To Break a Dragonâs Fall ÍĄÍÍâ pt.3
pairing: baelor / fem!reader / maekar
summary: at the red keep, you are faced with more harsh realities than simply learning duties and how to better weild your blade.
part one | part two | part four
content: slow burn, found family, love triangleish, enemies to lovers, female knight, fix it fic
note: iâm so sorry this took longer than expected! honestly havenât had the best week, but i hope the next one comes quicker. also ty again for all the love and support it motivates me so much <3
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
The Red Keep stood high above the sprawling city of Kingâs Landing, its red brick walls and towers dominating everything and everyone beneath them. It was strange, you thought, how quickly everything could change. For months your life had been nothing but meadows, hedgerows, and the long, empty stretch of sky above you. Now you could call a castle your home.
Though home was perhaps too generous a word for the four walls you would inhabit. A place of stone and watchful eyes could hardly claim that. Still, it was something else, an opportunity. A chance to learn and perhaps, for the first time in a long while, to live without the constant need to watch for danger, as you had on the road, where every stranger, every dark stretch of forest, and every quiet mile carried the possibility of trouble.
Though the recent weeks of the journey to the capital, had been some of the happiest you could remember in a long while. The days passed in the steady rhythm of the road, with Egg and Duncan often riding on either side of you, filling the miles with stories, questions, and jests. You had spent quite a few nights in crowded inns, or beneath the roofs of accommodating lords who gladly welcomed Prince Baelorâs company.
Yet your favorite evenings had been the quieter ones in the pavilions. After the camp had settled and the fires burned low, the three of you would sometimes slip away from the others and sit beneath the open sky, talking about nothing and everything until the night had grown deep and the stars were the only witnesses left awake.
It made you wish, fleetingly, that the road might never end, that it could remain just the three of you riding on alone, unburdened by duty, untouched by courtly expectations, and blissfully ignorant of the politics waiting ahead. Yet the Red Keep only grew larger with every canter of your horse, its towers climbing higher against the sky, refusing to fade no matter how much you might have wished it would.
The first thing you noticed was the smell. A choking stench of excrement that reached you well before the city walls, carried on the sharp edge of the sea breeze. You wondered if it breached even the keepâs walls, and whether the most powerful people in the realm spent their days subjected to it as well, or if they had long since grown accustomed to it, their fresh rushes and lofty towers masking what lingered below.
You knew, for a certainty however, that the people who lived in the mazes of narrow streets would be far easier to put out of mind once in the keepâs confines.Â
Poverty was not something you were a stranger to, it had been your constant companion for most of your life. But you had not expected it on this scale.Â
When you had imagined the heart of the realm, your thoughts had always lingered on kings and nobles, on fine halls and easy comforts. You were almost ashamed, now, to realize how little you had considered the countless lives that fought to survive in their shadow.
But now you forced yourself to confront it, to make your gaze linger where it might otherwise have slipped away; on the children begging at street corners, on the women who stood hollow-eyed in doorways, and on the men who watched it all with a quiet, worn resignation.
Something in you tightened, low and uneasy.
How long would it take, you wondered, before you grew used to it too, to the suffering that would stretch out everyday beneath you?
The speed with which the press of the city vanished gave you a hint. The moment the gates of the keep groaned shut behind you, it was as though Kingâs Landing had been swallowed whole. The shouting voices, the rattle of carts, even the stench, though not entirely gone, faded a little from your awareness.Â
The princesâ party was ushered through without question, guards snapping to attention more from recognition than inquiry.
Even so, you could feel it, the shift of relief. It moved through the group like a quiet exhale, subtle but unmistakable after the long road. Shoulders eased, reins loosened and the tight edge that came with travel, of watchfulness, of uncertainty, began, at last, to soften. Even the horses seemed to sense it, their restlessness easing as they were led away.
But now here, there were walls and order, and a familiar routine.
Inside, the stone beneath your feet was clean, worn smooth by years of passage rather than neglect. Servants and guards gathered in quiet efficiency, ready to answer the needs of the arriving party. The movement around you felt almost choreographed, and suddenly, beneath the height of the vaulted ceilings, you felt very small.Â
Your gaze settled on Baelor, anchoring yourself to one of the familiar figures in the swirl of activity. But it felt different seeing him here, within these walls, beneath the vaulted ceilings and watchful eyes of court, where every step and every word carried meaning.
Here, he did not simply belong, he fit.
The space seemed to shape itself around him as much as he moved within it, as though this was where he had always been meant to stand. The ease you had seen on the road had not vanished, but it had changedâtempered into something more deliberate, more measured.
More⊠distant, perhaps. Or perhaps not distant, just fuller.
More defined by the role that awaited him.
It struck you then, more clearly than it had before, that this was the place he would one day rule from. That every corridor, every chamber, every pair of watching eyes already bent, in some quiet way, toward that future.
An aide slipped to his side, speaking in a voice too low to carry, though the urgency in it was clear enough. His expression altered only faintly before he turned, signaling to Maekar with a small, deliberate motion.Â
His brotherâs jaw tightened, but he followed without question and together they moved off, their steps purposeful, and vanished down one of the many corridors.Â
A small, unwelcome fear stirred low in your chest, something almost childish in its shape, as you watched one of your few allies disappear so quickly after youâd first stepped into the dragonâs den.
The feeling was foolish, and you knew it. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, not someone you could trail after or hide behind like a child clutching at their fatherâs cloak. You were brought here to protect him, and yet the feeling lingered all the same.
Baelor had been kind to you on the road, in a way you had not expected. He had made time for conversation, speaking with you as though you belonged among his company, explaining what you might expect of the city, and of your place within it.
He had even introduced you to his son, Valarr, who reminded you of him in the best ways, though there was something more polished in him, something softer and more princely in a way that made him seem more unknowable.
