— where dragons lay dying. ii
pairing. valarr targaryen / healer!reader
synopsis. reader is a skilled woodswitch who heals with herbs and whispered spells, summoned to the red keep she must heal a dragon or watch him die.
content. slight canon divergence ( vaccinated valarr arc?? ). graphic depictions of illness & death. plague descriptions. probably incorrect folk medicine. sexism. canon typical themes. lots of grief and angst. comfort. possible tragic ending ( haven't decided yet )
note. part two here we go, i love this pair so much excited to show you guys where the story goes in the next part.
You entered a chamber far larger than anything you had ever worked in before—so large, in truth, that it might have held your entire cottage with room still to spare. Yet despite the restless noise of the castle beyond its doors, the room itself was strangely quiet, as though it had been set apart from the bustle of the Red Keep and given over entirely to a different purpose. The only sound was the soft crackle of a fire burning low in the great hearth at the far end of the chamber. Each small pop of the wood sent a pulse of warm orange light spilling across the stone floor, the glow catching on iron tools and glass vials and turning the shadows long and slow along the walls.
Tall, narrow windows were set deep into the opposite wall, their stone frames thick enough that a person might easily stand within them. Beyond the glass, the sky above the city had begun to darken, the last grey-blue light of evening settling over the distant rooftops of King’s Landing. From here, the city looked almost peaceful, the haze of smoke softening its edges, though the smell of it—salt, ash, and too many people packed too closely together—still crept faintly through the seams of the window frames.
The chamber itself had the unmistakable air of a place hastily turned into a healer’s working space. Shelves lined one wall from floor to ceiling, newly built by the look of them, the wood pale and unscarred compared to the older stone around it. They held rows of jars and small wooden boxes, bundles of herbs tied with twine, and glass vials filled with liquids that caught the firelight in shades of amber, green, and cloudy white. Some bundles were dried and brittle, their leaves curled and faded with age; others were freshly gathered, their scent still sharp in the air. The mixture of smells—sage, vinegar, crushed mint, smoke, and bitter root—hung thick enough that it reminded you at once of the workrooms of wandering maesters you had occasionally crossed paths with.
A long wooden table stood before the hearth, broad enough to hold the scattered tools of three healers at once. Mortars and pestles rested beside shallow bowls filled with ground powders. Strips of linen cloth had been cut and stacked into careful piles beside small knives and iron tongs. Several small braziers waited cold beside bundles of herbs meant for burning, while a few copper pots hung from hooks near the fire, ready to be set over the flames when needed. It was not unlike a maester’s chamber—though far less orderly, as though everything had been gathered quickly in the hope that somewhere among the tools and remedies would be the thing that could hold death back a little longer.
It should have been the sort of room that held your full attention. A healer could have spent hours studying its contents.
But it was difficult to focus on the shelves or the table when the man standing near the hearth seemed to draw the eye without effort.
He wore no armour, though the quality of his clothing marked him plainly enough. A dark doublet, clasped with small silver fastenings, fit neatly across his shoulders, the fabric thick and well-cut. The sleeves had been rolled slightly at the wrists as though he had been working or waiting too long to bother with appearances. Dust clung faintly to the edges of his boots and the hem of his cloak, suggesting he had come and gone through the castle more than once that day while others hurried around him.
Yet it was not the clothing that first caught your attention.
Shorter than most noblemen wore it, cropped close around his ears in a way that made him seem less like a courtly prince and more like a man accustomed to movement and travel. Its colour was a deep brown, the shade of wet bark after rain—but running through it, catching the firelight as he shifted slightly, was a pale streak of silver-gold that glimmered like a thread of sunlight tangled in darker strands. The mark was unmistakable.
The blood of old Valyria.
The fire brightened briefly, and in that flicker of light his face became clearer.
He was younger than you had expected when the rider first spoke of a prince—perhaps only a few years older than yourself. His features were sharp, cleanly cut in a way that would have looked almost severe if not for the quiet steadiness in his expression. A straight nose, high cheekbones, and a jaw that seemed too tense for someone his age. The sort of face that would have been easy to carve into marble or stamp onto a silver coin.
And before you could stop the thought from forming, you realised something else.
Not in the bright, easy way of young knights who passed through villages boasting of tourneys and victories, their laughter loud and careless as though the world had never given them reason to doubt themselves. There was none of that careless brightness here.
Something about him felt quieter than that. More restrained.
The firelight revealed it clearly now—the faint shadows beneath his eyes, darker than the rest of his skin, as though sleep had not come easily to him in some time. There was tension in the set of his shoulders too, a stiffness that spoke of long hours spent waiting and worrying in equal measure.
He did not look like a prince enjoying the safety of a castle.
He looked like a man who had been standing beside sickbeds for far too many nights.
His gaze found you as soon as you moved, raking over you in quiet assessment, though strangely it did not make you feel small like the king’s guard had.
You felt like a flower losing the warmth of the sun when his gaze moved to the rider who stood next to you, “thank you,” he said, his voice was quiet, low, and terribly normal, not like the booming voice of authority that you imagined all royals possessed.
The rider bowed once again and then, without warning, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. You felt naked then, exposed like a rabbit in an open field.
The room had fallen quiet again.
For a moment, the only sound you could hear was the steady thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears and the soft crackle of the fire shifting in the hearth. The prince lowered his gaze briefly, as though collecting his thoughts, and then moved around the table so that he stood closer to you, no longer separated by the clutter of jars and tools.
“You came,” he said after a moment, his head tilting slightly as he studied you.
The words slipped out before you had time to soften them. The bluntness of the reply hung between you, the same curt edge that people had often complained about all your life, settling plainly into your tone.
For a heartbeat, you wondered if you had overstepped.
But something in your answer seemed to amuse him instead. A faint flicker of a smile touched his mouth before disappearing again, as quickly as it had come.
“The Grand Maester nearly fainted when I told him I had sent for a woodswitch.”
That did not surprise you in the least.
