Knowing that Eridians have much longer lifespans, and also he can't be at every school on the planet at once, Ryland Grace decides to record a bunch of entertaining science lessons with Rocky's help.
Hundreds of years later, Eridian kids still get excited when the substitute teacher rolls in the 3D shape projector, because they know they're in for an episode of Friend Grace the Science Ace.
summary: the trial of seven has ended, and now you had to face the consequences and the scrutiny of the targaryen princes
content: slow burn, love triangle, knight reader, found family, age gap, panic attack warning
note: i’m so sorry i’m finishing this so late…i found this part quite difficult to write but i hope you enjoy it anyways, tho beware it is quiye slow and more of a filler. ALSO ty for all the love on the last part, i really didn’t expect it and it means so much that you guys would enjoy my writing
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was hard to tell the real voices from the ones in your dreams. Though your father’s voice was the clearest of them all, calm and steady, exactly as you remembered.
At least, you thought they were dreams.
The dead didn’t tend to speak to the living, or so you believed.
You reached desperately for the voices that brushed your ears rather than the ones that echoed in your head, but every time you did, the pain dragged you mercilessly back under.
In between the bouts of darkness, everything came in fragments: bursts of harsh white light, a bitter chalky taste coating your tongue, hands prodding and poking at you incessantly.
“…The puncture… avoided any organs but she’s lost so much… only the gods…” A voice floated somewhere above you.
The pain, though, was constant. It shuddered through you like a cold sweat, leaving you clawing for any semblance of warmth before the dark swallowed you again.
Then one voice swam softly through the haze, more tangible than the others before.
“Thank you maester, please ensure she has whatever she needs and that I might be summoned when…or if she wakes.”
Anger now tangled with the confusion. You wanted to shout, to tell them you were still here, still breathing but your tongue felt leaden, your eyelids heavier than stone. The words died before they could ever leave your lips.
Mercifully when you woke again there was no longer any burning bright light or painful poking, but there were no longer any voices either.
The room was dim, lit only by the waning fire beyond the bed where you lay. The scent of crushed herbs and fresh linen reached your nose, threaded faintly with sweat.
Lifting your head, even just a little, felt like it drained every ounce of strength, and just brought your attention sharply back to the dull, heavy throb in your side. Though you were almost grateful for the pain, as it served as a reminder that you were alive.
For a long time you remained still, the only measure of time passing being marked by your uneven breaths.
Though the world was clearer to you now, your memories were not. They came to you like ripples in water, fading before you could even quite figure out what they were.
The ringing of steel.
A chilling warmth.
The taste of salted iron.
Two pairs of Targaryen eyes.
Then it all rushed over you at once and suddenly you had to get up, had to move, had to find answers. Had to get out of wherever the hell you were.
Your arms felt weak, your fingers clumsy and heavy but you managed to sit up. A brush of cool air hit your legs as you weakly dragged the bedsheets off.
Your gaze drifted downward.
Linen was wrapped tightly around your middle, thick and firm beneath an unfamiliar cotton nightdress. You frowned faintly at the sight of it. The bandages looked heavy, deliberate.
Strangely, you could not remember the moment the blade had cut you, his blade.
Only the battle before it. The chaos. The noise. And the prince that stood over you.
The pain must have come later.
Perhaps that was a mercy.
Getting to your feet proved even harder. You swung your legs slowly over the side of the bed, your muscles trembling with the effort. For a moment you simply sat there, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
Then, gathering what strength you could, you pushed yourself upright.
The moment your weight settled on your legs, they nearly buckled beneath you.
You caught the bedpost just in time, gripping the wood tightly as your vision blurred. Your knees trembled violently, threatening to give way as your body protested against the sudden movement.
For a moment you could only cling there, breathing hard, willing the weakness to pass.
It did give you enough time to search the room for something familiar but there was nothing to be found. Your pack, armour and sword…all gone.
It spurred you onwards towards the door, panic more than sense taking over now.
The corridor beyond was gloomy and silent. You pressed close to the wall, using it to steady yourself as you forced your legs to keep moving. A chill seeped through your bare feet and along your arms where they brushed the stone, sending a slow shiver crawling over your skin.
It stretched dauntingly ahead of you, as did the realisation that this was Ashford castle, and you had been put here, and kept here?
Fear crept in with the chill now.
You had played the Targaryens, and most men on that tourney field for fools. Were they keeping you alive and close now just to see you punished?
Perhaps you could’ve waited in that room, waiting on their whim for when you’d learn of what they decided to do with you, but patience has never been one of your virtues.
Around two corners and down a set of stairs, and at the end of it the deep murmur of voices finally found you.
You shuffled along steadily, fighting the way the world tilted and swam around you. Everything still felt distant, unreal, as though you were watching it all unfold from somewhere just outside yourself.
What had first been a low murmur slowly separated into distinct words and steady voices. They spoke quietly, but there was a weight to their tones that was measured, deliberate, the sort of authority that carried even when kept low.
These were not servants speaking in the hall.
You slowed to a stop, catching yourself against the wall as a wave of dizziness passed through you. The cold stone steadied you somewhat, rough beneath your palm.
For a moment you simply stood there, listening.
A bitter thought crept in despite yourself. The last time you had lingered in these corridors, listening where you ought not to, it had been with far lighter consequences in mind. Then it had felt almost like a dare, another small risk taken in the shadow of the tourney at Ashford Castle.
Now it felt very different.
For one thing, Duncan’s voice was now achingly absent among these ones.
“...you have been a most gracious host my Lord,” a soft voice said. “I regret however, that our presence has given the singers a story of Ashford they will not let die soon.”
“It has been my honour your grace, you are welcome to its halls for as long as you wish.” Another replied eagerly.
“I thank you, but we will be on our return to King’s Landing as soon as my nephew is stable enough for the journey.”
There was a small shift among the men, the faint rustle of movement.
“And the girl?” A different man spoke.
“Your Grace, if I may, she entered the trial in disguise. A woman is no knight. By law alone the trial could be considered invalid. It would be well within your rights to see her punished.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and you with it.
Then another voice spoke, thoughtful, but cautious. “...perhaps she was sent by the gods as an instrument of divine will.”
“Divine fucking will.” Another scoffed.
You pictured the silver hair and beard that belonged to the speaker, as well as the scowl that matched it.
It was hard not to share the sentiment though, these men might do anything to reconcile with the idea of a woman holding a sword.
“Her courage is more important than custom. She fought with honour just as any man on that field” The first voice returned. “I believe we should set this matter to rest.”