Aerion, by contrast, had offered nothing. He rode in silence, his pride wounded as plainly as the bruises that still marked him, his expression set in a cold, unyielding line all the way.
With Maekar, it was slightly different. For most of the journey, he had scarcely acknowledged your existence, save for the rare, cutting look cast in your direction, sharp enough to remind you that he had not forgotten your charged words, even if he chose not to speak of it.Â
Perhaps, you hoped now as you were sure he did, that you would see even less of him within these new walls.
A guard had taken it upon himself to lead you and Duncan through the keep, his pace brisk and his directions sparse. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, turning in on themselves, each passage much like the last, stone, torchlight, shadow. It would be far too easy, you realized, to lose your way here, to wander these halls and not find another soul for hours.Â
The room that was now yours was modest in size, but comfortable enough. It was simply furnished, a bed, a chest, a single chair, nothing excessive, but far more than you had been used to on the road. It sat in the base of the tower of the hand, beside Duncanâs own chambers, so you may be close to Baelor if he has need of you.
What a simple but precious luxury it was to have a space of your own. And yet, you found yourself already missing the open sky, the easy stretch of it above you, and the quiet chorus of birdsong that had followed you down country lanes.
It didnât take you long to unpack your few belongings, after all you had never carried enough that could slow you down. Still, you took a moment, setting things where they belonged, as though the act itself might make the space feel more like your own.
But it didnât and the room remained what it was, comfortable, perhaps, but impersonal. Temporary, in a way that unsettled you more than the open road ever had. Perhaps time would be the only solution.
A heavy knock sounded at the door, before youâd even really settled yourself. You turned, already expecting Duncan, and when you opened it he was there, but he wasnât alone.
Ser Roland Crakehall stood beside him, broad and immovable as a wall, his white cloak falling in heavy lines from his shoulders. Where Duncan looked faintly uneasy, his smile a touch too quick, his posture just a little too stiff, Crakehallâs expression gave nothing away.
âThe King requests your presence.âÂ
âWhat for?â you asked, doing your best to keep the unease from creeping into your voice. You suspected it wasnât customary to question a kingâs summons, but the habit of obedience had never quite taken root in you.
Ser Roland neglected to answer, and simply turned on his heels, leaving you little choice but to follow along.
You werenât sure you would ever grow used to princes summoning you at their convenience, but this was no prince.
This was a king. The very one that sat the Iron Throne.
The realization weighed heavily as you followed, your thoughts circling the summons again and again. Why would he call for you and Duncan so soon after your arriva to the keepl? Unless, of course, it was to send you away from it.
The possibility clung to you, unwelcome and unshakable, trailing every step. When you stole a glance at Duncan, his expression mirrored your own, tight and distant, as if heâd arrived at the same conclusion.
Both of you were led deeper into Margorâs Holdfast, which was truly like a castle within a castle, where all the royal apartments were situated wrapped in luxury and guarded by a deep dry moat outside.
The first thing you noticed upon entering King Daeronâs solar was his son. Baelor stood near the window, light falling across him in a way that softened the sharpness of the room.
At the sight of you, a small, gentle smile found his lips, and something in his eyes that was warm, steady and quietly reassuring reached you at once, loosening the tight knot that had been sitting in your chest.
The second was the room itself. It was not grand in the way you had expected. Instead, it was crowded with books and scattered papers, stacked in uneven piles across tables and shelves, spilling into corners as though they had outgrown their space. Ink-stained parchment lay open beside sealed letters, maps half-rolled, quills abandoned mid-thought.
It felt lived in and thoughtful. Not a kingâs chamber, but a scholarâs.
Then your gaze found the king. His expression mirrored his sonâs in a way, calm, composed, and almost gentle, though there was something sharper beneath it, something more deliberate. His frame was smaller than his sonsâ, his shoulders slightly rounded, a softness at his middle that spoke more of study than steel.
Lastly, and with the faint return of that unease, your eyes settled on Maekar. He sat off to the side, slouched in his chair, holding the Targaryen looks of his father and yet none of its expression.
âAh, so I meet you at last. I finally have the chance to satisfy my curiosity of the hedge knight, and the lady in mail.â The King spoke, a note of quiet interest in his voice as he turned to face you.
Movement at the edge of your vision drew your attention, and you turned just enough to see Duncan dropping to his knees, his head bowed in earnest reverence, that made you slightly grimace.
A flicker of panic crossed your face as you hesitated, suddenly unsure what was expected of you or whether you could bring yourself to follow suit.
A soft laugh broke the tension, drawing your attention upward from where it had settled on your boots.
âYou need not kneel alongside your friend, my lady,â the king said lightly. âAnd you, Ser please, rise.â
You lifted your gaze as Duncan pushed himself back to his feet beside you.
âI admit,â King Daeron continued, âI have become quite familiar with the tales from Ashford. I have had the fortunate benefit of hearing them from my sons themselves.â There was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, as his gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor and then, more briefly still, toward Maekar. âIt seems that between the two of you, you have caused no small stir.â
You wondered briefly, if he had meant that small stir you and Maekar had conjured in the corridor of Ashford castle.
âIf I may, Your Grace,â Duncan said quickly, âwe didnât mean to do no such thing. We only wanted to do what we thought was right, and I pulled her into it.â
The king regarded him thoughtfully. âSo,â he said, âyou acted out of honour, and you, out of loyalty?â His gaze shifted to you. âTell me, are you of the same blood? Or something closer still?â
âNeither, Your Grace,â you shook your head. âI met Ser Duncan only two days before the tourney, on the road. He spared me from what might have been a⊠less than pleasant encounter.â You hesitated only briefly before continuing. âI entered the trial for him out of loyalty, and debt, but also becauseâŠâ You steadied slightly. âI believed it was the right thing to do.â
There was a brief pause.
âShe stood when others would not.â Baelorâs voice, quiet but certain.
It cut gently through the space, not interrupting, but anchoring. You felt it more than heard it.