Maesters had never cared for women like you. Part of it came from the remedies you used—old charms, herbs gathered under certain moons, small rituals that they dismissed as superstition. But far more of their disdain seemed to come from a far simpler fact.
As if the absence of a cock somehow made your hands less capable of healing a fever.
“Maesters believe they are the cleverest men in the world,” you said simply. It was something the old woman who raised you had often said, usually with a snort and a shake of her head.
The prince watched you for a moment longer, and when it became clear you were not about to bolt for the door, he took a small step closer. The movement was careful, almost deliberate, the sort of cautious approach someone might use when dealing with a nervous animal that might startle if handled too quickly.
“I am Prince Valarr Targaryen,” he said quietly. “And I thank you for coming. The realm owes you its gratitude.”
A crooked smile tugged briefly at your lips.
“I’ve done nothing yet,” you scoffed lightly, the words leaving your mouth before you remembered where you stood. “…my prince,” you added a moment later, more quietly.
Titles had never come naturally to you. There had been no need for them in the forest or the scattered villages where most people spoke plainly to one another.
Silence settled again, though this time it felt less tense.
You watched him more carefully now, studying him the way the healer who raised you had taught you to study anyone who might soon become a patient.
The steadiness of his breathing.
The way he carried his shoulders, whether there was stiffness in the muscles that fever sometimes left behind.
He seemed to notice the scrutiny. “You’re looking for signs,” he said.
You did not bother denying it. “If I am to treat the sick, someone in this castle must still be well enough to guide me to them,” you replied simply.
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “That is fortunate for me.”
Your gaze drifted past him toward the shelves of herbs lining the wall. “You’ve gathered quite a collection.”
“Everything the maesters thought might help.”
“And you believe it might not?”
His expression shifted slightly at that.
“The maesters believe many things,” he said after a moment.
He moved toward the table then, resting one hand lightly against the wood, his fingers brushing absentmindedly against one of the glass jars. “They have been treating the sickness for weeks now.”
The silence between you said enough.
Your attention returned to him.
Valarr did not respond immediately.
Instead, he turned his head slightly toward the fire, watching the flames as they shifted in the hearth. The orange glow reflected faintly in his eyes, sharpening the exhaustion that lingered there.
“My brother,” he said at last.
You remembered the name faintly—heard once from a travelling merchant who had passed through your village some years ago, speaking of the celebrations planned for the prince’s nameday.
King Daeron. Queen Myriah.
You had heard their names all your life. To hear them spoken so quietly, in a room that smelled of herbs and smoke, as though they were simply more patients waiting for treatment, felt strangely unreal.
“They began with fever,” Valarr continued. “The coughing came two days later.”
You listened carefully, turning the information over in your mind. “Any rash?”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
You exhaled slowly. “How long?”
“Six days for my brother.”
Your head lifted sharply. “Six?”
Few lasted that long once the fever worsened.
Valarr noticed the shift in your expression immediately. “You see why we sent for you.”
You moved toward the table, examining the jars more closely now. Dried mint, Feverfew, Willow bark. The maesters had gathered many of the right herbs, though the preparation looked hurried. Some bundles were poorly dried, others too coarse.
You would need better cuttings from the gardens tomorrow.
“They’ve done what they can,” you murmured.
“They always do.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Only fatigue. How many days had he spent listening to the counsel of grey-robed men weighed down by chains of silver and brass?
“I should see them,” you said, turning back toward him.
“Not tonight.” The answer came immediately.
You frowned slightly. “My prince, if the sickness has already—”
“You have been riding for days.”
“I do not doubt it.” Valarr stepped closer to the table, resting both hands against the wood now. “But if you collapse tomorrow,” he said quietly, “you will be of little use to anyone.”
You opened your mouth to protest. You had treated a worse sickness with less rest. But standing this close to him now, you noticed something you had missed before. The strain in his face, not just exhaustion but pressure; The kind that settled slowly onto a person’s shoulders and refused to lift.
Your thoughts drifted briefly to what little you knew of the royal family. Even those far from courts heard certain news eventually. His father had died less than a year ago, Prince Baelor—honourable, beloved, the man many believed would have been the greatest king the realm had ever known. Dead for the sake of a hedge knight.
The title of heir had passed to his eldest son.
Which meant the quiet weight of the realm must now rest on the shoulders of this young man while the king himself lay ill somewhere above them.
No wonder he looked as though sleep had abandoned him.
“How long have you been awake?” you asked quietly.
He blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “That is not important.”
“It is if you expect me to work tomorrow.”
A soft breath escaped him.
“Three nights,” he admitted.
You studied him again. Now that you knew to look for them, the signs were obvious.
The tension around his eyes.
The stiffness in the way he held his shoulders.
“You should sleep as well.”
He huffed quietly at that. “If the healer begins giving orders already, the maesters will revolt.”
“Then they may,” you said simply. You cared very little for the opinions of maesters.
A brief smile crossed his face, though it faded quickly. His gaze drifted again toward the shelves. “You were recommended by Lord Harroway,” he said, not turning.
“He says you saved his life.”
“Men say many things when they survive a fever.”
Valarr studied you thoughtfully. “You do not boast.”
You shrugged, returning your attention to the herbs resting in the mortar. “There is little point,” you said. “The body either heals… or it does not, I only coax it in the right direction.”
He seemed to consider that, then after a brief pause, he straightened. “You will be given a chamber nearby,” he said. “Close enough that you can be summoned if anything changes.”
“I would rather begin now.”
“I know.” He rubbed a hand across his face, exhaustion finally slipping through the gesture. “But you will rest tonight.”
Your frustration must have been obvious, because he added quietly, “That is not a command meant to slow you.”
“It feels like one.” You were unable to stop yourself from arguing.
“It is meant to keep you alive long enough to help them.”
The room fell silent again.
Outside the windows, the sky had darkened completely, the last of the evening light swallowed by night. The fire cracked softly behind you.
At last, you exhaled. “Very well.”
Relief flickered across his face, though he masked it quickly. “Good.” He moved toward the door and paused with one hand resting against the wood. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “you will see my brother first.”
