Tags/Warnings: Nothing really, except a bad case of social ineptitude and horrible flirting. This is a meet-cute. Age Gap with Older Man/Younger Woman, though that is kind of par for the course for me. Daddy Issues.
Words: 1.6k (short and sweet and silly)
Everyday, you marvelled at the fact that Maekar Targaryen – the DILFiest DILF to ever DILF – had not laughed in your face and turned you down when you’d begged him for his number, stuttering around the words and growing beet-red beneath his brother’s amused gaze.
You’d been in a café with your friend – she’d discovered it recently, swore up and down they had the best pastries she’d ever tasted – when you’d seen them enter and sit down, their legs impossibly long in comparison to the plush seats.
Immediately, you’d started drooling over him. The blond one. His dark-haired brother was very handsome as well, but you could see the ring glinting on his finger, and besides, he looked much too put together, much too perfect for someone like you.
Maekar’s scowl, his nervous shifting, the glare he shot at the low table – having to bend so much troubled his back, you’d learn – it was catnip to you.
You watched them, watched him, from that day forth. They appeared to work nearby, dressed smartly for white collar jobs, though the width of their shoulders belied it. Every week they came. Same day, same time. Like clockwork.
And, like clockwork, you would go. Tanselle would accompany you sometimes, but most often you’d go in alone, sit down in a corner with your laptop and pretend to work while sneaking glances at a man old enough to be your father.
You would have never approached him, never would have done anything about your silly infatuation with a stranger, had it not been for Tanselle’s encouragement.
“If nothing else, he’ll be flattered,” she’d said around a smile. “You’re young and pretty.” The way she added the last part had you hear what she meant. And he is neither of those.
Not young – at least fourty, you thought, probably older. Not pretty. Even you could agree.
He was attractive, arresting, but not pretty. Pockmarks divoting his cheeks – scars that his beard could not hide. A long, severe nose. Frown lines. He was a map of his life and you desperately wanted to learn it.
You took the first step on a warm summer day. You’d arrived precisely five minutes before they would. It was pathetic that you knew their – his – schedule so well. Along with your own order, you asked the barista to make a cold brew, large, with added caramel. “For the blonde man who’ll come in in a few minutes.”
The young man at the counter shot you a queer look, an eyebrow raised. He knew who you were talking about. Really, him? The scowling old man? You shrugged helplessly. I like what I like.
Heart hammering inside your ribcage, you watched from your seat as he sat down with his colleague.
(His brother.)
When he made to order, the barista gave him his usual. “Already paid for,” he added, and pointed you out, to your horror. Somehow you had not thought about that.
You were a wreck beneath his gaze. Shaking hands, trembling lips, mouth gone dry as soon as his violet eyes fixed on you. What do you want, they said, so blunt that embarrassed tears almost stung along your lash line.
Instead of succumbing to them, your face bloomed red with the sudden violence of a wave crashing against the tide.
You waved awkwardly, not knowing what else to do and secretly wanting to die inside.
Socially inept. One of the nicer things you had been called in your life.
You felt Tanselle’s incredulous eyes on your nape. Your friend had certainly seen you struggle to interact with people, but not this much.
The dark-haired man at his side appeared to understand your clumsy attempt at flirtation better than its recipient did, smiling slightly and clapping his companion on his back with twinkling eyes.
“You have a little admirer, it seems,” you overheard him say. They probably didn’t think you could hear.
But you’d always had keen ears. To your detriment, mostly.
She’s so weird, isn’t she? Such a nerd. Don’t her parents love her enough?
“Fuck off.” It was not the first time you heard him speak, but to hear him now… your knees went weak. You were glad you were already sitting, or you would have stumbled like an idiot. “She looks Aerion’s age.”
“And?” There was a wicked half-smile on the dark-haired man’s – Baelor, you recalled – face. “You’re not eighty, Maekar, and Aerion is a grown man.”
He exhaled through his nose, huffing like an annoyed bull. You’d seen that look on him several times already. The man you were infatuated with – Maekar – was gruff and sulky.
Just like your fa–
Nope, don’t finish that sentence.
Tanselle’s dark hair fell into your vision as she leaned towards you. “Go to him.”
Hesitantly, you glanced back at her. Your breath was stuttering already, just thinking about it. Are you sure? She only made a shooing motion.
When you stood, your legs were unsteady, wobbly like your grandmother’s termite-bitten oak table. You counted the strides – seven, it was seven – it took you to walk over to their table, trying to think of what to say.
Was the order right? You knew it was. You’d watched him get this exact coffee for weeks. But you couldn’t say that.
Does it taste good? He hadn’t even taken a sip yet. And it must, if he returned to it every time.
Come here often? Even worse.
You were still undecided when you stopped short of running into the tabletop. You looked at him, at Maekar, at this man. You had never asked anyone out in your life. And now you were starting with someone so intimidating, so attractive that your tongue felt like lead inside your mouth.
“Number?” you blurted out, cringed and started again. Oh gods, fuck. “C-can I have your number?” you asked, wringing your hands. Do I seem weird? Oh gods, I’m a creep.
“You’re really handsome,” you added lamely.
There was a look of utter confusion on his face. He looked at you, your face, devoid of lines, youthful, sweet.
Then, your shirt, a graphic tee of the Fellowship of the Ring.
Fuck. You should’ve dressed prettier. Like a woman. Why had you chosen your decade-old comfort shirt? Well, because it’s your comfort shirt.
You loved Lord of the Rings, had been obsessed ever since you’d first seen it with your father. Just one more thing that had set you apart from other girls your age who liked things that girls liked. Always the nerd, you were. Always the odd one out.
(Later, you’d find out that he’d stared at the shirt not because it was strange, but because he loved those movies as well.)
“Me?” he said, not quite a question, not quite a statement. “You are asking for my number?”
You nodded, feeling like you were close to tears. Someone kill me.
“Because you think I’m handsome?” He sounded incredulous. Like he couldn’t believe it. You shifted on your feet, trying not to think of how Tanselle was watching you.
“Y-yeah.” You tilted your head, peering at him, at his brother who seemed to be trying very hard not to smile.
“Brother, if you don’t give this sweet girl your number, I will do it for you. This is just what you need.” The last part, the dark-haired man said more quietly.
Something seemed to occur to him and he stood abruptly. “Why don’t you take my seat? I’ve just remembered something urgent at the office. Have a nice break, Maekar.”
Maekar glared at him, but made no attempt to stop him. You knew that particular brand of defeat that he wore on his face – the look of a man who had been outplayed by someone who knew him far too well.
You hovered, unsure. “What are you waiting for?” he told you in a huff, exhaling roughly. “Baelor won’t let me hear the end of it if I botch this now.”
You stared blankly. “Sit down,” he murmured, softer. You glanced back at Tanselle, saw her wave you off, a silent go on, and sat down. “Would you like anything?” he asked.
“I really like the pastries here. And a hot chocolate would be nice. Coffee’s too bitter.”
You hoped your sweet tooth didn’t make you sound childish.
(It didn’t. Maekar had often thought the same, though he preferred not to let others know that the harsh Anvil despised coffee for being too bitter – something that was, with considerable frequency, muttered about him. Fucking fools.)
You sat with him and you talked – or rather, you rambled and he listened, occasionally throwing in a brusk comment – and when you looked at your watch, you saw that over an hour had passed.
When you tried to stand, to apologise for keeping him for so long, he–
Well, it looked like a smile.
“What’s the rush, hmm?” he said. “I haven’t given you my number, yet. That’s what you came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?”
He gave you his number. The first text he sent you was an invitation to lunch the next day.
Despite each and every one of your blunders, your nerdy rants about video games, about science fiction and fantasy, about things that were quite meaningless to him, you continued seeing each other.
Your fourth date was supposed to be dinner at a fancy restaurant.
You’d been so nervous you’d cried, and your eyes were still wet when you opened the door to see him standing there, in dark shirtsleeves, so handsome your heart seized.
He took one look at you, your red face, your sweet dress, your attempt at looking presentable.
He kissed you. Ravished you. As though the sight of you had awakened a beast inside of him.
And, well, you never did make it to that dinner.
Instead, he held you on his lap, tasting your mouth like the sweetest wine. Somehow both the most undone and the most patient you’d ever seen him, taking his time to reassure you, to make you melt into his touch.
With him, slowly but surely, you lost your fears, your nervousness. You did not change, not precisely. You simply... blossomed.
Hi! Could I request some angst for Maekar Targaryen? I was thinking maybe after the tragedy with the trail of seven and after his brother died. Maekar obviously grieving and giving himself the fault for the way it played out and then his wife tried to comfort him, being there for him but in his grief he turns angry at her and the world and just snaps at her, says some things he shouldn’t have and his sensitive wife cries and is very sad. But with a happy ending please? Thanks for considering 🥰
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Be My Peace
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Summary: Maekar feels horrible for how the trial went and the death of his brother, and when you just want to help, he decides to take it out on the one person he shouldn't have
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x F.Reader
Warnings: angst, but happy ending, religious guilt if you squint, Maekar is a little mean, but he feels bad for it
Notes: I'm not the biggest fan of Maekar so he might be a little out of character for this sorry, hope you can still enjoy it
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The weight of an invisible crown was heavier than the weight of his mace that had been in his hands.
In the dim, flickering candlelight of his solar in Summerhall, Prince Maekar Targaryen was sitting motionless. He didn't look like the strong anvil everyone considered him as, he looked more like a statue, hard edged and cracking. The silence within the room was physically pressing on his shoulders, echoing the sickening crunch of Baelor's - no, Valarr's helm - cracking under a blow never meant for him.
He was the fourth son. He had spent his life being the sturdy shadow of Baelor's sun. Baelor Breakspear was the hope of Westros, the man meant to lead the realm into a golden age. And Maekar, in his stubborn pride and prickly need to prove he was just as much as Targaryen as his brother, had been the eclipse.
I killed him.
The thought hadn't just poked the back of his mind, it had erupted and consumed every waking thought and restless night. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back at that trial. The vibration in his arm when his weapon connected with the back of Baelor's head. He fought for the honor of his house, to protect his son, to punish the hedge knight who dared strike his boy. But the Gods had only been cruel, making them return home with not only a loss to his pride but loss to his heart.
His jaw tightened. He was a man built for war and duty, not for the soft complexity of grief. He didn't know how to weep, so instead he used his guilt to ferment rage and bitterness. He hated the knight, he hated his son for yielding, he hated the world for continuing on while the best man became nothing more than smoke and ash.
The heavy oak doors creaked open, a sliver of light and warmth cutting through his gloom. You had stepped in quietly, carrying a tray of his favourite wine and a plate of bread you knew he wouldn't be bothered to even have a crumb of. You had been his wife for years, an arrangement that first started off for convience but slowly turned into one of love and understanding. You knew the way guilt bit into him better than anyone. Usually it was a silent, stoic thing. But tonight, it was more like a storm crumbling on an already leaking dam.
"Maekar?" You whispered, knowing that what he needed right now was just something to fill the silence of his thoughts, "you've been sitting in the dark for hours. Please drink something."
He didn't turn, "leave it."
"The children were asking for you," you continued, stepping a little closer, placing the tray on the side table. You reached out, hand hovering over his broad shoulder, "they are worried, I am worried. Baelor would not want you to wither away, blaming yourself for the tragedy. The Gods are-"
The mention of his brother's name was the spark to the fire. Maekar stood abruptly from his chair, the heavy wood skitting and scraping against the ground in an ear splitting noise. He turned towards you, eyes burning with a violent and terrifying light.
"The Gods?" He spat, the words jagged, "the Gods didn't swing the mace, that was me. I broke the finest man this family has seen in a hundred years, and you come in here with bread and false pity?"
You flinched but didn't shout back, "it was a trial by combat, Maekar. Accidents happen in the heat of-"
"Accidents?!" He took another step forward, his towering frame shadowing over the dim light within the room, "my brother is dead because I was too stubborn to see the truth! Because I had to the 'strong' one. And you...you stand there with your pity, acting as if a kind word can mend a shattered skull."
"I'm trying to help you!" You exclaimed back, voice trembling with the force. Never in your marriage had Maekar ever snapped at you like he was now. You argued of course, like all partners did, but this was to a new kind of degree, "I am your wife, I love you."
"Then leave me be," he said, tone final and short, "I don't need your softness or pity. Your 'love' is a weakness I can't afford while drowning in his blood. Go back to your embroidery and prayers and stay out of a man's grief. You're just like the rest of them; useless when the world breaks."
The words punctured your heart. It wasn't just because he yelled it; it was also the sheer contempt in his eyes. He saw you as a nuisance, a fraying thread in his armor. Your breath hitched, a sob catching in your throat. You didn't argue back, you simply couldn't. The tears had blurred your vision before you turned and hurried out of the room, the sounds of your footsteps echoing in the hallway, followed by the soft yet heartbreaking sound of your weeping.
Maekar stood in the center of the room, chest heaving. The silence had returned heavy but now was even more empty. He looked at his hands, the hands that killed a future king and rehearing the words he said to the one who stood by him in his darkest hour.
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An hour had passed, although it felt like a lifetime.
Maekar found himself outside the bedchamber. He hadn't meant to arrive outside the door, hadn't remembered how he got here. He heard no more sobbing, he hadn't actually heard anything.
He pushed the door open. You were sitting by the window, looking out at the moonlight fields of Summerhall. You didn't turn your head when he entered, no one ever entered this bedchamber except for a servant or him, and you had already retired your servants for the night. Your shoulders slumped, you looked smaller than he remembered.
"I am a fool," he said, his voice was quiet now, more what you were used to from him.
You didn't move, "you're hurting."
"That is no excuse," he walked over to you, movements slightly stiff. He stopped a few feet away, afraid by just existing he was hurting you more, "I've always been the Anvil but tonight...I feel like I'm being hammered into simply nothing. I took it out on the one person who didn't deserve my bile."
He sank to his knees in front of your chair, a position that he wouldn't be caught dead in unless it was for you. He reached out, his calloused fingers finding yours.
"I cannot bring him back," he whispered, looking up at you with eyes that no longer held fire and instead a profound sadness, "I don't know how to be the man I need to be now. But I know I can't do it if you aren't with me. I am so sorry, please forgive me; for my words, and the man I became."
You looked down at him, seeing the cracks of the walls he tried so hard to keep up. You reached out, smoothing the hair back from his forehead, your thumb wiping at a stray tear he didn't know had fallen.
"You are not alone, Maekar," you said softly, pulling his head towards your lap where he decided to rest his cheek, "you don't have to be the Anvil every second of everyday, sometimes you can just be mine."
Maekar closed his eyes, his large arm wrapping around your waist as he finally let his eyes shut. The guilt was still there, a permanent mark on his soul that wouldn't ever go away, but since the trial, his lungs had felt like they were full of ash. But now he felt like he could breathe in some fresh air. He held onto you tightly, anchored by the presence of you, as the quiet finally became a peace instead of a prison.
The council dismisses her for a moment, meanwhile you meet an adventurous boy.
Maekar being arrogant (with feelings). Egg and Reader becoming friends.
1.4k
The sense of tension grew after they received your dress; the fact of having you for themselves after all these years intrigued the men in the room.
After that, your presence was dismissed, likely so they could assess the reality of the situation and the challenge they would have to face from now on.
You felt their eyes on you perhaps evaluating, perhaps judging, perhaps simply observing. It was difficult to convince yourself that you had to stay, it was your right.
Now wandering through the corridors like a lost spirit, your eyes taking in the life of this place. Far from councils, arrogant lords, self-important maesters, and a certain arrogant prince. Perhaps life outside that sept would be different of course it would change but you didn’t know if it would be for better or worse.
You could hear footsteps in the corridors perhaps it was them.
But no, it was only a little boy, the same one you saw this morning. Now you could see his features clearly. He looked around, searching for someone, but there was no one else besides you. Then he gathered the courage to approach you.
“Excuse me, my lady… are you… are you the new lady?” the young boy said, almost whispering.
“I… perhaps yes, perhaps no,” you replied playfully.
He laughed.
“And you, my young boy, who are you?”
Now he seemed a bit surprised. It appeared obvious to anyone who looked but not to you.
“I am Aegon. Aegon V of House Targaryen, my lady.”
You felt your eyes widen slightly, though you tried to maintain your composure.
“Of—of course, my prince, I’m sorry for not recognizing—”
He interrupted your curtsy.
“You don’t have to. I… I wouldn’t like that.”
“Can we pretend I’m not a prince?”
The question sounded a bit absurd anyone else would refuse and say it wasn’t possible.
But why not?
“Very well, if that is what you wish.”
Aegon’s eyes lit up at your answer. Perhaps you were the first person to agree to such a thing.
“I heard you grew up in the Vale of Arryn. What is it like to live there?”
“Well, my prince—”
“Call me Egg."
“Egg? Why?"
“It’s a nickname my brothers gave me, but only my friends call me that.”
“So now we are friends?” You smiled at how quickly things unfolded.
As strange as it was, among all those lords, the boy had treated you with more kindness more dignity.
“Very well, the Vale is quite different from here. It’s cooler, very windy. The clothing is different mostly blues, greys, and whites.”
“Here we wear red and black almost all the time. But I don’t like these clothes, they’re tight, and I can’t go on adventures.”
“You like adventures, my prin—Egg?”
“I love them, but my father scolds me if he catches me causing trouble.”
“And who exactly is your father? I mean no offense, but I hope you understand my position.”
“Prince Maekar. He is my father.”
You felt a chill settle in your stomach subtle, but unmistakable.
That prince… how could such an arrogant man have such an adorable son?
“Ah, of course. I mean, you are quite alike.”
“I wish we weren’t…” He looked away, seemingly embarrassed by the comment.
Perhaps you shouldn’t have compared them.
“I don’t know this place very well. I would love to explore these corridors,” you continued, “but I suppose no adventurer can be found here—”
Aegon looked at you quickly.
“I—I can help you.”
And he truly did. He led you through various corridors filled with paintings and tapestries that told stories of wars, dragons, conquests, and more.
Aegon seemed happy to have someone so interested in what he had to say a child so full of life, chattering about everything.
He showed you the corridors, the closed rooms, places permitted and forbidden to you.
You could say hours passed. The sky had turned shades of blue and orange.
Until a guard found you near the stables. Egg was talking about his family’s horses when the guard’s presence caught your attention.
“My prince, forgive the intrusion, but this lady’s presence is required at the council,” said the young guard.
You and Egg exchanged a quick glance, and then you said your goodbyes. The boy seemed a bit saddened by your departure.
“…I wish you could stay. I hope they are fair.”
POV: Maekar
Maekar could not believe it. They would truly accept that girl’s lies. His brother was so convinced that he had already spoken to the King.
“Brother, I ask that you look at the evidence and draw your own conclusions. Even before she and the maester arrived at King’s Landing, I had investigations made,” Baelor said, trying to calm his younger brother, who remained unconvinced.
“The maesters of the Citadel sent documents about House Steel everything about that family. They did have a girl. The ages match, the appearances match you yourself have seen that family.”
“Damn it, Baelor. Lord Steel could have had bastards like any other man. But to allow one to claim the lands, the mines that is madness,” Maekar said angrily. He did not wish to seem disrespectful to his brother, but this was too much.
“Maekar, she proved herself to be more than a bastard. She brought both material and immaterial proof. There are also reports from servants about the girl as a child in the Steel Hills—”
“Lord Torn is dead. Everyone who was there died with him, his wife, his children, all of them. Do not tell me otherwise, because on that cursed night… I lost a friend. A great friend.”
There was pain in his words. Maekar had never overcome the loss.
“I knew of your friendship with him. I wanted your help to confirm this story, but you seem unhappy by all this.”
“Unhappy? I am not unhapp—I am furious,” Maekar said, looking at Baelor. “Furious that that girl dares to stain Lord Torn’s honor. He fought beside us.”
Maekar remembered his closeness with Edward. Though he was Baelor’s age, they had become friends after the rebellion. Edward Torn had once saved his life in battle, he would remember that until the day he died.
Despite Maekar’s words, Prince Baelor had already decided to bring the evidence before King Daeron. His decision would seal her fate and that of House Steel.
You were escorted back into the council chamber the same as that morning, though now it felt warmer. Perhaps it was the fire… or the tension filling the room.
Not everyone noticed your presence at first. Lords exchanged glances and murmured among themselves. But there was a new presence one far more important: His Majesty, King Daeron II, also known as Daeron the Good.
The King stood at the center of the great table, his hands resting firmly upon it, observing everything and everyone.
You approached and curtsied not only to him, but also to Princes Baelor and Maekar at his side.
A servant guided you to your seat beside a lord.
The King raised his hand, and as expected, silence fell. He took a deep breath and placed his hand back on the table. Before him lay documents letters from the Citadel and across Westeros.
He began to speak.
“I fear that a single piece of evidence may lie… but many rarely conspire together.”
“I have heard numerous accounts, read dozens of letters and records. And I see that you, my young lady, have come from far away. I would know what drove you here beyond lands.”
Your hands intertwined in your lap, your throat slightly dry. You lifted your gaze and took a breath before answering.
“Your Majesty, I could say I did not come here for that… but it would be a lie. The lands, the name, the house, they all carry weight.”
“But above all, I came because I wished to know more about my family. I lived a decade believing I had been forgotten. So, if I may ask for anything beyond what has already been said it is simply to be recognized as one of them."
King Daeron seemed intrigued. During his reign, few cases like this had arised and yet, something about this one was different.
He could not simply grant her all of Steel Hill. His decision would not rest solely on whether she was a daughter. Denying her might breed injustice or unrest. Accepting her might bring greater complications. Was she someone who would honor the name or stain it?
Silence settled over the room.
At last, the King spoke again.
“I know there are doubts in this room and they are not unfounded.”
“A lineage is not something to be accepted lightly. Names carry weight… and consequences.”
“But what has been presented does not rely on a single word or memory. We have records from the Citadel, accounts that, though simple, converge and marks of time that cannot be ignored.” “If we deny all this, we are not being cautious… we are choosing to ignore what is plausible, simply because it is inconvenient.”
“And it is not the Crown’s duty to protect convenience. It is to protect what is just… and what is true enough to be recognized.”
“House Steel did not perish that night. And I will not allow it to be treated as though it did.”
Then the King looked directly at you, his gaze firm.
“I recognize you as the rightful heir to your name and your lands.”
Those words fell over you like a breeze. Your body had been rigid throughout the speech, but now it felt as though the weight of the world had lifted from your shoulders.
I… I am a Lady Steel…
At last, you belonged to something. You could be recognized as part of your family.
“But recognition is not exemption.”
“You will prove, before the Crown and the lords, that you are worthy not only of your blood, but of the legacy you claim.”
It's a spoiler, but it's a good spoiler. Just some trash that writes and I found it funny. Maekar is jealous.
Weeks had passed since your legitimization as House Steel; everyone in King's Landing knew about you. The big news of the season, the kind that would last for months.
But you didn't like all the attention, feeling constantly watched. You could act like a Lady, but deep down you felt out of place in that role. You were raised to be one thing, and being assigned to another is difficult.
Due to the now numerous meetings and small councils to gain allies, you stopped celebrating your ascension. You didn't mind, but King's Landing loved a party, so during the week you were informed about a ball in your honor.
At first you were incredulous. Why would they do this? What did they want? You had said you would be their ally without the slightest problem.
But the reality was that you had never been to a ball before, you knew how to prepare a lady for one, how to behave, and what to say.
The worst part was that you didn't know how to dance a single song, not a single one. In the sept where she lived, they didn't teach that, only rules, rules, and more rules.
But to reassure her heart, the ball would be postponed for another week to resolve some things, but until then she would have to find a way to learn to dance. Even if it was just one song.
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After considering who she could ask for help with her little problem, Prince Baelor and Maekar were out of the question; she would never have that courage. Not even her own children. She thought of a servant or knight, even an old lord.
No one to help her, she was beginning to hear internal noises. It was something so futile, but it could embarrass her in the future.
At that moment she was in the old library looking for something to help her. Is there a book that teaches her to dance? - What a joke.
"What are you doing?" It's just little Prince Aegon, always so furtive.
"By the Sevens, my prince, you almost scared me to death!" she says, her hand on her chest. "Well, I have a little problem... but I shouldn't tell you about it, you wouldn't understand."
Aegon frowned, reminding her of her father.
"What do you mean you wouldn't understand? Is it a woman's problem?" His question sounded like he was interrogating me, perhaps he was.
"Well, not exactly, promise you won't make fun of me."
"Why? Is it something so bad?" He seemed amused now.
"Your uncle, Prince Baelor, insists on holding that ball in my honor. But I... I don't know how to dance." She said the last sentence almost in a whisper.
"That's all? I thought it was something serious."
"But it is very serious, how am I going to dance if I don't know how? Someone will probably ask, and what am I going to do?"
"Don't worry, I'll help you, my lady."
"You know how to dance?!" Now she felt humiliated, a boy knew how and she didn't. "No, I'll ask my father to help you—"
"NO"—"I mean, you don't need to go that far, your father is really busy with kingdom matters."
"Then ask Lord Lyonel, he's the best dancer I know."
Before you could even protest, Aegon ran out of the library into the courtyard. You followed him, deep down you knew what he was going to do and intended to avoid embarrassment.
Lord Lyonel was in town for a small festival and had been called to discuss agreements with lords of the region. You had seen him earlier in the courtyard, talking to other lords, and then he saw you.
His smile widened, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and he quickly left the courtyard after that.
You didn't want to see him again so soon, but your big mouth had to speak up to Aegon. You knew he didn't mean any harm, he's just a mischievous boy.
Unfortunately, you couldn't run; your dress and demeanor wouldn't allow such a maneuver, so the boy had arrived even before you. He's talking to Lord Lyonel; you wanted to crawl into the first hole you saw.
Trying to hide behind the pillars to spy, now they're laughing. Damn your big mouth, you thought to yourself.
Now the boy was coming towards you.
"He wants to help you, my lady. In fact, he was happy to be able to help you with this."
"My prince—" Lyonel was coming towards you.
"I can help with this problem if you wish, my lady. I could take you somewhere else, but calm down if you want."
"Yes, she wants to," Aegon said before you could even refuse.
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He was familiar with the court, so it wouldn't be a problem, right? He's a married man; it would be less bad if they talked about it.
Thousands of thoughts raced through your head until you realized you had arrived at the place.
"Don't worry, I really like dancing, something your spirit clings to in order to manifest itself."
"I think so, my lord."
POV: Maekar
"Where the hell is Aegon?" he asked a passing servant.
"My lord, I saw him with Lady Steel a few minutes ago, but then they went out to the courtyard."
"Great, now she's trying to trick a poor child." He grumbled.
Walking down the corridors to reach the stairs, he heard laughter from a disused hall. Almost immediately, he thought people were doing something lewd and immediately wanted to fight and perhaps punish them for such audacity.
Approaching the half-open door, he saw her with Lord Baratheon, but were they…dancing?
"Don't be afraid to step on my feet, it's natural at first."
"I'm sorry, I told you I didn't know anything about this."
"By then you'll know all the dances, don't worry, I'll be the first to ask for your hand to dance."
Perhaps Maekar shouldn't be standing here watching something so silly, almost shameful, but he still felt strange. Why was she laughing so much? She seemed like a different person, but in his presence she became that quiet Lady, as if being in his presence bothered her.
Then Aegon suddenly appeared behind Maekar, seeing his father spying on someone, or rather, her.
"Father, what are you doing?"
"Nothing... I thought someone was here, but there's nothing. Let's get out of here."
Actually, Aegon knew you and Lord Lyonel were there, but his father's reaction surprised him; he had never seen his father like this.
The reader arrives in Porto Real after receiving an invitation to the small council.
This chapter may seem short because I intend for them to make the decision in the next one. But I promise that in chapter 4, there will be a rather bold proposal for the reader.
Prince Maekar being a rude idiot.
2.2k words
POV: Baelor
The sound of knocking at the door of his solar stirred him from his thoughts.
A servant entered and announced the presence of Maester Yormwell, his counselor and personal physician for many years.
Baelor allowed him to enter.
Yormwell stepped inside and gave the customary bow.
“Your Highness, I hope I am not interrupting your well-deserved rest.”
“Do not worry,” Baelor replied. “I was only answering a few letters, as usual. Normally you come in the morning. What do I owe this unexpected visit?” he asked, tilting his head as he finished writing the last letter.
“Well, my prince, the matter I bring is somewhat complicated, I must say. I received a letter from a maester in the Vale of Arryn.”
Yormwell approached Baelor’s desk and handed him the already opened letter.
The prince, now intrigued, took it and began to read. His brows slowly drew together, eyes fixed upon the words as if he could hardly believe them. The letter seemed to be a desperate plea for counsel.
“When did you receive this letter?” he asked. The question was not meant as reprimand, but to remove any doubts about its truth.
“My lord, I received it a week ago while confirming my suspicions. Lord Torn truly had a daughter. I confirmed it with a maester of the Citadel. The last of that family’s line, a survivor of the attack during the rebellion.”
“And your evidence is certain? Those hills… the territory is overrun with invaders,” Baelor said, hoping it might still be some cruel mistake.
“I sent a letter to an old servant who survived. He wrote back and confirmed the girl’s existence. She was only five years old at the time.”
Baelor leaned back slightly.
“How did they manage to keep her hidden all this time? And what do they intend with this?”
“Your Highness will have the final word on the matter. What you decide will weigh greatly, especially as Hand of the King.”
Baelor drew a deep breath.
He had known the Steel family. Good people. Loyal to the Crown. They had provided resources during the Blackfyre conflict, and Lord Torn had fought beside him and his brother.
A small house, born of knights during the Dance of the Dragons, surviving through countless trials and proving remarkably resilient, only to fall through betrayal by their own allies.
“Inform the council,” Baelor said at last. “I will write to this maester and ask that the girl be brought to King’s Landing. Once they arrive, we shall convene the Small Council to discuss the heir of Steel Hill. I want every member present that day.”
“Even Prince Maekar?”
“Including Maekar. He traveled often to Steel Hill before the rebellion. I will need his insight.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Baelor watched Yormwell depart.
He hoped the evidence was true. Naming an heir was never simple, and this case was even more delicate. A lone girl would be difficult for the council to accept.
Yet Steel Hill needed a guardian.
And perhaps the Seven had found one.
After receiving word that her presence was required in King’s Landing, Maester Soller ordered her belongings prepared for the journey.
There were few things to gather: three modest dresses of a septa, her books for the long road ahead, and one small dress, the last material reminder of her house, bearing a small sigil of silver and gray flowers.
There was nothing else to take.
When novices join a sept, they surrender worldly possessions to become septas. And you had never known life beyond the sept. It had always been your entire world.
The maesters had forbidden you to leave when you were a child. It was too dangerous to wander alone.
Now you understood why.
Deep down you knew they had been right. Yet curiosity burned inside your heart. You longed to see the world you had read about in so many books.
The journey to King’s Landing took nearly three and a half weeks.
Though you were tired and sore from sitting for hours on end, seeing the world beyond the sept filled you with wonder. A strange feeling grew within you, a desire to explore, to discover everything.
People. Cities. Animals. Cultures.
You passed through towns you had only known from books: Harrenhal, Stokeworth, Santagar.
It felt as if the stories you had read since childhood were coming alive before your eyes.
Arriving at King’s Landing filled you with both excitement and dread. Countless possibilities ran through your mind, many of them ending in failure.
But those thoughts faded when you saw the banners of House Targaryen.
Common folk, wandering knights, lords and ladies filled the streets. Still, you could not ignore the stench of the city. Filth lay scattered everywhere.
You had never imagined King’s Landing quite like this.
As the carriage approached the castle gates, your heart began to race. Maester Soller noticed your nervousness and tried to calm you, telling you not to appear weak.
Though secretly, you suspected he was reassuring himself.
Finally, after they were granted entry, servants awaited you in the stables.
Maester Soller stepped down first and approached Yormwell, who stood beside them.
Now they waited for you.
You feared their judgment, your clothing, your manners, everything.
When you stepped down from the carriage, the sky was gray from recent rains, leaving mud throughout the stable yard.
Your boots sank into the wet earth, yet you kept your posture steady.
“Welcome,” Yormwell said calmly. “I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”
“It was peaceful, thanks to the Seven. My apologies if we have kept you waiting long.”
Soller introduced you, mentioning only your name for the moment—no titles, not yet.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Yormwell said. “The council has not begun. We are waiting for the lords to arrive. Please allow the servants to take your belongings to your chambers.”
You had already picked up your small case, hoping to avoid confusion. A young servant girl approached to take it.
“Only this, my lady?” she asked, somewhat puzzled.
“Yes, only this. I do not possess many things.”
“Forgive me. I did not mean to embarrass you.”
“Do not worry. I am not offended,” you said gently.
While the maesters spoke and the servants gathered Soller’s belongings, your eyes wandered through the large stable.
Knights tending to their horses, servants brushing coats and saddles.
Then your gaze landed upon a child hiding nearby. He did not appear to be a servant. Quite the opposite, he was well dressed.
Black clothing trimmed with red, though what stood out most was his silver-white hair.
You had never seen hair like that before.
The boy looked startled when he realized you had noticed him. You smiled and gave a small wave, careful not to reveal his hiding place.
He smiled back.
Maester Soller then called your attention, asking you to follow them to the Small Council chamber.
You had never entered a palace before. And to your first be the castle of the royal family made everything even more overwhelming.
Your eyes barely rested more than a few seconds in one place.
Paintings. Carpets. Even the chandeliers fascinated you.
For a moment, you felt like a child given a new toy.
Servants filled every corridor, cleaning, organizing, serving.
Then something truly captured your attention.
The palace gardens.
Flowers decorated the great pillars, and benches stood where courtiers might sit and admire the beauty.
Suddenly you were pulled from your thoughts.
“Dear, Maester Yormwell asked you a question,” Soller said.
“I’m sorry,” you replied. “I did not hear it. I was distracted by the beauty of the garden. Could you repeat it, please?”
“I only asked if this was your first time in a palace,” Yormwell said with a light laugh.
“Though I believe I already know the answer.”
“Forgive me. I have never been inside one before. Only from afar when we passed by Harrenhal. But nothing compares to this.”
You paused to breathe.
“I have heard so much about this castle, but seeing it in person is something entirely different.”
At last they arrived at the Small Council chamber.
The doors opened, and a servant announced your arrival.
Some lords were seated, others standing.
A servant approached to remove your cloak, but you politely declined.
Then you saw him.
Prince Baelor Targaryen, the Hand of the King.
He approached Maesters Yormwell and Soller, who bowed before him. His mismatched eyes and striking beauty reflected the perfect union of Martell and Targaryen blood.
When his gaze met yours, you suddenly realized this was no story from a book.