Silence settled thickly in the room, the kind that comes when men must accept a prince’s judgment whether they wished to or not.
“Very well, Your Grace,” another man said at last.
For a moment you stayed where you were, leaning against the cold stone wall, letting the tension slowly drain from your body. Relief came cautiously, like something you hardly trusted, as the words settled heavily in your mind.
‘Set the matter to rest.’
Then fatally, the corridor started to sway again.
You pushed yourself away from the wall before the dizziness could swallow you again, forcing your feet to move.
One corner. Then another. Each step felt heavier than the last. The dull ache in your side stirred with every movement, the pain gradually sharpening as though it had been waiting patiently for you to forget it.
The voices soon faded into the walls you left behind.
The castle seemed strangely distant now, the corridors stretching longer than they had before, the torchlight flickering in soft distracting halos along the walls. Your hand drifted back to the stone for balance more than once as the world threatened to tilt beneath you.
By the time you reached the half familiar hallway leading back to your chamber, you knew you were close to fainting. The door however stood just achingly ahead, slightly ajar, the dim glow of the fire inside spilling welcomingly into the corridor.
Only minutes ago the bed had felt like a prison you were desperate to escape, now it was the only refuge your body wanted.
Almost there.
You took one step toward the bed. Then another.
Your hand reached for the bedpost, but the distance was treacherously farther than it had seemed. The strength left your legs all at once, as though someone had cut the strings holding you upright.
Then the floorboards rushed up to meet you, the impact sending a sharp burst of pain through your side that stole the breath from your lungs.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the floor, but your arms refused to lift you. And then the weight of exhaustion settled over you like a heavy cloak, dragging you downward no matter how hard you tried to fight it.
The fire continued to crackle faintly in the hearth somewhere beyond your blurred vision.
You let out a slow, unsteady breath, and the room returned quietly back into blackness.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Something was shaking you. Relentlessly.
You tried to ignore it, tried to sink back into the soft, painless dark where nothing hurt and nothing demanded anything of you. But the shaking came again, more insistent this time, tugging at you to return to the world.
Your eyelids fluttered open weakly. The world beyond them was thick and slow when it finally crept into view, shapes swimming and blurring like reflections in disturbed water.
“Please… wake up.”
The voice was small, tight with worry. It was one you had heard before.
You blinked, forcing your eyes to focus.
A round familiar face hovered above you, framed by the dim light of the chamber. The owner’s violet eyes wide with anxious relief.
“Egg?” The name left your cracked lips as little more than a rasp.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, as though he scarcely believed you were awake at all.
Then he moved all at once.
His small arms wrapped suddenly around your neck, nearly knocking the breath from you. The sudden pressure made you wince, as pain flared sharply through your ribs, but you lifted your arms anyway, gladly returning the embrace as best you could.
Funny, you thought, how someone you had known only a handful of days could already feel so familiar.
And for the first time since waking, the room felt a little less strange.
Egg pulled back just enough to look at you again, his expression a strange mixture of relief and lingering panic.
“I thought for a second you might—” He stopped himself, swallowing the rest of the words. His brows furrowed as he glanced down at you. “But why are you on the floor?”
You managed a weak breath that might have been a laugh. “I fell… I suppose I overestimated my strength.”
Egg immediately scrambled to his feet, letting you use his body to hoist yourself up. “Here let me help you.” For someone so small, he held you with surprising determination.
Your fingers tightened slightly on his sleeve, your first question begging to be answered. “Is Duncan alright?”
Egg nodded quickly. “Yes well, I think he’s faring a little better than you are, but…Lord Harding was taken in the first charge.”
The brief relief that had begun to settle in your chest faltered. Your gaze dropped for a moment as the words sank in. You had known someone must have fallen, trials of seven rarely ended cleanly, but knowing it and hearing the name were two very different things.
“Lord Harding…” you repeated quietly.
Your mind drifted back to the field, the dust rising beneath trampling feet, the shouting, the brutal ring of steel on steel. Faces had blurred in the chaos, men moving and falling faster than thought could keep pace. And yet you had fought beside him, shoulder to shoulder, without ever having spoken a single word to the man.
Egg’s expression dimmed as well, the moment of brightness fading just as quickly as it had come. He glanced toward the door before lowering his voice.
“I heard the lords speaking. My father too. They said you could be tried for it—for the disguise. For pretending to be a knight.” He swallowed. “They said you could be imprisoned.”
He climbed onto the edge of the bed beside you, sitting stiffly, his hands twisting together in his lap.
“I begged him to spare you,” he continued in a hurried rush. “I told him I commanded you to fight, that you couldn’t refuse a prince. I thought… maybe that would help.” His words stumbled over each other. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up at you again, urgency returning all at once. “There’s still time,” he said quickly. “You could leave. I know where your sword is—it’s in my uncle’s—”.
“It’s okay, Egg,” you murmured, your voice still thin with exhaustion. Slowly, haltingly, you told him what you had heard in the corridor, or what little of it you could piece together through the haze of pain and dizziness.
Egg listened closely, the tension in his shoulders easing little by little as you spoke.
“Well he does owe you.” A boyish grin tugged at his mouth. “Your fight with my father, it was incredible. I wish you could’ve seen the look on his face afterwards, I’ve never seen him that way.”
Before you could respond, Egg hopped off the bed, excitement overtaking him completely. “The way you evaded his attacks…
He delved into an enthusiastic performance, eyes bright as he darted about the chamber swinging his imaginary sword through the air. He ducked suddenly to one side, then the other, twisting his body as if avoiding a rain of blows from an unseen opponent.
“And then Father came at you again, like this!” he said, lunging forward with surprising ferocity.
“But you blocked it!” he continued, “Everyone thought he had you, but you just—” he slashed the air again, nearly knocking over a stool, “—turned it on him.”
You watched him in tender silence, leaning weakly against the bed, the pain in your side briefly forgotten as the young prince hopped and spun about the chamber with earnest determination.
And then you noticed the figure in the doorway.
He stood just beyond the threshold, tall and still. There was the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth, as though he had arrived in time to witness the end of Egg’s enthusiastic performance.
His gaze moved past Egg and settled on you.
For a brief moment the two of you simply looked at one another across the room, the air settling into a quiet stillness. There was something searching in his expression, as though he were measuring you again, now that the dust of the trial had settled.
Baelor Targaryen stepped further into the room, the firelight catching the silver strands in his dark hair. His gaze lingered briefly on the bulge of bandages at your side before returning to your face. Suddenly you wondered whether the sore gash across your cheek really looked as bad as it felt.