Your gaze sharpened. “Is he the worst?”
Valarr hesitated, for just a moment, and pain flashed across his face. “Yes.”
A servant waited quietly beyond it, ready to guide you to your chambers.
Valarr glanced back at you once more before you stepped through. “Rest,” he said. “We begin tomorrow.”
And despite the urgency still burning in your chest, you knew from the firmness in his voice that he would not be moved from that decision tonight.
You woke before the servant came.
For a few brief moments, you did not remember where you were.
The bed beneath you was softer than any you had slept in for months, the blankets heavy and warm, a big contrast to the worn old ones of your cottage. Pale morning light filtered through tall windows across the chamber walls, unobserved by tree branches like you were accustomed to.
Then the memory of the previous evening returned all at once.
The Red Keep, the plague in the city, Prince Valarr’s tired eyes crossing the firelit chamber, and the patients that were waiting somewhere deeper in the castle.
You were already sitting up when a quiet knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” you called, though the command felt unfamiliar on your tongue.
The same young servant from the night before stepped inside carrying a small tray. Steam rose from a cup set beside a loaf of bread and a dish of honey.
You thanked her and dressed quickly after she left, pulling on the same travel-worn clothes you had arrived in. Your satchel of herbs and tools rested where you had left it beside the bed.
You checked its contents out of habit.
Two carved wooden charms tied with thread.
Everything you had brought with you from the road.
By the time you stepped into the corridor, the castle was already awake. Servants moved quietly through the halls carrying fresh linens and trays of steaming water. The scent of herbs drifted faintly through the passageways. A man in grey maester’s robes crossed your path near the first stairwell. He glanced at you briefly before continuing on without a word.
You had only taken a few turns down the unfamiliar corridors when a voice spoke behind you.
“You are awake early.” Prince Valarr stood a few paces down the hallway.
He had changed clothes since the night before. His doublet today was simpler, dark red with only a narrow silver clasp at the collar. The morning light from the high windows caught faintly in his streak of pale hair.
But the exhaustion you had noticed the night before had not disappeared.
If anything, it seemed deeper.
“Good morning, my prince,” you said.
He inclined his head slightly. “You slept?”
“Well enough.” If by well he means having the best sleep of your entire life.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the satchel at your side. “Ready to begin?”
Valarr nodded once. “Come with me.”
He led the way through the winding corridors of the castle, walking quickly but not so fast that you struggled to follow. Guards stationed at several doors straightened as he passed.
You climbed one narrow stairwell, then another. The air seemed quieter in this part of the castle. Thicker.
Not many were allowed into Maegor’s holdfast at all, so the fact that you were being led by a prince through these halls filled you with a weird sensation, look at me now, you thought as your gaze slid over tapestries taller than yourself.
They depicted great battles, dragons soaring the skies, their flames melting keeps and pale-haired kings on thrones.
After a while of silent walking, Valarr seemed somewhere else in his mind, focused on moving forward instead of small talk; you supposed that was because of the location you were approaching.
Two king's guards stood outside the chamber.
“How is he?” Valarr stopped before them.
The older of the two men shifted uneasily. “The fever worsened in the night, my prince.”
Valarr’s jaw tightened slightly. “Has he woken?”
“Briefly, the maester is inside.”
Valarr nodded and pushed open the door.
The chamber beyond was dim despite the morning light. Heavy curtains had been drawn partly across the windows, leaving only narrow slivers of pale sunlight across the floor. Several braziers burned quietly around the room, filling the air with sharp herbal smoke.
You stepped inside behind the prince, and the smell of illness struck you immediately. Fever, sweat, and the bitter edge of medicines.
A young man lay in the bed at the centre of the room.
He could not have been much younger than Valarr—perhaps sixteen or seventeen—but sickness had reduced him to a shadow of that age. His skin glistened with sweat, his chestnut hair damp against the pillows.
A wet cloth rested across his forehead.
His breathing came in shallow, uneven pulls.
Beside the bed stood a maester you had not yet met, his chain glinting faintly in the dim light as he adjusted a small glass vial, though you could tell by the length of his chain that he was not the grand maester; he must be with the king.
He turned when you entered, bowing as much as his old frame would allow. “Your Highness,” he said reverently, tone heavy and full of sorrow.
Valarr stepped forward. “How is he?”
“The fever holds,” the maester replied carefully.
The prince’s gaze moved to his brother, briefly, and something softened in his expression. Then he stepped aside slightly, allowing you closer to the bed.
“Your Grace,” the maester said with thinly disguised irritation. “This is hardly the time—”
Valarr raised a hand. “This is the healer I sent for.”
The maester’s expression tightened. “That woman?” he said it with such indignation that it made you want to scrunch your face up.
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Valarr said again, this time his tone flat and full of irritation; it seemed to do the trick at making the old man back off at least for now.
You stepped past him without answering. Illness mattered more than your pride. Carefully, you set your satchel on the small table beside the bed and leaned closer to the patient.
Up close, the signs were unmistakable; His lips had gone slightly pale, dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes, and the fever radiated from his skin even before you touched him.
You rested your fingers lightly against his wrist; his pulse raced beneath your touch.
“How long since the coughing worsened?” you asked quietly.
“During the night,” the maester replied.
You lifted Matarys’s eyelid gently. The whites of his eyes were tinged faintly red.
Behind you, Valarr watched in silence. You could feel his attention as strongly as the heat of the braziers in the room, his gaze boring into the back of your head.
You reached into your satchel for a small bundle of herbs.
The maester spoke suddenly, sputtering, as though you were a fool. “We have already administered willow bark and mint for the fever.”
You crushed the herbs gently in your palm, taking the irritation you felt out on the plant rather than letting it show; you would not give him the satisfaction. “This is for the lungs.”
He watched but did not interrupt again.
You leaned closer to the young prince. “Matarys,” you said quietly.
His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, you were not sure he had heard you. Then his eyes opened slightly; they were glassy with fever. But aware.
“Brother?” he murmured weakly.