You bowed, perhaps a little too deeply due to your nerves.
“Your Highness, it is an honor to stand before you. I thank you for inviting me to King’s Landing.”
“I am pleased you could attend,”
Baelor said. “Please, take your seats. The servants will show you where.”
Before sitting, you bowed respectfully to the lords and maesters present.
The King, Daeron II Targaryen, was absent.
Another chair stood empty as well.
“I have summoned you all to discuss—”
Baelor was interrupted as someone entered the room. The servant announced the newcomer.
“Prince Maekar Targaryen.”
Your head turned toward the prince who entered so abruptly. The others rose to bow or lower their heads.
As the only woman present, you gave a proper curtsey.
“Your Highness.”
Prince Maekar Targaryen looked very different from Baelor, with silver hair, pale almost violet eyes, and the hardened face of a man forged in battle.
He stopped and looked you over from head to toe.
“So this is the one for whom my brother has gathered the Small Council,” he muttered. “What a joke.”
“Brother, please,” Baelor said calmly. “That is no way to treat a guest.”
“Look at her. She looks like a servant. How could she be a lady?”
The two brothers began to argue, Maekar hurling insults, Baelor restraining him.
Your gaze dropped toward Maester Soller, the only familiar face in the room.For a moment, you feared you might cry.
But you held yourself steady.
“Brother, please sit,” Baelor said at last. “I need you to understand the situation and help this council.”
With a sigh, Maekar finally took his seat beside him.
“Forgive Maekar’s words,” Baelor said to you. “He did not mean to offend.”
Imagine if he had meant to, you thought quietly.
“No offense taken, my prince,” you replied softly. “Perhaps I was the spark that lit your brother’s temper. My apologies.”
A heavy silence fell across the chamber.
The lords’ eyes were fixed upon you.
Baelor finally spoke.
“Well, Steel Hill is no ordinary land. For generations it was ruled by House Steel. Its mines supplied armorers and smiths, and its fields fed entire villages.”
He paused.
“After the attack upon the Hill, however, the lands were abandoned and fragmented. Now invaders may be exploiting them without the Crown’s leave.”
His gaze turned toward you.
“Yet Steel Hill still holds great value for the realm. With rightful leadership, it may again become a vital source of iron."
He placed both hands upon the table.
“You claim to be the heir to that land. Daughter of Edward Torn. The last of your family.”
“If your claim is true, you are not a beggar seeking charity, but the rightful heir to lands still valuable to the realm."
Maekar gave a dry laugh.
“Rightful? All I see is a girl dressed like a septa, raised far from any castle, who appears years later demanding a lost domain.”
Several lords nodded quietly.
Maekar leaned forward. “And you expect us to grant mines and fertile lands based solely on her word?”
“I demand nothing, my prince,” you said calmly. “I only ask for what once belonged to my family. I do not seek fortune, only what they left behind.”
You breathed deeply.
“That night, a servant hid me and carried me far from our home to the Vale. The sept’s maesters promised to protect me in secret. I grew up believing I would become a septa.”
“For years I never knew who I truly was, until Maester Soller told me the truth.”
“At first I refused to believe it… until he spoke of my family.”
One of the lords spoke.
“Words are easy to say.”
Maekar rested his arm upon the table.
“If you truly are who you claim to be, then you must possess something more than stories and fading memories.”
For a moment, you hesitated.
“I do.”
“When I was taken away as a child, the septa who cared for me kept the only thing from my past.”
You took a breath.
“A dress I wore as a child… and the one I wore the night of the attack.”
“And where is this dress?” one of the lords asked.
Far from home, the reader, destined to become a septa, discovers her true identity: Heiress of Steel Hill, an orphan from a house forgotten by all. She will have to go to King's Land to be recognized as the heir to this house.
2,5k words
I know the premise is kind of silly, but I wanted to try it; And since this is the first part, Maekar hasn't been mentioned yet, but perhaps she'll appear in the next one.
English is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know.
The sun's rays streaming through the windows of her room, along with the gentle morning breeze, made her body shiver. The scarf covering her body brought warmth to her heart until...
"Come on, get up!" said Rhayna, an older septa. "The sermon is about to begin, and you're lying there like a princess." Now you were actually getting a lecture.
"Why? Me of all people?" Sounding slightly like a brat. But on the contrary, you were already a young woman, soon to be a young septa.
"Don't complain to me, dear, complain to Koren. She asked me to call you; you missed two classes, you know?" Now she was tidying up your clothes scattered on your desk.
"WHAT?! How is that possible? Weren't classes in the afternoon?"
"Maester Soller changed your schedule now you're going to tell me you didn't know?" she tilted her head, arms crossed.
"No, I mean yes. He had mentioned it, but I thought he was just talking."
Now Rhayna lets out a laugh, making the folds of her cheeks double. "By the Gods, you really don't know Maester Soller, he switched so that you"pointing in her direction"stop waking up late, and have at least a minimum of discipline with your commitments."
That fat old man, he'll pay for this, you think.
"Damn it, having to miss two etiquette classes, those classes are so boring, it's almost torture," she complains to herself.
"Good, you really need etiquette classes, look how you talk, you sound like a sailor."
"What's the point of etiquette classes if I intend to become a silent sister?"
"YOU?! A silent sister, please don't make me laugh anymore!" she laughs again.
"What's the problem? I love watching them work, they're so careful, efficient, and well-respected."
"You're a prattler, talking all the time, you talk when you shouldn't, and when it's really necessary you don't even pay attention."
"Wow... that's insulting, so what if I talk a lot?!" She said, crossing her arms and making a slight pout.
"By the Seven, you're truly unbelievable, let's get this over with and hurry up so you don't miss the sermon."
Right after the sermon, she had tasks to complete: meeting with some septas, reading to the orphans who were temporarily housed in the sept, helping with the small plantation, and now reviewing the two etiquette classes she missed during the morning.
Damn Maester Soller for his meddling in my classes, even though he's one of my tutors, he's unbearable.
Suddenly she heard someone calling her, turning to find the voice... childish. It was one of the orphans, a small, skinny boy, no more than eight years old.
"Miss Septa, will you read to us today?" he says, a very adorable boy. You bend down slightly to look into his eyes.
"Of course, we'll finish the tale of the bears today, and in the next reading we'll begin the tale of the raven."
Now a smile appears on your face. Even after going through so much, these children had some hope of being happy here. Even if only for a short period of time, you would do your best to keep them happy here.
"Would you like to accompany me to the hall?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" he says, jumping into your lap.
At this moment, a small council is taking place with your guardians, Maester Soller, Maester Tyll, and Septon Verno. Those responsible for your guardianship, even without knowing directly why?
"Well, the girl will soon be 20 years old, we can't wait any longer. I received a letter from the Steel Hill. They quickly noticed the arrival of strangers in the region, we have to write to King's Landing for advice."
"Of course they suspected strange activity, tons of iron being extracted from there, it's obvious they're going to be suspicious," Maester Tyll said sharply.
"But every new moon, you get your share, and I don't see you complaining about that."
"Please, can we not argue? We have to think quickly about what we'll do with the girl. Why don't we marry her off to a lord from some house there?" the old Septon said.
"What a brilliant idea! Why not marry her family's murderers and lose her forever?"
"Maester Tyll, don't talk to him like that!"
"That was the worst idea I've ever heard, unbelievable. They don't even know she exists, or they've simply forgotten. Ideally, we should take her to King's Landing so they recognize her as the heir to Steel Hill."
"We can't just arrive in King's Landing like that. If they don't recognize her as the heir, they might take her lands," Verno argued.
"I'll write to a friend in King's Landing, he's close to the family Miestre, and we could ask him for this favor. If he agrees, we can try to get advice from the Hand of the King, Prince Baelor, maybe he'll understand," says Soller.
"I hope your shitty plan works out, otherwise we're lost." Thus, Maester Tyll concludes the discussion about his future.
"My dear, in a few days you'll become a woman, how are you feeling?"
Rhayna is more excited than you are about your birthday. Planning to make your favorite dessert, blackberry ball, something to remember your childhood. Invading the small kitchen under the sept just to steal a slice of your favorite treat.
"I think I'm a little nervous, today I'm going to ask Maester Soller if I can become one of the Silent Sisters."
Deep down you knew the answer, a negative answer was to be expected, but what could you do, become a septa bound to take care of a spoiled lady or become responsible for caring for people between the material world and the spiritual world. It was a difficult job for many, but for you it's something to cling to.
"I think deep down, you know the answer," says Rhayna. "He'll say, 'Foolish girl, don't you see you have such potential to be a septa? You love children and you could instruct a young girl for her future as a lady, something so noble, so important. Don't waste your life for the dead.'" Imitating Mistress Soller's way of speaking and mannerisms.
Now you laugh about it, she's your only friend in this place and the only one who knows what you've been through.
You remember very little, but what you do recall is arriving at the Eagle's Nest as a child, you were less than six years old. Due to something you don't remember, you were orphaned very early, a fog blocking your memories of the events before arriving here, in this Sept.
"Sometimes, only sometimes I think if my parents would be happy for me, like, 'Look how you've grown, my girl,' I don't know, I just wanted to remember them." Sounding sad, and slightly feeling empty about it.
"I think if they were here, they would be proud of the girl you are and the woman you will soon become." Opening her arms to hug you, and you immediately return the affection.
"Thank you, truly, for always taking care of me, Rhayna."
"You're like a daughter to me, I love you like a mother, and I scold you like a mother too." She chuckled, happy to have someone to call family.
"Miss, Maester Soller requests your presence in his office immediately," the servant said.
"Of course, thank you. Rhayna, please wish me luck," she said, crossing her fingers and asking the Seven to be fair to her.
"I always wish you luck."
As you climbed dozens of stairs to Maester Soller's office, feeling anxiety and exhaustion spreading throughout her body.
It's okay, he'll accept your proposal and everything will be alright. Calm down, take a deep breath, you told yourself.
You knock on the light wood door but noticed it was ajar; perhaps he left it that way to enter.
"With your permission, Maester Soller, I'm coming in."
"Come in, please sit down."
He seems a little tired.
"I'm afraid you wanted to talk about my birthday..."
Now he says your name, not in an authoritative way, but to get her attention.
"What I want to talk to you about, my dear, is a delicate and complex matter. I need you to pay attention."
His eyes are looking at your. Has something happened?
"Please tell me, was it something I did? I swear I didn't mean to miss etiquette class. I lost track of time, but I promise I'll be better—"
"Silence!" he says a little too loudly. "It has nothing to do with your classes. I mean... what I want to talk to you about is your family."
"My... my family?..."
"Yes, mainly about your parents. You were left here by a servant of your family on Steel Hill when you were a child."
"Wait, what? Servant? Steel Hill?"
This man isn't well, has he drunk too much wine?
"Your parents owned that territory, I mean you belong to a house that may be extinct. Because you, girl, are the last and only survivor of the... Massacre that occurred fifteen years ago."
Now you sit in the chair, unable to believe what this man is saying.
"We were afraid to talk about this with you, my lady."
"Please don't call me that." Your body trembles, something inside you wants to explode but you fear being labeled crazy.
"I hope you understand our reasons, you were just a child, at risk of being killed if you stayed in that place, we couldn't let them know of your existence, it would be too risky."
"Why now? After all these years? You tell me that I have...had a family but that they are all dead." Your voice changes, sounding melancholic but furious.
"You will become a woman, you can take what is rightfully yours. Of course, you will have to marry and have an heir, but that's negotiable."
"No," you say.
"What? What do you mean, no?"
"I want to renounce that. I intend to stay here in my house, and if you allow it, I will become a silent sister. Because that's what I want."
An unbearable silence settles in the room. He looks at you in disbelief, as if you were speaking nonsense.
"It's unbelievable, you must be a fool, do you know how difficult it was for us to raise you, how hard it was to explain to Lord Arryn that he would accept you to protect you? He didn't want her here, filling his nest with orphans. But I stood firm, I wanted to help her, protect her under my wing, and this is how you repay me?"
"Please, I... I just want to stay here. I wasn't raised to be a Lady."
"Of course you were, you have all the classes, etiquette, language, history, music, culture, everything. No other septa has these benefits, a room of your own, fresh food, you don't even get real chores."
Raised to be a lady, but that's not what you imagined, being deceived all this time.
"You're lucky, wise one? Many here would kill to be in your place, and what are you complaining about?"
If what he says is true, why were they killed?
"Why were my parents killed?"
This question leaves Soller perplexed, now quiet, thinking of an answer that isn't too difficult to explain.
"Your parents, my lady, were very prosperous, they knew how to handle challenges and together they led that region with an iron fist." "Your father, Lord Torn, was a good man, too good, but your uncle, Lord Bran, turned against his own brother. A rebellion broke out, everyone who hated your father, survivors of Blackfyre, some smaller houses as well, and especially Lord Bran." Taking a deep breath, focusing on the facts relevant to you.
"They invaded the lands, burned crops, killing any servants in their path. Unfortunately, your parents were asleep, so they entered, they didn't have time to react, and your siblings were just little children, Robb, Danvy, and Peter. But miraculously, you weren't in your room, you were with the servant in her chambers." ... "Finally, the Blackfyres killed Lord Bran, they didn't want any connection with your family, who were allied with the Targaryens in the Battle of Blackfyre.
Your father was an honorable man, he fought alongside them, supplying iron and other ores to the Targaryens."
Tears streamed down your face, you still felt anger over the secrets, but at some point in your life you had siblings. You'd never thought about it before, but your chest felt the emptiness expand.
At some point in your life, however early it may have been, you had a real family.
Now you missed something you couldn't even remember; the fog lingered in your memories. You had never wanted to remember them so much, at least a flashback, anything.
"Master Soller, may I retire? I need some fresh air and some time to organize all this."
"Of course, I'm very sorry, and it's a lot to process, but please don't give up on this." "That's all they left for you."
A few days passed, today
is the day you've been avoiding mentioning, but Rhayna screams with joy upon seeing you, opening her arms and hugging you.
"My little dove, now you're a woman, congratulations, darling!"
"Thank you, Rhayna..." her gaze, she recognized that look and could tell it wasn't good.
"What happened? Tell me, my dear..."
"It's nothing, I guess I don't want to be a silent sister anymore..."
"It was him, wasn't it? Maester Soller destroyed your dream, I'm going to rip his head off—"
"No, I've just been thinking about it, maybe my future isn't this, I don't know, but... maybe he has something in store for me."
"Of course, the future is a mystery, one day you're a servant or a Targaryen princess." "But darling, your future is here, being a septa or a silent sister," she says jokingly, but deep down she felt you didn't belong here, you deserved more.
"I'm leaving... I mean, I'm going to King's Landing, for work of course." Omitting some parts, for Rhayna's safety.
"Leaving..." Rhayna breaks down a little, hugging her tighter.
"Please don't cry, or I'll cry too."
"You're a woman now, you need to grow up and work, but I didn't want my baby to leave."
Both cry while the slices of cake wait to be devoured, the smell is wonderful. Despite the sad moment, today is to celebrate life, your life.
"Maester Tyll, a raven has arrived from King's Landing, but specifically... from the Hand of the King, Prince Baelor Targaryen."
To the esteemed Maester Soller,
I am writing to you from King's Landing to discuss matters concerning House Steel and your Heir. For this reason, I request your presence at a council of recognition, where such matters may be properly discussed.
I trust this letter finds you in good health and faithfully fulfilling your duties to the Citadel and the kingdom.
I intend to write something about Maekar Targaryen x Reader, the Reader created to be a future septa discovering she is the heir to a "dead house" and having to deal with her improbable future.
I don't know, but I'll post something soon, and if it gets good feedback I'll develop it. As I'm a beginner writer, I would appreciate some tips :))
Homelander is an idiot, but he enjoys the childhood he never had, and the reader is treated like a friendly child.
[This is not a romance, just an introduction to the story I will write about Homelander x Reader.] without the use of y/n
1k. words
1998 — New York
The sky looked calm today, bright blue with only a few clouds. Perfect for playing baseball on the court in front of your house.
It was an old court, but for you it worked perfectly to pretend you were a baseball star.
Your greatest passion: the New York Yankees.
An admiration passed down by your father.
He was the one who introduced you to baseball, who taught you how to play, and who continues to encourage you in the sport.
So you get ready.
You put on your Yankees shirt that you got for Christmas and grab the bat, ball, and your father's glove, which seemed to be twice the size of your hand.
Leaving your small bedroom, among the many others in the old apartment complex, you walk down the worn hallway of the building.
It was a decent place for those who couldn’t afford anything better… or for those who had nothing at all.
There weren’t many kids your age there.
Actually, thinking about it, maybe there weren’t any children in that place at all.
It was school vacation season, but even so the large court was empty. Probably for the best. Running around with other kids could be complicated you had already reached this month’s quota of scraped knees.
You drop the equipment on the ground to fix yourself up, tying your black school sneakers and adjusting your Yankees cap.
Now you were ready to play.
Leaving the glove aside, you grab only the bat and the ball. You toss the ball into the air and hit it straight into the old fence.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The sun shifts slightly in the sky. You could say a few minutes had already passed.
Now the glove joins the game.
You throw the ball as far as you can and run after it as fast as possible, almost like a dog chasing its own ball.
Sometimes you managed to catch it in time. Other times it fell faster.
But, to your bad luck, after throwing it a little too hard, the ball slips through a hole in the fence.
You sigh.
The damn ball fell on the other side of the court.
Dropping everything on the ground, you walk to the exit to retrieve it.
But before you can even step outside, something or rather, someone suddenly appears.
It was a much older boy.
His hair was extremely golden, and he was wearing a… strange outfit. Some kind of blue and red suit that looked like something between gym clothes and a circus costume.
You feel a little confused, but he was holding your baseball.
“I think this is yours,” he says, tilting his head to the side and giving a smile that shows his slightly sharp canines.
He looked like one of those boys from the teen magazines sold at newspaper stands.
You couldn’t lie: he was kind of cute.
But you would never admit that out loud.
A bit cautiously, you approach the exit to take the ball.
“...Thanks for picking it up for me. I… didn’t see you back there.”
You try not to stutter. You didn’t want to sound like a silly child.
Is he wearing gloves? you think.
With this heat… that’s kind of weird.
“Well, I’d like to know what you could give me in return,” he says, pressing the ball against his chest.
“I mean… I was passing by and saw your ball fall over there. I did a good deed, right?” Now his eyes fix on yours.
“A… good deed?” you repeat.
For what exactly? Returning a baseball?
“Of course. I fly around this wonderful city helping people, saving them from disgusting criminals.”
“Flying? Like a bird? Oh my God, do you have wings?”
“What??” Now he looks genuinely confused, as if you had just insulted him.
“Of course not! I’m not a damn chicken. I’m a super.”
“A super? Are you part of a circus…?”
Your childish mind can’t connect that to anything you know.
“NO SHIT—”
He stops halfway through the sentence, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to calm himself.
You look a little unsettled, but remain calm.
“Sorry. I mean that I’m a superhero.”
“A superhero…”
You let out the most sincere “aaah” of your entire seven-year-old existence.
“You’re the cereal commercial boy.”
The cereals from Vought International were tasty. But also pretty expensive for most markets.
“Yeah… I’m the cereal boy,” he replies, shaking his head in disbelief.
How the hell did a kid not know about the existence of supers?
“But do you actually save people? Why do you do that? Do you always ask for something in return?”
That was a lot of questions. He was the first super you had ever met.
“Well, yeah. I save people. And a lot of those times they give me stuff… or, I don’t know, thank me, damn it.”
Madelyn would get annoyed if she knew the way I’m talking. But who cares?
“Look, I don’t have anything,” you say.
“The baseball set belongs to my dad, and he’d be upset if I lost it.”
Thinking about it… maybe there was something you could do.
“Do you know how to play baseball?”
“Baseball…?”
He had never had the chance to learn, but he couldn’t admit that.
“Of course I know how to play. I spent my childhood playing it.”
“Really? Then tell me how it works.”
He stays silent for a few seconds.
When he looks back at you, his own confused expression gives away the lie.
“You’ve never played baseball, have you?”
you say, tilting your head.
“I’ll teach you. Before, I didn’t even know what a run was, but now I’m the best at it.”
It never crossed your mind that he would actually accept. But now you were both there.
On the old court.
While you taught him how to throw the ball so you could hit it.
And that’s how most of the afternoon went.
A strange boy who claimed to be a superhero learning how to play baseball.
When your father told you not to talk to strangers, you never imagined one of them could be a boy wearing a funny costume.
“See? You learned how to throw it,” you say proudly when he finally manages to launch the ball without smashing the fence.
“I… forgot how to control my strength,” he murmurs, looking at his own hands.
“At least you won’t tear my glove with the force of the ball.”
For a moment he thinks that he could easily crack your hand with a single throw.
“Hold the ball. I’ll get ready to hit.”
“1… 2…”
Suddenly you hear someone calling your name.
The voice sounded familiar.
Turning quickly, you see your father approaching the court.
“Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to come inside.”
He had spent the entire day out looking for a job.
“Your dinner is going to get cold—”
Then he sees the boy
His eyes widen.
He stops abruptly.
“Wait here,” you say excitedly.
“I’m going to ask for ten more minutes to finish the game.” You run to him.
“Dad, I’m just going to finish this round. Ten minutes and I’ll come in.”
“I told you to come inside now.”
He had never spoken to you in that tone before.
It unsettles you.
“Let me just grab the ba—”
“Forget the damn ball. Do what I said and go inside now.”
And that’s what you did.
Without even having time to properly say goodbye to your new friend.
He remained there, watching the scene.
Now with a slightly shadowed expression, staring at your father.
After a few minutes, he leaves.
With a small burst that lifts the dust around him.
But finally you see him fly and that was incredible.
“Do you know him, dad?”
“Not exactly… but I need to ask. Did he do anything to you?”
The question sounded more like an accusation.
“No. I dropped the ball on the other side of the court and he picked it up for me.”
“Then I asked if he knew how to play…”
“He didn’t do anything?”
“No.”
“I taught him how to play baseball. Just like you taught me, dad.”
After that incident, your father put the small apartment up for sale almost immediately.
He contacted some acquaintances and started organizing everything to leave the state as quickly as possible.
You never understood those impulsive decisions.
Months earlier he had left Vought International, losing the house in the same month.
summary : you survive a plane crash — only to wake up in a world that isn’t yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to survive… until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 30k
warnings: reader calling Maekar inbred, blood and graphic violence, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect…
a/n : i had to cut this in two parts.... sorry
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 (you are here), part 5
[ masterlist ]
You never thought you'd see the day you'd actually fantasize about owning a gun.
But here you were... Could you even imagine it? The sheer freedom you'd have. A gun — here. In the middle of this medieval nightmare. God, it would've been, so, so useful. One clean shot and all of this posturing, all of this smug, self-righteous authority, would crumble into silence.
Oh, how you wished you could have shot Maekar right then and there.
Put a bolt through that smug, superior face of his and watched the look vanish from it. Shut him and his inbred brain up for good. And maybe, oh maybe, you'd turn the damned thing on yourself after. One more pull of the trigger and done with it. No councils, no courtiers, no dragons, no endless games played by people who smiled while knives behind their backs.
At least then you would not have to deal with the consequences of living in this madness, yes, at least then you might finally know a little peace. Because as things stood, you were not at peace at all. You were at war — with yourself, with this cursed world, and with these fucking people who called it home. And god, how you wished otherwise.
He, quite literally, embarrassed you. Publicly, and thoroughly. Nearly had you killed, dragged to the brink of execution like you were nothing, like your life was a spectacle. In front of everyone, nonetheless!
How are you supposed to live past that? This is over. For you, and your dignity alike.
Almost beheaded for "witchcraft" against the head of the king. The accusation alone will cling to you like rot. You can kiss any hope of respectable work goodbye. Lord Ashford will likely dismiss you the moment it becomes inconvenient to defend you. No one will risk their standing for someone rumored to meddle in dark arts and royal blood.
You are ruined. Truly, completely fucked.
The thought came not in the honeyed cadences of courtly speech, but in the graceless tongue of the world you had lost. It rang in your skull with vulgar clarity, louder than the murmuring crowd, louder than the pounding of your own heart.
You didn't even remember how your feet found the steps.
One moment you had been kneeling in the shadow of a maester, the murmur of a hundred whispering voices crawling over your skin. The smell of blood hung thick in the air, sharp and coppery in the back of your throat. Before you stood the block of rough-hewn wood, darkened by older stains, and beside it the headsman with his blade — broad, bright, and terrible where it caught the morning light.
You had stared at that sword far too long, long enough to see your own reflection trembling in the steel. Long enough to know that in a heartbeat it might come down. And then, just then you were moving.
Descending the wooden steps that creaked beneath your boots, one after the other, as though your body had chosen the path without ever consulting your mind. Except you were not walking of your own accord. The same Kingsguard who had burned your hands not moments before had taken you by the arms, their white-cloaked forms close on either side, iron grips clamped around your biceps as they dragged you down from the platform. They obeyed their prince, that was the oath they had sworn.
Your boots struck the steps hard, the rhythm broken by the way they half-hauled you along. Your hand brushed the splintered railing as you passed, fingers dragging along the rough grain as if reaching for something to steady yourself, though it felt strangely distant, like the hand belonged to someone else entirely.
The square beyond lay drenched in sunlight. Bright, warm, and utterly indifferent.
Gold spilled across the cobbles, across the helms of guards and the cloaks of smallfolk gathered in loose clusters, whispering to one another. A prince had nearly died five days ago, yet the days had not dimmed for it. The sky remained wide and blue above Ashford Meadow, the light as generous as ever, mocking them entirely.
It reminded you — absurdly, bitterly — of mornings after failed examinations, when you would stumble from some university hall hollow-eyed and shaking, certain your life had ended in ink and red marks, only to find the world stubbornly bright. The sun had shone then too, warm and untroubled, as if unaware that you had misread the question, as if your private catastrophe were no catastrophe at all.
This felt the same.
As though you had not just stood accused before lords and smallfolk alike. As though the prince of the realm, the heir to the Iron Throne, had not been a heartbeat away from blood upon the stones. As though the council were not, at this very instant, unraveling in whispers and fury. His younger brother had already looked half-mad with it, eyes alight with something feral and sharp. You had seen it. You had felt the heat of his gaze like a brand.
You were certain someone was shouting as you crossed the square. Or perhaps that had been inside your head. The roar of blood in your ears drowned all else. Faces turned as you passed — blurred smears of color and suspicion. Did they stare in pity? In hatred? In awe? You could not tell. The ground seemed to tilt beneath you, the stones swelling and shrinking like breath.
After that, there was nothing. Or rather — there was a tearing away.
You found yourself in a chamber you did not remember entering, lying upon a narrow bed beneath a canopy of faded green. For a long moment you believed you were back there, back amid twisted metal and smoke and the shriek of tearing steel. Back in the wreckage of the plane, the air thick with fuel and fire. The same ringing silence, the same dreadful weightlessness, as though your body had been cut loose from your mind.
Cold struck your face.
You gasped.
Water trickled down your temples and into your hairline. Someone was dabbing at you with a cloth, muttering under their breath. Your eyelids fluttered, and the world resolved itself in fragments: a ceiling beam; a flicker of candlelight; the vague shapes of figures bending over you like judges.
"Open the window," a voice barked. "The woman needs air — by the Seven, open it!"
Boots scraped, hinges creaked, a rush of cooler air kissed your damp skin.
Your hearing returned in pieces, as though carried back on the breeze. The rasp of fabric, the clink of a chain, the wet sound of the cloth being plunged again into a basin.
When your vision steadied at last, you found him being one of the people looming over you. Prince Maekar. That fucking bastard.
His silver-gold hair was drawn back severely from his face, though a pale strand had fallen loose across his brow. His eyes (hard, assessing, merciless as always) were fixed upon you with an intensity that made your stomach twist in anger anew. There was no softness in him, only calculation, only temper bridled thin.
At the sight of him, memory returned in a violent rush : the block, the shape blade, the murmured prayers you had not known how to say or comprehend.
Then, you gasped (yes again) — an almost animal sound torn from deep within — and lurched upright so suddenly the room reeled. Hands caught at your shoulders to steady you, but you tried to pinch them away, disgusted and scared.
"Do not fucking touch me!" you shrieked, the words cracking in your throat.
The maester recoiled at once, but the damage was done. Your heart hammered harder still, breath comingshallow. The walls felt too close, the air too suffocating. For a dizzy instant you were certain you would choke upon it.
"There is no need to be so dramatic — " Maekar began cool as winter steel.
Something inside you snapped.
"You had best not open your mouth," you shot back, the words spilling free before sense (or the instinct to keep breathing) could seize them and drag them back down your throat. "You inbred freak."
The silence that followed was so complete it rang, only yoru shallow breaths could be heard. Somewhere a servant dropped a cup, it shattered upon the rushes.
You were dimly aware that you were on your feet now, though you did not recall rising. Your vision tunneled. The edges of the chamber darkened and sharpened by turns. You searched every face at once : the maester's pale shock, the servant's wide eyes, Maekar's — God. Prince Maekar's. His expression did not twist to fury as you might have expected. That would have been almost merciful. Instead it hardened, piece by piece, like molten iron poured into a mold. The prince did not shout, did not step back. No, he merely looked at you.
And in that look was the memory of your knees on stone. Of how close the sword had come.
You were still breathing too fast, your hands trembled at your sides. Somewhere in the rational, modern corner of your mind (the part that remembered airports and textbooks and a world where princes did not command executions) you understood what you had just done.
You had insulted a son of the dragon. Openly... to his face, in a realm where blood answered words, where you barely escaped a punishment by death just mere moments ago. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Your lungs burned, the chamber seemed to tilt again, though you did not fall this time. You would not give them that satisfaction.
Maekar's gaze dropped briefly to your shaking hands, specially the burned one, then returned to your face.
"Are you finished?" he asked at last.
"Finished?" you echoed, the word breaking halfway into something almost hysterical. "Finished?!"
Your hands were still shaking. You clenched them into fists in a vain attempt to still them, but the moment your fingers curled the pain came roaring back.
A ragged sound tore out of you. Your burned hand throbbed like a living thing. The skin had turned an ugly bloom of blue, violet, and raw red where the flesh had blistered and split. Heat pulsed through it in savage waves, each one worse than the last, as if the fire had only just now remembered you. You clutched it against your chest with a strangled groan.
"Fuck —" You had forgotten it. Forgotten the pain in the rush of terror and fury and sheer animal adrenaline. Now your body remembered.
And it remembered all at once.
"Let the maester take a look at it," the prince said. His voice carried the brittle edge of a man already well past his patience. Prince Maekar sounded exasperated...
Prince Maekar did not so much as blink. He stood where he was, tall and pale in the morning light, one hand resting easy upon the pommel of his sword as though nothing at all had happened. No flash of anger crossed his face, no barked command, no sharp intake of breath. If anything, he looked faintly bored.
Which somehow made it worse. It was almost insulting.
As though your fury, your terror, your very existence were hardly worth the trouble of anger. The silence stretched long enough that you could hear your own breathing, ragged and shallow. Somewhere behind you a maester muttered a prayer.
"Oh god," you whispered again a moment later, the sound slipping free without thought. Not gods — just god. The wrong word here, the wrong world.
You didn't give a single fuck.
"I was nearly beheaded," you said then, the words tumbling over each other now, breathless and wild, your voice climbing despite every sensible instinct that should have told you to shut up. "Do you understand that? I was on my knees getting read to lose my head." Your gaze locked on him. "Because of you."
The maester made a soft, disapproving sound, but Maekar silenced him with the barest flick of two fingers.
"Choose your next words with care," the prince said.
Care. Oh fuck him and his care.
You had chosen care when you pressed your hands to his brother's broken body. When you had tried to stop the bleeding. When you had shouted instructions no one understood because they did not know the words for infection, for internal hemorrhage, for shock. Care had nearly cost you your head.
"Because you thought I was a witch," you went on, the word tasting bitter and absurd in your mouth. "Because I tried to help him."
The chamber seemed to shrink around you at the mention of it — the Trial of Seven. The roar of the crowd, the thunder of steel on steel, the sickening crack when the mace had struck wrong.
"You nearly killed your own brother," you said, more softly now, though no less fiercely. "It was probably an accident. But he was dying, and I tried to save him." Your throat tightened. "And for that, you dragged me before half the realm and named me sorceress."
Maekar did not flinch.
"The past is the fucking past, woman." He did not so much as blink when he said it. If anything he set his chin higher, as if daring the room itself to challenge him.
Up close you could see the bruising along his cheek and jaw, dark stains beneath the pale skin — yellowing at the edges, purple at the center where the blow had landed hardest. Someone had struck him during the trial, and with enough force to leave its memory behind. He wore it like another ornament of rank.
"Now my brother lies between this world and the next," he went on, stripped of any softness. "Only a few doors away." His eyes found yours again. "And you —" his gaze narrowed, pale lashes lowering slightly, "— laid hands upon him and spoke words no man there knew."
Because they had not been meant for this world. They had burst from you before you could stop them, dragged up from another life altogether — words from sterile rooms and glaring lights, from frantic nights where men and women fought death with machines and medicine instead of prayers and steel. Terms no maester would recognize, commands spoken fast while hands worked and blood flowed. None of it belonged here, none of it belonged in a stone castle where people still believed leeches were the height of healing.
"He would have died," you said, the words came rougher now, though the tremor had left it. Your heart still battered your ribs, but the fear had begun to curdle into anger. "If I had done nothing, he would have died."
Maekar looked down at you for a long moment.
"And yet he lives," he said at last. His mouth pulled tight, the faintest crease forming between his pale brows. "And he stirred."
That seemed to trouble him more than he wished to admit, as if he couldn't believe it.
"He woke enough to speak." His eyes flicked across your face again, searching as if the answer might be written somewhere upon your skin. "And the name he spoke was yours."
You stilled. The room seemed to tilt once more — but not from fear this time.
"What?" The word left you small, disbelieving.
Maekar did not look pleased to repeat it. "When the fever broke, he roused. Not long, not clearly. But he spoke."
You stared at him, flabbergasted.
The prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne, a man armored in legend and expectation since birth, called for you? A supposed servant, lowborn woman, stranger dragged from nowhere, accused of sorcery before half the camp.
Surely you had not made such an impression.
You had done nothing but what anyone with sense might have done — pressed your hands to his chest, shouted words no one here understood, torn at the clasps of his armor while men twice your size stood frozen like carved idols. You had known the prince scarcely at all, a glimpse of silver hair, a few curt words exchanged beneath banners and watchful eyes. That was the sum of it before steel rang, bones cracked, and the day turned to blood.