The kingâs expression shifted, just faintly. âIndeed,â he said. âAn honourable and courageous thing to do. Iâm the first to admit that I am no warrior and have kept books more as company than knights, though I can recognise the strength and skill you must have shown on that field, especially for my son to have given you two a place amongst his guard.â
âIt is a great honour, your grace.â
You straightened slightly, aware suddenly of everything, your stance, your voice, the way you carried yourself in a room that was not built for people like you.
âThen I hope the both of you continue to prove yourselves worthy of it.â
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
Your first week in Kingâs Landing passed in a blur of stone corridors, unfamiliar faces, and the constant sense of being watched.
Each day seemed to begin earlier than the last. You were roused at dawn and expected in the yard before the sun had properly risen, where the master-at-arms wasted little time in putting both you and Duncan through your paces.
Sparring sent fresh aches through your ribs, your movements slower than they should have been while your wound still stubbornly healed, but you gave no sign of it. You would not allow yourself to show even a hint of weakness.Â
The master-at-arms himself was a hard, impassive man. He did not mock you as some of the others did, but that almost made it worse. There was something in the way he watched you, cool and distant, that spoke of quiet disapproval. As though Prince Baelor granting you the right to stand there was, in itself, an insult he was forced to endure.
The keep itself was another battle entirely. Its halls twisted in ways that still made little sense to you, and more than once you found yourself turned around, retracing your steps with growing irritation.
Servants passed like shadows, guards watched with quiet scrutiny, and courtiers when you strayed too near the more public spaces, looked at you with open curiosity, as though you were some strange token brought in from beyond the walls.
Word seemed to have spread. The Lady in Mail. Some spoke it with amusement, others with disdain.
Still, there were moments of ease.
Egg found you whenever he could, which often meant in the times he could steal away from his septa, his chatter a welcome distraction from the weight of everything else.
He had a way of appearing as though by accident, rounding corners at just the right moment, slipping into the yard when the others had begun to drift away, knocking at your door with an energy that felt entirely untouched by the weight of the place.
His chatter came easily, unburdened and bright, filling the spaces that might otherwise have been claimed by quieter, heavier thoughts.
Duncan, too, remained a steady presence, and you spent many of your evenings drifting between each otherâs rooms, talking as you had on the road. But even then, you began to notice the difference, how often he was called away, how his duties seemed to stretch longer than yours, as though the keep had already found more use for him than it quite knew what to do with you.
And Baelor⊠Baelor was as measured as ever. He did not hover, nor did he leave you entirely to fend for yourself. There were brief conversations, passing remarks as you stood at his guard that carried more meaning than they first seemed, and a reassuring smile that carried more weight for you than you think he appreciated.Â
Still, when Duncan had retreated to his own room, and there were no drills or duties left to occupy your thoughts, a quiet hollowness would settle in. It came unbidden, a restless ache for something you could not quite name, a sense of home you had not known in years, yet felt the absence of all the same.
It made the training yard something of a refuge.
Especially in the quieter hours, when the others had long since drifted away and the noise of the day had settled into evening stillness. More often than not, it was just you and Duncan left behind, the yard empty save for the soft scuff of boots against gravel and the dull ring of practice steel.
There, at least, things made sense.
You could lose yourself in the rhythm of it; the swing, the parry, the familiar weight of a blade in your hand. No watching eyes, no quiet judgments, no need to prove anything beyond the next strike. Just movement, breath, and the steady comfort of something you understood.
And for a little while, as dust rose around you and the light began to fade, the rest of it, the keep, the court, the feeling of being out of place, fell away.
âJust ten more minutes,â you pressed, a breath short of a plea.
You had been at it for hours, and it showed. Sweat clung to your skin, your muscles beginning to protest in quiet, insistent ways but you did not slow.
Duncan might have been allowed the occasional lapse, a missed step, a momentâs carelessness written off with little more than a laugh. You could not.
âYouâre going to kill me,â Duncan muttered, shifting his grip as he circled.
âOnly if you let me,â you replied, a hint of a grin tugging at your lips.
He huffed something that might have been a laugh, and then you were at it again.
Again the rhythm of steel on steel chorused once again, parry, strike, turn, recover. Duncan fought with strength and instinct and you answered with precision, turning his strikes aside, slipping just out of reach, forcing him to adjust, to think.
âSer Duncan.â
The voice cut cleanly through the clash of steel and you broke apart at once.
At the edge of the yard stood Crakehall, broad-shouldered and composed, as though he had been there some time already, watching. His gaze flicked once between you and Duncan, taking in the scene; the dust, the sweat, the state of you both.
âYou are needed in Prince Baelorâs quarters,â he said evenly. Then, after the briefest pause, â...Perhaps I can take over from here.â
Duncan stiffened as his grip shifted slightly on the hilt, and a flicker of hesitation crossed his face that he couldnât quite hide. For a heartbeat, he didnât answer. Instead, he looked at you as if in apology and then retreated into the keep. You watched him go reluctantly.
Silence settled in his wake.
For a moment, the two of you simply regarded one another across the torn yard, the last of the dust drifting between you, and then he stepped forward, taking his place before you.
Up close, there was something almost amused in his expression now, less judging than curiosity.
While he and Ser Donnel had remained polite while in the presence of their princes, you could see the laughter in their eyes whenever they regarded you. While Duncan may just be a hedgeknight, he was still a man and you were just a woman playing at one.
âWell,â he said, rolling one shoulder as though loosening it, âlet us see what sort of trouble Ser Duncan has found to occupy his time.â
He lifted his sword in an easy salute, casual, almost lazy. âDo try not to take it too poorly if this ends quickly.â
There it was, worn openly in the looseness of his stance, in the easy set of his shoulders, in the way his blade came up just a fraction too slow to be taken seriously. Crakehall did not think you a threat at all.
His underestimation was as natural to him as breathing.