“I’m here.” Valarr stepped forward instantly, and you could feel his body heat from his chest pressing into your back as he leaned over you.
“…who…?” Matarys’s gaze drifted past him toward you.
“The woodswitch,” Valarr said, letting out a strained noise, perhaps an attempt at a laugh. “Just like I told you.”
The younger prince smiled faintly at that. “The maester will throw a fit…” his words were strained and hard to understand, but it warmed you to see that he still had some spirit left.
You offered the crushed herbs in a small cup of water.
Matarys tried to sit up but lacked the strength.
Valarr reached forward immediately, supporting him carefully. The motion was practised; he had done this before. And you imagined him suddenly sitting at his little brother’s bedside throughout the night, helping to give him water and medicine.
Matarys swallowed the mixture slowly, coughing weakly once before sinking back against the pillows. His eyes closed again almost immediately.
You listened to his breathing, still shallow, still strained; the herbs would take time to show any effects.
Behind you, Valarr spoke softly. “Can he recover?” he had stepped back now.
You did not answer right away. Instead, you reached once more for Matarys’s wrist, counting the rapid beats beneath his skin.
Then you looked up at the prince. “I won’t know yet.”
Valarr held your gaze for a moment, expression unreadable as his brown and blue eyes bore into you. Then he nodded once. “Do whatever you must.”
The maester could not stay quiet any longer; perhaps the idea of a woman being allowed free rein greatly offended him. “Y-your grace—”
“Enough! Nothing you have given him has weakened the sickness, now, unless you would like to leave. I suggest you hold your tongue. ” The sharp barb almost made you turn and flick your gaze to the two men behind you. Valarr had not shown any overt authority so far, but the way the maester cowered like a scared dog reminded you that he was blood of the dragon.
The young prince’s breathing continued in shallow, uneven pulls, his chest rising and falling with visible effort beneath the blankets. Sweat gathered along his temples despite the damp cloth resting across his forehead, and the heat of his fever seemed to radiate through the air itself.
You rested your fingers once more against his wrist.
His pulse still raced beneath your touch—quick and strained—, but it had not worsened since you first checked it.
Not improvement, but not decline.
You moved back toward the small table beside the bed and opened your satchel fully now, laying out several cloth-wrapped bundles across the wood. The tools inside were simple—nothing like the glass instruments and polished metals the Citadel preferred.
Prince Valarr had not moved; he still stood near the head of the bed, one hand resting against the carved bedpost, his gaze fixed on his brother’s face as though watching for every small change in his breathing.
“You should sit,” you said without looking up.
You glanced at him briefly.
He did not look fine. The firelight revealed the deepening shadows beneath his eyes and the faint tension in his shoulders that had not eased since he entered the room.
But you did not argue further. If he needed to stand there, to remain close enough to his brother to hear every breath, you would not waste time fighting it.
Instead, you turned back to your work.
You selected several dried leaves from one of the bundles and dropped them into the small stone mortar you carried in your satchel. The pestle ground them slowly into powder beneath your hand.
The maester watched you closely, as though you were about to brazenly poison a member of the royal family in front of another. “You carry your own preparations.”
You didnt stop.“Yes.” The pestle continued its steady rhythm against the stone.
That answer earned a small frown, though he said nothing more. You added a few drops of water to the powdered herbs and stirred them slowly into a thick paste.
“What is that for?” he asked after a moment.
He frowned again. “You intend to apply it externally?”
He folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe, clearly unconvinced, but he did not stop you; after all, you were here at the request of the crown prince.
You stepped closer to the bed. “Valarr.” He looked up immediately. “I’ll need him turned slightly.”
Valarr nodded without hesitation. He slid one arm behind his brother’s shoulders, lifting him carefully so that you could reach the upper part of Matarys’s chest.
The heat of it rose from his skin like warmth from a fire. You gently pulled the linen shirt he wore aside, exposing pale skin. You spread the herbal paste across the centre of his chest, pressing the mixture gently against the skin before covering it with a strip of clean linen. The scent of the herbs rose immediately—sharp and bitter.
Matarys stirred weakly. “…hurts…”
“I know,” Valarr murmured quietly, his thumb rubbing soothingly against the shoulder he held. Everyone you had spoken to said that nobles did not feel love like smallfolk did, but right now, you could tell that the princes shared a strong bond.
You finished tying the linen in place and stepped back.
Valarr eased him slowly back against the pillows. The coughing did not come immediately this time; that alone was a small victory.
You turned again to your satchel, rifling around in it. From within it, you removed one of the carved charms.
The piece of wood was small and worn smooth with age. Simple markings had been carved along its surface—circles and lines the woman who raised you had once called breath-wards.
The maester noticed at once. “What is that?”
“That is superstition,” he sounded utterly aghast that you dared produce such a thing.
“Perhaps,” you said softly, ignoring him.
You tied the thin cord loosely around the bedpost near Matarys’s head. The charm hung there, swaying slightly in the warm air. “It will do no harm,” you said calmly.
Valarr had been watching quietly, a flicker of concern resting at the sight.
“Does it help?” he sounded desperate, like a different man to the one you had watched command the guards and yell at the maester.
“Does praying at the sept help?” you said honestly, gaze meeting his own. “If one believes it helps, then it does.”
The days inside the Red Keep began to blur together.
At first, you tried to count them. The first morning after meeting Prince Valarr, the second day when Prince Matarys coughed blood again, the third day when the fever seemed to lessen for a few hours.
But after that, the rhythm of the castle changed in a way that made time difficult to follow. The sun still rose beyond the tall windows and set behind the towers of the keep, yet the work inside the sickrooms rarely stopped long enough for you to notice.
Morning and night became the same long stretch of effort.
The corridors of the castle had begun to smell constantly of vinegar and herbs.
Servants moved through the halls carrying bowls of steaming water, bundles of cloth, or baskets filled with fresh linen. Many walked with slow, heavy steps now—the careful movement of people who had not slept properly in days.
Some had begun tying cloths across their mouths and noses; others simply worked until their hands trembled.