And yet — "Nonsense," you said at last, shaking your head as though the motion might scatter the absurdity of it. "We barely know each other. I'm only a servant to my Lord Ashford. He — he — " The rest would not come. Your breath still refused to steady. "You must have misheard it."
Maekar's mouth twisted.
"I am not as old as you think I am," he said, tone gone dry. "Nor am I deaf." His pale purple eyes fixed on you with growing impatience. "And I was not the only one who heard my brother mutter your name."
He ticked the witnesses off with two fingers.
"His eldest son heard it. My son Aegon heard it as well."
"You're lying," you said immediately.
"Seven hells, woman — " Maekar threw his head back with an exhale, as though calling upon the gods themselves for patience.
But you cut him off.
"It doesn't matter," you said, the words coming quicker now, firmer. "I don't want anything to do with you or your family. At all." Your hands curled again despite the pain in them. "Do you hear me? Nothing."
For a moment Maekar simply regarded you, then one pale brow rose.
"Even if my brother," he said slowly, "the Prince of the Realm, heir to the Iron Throne... demands it?"
You stared at him.
"You can't be serious."
Maekar's expression did not change. If anything, the lines of his face settled deeper, as if patience were a cloak he wore badly but stubbornly.
"I rarely jest," he said.
"Then start," you snapped. "Because I'm not going anywhere near that man again."
His eyes flicked briefly to your hand, still clutched against your chest, the skin angry with burn and swelling beneath the torn cloth. When he spoke again his voice had gone flatter.
"You already have."
"That was different."
"Was it?"
"Yes!" Your laugh came out brittle. "He was dying. That tends to change the circumstances a bit."
Maekar studied you as one might study a strange creature dragged up from the sea.
"You forced his helm open," he said. "You shouted words no man present had ever heard spoken." His mouth curved faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Then you brought him back."
"I didn't bring him back," you said, exasperation bursting through the fear. "That's — that's basic—"
You stopped yourself. Too late.
"Ba—sick ... what?"
"Nothing. Look," you said finally, forcing your voice steady. "Whatever delirious nonsense he's muttering, it's not my problem. I did what anyone would do. Now I'd very much like to go back to not being executed."
Maekar watched you for a long moment.
Then he laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
"You think this ends with the block?" he said.
Your stomach twisted.
"Yes," you said. "That's usually how executions work."
His eyes glinted.
"You touched the heir to the Iron Throne," Maekar said. "Cut open his armor. Put your hands upon his chest before half the court." He tilted his head slightly. "If he lives, you become a curiosity."
Your throat went dry.
"And if he dies?" you asked quietly.
Prince Maekar did not so much as blink.
"I will have your head off," he said. "And this time the blade will fall for true."
You only stared at him, stunned by the calm cruelty of it. Oh, the audacity of this man. Then the heat came rushing back to your face.
"How dare you — "
"How dare I ?" Maekar cut across you, pale brows rising. "Do you know to whom you are speaking, woman?"
"Oh, I know well enough," you snapped before caution could catch the words. Your heart hammered in your chest, your burned hand throbbing like some cruel second pulse. "An arrogant and cowardly man who thinks himself above every man and woman breathing because his family tree folds in on itself."
The chamber went still again. It was the second time you had spoken words that would earn another man a noose or a headsman's block, and yet the fear that ought to have followed them did not come. Perhaps it had burned itself out upon the scaffold not long ago. Perhaps kneeling before the blade had scraped something hollow inside you, leaving no room for caution or sense. Whatever the reason, the danger of it seemed distant now, like thunder rolling somewhere far beyond the hills.
Around you the room reacted all the same. The Maester stared as though he had forgotten how to breathe, his chain glinting faintly where it hung against his robes. One of the servants had gone the color of milk, lips parted but no sound leaving them. The others shrank back as if the words themselves might be catching. Even the Kingsguard shifted where they stood along the walls, white cloaks whispering as their hands drifted toward the pommels of their swords.
People had been burned or beheaded for less, everyone in the room knew it. And yet the silence lingered, stretched thin as wire, waiting to see what the prince would do.
"Gods be good," he said at last, slow and deliberate. "You truly do not know when to hold your tongue."
"Neither do you."
One of the guards shifted uneasily near the door.
"My prince," he ventured, careful as a man stepping across thin ice, "perhaps the woman should— "
"Silence."
Maekar did not even glance his way. "I ought to have your tongue cut out," he said mildly. "Or your head struck from your shoulders. The law would favor me in either case."
"Then do it," you shot back, lifting your chin though your stomach twisted. "At least then I'll know what crime I'm dying for."
The prince laughed. It was a short, rough sound, as if it had been dragged from him unwillingly.
"Seven hells," he muttered, rubbing a hand across his mouth. "You are either the boldest woman in the Seven Kingdoms..." His eyes dropped briefly to your burned hand, swollen and mottled with angry color. "...or the most witless."
"Why not both?"
Maekar opened his mouth to answer. The bruise upon his cheek caught the thin light from the window, yellow and purple beneath the skin, the mark of the day's violence not yet faded, but before a word could leave him, the door burst open.
A boy stood there, breathless, his small shaved head gleaming with sweat. His eyes were wide with a terror too large for his years. Egg.
"Father!" Aegon cried. "Uncle is trembling—unbelievably so—"
He did not finish. Maekar was already moving.
The prince strode past his son and through the doorway in three long steps, boots striking stone hard enough to echo down the passage. You followed without thinking. Your body moved before your mind had time to argue, the same blind urgency that once dragged you across tiled hospital floors toward a crashing patient.
Only this was not an emergency room.
There were no white walls, no monitors, no beeping machines screaming warnings in cold electronic voices. Only torchlight, stone, and silk banners. You were running in rough servant's wool instead of scrubs, chasing a prince through corridors . A moment ago you had been a prisoner waiting for judgment among dragons. Now instinct had seized the reins again.
They reached the chamber ahead of you, you heard it before you saw it... the noise. A violent, choking sound — a gasp? or maybe groan? like a man fighting for air, for life, for anything than the arms of death.
When you reached the doorway, the sight within struck you like a blow.
Baelor lay where you had left him upon the bed, yet he seemed somehow diminished, the color fled from his face so thoroughly he might have been carved from pale wax. The careful arrangement you had made before (the folded cloths bracing his wounded skull, his head kept straight so the broken bone might not shift) had been undone in the panic. Now his body convulsed upon the mattress in brutal spasms, limbs jerking with such force that the bedframe rattled against the stone floor.
For half a heartbeat your mind refused what your eyes beheld. No, no, no, no.
The chamber swam with movement (robes of maesters, white cloaks of the Kingsguard, Baelor's kin crowding near) but your thoughts faltered like frightened horses before a storm.
Think. You forced the word upon yourself like a command. Think.
Then, as if some hidden door had been thrown open within your skull, your training came rushing back all at once : the bright white lights of an operating theater, the beeping of monitors, the smell of antiseptic and steel. A seizure. Not merely trembling, as the boy had cried. A full convulsion. Yes, you stupid bitch. Now do something!
And with a skull already fractured... God.
Your feet moved before any conscious thought could follow, urgency snapping through your veins like lightning through dry timber. If his head moved too much (if that fragile fracture shifted even the width of a grain of sand) then pressure would build inside the skull. Blood, swelling, compression. The brain had nowhere to go in a closed box of bone.
And then it would all be fucked. All of it.
Every desperate thing you had done since the moment that mace had cracked against his skull (the cloths, the pressure, the shouting at men who could have had your head for less) would mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. All that risk, all that terror... for nada.
No. No, you refused that ending.
A bitter laugh nearly clawed its way up your throat. It was almost ridiculous if you thought about it too long. The man on that bed was barely more than a stranger to you. A prince, yes. A kind one, perhaps (gentle where others in this cursed castle seemed carved from iron and pride) but kindness was the bare minimum of decency. It was nothing that should earn this sort of madness from you.
And yet here you were.
You had nearly been beheaded once already for speaking too boldly. Branded a witch by frightened fools who could not tell knowledge from sorcery. Dragged into royal chambers like some dangerous animal.
Your life, as far as you could tell, had gone completely to shit.
You were stranded in a world that wasn't yours, wearing rough servant's cloth, surrounded by dragons and princes and men who thought leeches cured fevers. And the one man who had shown you the smallest measure of patience lay broken on a bed, skull cracked open like a dropped bowl.
You had fought like hell to keep him alive, and he still had not woken. Now he was seizing.
His body jerked again across the mattress, violent and uncontrolled, every convulsion threatening to wrench his head sideways, to shift that delicate fracture you had fought so hard to stabilize.
Despite all of it, (the accusations, the danger, the absolute insanity of your situation) you were still trying to save him.
And so, you lunged for the bed — but a hand seized your arm. Iron fingers clamped around your sleeve and wrenched you backward with such force your shoulder nearly twisted from its socket.
You turned suddenly to find a Kingsguard barring your path, tall and immovable as a tower in his white cloak, the pale silk whispering softly against the rushes beneath his feet. In the dim light he seemed almost carved from stone, helm tucked beneath one arm, his armor catching the flicker of the chamber's candles. A mailed hand had closed around your sleeve before you could even think to slip past him, iron fingers biting through the thin cloth of your dress.
You did not know this one.
He was not one of the two who had held you down the day before while your hand burned and blistered beneath their "tests," as if pain might prove witchcraft the way a maester proved rot in fruit. The memory still lived in your nerves, and your injured hand throbbed as if recalling it too.
This knight was another man entirely. A third white cloak, then. Another silent sword sworn to protect dragons.
His face gave little away : old and hard, watchful, the sort of face that had learned long ago not to question the commands of princes. To him you were likely nothing more than a hysterical servant rushing toward a dying royal.
Behind him, on the bed, Baelor's body jerked again in another brutal spasm.
And the Kingsguard did not move.
"Stand back," he commanded.
Around them the chamber churned with alarm. The maester and his acolytes had crowded about Baelor, attempting to restrain him, their hands pressing his shoulders and arms as though brute strength alone might still the convulsions. One acolyte tried to force a folded cloth between the prince's teeth.
Your stomach lurched. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
All wrong.
Baelor's body arched again, a terrible shudder coursing through him as foam gathered at the corner of his mouth. His head jerked sideways against the mattress — dangerously close to the wounded side.
If the fracture shifted —
If bone pressed deeper —
He could bleed into his own brain. Worse : he could die.
"Let me go — !" you snapped, twisting against him. "He needs my help — "
The knight did not so much as blink.
"Let. Me. Go."
Maester Yormwell and two of his acolytes crowded around the prince, pressing at his shoulders, trying to hold him down against the mattress as if brute strength could still a storm inside a man's skull.
Your stomach turned.
Prince Maekar stood at the bedside, one hand pressed against his temple as though the sight itself pained him. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on his brother's convulsing form.
Near the foot of the bed stood a boy you recognized : the prince's eldest son, the one you had glimpsed in the yard once or twice. Valarr, you remembered someone calling him. He stood rigid as carved stone, helpless and pale.
No one knew what they were doing. Your heart slammed against your ribs.
"Let her," Maekar said suddenly.
The guard hesitated, then his grip loosened.
You tore free and stumbled forward, your burned hand screaming the moment you put weight on it. Pain flared bright and vicious up your arm, but there was no time for that now.
Baelor's body arched again, another violent tremor wracking him from head to heel, harder this time. His back arched against the mattress, fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets while another violent tremor ripped through him. His jaw snapped shut with a sound that made your stomach twist.
Shit. Your mind had already moved past panic : seizure. Post-traumatic. Skull fracture. Intracranial pressure.
The words flashed through your head in the same swift rhythm they once had beneath the bright surgical lamps of another life.
"Stop holding him down!" you barked.
Every head in the chamber turned.
The maester blinked at you, affronted. "Woman, do not presume — "
"Stop!" you snapped again, louder. "You'll make it worse!"
Baelor's body convulsed once more, his heel slamming against the wood of the bedframe. This was a disaster. No one moved and then Maekar spoke, sharp as a whip crack.
"Do as she says."
The acolytes recoiled at once. You were already at the bedside. The prince's skin was slick with sweat. His dark hair clung damply on his forehead, the linen wrappings around his head stained faintly where blood had seeped through earlier.
Your heart hammered, and you forced yourself to breathe.
Focus. You had seen this before. Not here, not in a stone chamber with princes and maesters watching like frightened crows — but in trauma bays, in operating theaters, in the frantic blur between life and death.
You climbed onto the edge of the bed without so much as a word of leave.
Some dim corner of your mind knew well enough how improper it must look ... some servant woman scrambling onto the bed of the heir to the Iron Throne while half the room watched: his brother standing grim at the bedside, his son and nephew pale and frozen, a gaggle of maesters and their acolytes fluttering like frightened birds, and white-cloaked guards posted like statues around them all.
In any other moment the audacity of it might have cost you your head, again.
A lowborn woman did not simply climb into the bed of a prince. Not before his kin, not before the Kingsguard, not before the Citadel's gray-robed leeches. But just now you did not give a single fuck.
Protocol could choke on itself, titles could wait. If any of them wished to drag you off the mattress later and cut your head from your shoulders for the offense, they were welcome to try.
For the moment, the prince was seizing beneath your hands, his shattered skull the fragile thing you had fought like hell to hold together.
And you were not about to let all that be for nothing.
"Turn him," you said quickly. "On his side."
No one moved. You groaned, and grabbed his shoulder yourself.
"Fucking help me!"
Valarr was the first to react. The boy stepped forward at once, pale but determined, hands trembling as he helped you roll his father onto his side.
Good. Airway clear.
Baelor's body shuddered again, another wave passing through him. Foam gathered faintly at the corner of his mouth.
Your stomach tightened.
"Nothing in his mouth," you muttered automatically, slapping away an acolyte's hand as the boy tried to force a cloth between the prince's teeth. "Don't put anything there — he'll choke!"
The acolyte recoiled as though struck.
Your burned hand throbbed viciously, but you ignored it. Carefully, so carefully, you slid your fingers beneath Baelor's head, supporting it while keeping pressure steady against the wrappings that held his skull.
The fracture had been stabilized with cloth and pressure earlier. Primitive and crude... but it was holding, for now. If the seizure made the bone shift — your jaw clenched.
"Don't you dare," you whispered under your breath.
Another tremor tore through him, then another, and another... His whole body went rigid beneath the blankets, muscles locking hard as hammered iron for one dreadful heartbeat. His back arched, jaw clenched so tight you feared he might shatter his own teeth. The sound that forced its way out of his throat was thin and raw and wrong, a helpless noise dragged from somewhere deep inside him.
It was a hard thing to watch, and to hear. Too eee a man like baelor Targaryen, the suppose hammer, the soul of chivalry,
You remembered this. Not here (not in this cursed stone castle full of dragons and nobles) but years ago, back when you were still a resident running on caffeine and four hours of sleep, standing under fluorescent lights in a hospital that smelled of antiseptic and burned coffee. Patients jerking on narrow beds while alarms screamed and families cried in hallways. The first time you'd seen it, you'd panicked.
You'd learned better since.
There was nothing heroic to do in moments like this. No miracle maneuver, no dramatic saving stroke. You followed the steps, you kept them safe, and you waited for the storm in the brain to burn itself out. That was all, really.
So you forced yourself to steady. Your hands stayed where they needed to be, bracing his head as carefully as if it were made of cracked glass, making damn certain the fracture beneath the bandaging cloth did not shift. Your burned hand throbbed like a living thing, pain lancing up your arm with every second, but you ignored it.
The maesters hovered uselessly behind you. Someone in the room was whispering prayers. You did not listen.
Baelor shuddered again beneath your hands, another violent tremor running through him. Your heart twisted at the sound he made, but you held firm.
Seconds dragged, long and terrible seconds.
Then, slowly... gradually, the violence began to ebb. The rigid tension bled from his limbs. The terrible shaking softened into weaker spasms, then smaller tremors still.
At last the storm passed.
His body slackened against the mattress, breath dragging in ragged pulls through parted lips, most of all : alive.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Baelor's fingers twitched once against the sheets, then stilled.
Only the ragged sound of his breathing remained. For a long moment no one spoke.
You stayed where you were, still holding his head steady, your heart pounding so violently you could hear it in your ears.
The prince lay limp now, his chest rising and falling in uneven pulls of air.
Alive, barely, but alive.
A quiet sound escaped Valarr beside you ... relief? or disbelief? You didn't know. Across the bed, Maekar exhaled slowly through his nose.
Grand Maester Yormwell stared at you as though you had just performed sorcery.
You finally lifted your gaze from Baelor's face.
"He's not out of danger," you said, your voice hoarse but steady. "Not even close."
Your eyes flicked to the wrappings around his skull.
"That blow cracked his head open," you continued. "If the swelling inside grows worse, he could stop breathing. Or fall into sleep and never wake again."
The room went very still. You looked straight at Maekar, your gaze fixed on him as the words settled in the air. Only after a moment did you realize you were still holding Baelor against your chest, cradling him carefully, almost instinctively, as if you had forgotten he was even there.
"So unless one of you knows how to open a skull and relieve pressure on the brain"— you gestured sharply at the bandages — "you're going to do exactly as I say."
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, the prince nodded.
It was not a gracious thing, that nod. No yielding courtesy softened it, no humility. It was the stiff, reluctant assent of a man who would rather bite through his own tongue than yield authority to a stranger in servant's clothes. Yet he gave it all the same.
The maester shifted where he stood beside the bed, his chain glinting faintly in the lamplight. His mouth worked as though he wished to speak, perhaps to protest, perhaps to remind the room that he was the learned one here. Yet the sight of Baelor's still form, pale against the pillows, seemed to still his tongue.
You did not wait for objections.
"Good," you said sharply. "Then listen carefully."
You gestured toward the maester and his cluster of acolytes, who stood pale and uncertain, hands hovering uselessly over bowls of cloth and herbs.
"When the shaking begins again — and it may — you do not hold him down. You do not force his limbs still. You clear the space around him so he does not strike his head again, and you let it pass."
They stared at you as though you had begun speaking High Valyrian backwards. God, this was like explaining neurology to middle schoolers.
You dragged a hand through your hair, already feeling the beginnings of a headache hammering behind your eyes.
"His brain is injured," you said, slower now, forcing the words into shapes these people might grasp. "The blow he took cracked the skull. The brain beneath it is... angered." You tapped your own temple. "It swells. It misfires. That is what you just saw."
The word brain seemed to unsettle them. Several of the acolytes glanced uneasily at one another.
Maekar did not move. His arms were folded across his chest, broad shoulders rigid as a war statue. His bruised face was shadowed by the candlelight, and his eyes had not left you since you began speaking.
"You speak of things no maester has named," Yormwell said at last, cautiously.
"Congratulations," you muttered. "Today's your lucky day."
A few of the guards shifted uncomfortably at that, glancing toward Maekar to see whether the insolence would earn you another beating.
But the prince did not rebuke you.
Instead he asked, very quietly, "Will he live?"
There it was.
Not if. Not perhaps. Not some courtly hedge wrapped in politeness, just the naked question.
Your gaze drifted back to the man on the bed.
Baelor lay deathly still now, the tremors gone, though his breathing still came unevenly. The cloth bound about his head was dark with dried blood where the mace had broken bone beneath. You could almost see the swelling inside the skull, pressing against the unyielding cage of bone, stealing space the brain desperately needed.
In a hospital, you'd have had CT scans, monitors, surgical drills.
Here you had linen bandages, herbal poultices, and prayer.
You swallowed.
"He might," you said at last. "If he's very lucky."
Maekar's jaw tightened. "And if he is not?"
Your eyes met his again.
"Then he dies slowly," you said bluntly. "Confused. Seizing. His mind slipping away piece by piece until his body forgets how to breathe."
A shocked murmur rippled through the chamber.
You did not soften the words, no, people here loved their pretty lies about the mercy of the gods. You had watched too many brains die under fluorescent lights to bother dressing death in silk.
Maekar was silent for a long moment, then he stepped closer to the bed.
The movement was careful, almost reluctant, as though approaching something fragile and precious. He looked down at his brother's face, pale and damp with sweat.
When he spoke again, his voice was rougher.
"What do you require?"
Maekar did not answer you at once.
His gaze drifted to his brother's head, to the heavy wrappings stiff with blood where you had bound the ruin of bone beneath. Even through the cloth you could see the uneven swell of it, wrong in a way no body ought to be. The mace had not merely struck Baelor—it had crushed him. When the helm had been taken off, you had seen it clearly enough: the back of the skull caved like a broken eggshell beneath the hair and blood.
A crush injury. You had known it the instant you saw it.
Even if the brain itself had not been torn apart (which, mercifully, it might not have been) the shattered bone alone would bleed inside the skull. Blood had nowhere to go in there. It gathered, pooled, pressed inward, squeezing the soft tissue of the brain tighter and tighter until the mind simply... stopped.
You had seen it before. Patients talking, breathing, even walking after the blow, until twenty minutes later they collapsed because the bleeding finally caught up with them.
Adrenaline. Fight-or-flight. The body's last cruel trick. Baelor had stood through a trial by combat with half his skull broken because his body had not yet realized it was dying.
The helmet had helped too. You knew that much now. It had acted like a crude splint, holding the fractured pieces of bone together long enough to slow the bleeding.
The moment it had been removed... Well. Here you were. You had been the one to argue against it, the one shouting for them to leave the damned thing where it was. The helm had been the only thing holding that shattered skull together, crude as it was. A splint of steel and stubborn luck.
Perhaps you had been right... Or perhaps not, time will let you know. A prince spared the field only to die slowly in a bed...
You dragged a slow breath into your lungs, steadying yourself.
"What I require," you said, voice hoarse from too much shouting and too little sleep, "is time."
Maekar's eyes darkened. "Time?"
"Yes. Because if I start cutting into his skull right now," you said bluntly, "I'll likely kill him myself."
That got their attention. The maester stiffened, and one of the acolytes made the sign of the Seven under his breath.
You ignored them.
"I've been awake half the night. In a dungeons for days. My hand is half-roasted." You lifted the injured one slightly, the burned flesh mottled blue-red beneath the cloth you'd wrapped around it earlier. Even moving it sent a spike of pain up your arm. "And if I'm going to attempt something as delicate as opening a man's head, I need both hands working."
You gestured toward Baelor.
"Right now he's breathing. His heart's steady. The seizure passed." You exhaled slowly. "That buys him a little time. Not much — but enough that I'd rather wait until morning and do this properly."
Maester Yormwell cleared his throat. When you looked over, the old man's face had regained some of its color. The shock had settled into careful thought now.
"There is... sense in what she says," he admitted slowly. "Such a procedure would require steady hands and preparation. And the Citadel's own surgeons are due to arrive within two days' time. If the prince survives the night, their counsel may aid us."
You nearly laughed. Aid us. Sure. Half those Citadel fossils would probably faint if you told them you planned to drill into the heir to the Iron Throne's skull.
Still... the agreement helped. Maekar looked from you to the maester and back again.
His jaw flexed once. "You believe he will live the night?"
You hesitated.
Then shrugged slightly. "I believe he might," you said. "If the swelling doesn't worsen too fast. If he doesn't seize again. If whatever bleeding is happening inside that skull doesn't crush his brainstem before morning."
A silence followed that cheerful assessment.
Finally Maekar gave a short nod.
"Very well."
Relief washed through you so suddenly your knees almost gave out.
Thank fuck.
Before anyone could say more, another voice spoke.
"You should sleep."
You glanced over. The young man standing near the bed stepped forward now — the one you had noticed earlier but not truly looked at. Tall, lean, with Baelor's same dark hair and steady mis-macthed eyes.
Prince Valarr. He looked tired enough to fall over where he stood.
"I will stay with my father," he said quietly.
Maekar frowned. "You should rest."
Valarr shook his head at once.
"No." There was no anger in it, only quiet iron. "He was there for me my entire life. I can manage one night."
Maekar studied him a moment, then sighed through his nose.
"You are as stubborn as he is."
Valarr did not deny it.
His gaze shifted back to you then.
"You should go," he said gently. "Sleep while you can."
You didn't argue. God knew you were too tired to.
The room felt suddenly too warm, too crowded, too full of staring eyes and whispering courtiers who probably still half believed you were some sort of witch.
You slid off the edge of the bed, legs stiff.
"Wake me if he starts seizing again," you said. "Don't move his head. Don't remove the bandages. And for the love of — " you stopped yourself before finishing the sentence with fucking god. Barely. " — the Seven," you corrected weakly.
Maester Yormwell nodded solemnly. "We will keep watch."
You turned without another word and walked out before anyone could stop you again.
The corridor beyond felt blessedly empty.
The moment you were out of sight of the chamber, the strength drained out of your shoulders all at once.
Your burned hand throbbed viciously now that the adrenaline was gone. You leaned briefly against the stone wall, teeth clenched as the pain pulsed through your palm.
God. You were exhausted. Covered in dried blood. Possibly still accused of witchcraft. And tomorrow you were apparently going to attempt medieval brain surgery on the heir to the Iron Throne.
Great. Fantastic, even! Living the fucking dream.
You pushed yourself upright and made your way down the corridor toward the servants' quarters. When you finally reached the small chamber you'd been given, you shut the door firmly behind you.
No maesters, no guards.
No dragon princes staring holes through your skull. Just you. You sank onto the narrow bed and carefully unwound the cloth around your burned hand, probably put there when you fell unconscious.
The sight of it made you hiss through your teeth.
The skin was blistered and angry, mottled purple and red where the metal had seared it. Whoever had tortured you had done the job thoroughly.
"Bastards," you muttered.
You set about cleaning it yourself, jaw clenched tight against the pain. You trusted your own hands more than any maester's. Tomorrow you might need them steady enough to save a prince. Or watch him die.
Right now, you needed a bath. Clean water, alcohol, fesh bandages. Anything that might keep the damned thing from festering before morning.
So you left your little room and made your way down toward the servants' baths.
The corridors were quieter now, most of the castle settling into night. Your steps echoed faintly off the stone as you walked, the ache in your burned hand throbbing with every heartbeat. By the time you pushed open the narrow wooden door to the baths, sweat clung to the back of your neck.
The room beyond was small and dim, lit by a single lantern. Steam curled lazily from the shallow bathing pool set into the floor.
Empty... Thank God.
You stepped inside and shut the wooden door behind you. Your clothes came off carefully, awkwardly, working around the burned hand. The fabric of your servant's gown stuck to dried blood and sweat in places, and peeling it away made you hiss through your teeth. You dropped the filthy bundle onto a bench and stepped down into the warm water.
The heat stung at first, needles of pain racing up your arm, but after a moment your muscles loosened and your shoulders sagged with relief. You leaned back slightly against the stone edge and let out a long breath.
Carefully, you lifted your injured hand out of the water and inspected it again.
The skin was a mottled mess of angry reds, purples, and blistered white where the burn had taken hold. It throbbed like a living thing.
Still functional, though.... You flexed your fingers slowly. Pain shot through your palm, sharp enough to make your vision blur for a moment — but the fingers moved. You could still bend them, still feel the water sliding between them. Lucky. If the nerves had gone deeper you might've lost the hand entirely. As it was, gripping anything tightly would be hell for a while.
You dipped your other hand into the water and took the small block of rough soap resting at the pool's edge. Slowly, carefully, you began washing yourself — scrubbing away blood, dirt, sweat, and the lingering stink of fear.
The water rippled softly around you.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the faint splash of movement and the distant murmurs of the castle settling into night.
No dragon princes pacing, no headsman's axe waiting, no eyes of nobles staring to see if you'd hang or burn. Just you and the water — surprisingly warm, a small mercy. Ashford was modest, at least in comparison to the tales of sprawling keeps and glittering halls of the great houses.
For you, though, it was massive enough to get lost in. And yet this bath, this pool tucked away in a quiet corner of the castle, felt intimate in its emptiness. The water was rarely warm enough at night; the servants changed it no more than every three days, and the soap, such as it was, was scuffed, pitted, and shared by anyone who had the courage to bathe.
You grimaced at the thought.
Compare that to the noble side of the keep, where water was cleaner, more abundant, and infused with scents you could scarcely pronounce, where pools were lined with mosaics and marble, and even soap was a luxury, not a hunk of old fat scoured into pieces by generations of hands.
Here, though, it was medieval in the purest, most brutal sense: soap shared, water tepid at best, reminder that cleanliness was more an aspiration than a right. You missed the endless, steaming showers of home, the freedom to scrub and rinse as often as you liked, the effortless hygiene taken for granted.
Even your razor had been neglected for weeks, but here, you had to make do, and somehow, just being able to sink into warm water (no matter how reused, no matter how dingy) felt like a reprieve from the constant threat of death, the pressures of court, and the creeping exhaustion of keeping a prince alive.
It made you ache in ways you hadn't expected, nostalgia for a world you barely let yourself think about. Yet still, for the first time in hours, maybe days, you let yourself feel some small piece of peace. The water lapped at your skin, washing away sweat, blood, grime, and fear. And for a moment, that was enough.
When you finished, you didn't linger.
You stepped out quickly, wrapping a rough cloth around yourself before the cooler air could raise goosebumps across your skin. The servant corridors were still empty when you slipped back through them, damp hair clinging to your neck as you hurried toward your small chamber.
Inside, you shut the door firmly behind you.
The gown you had worn all day (Ashford colors dull with grime and blood) went straight into a corner. You peeled it off and dropped it there without ceremony. Tomorrow you'd deal with it.
For now you pulled a simple cotton slip over your head, the soft fabric a mercy against your battered skin.
You brushed your hair quickly, fingers working through damp tangles before braiding it over one shoulder. Simple and practical.
Then you crouched and reached beneath your narrow bed.
Your fingers found the small wooden box hidden there, you dragged it out and opened it.
Inside was the little kit you'd put together months ago: bandages, a small flask of alcohol, scraps of clean cloth, a needle, a few herbs you'd bartered from kitchen girls or stolen from the gardens when no one was looking.
Servants got hurt, a lot. Drunken lords threw cups. Guards shoved people aside. Kitchen knives slipped. You'd once seen a boy lose half his ear because a knight thought he'd spilled wine on purpose.
After one lord had split your cheek open with the rim of his goblet because his wine arrived late, you'd decided you were done relying on anyone else.... So you became the one they came to.
You took the alcohol now and poured a small splash over the burn.
The pain was immediate and vicious.
"Fuck —"
You sucked in a breath, biting the inside of your cheek until the worst of it passed. Then you wrapped the hand carefully in clean bandages, tying them tight enough to hold but loose enough not to cut circulation.
When you were finished, your hand throbbed but at least it was clean.
You set the kit aside and blew out the candle. Darkness filled the room. Before climbing into bed, you dragged the single wooden chair you owned across the floor and wedged it beneath the door handle.
A pathetic barricade, really.
But it made you feel slightly less like someone might slip in during the night and finish what the headsman hadn't.... Nearly dying had a way of making a person paranoid.
Before going to bed, you checked one last thing.
You crouched beside the bed and reached beneath it, fingers sliding along the floorboards until they found the small wooden latch hidden there. Carefully, you lifted the loose plank. The movement was slow, practiced — something you had done many times now, always with the same quiet tension in your chest.
The small compartment beneath revealed itself.
You supposed the Kingsguard had never found it when they searched your room. They had turned over chests, opened drawers, and inspected the obvious places, but none of them had thought to check beneath the floor itself. The hiding space was small, barely more than a shallow hollow between the beams, but it was enough.
Inside lay the few things that still belonged to your other life.
Folded carefully were your modern clothes, fabrics that would look strange and out of place in this century if anyone ever saw them. Beneath them rested the small collection of objects you had carried with you into this world—the last physical proof that your old life had not simply been a dream.
All except the golden chain you wore around your neck, the one that had belonged to your mother. Your hand moved deeper into the compartment until your fingers found the familiar shape of the watch. Your father’s watch.
You lifted it gently, almost reverently. The glass was cracked now, a thin fracture running across the face like a frozen line of lightning. It had stopped long ago, the hands frozen forever at a time that no longer meant anything here.
Watches did not exist in this world — not like this one. Not small enough to fit in a pocket, not precise, not something a common person could carry without drawing attention. And you had no desire to explain it. You ran your thumb slowly across the broken glass, feeling the shallow ridge of the crack beneath your skin. For a moment you simply held it there, the weight of it grounding you in a way nothing else could.
Then, with a breath, you placed it back.
You tucked the watch beneath the folded clothes again and lowered the wooden plank into place, sealing the small secret away beneath the floor once more.
Finally you crawled beneath the thin covers of your narrow bed. God, you had missed this miserable thing....
You used to hate it — the hard mattress, the way it made your back ache if you slept wrong. You'd cursed it more than once while tossing through sleepless nights. Now it felt like a luxury. At least it wasn't a dungeon floor. At least it wasn't a block of wood with your head pressed against it while a man raised an axe.
You lay there staring at the darkness for a moment, to think that this morning you had almost been beheaded. If anyone from your old life could see you now... The thought barely finished forming before exhaustion dragged you under.
Sleep took you hard and fast.
You woke slowly, every muscle stiff and aching, the remnants of yesterday's adrenaline clinging to your body like a second skin.
Sunlight sifted through the thin curtains of your modest chamber, soft and golden, catching the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.
Outside, the morning was alive with movement: birds trilling from the eaves, the scrape of wagon wheels on cobbles, and the distant sounds of tents being struck and packed from the tourney grounds. The faint scent of woodsmoke from hearths drifted in through the window, mingling with the lingering tang of iron and wax from the Red Keep. You stretched once, carefully, then swung your legs over the side of the bed, the floor cold beneath your feet, and took a slow, steadying breath.
The cotton gown Clare had gifted you lay ready, soft and white, its fabric smooth against your skin. It was practical, fitted just enough to follow the contours of your body without being restrictive, and as you pulled it over your head, you felt a strange comfort — some vestige of control returning to you after the chaos of yesterday.
The threadbare servant's dress that had been your armor, your uniform, yesterday was gone, discarded somewhere in a corner, a memory of your indignity. You paused then, feeling the gentle brush of the cotton against your skin, thinking of how small victories like this (like warm clothing, a private moment, a bit of quiet) felt monumental in a castle of dragons and heirs.
You made your way to the kitchen. And oh, how you wished you didn't
The space smelled faintly of yesterday's stew and the rising warmth of morning bread. Only a handful of cooks and maids moved about, quietly chopping, stoking fires, and scraping pots.
Their eyes did not meet yours.... You noticed it the moment you crossed the kitchen threshold. Usually there was noise here at this hour — the clatter of pots, the murmur of half-awake servants trading bits of gossip before the day's work began. Someone would curse the ovens, someone else would laugh, and Charres would already be shouting for more wood as though the hearth were his sworn enemy.
Today the noise remained, but the warmth was gone.