“I am glad to see you have survived your victory, Ser.”
Egg turned toward his uncle, the bravado of his swordplay vanishing at once. For a moment he looked very small again, far younger than he had a heartbeat ago. “I’m sorry, your grace I-.”
“It’s quite all right,” Baelor said gently. “Though I suspect your father might remember the scene rather differently.”
He offered a faint smile, but it lingered unanswered in the quiet of the room. “If you would leave us now please Aegon.”
“Of course, your grace.” Egg answered. He turned back to you before going, offering one last anxious smile, as if to reassure himself you were truly awake. Then he slipped out into the corridor, the door closing softly behind him.
Suddenly you were acutely aware of yourself, of the rough linen sheets, of the ache beneath your ribs, of the cool air against skin that was far too bare. You tugged the covers higher, clutching them instinctively to your chest as though they might serve as armor.
Across the room, he regarded you quietly, his long fingers idly turning the ring on his hand.
“Egg kept vigil beyond your door,” Baelor said. “He would not depart his post all the while you were asleep, insisting upon standing guard until word came of your condition, that he might be certain you were safe.”
“…He’s a good boy.”
Baelor nodded once to you, before turning towards the fireplace. “I owe you my thanks, you perhaps saved me a nasty blow,” He smiled faintly as if remembering something. “My brother is a formidable man,” he added, turning back to face you. “As I expect you discovered for yourself.”
You shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing as the movement tugged at your wound, avoiding his gaze. The memory of the clash, the noise, the shouts, still rang in your ears.
“You don’t owe me anything, I wasn’t fighting for you,” Your eyes lingered somewhere near his shoulder rather than his face, “…your grace.” The words felt awkward on your tongue.
For a moment you thought you might have offended him.
But his expression didn’t change.
“All the same, you fought with a particular courage and it shouldn’t go unnoticed. And it hasn’t.” He replied. “I believe there are whispers among the small folk of the ‘lady in mail’.”
Your brow lifted faintly despite yourself. “I suppose there are worse names.”
“Indeed, but I can’t pretend your tale has pleased everyone… there’s disgruntlement among the lords and knights. A woman stepping between them and a question of honour is not a story that sits comfortably with their pride.”
You finally glanced back at him then, your fingers tightened slightly in the sheets. “I know but I’d do it again. For Duncan.”
“As would I.”
The weigh of both of your quiet confessions filled the room.
For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, a look you had quickly come to find as unsettling as it was strangely compelling. Up closer, you could make out the details of him more clearly, the weathered bronze of his skin, marked by sun and years, and the dark beard along his jaw, already threaded with streaks of grey. His hair, the same deep shade, was beginning to silver at the temples, and his nose bore the slight bend of a break that had healed long ago.
Silence enveloped the room.
“Your horse is safe in the stables,” he added almost as an afterthought as if bringing himself back to reality. “Though I’m told it took three stable hands and a great deal of patience to calm the poor creature after the trial. It seems it was as determined to fight as its rider.”
You smiled gently, though the thought lingered uneasily in your mind. You had dragged the animal into that storm as surely as you had yourself, only you at least had a choice in the matter.
“Well Lord Ashford has kindly offered his hall to you for however long you need it, and I shall alert the maester that you are awake.”
You suspected Lord Ashford’s generosity might have been somewhat less forthcoming, had a request undoubtedly not come from a prince.
He turned to the door as words seemed to escape your throat.
“Thank you, your grace.” The admission felt strangely difficult. “I know you didn’t have to argue for me.”
Then he gave a small nod, neither grand nor dismissive, but something quieter. Almost private.
“Rest,” he said.
For a long moment after he left, you simply stared at the door.
The quiet he left behind seemed louder than the conversation itself. The faint scrape of boots in the corridor faded, then vanished entirely, and the chamber fell back into the slow rhythm of a sickroom: the distant murmur of the castle, the soft crackle of the hearth, and your thoughts.
His words lingered in your mind, the ‘lady in mail’. You could almost hear the smallfolk saying it in the markets, passing the story between them like gossip over bread and ale.
You were not sure whether the thought filled you with pride or dread. The voices of the smallfolk could so easily be ones of admiration or mocking scorn.
Not longer after the Maester came to check your wounds, assuring you that there were no signs or fever or infection. And then the maid servants followed suit.
They worked gently, washing away the stale sweat and dust of the past days with warm cloths and soap that smelled faintly of lavender. Their hands were careful around the bandages, patient in a way that felt almost strange.
The quiet attentiveness of it all felt oddly unsettling, as if you had wandered into someone else’s life and were wearing it poorly.
Your thoughts drifted as they worked.
You couldn’t help but turn over everything. The fact that you had participated in a trial of seven and lived to tell the tale, the mercy of a Targaryen prince and how two days ago you hadn’t dreamt of being any more than a part of the watching crowd.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next morning had settled fully over the castle by the time you awoke, and finally forced yourself out of bed.
The first attempt nearly ended with you back on the floor. Your legs trembled the moment you put weight on them, and the dull ache in your side sharpened immediately into something far less forgiving.
You reached for the simpler things laid out nearby, a simple everyday gown someone had left folded on the chair. Even dressing proved an ordeal. Every motion pulled at the bandage around your middle, forcing you to pause more than once to wait out the sharp protest in your ribs.
By the time you had finished lacing the back of your dress, you were already winded. You took a moment to rest, chewing on a piece of toast that the servants had left behind while you slept.
The thick castle walls had become enough for you and you needed air, and you needed to see Duncan.
You left your chamber quietly and made your way into the corridors. The stone passageways felt less confusing than they had the day before; either you were stronger now, or your mind had finally begun to settle after the haze of fever and pain. Your steps were still careful, the dull pull in your side reminding you not to move too quickly, but at least the world no longer tilted beneath your feet.
The sudden lurch in your stomach, however, was very real when you turned a corner and nearly walked straight into someone, and soon realised who it was.
You stopped short.
So did he.
For a moment neither of you moved, the narrow corridor suddenly feeling far smaller than it had a moment before. His presence filled the space with quiet, immovable certainty, and you felt the strange awareness of standing directly in his path.
Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his.
Maekar Targaryen stood a few paces away, broad and unmoving as the stone walls themselves. Even without armour he was impossibly imposing.
Harsh light from a nearby window caught the pale silver of his hair, the colour stark against the darker shadow of the passage.
The marks of old pox scars mottled his pale face, faint but impossible to miss once seen, lending his features a roughened edge that made his gaze feel all the more unforgiving.