You spent most of your time moving between chambers. Each room where the sick were kept had been darkened. Heavy curtains were drawn across the tall windows to soften the light, leaving the chambers dim and warm from the braziers that burned herbs through the day and night.
The air in those rooms always carried the same layered scents.
sweat, vinegar and the faint bitter edge of sickness that no amount of herbs could quite erase.
Yet despite the many sick within the castle, your attention always returned to one chamber first.
Prince Matarys remained the first patient you checked each morning—and the one you spent the most time with.
By the time you reached his chamber, the braziers were already burning boiling basins of water with herbs, filling the air with pale steam meant to ease breathing. The servants assigned to him had begun preparing before you arrived—fresh cloths folded neatly beside the bed, bowls of cooled water waiting for compresses, herbs already steeping near the fire.
The young prince still lay deep within the grip of fever.
Some mornings, his breathing seemed a little easier. On other mornings, the coughing returned with such violence that the servants had to support him upright while he struggled for breath, his body shaking with the effort.
You worked beside the bed for long stretches of time.
Compresses were changed again and again. Clean linen soaked in cooled herbal infusions was pressed against his chest and throat, the mixture of mint, willow bark, and crushed feverfew drawing some of the heat from his skin.
Sometimes he stirred faintly when the cloth touched him, whispering of his mother or father, but most of all asking for his brother.
Sometimes he remained lost in fevered dreams, eyes twitching under his eyelids.
You kept the breathing charm tied to the bedpost where you had first hung it. The small carved piece of wood swayed softly whenever the window was opened to allow fresh air into the room.
Prince Valarr noticed it the first morning it remained there. “You still believe it helps,” he said quietly.
“Belief is a strong thing,” you answered.
He studied the charm for a moment longer before turning his attention back to his brother.
Valarr remained present through most of the treatments.
He rarely spoke while you worked, but you often felt his gaze following your hands—the grinding of herbs, the measuring of infusions, the careful way you listened to Matarys’s breathing.
After Matarys, you were sometimes summoned to the king.
King Daeron’s chambers were larger but no less heavy with sickness. Thick curtains dimmed the daylight, leaving the room lit mostly by braziers and candles placed along the walls.
You had ordered the servants to open the windows despite the maesters’ initial objections, allowing fresh air to push through the stale atmosphere.
Even so, the room remained thick with heat.
The king lay beneath layered blankets despite the warmth. The fever had taken much from him already. His once powerful frame had grown thin beneath the illness, and the lines of his face had deepened with exhaustion.
But here you were not the one directing the treatment.
Three maesters moved around the bed in quiet coordination, their chains glinting softly in the dim light. Shelves of their prepared medicines lined the walls—vials, powders, and carefully labelled jars.
They acknowledged your presence when you entered, reluctantly.
At first, they had asked questions about your herbs and infusions. Their curiosity had been cautious but genuine. Now their interest had cooled into something more guarded.
You still helped where you could, you prepared compresses when the servants fell behind, you mixed cooling infusions to ease the fever when the maesters permitted it, but your role in the room was clearly secondary.
When you suggested once that the windows remain open longer to thin the air, one maester merely nodded without looking at you.
Another quietly closed them again, not an hour later.
On another morning, you mentioned a breathing infusion that had eased Matarys’s coughing the night before.
The response came quickly.
“We are already treating His Grace appropriately.” The words were polite, but dismissive.
After that, you spoke less in the king’s chamber.
You assisted the servants when you could, replaced cloths when no one else was near enough to do it, and watched the king’s breathing from the edge of the room.
From the king’s chambers, you were often sent to the queen.
Queen Myriah’s rooms were darker still; someone seemed intent on shrouding them in shade rather than sun, fitting for men holled up in a tower.
The curtains had been drawn nearly closed, leaving only a thin line of daylight along their edges. The air felt cooler there, though the same braziers burned softly along the walls.
The queen looked small beneath the blankets.
Her illness had not taken hold of her lungs as fiercely as it had the others, but the fever lingered stubbornly. It drained her strength day by day, leaving her drifting between long stretches of sleep and brief moments of waking.
Your treatments here were gentler, pastes rubbed on her chest, soft compresses against her temples and wrists, bowls of steamed herbs placed beneath her nose to clear her breathing, you'd often spend hours massaging pressure points meant to relieve tension, your fingers always ached afterwards.
You tied another charm near the headboard on the second day—a small spiral carving meant to steady breath and calm restless sleep.
The maesters noticed, one opened his mouth to question it, but decided better than to argue, the next time you would enter the charm would be gone. The only room that remained the way you had ordered was the prince’s, curtains opened for the light, charms still up, and instructions followed.
While you had only been summoned for the royal family, you could not say no to the maid who approached you in the gardens while you gathered herbs. She was crying about how her friend was sick, and no maester would see her because she was just a maid.
That was when you began treating other people in the Red Keep.
Some of the patients you treated had begun to improve, not dramatically, not in ways that brought immediate relief, but small changes appeared. The fever might break for several hours during the night. A coughing fit might weaken enough for a patient to sleep afterwards. A kitchen servant who had been too weak to stand began walking again after three days of treatment. Another guard’s fever broke completely on the fifth morning.
Word moved through the castle quickly, servants whispered about it in the corridors, Maesters began watching the herbs you prepared with quiet attention, and even the guards stationed outside the sickrooms began studying you as you passed.
But not every patient improved.
Two stablehands worsened despite every infusion and compress you tried. Their coughing deepened until blood stained the cloths they held to their mouths. One died before morning, the other before the following sunset.
Hope inside the Red Keep had become a fragile thing. It appeared in small moments—when a fever eased for a few hours, or when a patient finally slept through the night.
Then it cracked again without warning.
The court watched all of it. The lords and ladies who had not fled the city lingered along the corridors now. They stood near doorways or gathered in quiet corners, their eyes following you as you passed with your satchel.
One lady clutched her seven-pointed star as you passed, as if merely laying eyes on you would offend the gods.