The servants moved about their tasks with care, like men and women walking across thin ice. Knives struck chopping boards in dull rhythms. Ladles scraped the bottoms of blackened pots. Firewood cracked in the great hearth as flames licked upward toward the soot-darkened chimney. Yet not a single voice greeted you.
You stood for a moment near the doorway, letting your gaze pass slowly across the room. No one looked back. Heads bent over work, hands busied themselves with dough, onions, salted meat. A girl, you remembered being named Maecy, carrying a basket of apples changed course at the last second so she would not have to pass directly in front of you... It was subtle, but it hurt.
You had become something they preferred not to see.... You accepted it without comment.
Hunger gnawed too steadily at your stomach to care for pride this early in the morning. So you moved to the long wooden table near the wall where the morning bread had been set out and helped yourself to what you could reach without asking.
A wedge of coarse brown bread, a small slice of hard cheese, and a cup of water from the clay jug. Nothing more.
You ate slowly, leaning your hip against the edge of the table, listening to the life of the kitchen unfold around you. The wooden boards creaked faintly beneath passing feet. Someone coughed near the hearth. A pot lid rattled softly as steam forced its way free.
Through the open shutter you could hear the castle waking beyond the kitchens.
Carts rumbling over cobblestones. Men shouting as they dismantled the last of the tourney tents outside the walls. The distant clink of armor. Morning in a great castle, and yet the kitchen felt colder than the yard outside.
Even Charres would not look at you, that struck deeper than you expected. The cook was a broad man with a belly like a barrel and a laugh that could be heard halfway down the servants' hall.
On most mornings he would greet you with some foolish remark about how thin you were growing, as though you might blow away in a stiff wind if he didn't stuff another loaf into your hands. Today he stood at the great iron pot near the hearth, stirring slowly with a wooden paddle thicker than your wrist. His back was turned to you, he did not once glance over his shoulder, not even by accident.
Flour dust clung to his beard. His shoulders were stiff beneath his stained apron, moving only with the slow motion of stirring.
You watched him a moment longer than you meant to, then your gaze shifted.
Esthis stood near the far table, counting onions into a basket with the same severe precision she brought to everything. She was a hard woman, Esthis — thin-lipped and sharp-eyed, the unquestioned ruler of the servants' wing. When she spoke, servants moved. When she struck, they remembered their mistakes.
You had felt her hand across your cheek more than once. Once for answering back, once for breaking a cup, once simply because she believed you had been idle when there was work to be done.
Yet even Esthis would not acknowledge you now... She passed within arm's reach carrying her basket, the smell of onion skins drifting behind her. Her gaze slid across the room, past you, through you, as though you were no more solid than smoke. Invisible, yes that would be the world.
You finished the last bite of bread and chewed it slowly. Strange. Yesterday she would have slapped you for leaning against the table while eating. Today she pretended you did not exist...
You told yourself you understood.
Word of yesterday's spectacle must have reached the servants' halls before sunset. There were always eyes and ears where one least expected them in a castle.
The courtyard, the accusation, the block, the axe raised high before half the realm. You — the servant woman accused of sorcery. The woman who had spoken boldly before princes. The woman who had nearly lost her head.
You supposed Lord Ashford might have ordered the servants not to speak with you. That would make sense, no lord wished whispers of witchcraft spreading through his household... Or perhaps it was not his command at all, perhaps they had chosen this themselves.
That thought settled unpleasantly in your chest. Weren't you one of them? Another lowborn soul scraping through life in the shadow of noble tempers? You had eaten at this same table beside them for months, shared scraps, shared complaints, shared laughter on the rare evenings when the work was light and the ale was cheap, healed them too.
You had thought, perhaps foolishly, that counted for something, yet here you stood now, eating alone while the room pretended you were not there. You sighed softly and reached for the cup of water.
The truth, when you allowed yourself to face it, was simple enough : they were peasants, just as you were... and peasants understood survival better than anyone. A servant who spoke too freely with a woman accused of sorcery might draw the wrong sort of attention. A servant who befriended the strange girl who had somehow saved a dragon prince when the castle's own maesters could not... that servant might find themselves questioned. Or worse : fear made practical creatures of people.
You could not blame them for that.
Still... It hurt. More than you would ever admit aloud.
But then again, they were peasants, just as you were.
That was the lesson this world had taught you most brutally since the moment you had found yourself trapped inside it — a world that looked like something pulled straight from the worst chapters of medieval history books. Here they did not call themselves peasants most of the time. They preferred smallfolk, as if the word softened the truth of it, as if shrinking the name somehow made the life easier to bear, but the meaning remained the same.
Smallfolk worked, smallfolk served, smallfolk bled, and when the time came, smallfolk died — usually for problems that had begun far above their heads in towers of stone and halls of gold.
Disposable, yes, that was the word that came to you more often than you liked. Disposable like animals.
You had seen enough already to understand that much.
Some were not even free men or women. Slaves still existed in this world, though Westeros pretended itself better than that. Clare had told you once, late in the evening when the tavern was quiet and the fire burned low, that slavery was still practiced across the Narrow Sea in Essos, in cities older than most kingdoms. Entire markets where men and women were bought like cattle... Children too.
You had stared at her then, half convinced she must be exaggerating... but she had not been.
And the strangest thing of all was that the people here seemed to accept it. You had often wondered why they never rose up.
Why the smallfolk did not simply turn on the nobles who ruled them? In your world revolutions had happened. Kings had fallen, heads had rolled through streets. The French had done it with frightening enthusiasm — guillotines rising in every square, nobles dragged from their homes, crowns reduced to metal scraps and memory...
Why not here? Why not the same in Westeros?
Why not drag the great houses from their keeps, place dragonlords and princes beneath blades, spike their heads along the roads like warnings?
Surely there were more peasants than nobles. More hungry mouths than crowned ones.
If the dragon dynasty truly caused so many problems, why had no one simply ended it? Why not tear the whole rotten structure down — dragons, lords, and all the ancient houses that fed upon the labor of those beneath them?
Once, you might have thought the answer obvious. The dragon dynasty had dragons. Living fire made flesh, beasts that could melt armies and castles alike. How could peasants rise against creatures like that? In such a world the Targaryens must have seemed closer to gods than men, rulers crowned not only by blood but by flame. Who would dare raise a hand against those who commanded the sky itself?
But now? Now the dragons were gone. Dead for generations, reduced to bones and dusty stories whispered in great halls. The last of them had vanished long before most of the people in this castle had even drawn their first breath. And still the dragon dynasty remained seated upon its throne of iron.
So why?
The answer, when you turned it over in your mind, was almost insultingly simple.
Because the great houses still fed upon them.... That much was obvious.
Taxes, labor, service — everything flowed upward, always upward, from the backs of the smallfolk into the hands of their lords. And when those same lords chose to punish someone, they did it with a brutality that had shocked you the first time you saw it.
You still remembered the first hanging.... It had been outside Ashford Castle.
You could not even recall the man's crime now. Perhaps he had stolen something, perhaps he had spoken out of turn... It hardly mattered.
You had only gone into the woods to gather mushrooms that day, a simple errand Esthis had given you, and there he was.
The body swaying gently from the rope where they had left him, turning slowly in the wind like some grotesque decoration hung from the tree.
You remembered standing there far too long... just staring, trying to process what you were seeing.
In your world executions were hidden behind prison walls, buried under paperwork and courts and appeals. Death was sterile there, distant. Here it was simply... part of the landscape.
That had been the moment you realized, truly realized, that you were no longer anywhere near the world you came from.
This was medieval, brutally so. Yet the longer you lived here, the more uncomfortable another thought had begun creeping into your mind during the quiet hours of the night.
Because when you really examined it... your old world had not been so different, not truly.
The punishments had changed, the language had changed, but suffering had not disappeared.
Back home there had been poverty too. Entire streets of it, families crushed under debt, people working themselves half to death while those at the very top of the system collected wealth beyond imagination. Politicians spoke of progress while corporations devoured everything beneath them. Elites still existed there — only they wore suits instead of crowns.
And the lower classes were still manipulated.
Fed stories about enemies that looked just like them, told to blame immigrants, or neighbors, or the poor man next door struggling just as badly... Anything so they would not look upward, anything so they would not notice who truly held the power.
Different century, different tools, same game.
You exhaled slowly and rubbed your temple.
Whatever. This was not a sociology lecture.
You were not standing in a university hall arguing theories, you were in a castle kitchen in a world that might very well cut your head off if you spoke half these thoughts aloud.
Better to keep them where they belonged — inside your skull.
You drained the last of the water from your cup and set it back upon the table.
The silence remained. No gossip passed between the tables, no jests, but only the rhythm of work carried on beneath lowered heads.
Yesterday your dignity had been stripped away in front of nobles and knights alike, today the servants returned the favor with absence. You pushed away from the table and brushed the crumbs from your fingers.
Fine. If they wished to treat you like a curse, you would not beg them otherwise. You had more important matters to attend to than wounded pride.
Without another word you turned and left the kitchen behind.
Without thinking, you made your way to Baelor's chambers. The door was slightly ajar, and inside, the room was quiet except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest.
Valarr was absent — likely sent off to rest somewhere quiet, away from the bedlam of the previous day. Good, you thought; the boy needed sleep. You approached the bed without hesitation. Modern instincts, hardwired into your body through years of residency, guided your hands.
You knelt beside him, easing his fragile head into your lap as gently as you could.
One hand cradled the base of his skull, fingers splayed to support the fractured bone, while the other hovered over the bandages, testing their tension, the alignment, the swelling beneath. You leaned closer, placing an ear over his chest, counting each slow heartbeat, feeling for rhythm and strength. Your fingers traced the rise and fall of his pulse at the wrist, noting its steadiness — or the slightest tremor beneath your touch.
Then, the eyes: first the blue, then the violet, flicking open with a languid curiosity, slowly registering the light of the room. You observed their clarity, the subtle dilation, the life that persisted despite yesterday's calamity.
Your fingers lingered on his jaw, brushing lightly over the small growth of beard he had begun cultivating, tracing the soft line from ear to chin, feeling the warmth of his skin. The movement was unconscious, almost meditative, but it grounded you. You checked the bandages again, pressed lightly where swelling threatened to budge the fragile bone, adjusted padding with the precision of someone trained to preserve life with nothing more than their hands.
Today was the day. The day you were meant to cut open the skull of a prince.
You stood beside the bed staring down at Baelor's still form, trying to steady the tremor in your hands before anyone noticed it. In a few moments (minutes perhaps) you would begin. Not some careful, sterile procedure beneath bright surgical lamps with machines whispering steady rhythms in the background. No assistants in clean gowns. No suction, no imaging, no anesthesiologist watching numbers on a screen.
Just you, a knife, a hammer, a chisel, and a room full of nobles who would have your head the moment something went wrong.
Your mind tried to cling to hope all the same.
If the pressure came off the brain, he might wake. Slowly perhaps. There might be weakness at first — clumsy fingers, slow speech, confusion. The brain needed time after trauma. You had seen it before. Patients who could barely move a hand one week, walking down hospital corridors a month later.
Recovery could happen. It could. Your thoughts clung to that possibility like a drowning woman clutching driftwood. But the surgeon inside you knew the truth.
He was likely damned.
The injury was too severe, the tools too crude, the time already too far gone. Even in a modern trauma center his odds would be slim.
Here? Here you were gambling with a life using medieval steel and blind faith. If he died on that table, they would not blame fate. They would blame you, and the Stranger would likely claim you both before the sun set.
Your eyes stung suddenly.
You blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, blurring the pale shape of his face, not because you were afraid for yourself (though you were) but because you knew what this should look like.
There should be scalpels, monitors, a sterile field, a tray of instruments laid out in precise order. Instead there was a bowl of boiled wine, a ragged needle, crushed poppy to dull the pain, and a prayer that the blade was sharp enough.
God. You shook your head slightly, as if he might somehow see the despair gathering there. Then you wiped your tears away roughly with the heel of your good hand, when you looked down again, Baelor had not moved.
Of course he hadn't.
He lay quiet beneath the bandages, breath shallow, the color of his skin still far too pale. You reached out before you could stop yourself.
Your hands came to rest against his cheeks, warm beneath your palms despite the chill in the room. The gesture felt strangely intimate — too intimate for a man you barely knew. A prince whose life had tangled with yours for only a handful of hours.
And yet you had already risked your life for him, nearly lost it. Your thumb brushed faintly along his temple.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
The words were meant for him... or perhaps for yourself. You weren't entirely sure anymore.
You stayed that way for a long while, your hands resting lightly against Baelor's face, until the door creaked open again and Maester Yormwell entered with two of his apprentices trailing behind him like anxious shadows.
The old man looked as though he had aged ten years in the last week.
None of you spoke of the silence that had stretched between the prince's breaths these past days. Of the way he had lain unmoving since the seizure, slipping deeper into that terrible stillness where men sometimes never returned.
Without ceremony, without another moment to gather courage, you straightened and began.
At first the maester protested. "Should we not wait for the Grand Maesters of the Citadel?" Yormwell asked cautious. "They are coming tomorrow. Men more learned in such matters — "
"It has been a week and a half," you cut in.
Your voice was hard enough to stop him.
"A week he has lain like this. The blood trapped inside his skull is pressing against the brain. The longer it sits there, the more damage it does." The apprentices exchanged uneasy looks. "If we wait another night," you continued, "that night may very well be the one that kills him."
The door opened again behind them, this time Maekar entered.
The prince looked as though sleep had abandoned him entirely. His silver hair hung loose and unkempt around his head, his face hollowed by exhaustion, the bruises along his cheek now fading into sickly purple. For a moment he simply stood there watching the bed, saying nothing.
You, however, did not pause.
"This is delicate work," you told the maester plainly. "I will not lie to you. I do not know the outcome."
Yormwell frowned. "But you believe he may live?"
You held his gaze. "I believe he will die if we do nothing."
That settled over the room like falling ash, even Maekar lowered his eyes for a moment.
You forced the next words out before doubt could take hold.
"Even with the ... uhm --- surgery... he may still die. The damage may already be too great. The bleeding too deep. But at least there is a chance." Your gaze flicked toward the prince. "If we do nothing, there is none."
Maekar did not speak. He stood beside the bed looking down at his brother, jaw tight, his hands clasped behind his back so hard the knuckles had gone pale.
Finally you said quietly, "Either we try to save him... or we watch him slip into death without ever knowing if he could have been saved."
The silence stretched long, nobody dared to speak.
Then Maekar nodded once. "Do it."
That was all. The decision settled over the room like the drop of an axe.
You exhaled slowly. "Good," you said.
And just like that, you slipped back into the role that had shaped your entire life : the neurosurgeon.
You turned toward the maester and his apprentices.
"I need boiling water. More than you think necessary. Wine as well—strong wine."
They nodded hurriedly.
"And the instruments we prepared yesterday. Knife. Chisel. Hammer. Needle and thread."
The apprentices rushed to gather them.
Then you added, "And wash your hands."
They stopped. "Wash... our hands?" one repeated, confused.
"Yes."
They blinked at you like cattle.
"Why?" another asked.
You stared at them for a long moment.
"For hygienic reasons." Duh, you wanted to add.
Blank faces.... Of course. You pinched the bridge of your nose. Jesus, it was no wonder half the people in this world died from infection.
"Just do as you're told," you snapped at last. "Soap if you have it. Hot water if you don't. Scrub them."
The apprentices hurried away at that, eager to obey if only to escape your temper.
You watched them go with a tired sigh. The sheer lack of basic hygiene here probably explained half the sickness that ravaged these people. They had no idea how much death they invited simply by touching wounds with filthy hands.
Behind you, Maekar had not moved. When you turned back to the bed, he was still standing there, eyes fixed on Baelor.
You stepped forward again, rolling your shoulders once, forcing your mind into the cold clarity you knew so well.
"Once we begin," you said to the room, "no one touches anything unless I say so."
The instruments were being laid out now on a cloth beside the bed.
You took a breath. Then another, deeper this time, forcing the tremor out of your lungs, forcing your mind into the cold, narrow place it had learned to enter during the worst nights of residency — the place where fear could not reach you, where panic had no space to grow.
"All right," you said. "Let's save a prince."
The basin of water was already steaming when you stepped toward it, heat curling into the cool air of the chamber.
You rolled your sleeves slowly up past your elbows, exposing your forearms, and reached for the rough block of soap that had been set beside the bowl.
It was crude, lumpy, and smelled faintly of animal fat and ash, but it would have to do.
You plunged your hands into the hot water and began to scrub.
Not the quick rinse these people seemed to consider washing, but the methodical scrubbing that had been drilled into you through years of training. Palms first, then between every finger, then the backs of your hands. You scraped beneath your nails with the edge of the soap, grinding away dirt and invisible filth alike. Then your wrists. Your forearms. All the way to the elbow.
The apprentices stared openly.
You ignored them, you rinsed, then scrubbed again, and again.
The motions came automatically, almost soothing in their familiarity. In a real operating theater this would have been routine, automatic even. Fluorescent lights overhead, sterile gowns, masks, assistants mirroring the same movements beside you.
Here you stood in a medieval bedchamber with boiled water, crude soap, and a crowd of anxious nobles watching as if you were performing some strange ritual.
Which, in a way, you supposed you were.
You finally stepped back from the basin and shook the water from your hands before reaching for the cloth offered by one of the apprentices.
"Hair," you said shortly.
He blinked at you.
"Your hair, my lady?"
"Yes, my fucking hair," you huffed, annoyed and already gathering the heavy strands yourself.
You twisted it into a tight knot at the back of your head, fingers moving quickly. Stray strands escaped at first, but you forced them back and secured the whole mess into the tightest bun you could manage. Then you took the length of cotton cloth someone had prepared and wrapped it firmly around your head, tying it behind your skull so that the veil pressed flat against your hair.
No loose strands, no distractions, no chance of hair falling into an open brain.
God... the sheer absurdity of the situation nearly made you laugh. You turned toward the table where the instruments were arranged.
"Are the tools here?"
Grand Maester Yormwell gestured stiffly to the cloth laid out beside the bed.
You stepped closer, examining them one by one.
A set of maester surgical knives — long, narrow blades honed to a fine edge. A bone saw, brutal looking. A hammer. A straight razor for shaving. A chisel. And then : the trepan.
The device looked primitive compared to modern surgical drills, but its purpose was unmistakable. A metal shaft ending in a circular cutting head designed to grind through bone when rotated.
Trepanation.
The practice was ancient. Long before modern neurosurgery existed, people had drilled holes into skulls to relieve pressure inside the brain. Archaeologists had found skulls thousands of years old bearing the marks of it.
Some patients had even survived. Crude medicine, yes... but not entirely foolish.
You scanned the rest of the supplies, needles and thread.
Bowls of boiled water. Strong wine to clean wounds. A brazier burning hot enough to heat metal tools until they glowed faintly red. Primitive sterilization... but better than nothing.
Your gaze drifted back to Baelor. "Has he been given poppy?" you asked.
"Yes," Yormwell answered quietly.
Good. Normally there would be an anesthetist at the head of the operating table — someone monitoring oxygen levels, heart rate, blood pressure. Adjusting medication constantly to keep the patient in a narrow balance between unconsciousness and death.
Here? You had crushed poppy milk and a hope that the dose hadn't already been too much.
“Well,” you muttered under your breath, the words barely louder than the crackle of the nearby candles, “I guess we’re doing this the medieval fucking way.”
Your gaze moved over the back of his head, already calculating what needed to be done and how little you actually had to work with.
You straightened slightly and gestured toward him.
“First we’ll have to sit him up,” you said, your voice returning to that calm, clinical tone you used when giving instructions. “I need a clear view of the back of his head.”
The men hesitated only briefly before moving to obey.
It took longer than it should have. Every movement was cautious, almost fearful, as though they believed the prince might shatter in their hands if they were not careful enough. They lifted him slowly from the bed, supporting his shoulders and arms, shifting his weight with painstaking attention.
At last they settled him into a cushioned chair.
They handled him as though he were made of fragile glass, adjusting the pillows behind him and bracing his body so he would not slump forward. When they were done, his back faced you, the crown of his head now fully visible in the dim light.
Exactly what you needed. You stepped behind the chair, studying the matted hair and the bandaged area where the injury lay hidden beneath.
Then you spoke again, brisk and certain. “Shave his head.”
One of the apprentices obeyed at once, hands shaking slightly as he took the razor and began scraping away Baelor's dark hair as delicately as possible from the fragile head. It fell onto the cloth beneath his head as the area around the fracture slowly cleared.
With every pass of the blade, the damage became more visible. When the shaving was finished, the wound lay fully exposed beneath the lamplight. Even after a week it was ugly.
The skull had been crushed inward by the blow. A shallow depression where bone had caved in toward the brain. You felt your stomach tighten.
"Boiled water," you said.
The bowl was handed to you.
You poured it slowly over the wound, washing away the last dried traces of blood and dirt. The water ran dark across his scalp and soaked into the cloth beneath him.
"Wine." You took the jug and poured again, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the chamber as it ran across exposed flesh.
Yormwell winced at the sight. You ignored him, leaning closer, you studied the fracture carefully. There... The swelling around it told you exactly what you needed to know. Pressure was building inside his skull. Your heart thudded once against your ribs.
"All right," you murmured.
You reached for the trepan, the room fell utterly silent.
You positioned the metal point carefully against the skull just beside the fracture, choosing the spot where the bone seemed strongest but close enough to relieve the pressure beneath.
"Kingsguard," you said without looking up. "Hold him."
Two white cloaks stepped forward immediately, their armored hands gripping Baelor's shoulders and arms.
"Good."
Your voice had changed now... the voice of a surgeon.
You began turning the trepan. Slowly at first, applying steady pressure as the metal teeth bit into bone. A dull grinding sound filled the room. The noise made several people visibly blanch. You kept turning, bone dust gathered around the edges of the tool.
The grinding sound deepened as you worked your way through the outer layer of the skull. Then — Baelor's body jerked violently.
A raw, ragged sound tore from his throat.
Your head snapped up. His eyes had opened.... Not fully aware, not conscious in any meaningful sense — but awake enough for pain to reach him.
"Shit," you breathed.
The poppy hadn't been enough.
His body began to thrash weakly against the grip of the Kingsguard, a broken groan forcing its way past his lips as agony flared through his skull.
"Hold him!" You snapped.
The guards tightened their grip immediately. At that exact moment the chamber door burst open.
Valarr rushed in, heating his father screams.
The boy froze the moment he saw the scene before him — his father pinned by his own kings guards, blood running down his scalp, a drill embedded in his skull while you leaned over him.
"Father — !"
Maekar moved faster than you had ever seen him move, he crossed the room in two strides and seized Valarr by the shoulder.
"You will not watch this."
"Let me — !" he pushed his uncle, teary eyed. "Father! Please —"
"OUT."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Behind you Baelor groaned again, his body trembling under the Kingsguard's restraint, you forced your attention back to the trepan.
Almost through... Just a little more— then suddenly — the tool punched through the skull.
And the room erupted. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dark blood burst upward through the opening, spilling down the side of Baelor's head in a thick, sudden rush.
Someone gasped. One of the apprentices staggered backward in horror.
For one awful second it looked as though you had killed him outright. Blood flooded across the cloth beneath his head.
"Gods — " someone whispered.
"Quiet!" you barked.
You grabbed the chisel next, widening the opening just enough to reach the crushed bone fragments pressing inward toward the brain. Carefully, very carefully, you pried them loose one by one.
More blood spilled out as the pressure released, but this time you noticed something : baelor's breathing.... Before, it had been shallow, uneven. Almost fragile. Now his chest rose deeper. The terrible strain in his breathing began to ease.
Your shoulders sagged slightly. It was working!
"Bandages," you said.
They were handed to you immediately.
You flushed the wound once more with water before packing and stitching it back carefully, leaving a small gap so the remaining blood could continue to drain. Then you wrapped the prince's head in clean cloth, binding the bandage firmly in place.
Only when it was finished did you finally step back. The chamber had gone completely silent.
Baelor lay still once more. Unconscious, but breathing. You looked down at your hands, slick with blood, his blood.
"Well," you muttered hoarsely. "I'll be damned."
part FIVE
A/N : i might’ve gone a bit overboard with the whole social class discussion of the people of westeros and everything… but oh well 😭
also sorry for the lack of baelor btw — he’s still in dreamland for now. see you next chapter!!!
summary : you survive a plane crash — only to wake up in a world that isn’t yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to survive… until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 30K ( 13K cause Tumblr is being annoying )
warnings: Baelor in dreamland, Maekar and Aerion being annoying, blood and graphic violence, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect…
a/n : I feel so nervous abt this part
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 ( you are here )
[ masterlist ]
Four days passed.
Slow days that seemed to drag across the stone walls of the keep like wounded animals refusing to die. The camp outside had vanish.
Inside the chamber, however, nothing had changed.
Baelor was still alive, and somehow, that fact alone seemed to unsettle everyone.
Word had reached the Citadel faster than you expected. A few grey-robed maesters arrived not long after the surgery, drawn by the story of what had happened in the prince's chamber. They came with the stiff curiosity of scholars and the guarded expressions of men who already believed the tale exaggerated.
They examined the wound, studied the bandages, asked questions. You tried, and tried, to explain what you had done.
You told them about pressure inside the skull. About how blood trapped between bone and brain could crush delicate tissue if it had nowhere to escape. You tried to describe how opening the skull allowed that pressure to release, how draining the blood could give the brain room to recover.
They listened, well... Technically. But you could see it in their faces : the doubt and discomfort.
One of them muttered that trepanation had been used before to "release humors." Another nodded solemnly as if that explanation was enough. When you tried to explain further (about trauma, swelling, compression) they exchanged looks that said quite clearly they thought you were either mistaken or dangerously imaginative.
Or perhaps simply a woman speaking beyond her station.
You couldn't tell which annoyed you more. In the end they stopped asking questions. Not because they understood, but because they had decided they didn't want to. So you let them leave with their confusion and their quiet skepticism. You had more important things to worry about... Like the man still breathing in the bed.
You hadn't left his side. Not once.
Your white gown (once clean when you had begun the operation) was now stained a deep brownish red where Baelor's blood had soaked into the fabric. You were aware of it every time you glanced down, but you hadn't changed it.
Partly because you hadn't had the energy, partly because leaving the room felt... wrong.
Your small chamber down the hall suddenly felt far less safe than this one. Strange, really. If anyone wished you harm, this room would be the first place they would come.
Yet somehow, sitting beside Baelor's bed with the rhythm of his breathing in your ears made the knot of fear in your chest loosen just a little.
Maybe because if he died, you suspected your own life might not be worth much anyway. So you stayed, watching, listening, waiting.
Sometimes Valarr came.
The boy would slip quietly into the chamber and walk straight to the bedside, never announcing himself. He would stand there for long stretches of time simply staring at his father's face, his expression tight and unreadable.
He rarely spoke, but sometimes he brought a book.
The pages were filled with strange curling letters you didn't recognize. When he read aloud, the words sounded sharp and flowing all at once, like something halfway between a chant and a poem.
You listened to it once for several minutes before your curiosity got the better of you.
"What language is that?" you asked finally, voice rough from lack of sleep.
Valarr didn't answer at first. You assumed he would ignore the question.
Then, after a long moment, he said quietly, "High Valyrian."
Their language, he explained. You tilted your head slightly, listening again as he continued reading.
It sounded... familiar.
Not the words themselves, but the rhythm. The structure. Certain syllables that echoed strangely against things you remembered from another life.
Greek, or maybe latin? Your mind caught fragments that felt almost recognizable, like hearing a distant cousin of a language you once studied.
You considered mentioning it, then decided not to. Instead you simply nodded faintly and let him read.
When he wasn't there, the chamber felt quieter. Your time filled with small tasks that had become routine. You changed Baelor's bandages when they soaked through. You carefully lifted his head when he needed repositioning.
You massaged his arms and legs, slow firm movements to keep blood flowing through muscles that had not moved in days. You remembered too well what happened to patients who lay immobile for too long : clots, muscle wasting, bodies slowly betraying themselves.
You weren't about to let that happen if you could help it. The maesters came and went throughout the day. They monitored his breathing, checked his pulse. Sometimes they helped with feeding, carefully spooning thin broth or soup between his lips while you supported his head.
Most of it dribbled out again.
But some went down, and that was enough for now.
Through it all, Baelor never woke. He simply breathed. Which, given everything that had happened, still felt like something dangerously close to a miracle.
Maekar did not come often.
In fact, most days you did not see him at all.
When he did appear, it was always late — well after the sun had gone down and the castle had grown quiet. He would step into the chamber without announcement, his boots heavy against the stone floor, the smell of cold night air clinging faintly to his cloak. Sometimes he brought food with him, though he rarely touched much of it. A plate would sit half-finished on the table while he stood beside the bed.
And he never spoke, not to you, not to the maesters, not even to his brother.
He simply stood there, looking down at Baelor with an expression so rigid it might as well have been carved from stone. His hands usually rested on the bedframe or hung stiffly at his sides, fingers flexing occasionally like a man holding back something violent or desperate.
Then, after a time, he would leave again. No words. Just silence and the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor.
You didn't mind.
Truthfully, you preferred it that way. As long as he didn't open his mouth to question your work (or worse, blame you for the outcome, again ) you were perfectly content to let him haunt the room like a ghost and vanish again.
The only person you really spoke to was Maester Yormwell.
The old man had become a strangely presence in the chaos surrounding Baelor's recovery. Grim, quiet, and perpetually tired, yes — but he listened when you spoke, and more importantly, he helped without arguing every second breath.
Which was far more than you could say about the arrogant grey-robes from the Citadel.
Those men walked around the chamber like they were inspecting some bizarre curiosity rather than assisting with the care of a living patient. Every time you tried to explain something, they responded with polite nods and the unmistakable air of scholars tolerating nonsense.
So you avoided them whenever possible.
Yormwell, at least, had the decency to admit when he didn't understand something. Even if he was also the same grim bastard who had been reciting prayers over you when they were about to cut your damn head off.
Life was funny that way.
One evening, while the two of you were working together to feed Baelor a thin broth (Yormwell carefully tipping the spoon while you supported the prince's head you finally asked the question that had been nagging at the back of your mind.
"Where does Maekar spend his days?"
The maester paused slightly, watching to make sure Baelor swallowed the small mouthful before answering.
"With his son."
You frowned.
"Which one?" you asked.
"Aerion."
The name meant little to you at first, though when Maester Yormwell spoke it, memory rose slowly from the back of your mind. You barely knew the lad, truth be told...
You had crossed paths with him only once before everything fell apart at Ashford. It had been in one of the castle corridors during the bustle of the tourney, when servants and nobles alike moved through the halls in a constant tide of silks, armor, and shouted orders. You had been carrying a tray at the time, carefully balancing a flagon of wine and several cups meant for Prince Baelor.
Aerion had appeared around the corner with two companions trailing behind him like obedient shadows.
You had stepped aside immediately, lowering your gaze the way the servants did, but the prince had walked straight into you anyway. The tray tilted, and wine spilled across the stone floor in a dark red splash.
You thought it had been an accident, then you looked up and saw the faint curl of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Clean it," he had said coolly, glancing down at the mess as though you were no more than a stray dog that had wandered into his path.
He had not waited for your answer. You knelt to wipe the wine from the stones while he and his companions walked away laughing.
Yes, you remembered him now.
A spoiled princeling with silver hair and violet eyes, handsome in the way all Targaryens seemed to be, yet carrying himself with the careless cruelty of someone who had never been told no in his life. It had been a pity, you thought at the time. A handsome boy like that should have been married already. A noble house somewhere would surely have leapt at the chance to bind themselves to a prince of the blood.
But later you learned why he was not.
Lady Siena Ashford had been the one to enlighten you on the matter. The eldest daughter of Lord Ashford possessed both a sharp tongue and a sharper eye — traits she shared with her younger sister, though Siena carried them with a far more thoughtful air. Very little happened beneath her father's roof without her noticing it sooner or later.
You had not been assigned to her service, not truly; your duties lay with the younger Lady Gwyn, who required far more watching and guiding. Yet Siena had always treated you kindly, speaking to you with an easy familiarity that many highborn ladies would never have bothered with. She was, in truth, a lovely girl in her own peculiar way — spirited, a little wild, and possessed of habits that would have horrified her father had he known the half of them. More than once you had seen her slip quietly from the castle toward the meadows beyond the walls, bow slung over her shoulder like some young huntress from an old tale.
The first time you stumbled upon her there, she had been standing alone at the edge of the meadow, bow in hand, loosing arrows into a straw target with a fierce and almost stubborn concentration. Her hair, pale brown and thick, had been drawn back into one of those perfect braids Claryss always managed to weave so effortlessly — though the maid had tried more than once to teach you the trick, and each time you had failed miserably, your fingers hopelessly clumsy with the strands.
Siena's braid hung neatly down her back even as the rest of her appearance betrayed her little rebellion; the sleeves of her gown had been rolled up to the elbows like some stablehand's, and the hem was already brushed with grass and dirt from the field. She had looked so startled when she noticed you watching that you had nearly laughed, but you said nothing of it then and never did afterward. The secret seemed harmless enough, and besides, there had been something admirable in the stubborn determination with which she practiced.
For all her noble birth, Siena showed a warmth toward the castle servants that you rarely saw among the highborn. She came often to the kitchens not to scold or command but simply to talk, or to watch the cooks at their work with bright curiosity. Sometimes she even tried her own hand at baking, dusting herself in flour and laughing when the dough refused to behave as she wished.
It was a striking contrast to Lord Ashford himself, who carried his minor lordship like a suit of armor and rarely spoke to anyone beneath his station without reminding them of it. Siena, by comparison, seemed almost awkward in her kindness at times, unsure whether the courtesy she offered would be welcomed or misunderstood. Yet she had a quick wit and a laugh that came easily, and you had found her company unexpectedly pleasant on more than one occasion.
From what you had observed during the days of the tourney, she also seemed to harbor a certain... fascination with Prince Valarr.
It was subtle enough that someone less attentive might have missed it entirely, but once you noticed it, the signs became impossible to ignore. Ever since the Targaryens had arrived at Ashford Castle, Siena's gaze had developed the curious habit of drifting toward the prince whenever he entered a room, as though drawn by some invisible thread. And, if you were not mistaken, Valarr's eyes sometimes found her as well — brief glances across crowded halls or feasting tables, quickly withdrawn the moment either of them realized they had been caught looking. Yet Siena tried very hard to pretend otherwise, maintaining a careful composure whenever anyone spoke of him.
It was the sort of innocent infatuation that made you smile to yourself whenever you noticed it unfolding: the shy glances, the awkward silences, the faint color that sometimes crept into her cheeks. Harmless, hopeful... and perhaps a little doomed, in the way such youthful feelings often were.