And that was fine. It was familiar. You had lived in peopleâs expectations all your life, as just a vulnerable girl. Something lesser, something safe to them that they could play with.
It had kept you overlooked, and more importantly it had kept you alive.
So you let him believe the rhythm of the fight belonged to him. Let him think you were reacting, yielding, matching him instead of guiding him. Every step back measured, every deflection calculated, not to stop him but to shape him. To lead him.
You had learned early that strength alone was loud and obvious, easy to meet head-on.
Assumptions, though, were quiet and dangerous. And they cut deeper than any blade, if you knew how to utilise them.
Crakehall smiled handsomely as he came at you again, confidence unbroken, certain of the ground beneath his feet.Â
He did not rush. His first strike was clean and measured, the sort of probing blow a seasoned knight used to test a new opponent. You met it without strain, turning it aside with a precise movement of your wrist.
He followed with another, a touch faster. Then a third.
You yielded ground by inches, letting him set the pace, letting him believe he held it.
âNot bad,â he remarked, as your blades met again with a sharp ring. âYouâve got a neat hand. Ser Duncan must enjoy the exercise.â
Your answer was steel. Then you shifted, stepping inside his guard just enough to force him to adjust. He did, smoothly, but a flicker of surprise crossed his face at the speed of it.
He pressed a little harder then.
The next exchange carried more weight, more intent. His blade came down in a heavier arc, meant to test your strength outright. You caught it, but did not hold it, turning his force aside so it carried him a fraction off balance.
A fraction was just enough.
You stepped in.
He recovered quickly as expected, he was too experienced not to, but now you were closer than he expected, your strikes coming faster, tighter, forcing him to bring his blade up in earnest defense.
The easy amusement faded from his face.
Steel rang sharper now, quicker. He gave ground once, then held, meeting your flurry with solid blocks, his strength reasserting itself.
You did not let up.
A faint high drew his guard up, just enough.
You turned your wrist, blade flashing low instead, not to strike but to catch.
His sword jolted in his grip as you twisted, stepping past him in the same motion. For a heartbeat, you were at his side, your leverage perfect, his balance just a shade too far forward-
-and then his weapon tore free.
It spun once in the air before striking the dirt with a dull thud a few feet away. Silence followed it.
You had already stepped back, blade raised, point steady, aimed cleanly at his chest.
Crakehall stood still, hand empty, eyes fixed on you.
The dust settled slowly around his fallen sword as you tried not to let your satisfaction show too much on your face.Â
For a long moment, neither of you moved and then he let out a low breath; half laugh, half something else. The look on his face told the story of a man who had wagered all his money on a certain bet and came out short changed.Â
âWell perhaps his grace did see something in you.â He moved to pick up his sword. âBut tell me are there other talents of yours heâsâŠenjoyed?â
The accusation landed, crude and unvarnished, lodging itself like a final and desperate blow in your chest. Crakehallâs eyes dragged the length of you as he spoke, slow and deliberate, as if weighing something that had nothing to do with steel or skill. It made the words worse, gave them shape, made them linger all over you.Â
It shouldnât have surprised you. And yet it did.
You had heard whispers before, half-cut laughter in corridors, the murmur of servants and sworn swords who thought themselves unheard, the sideways looks that followed a beat too long. But never so plainly. Never thrown at you like that, as though it were fact instead of filth.
The heir to the throne had returned from Ashford and brought you with him. That alone was enough to start tongues wagging.
A prince does not pluck someone from the dust without reason, spare them from punishment and then keep them close. A prince does not place a young woman within his guard, no less, without men deciding they already know why.
In their minds, there was always only one explanation. Your jaw tightened, though you kept your face still.Â
The keep had not seen Ashford. They had not seen the chaos, the blood, the split-second choices that decided who walked away and who did not. They had not seen what you had done to earn that place and what it had cost.
But Crakehall had been there.
He had stood on that same tourney field. He had seen all of it. If any one of the kingsguard had the chance to understand, to see past rumors, past assumptions, it was him.
Still, he let the same easy conclusion settle in his mind, as if what he had witnessed counted for less than what was convenient to believe.
A flicker of something cold settled in your chest at the thought.
If a man who had seen it with his own eyes would reduce it to that, then what hope was there with the rest of them?
What chance did you have of proving anything at all, when the truth itself could be so easily ignored?
He watched you as the silence stretched, as if expecting something like anger, perhaps, or embarrassment. Some crack in the armor.
You gave him none. If anything, you felt the steadiness settle back into your limbs, the same cold focus that had guided your blade moments before.
Fine. Let him think it. Let them all think it.
You could endure the looks. The murmurs. The quiet, cutting judgments dressed up as courtly politeness. You had endured far worse.
But this was different, because it did not end with you.
Your thoughts turned, unbidden, to Prince Baelor. To the man who had given you more than you could have ever imagined for yourself.
But he had also put you in a difficult place. A place others were already eager to question, to undermine, to tear apart with nothing more than suggestion and suspicion.
Whispers had a way of spreading. Of growing teeth and even princes were not immune to them.
You could fight a man. You could meet steel with steel, prove yourself in the only language that never lied. But this? This was something else entirely.
You could not cross blades with rumor. You could not disarm it, could not force it to yield. All you could do was withstand it and hope it did not take root.
Hope that Baelor saw you as you were and not as they painted you. That he remembered Ashford as you did. That he weighed what you had done, what you had risked, against the idle poison of court talk.
That he would not decide it was easier to let you go than to defend you.
You had not asked for his favor. Had not sought his notice. But now that you had it⊠the thought of losing it to something so small, so baseless, sat ill with you; both in the fact that you were afraid to lose it and that you wanted it at all.
Your grip shifted slightly on the hilt, easy, controlled.
âIs that what you tell yourself,â you said at last, voice level, âwhen someone bests you?â
It was a small thing, the words, but sharp enough.Â
Crakehallâs expression flickered and this time, when he looked at you, it was not with amusement.