Prince Valarr remained the one constant presence through all of it. He appeared in Matarys’s chamber every morning. Often, he remained long after the treatments ended, standing beside the bed while you moved on to the other sickrooms.
Sometimes you caught him counting the rhythm of his brother’s breathing, he simply watched the slow rise and fall of the blankets.
Hope stretched through the Red Keep as a thin thread pulled tight between every sickroom.
Between every bowl of herbal infusion, every clean cloth pressed against burning skin, every whispered prayer spoken in the halls.
Sometimes that thread held, sometimes it snapped without warning.
And each morning you rose again to see which it would be.
The chamber was quieter than it had been in days.
Not the shallow, fever-tossed drifting that had haunted him through most of the week, but something deeper—something that almost resembled true rest. His breathing still carried a faint rasp, the sound rough where the sickness had clawed at his lungs, yet the rhythm had steadied enough that the servants no longer hovered anxiously at the bedside. They had retreated to the far side of the room, speaking only in murmurs, their voices barely louder than the low crackle of the brazier burning near the hearth.
You had taken advantage of the calm.
The small table beside the bed had gradually become your workspace over the past several days. What had once been a polished piece of furniture was now cluttered with the quiet chaos of healing—bundles of herbs tied with thin cord, small jars of crushed powders, folded linen, and the satchel you carried everywhere. Some leaves had been set aside to dry in the warmth of the room, while others lay freshly ground into paste. A shallow bowl of cooled infusion sat near the edge of the table, its surface releasing the faintest curl of steam in the dim light.
You worked slowly, methodically, stripping the last leaves from a brittle stem and setting them aside before grinding them between your fingers. The scent of bitter mint and crushed bark clung to the air.
Across from you, Prince Valarr remained in the chair near the foot of the bed.
He had been there most of the morning—as he often was.
At first, in those early days when the fever had been at its worst, he had refused to sit at all. He would stand beside the bed through every treatment, tense and restless, as though stepping away might somehow worsen his brother’s condition. But exhaustion had eventually forced him into the chair.
Now he leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped together as he watched his brother sleep.
You had grown used to that look.
The slight crease that always lingered between his brows. The hard focus in his gaze, as though he might somehow will Matarys back to health if he stared long enough. You had seen many people sit beside the beds of those they loved—wives, mothers, brothers, children—but rarely with such quiet, relentless devotion.
He counted Matarys’s breaths without realising it.
You could see it in the subtle movement of his eyes as they followed the rise of the blankets… and the slow fall again.
The fever had eased during the night. Not gone—certainly not yet—but weaker now. The body had a little more strength to fight.
You finished tying the last knot in the thin cord you had been working with and lifted the small wooden charm from the table.
The wood was pale and smooth from handling, its surface etched with looping marks that curled and crossed one another in simple patterns. They were not elaborate symbols, but they had been carved carefully, each line placed with quiet intention.
You tied it gently to the bedpost beside the other.
Valarr noticed the movement immediately. “You’ve added another,” he said.
“The first was for breath,” you replied quietly.
His gaze drifted toward the earlier charm swaying faintly against the bedpost. “And the second?”
His eyes moved back to his brother. “He hasn’t slept like this in days.”
You returned to the table and unrolled a small piece of linen beside your satchel. Inside lay several thin needles—polished metal, narrow and flexible, glinting faintly in the brazier light.
Valarr straightened slightly. “What are those?” There was a note of alarm in his voice that made you glance up.
His brows drew together faintly. He leaned forward in his chair, curiosity beginning to replace the tension in his expression. “You intend to stab him?”
You couldn’t help the small smile that touched your mouth. “Not quite.”
You knelt beside the bed and gently pushed the blanket aside near Matarys’s wrist. The prince stirred faintly at the movement, his fingers twitching once, but he did not wake.
Carefully, you pressed your fingertips against his arm, searching for the small points beneath the skin that the old woodswitch had taught you to find. When you found the first one, you slid a needle into place with slow precision.
Valarr leaned closer. “He didn’t even move.”
“It shouldn’t hurt.” You placed another needle along Matarys’s forearm, then a third just below his collarbone, each one set carefully where the old healer had once shown you.
“And it helps?” Valarr asked.
“These points encourage the breath to move more freely,” you said quietly.
“I’ve never seen the maesters do that.” He studied the needles with thoughtful interest.
“They weren’t the ones who taught me.” You adjusted the final needle, your fingers brushing lightly against Matarys’s skin to steady it.
“Where did you learn all this?” Valarr asked.
“From the woman who raised me.”
You could feel his gaze resting on you. “Another woodswitch.”
The word lingered briefly in the warm air of the chamber.
Valarr’s brow lifted slightly, though there was no mockery in his expression. “The maesters seem uncertain what to make of that.”
“They think I rely on superstition.”
“You carve charms and stick needles in princes.”
“And yet his fever dropped last night.” Despite yourself, the faintest teasing note slipped into your voice.
Valarr blinked once, then let out a quiet breath that might almost have been a laugh. “That it did.”
You realised, suddenly, that you had rarely heard him laugh since arriving at the castle. The smile that tugged at your lips grew before you could stop it. You found yourself wondering, briefly, whether he had once laughed often—before sickness had filled these halls—or if he had always carried this quiet seriousness.
You returned to the table and began preparing another mixture, crushing dried leaves in the mortar. The scent of mint and bitter bark rose stronger into the air.
Across the room, Valarr watched your hands. “You move slowly,” he said after a moment.
You glanced up, a quizical look on your face. “Slowly?”
“The maesters rush.” His gaze flicked toward the door briefly, as if he could imagine them there already. “There’s always someone fetching powders or arguing over which remedy should be tried next.”
You stirred the herbs into warm water.
“But you…” He paused slightly. “You take your time.”
“Sick bodies don’t like being rushed.”
He nodded slowly, as if the thought made sense to him.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet grinding of the mortar filled the chamber, steady and rhythmic. Across the bed, Matarys shifted faintly, his breathing catching before settling again. The needles remained steady where you had placed them.
Valarr’s gaze followed the movement instantly. “Do you think he’s improving?”