For Prince Valarr, as you had heard whispered more than once among the ladies and servants alike, was already betrothed to another noble lady somewhere. The marriage had not yet been celebrated, but the promise had been made, and in a world like this promises of that sort rarely went unfulfilled. Still, Siena was young enough to indulge the fantasy for a while longer, to pretend that perhaps fate might bend differently than expected.
Not that her situation was any more doomed than your own quiet absurdities, you thought dryly. At least she was a lady. You, on the other hand, were a peasant who had somehow ended up elbow-deep in the skull of a prince.
And it was not as though you thought romantically about Baelor, anyway.
Right? Right.
It certainly wasn't as if your traitorous mind had conjured up the occasional foolish little dream in the quiet hours of the night — nothing scandalous, nothing truly improper, just those strange, fleeting imaginings where he was awake again, speaking to you with that calm voice of his, perhaps even smiling in that rare, gentle way you had seen once or twice before the trial.
No. Of course not. Not at all.
It had been one evening while you were helping her dress that the subject of Prince Aerion first arose. Her usual maid, Claryss, had taken ill that day, leaving Siena to struggle with the intricate fastenings of her gown. You had stepped in to help, fingers working patiently at the tiny clasps that ran along the back of the garment while she stood before the mirror.
For a while she had spoken lightly of the coming feast, of her sister's endless chatter and the visiting knights parading about the courtyard like peacocks. But when the conversation drifted to the Targaryen princes, something in her tone changed. She mentioned Aerion then, not with the playful curiosity she showed when speaking of Valarr, but with a note of weary disgust, as though the name itself left a bitter taste in her mouth.
When she finally explained why, her voice carried both anger and resignation, the sound of someone who had seen enough of the prince to know exactly what sort of man he truly was.
"They call him monstrous," she had said.
And after the puppeteer., you understood why.
How Aerion had tormented that poor woman, and snapped her finger in a half. Dunk was the one to step in, to which caused him misfortune after.
In front of his father, they said, Aerion played the part of the perfect son : polite, disciplined. A proper prince of House Targaryen.
But once Prince Maekar was out of earshot... He became something else entirely.
Lusia had told you as much one afternoon while the two of you folded linens in the servants' hall. A middle aged woman who adored gossip the way sailors adored wine, and she spoke of the prince with a mix of fascination and dread.
"He's the perfect example," she had whispered dramatically, "of the madness the Targaryens are known for."
You had almost corrected her.
The words had almost risen to your tongue then and there, the reflex of your former education pushing forward before you could stop it. In the world you had come from, madness was not some mystical curse carried neatly in a family name, nor the punishment of gods whispered about by frightened peasants. It had causes, real ones, tangled and complex.
Illness of the mind, like illness of the body, grew from a thousand different roots: trauma, imbalance, circumstance, things far more complicated than the simple tales people liked to tell. A cruel man was not always a mad one, and a mad one was not always cruel. That was the mantra you learned in med school.
Still... you could not entirely dismiss the thought that lingered uneasily in the back of your mind.
The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister, uncle to nieces, cousin and cousin for generations, from what read and heard about them, that is.
In your own world, such a thing would have sent every physician and geneticist you had ever studied under into fits of horrified disbelief. Generations of brother marrying sister, uncle wedding niece, blood folded endlessly back upon itself ... it was the very sort of lineage that filled medical journals with case studies and warnings, such a thing would have set every physician and geneticist you had ever studied under tearing their hair out in horror.
Too much inbreeding, repeated over centuries, always left its mark somewhere. Most often the body betrayed it first: weakness of constitution, strange deformities, fragile health passed from parent to child like an unwanted heirloom.
You had seen it yourself in history.
The royal houses of Europe had been infamous for it. The English dynasties especially (though they were hardly alone) had tangled their bloodlines in much the same way, until the consequences became impossible to ignore. The most famous example that came to mind was that peculiar jutting jaw so often mocked in portraits of the old royal families, what historians liked to call the Habsburg jaw. It appeared again and again in painting after painting, generation after generation, the face slowly warping under the quiet pressure of too many shared ancestors.
That was how such things usually manifested. But the Targaryens... They seemed strangely untouched by it.
If anything, they appeared almost improved by their tangled bloodline. Their silver hair, their violet eyes, their otherworldly beauty — there was something almost unnaturally perfect about the Targaryens, as if centuries of incest had somehow distilled their features rather than damaged them. It was the sort of beauty that made people stare, the sort that seemed less entirely human and more like something drawn from legend.
And it was not as though the people of Westeros were fond of incest either.
You knew that much from your reading. During those quiet evenings when you had little to do, you had pored over whatever books you could find in the castle — histories, religious texts, half-dusty chronicles written by long-dead maesters. From them, and from the endless chatter of gossip, you had pieced together the uneasy relationship between the Faith of the Seven and House Targaryen.
The Faith did not approved, not truly. In fact, it had once nearly torn the realm apart.
You remembered reading about the great compromise forged during the reign of King Jaehaerys, the so-called Doctrine of Exceptionalism. Before that, the dragonlords of old Valyria had practiced both incest and polygamy without hesitation, taking multiple wives and marrying brother to sister as easily as any other union. But the Faith had fought fiercely against such customs once the Targaryens came to rule Westeros.
Jaehaerys, clever as the histories always claimed he was, had found a middle path.
The polygamy was abandoned. The incest... was not.
Instead, it was wrapped in careful doctrine and solemn words until it sounded almost holy. The Targaryens, the argument went, were not like other men. Their blood was different, touched by the ancient magic of Valyria and bound to dragons. And because of that, the old rule must remain: the blood of the dragon must remain pure.
You supposed it had something to do with riding dragons. At least, that seemed to be the justification repeated often enough in the books.
Still, if anything, they looked almost unreal in their perfection: pale hair like silver thread, eyes the color of amethysts, features so striking they seemed carved rather than born. Otherworldly, people often called them.
Which meant, you sometimes wondered, that if there were consequences to all that careful incest, perhaps they simply appeared elsewhere.
In the mind. It was a grim thought — but one that would explain a great deal.
And yet, even that theory felt uncertain the longer you lived in this strange world. After all, this was a land where dragons had once ruled the skies and burned armies to ash. A place where ancient bloodlines carried powers your old textbooks had never dreamed of explaining.
Perhaps the rules here did not follow the neat logic of modern genetics. Perhaps centuries of dragonlord blood changed things in ways no science from your old life could truly predict.
You had learned quickly that trying to apply the strict reasoning of your former world to Westeros was often like trying to measure the wind with a ruler. So in the end, you had simply held your tongue.
Because attempting to explain modern psychiatry (or genetics, for that matter) to a gossiping castle maid in the Reach would have been about as useful as explaining electricity to a goat.
Still, you remembered thinking that Lusia had one thing right : people should not be fooled by Prince Aerion's beauty.
He had the pale, striking features of the dragonlords : silver hair like spun moonlight, violet eyes, a face that would have looked noble on a statue. Yet beneath that surface lay something uglier than any scar, a cruelty that made the skin crawl. You suspected most women who truly saw that side of him would rather flee than ever share his bed.
Or else they would have to be just as mad as he was.
The thought made you glance at Baelor's still form.
Strange, you mused, how different the two brothers' sons seemed to be.
You had noticed it more clearly during the quiet hours when Prince Valarr sat beside the bed reading to his father in that flowing, unfamiliar language of High Valyrian. The boy's voice was patient, the cadence of the ancient words rising and falling softly in the dim light of the chamber.
Valarr... and Aerion. They were like two halves of some strange balance.
Yin and yang, your mind supplied automatically.
Opposites bound together.
From what you had gathered in passing conversations between the Ashford sisters, Valarr was widely considered the model prince — the sort of heir the realm expected. Dutiful, intelligent, well-trained in both sword and statecraft.
Lady Siena had once described him as "insufferably proper and arrogant." But even their teasing carried no real malice.
For all his pride, Valarr seemed to possess something Aerion lacked entirely: a conscience.
Valarr could be arrogant, certainly (he was a prince of the blood, raised among courtiers and flatterers) but there was restraint in him, a sort of inward check that Aerion did not seem to possess at all. Where Aerion's temper burned quick and cruel, Valarr's anger cooled before it spilled over. Where Aerion delighted in humiliation, Valarr often looked faintly uncomfortable with it.
And now, with Baelor lying broken and silent in the bed between them, duty was settling slowly onto Valarr's shoulders whether he wished it or not.
You found your gaze drifting back to your prince again.
The blankets had slipped low during the long hours of the afternoon, leaving his chest bare as he lay there breathing slowly beneath the dim candlelight. His body rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep, or something close enough to it. He had the build of a man accustomed to armor and swordplay: broad across the shoulders, his chest strong and well-kept despite the terrible stillness that had claimed him these past weeks. Beaty marks and scars crossed his skin in pale lines, some thin and faded, others jagged enough to suggest battles long past.
Sometimes, without quite meaning to, your fingers traced those marks. Lightly, absentmindedly. You wondered where he had earned them. A tourney lance, perhaps? A sword stroke that had nearly found its mark. Some skirmish fought on a dusty border years before you had ever heard his name.
The gesture was intimate in a way that startled you the moment you became aware of it.
Your hand pulled back at once, as if the skin beneath your fingers had suddenly burned you. Yet somehow, sooner or later, it always drifted back again. Your prince — though he did not look entirely like a Targaryen prince at all.
Baelor Breakspear had inherited far more from his Dornish mother than from the pale dragonlords of old Valyria. Where the rest of his family carried silver hair and violet eyes, Baelor's coloring was darker, warmer. His features held the lines of Dorne rather than the otherworldly beauty of the dragonlords. Beside Aerion (or even beside his own brother Maekar) he looked almost like a Dornish prince who had wandered accidentally into a Targaryen court.
Perhaps that was why he seemed... different, almost kinder. Or perhaps that was simply the illusion he allowed the world to see.
After all, Baelor's eyes were closed now, his face slack with the heavy stillness of unconsciousness, and it was easy, too easy, to imagine gentleness in a man who could not presently speak or move. But you had seen his eyes open before. You remembered them clearly.
One violet. One blue.
Striking enough on their own, yet it was not their color that lingered most in your memory, but the strange intensity within them. When Baelor looked at someone, he did so with a steadiness that could feel almost unnerving, as though he were weighing more than just the words being spoken. There had been something deeper there, something watchful and controlled, like a fire banked carefully beneath layers of ash.
A dragon sleeping, perhaps. Dormant — but not gone.
The thought made you wonder if the calm composure he carried was not merely kindness, but discipline. The careful restraint of a man who understood exactly what lived inside him and chose, again and again, not to let it rule him.
You had never once seen him lose his temper.
Not during the chaos of the trial, not when knights shouted and tempers flared, not even when his own kin had nearly come to blows.
Where other men barked orders or raised their voices, Baelor simply spoke — and somehow people listened. It was a different kind of strength than the loud, brutal sort many knights favored, but no less formidable.
You had wondered more than once whether that gentleness came from the blood of his mother, Queen Myriah Martell. From what you remembered reading, his generation had not tangled itself in the same tight knots of incest that earlier Targaryens had favored. His father had married into Dorne, and many of the brothers had been wed across the great houses of the realm to strengthen alliances.
Only one of them (though the name escaped you now) had taken a cousin to wife. But that was hardly unusual among noble houses. Cousin marriages were common enough, far less scandalous than the brother-sister unions that had once defined the dragonlords of old Valyria.
You adjusted Baelor's head gently as Maester Yormwell leaned forward with the spoon.
The old maester worked patiently, his lined hands steady as he coaxed the broth between the prince's lips. You supported Baelor carefully, ensuring he swallowed rather than choked, wiping away the thin trail of soup that escaped the corner of his mouth with a small cloth.
For a moment the only sound in the chamber was the clink of the spoon against the bowl. Then Yormwell sighed softly.
"His wounds are rather ugly," the maester muttered, stirring the soup absently before offering another spoonful. "Aerion's, I mean."
You hadn't paid much attention during the trial after the chaos had begun. Your eyes had been on Baelor most of the time while the world seemed determined to collapse around you. But you did remember the fight... Dunk. The enormous hedge knight who had stepped into the trial by seven.
Apparently he had not been gentle.
"The boy is recovering from his wounds as well," he continued. "Not as grave as Prince Baelor's injuries, but severe enough."
"How bad?" you asked.
"Bad enough that he remains bedridden."
You hummed quietly. Apparently Dunk had hit him hard.
"Pain?" you asked.
The maester nodded grimly. "We have found little that eases it."
That made you pause.
Your mind began working through possibilities automatically, the way it always did when faced with a medical problem. Pain relief? Limited resources? Medieval medicine?
And then — something surfaced in your memory. A flower. You blinked.
Of course! You had seen it before.
Not in any textbook or pharmacy, but in practice. In the kitchens. In the servants' quarters. Whenever one of the cooks sliced their hand open or a butcher split a finger or some poor stableboy got beaten half to death by an angry lord.
There had been an old woman who sold bundles of dried flowers and herbs that eased pain remarkably well when brewed or crushed into poultices.
You had tried it once out of curiosity. It worked... Not perfectly, but well enough to dull the worst of it. You straightened slightly, your mind racing now.
God. Why hadn't you thought of that earlier? Stress, probably.
Four days without proper sleep while performing medieval brain surgery had a way of scrambling your priorities.
Yormwell noticed the shift in your expression. "What is it?"
"There's something that might help," you said slowly.
"For pain."
He raised an eyebrow.
"From where?"
You hesitated only a moment.
"The forest." Specifically, from the strange old woman who lived near the edges of the woods outside Ashford lands.
You knew her, everyone did.
She wandered the forest gathering herbs and roots, always appearing with bundles of strange plants tied in cloth. Some people called her a seer. Others called her a witch.
Apparently Lady Ashford herself sometimes summoned the woman to read cards and tell fortunes, which told you all you needed to know about the noblewoman's taste in entertainment. But strange or not — her remedies worked... if the flowers dulled pain for servants with broken bones and butchered hands, they might help Aerion. Most importantly, Baelor.
The realization made you curse quietly under your breath.
"God, why didn't I think of that sooner..."
Yormwell watched you carefully but said nothing. By the time night had fully fallen, your mind was already made up. The castle had grown quiet, torches flickered low in the corridors. Most of the servants had long since retreated to their quarters.
You made certain of Baelor's bandages one last time, tightening the linen where it had begun to loosen and smoothing the edges carefully so they would not rub against the wounds beneath. The blankets were drawn up again across his chest, tucked around his sides to keep out the creeping chill that always seemed to settle into the stone chambers after nightfall.
"Don't die while I'm gone," you murmured under your breath, the words barely louder than the whisper of the candles.
Then you turned away before you could think too much about what you had said.
You slipped from the chamber, easing the heavy door closed behind you so it would not creak. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by a scattering of torches set into the stone walls. Their flames sputtered softly in the draft that moved through the castle at night. You pulled a cloak around your shoulders as you walked, fastening it quickly at the throat before making your way toward the stairwell that led down to the lower passages.
Outside, the night air struck your face like cold water.
Ashford Castle slept uneasily after the chaos of the trial, but not entirely. Somewhere in the yard below you heard the unmistakable voice of Dunk — the deep, awkward rumble of it carrying easily across the quiet courtyard. He seemed to be speaking with one of the Kingsguard near the stables, their silhouettes faint against the torchlight.
The hedge knight had not left.
From what you had overheard among the servants, Dunk had refused to ride away after the trial, guilt weighing on him like a chain around his neck. The blow that had felled Baelor Breakspear had been meant for another man, but accidents did little to soften a conscience. Prince Maekar, it was said, had offered him a place in service to House Targaryen — an offer Dunk had accepted with visible reluctance.
On one condition : only if Baelor woke.
Keeping close to the shadows, you slipped along the outer wall of the castle toward the quieter rear paths where servants sometimes came and went unseen. The forest stretched beyond the walls in a dark mass of tangled branches and whispering leaves. Somewhere out there lived the old woman who sold her strange little bundles of flowers and powders, the ones the cooks sometimes bought when a kitchen boy burned himself or a butcher cut too deep into his hand.
If those flowers could dull pain for them... Perhaps they could help Aerion, perhaps even Baelor.
Gods, why had you not thought of it sooner?
You had just reached the narrow passage that led out beyond the back of the castle when a hand suddenly clamped down around your arm. Hard.
"Just where the fuck do you think you're going?" You froze, for you knew that voice.
Slowly you turned your head, and of course, because the gods delighted in their little jests, it was Prince Maekar.
His hand had closed about your arm like a smith's vise. The grip hurt. Even through the thick wool of your cloak you could feel the strength in it, fingers digging in hard enough that you were certain bruises would flower there by morning. Up close he looked worse than you had ever seen him.
The prince's pox-scarred skin seemed paler than usual, the marks upon his cheeks standing out in the torchlight. His silver hair, so often kept in soldierly order, had fallen somewhat loose, as if he had run a weary hand through it a dozen times already that night.
He looked spent. Not merely tired, but worn thin.
"You're hurting me — "
"I care not."
"Unhand me — "
"When you tell me what you're about, creeping from the castle like some thief in the night." His eyes narrowed, hard as flint. "Is it to work your queer little sorceries? Or have you some rebels waiting for you in the trees?"
"You are mad," you snapped. "Truly mad."
Maekar's mouth twisted.
"I should have heeded my gods-damned uncle," he muttered darkly.
That made you pause.
"I had a letter from Bloodraven two days past," he said. "A warning. He wrote that I should never have stayed the headsman's sword where you were concerned."
Bloodraven.
The name rang unpleasantly in your thoughts. You had seen it once, scrawled across the brittle pages of some history. Brynden Rivers — the king's bastard brother. The pale one with the red eye. The man who had slain another royal brother in the king's name.
How many eyes does Bloodraven have? A thousand... and one.
They said he trafficked in dark arts besides.
"Your Grace," you said tightly, forcing the words past clenched teeth, "with all the courtesy I can muster for you at this moment — I do not give a fuck what your queer uncle says of me."
His gaze hardened, but you pressed on before he could speak.
"I was going to see a merchant woman who dwells in the forest," you said. "She sells herbs. Remedies. Things that might ease your son... and Prince Baelor."
At the mention of his son, Maekar stiffened. Then you heard your own words again and realized how they must sound.
A woman in the woods. Selling herbs. God. That did sound like a hedge witch.
"Everyone in the castle knows her," you added quickly. "Servants go to her when they're hurt. Stableboys, scullions, half the kitchens besides. She sells dried flowers and powders that dull pain. Like poppy, but better."
You folded your arms.
"It might help your son. And your brother."
Maekar regarded you for a long moment.
"And you meant to go there," he said slowly, "at this hour. Alone."
"Well... yes," you muttered, frowning. "Why would I not?"
"A woman," he said flatly. "Alone in a forest." He made a low sound of disapproval in his throat. "We do not know what prowls those woods come nightfall."
You gave a dismissive shake of your head and started off again. "As though you care what becomes of me."
"I do not," he said at once, striding after you. "But I have need of your hands if my brother is to live."
He caught you again, though this time the grip was less bruising, and steered you toward a horse standing half-hidden in the dark. You had not even seen the beast before now.
"Mount."
You blinked at him. "What?"
Maekar dragged a hand down his face, as though summoning what little patience remained to him.
"Up," he said. "On the horse, woman." His voice hardened. "I will not say it thrice."
And so you found yourself upon the horse after all.
You sat before him in the saddle, stiff as a board, while Prince Maekar swung up behind you with the easy familiarity of a man long accustomed to riding to war. His arm reached past you to take the reins, the leather creaking softly as he gathered them into his hands.
"Point the way," he said curtly.
You did.
The horse moved at once, hooves crunching over the frost-hardened ground as you left the faint lights of Ashford Castle behind. The great stone walls soon vanished into the dark, swallowed by the night as the trees of the forest closed in around you.
It was... improper. Wildly so.
A prince of the realm riding alone through the woods with a peasant girl wedged before him in the saddle would have sent half the court into scandalized whispers by morning — had there been anyone there to witness it. Yet neither of you seemed particularly concerned with propriety just now.
Maekar certainly was not.
Every time the horse shifted beneath you and forced you to adjust your seat, his voice followed close behind, sharp and irritated.
"Sit still."
"I am sitting still."
"You are wriggling like a worm on a hook."
"I am not wriggling — "
"You just did it again."
"Gods forbid the horse moves under me."
"If you fall," he muttered, "I will leave you for the wolves."
"You dragged me out here!"
"And I am beginning to regret it."
You bit back the retort that sprang to your tongue. Truth be told... he had not been entirely wrong. The forest was a different creature at night.
During the day the paths seemed harmless enough, just another stretch of green woodland beyond the castle lands. But now the trees loomed tall and skeletal above you, their branches clawing at the sky like crooked fingers. The deeper you rode, the darker it became, until even the moonlight struggled to reach the forest floor.
Strange sounds carried through the undergrowth.
The distant howl of something unseen, the rustle of leaves where no wind stirred.
The horse snorted uneasily once or twice, its ears flicking back as if it too sensed the unseen life moving between the trunks.
And there was a smell to the woods as well : damp earth, rotting leaves, cold moss.
You found yourself sitting a little straighter in the saddle without meaning to.
Behind you, Maekar noticed. "Told you," he said dryly.
You huffed. "I'm not afraid."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You have not stopped clutching the saddle since we entered the trees."
You glanced down. Your fingers were indeed gripping the front of the saddle rather tightly.
"...Shut up." You twisted in the saddle just enough to glare over your shoulder at him, anger curling tight in your chest.
"You know," you said, "I haven't forgiven you for the way you let me be dragged through that hell. The threats, the beheading, the torture at the hands of your bloody Kingsguard... the burning of my hand — do you think I can just forget that?"
Maekar's hand tightened slightly on the reins.
"Your forgiveness means little to me."
What a cunt.
His silver hair glinted faintly in the moonlight as he leaned closer, the cold steel of his resolve clear even without anger in his tone.
"If I must risk another hand, another life, to save my brother, or any of my blood, I would do it again. Without hesitation, nor regret. Every oath I swore, every command I gave, every blow I struck... I would strike it all again, if it meant he lives."
Your jaw tightened, your teeth biting into your lip. "And you'd do the same to me?"
"If it must be so," he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "If it saves Baelor, I'd watch you burned alive without flinching. You're nothing to me."
You wanted to shout at him, to spit at him, to strike him for his cold pragmatism, but you stayed silent. Instead, your hands clenched the saddle even tighter, and the forest around you felt darker, as though it mirrored the steel in his gaze.
"You don't care who suffers, so long as your family lives," you whispered, more to yourself than him.
"I care," he said, "more than you can imagine. But duty is a cruel mistress, and mercy often costs more than blood."
The horse shied slightly at a branch scraping its side, but neither of you faltered. The tension between you hummed like the storm in the trees, and for a moment the only sound was the horse's steady hooves and the distant howl of some unseen creature in the night.
You swallowed, chest tight, and looked forward again, knowing that, in Maekar's mind, nothing ( not fear, anger, not even your suffering) could outweigh the life of his brother.
"You are but a peasant," the prince continued, the words rolling off gruffly at his tongue like stones tossed into a river. "And yet you speak to me as if we were equals. If it were mine to command, I would have you strung upon the highest gallows ere the dawn broke, and there would be little complaint from me. Alas — "
"Alas what?" you spat back, jerking the horse hard through the uneven forest floor, the leather of the saddle biting into your thighs. The wind whipped your hair across your eyes, but you paid it no mind. "I wonder, truly, what your brother will make of it, when he learns the woman who kept him from the edge of death was tortured, burned, and put to shame while serving him."
Maekar laughed then, a sound devoid of mirth.
"What makes you think my ever-noble brother would care a whit for a wench like you?"
The words struck deep, gnawing at some small part of your heart you had tried so hard to shield from this cruel land. Of course he was right.
If Baelor woke, if he opened those eyes you had fought so hard to preserve, what would he see? what then? Not the woman who had nursed him through sleepless nights, not the hands that had pressed bandages against broken flesh, not the warmth of someone who had cared while the court fumed and whispered.
Only a stranger. Only a servant. And you — disposable, forgotten, swept aside in the tide of crowns and crownsmen. You didn't even know if he had a lover, probably did, you thought bitterly, maybe someone back in King's Landing, tucked away in some fine velvet bedchamber, waiting for him to return from courtly duties or war.
A man like him (handsome, commanding, impossibly perfect in the way Targaryens always seemed to be) surely had options, and as a widower, surely would marry again, a highborn lady whose blood could tie kingdoms together.
The thought made your chest ache, ridiculous and unfair, and your eyes stung for reasons you couldn't quite name, tears prickling despite yourself.
So you said nothing, letting the horse navigate over a fallen branch with cautious steps.
Your hands were white-knuckled on the reins, fingers rigid with tension, knuckles like ivory carved from worry and exhaustion.
The wind clawed at your cloak, tugged at your hair, carried the smell of damp earth and pine, and you felt it all, as though the forest itself were judging you. One misstep, one wrong word, one fall from the horse, and everything would crumble. But you forced yourself forward, silent and grim, because the prince's life (Baelor's fragile, broken body lying back at the castle) rested on your courage, your wits, your hands. And if you faltered, if you allowed your thoughts of love and loss to distract you, there would be no saving him.
The horse creaked beneath you, the sound almost unbearably loud in the hush of the night. You exhaled slowly, forcing your heart to slow, your mind to focus, and you kept moving forward, one careful step at a time, gripping the reins as though the life of a prince (or the weight of your own) depended on it. And in some small, stubborn part of yourself, it did.
Maekar's grip was iron on the back of your saddle, guiding the horse as if it were an extension of himself.
"Why does my brother even know of you?" he asked, voice calm now.
"He asked," you said carefully, throat dry, "what I thought of what your son did to that poor puppeteer before the trial, and we had other small conversations."
"And because you spoke with him," Maekar said, the slightest edge of exasperation threading his measured tone, "you put yourself in peril and took it upon yourself to save him?"
"He was kind to me," you answered simply, though your chest tightened. Kinder than most in this godless world, kinder than any lord, any knight, any Targaryen you had known. That kindness, that mercy, had been enough to push you forward into danger, enough to make you defy every rule, every blade, every oath sworn against you.
Stupid, you know.
"Pathetic," he muttered, as If reading your mind.
Unlike him, unlike the sons of dragons and the heirs of iron and fire, Baelor cared. He cared, in ways that even Maekar, hardened and cutting as Valyria's steel, could recognize but would not admit.
Maekar leaned closer, the tang of horse sweat and night air clinging to him, eyes sharp beneath the pale silver sweep of his brow.
"Yet you are reckless," he continued. "Blind with courage or foolishness — I care not which. Should aught befall you, the blame lies upon your head and no other. And yet... you bear a measure of honor I scarce expected from one of such low birth."
"I thought such ideals were proven wrong by Ser Duncan," you shot back, eyes fixed ahead, avoiding his gaze.
He only hummed, a faint, almost dismissive sound, and for a long moment the forest swallowed the space between you.
Then he spoke again : "You mentioned my son — "
You cut him off before the words could fall fully. You knew it was improper, insolent even; a prince's patience was not lightly tested.
"No need to worry, my prince," you said. "I will not poison him, nor bring him harm. I meant what I said — the plant will only soften his wounds, ease Prince Baelor's suffering."
"Why would you help my son?" he asked, eyes narrowing as the wind whipped through the forest around you.
You let out a tired breath, pressing your lips together for a moment before answering. Truth, if spoken, would have sounded too brazen: I swore to help any who suffer. The Hippocratic oath. Instead, you let the sigh carry your meaning.
"I don't rightly know," you finally said, almost reluctant. "Truth be told... I hate seeing others in pain. So I heal when I can."
He said nothing after that, and for once you welcomed the silence.
Soon enough, the forest opened onto a small clearing, and there before you sat a desolate wooden house, its windows glowing with the warm flicker of candlelight.
You waited only a heartbeat once Maekar dismounted, then swung yourself down as best you could, skirt bunching awkwardly around you. The little wooden house stood crooked, paint flaking and timbers groaning under the night wind. Warm light spilled from the tiny windows, promising life within, though the place looked as if it hadn't seen proper care in years.
"This place is a fucking shithole," Maekar muttered, stepping beside you, boots crunching on the frozen earth.
You rolled your eyes, tugging your skirts neatly to keep them from dragging in the mud. "Aye, and yet it houses the only woman who might have what we need. Stop complaining," you said, raising your fist to rap against the door. The sound echoed hollowly, the wood trembling under your knock.
Maekar said nothing, shifting his weight from one boot to the other, one hand lingering on the hilt of his sword as if ready for any misstep. It was only then that it struck you — the Kingsguard were not with you, not even a single shadow trailing behind. Surely someone would notice their prince gone, wouldn't they?
You ignored him, focusing on the task.
The air smelled of damp pine and rot, and your nerves tightened, but the thought of Baelor, still trapped in pain and near death, pressed you forward. Another knock, harder this time, and the door creaked open just enough for a shadow to peer out.
You were about to knock again when the door swung open fully, revealing an old woman draped in dark cloth from head to toe, her face hidden in shadow beneath a hood. She paused, regarding you with knowing eyes.
"I — " you began, bowing your head slightly, " I'm sorry to disturb you so late, but I'm only here for the nightshade bloom. The one I always come to you for —"
She cut you off with a thin, dry chuckle.
"I knew you were coming," she said raspy but firm, like a bee. "Enter, child. But leave the dragon outside."
You froze. Behind you, Maekar's silver hair glinted faintly in the lantern light, and his jaw tensed.
"Leave me out of it?" he spat. "You would deny a prince of the realm entry?"
The old woman's head tilted, unafraid. "I do not like reptiles," she said simply.
You whirled back to him, raising your hands in warning. "If anything happens in here, I scream. You do not follow."
Maekar ground his teeth but said nothing further.
With a wary glance at him, you stepped inside the dim, cluttered cottage, the warm light washing over the room and the scent of herbs and dried flowers filling your nose. Maekar stayed rooted to the doorframe, arms folded, scowling but obedient.
The old woman moved aside, letting you pass, and the door creaked shut behind you.
You stepped fully into what passed for the living room, taking in the dim, flickering light and the heavy scent of herbs that clung to every surface. Rosemary, sage, and some bitter plants whose names you did not know mingled with the smoke from a small hearth, creating a heady, almost choking aroma.
The room was simple: a rough-hewn table, chairs scarred and worn from decades of use, and an open doorway leading to what must have been the kitchen. Outside, the wind rattled the eaves, and the mournful howls of some creature — wolf, you guessed — carried through the night.
The old woman moved with surprising speed, her gnarled hands already busy among the bundles of herbs and small stoppered bottles that cluttered the table. She set to the preparation of the nightshade cream without ceremony, crushing dark leaves beneath a small stone pestle, mixing them with thick oils that smelled sharp and bitter.
For a moment, the only sounds in the hut were the grinding of herbs and the faint crackle of the fire. Then she stopped. Her hands stilled mid-motion.
The pestle remained suspended above the bowl as she tilted her head slightly to the side, as though straining to hear something carried on the wind. A faint murmur slipped from her lips, words too low for you to catch, spoken not to you but to something unseen.
"Oh... my dear child." Her eyes lifted to you then, wide and glistening in the dim light. It looked as though tears might fall from them. She shook her head slowly, almost helplessly, like someone arguing with voices only she could hear.
"Oh," she whispered again, softer this time. "You are in terrible, terrible danger."
"What?" you asked, the word escaping you before you could stop it.
But she did not answer. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment passed. The old woman blinked once, twice, and lowered her gaze back to the bowl as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Her hands resumed their work, grinding and stirring with quiet precision while she continued muttering under her breath, the words slipping between half-finished phrases and old, forgotten tongues.
It was as if the warning had never been spoken at all.
You stayed rooted in the kitchen, her words echoing, eyes locked on her hands as they moved over the dark, viscous pomade, grinding leaves and petals into a thick, almost black paste. The smell was pungent, minty but sour, the kind that clawed at the back of your throat. The firelight danced across her lined face, the hood of her dark cloak casting deep shadows over eyes that glittered with uncanny certainty.
"Your prince will not survive," she said then, and the words struck like ice.
You froze, your mouth opening before closing again, the breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Did she truly just say that? You simply stared at her.
In truth, the old woman had always been... strange.
You had grown used to her muttering half-words to herself while she worked, to the sudden little remarks spoken to no one at all, as though some invisible companion lingered just beyond the walls of her crooked hut. More than once she had startled you with an abrupt comment or some wandering prophecy that made little sense. It had become part of her nature in your mind — another quirk of the forest crone who sold herbs to the castle servants.
Perhaps that was why you did not recoil in shock as another might have.
But this... This was different.
This had come too suddenly, too knowing. There had been no muttered prelude, no drifting thought spoken into the air. Just the flat certainty of it.
Your prince will not survive. And that was not the sort of thing one said idly, specially to their prince.
"Excuse me?" you managed, heart hammering.
"The heir of the Iron Throne is balanced between life and death," she repeated, as though pronouncing a sentence, "I fear he will not see the week's end."
"No," you shot forward, stepping into the open kitchen where she worked, anger and disbelief roiling inside you.
"I tell you now: the boy lies in death's shadow. Your skill, your medicines, your herbs... they will not awaken him. Only blood will." She shrugs lazily.
"I did what needed to be done! He will live. He has been stable for over a week! More than a week! I — "
She did not flinch. Her eyes dark eyes pinned you in place. "I know where you come from, girl. Do not play the fool with me."
Your stomach knotted so tightly it felt as if your ribs might snap. How could she know? It was impossible — madness, pure and unrelenting.
"I... I don't know what you mean," you croaked, voice barely more than a whisper, your throat dry as parchment.
She didn't move, didn't blink. The silence stretched, and then, slowly, deliberately, she fixed you with those shadowed eyes. "Do you?"
You wer about to scream to alert Maekar but then thought better of it.
"I am just a servant of Ashford Castle, nothing more. I work with what skill I have. I am not — "
"Are you?" she interrupted, her hands moving as if the very air obeyed them. She mixed the dark, viscous cream with the leaves and petals, murmuring under her breath. "You can save him, but not with medicine, nor knowledge. Not with herbs, not with leeches, not with anything your world teaches. Only by blood, and only by magic."
You took a step back, disbelief clawing at you. "Magic? I... I don't know what you're talking about. I — this is nonsense. He's alive, he can be healed — by proper care, by careful hands, not... not witchcraft."
She ignored your protest, shaking her head slowly.
"Tired, child," she murmured, not looking up from her work. "You are tired. You come too late, and the hour is wrong, yet still... it can be done. But understand this : he will awaken only through the power that runs through his blood already, from the dragon. What you have done, what you know, all your skill and knowledge, will not wake him. Only this."
You blinked at her, feeling your stomach twist in protest.