You noticed a deep purple bruise high on his cheekbone and wondered briefly if you had been the one to put it there.
Yesterday you had stood across a field from this man with steel in your hand, half certain his face would be the last thing you ever saw. It felt strangely unreal to meet him now in a quiet corridor with nothing between you but a few paces of stone.
“You’re walking.” He noted. It seemed more of a statement than a question.
“Yes.” You replied, shifting slightly on your feet.
“Have you seen my son? I had expected to find him haunting your door again.”
“No.”
The brevity of your answer hit the air with a bluntness that mirrored his own. A flicker of mild irritation crossed his face, marked by the slight flex in his hard jaw.
For a moment you thought that was the end of it, that he would simply continue on his way and leave the encounter buried in the quiet of the corridor.
But to your dismay, after only a few paces he stopped again.
“Who taught you to wield a blade?,” he asked, his voice echoing with a reluctant curiosity.
You let the silence stretch, before offering the only truth you had. “My father.”
“If I were your father I’d-.” He started.
“Yes, I know,” you said, the words escaping before caution could catch them. You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a defiance that you knew was unwise yet unbreakable. “You’d probably have me marry my brother and submit to churning out silver-haired heirs, who will grow up to burn villages and call it justice.”
For a moment he just stared at you incredulous, the air around you icy despite the warm sun pouring in through a window.
Your quickness to anger would undoubtedly be the death of you.
“You speak boldly, especially for someone who owes her life to my brother’s mercy.” He fumed. “Your father may have taught you well but a wiser man would have taught you how to live in the world as it is.”
“I didn’t ask for mercy.” You said quietly.
“No, you asked for attention. You turned a trial by combat into a spectacle for half the realm.” He returned, looming over you, though you showed no signs of backing down.
A bark of humourless laughter escaped you. “With respect, your son turned the question of Targaryen honour into a spectacle, by snapping the fingers of an unarmed girl.”
“You presume to lecture me on honour? You disguised yourself as a knight, and forced my brother to defend your actions before every lord in attendance. You had courage but courage does not grant you the right to forget your place.”
Your jaw tightened faintly. “With respect, if everyone had remembered their place yesterday, Ser Duncan would be dead, your grace.”
The corridor seemed to hold its breath around you, and you could swear you almost heard his heart thumping in time with your own.
“If you see Aegon, tell him his father is looking for him.”
You didn’t stay to watch him limp away down the corridor, half relieved that it seemed to be the second encounter with him you had made it out alive from. You prayed there wouldn't be a third one.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The walk from the castle down toward the tourney grounds had been longer than you remembered. Your wound protested with every step, but the sharp edge of it was drowned beneath the rush of adrenaline still coursing through you.
Your heart was still beating harder than the walk alone could explain.
Maekar’s words followed you down the stone path like an unwelcome shadow.
They battled endlessly in your mind, each one striking against the next, mixing with the responses you had given, and the many more you had not.
The words you might have striked back at him if you had thought of them sooner. The ones that would have cut deeper. The ones that would have made you sound wiser instead of simply angry.
It was strange, you thought, how two brothers could carry the same name and yet cut from entirely different cloth.
Did they not share the same father? The same tutors, the same endless lessons in history and swordplay? Had they not once trained side by side in the same practice yards as boys, their boots kicking up the same dust?
Yet somewhere along the way the paths between them had split. One seemed so human while the other seemed to have been forged with all the hardness and fire of a dragon.
Before making your way down toward the tourney grounds, your steps carried you towards the castle stables, seeking an old friend amongst the new ones.
The air inside was warm and thick with the familiar smells of hay and leather, which were welcome to you after the stuffiness of the castle.
It was quieter than the courtyards outside, the morning bustle already drifting toward the pavilions and tents beyond the walls. A few stable boys moved about their work, but none paid you much attention as you walked slowly down the narrow aisle between the stalls.
Your horse lifted its head the moment you approached, ears flicking forward in recognition. The soft thud of its hoof against the straw sounded almost like a greeting.
You stepped inside the stall.
“Hello,” you murmured softly.
The horse nudged forward at once, pushing its nose against your shoulder with the impatient familiarity of an old companion. You lifted a hand in return, resting it against the warm line of its neck.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I dragged you into that mess,” you continued under your breath. “All that noise and shouting… the lances, the crowd.”
Your hand stilled briefly against its neck. “You didn’t ask for any of that.”
The horse shifted its weight slightly, blowing a warm breath against your sleeve. You huffed a faint, tired laugh.
“I suppose you did better than I did,” you said. “You at least had the sense not to get stabbed.”
It nudged your shoulder again as if impatient with your self-pity, and you scratched behind its ear, feeling some of the tightness in your chest ease.
“Still,” you murmured, leaning your forehead lightly against the side of its neck, “thank you.”
For a little while you stayed there in the quiet of the stable, listening to the soft sounds of shifting hooves and rustling straw, grateful for the quiet company.
Eventually you straightened again. There was somewhere else you needed to be, and someone else you needed to see.
You gave the horse one last pat along its neck before stepping back out into the aisle.
“Behave yourself,” you told it softly. “I’ll be back.”
You had decided to make for the Fossoway tent, hoping that Duncan would be there, or at least a friendly face who could tell you where he was. The familiar banners would too have been easy enough to spot among the sea of pavilions.
But you never made it that far.
A solemn but sweet music passed faintly out of a large nearby tent, underscored by the steady thrum of talk.
“To Harding!”
The cheer that followed was loud, but not joyful. It carried the strange mixture of respect and sadness that belonged more to remembrance than celebration.
Understanding settled over you. Without a second thought, you stepped inside.
The interior was crowded with knights, squires, and men-at-arms. Tankards lifted and lowered as men spoke in clusters around the long tables set beneath the striped canopy.
A few musicians sat near the back, coaxing that same gentle melody from their instruments while the gathered company drank in quiet honour of the fallen.
Your gaze swept the crowded space, searching for a familiar silhouette among the sea of boiled leather and surcoats.
It didn't take long to find him.
Duncan stood near the far side of the tent, hunched slightly over in conversation with a man at a table whose face you could not see.
You made your way towards them through the throng of tables, ignoring the eyes that fluttered to you as you passed.
Raymun’d voice cut through the din as you passed, flushed with the heat of the tent and the cider in his cup. He hailed you with a boisterous grin, calling for a flagon to be filled on his coin, but you lingered long enough only to return his sentiments.
“Nevertheless I congratulate you Ser, you’ve certainly done well for yourself.”
You reached out, your fingers pressing firmly against the rough wool of Duncan’s elbow.