He rubbed a hand across his face, fatigue showing through the gesture again. “I keep waiting for someone to tell me he’s going to recover.” There was something unexpectedly open in his voice, as though he had forgotten for a moment that you were still little more than a stranger.
“I can’t promise that,” you said gently.
“I know.” His eyes drifted back to his brother. “But I can see he’s breathing easier than yesterday.”
“That’s true.” You nodded.
Silence settled again, softer this time. The castle beyond the walls carried on with distant life—footsteps in corridors, the faint echo of voices somewhere far away—but here the world had narrowed to this small room.
At last, Valarr spoke again, his voice quieter. “You’re calmer than the rest of us.”
You looked up at him. “I’m not calm.”
His brows lifted slightly. “You look it.”
He considered that for a moment before nodding. “I suppose it is.”
You checked the needles one last time before stepping back from the bed. “Let him sleep,” you murmured.
Valarr leaned back into the chair again, his gaze fixed on the steady rise and fall of Matarys’s chest.
After a moment, he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re here.”
The words caught you off guard.
You didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, you returned to the table, picking up the mortar once more and grinding the next measure of herbs. The slow rhythm filled the quiet room again while Prince Matarys slept between you.
You kept your head bent over your work, hoping the prince would not notice the sudden warmth spreading across your cheeks.
Evening had settled quietly over the Red Keep.
Your workroom—once a small storage chamber tucked into a quiet corridor—had slowly transformed over the past week into something far more familiar. The stone walls were now lined with even more wooden shelves borrowed from nearby rooms, each one crowded with jars, bundles of herbs tied with twine, small clay bowls, and carefully labelled vials of tinctures. A narrow table near the window served as your workspace, its surface dusted with dried leaves and faint rings left behind by cooling infusions.
The window itself stood half open, letting in the faint chill of the night air along with the distant sounds of the castle settling into the evening. Somewhere far below, a gate creaked closed. Voices echoed faintly along the courtyard before fading again.
Inside the room, the only steady sound was the soft scrape of your knife against wood.
You worked with slow patience, shaving thin curls from a small piece of pale ash wood that rested in your palm. The beginnings of a charm were already visible beneath the blade—simple looping lines meant to calm restless breath and quiet troubled dreams.
The castle had not yet begun to sleep, but your work for the day was nearly finished.
You reached for a small clay jar beside the table, dipping your fingers into a thick mixture of beeswax and crushed lavender before carefully sealing the lid. The salve would be ready by morning.
You had just set it aside when a knock sounded at the door.
It was soft, not the hurried pounding of a servant or the brisk authority of a maester. Whoever stood on the other side hesitated before knocking again, a little firmer this time.
You didn’t look up from the charm. “Come in.”
Prince Valarr stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him as though reluctant to disturb the stillness of the room.
Not the sharp exhaustion you had first seen when you arrived, when worry had hollowed his face and tightened every movement, but a deeper weariness that seemed to cling to him now that the worst of the fever had passed. His shoulders still held the weight of too many sleepless nights.
You set the knife down and brushed the wood shavings from your fingers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He blinked slightly, clearly caught off guard. Whether that was because of the lack of titles you used or because he had been caught out, you couldn't decide.
Your brow lifted. “People rarely come to find the healer at this hour when nothing is wrong.”
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, though it faded quickly. “Matarys is sleeping,” he said. “Your needles seem to have convinced his lungs to behave.”
“And the king’s fever has broken.”
You nodded once, satisfied. “That’s better.”
Valarr leaned one shoulder lightly against the closed door, watching you for a moment as though trying to decide whether to continue.
You waited, expecting him to continue with whatever the real reason he had come here for, it was actually the first time he had been here since you had met him.
After several seconds had passed, you spoke again. “So what is it?”
He exhaled softly through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that seemed unusually uncertain for a prince. “I was told you made a charm for Ser Donnel…”
Your eyes flicked toward the half-carved piece of wood in your hand. “I did,” you confirmed easily. “Why? Was I not allowed?”
“N-no, you are allowed to do whatever”, he assured quickly.
You studied him more carefully now. “You want one?”
He hesitated. For a long moment, it seemed as though he might dismiss the idea entirely and retreat behind the calm composure he wore so easily in the council chambers.
But then he sighed. “Yes.”
“Sit.” You gestured toward the chair beside the table.
He obeyed without argument, lowering himself into the wooden chair across from you. For a prince who spent most of his days surrounded by courtiers and advisors, he looked oddly relieved simply to sit in the small, cluttered room.
You picked up the knife again and turned the piece of wood in your fingers.
“You can sleep now,” you said casually, shaving another thin curl from the edge. “Your brother is improving. The worst has passed.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” he sighed, and you could see him watching the flames in the hearth out of the corner of your eye.
He leaned back slightly in the chair, resting his head briefly against the stone wall behind him. “But every time I close my eyes,” he said slowly, “I hear the coughing.”
“In my dreams,” he continued, his voice quieter now, “the fever returns. I wake up expecting someone to be pounding on the door.”
The room was silent for a breath as you considered his words. Then you resumed carving, the blade slid smoothly through the wood, shaping the small charm with careful, deliberate movements. “Sleep will come,” you said.
A faint, tired smile tugged at his mouth. “Not without help.”
You turned the wood slightly and began carving the first of the looping symbols, tiny, intricate details, each one different from the one before.
Valarr watched your hands as you worked. The steady rhythm of the knife against the wood filled the room, soft and unhurried. You brushed another curl of wood aside, gently blowing at the dust. The quiet stretched comfortably between you, broken only by the soft scrape of the blade and the distant sounds of the castle beyond the walls.
Eventually, Valarr leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Does it actually work?” he asked.
“The charm?” you glanced at him.
You considered the question before finally answering. “It helps.”
“That sounds suspiciously vague.” The tone of his voice this evening was light, a dash of teasing in it, as if the two of you were long-time companions. Though he was the person you had spent the most time with since arriving at the keep, he and Matarys, that is.
