him by a steward. His voice rang sharp over the yard, calling one name after the other.
"Ser Myles Uffering. You'll ride front with the vanguard." "Ser Rowan Appleton. Mid-line, mounted." "Ser Alford Beesbury. Foot regiment, third row."
Names. Placements. Marching orders.
Alayne — now Edric — shifted on her boots, hands tight around the sword at her hip. The name never came. Not once. She braced herself.
And then—
Gwayne stepped down a few steps, pausing before her.
"You," he said flatly, brow furrowed as he looked over the helmed figure. "You're not on the scroll. Who are you?"
Alayne raised her chin behind the visor and answered in a slightly hoarse, scratchy voice — just low enough to pass.
"Edric, ser. From the Vale originally. Moved to Oldtown a year ago." She added a brief nod, eyes locked straight ahead. "Trained with Ser Raynard Uller at the lower yard. Want to fight for King Aegon's cause, ser."
A beat of silence.
Gwayne looked her over with narrowed eyes, trying to make sense of the knight with the overly polished sword and the oddly pristine boots.
But he gave a curt nod.
"Very well, Ser Edric. Midline. On foot. You shall report to commander Ormund above the ramparts for march orders."
"Yes, ser." Alayne swallowed hard, she must report to her father.
He moved on. And Alayne—still standing stiffly under the name of Edric—allowed herself the first quiet exhale of relief. She hadn't been discovered. Not yet.