He spun with a start, his massive frame nearly knocking a flagon from a nearby table, but the moment his eyes found yours, his breath hitched. He enveloped you instantly, a rib-crushing embrace that smelled of horsehair and old leather.
Yet, in that fleeting second before he pulled you close, you didn't miss the grim, hard set of his jaw.
Beside him, Prince Daeron sat slouched over a scarred trestle, watching the pair of you with an absent look. He looked more like a hungover squire than a prince of the blood, his silver-gold hair tangled and his doublet stained with wine.
“Well,” the Prince murmured, as he drained the last of his cup. “I suppose I should take my leave. I came for the ale, and now I’ve had my fill of it.”
He pushed himself up from the bench with an exaggerated sigh. He lingered a moment, his gaze drifting to you with a strange amusement. “I am glad to see you have survived your injuries, my lady… and my father’s pride. Both are equally dangerous to cross, I fear.”
Daeron offered a thin ghost of a smile, though it stopped well short of his bloodshot eyes. With a vague wave of a hand, he turned toward the tent flap,
“The gall he has to show up here—.” Duncan’s voice was low, the words half-swallowed in irritation as he the departing prince.
“I know,” you said quietly. “But come on, let’s sit before one of us collapses.”
The two of you found an empty table tucked into the corner of the tent, half-shadowed beneath the canvas.
You slid onto the bench first, gripping the edge of the table as you lowered yourself carefully.
Duncan moved a little slower himself, easing onto the opposite bench with the stiffness of a man whose body had also seen better days. His shoulders hunched slightly as he settled, one hand briefly pressing against his ribs.
He really did look awful, with one of his eyes fully close from a brutal purple bruise and barely a spot left unbloodied on his face.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The quiet between you felt strangely heavy, filled with everything that had happened since the last time you had stood together on that field.
The murmur of the wake continued around you; low voices, the scrape of tankards across wood, the soft thread of music drifting from the musicians, but it all seemed distant, as though you and Duncan were sitting in some smaller, quieter pocket of the tent.
The two of you were so clearly a marked more deeply by the last day than anyone else in that tent.
“I tried to come see you yesterday,” Duncan said at last, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “But they told me you were still resting.”
“Yeah whatever they gave me for the pain knocked me out cold for a while.” You replied.
“I can’t decide which of us looks the worse.” He let out a self deprecating huff. “I should’ve let you pass on that dirt track, maybe you’d have had more luck.”
You hoped he didn’t mean it.
“Between the two of us I think we make our own bad luck enough to turn it into good.” You smiled, though Duncan seemed to find it hard to return.
He leaned back slightly, studying you more carefully now, as though reassuring himself you were truly sitting there.
“I thought…” Duncan began, then stopped.
His gaze drifted past you, toward the open side of the pavilion where the empty tournament field lay beyond.
“I thought you might’ve died out there,” he admitted quietly.
The words hung awkwardly between you.
You tried to lighten them with a small breath of a laugh. “Well,” you said, “Prince Maekar certainly tried to make that possible.”
But Duncan didn’t smile, he simply shook his head once, slow and firm.
“I shouldn’t have let you do it,” he said. There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet certainty.
“You couldn’t have stopped me Duncan.” Your voice was steady now. “I made my decision and I would make it a million times over, because it was the right thing to do, consequences be damned. Just as you thought when you stepped between Aerion and Tanselle.”
Duncan accepted your words quietly, though the weight on his shoulders didn’t fade.
For a time the two of you remained there, the conversation drifting into quieter things, half-finished thoughts, the strange disbelief of having survived the chaos of the previous day.
Around you the wake carried on in its slow rhythm: cups raised, names spoken, the soft lament of the fiddlers weaving through the tent.
Eventually Duncan pushed himself carefully to his feet. “Perhaps we should make on our way.” he murmured, offering a large, calloused hand to steady you as you rose from the bench.
The two of you made your way toward the tent flap, weaving through clusters of knights and squires who paused in their conversations as you passed. Some nodded respectfully to Duncan. Others glanced toward you with open curiosity.
You had only just stepped beyond the canvas when a voice called after you.
“Well,” the knight drawled, his voice thick with the rasp of a man who had spent the afternoon shouting at the lists and the evening drowning his senses in the casks. “If it isn't the Lady in Mail herself."
The title carried a jagged edge, sharp enough to hook the attention of a nearby knot of men-at-arms. Beside you, you felt the massive frame of Duncan shift, his weight settling into a stance that promised a storm.
He held a half-empty cup, his cheeks flushed with the heat of the wine, though his eyes remained uncomfortably sharp.
He came to a halt, letting his gaze travel slowly from your skirts to your brow before it settled into a crooked, knowing half-smile.
The knight raised his tankard in a lazy, mocking salute. He took a heavy step closer, ale sloshing dangerously near the rim as he gestured toward you with a gloating tilt of his head. “Quite the show you gave yesterday,” he said, his smirk widening. “Though I was under the impression the Trial of Seven was reserved for knights and men of true honour.”
His mouth twisted, dripping with a sudden, ugly venom. “Instead, we find a woman creeping into the fray behind a false face.”
A ripple of low, jagged chuckles drifted from the shadows of the pavilion. The knight didn't flinch; he took a long pull of his ale, wiping his mouth with a greasy sleeve before continuing. “What honour is there in such a deception? I wonder… did Harding pay for your spectacle?”
Your gaze drifted across the tent rather than meeting the man’s eyes. The fiddlers had stopped playing entirely now, their bows hovering uncertainly over the strings. Tankards hung half-raised in the hands of watching men, the air thick with the anticipation of a fight.
“How dare you,” Duncan rumbled. The giant’s voice was low, vibrating in his chest like distant thunder, but it was edged with a cold, white-hot fury.
You felt suddenly, bone-deep, tired.
“Please,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as you reached out to steady yourself against Duncan’s arm. “Let’s go.”
For a moment it seemed he might not listen. He looked as if he were ready to bring the whole tent down upon the man. But after a breath he turned sharply and followed you out into the open air.
Duncan was still fuming as you left the tent behind, muttering dark curses under his breath. You listened in silence.
Strangely, you found you didn’t have the strength left for anger. The day had wrung something out of you, leaving only a dull heaviness in its wake.
“You know,” came a voice from behind you, warm with amusement, “I had not imagined you to be so pretty beneath your helm, Ser Gillem.”
You turned.
Lyonel Baratheon stood a few paces away, clearly well battered by the trial but relaxed, watching the two of you with a faint, knowing smile.