From the balcony above, the yard lay spread out beneath Prince Maekar in pale stone and drifting dust, the sounds of steel carrying cleanly upward, sharp, measured, unmistakable.
Voices did not.
Whatever passed between you and Crakehall after the bout was lost to distance, swallowed by the open air. Maekar caught only fragments, tone without words, the rise and fall of something too quiet to grasp.
But he saw enough.
He had watched the fight from the moment it began to when it ended, thought he couldnât quite admit to himself why.Â
Not the way his attention had fixed too sharply, not the way each strike had felt almost personal. As if every blow you took, and gave, had struck somewhere beneath his own ribs.
He told himself he had only entered the yard to find Aegon. That was reason enough. He was often there, lingering at the edges while you and Duncan trained, happy just to watch.
But Aegon had long since been forgotten.
He saw the shift, the moment Crakehall stopped treating it as sport. Saw the way you moved, not merely quick but deliberate, each step placed with intent, each motion economical where Crakehallâs was broad and forceful.
And thenâ
The turn.
It was clean. Too clean.
Crakehallâs blade wrenched free of his grasp and struck the ground below, a dull note against the sharper ring of steel that had preceded it. You stood already clear of him, your own sword raised, point steady at his chest.
Maekar did not move.
Below, the yard seemed to still around you both. A Kingsguard, disarmed.
Not by chance, not by trickery, but by skill.
His gaze sharpened, fixing on you now with something far more intent than passing interest.
Crakehall bent, retrieved his sword. There were words exchanged then, he could see that much. The angle of Crakehallâs head, the slight shift in your stance. Something passed between you.
And then he saw it. Subtle, perhaps, to anyone not looking for it, but Maekar was. The change in you.
It was there in the way your shoulders lost a measure of their tension, not relaxation, but something closer to withdrawal. The line of your posture, which had been all edge and readiness moments before, seemed to draw inward, as though bracing against something unseen.
Something had struck.Â
Crakehall straightened, saying something further. Maekar could not hear it, but he did not need to.
He saw where Crakehallâs gaze lingered. Saw the faint shift in your expression, however controlled.
Saw enough.
Maekarâs jaw tightened, just slightly.
Below, the distance between you and the Kingsguard remained, but the nature of it had changed. The fight was over, but something else had taken its place, quieter, less visible, and perhaps more telling.
He rested his hands against the cold stone of the balcony, violet eyes never leaving you.
That image of you, blade steady, breath measured, something in you dimming after victory instead of brightening, lodged itself firmly in Maekarâs mind.
It followed him from the yard and it sat stubbornly with him at the dining table that evening.
Torches burned low along the walls, their light catching on polished wood. Servants moved carefully, as if wary of disturbing something unseen.
Aerion lounged to Maekarâs right, a goblet turning idly between his fingers. Across from them, Egg sat straighter, smaller, his eyes moving between them both, as though trying to read a room that refused to speak.
No one said much.
Daeronâs seat sat empty, as it so often did, he was likely drunk in some corner of the castle or the city beyond it, and Maekar had long since stopped wasting breath trying to drag him back to the table.
He ate without noticing the taste, his thoughts still caught in the yard, in the turn of your wrist, the clean disarm, the moment after. The way you had stood, victorious and yet somehow diminished, as if the fight had cost you something no one else could see.
âI hear the castle is already alive with talk of the Lady in Mail,â Aerion said idly, turning his cup between his fingers. âEven if she has been⊠conveniently kept from court.â Aerion let out a quiet, humorless breath, leaning back in his chair. âI give it a fortnight,â he said, almost idly. âBefore sheâs gone, one way or another.â
Maekar did not look up, but across from him, Egg stilled, his attention snapping sharply to his brother, a frown already forming.
Aerion continued, as if musing to himself, âOf course, perhaps sheâs better suited to whatever slum she was pulled from.â
âShut up broth-.â Aegon started, though Aerion did not so much as glance at him.
âIf you have something to say,â Maekar cut in sharply, his tone like a blade striking stone, âsay it plainly or donât say it at all.â His eyes fixed on Aerion now, hard and unyielding, whatever patience he possessed already worn to its edge.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Aerionâs face.
âVery well,â he said, setting his goblet down. âShe should never have set foot in the capital. The fact that sheâs been taken into our service is a jest and worse, a stain on our honour.â
Maekar set his cup down with deliberate care.
âYours,â Aerion went on, turning his gaze fully to Maekar now, âand mine, Father. She should have been left on that tourney field where she belonged. We are the blood of the dragon.â His lip curled faintly. âWhat does it say of us, that we must rely on some whore-â
âEnough.â
The word did not come softly.
Maekarâs hand struck the table with a crack that echoed through the room, hard enough to send his cup jolting, wine spilling dark across the wood. The sound cut through everything through Aerionâs voice, through Eggâs protest, through the quiet murmur of the room beyond.
Maekar rose slowly from his seat.
When he looked at Aerion, there was no restraint left in his expression now, only something cold, hard, and absolute.
âShe showed more honor on that field,â he said, each word measured and cutting, âthan you have in your entire sorry existence, boy.â
Egg couldnât help the gleeful satisfaction that crossed his face after his shock had passed, that his father of all people was defending you. The thought settled warm and bright in his chest despite his effort to hide it.
The silence returned now, but it had changed.
And though your name was not spoken again, your presence lingered there all the same.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
The road had always been quiet at night, but there was something in the stillness in the keep after dark that felt more pressing. Every distant footstep, every murmur through stone walls seemed to carry further, as though the castle itself listened.Â
You lay staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the stone above, still dressed for the day.
It would be easy to leave. The thought came without warning, settling into place with unsettling ease.
Easier than this. Easier for Baelor. He had given you this place in his guard and what had he received except slander?Â
Even as the thought came, you cursed it. Here you were, probably someone he never thought of beyond duty and you were losing sleep over his reputation, as if it were something else you needed to protect. As though it mattered to you at all.