You glanced up at him, a hint of amusement in your eyes. “The charm reminds the mind to be still.”
“And if the mind refuses?”
“Then the lavender tea you’re about to drink will do the rest.”
His brows lifted. “You planned that already?”
“You looked like you needed it.”
Something in his expression softened at that.
You returned your attention to the charm, carving the final line carefully before turning the piece of wood over in your palm.
When you looked up again, you found him watching you—not with the distant focus he usually directed toward his brother’s sickbed, but with quiet curiosity.
He hesitated, then said, “You’re very calm.”
“You already told me that.” You snorted softly.
You set the knife down and reached for a thin cord beside the table. “I’ve just had more practice with sick people than you have,” you answered with a shrug.
“That’s not what I mean.”
Your fingers stilled slightly as you threaded the cord through the charm. “What do you mean?”
Valarr watched you for a moment before answering. “When I’m here,” he said slowly, “everything seems… quieter.”
The words hung between you. You weren’t entirely sure what to do with them, so you finished tying the cord and held the charm out to him. “Here.”
The charm was spiralled and neatly decorated with the symbols you'd carved. The thread you had picked was a soft leather strip, neatly braided and secured.
He took it from your hand like you were handing him something precious.
For a brief moment, your fingers brushed. The contact was light—barely more than a graze—, but it sent an unexpected warmth up your arm. Valarr seemed to feel it too. His hand lingered for a second before he pulled it back.
He studied the small carved symbol resting in his palm. “What do I do with it?”
“And it will make me sleep?”
You began pouring the tea you had made to aid yourself with sleep into two cups. The steam curled lazily upward as the liquid settled.
“And if it doesn’t?” he asked, looking up again, that faint smile returning.
“Then you can come back tomorrow and complain.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I might do that.”
The candlelight flickered gently across the room, catching in the pale strands of the silver streak in his hair and casting shifting shadows along the stone walls.
Carefully, you brought both cups over and handed him one before lowering yourself into the chair across from him. Your fingers curled around the warm clay as you breathed in the scent—lavender and honey with the faint bitterness of crushed bark beneath it.
For a moment, neither of you drank.
Valarr turned the cup slowly in his hands, studying the thin curls of steam rising from the surface as though they might hold the answer to something. “What’s in it?” he asked.
“Lavender. Honey. A little valerian root.”
“That sounds like it might taste terrible.”
That earned another quiet laugh from him, softer this time. Still, he raised the cup and took a cautious sip. His brow twitched almost immediately.
You tried—and failed—not to smile. “I warned you.”
He swallowed with some effort, glancing down at the cup again as if reconsidering his life choices. “You did.”
“But you’ll finish it anyway.”
He looked back up at you then, something amused flickering in his eyes. “You sound very certain.”
“I think a prince of the realm can manage a cup of tea.”
His smile widened slightly. “Perhaps you know me too well already.”
The words slipped easily into the quiet space between you, and for a moment, you were aware of how small the room suddenly felt. You lowered your gaze to your cup, taking a slow sip. The warmth spread through your chest almost immediately, easing some of the tension you hadn’t realised you were carrying.
Across from you, Valarr had leaned back in the chair, the long line of his legs stretching slightly in front of him. The earlier tension in his shoulders seemed to have eased now that he had stopped standing guard outside a sickbed.
For the first time since you had arrived at the Red Keep, he looked almost… ordinary.
Not the prince everyone watched so carefully. Not the heir burdened with the weight of a kingdom. Just a tired young man sitting in a quiet room, drinking tea beside someone who wasn’t asking anything of him.
He noticed you watching. “What?”
“That never means nothing.”
You hesitated, then said honestly, “You look different when you’re not worrying.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m still worrying.”
“Okay, less loudly then.”
He considered that, rolling the cup lightly between his hands. “That might be the tea,” he smirked.
His gaze drifted around the small chamber—the shelves crowded with jars, the bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters, the cluttered table where curls of pale wood still rested from the charm you had carved. “It doesn’t feel like the rest of the castle,” he said quietly, clearly referring to the room.
“That’s because it isn’t.”
“How did you manage that?”
You shrugged slightly. “Rooms become what people do inside them.” It was something that the old woman always used to tell you.
“And what do you do in here?”
“And sometimes,” you admitted, lifting your cup slightly, “drink terrible tea.”
Valarr huffed softly. “That explains it.”
The quiet that followed was comfortable.
Outside, the sounds of the castle had faded further as night deepened. The corridor beyond your door had fallen silent, and the only movement in the room now was the slow flicker of candlelight and the drifting steam from your cups.
Valarr took another sip of the tea—bravely, you thought.
For a moment, he simply watched the candle flame sway. Then he finally said, “It's peaceful.”
You glanced at him. “Peaceful is not usually a word people use for rooms full of medicine.”
“It is tonight.” His gaze lifted to meet yours. There was something there that you could not place. “And I think,” he continued, “you have something to do with that.”
The words caught you slightly off guard, your fingers tightening a little around the warm cup. It is only natural, you told yourself, you are a healer after all, healers bring calm.
“You’ve had a long week,” you said lightly. “Anyone who lets you sit down and drink tea would seem calming.”
“Maybe.” But he didn’t look convinced.
The silence that followed stretched just long enough for the warmth in your cheeks to begin creeping upward. You lowered your gaze again, pretending to study the tea.
Across from you, Valarr finished the last of his cup. When he set it down on the table between you, his movements were slower than before, the edge of his exhaustion finally beginning to catch up with him.
“Perhaps it will work,” he murmured.
You tilted your head slightly. “You’re already sounding more hopeful.”
He leaned back in the chair, his expression softer now than when he had first knocked on your door. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I just needed to sit here for a while.”
And something about the way he said it made your heart beat just a little faster than it should have.
At last, he stood. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
You nodded once, shaking away the dizzy feeling his words had given you. “Sleep well, my prince.”
He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. When he glanced back at you, something softer lingered in his expression.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I will.”
And when he slipped out into the corridor, the small charm still resting in his hand, the room felt strangely quieter than before.
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