His dark eyes, sharp and full of life, flicked between you and the towering, sullen Duncan. “I know the prince wasn’t imagining your pretty face, when you were sending him stumbling around in the dirt either,” he continued, closing the distance.
He took your hand in his, his grip surprisingly gentle and raised it to his lips. “By the Seven, you can swing a sword, my lady.”
“Thank you, my lord,” you said. “Though I fear the credit may be somewhat exaggerated.”
Lyonel straightened, studying you with clear amusement. “Exaggerated?” he repeated. “Half the camp spent the afternoon arguing whether they had just witnessed the finest swordplay of the tourney or the greatest embarrassment ever dealt to a prince.”
Duncan let out a faint huff beside you, still clearly irritated from the encounter in the tent.
“I’m just glad to have gotten away with my life,” you added quietly.
At that, Lyonel’s smile softened slightly, the humor fading just a little from his expression.
“Well then,” he drawled, clapping him once on the shoulder, “I suppose I offer you my congratulations, Ser Duncan. It seems Baelor Targaryen has decided he cannot face the world without you looming behind him. I’d make peace with the departure of your honour, you’ll soon realise dragons don’t make good company.”
You looked between the two of them, confusion settling slowly across your face. “What do you mean?” you asked. “Duncan?”
Duncan still would not meet your gaze. He shifted his weight, as though the words themselves were difficult to carry.
“I pledged myself to Prince Baelor,” he muttered at last. “I’m to join his personal guard… and ride with him back to King's Landing.”
You watched him carefully as he spoke, as if the truth might change before the sentence finished. But it didn’t.
Something hollow opened quietly in your stomach and your smile came a moment too late. “That’s… that’s great,” you said.
Before either of them could see too much of your face, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a quick, shy embrace, and for a moment you were grateful for the excuse to hide your expression against his shoulder.
“It’s what you wanted,” you added softly.
Duncan hesitated before returning the hug, his arms settling awkwardly around you as if he wasn’t certain whether he deserved the congratulations.
When you pulled away, you turned instead toward Lyonel Baratheon, smoothing your expression into something polite. “I should head back to the castle,” you said. “I’m sorry if I don’t get to see you again before you leave, my lord.”
Lyonel waved a dismissive hand, though the easy smile never left his face.
“Nonsense. You’re welcome in the Storm’s End any time.” He placed a hand over his chest in mock ceremony. “Come to Storm's End and I’ll host a grand tourney in your honour.” His grin widened. “I should very much enjoy watching you knock a few green boys into the dirt.”
You tried to laugh, but the sound never quite came.
Duncan was watching you now, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I’ll walk you back up to the castle,” he said.
You shook your head immediately.
“No, that’s alright,” you replied, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’re hardly steady on your feet as it is. I’ll manage.”
Neither man looked entirely convinced.
“Goodbye,” you added quickly, already turning away.
The path up to the castle climbed steeply from the camp, the sounds of laughter and fiddles fading with every step you took. Torches burned low along the road, their light wavering in the wind as shadows stretched long across the ground.
You walked quickly at first, eager to put distance between yourself and the tents.
Duncan riding south with Baelor ‘Breakspear’ to King's Landing was considered an honor, even you could recognise that. It was the sort of thing songs were written about.
You should be glad for him. You were glad for him.
The thought repeated in your mind, but it felt strangely thin, like a piece of cloth worn nearly through.
Halfway up the hill your breathing began to change.
At first it was subtle, a little faster, a little shallower but then suddenly the air felt far too thin.
You tried to draw in a deeper breath, but it caught halfway, leaving your lungs tight and aching, which only made your heart begin to hammer even more.
Another step forward, and the sound of your boots on the ground echoed far too loudly in your ears.
Then the memory surged up without warning.
You could see it again as clearly as if it were happening now: the scream of a horse, the smell of churned mud and blood, the sharp jolt running up your arm every time your blade struck another’s.
Your breath came faster.
You remembered the moment you’d stumbled, the weight of armor dragging at your limbs, the terrifying second when a blade had flashed toward you through the chaos—
Then the path blurred before your eyes as your heart pounded harder, faster, until you were sure it was going to burst through your ribs. Your fingers trembled as you reached out blindly, finding the rough stone of the outer wall beside the road.
You leaned against it heavily.
Breathe.
But the air refused to come properly. You were convinced you were dying.
Your lungs worked in short, desperate bursts while the images still clung stubbornly to the edges of your vision, the dirt beneath your knees, the taste of copper in your mouth, the knowledge that one wrong movement would mean the end. It was all replaying over and over again in your head, no matter how much you tried to wish it away.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
You weren’t there. The trial was over. You were safe.
Still your body refused to believe it.
Your hands shook as you pressed your forehead against the cold stone, the chill grounding you in a way nothing else could. For a moment you stayed like that, breathing against the rough surface, letting the solid weight of it remind you where you were. Slowly, painfully slowly, the roaring in your ears began to quiet.
In. Out.
Your breaths grew deeper, though they still trembled.
Then finally the tourney field faded, leaving only the looming castle ahead and the distant murmur of the camp far below.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you returned to your chamber, the door was already ajar.
Inside, Aegon was exactly where you should have expected him to be.
He stood in the middle of the room, your sword clutched in both hands, the blade wavering uncertainly as he attempted what looked like a very careful practice swing. The weapon was clearly too large for him; the point dipped toward the floor every time he tried to raise it again, forcing him to heave it back up with visible effort.
The sight might have been amusing under other circumstances.
“Please don’t play with my sword,” you said tiredly as you stepped inside. “Your father will have my head if you so much as give yourself a scratch.”
The adrenaline that had spiked during your walk, the phantom roar of the battlefield and the crushing weight in your chest, had finally abandoned you, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion.
You lowered yourself onto the edge of the mattress, gripping the frame as the dull ache beneath your ribs flared sharply in protest.
Behind you, Egg hurriedly slid the blade back into its sheath, far more carefully than he had drawn it. He set it against the wall where it had been before, then turned back toward you.
The excitement that had lit his face a moment ago faded quickly.
He studied you for a moment, taking in your pale expression and the way your knuckles had turned a milky white in your grip.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded faintly, though your eyes remained anchored to a knot in the floorboards
Egg hesitated.
Then he stepped closer.
You felt his small hand settle over yours where it rested on the bed.
“Your hand is cold,” he said quietly.
You let your fingers curl around his without thinking, the warmth centering you slightly against the restless churn of thoughts still running through your head.
“I think I may have overexerted myself,” you admitted after a moment.
Egg didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other before speaking again.