Perhaps you were only making excuses for yourself.
It wouldnât just be easier for him, but for you too. Being on your own meant, you had no one to prove yourself to, no one to follow except your own whims and the open road.
You had left places before and walked away with less than you have now. You knew how to disappear, how to slip from one place to the next until even memory lost its hold. It should have felt the same but it didnât, because something about this time was different.
And you knew, even as the thought lingered, that this time, it would not be so easy to forget what you were leaving behind. And who.
A knock broke the stillness.
Sharp. Quick. Out of place at this hour.
For a moment, you did not move, listening as the sound echoed faintly through the wood before settling back into silence. Then it came again, more insistent this time.
âItâs me,â came the hushed reply. âOpen the door.â
Egg.
You frowned slightly, rising and crossing the room in a few quiet steps. When you pulled the door open, it was not quite the sight you expected.
He stood there half-swallowed in a roughspun cloak several sizes too large for him, the hood drawn low over his head. It did little to disguise him, not to anyone looking closely, but it was enough, perhaps, in poor light and passing glances. It brought you back to how he looked exactly as he had done in Ashford, just a boy who was unburdened by his name.
For a moment, you simply looked at him. âWhy are you wearingâŠ?â You asked.
âThereâs no time, thereâs been orders for you, come!â
You didnât move at once, but he was already turning, already moving down the corridor as though certain you would follow.
âEggââ you started, but he didnât stop.
By the time you had dragged on your boots, snatched up your dagger, and thrown your cloak over your shoulders, he was halfway down the passage, glancing back only to make sure you were coming.
You caught up quickly, your frown deepening and brow furrowing. âAt this hour?â
He nodded quickly. âOrders.â
âFrom who?â
There was the briefest pause.
âFrom Baelor,â he said, a touch too fast, fishing his gaze on the corridor in front and nowhere near you.
âDid he,â you said flatly.
âYes,â Egg insisted, shifting slightly under your scrutiny. âHe did.â He met your gaze with all the earnestness he could muster. It was not very convincing.
Then he pressed on, tugging the cloak tighter around himself, already moving again as though momentum alone might carry you both past the question. Silence stretched.
You could see it then, the barely contained anticipation, the way he leaned forward just a fraction, as though already halfway wherever he wanted to be in his mind. Whatever this was, it was not duty.
It was mischief. You should have refused. It would have been the sensible thing. The responsible thing. The sort of decision expected of someone placed in a princeâs guard.
Instead, your gaze flicked once more over his ridiculous cloak⊠and something in you loosened.
You exhaled softly.
âIf this is a lie,â you said, turning slightly to face him as you walked, âit is a poor one.â
Egg kept his pace brisk. âWell you could go back to your room, and leave me to itâŠâ
âWell,â you returned evenly, âI could also go straight to your father.â
That stopped him.
For a heartbeat, he froze, the weight of that threat settling visibly. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he were trying to decide whether you might actually do it.
âYou wouldnât,â he said at last, though there was less certainty in it now.
You said nothing as he shifted under your gaze, tugging his cloak tighter around himself as though it might somehow protect him from the implication alone.
Then, softer this time-
âSo youâll come?â he asked, peering at you from beneath the shadow of the hood, his eyes wide, hopeful in a way that made it difficult to refuse outright.
There was something earnest in it, despite the lie. Something boyish.
You held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, letting the silence stretch just enough to make him wonder, then you sighed, the sound quiet but decisive. It was difficult to refuse him, though you knew more often than not, a prince was better served by hearing no.
âThat depends,â you said, fastening your cloak, âon whether your plan involves more than running headlong into trouble.â
Egg straightened immediately, eagerness returning in full force. âIt does,â he said quickly.
You gave him a look.
He hesitated, then amended, just slightly, âMostly.â
That, somehow, was worse, but not enough to stop you.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
By the time you and Egg pushed through the door of the tavern, you were already planning your exit.
Men crowded shoulder to shoulder around rough-hewn tables, their voices loud and unguarded, rising over one another in a constant, restless din. Tankards struck wood with dull force, laughter broke sharp and sudden, and somewhere near the hearth a pair of men argued openly, their words slurred but their anger clear enough.
A loose circle had already begun to form around them, not intervening and not stopping it, only watching with idle interest as though waiting for it to become something worth remembering.
The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and spilled ale.
You did not step far inside.
Instinct alone kept you near the door, your gaze already moving, already measuring the distance, exits, hands, tempers. Who was watching? Who wasnât.
There were too many bodies and too little space.
A place like this could turn in a heartbeat, and when it did, there would be nowhere to go.
The both of you had escaped the keep through a smaller postern gate set into the outer wall, half-concealed and little used. A single guard lingered nearby, more occupied with the slow passage of the night than his duty.
Apparently Egg had used this way once before, when his brother had sneaked him out into the city, though from the way he had mentioned it, it didnât sound like a night of fun.
The city had closed in quickly beyond the walls, narrow passages twisting into one another, shadows clinging thick between leaning buildings, our anxiousness pressed as close as the bodies that brushed you. The freedom you had imagined for a couple of hours had lasted all of a moment before something tighter had taken its place.
What had you been thinking?Â
âWe shouldnât be here,â you muttered under your breath, shifting just enough to place yourself between Egg and the rest of the room, your body angled to obscure him from wandering eyes.  Â
Egg made a face at the brown liquid in his cup, turning it slightly as though it might improve on inspection. âWell,â he said, resigned more than anything, âweâre here now.â He took a half-hearted sip, grimaced, then glanced back at you watching you watching the room. âI know youâre thinking about leavingâŠyouâve been different all weekâ
You didnât quite meet his eyes, your jaw tightening as you looked past him instead. The noise of the tavern still roared around you, but it felt distant now, dulled beneath the weight of your thoughts. You didnât want to lie to him so you said nothing at all.