"You speak in riddles," you said. "I do not understand a word of the nonsense you prattle, and... you frighten me."
She hummed softly, the sound low and unconcerned, absorbed entirely in the dark, pungent nightshade she crushed between her fingers.
The scent of mint and something fouler filled your nose. You swallowed hard, a cold shiver crawling along your spine. Your hands curled at your sides, fists white with tension. Deep down, you had to admit : she was right.
His chances had always been slim.
Even with every ounce of training, every hand and careful calculation, the skull had been crushed, the fracture severe, the bleeding relentless. You had done everything in your power, and yet the truth sat heavy in your chest: he might still die. And here, in this dark, crooked cabin of forest herbs and shadows, this old woman promised a way. A way beyond the laws of medicine, beyond reason, into something older, darker, and incomprehensible. Magic.
Witchcraft, the very thing Prince Maekar and his guards had accused you of. A bitter twist, considering how you had insisted on science, knowledge, the skill of hands and mind alone. And now the only chance to save the prince lay in the thing you had sworn never existed.
You hugged yourself, arms crossed tight, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine.
"Magic doesn't exist," you said sharper than you intended, though even as the words left your lips, a part of your mind — the part trained to think, trained to measure risk and reality — whispered that you were wrong.
Every odd, impossible thing you'd seen in Westeros had chipped away at the certainties you carried from home.
The old woman didn't reply immediately.
Then she said softly, "And yet... dragons flew fifty years past, and the world holds far stranger things than your narrow sciences can account for. You have seen them yourself, have you not? Things that bend what men call reason."
You blinked, crossing your arms tighter. It was infuriating, maddening even, how she could speak of impossibilities as if they were facts.
"That... that's different," you muttered, though you knew it wasn't.
Deep down, you knew she was right. You had fought against the impossible your whole life in hospitals and operating rooms, yet here it was, staring at you in the eyes of a dying prince. You let out a long breath, hating the tremor in it, and pressed your hands against your ribs.
"Explain it then," you said finally, voice low and wary. "If it's the only way to save him, if it's—whatever this is — then tell me what must be done. I'll do it. But speak plainly."
The old woman's lips curved faintly, just a shadow of a smile. "Plainly, child? You will give him life through what courses in your veins, through a gift born from your own blood. He will awaken, yes, but the price is no small thing. You will not return to the life you once knew. Your soul, your path, your place among the living as you have known it — all will be forfeit. You will remain here, tethered to this world and to him, bound by what you do tonight."
You felt the words twist inside your chest, coiling like a serpent around your heart. Your blood ran cold.
"No," you whispered at first, disbelief clawing at your throat. "I... I can't—"
"Do not speak hastily," the old woman said, her voice firm, laced with the authority of decades that had outlasted kings and wars. There was something almost motherly in it, though the warmth was buried under a bedrock of steel. "This is no choice for the faint of heart. You may refuse, and he dies. You may consent, and he lives... but you, child, will be changed. Forever. There is no turning back. None. Do you understand the gravity of what I offer?"
You swallowed hard, words sticking in your throat. "I... I won't be able to go back to the life I knew? To the world I had before all this—beside this one I've been thrust into?"
"No," she said simply. No elaboration. No comfort.
"And if I refuse?" you asked, your voice trembling, though you tried to steady it with logic, with reason, with all the training and science in your bones.
Her gnarled hands found yours, closing around them like iron in leather. The nails were dark, twisted, worn by decades no one counted. Her eyes, pale as winter fire, bored into yours.
"Refuse, and perhaps you shalt wander as a shadow, neither living nor wholly gone, trapped betwixt one world and another. Perhaps you are swept away entirely, perhaps stuck here, bound to this world by a chain of your own making. I cannot say, for the ways of blood and magic are older than any man's knowledge." Her grip tightened, just enough to make the weight of her words physical. "But know this, child: the Targaryen line will not fall if he lives. If he dies..." She hesitated, and her voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to echo in the room, though it carried as if through the forests themselves. "...if he dies, my dear child, they are in deep, deep trouble. The realm itself — the people of Westeros — will pay the price. The cost will be unspeakable."
Her fingers curled around yours, drawing you close, pressing the reality of it into your bones.
"Do you see now? The power is not a gift, nor a tool, nor mercy. It is debt. It is blood in your veins that will consume what you were. And yet... he will live, if you dare to take it."
You swallowed, hands trembling inside hers, your mind a whirlwind. He could live. Baelor could still draw breath. But at what cost? Your life, your freedom, your past... all for a king you barely knew. Ended up into a world that would never care what you gave.
Her grip tightened, and the pressure of it, the inevitability of her words, made your knees weak.
"Mark me well," she said, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to gather the night around it, "he shall draw breath if you consent. But his life shall be bought with a coin thou may never repay. Understand, child... this is not mercy, this is the reckoning of blood, the bargain of the dragon's line."
You pulled your hands back, clenching them so tightly that the nails bit into your palms, knuckles blanching white.
"Why me?" The question came ragged, fractured by a sob you barely held at bay, though streaks of salt and grief already ran down your cheeks. "Why did I end up here? I am no hero. No witch, no savior. My blood... it cannot mean anything. And if they knew — if anyone knew I dare to dabble in such dark arts to save their prince — I would be dragged before the Kingsguard again. Tortured, burned, this time for good. And what would it matter then? What would it matter?" You spat the words, the anger biting sharper than the fear, each syllable shaking in the cold night air.
The old woman did not answer at once. She only rubbed her weathered hands together, the skin rough and creased with age, her knotted joints creaking softly like the timbers of an old ship long forgotten at sea.
At last she sighed.
"The gods are cruel," she said simply.
You lowered your gaze, staring at the rough wooden floor, and a bitter laugh escaped you.
"I hate them," you muttered. "I hate them and this wretched world."
"They did not ask for your worship," she replied calmly.
Your head snapped up.
"And I did not ask to be thrown into it," you shot back, anger rising in your chest like fire. "I did not ask to be here. And I certainly did not ask to spill my blood in some damned ritual for a Targaryen prince of all people." You shook your head, breath trembling with fury and disbelief. "This is madness."
Then she spoke. "And how do you think the Valyrians did it, in old Valyria? Bloodmages, sorcery, power taken from life itself. The gods cursed them for their greed, yes, but the knowledge remained... and here, in this world, it is your blood they seek. Not mine. Not of the old line. Yours, pure because it is not of this place. Yours, because the strands of your soul were never entangled with theirs, or this land, never tainted by dragonfire or the madness of generationsk. It is rare. Coveted."
Her eyes bore into yours, unflinching, and her voice dropped. "In exchange, whatever you wish—anything your heart desires — can be yours. And yet... there is a price. Always a price. Not gold, not land, not coin, but your other self. Your old life, your world, the part of you that once was... it is gone. Never to return. Simple as that."
You laughed then, bitterly, a sound harsh and jagged against the shadows of the hut.
"Simple as that," you echoed, letting the words fall like stones between you. The absurdity of it (this cruel calculus of magic and life) twisted your stomach, made your chest ache. And yet, beneath the despair, a flicker of understanding stirred. The prince could live. But at what cost?
The room was silent except for the crackle of the hearth and the faint whisper of herbs in the old woman's hands. You realized, with a terrible clarity, that she was right — this was no longer a matter of medicine. This was older, darker, far beyond your world of scalpel and sutures.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, small and steady against the weight of it all.
"Tell me what to do."
Her smile widened, a shadowed curve of teeth in the lamplight. "Then listen well, child. You will bleed for him. And from that blood... he will rise."
"How?" you asked, voice barely more than a rasp, the words clawing out of your throat as if afraid to hear the answer.
The old woman's eyes, dark and fathomless beneath the hood, did not waver.
"A mixture must be prepared," she said, deliberate, as though each syllable were a hammer striking iron. "You will give it to him. He will awaken — wearied, weak, but alive. The body will mend, the mind return to what it was before the trial. But, as I have said... there is a price."
Cold dread pooled in your stomach, a leaden weight that dragged your thoughts downward. You blinked, trying to clear the fog of disbelief. Alive... yes. But at what cost?
Her gaze bore into you, unblinking, like a hawk fixed on prey. "Every life taken or saved by this magic carries a toll," she said. "Be it yours, his, or the world's. But this man will live."
You exhaled shakily, your fingers curling into fists, nails biting into your palms. Alive... yes. But could you endure the reckoning? Could you hand over the very essence of yourself to a world that had demanded so much already? Your mind spun, conjuring the faces of Baelor, of all the blood and fear and fire you had survived to get here.
Alive... at what price?
Finally, your voice cracked as you asked, "What toll would it be, here?"
Without a word, she placed two small vials before you. Dark liquid swirled within, an oily sheen that gleamed even in the dim lamplight. The smell was faintly acrid, the sharp tang of the nightshade biting at your nose.
"Yours," she said, simple, final, the single word cutting through the room like a knife.
You stepped back, instinctively, heart hammering against your ribs. But she advanced, slow as a shadow across the floor. Her hands rested on the table now, fingers long and gnarled, each joint like knotted wood.
"Your soul is the key, child," she said. "It is the ancestors' claim upon the saving of your prince. The soul from your other world — the one you left behind — must be given. Sacrificed. Gone. You will be trapped in this realm. You will never return. No matter what you remember, no matter what you yearn for... it will be lost. Your life will continue, yes, but your other life... your world... it will be no more."
You looked down at the vials, the liquid dark as night, trembling as it caught the candlelight.
The thought clawed at you, gnawing at the edges of your reason. You could save him. But at what cost? And could you bear it? Could you truly accept a life that was yours only in body, while the rest (the memories, the world, the life you had known) was swallowed by this place?
Her eyes met yours again. "So... do you accept?"
"What took you so long, woman? It is near to dawn."
Prince Maekar's voice cut through the quiet as you stepped out of the crooked little hut. He had taken his place beneath a leaning oak, one shoulder braced against the trunk, the horse's reins looped loosely around his hand.
Even in the dim gray of the dying night you could see the strain etched into his pox-scarred face, the pale lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
You forced your breathing to steady.
"The nightshade takes hours to prepare," you said, the lie leaving your mouth smoother than you expected.
Your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted the cloth wrapped about them. The bandage was already damp beneath the linen, where you had sliced open your palm hours earlier to let the blood run freely into the old woman's vial. The sting still pulsed faintly, though the pain had dulled to a distant throb.
Beneath your cloak, hidden close against your chest, the small glass vial rested within your bodice. You could feel its cool shape against your skin, heavy with more than just liquid. Heavy with consequence.
Maekar pushed himself off the tree, groaning, boots grinding softly against the frost-hardened earth. His pale eyes lingered on you for a moment, suspicious as ever, though he said nothing of the bandage, thinking it was the same one you had for your burned hand.
"Come, then," he said.
You stepped toward the horse before he could question you further, gathering your skirts with one hand.
Your hand drifted briefly to your chest, fingers brushing the hidden vial. "We must go and heal your family."
You went to Aerion first, with Prince Maekar close behind you.
When you returned to the castle, the gates had already begun to stir with the pale gray of approaching dawn. Two Kingsguard waited in the courtyard, their white cloaks ghostly in the dim light. They stepped forward at once when they saw Maekar, offering respectful bows.
"My prince."
Not a single glance was spared for you.
You ignored them just as thoroughly.
"Your son," you said to Maekar, already moving past them into the keep. "Take me to him."
The prince said nothing, only turned and led the way through the corridors. The castle felt colder now. Servants scattered from your path as Maekar strode forward, his presence enough to clear the halls.
When you entered the chamber, the smell of blood and stale sweat greeted you at once.
Aerion lay upon the bed where you had left him, pale beneath the lamplight, his silver hair tangled against the pillow. Without his armor and pride he looked younger, almost boyish, but the bruises told a different story.
Purple shadows marred his ribs and shoulders, and the ugly swelling at his head made your stomach twist. The bandages around his chest had darkened where the wounds beneath them wept.
You did not waste time speaking.
Pulling the two small vials from within your cloak, you set them carefully on the table beside the bed. Then you turned back to the prince sprawled across the mattress.
You reached out to examine the wound near his temple, and suddenly his hand shot up and seized your wrist.
His grip was surprisingly strong for a man so battered.
Prince Maekar stepped forward at once,. "Aerion. Let her do her work."
Aerion's eyes cracked open, dull with pain and fury both. His lip curled.
"Lowborn hands," he muttered thickly. "Filthy — "
You ignored him entirely. With practiced patience you freed your wrist and dipped your fingers into the thick, dark nightshade cream. The smell rose at once : bitter, and almost mintlike, though heavier, fouler.
You began applying it carefully along the bruised flesh of his face and chest, working the ointment into the skin.
Aerion hissed through his teeth. When you pressed near one of the deeper bruises he groaned outright, his body jerking against the mattress.
"Hold him," you told Maekar without looking up.
The prince obeyed at once, gripping his son's shoulders and forcing him still.
Aerion struggled weakly beneath him.
"Gods," Maekar muttered after a moment, his nose wrinkling. "This cream smells like horse dung."
You continued working the salve into Aerion's ribs.
"Then stop breathing through your nose," you said flatly. "Or stop complaining."
Maekar snorted softly at that, though he did not release his hold.
Aerion twisted once beneath him, wincing when the movement pulled at his bruised ribs. "Get your hands off me," he muttered hoarsely, though the fight had little strength behind it.
"You'll keep still," his father said, pressing him back against the pillows with one hand braced firm against his shoulder. "Or I'll have you tied down like a rabid dog."
Aerion glared at him through half-lidded eyes, but the pain seemed to win the argument. He sank back with a hiss, breathing shallow and uneven.
You continued your work.
The cream spread thick and dark across the mottled porcelain skin of his chest and collarbone, your fingers moving carefully along the worst of the bruising. Up close the damage was worse than it had appeared earlier. Deep purple shadows bloomed across his ribs, and there were places where the skin had broken faintly beneath the blows he had taken during the trial.
No wonder he could barely move.
"This will sting," you said, though you doubted he cared much for the warning.
Aerion let out a rough laugh that turned quickly into a cough. "If you think a little peasant salve will — "
His breath caught as you pressed the ointment into a particularly ugly bruise near his side.
"There," you said calmly. "Now you can complain properly."
You finished with the bruises on his chest before moving back to the swelling along his temple. Aerion's hair clung damply to the wound, and you brushed it aside with more care than he probably deserved.
He watched you then, eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to decide whether you were worth insulting again.
"Strange creature," he murmured after a moment. "You speak to princes as if they were stable boys."
You dabbed more cream along the bruised edge of his jaw.
"And yet you're still alive," you said. "Curious, isn't it?"
Aerion huffed, though the effort seemed to cost him.
The nightshade cream would dull the pain, ease the swelling, help him sleep without agony tearing through his ribs every time he breathed.
Your fingers paused briefly over the second vial hidden inside your sleeve — the one meant for Baelor.
That one was magic. You forced yourself not to think about it.
Aerion exhaled slowly as the salve began to numb the worst of the throbbing bruises. His body finally relaxed back into the bed.
"Hmph," he muttered. "Perhaps you are not entirely useless."
"High praise," you said dryly, wiping your hands on a cloth.
Behind you, Maekar finally released his son's shoulders.
"Finish what you must," the prince said, crossing the chamber and lowering himself heavily into a chair beside the bed where his son lay sprawled in uneasy sleep.
The wooden legs creaked under his weight as he settled, one elbow braced against the armrest, his hand rising to rub slowly at his temple. The exhaustion clung to him now in a way it had not before — the hard edge of command dulled by sleepless nights and the endless strain of watching one son broken and another hovering near death. Even so, his eyes never strayed far from Aerion.
You finished securing the last of the salve across the bruised ribs before stepping away.
Quietly, and unnoticed, and for that you were grateful, because when you turned toward the door, Maekar did not rise to follow you, did not question you, did not ask where you were going.
For the first time that night, something close to relief settled in your chest.
You needed to be alone, truly alone, to do what you must do. Baelor could not drink that vial with his brother watching over your shoulder.
You did not even know what the mixture truly was. You only had the old woman's word for it, and a promise carved from riddles and ancient things you barely understood. You slipped from the chamber and made your way down the quiet corridor, your footsteps soft against the cold stone floor.
You pushed open the door to his chamber, the hinges gave a soft groan as the door parted and inside, no maester. The room stood empty.
In another moment, in another life, you might have shouted for someone immediately. You might have demanded to know why the heir to the Iron Throne had been left unattended, why no one stood watch over the man whose life hung by such a fragile thread.
But now... Now you only felt relief.
The door closed behind you with a muted thud. You stood there, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. The curtains had been drawn partly back, allowing the faint grey light of the moon to spill across the chamber. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving the air cool and heavy with the faint scent of ash.
You crossed the room slowly. On the far wall, a tall mirror caught the pale light and reflected your passing shape.
You did not look at it. You did not want to see what stared back. Not the pale face hollowed by exhaustion, not the blood-stained bandage wrapped clumsily around your palm, not the eyes that had seen far too much in too little time.
So you kept your gaze fixed ahead, on him. Baelor lay exactly as you had left him.
Still, too still and pale.
In the quiet light he looked almost peaceful, like a man sleeping after a long day rather than one standing on the threshold between life and death.
You pulled the chair closer and sat beside the bed.
For a moment you simply watched him breathe, one breath, then another, still alive.
Your hand moved automatically toward the small jar tucked inside your cloak. You set the nightshade cream on the bedside table and began with that, dipping your fingers into the thick, dark salve. The smell rose immediately; carefully, you began spreading the ointment along the bruises and swelling across his chest and shoulders, working it gently into the skin the way you had done countless times before with other wounded men.
That part was easy....
But when you finished, your hand stilled, because the second vial still waited.
Your fingers slipped inside your cloak again, searching the hidden pocket sewn into the lining.
The glass felt cool when you pulled it free. The mixture inside was darker than the nightshade cream — thicker too, the liquid catching the faint candlelight as it shifted within the small vial.
Blood. Your blood. Mixed with whatever strange herbs and ancient knowledge the old crone had whispered into it.
You turned the vial slowly between your fingers... to think you were trusting the word of some half-mad woman who lived alone in the forest. The thought would have seemed ridiculous once, laughable, even.
But the truth sat heavy in your chest, you had done everything you could. Every stitch, every bandage, every careful decision drawn from years of training and knowledge.
You had stabilized him when any other man would have died, you had fought death with every tool medicine had given you.
And still... Still you knew the truth : his chances had always been thin.
Too thin. You looked down at the vial again. Science had brought him this far, but it might not be enough to bring him back. Magic (if such a thing truly existed) might be the only chance left.
And so you began.
Just as you had done with Aerion, you started with the nightshade cream. You pulled the sheets down carefully to his hips, exposing his chest to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The movement revealed the full map of his injuries : old scars crossing his skin like pale threads from battles long past, and the newer wounds layered over them, angry and swollen.
You dipped your fingers into the thick salve and began to spread it slowly across his chest.
Unlike Aerion, he did not complain, he did not flinch, he did not shift away from your touch.
Baelor lay completely still beneath your hands.
In a strange way, that made the work easier... and far more unsettling.
You worked the ointment carefully into the bruised flesh, pressing gently where the swelling was worst. The bitter scent of the herbs filled the air around you as your fingers moved across the broad plane of his chest and shoulders.
When you finished there, you wiped your hands lightly against a cloth and moved closer to the head of the bed.
This part always required the most care.
You slid one arm beneath his neck and lifted his head as delicately as you could manage. The bandages around his skull were thick, wrapped layer upon layer to keep the wound sealed and the pressure steady. Slowly, you unwound them just enough to expose the stitched gash along the side of his head.
The sight of it still made your stomach tighten.
Carefully, you pushed aside the blood-stiffened cloth and began applying the cream along the edges of the wound, avoiding the stitches as best you could. Your fingers moved with the practiced steadiness of someone who had done this far too many times.
Still, a thin smear of fresh blood slipped against your skin as you worked. You ignored it.
That part of his head always felt wrong beneath your touch. Too soft, too ... yielding, squishy even.
The fracture had split his skull and driven inward, pressing dangerously against the brain beneath. Only a few days ago you had opened the wound again yourself, carefully relieving the pressure that threatened to crush the life from him. It had been the most dangerous procedure you had ever attempted, and yet somehow your hands had held steady long enough to finish it.
You had hoped that would stop the seizures, that it would ease the pain. But even that desperate gamble had not brought him back.
Once the cream was applied, you wrapped the bandages back into place, tightening them firmly but not enough to cause harm. When you were finished, you wiped your fingers clean on the cloth beside the bed.
For a moment you simply sat there, then your hand slipped beneath your cloak.
The vial rested where you had hidden it against your chest. You pulled it free slowly, and this time didn't look at long.
The voice of the old woman returned to you then, as clearly as if she stood beside you again.
"You will tilt his head back," she had said, pressing the vial into your hand. "Make him drink the whole of it. Every drop, and say Valyrian words that I will tell you to say."
You had shaken your head immediately.
"I'm not -- " you had protested.
She had cut you off before you could finish.
"It does not matter."
Her eyes had gleamed strangely in the candlelight.
"His blood is from Old Valyria. It will recognize the words. Magic remembers its own tongue. His blood will hear it, it will sing to it."
You had stared at the vial then, dread curling in your stomach.
"The donor offers blood," she continued, almost softly. "And in return... they may give him back his life."
You had bitten your lip before asking the question that lingered on your tongue.
"What do I say?"
She had leaned closer then, her voice lowering as she spoke the words slowly, carefully, forcing you to repeat them until your tongue could shape the strange syllables.
"Āeksio iā dāriorys hen ñuha jorrāelagon. Hen kesīr īlva dārilaros."
When you asked what it meant, she only smiled faintly.
"I offer blood for the life I seek. Let death release him."
The memory faded as you blinked and returned to the present.
Baelor lay before you exactly as before : silent and unmoving.
Beyond the window, the sky had begun to pale. Maekar had been right : dawn was coming.
Your fingers tightened around the vial. If this failed... if it poisoned him instead... No. You forced the thought away. Carefully, you slipped one arm behind Baelor's shoulders and lifted him just enough to tilt his head back against your arm. His body was heavy and unresponsive, his breath shallow against your neck and the quiet of the room.
You pressed the rim of the vial to his lips.
Then, steadying your voice as best you could, you spoke the words exactly as the old woman had taught you, that you-'ve repeating over and over again since you left her home.
"Āeksio iā dāriorys hen ñuha jorrāelagon. Hen kesīr īlva dārilaros."
Slowly, carefully, you finished the last of it.
His throat moved once beneath your fingers as the final drops slid past his lips, a faint reflex more than anything resembling life. You held him there a moment longer, uncertain, watching his mouth as if the liquid might suddenly spill back out, as if the body might reject what you had forced into it. But nothing happened. No coughing, or choking. No miracle either.
The chamber remained exactly as it had been before : suspended in that strange stillness that clings to rooms where someone lies too close to death.
At last you eased him back against the pillows, guiding his head carefully so the bandages around his skull would not shift. Your movements were slow, the motions of someone who had tended the same wounded body for days and had memorized every fragile place that could break beneath careless hands.
Once he was settled again, you reached inside your cloak and slipped the empty vial back where it had rested before, pressing it flat against the warmth of your chest as if hiding the evidence of what you had just done.
For a moment your hands lingered above him.
Almost without thinking, you smoothed the tight lines from his face, brushing a hair away from his brow. The gesture felt strangely intimate, something done for comfort rather than medicine. When you finished, you pulled the sheet back up to his chest, tucking it lightly around his shoulders as though he might wake cold.
The smell in the room had changed.
Nightshade hung heavy in the air now, bitter and thick, its sharp herbal scent clinging to your fingers and clothes. Yet beneath it lingered another smell : the metallic tang of iron. Not his blood this time, but yours.
You sank slowly into the chair beside the bed, your body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. The wood creaked softly beneath your weight, the sound loud in the silence of the chamber. Your eyes remained fixed on him, searching his face for the smallest sign of change — any twitch, any breath deeper than the last.
Tears gathered in your eyes before you realized they were there.
What had you just done? The thought came cold. Had you committed treason? Probably.
If the maesters discovered what you had poured down the prince's throat... if the Kingsguard learned that you had forced some strange blood-bound mixture into the body of a royal heir — god, you would not even make it to a trial. They would call it poison before hearing a single word from your mouth.
Your stomach twisted. And what if it did nothing?
Your burned hand throbbed in your lap, wrapped tightly in linen already stained through in places. Even through the bandages you could feel the phantom echo of the blade biting into your palm. You remembered the moment too clearly : the cold steel, the sting, the sudden rush of warmth as blood spilled into the waiting vial while the old woman murmured those terrible words over it.
You tried to curl your fingers, they barely moved. Pain flared up your arm and forced you to let them fall still again. A bitter realization settled slowly into your chest.
You were a hypocrite.
Only a week ago you would have sworn that you would never touch witchcraft. You would have mocked anyone foolish enough to believe in spells and blood rituals and old crones whispering to unseen things in the dark.
And yet here you were... you had cut your own flesh, had given your blood, had spoken words from a dead tongue and forced a prince of the realm to swallow whatever strange magic that woman had bound into that vial. Whether you believed in gods or not, you knew enough stories to understand the truth that lived in all of them.
Magic never came without a cost.
Every tale, every myth, every whispered warning said the same thing: power demanded payment. And you had already given yours. Your soul in the other world.
That was the price she had named so calmly, as if speaking of something small and trivial. You would not die here, she had said. You would live. But the life you once had (the world you came from, the people you knew, the chance to ever return) Gone, and severed.
You would remain here instead, trapped in this place and this time until the end of your days. You, who only wanted to go back. You, who had spent every waking hour searching for a way home.
And yet when the choice came... you had traded that hope away for a man lying silent before you... A prince you barely knew.
You had sacrificed everything.
The thought did not come all at once, but slowly, like cold water seeping through cracks in stone until the whole foundation was soaked with it. Your family, and friends. The familiar rhythm of your old life. The world where hospitals smelled of disinfectant instead of herbs and rot, where wounds were stitched under bright lights instead of candle flames, where death was fought with machines and medicine instead of whispered prayers and desperate hope.
All of it was gone now.
You had traded it away for this place, this brutal, backward world of kings and swords and bloodlines, where lives bent around power and cruelty like grass beneath a storm.
For him.
Your gaze drifted back to Baelor's still face, pale beneath the bandages and the dim morning light creeping slowly through the shutters.
Any sane person would have refused. Any sane person would have laughed in that old woman's face and walked away. The price she had named was madness — your soul tied to this world forever, your old life sealed behind a door that would never open again. No return, no second chance, no waking up from this nightmare.
And yet you had said yes.
You foolish girl. You did not even remember saying it clearly. Only the certainty that had settled in your chest when the moment came.
Why? The question drifted through your mind. Was it him?
Perhaps some part of you could not bear the thought of watching another person slip away while you stood helpless beside. Perhaps it was simply the stubborn, foolish instinct of a doctor who refused to surrender a life while even the smallest chance remained.
Or perhaps it was not Baelor at all. Perhaps it had been Valarr. You remembered the boy's red-rimmed eyes, the way his small hands had clutched the edge of the doorway as he watched his father lie unmoving. The silent tears he tried so desperately to hide.
Or little Egg, stubborn and bright and far too brave for someone so young. Maybe it had been them. Maybe it had been all of them. Or maybe, you realized with a tired sort of honesty, you simply did not know.
Exhaustion finally pulled at you then, the night had stretched too long, filled with too many decisions and too much fear. Your body sagged deeper into the chair, your head leaning against the edge of the mattress as your eyes slowly closed despite your attempts to keep them open.
Sleep came quickly after that. In your dreams, you were somewhere else.
The hospital corridors stretched long and white around you, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. Nurses moved past you in familiar scrubs, charts tucked under their arms. Someone called your name from down the hall. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, clean and sharp.
You walked toward the sound automatically, as you had done a thousand times before, your shoes echoing against the polished floor.
It felt normal, and safe, like a life that had once belonged to someone else. Then warmth touched your face.
At first it blended into the dream, a soft brightness that made you turn your head slightly in your sleep. But the warmth grew stronger, pressing gently against your closed eyelids until the dream began to fade, the white corridors dissolving into shapeless light.
Your eyes opened slowly, everything felt familiar in the wrong way. Sunlight rested across your face, pale gold and warm. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you had slept in, and the faint smell of nightshade still clung stubbornly to the air.
You lifted your head, blinking away the last fog of sleep.
The sight before you should have been the same as every other morning : Prince Baelor lying exactly where you had left him, still trapped in that silent, unmoving coma.
But he wasn't.
No, instead, a pair of eyes were looking back at you. Blue and purple. Clear and awake.
They blinked slowly, as though the light itself was new to them, the lashes lowering and rising again with sluggish uncertainty. Your mind refused to understand what you were seeing. The world seemed to stall, suspended in a fragile moment between disbelief and reality.
Then recognition began to surface in those eyes, slowly, gradually... and they focused on you.
Fuck, it worked.
Prince Baelor was now wide awake.
A/N : soooo… what do we think? 👀
listen, i went back and forth a lot about the magic part. but after reading some threads about whether or not baelor could realistically survive the blow, i started thinking that a bit of magic might actually make more sense within westerosi standards. even with modern medical knowledge, saving him from something like that would be nearly impossible…
also yes, lady siena ashford is the OC of my valarr fic...
i really hope you guys like it though!! plz leave comments, I love reading them <33
this sent me on a full two-week hate spiral and honestly? i still stand by it. i’m sure half the akotsk writers would block me on sight for this take but whatever :
writing incest fics for a knight of the seven kingdoms is just fetish content at that point. i can maybe stretch my understanding for aerion/hotd era where it’s canon, political, ingrained into the dynasty and actually explored as something complex and often toxic — but outside of that???
and don’t pull the “it’s the beauty of fanfic” line when you’re straight up romanticizing it instead of examining why it’s disturbing. yes, fanfic means you can write anything….. and yet you’re still choosing that
summary : you survive a plane crash — only to wake up in a world that isn’t yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to survive… until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 15k ( yh I yapped too much again )
warning : maekar catching strays ( I promise I love him y’all), b-heading, s-icidal thoughts, valarr being the brat and sweetheart he is, mentions of aerion, blood and graphic violence, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect...
a/n : well, here we are…. this is my gift for tonight’s finale… plz, as always, drop ur thoughts in the comments section ;)
part 1, part 2, part 3 (you are here)
That's what you get for helping the heir to the Iron Throne instead of minding your own damn business like a proper little maid.
You might have kept your head bowed and your hands folded, as any other servant is meant to do : tending fires, pouring wine, minding only the small, safe corners of her own world. But no. You had to step forward. You had to play the fucking savior.
All because your soft heart would not be stilled, because the thought of a man as good as he was (aye, good in a world that grinds such men to dus) falling beneath steel and treachery turned your stomach. You could not stand aside and watch him bleed into the dirt.
And now you do not even know if he will live.
The blow he took was a cruel one. You have seen wounds like that before — on bright white tables beneath harsher lights, with steel instruments laid out in neat and gleaming rows. In another life, with another world's knowledge, you might have saved him without trembling. You are a healer trained in the mysteries of the mind and the delicate labyrinth of flesh and nerve.
Even then, even in your own world, it would have been hard. You've seen cases like this before. Motorcycle crashes, high-speed impacts, or a blow to the head like that.
Most of them didn't make it.
No matter the flashing lights, the trauma teams, the sterile operating rooms — sometimes the damage was simply too severe : swelling, hemorrhaging. The brain shutting down under the weight of the impact.
And that was with modern medicine.
Here? In a world of steel swords and muddy battlefields? The odds feel even thinner.
This is Westeros. Here there are no humming machines, no careful sutures spun of miracle thread, no vials of clear salvation. There are only rough hands, boiled wine, and prayers whispered to distant gods. They dwell in an age of leeches and poultices, while you carry the knowledge of centuries yet to come — and even that may not be enough.
You tried to save him. Yet in this twisted, blood-soaked realm, even the wisdom of a future age may break against the hard stone of fate.
But It doesn't matter now... No, it doesn't.
You are in a dungeon, and the world has narrowed to stone and filth.
The air is filled with the stink of rot and old water. Rats move bold as courtiers through the straw at your feet, their pink tails trailing through the muck. Somewhere close, unseen sewage crawls sluggishly through the dark, and the smell of it clings to the back of your throat like a sickness.
A single window, narrow as a coffin slit, is cut high into the wall. Iron bars cross it like the ribs of some great beast. No sky can be seen from where you sit — only a smear of black. Night, perhaps. Or only the belly of the castle swallowing what little light remains.
You wonder if Prince Baelor still breathes.
God, you hope so. Not their gods — the Seven with their painted smiles and judging eyes. You have seen enough of this place to know their gods are cruel, or else deaf. You whisper to your own, to a heaven far away and centuries ahead, and pray he lives.
You pray you were not thrown down here for nothing.
Outside the cell, guards linger. You hear them in the dark — the scrape of a boot, the low mutter of bored men. Their voices drift through the bars, thick with suspicion.
Witch, one of them says.
Maybe, says another.
You scream that you are not, your voice breaks against the stone, so desperate you might sound mad. You tell them you are a healer, that you tried to save him.
They tell you to fuck off.
So you keep your silence, because what is left to say? In the dark, you begin to hate yourself.
Your wretched empathy, your need to fix what is broken. In your own world it had been praised — dedication, compassion, brilliance under pressure. Here it has earned you straw for a bed and iron for a sky. You could have stayed back! You could have let the maesters mutter their prayers and bind his head in linen and leave the swelling to the mercy of their Seven. You could have told yourself he was only a prince, not your responsibility.
Instead, you knelt in his blood. He might wake... He might not...
The thought is a blade that cuts both ways.
He might wake — clear-eyed, breathing, the worst behind him. And you might already be ash by then.
Or perhaps you will live, only to watch him pass you in some bright corridor without recognition. A prince does not keep account of every pair of hands that touch him in crisis. Servants blur together, healers are tools. Necessary, replaceable.
Princes' do not weep for maids thrown into cells, lords do not argue with gaolers over nameless women.
You tell yourself this because it is safer.... yet memory betrays you.
He had asked your opinion.
Not once in passing (not a distracted hum meant to soothe his own pride) but truly asked. He had tilted his head when you spoke, as though the answer mattered. His voice had been warm, low and earnest, stripped of courtly edge in that quiet chamber. There had been curiosity in him. Gratitude, even.
You remember the way he held your gaze, with his mismatched one... but then another voice rises, much more colder : He was raised to charm. To disarm, to make the lowborn feel momentarily lifted by the illusion of importance. A prince's kindness costs him nothing. A soft tone here, a question there — it binds loyalty more surely than chains.