“My uncle asked to see you,” he said. “He’s in the Lord’s solar.”
Your brow lifted faintly.
Egg hurried on. “But I can tell him you’re resting if you want. He wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.”
You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself a little straighter despite your body’s every instinct telling you to submit to your exhaustion.
“No,” you said after a moment. “It’s alright. I’ll go.”
Egg studied you another second before nodding. “Alright,” he said. “I can show you the way.”
The walk across the castle was even quieter than the one you had made that morning. The long stone halls echoed softly with your footsteps as you followed Egg through turns and stairways you had not yet learned to navigate alone.
Every so often he glanced back at you.
You tried to ignore them. Instead your thoughts drifted ahead to the man waiting in the solar.
Baelor Targaryen had already shown you more kindness than you had expected from a prince. Which somehow made the summons feel more unsettling, not less.
You spent the rest of the walk wondering what exactly he might say. Had he changed his mind, now convinced by the lords and his brother that you were little more than a fraud, hell bent on making the matter of Targaryen honour a joke?
The heavy oak doors of Lord Ashford’s solar loomed at the end of the gallery.
Before Egg could knock, raised voices drifted through the door, or rather, one raised voice did.
“So you not only spare her, but reward her.”
You and Egg both froze, shooting each other a wide eyed look but not daring to move an inch.
Inside the solar, Baelor answered with the same measured calm you had come to recognise.
“She fought with honour,” he said evenly. “And with skill that few knights possess. She deserves a chance to hone her skills, to train.”
“Train?” the other voice repeated incredulously. Maekar sounded as though the word itself offended him.
“As what, exactly? A curiosity? A court spectacle for idle lords?”
“I have made my decision, brother.”
Maekar’s reply came low and sharp. “Very well. On your head so be it.”
Egg barely had time to step back before the door was wrenched open.
Maekar strode out into the corridor with the force of a storm breaking loose. His cloak swung sharply behind him, and the anger that had been contained within the solar now seemed to fill the passage itself.
He stopped short when he saw the two of you standing there. For the briefest moment his pale eyes flicked between your face and his sons’.
“Eavesdropping now?” he said curtly.
Egg straightened at once. “No, Father, we were just—”
Maekar cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand. “Come,” he said.
Egg hesitated.
Maekar’s gaze hardened. “Now, Aegon.”
Reluctantly, he glanced back at you once before stepping toward his father who was already striding down the corridor, before you offered him a sympathetic smile in return.
Within moments their footsteps had faded around the corner and the corridor fell quiet again.
Behind you, the solar door remained open.
“You may come in, you know.” Baelor’s voice carried from inside,
You stepped cautiously into the room.
Baelor stood beside the window with his hands resting neatly behind his back.
“I suspect,” he said gently, “that you have already heard the substance of our conversation.”
You shifted slightly. “Some of it, your grace.”
Baelor inclined his head. “Then I will spare us both the theatrics of pretending otherwise. I meant what I said.”
Baelor watched you for another moment before continuing.
“You fought yesterday with courage and discipline that many men train their whole lives to achieve,” he said. “It would be a waste to send you back into the world without the opportunity to refine that skill.”
He paused briefly.
“In King’s Landing there are training yards, masters-at-arms, and opportunities that simply do not exist elsewhere.”
His gaze met yours steadily. “I would offer you a place there.”
For a moment the words hung between you, heavy with possibility.
King’s Landing.
You never had layed eyes upon the place or even wished to, having forever associated it with the family you hated. And now the family you had been given the opportunity to serve.
It would have felt like an impossible gift to anyone else. And despite your supposed hatred of the family that offered it the first thing that came to your mind was the echo of Maekar’s voice.
A spectacle.
A weakness.
“I can’t.”
The words came out quieter than you intended.
Baelor Targaryen did not react immediately, nor did he seem at all surprised by your answer.
“I heard what Prince Maekar said.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed across Baelor’s face at the mention of his brother.
You forced yourself to continue. “He’s not wrong,” you said begrudgingly. “You offering me something like that… it makes it look as though you’re rewarding me for what I did.”
“You believe you should be punished instead?” Baelor asked mildly.
“That isn’t what I meant.” You let out a slow breath, searching for the words.
“Yesterday was already more than enough of a spectacle,” you said. “If you bring me to King’s Landing after that to train me as some sort of… knight, people will say exactly what he said they would.”
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the window behind him. “That you’re weak. So soft are you that you’ll have a woman protect you.”
You couldn’t quite believe you were saying the words as they left your mouth. Nor did you know whether the intention was to spare Baelor’s dignity or your own.
Why should you accept for either of your sakes.
If you did ride to court, it meant standing beneath the eyes of the realm, listening while lords who had watched you fight now laughed behind polite smiles at the woman who had dared wear a knight’s armour.
It meant serving the very family whose judgement had hung over your head only hours before. The family that you had spent almost your entire life cursing.
And yet the thought of leaving alone was no easier.
It meant leaving Duncan behind, and the boy who had waited outside your door as though your life were worth guarding. It meant turning away from the one place in the Seven Kingdoms where you might truly learn freely, where better knights than you walked the halls and where every day you might sharpen the skill you had bled for.
Then your father came to mind.
You wondered what he would have said if he could see you now, standing in the solar of Ashford Castle, weighing whether to ride south in the company of princes.
He had fought for the dragons once, long before you were old enough to understand what that meant. He had ridden beneath their banners during the Blackfyre Rebellion, when the realm had torn itself apart over which branch of their blood should rule.
Had he really seen something in the Targaryens worth giving his life for, that you hadn’t?
Baelor didn’t move for a moment.
Then he gave a soft, almost thoughtful huff of breath. “My brother has never lacked confidence in his opinions.”
You glanced back at him.
“But you think he’s right,” Baelor said.
“I think…” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “I think you have more important things to worry about than defending your choice of guards.”
Even as the words left your mouth, part of you wondered why you were arguing with him at all.
“You believe this offer is about gratitude,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
His answer came simply.
“It is about potential.”
Your brow tightened slightly.
Baelor continued.
“You stepped between princes, knights, and a crowd of watching lords without hesitation,” he said. “You fought with composure under pressure that would have broken many trained men.”
His gaze held yours steadily.
“That is not something I am inclined to ignore because it makes certain people uncomfortable.” The quiet firmness in his voice left little room for argument.
Still, you shook your head faintly.
“With respect, your grace… I don’t belong in King’s Landing.”
“Few people do,” Baelor replied dryly. “I sometimes think I don’t myself.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. But the unease remained.