âWeâre to return to Summerhall,â Egg continued. âFatherâs ordered it. Me, Aerion⊠Daeron too, when they can find him sober enough to sit a horse.âÂ
Your eyes met his face now just to discover it had lost any of the brightness of daringness as it had when you escaped the keep.Â
âWell then I have even less reason to stay.â You said after a beat, lifting your cup. The ale burned slightly as you swallowed, but you barely noticed.
âYou have every reason to, for Baelor.â
âBaelor is half the reason I should be leaving, I donât belong here and Iâm not sure I want to.â
âBut you belong with me, and Duncan.â He replied, softer this time. Not arguing, just stating it, as though it should be enough on its own.
You opened your mouth to answer and found you had nothing. No sharp remarks. No easy dismissal. No argument you could offer that didnât sound thin the moment you tried to shape it.
Your gaze dropped instead, settling somewhere on the worn edge of the table, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup.
âHow come you didnât ask Duncan to go with you tonight?â You asked instead, grateful for the shift, for something lighter to hold onto.
âHe never wouldâve said yes.â
âNo,â you agreed quietly, a faint hint of amusement touching your tone. âHe wouldnât.â
You didnât stay long after that.Â
When you stepped back out into the street, the air felt sharper and neither of you spoke, heavy with the words you exchanged in the inn.Â
The streets beyond the gate were narrower than you remembered from your arrival, the dark swallowing what little space there was between leaning buildings. Lantern light flickered weakly from doorways and windows, casting more shadow than illumination. People moved through it all in a steady restless current, quieter now than in daylight, but no less present.
It was different on foot. There was no distance now. No height of a saddle to soften the view like when you had first arrived a week ago.
You felt it in the press of bodies as you passed, in the way shoulders brushed too close, in the low murmur of voices that never quite stopped. The smells were stronger too, rot and refuse, smoke and something sour beneath it all that clung to the back of your throat.
You had only turned a few corners when you heard it. A manâs voice, low and insistent.
ââŠdonât be like thatââ
You turned before you fully registered why.
The alley was narrow, half-swallowed in shadow. A single lantern cast just enough light to make out the shapes within.
You faintly recognised one of the serving girls from the tavern, her back was pressed to the wall, shoulders drawn tight, as though she could make herself smaller by force of will alone.
The man in front of her had one hand braced beside her head, leaning in too close, his voice thick with drink and something uglier beneath it.
She tried to push past him but he caught her arm, and you were already moving.
âLet her go.â
The words were quiet, but they carried.
The man turned, irritation flashing across his face. âAnd whoââ
You didnât let him finish.
The dagger was in your hand before he could blink, drawn clean and held low, the edge catching what little light there was.
You stepped into the alley, closing the distance just enough.
âLet her go,â you repeated.
Something in your tone, flat, certain, utterly without hesitation, cut through his bravado faster than the blade itself.
He hesitated as you tilted the dagger slightly, not as a threat thrown wildly but as a promise.
Slowly, his grip loosened and the girl pulled free at once, stumbling back a step, her breath quick and uneven as she disappeared through the dark.
The man straightened, muttering something under his breath, but he was already stepping away. âNot worth it,â he said, louder now, as if to reclaim something of himself as he retreated.
You did the same, your hand settling firmly on Eggâs shoulder as you steered him back toward the keep, guiding him ahead of you without breaking stride, your other hand still resting on the hilt of your dagger.
For her, it had not been anything unusual, just another moment to be endured and forgotten, folded into the rest of them.
You knew those moments. Knew the quiet calculation, the way you learned to measure a man at a glance, to decide when to stand your ground and when to slip away. The road had taught you that much, if nothing else.
But even then, it had come in stretches. Days of open sky and empty paths, where the only danger was distance and the only sound of your own footsteps. You could go miles, days even, without seeing another soul.
Here, there was no such mercy. The danger did not come and go, instead it lingered.
It waited in doorways, in narrow alleys, in the spaces between one breath and the next. It pressed close, constant and inescapable, woven into the lives of women who had no choice but to endure it, again and again, without pause.
And unlike you, they could not simply walk away.
You could leave.
The thought returned, but it no longer sat as easily as it had before.
Because leaving would not simply mean escaping the whispers, or the watching eyes, or the quiet judgment that followed you through the keep.
It would mean turning your back on this, on people who did not have that choice.
On people who had no road to take and no quiet stretch of sky to disappear into. No choice at all.
People who could not step away when the night closed in too tight, or when a man decided they were his to corner, to claim, to wear down simply because he could.
Your jaw tightened slightly.
You had spent so long surviving by moving on, by never staying long enough for anything to take root. It had always been your strength, that you could leave when things grew too dangerous, too complicated, too heavy.
But now for the first time, it felt uncomfortably close to something else.
Not freedom but something more like abandonment.
Egg didnât say much of the encounter aloud and neither did you. The city clung to you as you left it behind; the smells, the sounds, the faces. It followed you through the gates, through the winding corridors, all the way until the heavy stone walls closed in once more and the world narrowed back to torchlight and echoing steps.
You made sure Egg reached his chambers, and the both of you seemed relieved of the fact.
He lingered at the door a moment, as though he had something more to say.
âYouâre not leaving,â he said finally.
It wasnât quite a question, and you held his gaze for a beat.
âGet some sleep,â you said gently, reaching up to pull the hood of his cloak back from his head, the gesture soft with quiet affection.
He slipped inside, the door closing softly behind him with a muted click.
For a moment, you simply stood there in the corridor, listening as the faint sounds of movement within faded, until even that disappeared. The keep settled around you once more, stone and silence, distant footsteps echoing somewhere far off.
But it felt different now. Quieter, yes, but not empty. Not in the same way.