Perhaps you were simply dazzled. Starved for respect in a world where you are forever smaller than the men around you. Perhaps you mistook polished courtesy for something personal.
You spoke to him twice! Twice in all your time in this castle...
A harsh voice in your mind counts it like a sentence passed: two conversations. A handful of exchanged words. No promises, no vows, no reason for him to remember the sound of your voice once the pain fades.
You press your forehead to the stone.
He likely does not even remember your name.
The rats do not care what you are, the dark does not care either.
And so you sit, in the stink and the silence, and wait to learn whether you saved a prince — or doomed yourself for nothing at all.
Soon enough, the bolts scrape back. Instead, it is Lord Ashford who steps into the cell.
You don't even recognize him at first.
He looks as though he has aged a decade in a single night. His grey curls, usually so carefully kept, hang loose and disordered about his temples. His fine yellow and orange doublet is wrinkled, stained at the cuff. The heavy chain of office he so often wears is absent from his shoulders, as if he had come in such haste he forgot the weight of his own rank.
He looks ashen, drawn thin with worry even.
"What have you done, girl?!" he demands.
The words are meant to scold — but beneath them you hear something else. Not fury, not quite. There is strain there. Fear, perhaps? And something that feels dangerously close to concern.
You cling to that.
Lord Ashford loves his daughter, that much is plain to any who have eyes. He spared no expense for her nameday tourney : banners dyed in costly pigments, knights summoned from leagues away, musicians and cooks and falcons and fools. He strained his coffers thin to impress the royal family, to ensure Lady Gwyn's celebration would be spoken of for years.
He had been kind to you, kinder than most nobles. Yes, there is arrogance in him (the easy pride of a man born to command) but in this world, that is almost gentleness.
"My lord," you begin hoarsely, forcing yourself upright despite the protest of your abused knees. "I swear on my life, I have never practiced witchcraft. I would not — "
He lifts a hand quickly, motioning you down.
"Speak lowly," he mutters, glancing back toward the corridor. "I am not certain I am meant to be here."
You lower your eyes at once.
"My daughter is worried sick for your safety," he adds, shaking his head faintly.
Gwyn. Oh poor, sweet Gwyn!
All of this — all of it — began on her nameday. She should have been wrapped in silks, laughing from her balcony as knights shattered lances in her honor. She should have been crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, roses laid at her feet, songs composed in her name.
Instead, her celebration curdled into blood.
The heir to the Iron Throne struck down in the melee. Whispers of a Trial of Seven already stirring like storm clouds. Lords choosing sides. And in the midst of it, you (her favored maid, her odd little foreign servant) dragged to the dungeons and branded a witch.
Because you tried to save him, because his brother swung a mace too hard and now must blame someone for the ruin of it.
You swallow the bitterness before it shows on your face.
"I was only trying to help him," you say, softer now. "He would have died without intervention. The swelling in his head — "
You stop yourself. What use are words like hemorrhage, intracranial pressure, compression of the brain to a lord who has never seen the inside of a skull? To him it would sound like more witch's prattle.
You swallow the rest.
You know Prince Maekar did not mean it.
From what little you witnessed, the brothers were close : anvil and hammer, the stories said. One steady and bright, the other hard and unyielding. They balanced one another. Fought beside one another. Loved one another, in the way men raised on battlefields do.
He struck because his son's life was on the line... Any father who loved his child would have done the same.
You lower your gaze to the filthy rushes.
"I am sorry," you whisper, wiping fresh tears from your cheeks with the back of your uninjured hand.
God.... You have never wept so much. Not even after the plane crash — the screaming metal, the smoke, the bodies. You swore then you would never cry before strangers again. That you would be composed... And yet here you are, shaking in a dungeon before your lord, tears falling unchecked.
Lord Ashford looks as shaken as you feel. After all, the heir to the realm nearly died (or has died, for all anyone truly knows) under his roof, during his daughter's tourney. His carefully planned splendor turned to scandal and blood in a single heartbeat.
"I never meant to — " Your voice breaks. The sob rises and lodges hard in your throat. You cannot finish.
"I cannot promise you anything," the old man says at last, his tone heavy. "If what you claim is true, it will fall to Prince Maekar... and to his father, King Daeron in King's Landing."
The words seem to drain the warmth from the room.
"The ravens have flown back and forth without rest," he continues. "They argue even now, I am told. They mean to summon the greatest maesters from the Citadel. But such men are not at their beck and call. It may take days."
Days.
"If it takes that long," he adds grimly, "the prince may already be dead by — "
"He's alive then?" you cut in before you can stop yourself. "Prince Baelor is alive?"
Lord Ashford studies you.
"He still breathes," he says at last. "That is all I can swear to."
Relief and terror crash together inside your chest.
He lives... but he does not wake.
It is normal, your surgeon's mind insists through the haze of fear. After trauma like that, the brain retreats. It swells.... It protects itself the only way it can. It could take days — a week, even! — before he opens his eyes. Longer still before he can form words that make sense.
Comas are not death, you cling to the thought.
In truth, it is a miracle he is breathing at all. After a blow like that, most never do...
Lord Ashford closes his eyes briefly, as though the truth pains him to speak.
"The prince yet lives," he repeats more quietly. "But he does not wake." The fragile hope that had kindled within you flickers, uncertain. "And until he does," he goes on, words tightening, "there are those who would rather lay blame at your feet than elsewhere."
His gaze drops to your red eyes.
"Gods help us all, girl," he murmurs. "You may have saved him... or doomed us entirely."
His words haunt you through the long, sleepless dark and into the grey hush of morning.
You do not know when night ended — only that the black beyond the barred slit has paled to a thin, colorless light. You have not slept. Each time your eyes closed, you heard again: He lives... but he does not wake.
The bolts scrape back agonizingly slow, and then, two guards step inside — and these are not the dungeon rabble from before.
No, you recognize the white at once : kingsguard.
Their armor gleams pale even in the miserable light, enameled plates catching what little dawn seeps through the barred slit. White cloaks fall straight from their shoulders, unstained, severe. When they move, metal whispers and settles with disciplined precision.
These are men sworn to the king, to the royal line — loyal unto death.
Surely they would not soil their white cloaks with injustice... right ?
A fragile, desperate hope stirs within you. Perhaps they have come to their senses, perhaps the prince still breathes, and in his silence someone has remembered the foreign healer who cut to save rather than to kill. Perhaps they mean to loose your chains and bring you back to his bedside.
Perhaps they will let you tend him.
Your heart dares to lift, thin and trembling as a candle flame in a draft.
And yet — there is no prince with them.
No maester robed in chain, no lord bearing reprieve. No gratitude. No judgment spoken aloud.
Only iron and leather beneath the white. Only the faint sour scent of men who have stood long vigil in stone corridors, their boots marked with dried mud and darker things. Their faces are carved from restraint, stern and unreadable.
They have not come as saviors.
They have come with an horrific purpose, and your stomach drops at the realization. Fuck, oh how you're so fucked.
Hope, foolish and persistent, dies a quiet death in your chest.
And for one shameful heartbeat, as they approach you where you sit hunched against the wall, you wish you had not survived the plane crash at all.
You lift your head slowly from where it rested against your drawn knees, hope rising sharp and foolish in your chest.
"Is the prince alive?" you ask, the words tripping over themselves in their haste.
They give you nothing. Why would they? You are a prisoner now — no healer, no savior. Whatever you were before has been stripped away with your freedom. For all you know, the prince is already dead.
One of them moves without warning, seizing you by the arm and wrenching you forward. Your legs, stiff from hours curled on the stone, fail to steady you. You stumble, a startled cry escaping as your feet slide through the foul, damp straw.
The second guard sweeps your legs from beneath you with a brutal kick.
You hit the ground hard enough to bite your tongue. Warmth floods your mouth at once, the taste of blood spreading slow and coppery across it.
"Please," you start again.
The word leaves you before pride can swallow it.
You know what is coming. Oh, you know. You try to tell yourself otherwise — that white cloaks mean justice, that vows mean mercy. That perhaps, for once, being a woman in this brutal world might grant you some small shield. A measure of pit, a hesitation.
You cling to that foolish thought for the span of a heartbeat, but you see it in their faces.
Not cruelty, not kindness, but duty. And duty does not bend for tears.
The slap comes quick and open-handed. Your head snaps to the side, the stone floor swims.
"Quiet," one of them growls.
They wrench your arm out, forcing your palm flat against the cold ground. A boot pins your wrist. You twist, horrified, but the pressure only increases.
"We've questions," the taller one says. "You answer true."
"I told you, I'm no witch — "
The second guard crouches, bringing a torch down from the wall. The flame gutters and flares, close enough now that you can feel its breath against your skin.
"You lie," he says mildly. "Or you don't answer... we'll see how your pretty healer's hands fare in the fire."
The heat licks nearer.
"If you deny us," the first adds, tightening his grip, "or refuse to speak, we burn it. Slow."
Your heart hammers against your ribs like it means to break free.
In another world, those hands held scalpels steady over open skulls. In another world, they saved lives. Here, they are something to be tested in flame.
The torch dips lower.
You feel it before it touches you — the dry, searing breath of it, close enough to prickle the fine hairs along your skin. Your body jerks on instinct, but the boot grinds harder into your wrist. Stone bites into your cheek.
"Please," you whisper, the word small and frayed.
"Start speaking," says the taller guard. "What spell did you lay on him?"
"No spell," you choke. "There was blood in his skull — swelling. I was trying to ease the pressure. If it is not relieved, the brain—"
The slap comes again, sharper than the first. Your ears ring, you curse them in your head.
"Listen to her," the man with the torch says with a crooked grin. "Skull blood. Brain swelling. Witch-talk."
"It's not witchcraft," you insist, panic rising fast now. "It's knowledge. Where I come from, we study the body. We cut to heal. We — "
The flame kisses your palm.
Not fully, not yet, but just enough.
The pain is instant and monstrous, a white flare that devours thought. You scream despite yourself, the sound scraping raw out of your throat. The smell comes next — faint and sickening : scorched skin.
The guard pulls the torch back, watching you with idle curiosity, as if gauging the doneness of meat.
"Next time," he says evenly, "I will not be gentle."
The torchlight wavers against the white of his cloak.
"Aren't you a knight?" you grit out through tears of pain. "Aren't you sworn to protect women and the innocent?"
Something flickers in his eyes — not doubt, but irritation.
"You are no innocent," the other replies coldly.
You laugh then, a broken, breathless sound. "I tried to save him — "
"Enough," the first snaps.
He steps closer, and now it is not the torch that threatens but the steel at his hip. His hand rests upon the pommel, casual as a man leaning against a wall.
"Hold your tongue," he says, voice low and deadly calm, "or it will not be fire that takes your hand, but my blade that takes your eye next."
The words fall without heat, that is what chills you most.
You force air into your lungs, try to drag your mind away from the agony blooming across your hand. First-degree burn, you think wildly. Maybe partial thickness. God, no sterile dressings. No antibiotics. Infection here is a death sentence.
"Did someone send you?" the taller one presses. "Rebels? Was this meant to kill him?"
"No!" The word rips out of you. "If I meant to kill him, I would have done nothing. I was trying to save him."
They exchange a look.
The torch lowers again, hovering just above your skin. Close enough that you can feel the promise of it.
"Then pray he lives," the crouching guard says softly. "For if the prince dies, we'll not stop at your hand."
Your heart stutters.
If he dies.
You cling to that — the unspoken truth beneath the threat. They do not know, he still breathes. Or at least, he did when they dragged you down here.
The torch comes down again, this time it does not merely kiss your skin.
It lingers.
Your scream tears out of you before you can stop it, raw and animal, echoing off the stone in a way that does not sound human at all.
"Speak," the taller guard demands.
You gasp, words breaking apart in your mouth. "I — I told you — "
The torch presses harder.
You thrash, but the boot grinds bone against stone. White explodes behind your eyes. You are dimly aware of your own voice begging, promising, swearing by gods you do not believe in.
"Where are you from?" he snarls.
For one mad, fleeting moment, you think of telling the truth.
Another world, another century. A place of bright lights and humming machines and surgeons who wash their hands before cutting into flesh. A place beyond their understanding... but that would only damn you further.
Witch, they would say. Demon. Spawn of shadow.
So you choke out the first place-name that comes to mind.
"Ashford Meadow," you sob. "I was born in Ashford Meadow."
The men pause.
The one with the torch studies your face, as though weighing something. Then he rises and mutters to the other. They leave you shaking on the floor, your hand a screaming mass of agony, and for a brief, foolish heartbeat you think perhaps it is over.
It is not.
They return what feels like an age later — though time has dissolved into pain — and their expressions have changed.
"No such name," the taller one says flatly. "We sent to the steward. Had the birth rolls brought from Ashford Meadow."
Your blood runs cold.
"They keep records," he continues. "Every babe born, every death. Your name does not appear."
Your breath stutters.
"I — I could have been born elsewhere," you try weakly. "Perhaps the septon miswrote it, perhaps — "
The torch flares again.
"Liar."
This time they do not pause between questions. They do not pretend at patience, they burn. They strike, they wrench your arm until your shoulder screams. Each denial is answered with fire or fist.
You scream until your voice frays into nothing, until the sound scraping from your throat is no more than a broken rasp. You taste blood and salt and smoke, your vision swims.
Outside the cell, other guards stand watch, and even through the ringing in your ears, you hear one of them shift uneasily.
"Gods," he mutters under his breath.
The screams coming from within are not the cries of a scheming witch, they are the sound of something breaking.
Your hand is a ruin.
The skin has split and blistered, stretched thin and shining in places, bubbled in others like something boiled too long. Blood slicks your palm and fingers, running down to stain the stone. The burns sit atop it all, raw and furious. You would think the nerves long dead — that mercy, at least, would have come in numbness.
But no. Oh, no. The pain is alive.
You search their faces for enjoyment and find none. Only grim resolve, and strain. One of them does not quite meet your eyes. You tell yourself that means they are not monsters, that they take no pleasure in this.
Perhaps you are only trying to salvage some fragment of humanity in the cell — if not in them, then in yourself. At last, the boot lifts from your pinned wrist.
You sag forward, certain it is over. It is not...
A hand seizes you by the throat and slams you back against the wall. Stone bites into your spine. Your burned hand scrapes uselessly against his wrist as he lifts you half off your feet.
The pain in your back is nothing, nothing compared to your hand, compared to your ribs, your shoulder, your raw throat.
His fingers tighten, and your vision swarms with black.
"Tell me what you did!" he roars, his voice echoing through the dungeon like a struck bell. "Tell me!"
"I—" You try to speak. Nothing comes. Your lungs claw for air that will not come. You grasp at his wrist, but your strength is gone, spent somewhere between fire and fist.
He slams you back against the wall again.
"You're going to be the one we blame," he snarls. "There must be a reason for all this fucking nonsense."
"Roland." The other guard's voice cuts through, sharp. "She's fading. You're killing her."
He does not release you, not until your sight tunnels and your eyes begin to roll back.
Then suddenly, you are dropped.
You crumple to the floor in a heap, gasping, your body no longer certain how to breathe. Air tears into your lungs like knives.
"Prince Maekar told us to torture her for information," the man with the torch snaps, anger replacing whatever restraint he once held. "Not to kill her, you imbecile."
Roland shakes his head, breathing hard. "You saw she wasn't cooperating. She wouldn't tell us — "
Footsteps pound down the corridor, another guard appears at the door, flushed and winded. "Prince Maekar wants to see you."
The air in the cell shifts, they do not need to be told twice.
White cloaks turn and sweep from the room, leaving you broken on the stone, the echo of their armor fading — and a new kind of dread settling into your bones.
Maekar stood in the dim, high-ceilinged hall, listening to the knights' hurried, clipped report.
His hands gripped the edges of the rough wooden table as though it could anchor him against the chaos roaring inside his head. His short, pale hair was tousled from the night's restless pacing, and his eyes, hardened and purple like winter ice, did not lift from the stone floor.
Two days ago, he and Baelor had sat at this very table.
A minor castle, a minor tourney, a display to keep appearances for the lords and ladies of the realm. It was beneath them, truly, and yet it was duty — and Baelor, ever dutiful, had accepted without complaint, smiling politely, even as Maekar muttered darkly about how hunting would have been far more fitting. Aerys and Rhaegel had declined, or more like been declined entirely, leaving the two of them alone to navigate the lowly tournament their father deemed essential.
The gods, it seemed, had no patience for his complaints.
And now... now the world had narrowed to two doors, one table, and the suffocating weight of tragedy.
The journey had already claimed two of his sons, in a way, though not in death. One had wandered off to play at being a commoner's squire, lost to him for days, and the other had been drinking himself half to death, caught in folly and recklessness, staggering through inns and taverns, heedless of danger or duty.
Maekar had been forced to track him down like a shepherd retrieving a stray lamb.
He had found his eldest first, far from the path, and returned him, bruised and shivering, to the Ashford tourney where their family had gathered for the days' festivities, celebrating a nameday — a lady's name Maekar could no longer remember in the haze of grief and fatigue.
Only later did he discover the truth of the second: Aegon, his youngest son, had been squiring the very hedge knight who had struck Aerion, training at his side all this time, unseen and unnoticed, while Aerion had declared this knight an enemy of the crown over some petty slight, determined to prove the dragons were not so easily bested.
Aerion, his second son, still lived, though he was bloody and battered, as foolish and proud as ever, willing to throw himself into danger for vanity, for glory, for a notion of honor that made Maekar's teeth grit.
The boy bore his father's face (pale hair, sharp cheekbones, the same set of eyes that had haunted Maekar in his own youth) yet none of the restraint, that Maekar had learned through years of survival and sorrow. His boy was cruel when he wished, selfish when he wished, reckless when he wished — and yet he was Maekar's blood, and instinct demanded he be protected, regardless of reason or consequence.
When Aerion had insisted upon this ridiculous trial against a hedge knight, Maekar had felt a cold dread coil around his chest. Aerion insisted the man had insulted the dragons' honor, and in the boy's mind, the insult could only be answered with steel.
He had declared the hedge knight an enemy of the crown itself, demanding battle to prove that Targaryens were not so easily bested, regardless of truth, law, or reason. Maekar had known — from the very first — that this display would end in blood, in humiliation, and in some unforgivable mistake.
Yet, perhaps it was pride that clouded his judgment for a heartbeat.
Perhaps he had clung to hope, imagining that the knight was nothing more than an awkward boy, stammering and without a sigil of his own, a lowborn who could never truly best his son or any knight of the dragon's blood.
That hope shattered the moment he saw Baelor.
His elder brother, usually steady at his side in every battle, his shield and his protector, now aligned with the hedge knight, standing against him.
Maekar's stomach had turned to lead.
All sense of strategy, of composure, of control, seemed to slip through his fingers like smoke. He remembered the words he had spoken to Baelor before the trial, trying to warn him of the danger, of the foolishness. But Baelor had only smiled, and said that it was the right thing to do, that the gods would see whose demise was deserved.
It hurt, deeper than Maekar had expected.
To see the brother who had always been his anchor now placed against him, a living reminder of how fragile order and loyalty could be when pride and honor collided. And then came the cruelest realization — that all of this, the tension, the recklessness, the impending disaster, had been set in motion by his own son.
Aerion, in all his blood and arrogance, had thrust them into this chaos, and Maekar could feel the burden of it pressing down on his chest like a stone.
The gravity of the situation, the recklessness of his blood, the potential ruin of both his sons and his brother, struck him fully in that instant, and he understood that nothing in his careful life had prepared him for the consequences of pride running wild in his family.
And so, as Maekar watched the events unfold, helpless to stop them, a sickness had settled in his gut.
The fear, the anger, the love for a son who was so achingly alive and yet so foolish, curled together into a single, hot coil that left him trembling and rigid at once. The world had narrowed to the two of them: Aerion, headstrong and alive, and the consequences of letting him run unchecked.
The memory of the joust came in violent fragments: the scrape of steel on shield, the thunder of hooves against earth, the yells of men caught between honor and survival. Aerion, reckless and hot-blooded, had thrown himself into combat with all the arrogance of youth, and Maekar had moved instinctively to intervene.
Ser Duncan, the hedge knight, had struck with brutal precision, and in the scramble to shield Aerion, Maekar had not seen Baelor move into the path of the swing.
And yet, even if he had seen it coming, even if he had recognized the danger to Baelor in time... would he have stopped it? Perhaps not. For Aerion, foolish, cruel, and reckless as he was, was his blood. The boy had been his late wife Dyanna's gift, a piece of her legacy, and Maekar would not allow another piece of her to be taken so carelessly.
He would protect him, even if it meant striking down his own brother to do so.
Love and blood did not bend for caution, did not wait for propriety or rules. It demanded instinct, demanded survival.
Now Baelor lay two doors away, breathing but unresponsive, and Maekar's chest ached with a mixture of guilt, fear, and relief.
Relief that his brother yet drew breath.
Fear that he might not wake.
Guilt that his son's recklessness had set these events in motion, that his own actions to protect
Aerion might have endangered the prince, his own blood, his own brother. The table beneath his hands creaked as he squeezed it, nails digging into the wood until it seemed to protest.
His thoughts were a tangle of blame and love. He cursed the tourney, cursed the small, lowly castle, cursed the Andals who had dictated such meaningless tests of honor.
Yet he could not curse his son entirely.
Aerion was what he was, and he would die before he allowed anyone else to strike him down for it. And Baelor... his steady, brave, foolish brother... he had nearly lost him.
His heart had ached in the silence when he first saw him unmoving, when he thought death had claimed the one who had always been the quieter shadow to his own fire. And now, all that remained was waiting, and fear, and the impossible task of ensuring that no further blood would stain this day.
Maekar closed his eyes briefly, letting the burden of the hall and the silence press around him.
The knights spoke, their voices tense, their hands resting nervously on their hilts, but he could not answer.
His mind was elsewhere, replaying the events in agonizing loops, imagining each possible misstep, each terrible outcome. The prince yet lived, and for that he should have been grateful.
But what did it matter? Alive, and yet so fragile — so terribly, heartbreakingly fragile.
Perhaps soon dead. One wrong word, one misjudged action, and everything could collapse.
He tightened his fists against the table, forcing himself to stand tall even as his chest ached with the burden of fatherhood, brotherhood, and the endless, merciless weight of being a prince of the blood.
He kept telling himself to be hopeful.
His sons were alive — as alive as they could be under the circumstances. Aerion was responsive, at least in part, though beaten nearly to a pulp, bruised and battered so that he could barely rise to his feet.
Egg pleaded with him constantly, his voice with fear, begging Maekar to listen, to give mercy, to spare her — the girl who had intervened, who had supposedly used her strange, foreign "witchcraft" to stabilize Baelor.
But worst of all was his brother. Baelor. Lying there, pale and still, though the maesters swore he breathed. And yet the probability of him dying loomed like a shadow over Maekar's heart, a constant, gnawing threat.
Every calculation, every consultation, every raven sent back and forth to King's Landing, every query to the maesters of the Citadel, had left him with the same gnawing certainty: nothing could undo what had already happened.
He went every night to sit beside Baelor, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the linen gauze. The same gauze that she — the healer, the witch, the girl — had applied, the one the acolytes of Maester Yormwell insisted had stabilized him, though none could say for certain.
"She babbled nonsense," they claimed. "But she held him together. Or not." No one could be sure.
And now, even that was under threat.
"She won't reply," Ser Donnel of Duskendale said flatly, the words slicing through the tense silence of the chamber. "We burned her hand, tortured her — whatever we could — and yet she refuses to confess. She will not admit to heresy, nor to the crimes we accused her of."
Maekar's jaw tightened. His hands clenched at the folds of his doublet, knuckles whitening. "Nothing?" he asked, voice tight, hollow, betraying the strain he had fought so hard to contain.
"Nothing," the knight repeated, grim and unwavering.
Maekar muttered under his breath, though no one seemed safe from the sound.
"This is fucking nonsense!" He slammed a hand against the table, the wood rattling under the force. "She must be held accountable! Whatever she has done, whatever sorcery she claims — it cannot go unchecked. She may have stabilized him... or perhaps made him suffer more. Yet she sits silent, and the prince still lies there, unmoving!"
Perhaps he was a coward, afraid to shoulder the blame, afraid to see what had truly been done. And yet, he had already taken the burden upon himself. The burden of responsibility pressed him down, heavier than any armor, heavier than any sword he had ever carried.
And this servant girl had intervened in ways he could neither fully understand nor control. She had acted, and now the consequences teetered between salvation and ruin.
"The girl must answer for whatever sorcery she has wrought," he said aloud. His gaze swept across the knights, who knelt silently, unwilling to meet his eyes. "The maesters tell me she kept babbling, issuing orders that made no sense. Commands, nonsense... yet somehow she stabilized him. And if she did not, if her actions only worsened his condition..." His voice trailed off as his fists clenched tighter.
Ser Donnel, spoke up from the shadowed corner where he had lingered. "Your Grace... she kept insisting she is a healer. That she was working to relieve the compression on his head. She was... speaking in terms we could barely understand, but she meant no harm, I think."
Maekar's eyes narrowed, scanning the grounds outside. The tournament had ended. The tents were being struck, the banners lowered, and the air of celebration had vanished into dust and sweat and regret.
His mind churned with what-ifs and oughts and consequences that had already begun.
Maekar's hands remained braced against the rough wood of the table, knuckles white, as he looked between the knights and the gathered maesters. His jaw was tight, every muscle in his face coiled with the weight of what he knew he must decide.
"If she will not speak," he said again, voice low but iron-edged, "if she will not confess, then we will deal with her."
He turned first to Lord Ashdrow, who stood silent, eyes cast down at the cold stones, clearly uneasy at the burden of what was to come. Then he looked to the maesters, seeking counsel.
"How are heretics... dealt with?" His gaze fell first on Maester Yormwell, the oldest among them, whose chain rattled softly as he shifted under the prince's scrutiny.
Maester Yormwell hesitated. His long, thin fingers fidgeted with the chain of his medallion, eyes flicking toward the chamber's door as if it might open to answer for him.
"Well?" Maekar insists.
Yormwell hesitated, frowning as though the answer itself pained him. "Tradition... customary practice... heretics are burned, Your Grace," he said carefully. "We strip them of worldly protections, and fire is used to purify and punish both body and soul. The Citadel's records are full of examples."
Maekar's eyes narrowed.
"Fire," he muttered, lips barely moving.
Another acolyrtes, younger man with a hawkish nose and thin spectacles, spoke up, voice quivering slightly. "Your Grace, tradition is tradition. A heretic who refuses confession cannot remain at liberty. To show leniency might be taken as weakness. The King, should he hear of it, would not forgive hesitation."
Maekar leaned back slightly, rubbing his temple.
His mind raced. He could send a raven, consult his father before acting... but time was slipping like sand through his fingers. Baelor remained unconscious, his life dangling between breath and silence.
His mother, in King's Landing, would already be beside herself with worry — her letters had been anxious, desperate. She must not know yet... He could not afford delay, not with Baelor's life on the line.
"Suppose," Maekar said slowly, eyes flicking back to Yormwell, "that she did act with skill. That she stabilized Baelor... perhaps prevented his death. Would the Citadel sanction burning her for something that saved a prince? Could they?"
Yormwell's shoulders tightened. "The Citadel holds no authority over royal blood, Your Grace. If she is declared a heretic by the Crown, it is the Crown's will that matters. We can offer counsel, guidance on procedure, but it is the prince who decides."
"And if she has done more harm than good?" Maekar pressed, voice rising slightly with the tension coiling in his chest. "If her so-called healing is blasphemy, if she has meddled with forces beyond comprehension, what then?"
The younger maester shifted nervously. "Then... she must be judged. Swiftly. By the laws of the realm, the punishment is severe. Fire is customary. Heads have been cut for lesser offenses, yes, but heresy... fire is..." His voice faltered, unable to finish the sentence.
Maekar slammed a hand on the table, wood rattling under the blow. "I have no time for this indecision! Baelor lies unconscious two doors away. Every moment I waste, the risk grows. If she has done wrong... she will answer for it. But if she has done right, and yet my father or the realm hears of delay, what then? The court will never forgive me. They will not forgive her. They will not forgive Baelor if he dies waiting for their counsel."
Yormwell's gaze softened for a moment, but he spoke firmly. "Your Grace... sending a raven first would be the proper course. Inform the King, seek his guidance. The Citadel will advise. Fire is final, irreversible. There may yet be a way to preserve life without defying tradition."
Maekar closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.
He could hear the faint murmur of activity outside, the striking of tents and lowering of banners as the tournament came to its bitter end. He knew his father's reply could take long — too long for Baelor. And even now, the risk that delay might kill his brother clawed at him like talons.
"I cannot wait," Maekar said finally, rigid with decision. "Send no raven. There is no time. She will answer for her deeds, yes... but not by fire. Not yet. Bring her outside. Behead her swiftly. Let it be done before nightfall. Let the people see, if they must. The world will know that her actions carry consequence, and we cannot squander time with ceremony or counsel."
The maesters exchanged glances, tension tight between them.
Yormwell hesitated, lips pressed thin, before inclining slightly. "As you will, Your Grace. But know that history may judge this day harshly."
Maekar did not respond. The words barely touched him; the weight of Baelor's still form two doors away pressed on him far more than speculation about legacy or judgment ever could.
The maester tried again, voice quieter this time, hesitant. "And... what of Prince Valarr, Your Grace? Baelor's son. The boy... he will be heir should anything come to pass. Should he not have a voice in this matter?"
Maekar's eyes tightened. Valarr. His nephew, so young, yet already sharp with the shadow of responsibility that would one day crush him if he lived long enough to wear the crown.
The boy's resemblance to Baelor was uncanny : the same violet eyes, the same pale hair, yet somehow mismatched, as if the blood of the Targaryens could never perfectly repeat itself. Maekar did not see him now. Could not bring himself to.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the steadiness back into his voice.
"Prince Valarr's opinion," he said finally, "cannot alter what is necessary here. He is too young to bear the burden of counsel in such matters. The decision rests with me. It is final."
Yormwell inclined again, slower this time, as if weighing the consequences of obedience. "As you command, Your Grace. But may the gods watch over us all, for this day may not soon be forgotten."
Maekar said nothing.
His gaze drifted to the far window, where the last of the tournament tents were being struck, banners lowering in silence.
Baelor still lay unconscious, Aerion was battered and bruised beyond repair, and the girl in the dungeon below remained defiant, silent, untouched by fear or confession.
He could delay no longer. There was no council, no letters, no second opinions to be had. The decision was his alone — irrevocable, final. And he would see it carried out.
He only stared toward the closed door, toward the dungeon below, toward the girl who had defied them all, and toward Baelor lying two doors away. The decision was made, there was no turning back.
The knights, stiff and silent in their white cloaks, waited for the command. Maekar's fingers relaxed slightly on the table.
"Bring her out," he said. " And do what you are ordered to do."
Somewhere in the dark of the dungeon, barely conscious, you clutch your hand to your chest, pressing it as if the pain there could anchor you to life.
Your thoughts keep circling the same question: why not just give up already? Why not let the pain and exhaustion have their way? And yet your body refuses. Some stubborn, stubborn part of you will not surrender, even as every muscle screams and every heartbeat feels like it might shatter.
Your thoughts were shattered by a soft, almost hesitant sound: "Pst... pst..."
You looked up slowly, squinting through the dim light that crept in from the tiny barred window.
There, crouched against the barreled stone, was Ser Duncan. He looked taller somehow, though battered, his shoulders slumped, a limp tugging at his gait. His eyes were red and puffy, the remnants of the trial still marking him, but there was an urgency there that made you focus despite your exhaustion.
He crouched closer to the small window, lowering a scrap of bread and some cheese through the bars.
"You eating yet?" he asked quietly, voice roughened.
"I... barely," you whispered back, voice hoarse.
He dropped the food into your lap, muttering, "I'm sorry... it's my fault you're here."
For a moment, your hunger outweighed everything else. You tore at the bread and cheese like a starving rabbit, ignoring him, not because you didn't care, but because it had been days since your stomach felt even half full.
"It's... not yours," you croaked between bites.
He flinched, ashamed, then glanced down, voice tight. "Still... you tried to help. It shouldn't have happened."
You swallowed hard, looking at him through the shadows.
"They accuse me of witchcraft," you said, voice low and bitter. "Because they think I bewitched the prince."
He stiffened. "Why? is he -- is he dead?"
"I don't know," you admitted, teeth gritted. "They've beaten me, burned my hand... starved me. And he — he lies still, unmoving."
Duncan's eyes widened. He looked every bit the young, naïve boy he was, and yet even through his inexperience, something in him bristled with outrage.
Before he could linger, the door to your cell creaked open again. You turned, weary and wary, and whispered through clenched teeth, "Go away."
Even Ser Duncan, for all his concern, hesitated. He knew he was powerless here, and the cold, unyielding walls of the dungeon seemed to swallow both hope and outrage alike.
The guards seize you roughly by the arms, hauling you to your feet.
Chains bite into your wrists, cold and unforgiving, clinking with each forced step. You stumble forward, struggling to keep your balance, your chest tight, your breath shallow. One last glance at the tiny barred window of your cell — the faint light spilling across the stone — and then it's gone.
Darkness and chains replace it.
You thought, for a moment, that you might be brought before Maekar first, that perhaps he would speak to you, judge you personally. But no. The guards march you onward, and the truth presses down like a stone: you are being led outside.
The air hits you with its harsh, bitter edge. The tournament grounds are mostly quiet now, tents half-struck, banners lowered, the smell of straw, sweat, and dust thick in your nostrils.
And yet people have gathered.
You recognize some of them: maids you worked alongside in the castle, knights who jousted in the lists days ago. They watch silently, their eyes following you, a mixture of curiosity, pity, and something colder.
Your chest pounds.
This is it, you think. This is how it ends. And yet, a small, stubborn part of your mind refuses to surrender. Perhaps it's a mistake, perhaps this will be corrected.
Perhaps you'll live.
Your mind clings to that thought desperately, stubbornly, like a shard of glass you refuse to let go. You haven't survived all of this (the months of surviving after the plane crash that should've ended you, the endless service) for nothing.
No. You cannot go like this. Not now. Not yet.
Your gaze sweeps over the gathered crowd, desperate for something familiar, something human.
You see Briena, the fifteen-year-old maid who served alongside you. Her face is pale, lips trembling, eyes wide and horrified as she catches sight of you chained, bruised, bloodied. Esthis, the head maid, always strict, butt his time she didn't dare to look at you.
Then you see them — Lady Gwyn, held protectively in her mother's arms, both of them shaking and sobbing, her mother pressing her close as if she could somehow shield her daughter from what is about to happen.
So much for a nameday tourney.