For a moment the room fell quiet again, the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner filling the space between you.
Baelor folded his hands loosely behind his back. “I am not asking you to decide at this moment,” he said at last. “But we ride early tomorrow…if you do wish to come with us.”
“Thank you, your grace.” Your words were not a hollow courtesy.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dawn had only just begun to touch the towers when you reached the yard.
The sky above Ashford Castle was still pale with early light, the first thin streaks of gold creeping slowly over the sky. The castle was already awake. Stablehands moved between the horses with quiet urgency, breath rising in clouds in the chill morning air as saddles were tightened and straps checked for the long road ahead.
It had not taken long to pack what little you possessed.
Your belongings had never amounted to much, your weathered armour, a whetstone, the few small things that had followed you from place to place these past years.
They now sat tied behind your saddle in a worn bundle that looked almost laughably small beside the baggage of the noble riders gathering in the yard.
You ran a hand along your horse’s neck as you fastened the last strap, feeling the familiar warmth beneath its coat. The poor creature had calmed since the chaos of the trial, though it shifted impatiently beneath your touch, as if sensing another journey ahead.
Beyond the stables, a cluster of riders had already begun to form near the gate. Cloaks stirred in the morning wind.
The road north waited beyond those walls.
Toward King's Landing.
You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, your hand still resting against the saddle leather.
It would have been easy to turn away even now. To remain here at Ashford, to slip back into the quieter life on that dirt track, the one you had known before all this madness had begun.
Instead, you gathered the reins and led your horse across the yard.
Outline: You get introduced to the one and only Irene Alder...
Word Count: 1,054
Warnings: Just fluff
You heard her before you saw her. After finally convincing Sherlock to move all of his beakers and Bunsen burners from the kitchen countertops, you began cooking. Simple food that would keep him alive for another week. It had become your routine: make the food, add it to the freezer and threaten John on pain of death to make sure both he and Sherlock ate. Especially when it came to a case.
You had grown to love two of them dearly, John like a brother and Sherlock… Well, the way your heart beat raced when he came close to you, the way you stuttered around him and flustered easily told everyone everything they needed to know. Everyone except Sherlock. He was utterly oblivious to it all. So you tried your best to ignore it, just continue on and ignore the glances of pity John would give you whenever Sherlock made you flustered and brushed you off a second later.
‘Isn’t she a pretty little pet?’ Her voice cut through your daydreaming, and you turned to her. Irene Adler was a vision of beauty, dressed perfectly in a tight pencil dress, her hair curled back into a low bun and makeup done perfectly. A red lip to match her red nails.
‘She’s not a pet.’ Sherlock scoffed; he almost sounded insulted. Irene turned to Sherlock, who stood behind her with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
‘Carer then?’ Irene asked, pursing her lips into a mock pout. Sherlock stepped forward between you and Irene.
‘Miss Alder, Y/N. Y/N, Miss Alder,’ he introduced, but as if under protest. You quickly wiped your hands clean on a tea towel and held your hand out to her.
‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ You smiled warmly, trying to ignore the jealousy that was threatening to bubble over as you saw the way they looked at one another, almost as if you weren’t there at all.
Irene turned to you and took your hand, pulling you forward until you were chest to chest with her.
‘Does she take care of all of your needs?’ Irene asked, studying your face as it turned a deep shade of pink as you realised exactly what she meant by ‘all of his needs.’ You didn’t need to look over your shoulder to know that Sherlock was glaring at her.
‘I think she could handle a lot more than you think…’ she spoke quietly, as if only speaking to you, but Sherlock heard everything.
A soft yelp escaped your lips as a strong arm wrapped around your waist to tug you backwards, your back hitting Sherlock’s chest before you could fall. His arm didn’t move from your waist, holding you against his chest tightly.
‘Don’t be disgusting,’ he growled, his arm tightening. Irene’s eyes switched between you and Sherlock, a small smirk playing on her lips.
‘I bet your mind goes to all those disgusting places,’ she teased, her eyes locked on Sherlock. When she glanced down at you, her smirk widened when she saw your cheeks turn a dark shade of pink.
‘Hers definitely does.’ You didn’t have to look up to know Sherlock’s eyes were on you. You stared at the ground, hoping it would just swallow you whole.
‘I just came to drop off this for you,’ Irene reached into her bag and pulled out a memory stick, holding it out to Sherlock. ‘I’ll leave you to two lovebirds in peace.’ You looked up for a brief moment to see Sherlock take the memory stick. Irene blew you a kiss before making a quick exit.
There was a silence between the two of you for a moment. You tried to pull away from him, but Sherlock’s arm was still locked tightly around your waist.
‘Sherlock… I don’t know what she was talking about…’ you tried to say, but all words died in your throat when you felt his breath on the shell of your ear.
‘I’m sorry she said that to you,’ he whispered, leaning further forward to press a kiss to your cheek. You froze, unsure what to do. Unsure of what to say. Sherlock’s lips lingered on your cheek for a moment longer than needed, and pulled away, his arm loosening from around your waist and disappearing as he went back to his chair.
Sherlock has kissed you. He had curled around you like a protective bodyguard as Irene touched you. He had never so much as hugged you before now. Your mind short-circuited.
You spun around, speaking before your mind had a chance to catch up.
‘Sherlock,’ you said, he was still standing only a few inches from you, looking at you with a confused look that you rarely saw on Sherlock. You took a step forward, both of your hands coming up to cup his cheeks and pull his face down to yours, pressing your lips to his. By the time your mind caught up with you, it short-circuited again. You expected Sherlock to pull away from you, or at least just stand frozen until you let him go.
But no, Sherlock stepped closer to you, his hands grabbing at your waist to pull you even closer, your chest pressing to his. You pulled away when the need for air became too much. Sucking in a breath, you tried to step away, but Sherlock didn’t let you go. Your hands slipped from his face to his shoulders, looking up at him and waiting for his next move.
Neither of you moved. But eventually, he let you step back, his hands still secure on your waist.
‘Thank you for what you said to Irene,’ you whispered, leaning up to press a light kiss on the corner of his mouth. Sherlock quickly turned, capturing your lips in another kiss.
‘I don’t think of you as my pet. Or carer.’ Sherlock said as he pulled away.
‘I’m glad you don’t,’ you giggle, watching Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile. ‘What do you think of me as?’ The question caught Sherlock off guard for a second, but he quickly recovered.
‘Why don’t we go to the cafe downstairs and discuss it in detail?’
☕ If you enjoyed this, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
jacobvanloon
dededos
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
ellievsbear
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