You turned at last, setting off down the corridor toward your own chambers, your steps quieter now, measured against the hush that had settled over the keep. Your thoughts lingered elsewhere, on Eggâs words, on the girl, and on the weight of it all, so much so that you did not hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late.
You rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into him.
You halted sharply, breath catching for the briefest moment as you stepped back.
âYour Graceââ
Prince Baelor steadied himself just as quickly, one hand lifting slightly as though to catch you, though he stopped short of touching you. The motion lingered a fraction before he let it fall.
âMy lady,â he replied, his voice low, touched with mild surprise rather than reprimand.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Up close, he looked much as he always did, composed and measured, but there was more of a softness to him at this hour, something less guarded than in the light of day. He was not dressed for court, his attire simpler, though still of fine make, the weight of his station carried even in ease.
And there, beneath it all, was a quiet weariness. It showed in the slight heaviness about his eyes, in the way his shoulders held just a fraction lower than they did by day, as though the duty he carried had settled more honestly on him in the solitude of night.
âYouâve been out.â he added, studying you a moment more closely now. His gaze flicked briefly to your cloak, to the slight disarray of it, before returning to your face.
You inclined your head. âYes.â
A small awkwardness settled in you then, unfamiliar and faintly unwelcome. It was easier to stand before him with a blade in hand than like this, searching for words that did not come as readily.
âDo you go much?â you asked. âInto the city?â
âNot as often as I should,â he admitted.
The honesty caught you off guard.Â
âItâs easy not to,â you said.
âIt is,â he agreed.
There was no defensiveness in it. No attempt to soften the truth or turn it aside.
Your eyes met his then, and lingered. A moment too long, perhaps.
âThey donât expect anything to change,â you said after a moment. âThe people there, they barely react to it,â you went on, frowning slightly. âAs if⊠as if itâs already decided.â
Baelor watched you closely now. âThat kind of life rarely allows for much expectation,â he said.
You shook your head faintly. âIt shouldnât be like that.â
âNo,â he said again, quieter this time.
You hesitated, then pressed, a little more boldly. âBut it could be different.â His brow lifted slightly, not dismissive, just curious.
âHow?â he asked. The question came without an edge, but it still made you pause.
âThereâs enough, isnât there?â you said. âIn the city. In the realm. Food, coin, resources.â Your voice steadied as you went on. âIf it were⊠better given. Better managed.â
Baelor was quiet for a moment.
âPerhaps,â he said.
It wasn't an agreement. Not quite. You caught it.
âYou donât think so.â
âI think,â he said carefully, âthat things are rarely as simple as they appear from the outside.â
A flicker of frustration touched your expression, quick and unguarded. âAnd from the inside?â you asked.
âMore complicated,â he said, with the faintest hint of something dry.
You exhaled softly through your nose. âThat sounds like an excuse.â
The words slipped out, and this time, you felt it the moment they did. The weight of them and the impropriety.
You straightened slightly. âIââ A small pause. âForgive me. That wasâŠ.â
Baelor regarded you for a moment and then, to your quiet astonishment, something softened. Something like restrained amusement flickering at the edge of his expression.
âIt was honest,â he said. A beat. âAnd not entirely untrue.â
That eased something, just slightly. Still, you held his gaze, more careful now.
âI didnât meanââ
âI know what you meant,â he said gently.
The way he said it, without censure and without distance, made it difficult to look away, so you didnât. Silence settled again, but it felt different now. Less fragile and more deliberate.
âIt can be,â he continued. âAn excuse. In the wrong hands.â
You nodded once, slower now.
A pause lingered, and then, before you could stop yourselfââWhen youâre king,â you said, âwill it still be complicated?â
His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable for a moment longer than comfort allowed, as though he were measuring not just the question, but you.
There was no offense in it, only weight.
âWhen I am king,â he said at last, his voice quieter now, âit will still be complicated.â
Something in your chest sank just slightly, but he hadnât finished.
âBut that does not mean it must remain unchanged.â
You regarded each other thoughtfully then, and then without knowing quite why you said-
âI thought about leaving,â
âIâd be surprised if you hadnât,â he replied, moving his hands to intertwine at his back.
âAt first, it was because of them,â you said. âThe rumours.â
Even now, you did not name them directly, but you did not need to.
Something in his expression stilled, the softness there giving way to something more intent, not anger not quite, but a quiet displeasure at something he could not openly address.
âAnd now?â
You hesitated.
âNow it feels⊠small.â
Baelor was very still now.
âI do not place people in my service lightly,â Baelor said. His voice had changed, not raised, not sharpened but steadier now, firmer beneath the quiet. âIf I must answer for that,â he continued, âthen I will.â
The words landed with a weight you had not expected. âThat is not a burden I consider yours to carry alone.â
The words lingered between you, and then something shifted.
Not in the space, but in the quiet way he looked at you now, less prince and for a moment and more simply a man who had chosen to listen.
âIf this place becomes⊠difficult,â he said, measured but gentler than before, âyou may come to me,â he finished. âFor anything.â
You stilled slightly, caught off guard by it.
Not the offer itself, but the way it was given. Without expectation and without condition.
The words were neither grand nor spoken loudly, but they settled with more weight than any promise of titles or position. And he spoke as though, for that brief space of time, nothing else in the keep demanded his attention.
âThank you, your grace.â you said at last, though the words came quieter than you intended.
They lingered between you for a moment, soft and unguarded in a way that felt at odds with everything the keep demanded of you.
Instead, he held your gaze, and something in his expression eased, just slightly. Not the careful composure he wore by day, but something warmer, quieter. A small smile followed, unforced and fleeting, but no less real for it.
You inclined your head, if only to give yourself a reason to break the moment, and stepped past him, close enough to feel the faint warmth of him as you passed. âMy prince.â Â
Your steps carried you down the corridor, steady now, the soft echo of them folding into the silence of the keep. Behind you, the moment settled into memory.
And this time, the weight of the night and the keep did not follow quite so closely behind.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
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