And that is when your own tears begin to fall, hot and unrelenting, streaking down your dirt-stained cheeks, smudging the grime and blood that covers you.
The chains bite at your wrists, the harsh sunlight catching the clink of metal, the murmurs of the crowd and the shuffle of feet fading into a distant hum beneath the roaring of your heart.
The sun hung low in the sky, golden and cruel, mocking your fate even as evening edged closer. Its light poured over the grounds, bright and relentless, as if the world itself refused to hide from the horror about to unfold.
Some part of you wants to scream, to call out to Lady Gwyn, to beg her to make it stop. Another part clings to hope : the tiny, ridiculous hope that perhaps this is a misunderstanding, that reason, mercy, or even the faintest flicker of decency will intervene.
Then you see it: the wooden stage, stark and unforgiving. And on it, a figure stands tall, a sword catching the sunlight. Your breath catches in your throat.
No... No, fuck no.
This isn't supposed to happen. This isn't how it was meant to be. Your eyes burn, and new tears streak down, blurring the scene.
The guards forcibly press you forward. Each step rattles the chains around your wrists, each metallic clink echoing like a hammer striking your chest. Beside you, a maester walks silently, expression unreadable, while behind him a white knight — older, steadier — restrains a guard who pushes too hard, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
The stage creaks under your feet, the rough wood scraping against the soles of your shoes. You hear the hush of the crowd, the faint murmur of voices, the shuffle of boots. Your eyes are drawn automatically upward, and you see the sword glinting in the sunlight, the figure standing tall and waiting.
The maester steps forward, voice cutting through the tense hush.
He says your name, and you do not resist. Then he pronounces the words that make your heart seize:
"...are sentenced to death for witchcraft. Guilty as charged. By order of Prince Maekar, you shall be executed by beheading."
Your knees threaten to buckle, but the knights gripping your arms do not allow it.
You glance at the crowd. Faces stare, blank or filled with curiosity, some pity, some cruel satisfaction. In the back, you see Duncan struggling against Raymun, silent, frustrated.
"No..." you manage to rasp, the word scraped from your raw throat. "I swear, I did nothing!" Tears sting your eyes, already running low from exhaustion and pain.
You glance at the crowd. Some watch with pity, others with satisfaction, and in the back, you see Duncan being held back by someone you recognize as Raymun.
The maester ignores your protests. "Do you have anything to say in the sight of the gods?"
Your chest heaves, tight with panic and grief, but you force yourself to shake your head, to gather what defiance remains. You look to the assembled faces, then toward the castle, and finally to the tower where Prince Baelor lies.
"I confess my innocence before your gods," you declare, voice trembling but firm, "old or new, existent or not." Gasps ripple through the crowd at your words, but you no longer care. "I did no witchcraft. I only tended to Prince Baelor. He allowed me to do so." You pause, swallowing over the lump in your throat. "And if he survives, because I saved him," a pause, "I hope my soul will haunt every one of you who thought I would do such a thing!"
The maester only nods and gestures with his hand.
You are forced to kneel, wincing at the pressure on your bruised body. Your chest heaves, your hair is pressed into a lined coif by a lady in black beside the stage. A sob escapes your lips despite yourself, but your pain does not stop there.
Your eyes dare not meet the silent crown above.
Instead, they drift back to the tower where Baelor lies, fragile and still. Then the blindfold is drawn, covering your vision, and the cloth is pulled tight. You tremble violently, unable to control your body.
Anyone watching could see, anyone could know the fear and desperation coursing through you.
And yet, even bound and broken, your thoughts cling stubbornly to him : Prince Baelor.
Your hand scrabbles forward in desperation, searching for anything — the edge of the block, a chain, a piece of rope — anything to hold onto. Fingers close around something hard, and you feel the firm grip of a guard steadying you. They press you down onto a rough wooden plank, forcing your shoulders against it, and turn your neck just so, tilting your head sideways.
You close your eyes briefly, heart hammering. You hope, desperately hope, that it will be quick.
In med school, you'd read about it: beheadings in the medieval ages weren't always instantaneous.
Some survived for moments, their brains still firing, nerves still twitching, before the final darkness claimed them. You think bitterly of Marie Antoinette, of the queens Henry VIII sent to the block.
Was this how they felt? the thought claws at your mind.
God... maybe you'd be back home now, alive, in a world that made sense. Maybe you'd wake from this nightmare.
You try to reassure yourself, whispering it internally: Either this, or you die. Either way, it ends.
Your throat tightens. Your chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow breaths. You don't know if it will be the first or the second.
A low, murmuring voice breaks through the ringing in your ears. The maester is speaking prayers, words you barely catch, carried on the edge of panic and the echo of wind over the banners.
Old gods, new gods... whatever gods exist...
His voice feels distant, hollow, almost swallowed by your own racing heartbeat.
Your hand twitches again, useless, as it rests against the plank. You can feel the rough wood under your cheek, the scrape of the rope around your wrists. Everything narrows to a point: the line of the axe, the cold grip on your shoulders, the way your neck is forced into place.
And then... stillness, taut as a drawn bow.
Meanwhile, in Prince Baelor's chambers at Ashford Castle, the air was thick with the scent of herbs, spilled wine, and the faint copper tang of blood.
He lay on the bed, pale and motionless beneath the fine linens, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. His son, Valarr, sat rigid at his side, twenty years old but feeling every inch like a boy again, unable to shake the panic twisting his gut. He stared at his father, memorizing the lines of his face, the way the pale light caught the sharp cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows even in sleep.
Valarr's own armor rested beside him, dented and scorched from the battle. He had given it to Baelor willingly, though the prince had protested. Maybe if I hadn't... maybe... he thought, the thought cutting him like a knife. He had meant to protect him, but now the armor lay back on the floor, cracked and useless, and he hadn't dared touch it to see if it bore a trace of blood.
Every glance made his chest tighten.
Valarr read aloud to him, as his father used to do for him when he was a boy, the sound of his own voice trembling in the quiet chamber. But worry never left him; it clung to his chest like iron.
He should be with his uncle, he knew that. His uncle, who had struck his father — accidentally or not — and whose presence would surely bring counsel and action. But grief pinned him to the floor, stole his courage, and left him staring at Baelor's still form, wishing desperately for the sound of life, for any sign that his father would wake.
Valarr gripped Baelor's hand with both of his, feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers. It was fragile, weak, but it was there.
Still here. For now, he reminded himself, though each shallow breath felt like a lie. He thought of the strange lady who had intervened — the one some whispered bewitched Baelor, the one others claimed had saved him.
Did she save him? Or had she cursed him?
Gods, I cannot even be certain she acted rightly.
His mind drifted to what he had lost before. His mother, long gone, a figure he barely knew, vanished giving birth to his youngest brother, Matarys. Matarys, so far away in King's Landing, probably pacing frantically, praying, waiting for word.
Only a single raven had come, saying that Baelor still lived. That was all. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Valarr's own duties pressed on him, the burden of the realm waiting, calling him to act.
He could barely meet his own eyes in the mirror, knowing how disappointed Baelor would be. Duty always came first, his father had told him, the realm above all else — yet now, the realm could wait. Not when Baelor's life hung in the balance.
Yes, he had been trained to put the kingdom above his own fears, to place duty before all else. And yet... how could he attend to the matters of the court, the politics, the endless demands of the lords and knights, when his father (his flesh and blood, the man who had taught him everything he knew) lay in peril?
He could not. He would not.
A small, gnawing fear whispered that he ought to.
The room was silent except for the soft rasp of Baelor's breathing and the occasional distant murmur from the castle halls. Shadows from the low sun stretched long across the floor, falling over Valarr and Baelor alike, gilding the chamber with a cruel, mocking light.
The young prince's thoughts twisted in every direction: what if Baelor never woke? What if the lady who had interfered had done harm instead of good? What would he say to Matarys? How could he justify his own fear in the face of the realm's expectations?
He leaned closer to his father, resting his forehead against the cold linen, pressing the hand of the man who had once lifted him, disciplined him, guided him, into his own.
He whispered quietly, almost to himself, almost a prayer: Wake. Please. Just wake.
The hours dragged. The castle's sounds faded, replaced by the rhythm of Valarr's heartbeat and Baelor's faint, uneven breathing. Outside, the world moved on (tents were struck, horses stabled, lords and ladies attending to the aftermath of the joust) but here, time had stopped, suspended between life and death, hope and despair.
The door to the chamber opened slowly, hinges groaning in the heavy quiet — but Valarr did not turn. He kept his gaze fixed on his father's face, on the faint rise and fall of his chest, as though looking away might stop it altogether.
A figure lingered beneath the archway before stepping inside.
"I ordered the lady who attended your father to be beheaded."
The words fell flat and cold into the room.
Valarr turned then. His brown hair — streaked faintly with silver that spoke of his Velaryon blood — caught the dying light. His eyes, red-rimmed but steady, fixed on his uncle.
"What?"
Maekar stood stiffly, jaw tight. "She would not cooperate. She denied every wrongdoing. Claimed she was born here, yet no record bears her name. She lied. Who knows what else she lied about? And look at your father now—"
"You struck him," Valarr said quietly.
The words did not echo, yet they seemed to fill the chamber.
Maekar looked down.
"And now," Valarr continued, voice tightening, "you place that blame on someone else. A poor woman who may have saved him." His fingers tightened unconsciously around Baelor's hand. "Or at the very least tried."
"I do not remember striking him," Maekar muttered.
"I do not care," Valarr snapped before he could stop himself. His voice cracked at the edges, grief bleeding through the anger. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, ashamed of the sharpness in his tone — he was not usually so cold with his uncle. "It does not matter what you remember. My father lies on the verge of death. He was the future of the realm, and now..." His voice wavered. He swallowed hard and looked away.
He released Baelor's hand only to rub at his eyes, steadying himself. "What did Grandfather say? Or the council?"
Maekar's jaw clenched. "I have not told them. There is no need. She is a lowborn servant. This is not a matter for the council."
Valarr's stare sharpened. "So you will behead her on your own authority? For witchcraft? That is your plan?"
"She is a liar," Maekar shot back. "Someone who may have worsened your father's condition after the — " He stopped himself abruptly. After I hit him. The words hung unspoken between them. "It does not matter. As we speak, she is being led outside."
Valarr rose to his feet so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the stone floor. "This is not justice. We do not know what she did."
Maekar's voice rose in turn. "We do not have the luxury of theories! I spent the night questioning her — pressing her — trying to understand what she did so we might help your father. She would confess nothing. She remained stubborn as a mule. And now she must answer for it."
Valarr shook his head slowly. "You sound like Aerion when he was struck by that hedge knight. Pride before reason." His voice dropped lower, sharper. "The apple does not fall far from the tree, it seems."
Maekar's expression hardened at that.
"I command you," Valarr began, stepping forward, every inch the heir despite the grief trembling in his chest. "As second in line to the throne, I order —"
A small sound cut him off.
A faint, rough groan.
Both men froze.
Then they turned at once toward the bed.
Baelor's fingers twitched against the sheets. His brow furrowed slightly, as though fighting through a distant dream.
Valarr was at his side in an instant, dropping back to his knees, clutching his father's hand again. "Father?" His voice was barely more than a breath. "Father, can you hear me?"
Maekar stepped closer too, all anger drained from his face, replaced by something raw and desperate.
Baelor's lips parted slightly. Another shallow sound escaped him — weak, but unmistakably alive.
The door creaked open with a tired groan, but Valarr did not turn. He sat beside the bed, elbows braced upon his knees, his father's limp hand clasped between both of his own as though warmth might be forced back into it by sheer will.
The room smelled of milk of the poppy, of boiled linens and herbs steeped too long. The brazier burned low. Outside the narrow windows, the last light of day bled orange across Ashford's towers.
"I ordered the woman who attended him to be beheaded."
Maekar's voice did not rise. It did not need to.
Valarr's fingers stilled. ... For a heartbeat he said nothing. Then he turned his head slowly, as though the motion cost him.
"What?"
Maekar stood just inside the threshold, helm tucked beneath his arm, face drawn and hollow-eyed.
"She would not confess. She denied every charge. Claimed she was born within these walls, yet no steward, no septon, no record could name her. A servant with no past is a dangerous thing."
Valarr stared at him. "So you kill her for lacking a childhood?"
"For lying."
"You do not know that she lied."
Maekar's jaw flexed. "I know that your father rode into the lists whole and strong. I know he fell. I know she alone was permitted to tend him. And I know that since she laid hands upon him, he has not opened his eyes."
"You struck him," Valarr said again, more quietly.
Silence stretched between them.
Maekar's gaze flicked to Baelor's still form upon the bed, then away again, as though he could not bear the sight for long. "I do not remember the blow."
"You remember the anger," Valarr replied.
The words landed truer than any accusation. Maekar's nostrils flared, but he did not deny it.
"Aerion is the one to blame in this, if anyone is," Valarr went on, his voice tightening despite his effort to keep it measured. "He is the one who ordered that grotesque masquerade over a puppeteer's jape. A prince playing at dragons and trials like a sulking boy." His jaw hardened. "And you struck him for it. Or so the whispers say. I did not stay to watch that farce of a trial."
His fingers flexed at his sides.
"And when Father fell — " He paused, the memory catching in his throat. He forced himself onward. "When he fell, I was told he named you. That he spoke as though you had done it deliberately."
Valarr did not look at his uncle. His mismatched eyes (one darker, one pale with that faint wash of violet) remained fixed upon his father's face.
He looked so much like his father.
"Did you?"
Maekar's eyes flashed. "Mind yourself."
Valarr rose slowly to his feet. He was not as broad as Baelor, nor as thick through the shoulders as Maekar, but there was something in him all the same : steel drawn thin and honed sharp by expectation.
"I have minded myself since childhood," he said, "I have minded my tutors correcting my posture, my grandsire measuring every word I speak, the council weighing my silences more heavily than my speech. I have minded lords who smile at me while counting how far I stand from the throne." His gaze lifted at last to meet Maekar's. "I will not mind myself now."
Maekar stepped closer, boots heavy against the stone. "You speak boldly for one who did not stand in the dust with a mace in hand."
"And you speak carefully for one who did."
"I rode to defend my son," Maekar said at last, his voice roughened not by anger but by something older. "Aerion was humiliated before half the Reach. Mocked. Struck. Your father stepped between us. " A pause. "I swung as a knight."
"You are a prince first."
"And a brother always," Maekar shot back. "Do you think I do not know what it would mean if I had meant it? Do you think I could stand in this chamber if I believed I had?"
Valarr held his gaze. "I do not know what you believe."
Silence crept back in, broken only by Baelor's uneven breathing.
Maekar stepped further into the chamber. "You truly think I wanted this? You think I wished to strike my own brother?"
"And so you ease your conscience by killing a servant girl?"
Maekar's temper flared again. "Careful, boy."
"I am not a boy," Valarr said. "Not anymore."
The words were not boastful, they sounded tired.
"She is no mere servant if she meddles in arts beyond her station."
Valarr laughed once — short and humorless. "Witchcraft." He tasted the word like sour wine. "We are Targaryens. Half the realm calls us witches for less."
"That is different."
"How?"
Maekar opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Valarr stepped closer. "Did she curse him? Or did she clean his wounds? Did she chant spells? Or did she beg the gods he might live?"
"She would not answer."
"So you tortured her."
Maekar's silence was answer enough.
Valarr's face tightened. "And still she denied it?"
"She was stubborn," Maekar said. "Too stubborn."
"Or innocent."
Maekar's voice sharpened. "You were not there."
"No," Valarr agreed. "I was here. With him."
He gestured to the bed.
Baelor lay pale beneath the linen, dark hair damp against his brow. The cracked visor rested upon a table nearby, its dent catching the firelight like a wound that would not close. Valarr had not looked inside it. He did not dare.
"She may have worsened him," Maekar pressed on, quieter now. "Your father's breathing changed after she left the chamber."
"It changed because his skull was split by a mace," Valarr shot back. "Not by a girl's hands."
Maekar flinched at that.
"Grandfather must be told," Valarr said. "And the council."
"There is no need. This is contained."
"Contained?" Valarr's temper broke through his grief then. "You think executions remain contained? Half the tourney still lingers beyond the walls. Knights gossip like washerwomen. If you kill her and Father wakes — "
Maekar stiffened.
"If Father wakes," Valarr continued, softer now but far more dangerous, "and asks for the woman who saved him, what then?"
Maekar did not answer.
Valarr's voice dropped. "What if she did save him?"
The question lingered in the dim air.
Maekar looked at his brother again. For a moment the hardness left his face, replaced by something older, something worn thin by regret.
"As we speak," he said, "she is being led to the yard."
Valarr's breath caught. "Then stop it."
Maekar hesitated.
"I command you," Valarr said, the words coming steadier than he felt, "as Prince of Dragonstone and second in line to the Iron Throne — "
"You are not king."
"No," Valarr agreed. "But I will be soon, if he dies."
The brazier snapped softly.
Maekar's voice rose. "I will not have sorcery near my brother!"
"And I will not have blood on our hands for fear!"
"I questioned her through the night," Maekar said, anger flaring again. "I pressed her for truth. If there was some remedy, some knowledge — "
"And if there was?" Valarr demanded. "If pain did not loosen it from her? If fear did not?" His jaw clenched. "Father would not have done this."
Maekar's expression darkened. "Do not presume to lecture me on your father."
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose and rubbed at his beard, the strands more white now than black. For a moment he looked every year of his age. Then he stepped forward and placed a heavy hand upon Valarr's shoulder, leaning in as though the weight of what he meant to say required closeness.
"Listen to me, nephew," he said, lower now. Not shouting. Not a prince addressing a subordinate. "I know this seems cruel. I know it sounds monstrous to your ears. But this is our duty. And sometimes duty is bloody."
Valarr looked up at him. Maekar did not quite meet his gaze. He could not—not when one of those eyes was so like Baelor's that it felt like standing before a younger ghost.
"Father used to tell me," Valarr said slowly, "whenever I quarreled with Matarys, that the septons preach we must love our brothers. That blood binds tighter than pride." He swallowed. "Do you love him?"
Maekar's head snapped up at that, anger flaring quick as tinder. "Of course I do, you foolish boy. He is my dearest friend. My better half." His voice roughened despite himself. "He was the first to hold me when our mother died. He stood between me and our father's temper more times than I can count. He taught me the sword. Told me I swung too hard, too wild." A humorless breath left him. "Said I was strong. Too strong."
His hand tightened on Valarr's shoulder.
"I am doing this for him," Maekar insisted. "For his safety. For the realm he was meant to rule. If there is even a chance that woman meddled in dark arts—"
Valarr cut in quietly. "Or if there is a chance she did not?"
Maekar's jaw clenched. "If I err, I err on the side of protecting my blood."
"And if your protection costs him his honor?" Valarr asked. "If he wakes to learn that while he lay helpless, we slaughtered the one person who tried to save him?"
Maekar's gaze faltered then. Only for a flicker. But Valarr saw it.
"You think me a butcher," Maekar muttered.
"I think you afraid," Valarr replied.
That struck harder than any insult.
Maekar withdrew his hand. "You know nothing of fear."
Valarr's composure cracked for the first time. "I know that I have sat here counting every breath he takes, wondering which will be his last. I know that I gave him your armor because he asked it of me, and I did not think to refuse him. I know that if he dies, the realm will look to me before I am ready." His voice dropped. "Do not tell me I know nothing of fear."
The older man stared at him. The boy was gone from his face. In his place stood something thinner, sharpened by grief.
Maekar spoke more softly. "If he dies, you will not stand alone."
Valarr almost smiled at that, though there was no warmth in it. "That depends on what you do next."
Maekar's lips pressed thin.
Outside the chamber, faint and distant, there came the low hum of gathered voices—wind carrying sound from the yard below. The murmur rose and fell like uneasy surf.
Maekar's head turned slightly toward the window. "It is already done," he said, though there was the slightest hesitation in it now. "Or near enough."
Valarr stepped back from him. "Then pray you are right."
Before Maekar could answer, a sound split the air.
A rough, fragile groan from the bed.
Both of them turned as one.
Baelor's fingers twitched against the linen. His brow creased faintly, as though troubled by some distant dream. A breath left him—shallow, but stronger than before.
Valarr was at his side instantly, dropping to his knees. "Father?" His voice trembled despite his effort to steady it. "Can you hear me?"
Maekar stood frozen for half a heartbeat—then he too moved forward, all arguments forgotten.
"Baelor," he breathed.
Baelor's lips parted. A faint rasp escaped him. His lashes fluttered, not fully opening, but stirring.
Valarr bent close, his ear near his father's mouth. "Say it again."
The next word came broken and thin as thread.
Maekar's expression darkened. "Do not presume to lecture me on your father."
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose and rubbed at his white beard. For a moment he looked every year of his age. Then he stepped forward and placed a heavy hand upon Valarr's shoulder, leaning in as though the weight of what he meant to say required closeness.
"Listen to me, nephew," he said, not shouting, not a prince addressing a subordinate. "I know this seems cruel. I know it sounds monstrous to your ears. But this is our duty. And sometimes duty is bloody."
Valarr looked up at him. Maekar did not quite meet his gaze. He could not — not when those eyes was so like Baelor's that it felt like standing before a younger ghost.
"Father used to tell me," Valarr said slowly, "whenever I quarreled with Matarys, that the septons preach we must love our brothers. That blood binds tighter than pride." He swallowed. "Do you love him?"
Maekar's head snapped up at that, anger flaring quick as tinder.
"Of course I did," he pauses, correcting himself. "I do, you foolish boy. He is my dearest friend. My better half." His voice roughened despite himself. "He was the first to hold me after our parents. He stood between me and our father's temper more times than I can count. He taught me the sword. Told me I swung too hard, too wild." A humorless breath left him. "Said I was strong. Too strong."
His hand tightened on Valarr's shoulder.
"I am doing this for him," Maekar insisted. "For his safety. For the realm he was meant to rule. If there is even a chance that woman meddled in dark arts — "
Valarr cut in quietly. "Or if there is a chance she did not?"
Maekar's jaw clenched. "I am on the side of protecting my blood."
"And if your protection costs him his honor?" Valarr asked. "If he wakes to learn that while he lay helpless, we slaughtered the one person who tried to save him?"
Maekar's gaze faltered then. Only for a flicker, but Valarr saw it.
"You think me a butcher," Maekar muttered.
"I think you afraid," Valarr replied.
That struck harder than any insult.
Maekar withdrew his hand. "You know nothing of fear."
Valarr's composure cracked for the first time. "I know that I have sat here counting every breath he takes, wondering which will be his last. I know that I gave him my armor because he asked it of me, and I did not think to refuse him. I know that if he dies, the realm will look to me before I am ready." His voice dropped. "Do not tell me I know nothing of fear."
The older man stared at him. The boy was gone from his face.
Maekar spoke more softly. "If he dies, you will not stand alone."
Valarr almost smiled at that, though there was no warmth in it. "That depends on what you do next."
Maekar's lips pressed thin.
Outside the chamber, faint and distant, there came the low hum of gathered voices—wind carrying sound from the yard below. The murmur rose and fell like uneasy surf.
Maekar's head turned slightly toward the window.
"It is already done," he said, though there was the slightest hesitation in it now. "Or near enough."
Valarr stepped back from him. "Then pray you are right."
Before Maekar could answer, a sound split the air.
A rough, fragile groan from the bed, both of them turned as one.
Baelor's fingers twitched against the linen. His brow creased faintly, as though troubled by some distant dream. A breath left him — shallow, but stronger than before.
Valarr was at his side instantly, dropping to his knees.
"Father?" His voice trembled despite his effort to steady it. "Can you hear me?"
Maekar stood frozen for half a heartbeat — then he too moved forward, all arguments forgotten.
"Brother," he breathed.
Baelor's lips parted. A faint rasp escaped him. His lashes fluttered, not fully opening, but stirring.
Valarr bent close, his ear near his father's mouth. "Say it again."
Baelor's lashes fluttered — not fully opening, but stirring. His breathing hitched, uneven but stronger than before.
Valarr gripped his hand. "I am here," he whispered. "You are safe."
Maekar leaned forward despite himself.
Baelor's lips parted again. A low sound slipped free — half groan, half breath dragged over stone. His eyes moved beneath their lids before they opened, slow and uncertain, as if the world beyond them were too bright.
For a moment he only stared at the rafters, then his brow creased.
Maekar went still as a man before judgment. "Baelor?"
The name was barely more than air.
Baelor's throat worked. His mouth opened. Nothing came. He swallowed, winced faintly at the effort.
Maekar lurched toward the door. "Maester!" he bellowed, voice cracking against the stone. "MAESTER, NOW!"
The shout tore down the corridor.
Instead of the shuffle of an old man in chains, it was quick, uneven footsteps that answered. Egg burst into the chamber, pale and wide-eyed. He had been in the tower, drawn despite himself by the swell of voices in the yard below. He had seen the stage, the black figure, the raised steel catching the dying sun.
Then he had heard Maekar shout.
He took in the scene in a heartbeat — Baelor upright against the pillows, eyes open, Valarr bent close.
"Where is the maester?" Maekar demanded, already half moving.
Egg swallowed. "In the yard. He's — he's saying the prayers before the beheading." The words tumbled over themselves. "Father, you must stop it."
For a fraction of a second Maekar did not seem to understand.
Then he did, the blood drained from his face. He did not argue, did not command. He just ran.
Boots thundered down the corridor. His voice followed, hoarse and urgent, ordering guards aside, calling for the execution to halt.
Egg stepped forward at once, taking Maekar's place beside the bed.
Baelor's gaze drifted sluggishly, trying to focus. His eyes found Valarr first.
"What..." The word rasped, thin as paper. He swallowed again, wincing. "What... happened?"
"You were struck, Father," Valarr said carefully, keeping his voice low and even though his hands trembled. "During the trial." His throat tightened. "But you are awake now, that is what matters."
Baelor blinked slowly, as if sorting through broken pieces of memory. His hand twitched, seeking. Valarr caught it at once.
"My son," Baelor murmured.
"I am are here," Valarr said, leaning close enough that his father could see him clearly. "All of us."
Baelor's breathing hitched. He frowned faintly. "Maekar."
"He has gone to fetch the maester," Valarr replied quickly. "Rest, Father. You must not strain."
Baelor's fingers tightened weakly around Valarr's. There was more strength in it than either of them expected.
"The s — " His voice failed. He swallowed, jaw working. A shadow of urgency crossed his face, pushing through the haze of pain and confusion.
Valarr bent closer. "Easy. Take your time."
"The servant..." Baelor forced out.
Valarr's stomach turned to ice.
Baelor's eyes sharpened — only slightly, but enough. Enough to show that this was no wandering thought.
He dragged in a shallow breath. "Where... is she?"
Neither son answered.
Baelor's gaze moved between them, confusion giving way to something more lucid, and more fearful.
He gathered what strength he had left and shaped the next words with visible effort. He spoke your name.
It was broken and hoarse, but unmistakable.
Egg felt the sound of the crowd outside then — a swell, not of cheer, not of silence either, but something unsettled. Waiting.
Valarr's grip tightened around his father's hand.
"She saved me," Baelor whispered, the words thin but clear enough.
And in the yard below, the sword had already begun to fall.
You feel it before you understand it : the cold kiss of steel resting against the back of your neck.
Not pressing yet, just there.
The headsman adjusts his stance behind you. You hear the faint scrape of his boots against the wooden boards, the soft exhale through his nose as he measures the distance. He is close enough that you can smell old oil, leather, and well ... the metallic tang of blood spilled by those who knelt here before you lingers thick in the air.
The blade shifts slightly, aligning.
Your breath comes shallow and uneven. The block beneath you smells of sap and old blood baked into grain. Your cheek presses against rough wood. A splinter digs into your skin but you barely feel it.
You let out a broken sob when the metal leaves your neck for a fraction of a second — not in relief, but in terror. He is drawing it back.
Why must they make it last so long? Just do it, you think bitterly, jaw clenched against the trembling you cannot stop.
Around you, the yard is silent in that unnatural way crowds become silent before violence. Not quiet — never quiet — but held. You hear whispers skittering like insects.
"Seven save her —"
"She looks barely alive —"
"Witch."
You think of your father's laugh, the way it filled small rooms. Of your mother's hands kneading dough at dawn. Of friends whose faces blur now behind tears. Of home. Of the sky before the crash. Of months surviving what should have killed you.
You think, absurdly, that maybe you will wake up in your own bed.
Maybe this is the moment before waking, maybe this world was the dream.
Your heart pounds so violently you wonder if the blade will feel it through your skin.
You brace.
The sword begins to rise.
There is a shift in the air — a tightening. You hear the faint intake of breath from dozens of throats at once.
Then :"HALT!"
The shout cracks across the yard like thunder, the blade stops, not mid-swing, not yet falling, but held high.Boots pound against packed earth, shouts follow.
"Hold! By order of the Prince!"
The headsman hesitates. You feel it in the way the air behind you changes, the way the blade trembles slightly in his grip.
Your ears ring so loudly you barely register the rest.
"Stand down!" another voice bellows, closer now, hoarse with strain. "In the king's name, stand down!"
The murmur of the crowd breaks into confusion. Gasps, questions, someone laughs nervously.
The blade lowers a fraction.
Hands grab your shoulders, not roughly this time but urgently, pulling you upright from the block. Your legs nearly give beneath you.
You blink against the light. The blindfold has slipped half loose; through tear-blurred vision you see armored men forcing their way through the gathered crowd.
At their center : Prince Maekar.
His face is ashen, hair unkempt, chest rises and falls like a man who has run for his life.
"Stop this at once," he commands. "The execution is stayed."
The maester, still holding his prayer book, stares in confusion. "Your Grace, the sentence was — "
"Is revoked."
You sway where you stand. The world tilts, for a terrible second you think you are about to faint.
The crowd's silence fractures into a roar of speculation : "Revoked?" "Why?"
Maekar's gaze finds you, not angry now.
Your heart is still hammering, still braced for death. But the sword is no longer at your neck.
The headsman hesitates, glancing toward the maester as though unsure which authority now holds. The maester's prayer book trembles faintly in his hands.
"I will not repeat myself," Maekar roars, his voice carrying across the yard and striking the stone walls hard enough to echo. "Unbind her."
No one moves at first.
Maekar steps forward, fury sharpening every line of his face. "Let her go."
The guard at your side fumbles with the knots at your wrists. The rope bites once more before slackening. Blood rushes painfully back into your fingers. Someone pulls the black cloth from your eyes; the light hits too bright, too sudden.
The yard is no longer silent.
It churns.
"What is this?"
"Has he gone mad?"
"The sentence —"
Maekar turns on the crowd, his voice cutting through the rising noise. "The prince has woken."
The headsman lowers his sword fully.
Your knees nearly give way as the reality begins to seep in. Not safety — not yet — but reprieve. Fragile and thin as glass.
The stage beneath you still smells of old blood. The crowd still watches.
But you are breathing, and the blade has been stayed.
Most importantly: Baelor is alive.
A/N : absolutely feral and mildly terrified for tonight’s finale, by the way. I am not emotionally prepared
shameless self-promo while we’re all spiraling: if anyone’s interested, I’ve got a Valarr fic up on Wattpad (featuring an OC who is basically Lady Gwyn Ashford’s eldest sister… oops) and also a Baelor fic because clearly I enjoy suffering, its a bit more tragic than this one so... yh
that said, I finally posted the fully fleshed-out version of this fic on AO3 as well, and I'd love to hear y'all thoughts on it 👀
and here’s a completely unnecessary fun fact that nobody asked for: the reason we didn’t really need to “learn” the Common Tongue in the story is bc I imagine it as essentially medieval English — not a distinct fantasy language like Valyrian. from what I’ve read, George has apparently mentioned in interviews that it’s basically meant to be English, just known by a different name in-universe (the Common Tongue = medieval!English for us). It’s diff from smth like Tolkien’s world, where the languages are “translated” for the audience.
anyway. I’m unwell about tonight....( and dont forget to drop comments !!!)
I intend to turn this into a longer story, but I wanted to see if there's any positive feedback from the audience :)
Belonging and silence
During a trip to visit your Romanian grandparents, a tragic accident occurs on the winding mountain roads.
You remember almost nothing.
Only yourself, a wounded, crying child, alone in a completely unknown place.
By luck… or misfortune, a couple of villagers find you wandering through the vast expanse of the cold, suffocating forest. Their compassionate hearts are moved by the child with tear-filled eyes and a face soaked by endless crying.
Even dressed for the cold, the pain settles deep, as if reaching your bones. Your body trembles. You are hurt.
They take you to the village.
A small town, with few inhabitants living in precarious, often miserable conditions. There is no government support or any other authority. Only survival.
Curious looks soon appear. People want to see the child who was found in the great forest. The child who survived countless dangers in that place.
_____________
The beginning of your life there is marked by conflict.
Your parents constantly argue about the type of education and way of life they should impose on you.
On your father’s side, everything is rigid and traditional. Many times, you are treated with silence or with his hard, cold stare.
Your mother is different. Not exactly affectionate, but careful. She shows love through gestures: she arranges your clothes, brushes your hair, and sometimes kisses your forehead before you sleep.
The fights, however, do not stop.
Heated arguments. At times, slaps. It is hard to say who starts them.
You run under the bed, cover your ears, and beg them to stop.
The noises are unbearable.
Your sensitive ears make you cry and that awakens your father’s anger.
The slaps, the lectures, the cutting looks are the origin of your frequent crises.
The solution your body finds to protect itself is simple:
Scream.
Scream as loudly as you can. You cover your ears with your small hands and scream until your vocal cords fail. A powerful scream.
Many times, it works. He leaves the room furious, he never could stand a child’s crying.
Other times, it doesn’t.
He grabs you. Shakes you. Until you stop.
Your mother tries to intervene, argues, begs him to stop. It is useless.
The correction of what he calls “repulsive” behavior is, according to him, necessary for a greater good:
To turn you into a normal child.
You remember the visits to doctors, pediatricians, neurologists.
They all say the same thing:
“There is nothing wrong. She is healthy.”
A healthy child. Normally calm in various environments. Polite.
There was nothing wrong with you.
It was them.
___________
Life in the village is different.
The couple who takes you in is affectionate, caring and strangest of all: they never fight in your presence.
Never.
Reality there is harsh. There are few animals to hunt, crops are difficult, and the constant cold makes everything worse.
Adaptation is not easy. The environment is hostile, the climate severe, the food strange.
The dialect, however, is not a major obstacle. Your previous contact with Romanians and your father’s constant scolding made communication easier. Your mother’s education more open to the world expanded your knowledge of languages.
Days pass.
Days turn into weeks.
Weeks become months.
Months transform into years.
No one comes looking for you.
No family member.
No authority.
Outside that village, your existence does not matter.
But someone notices you.
The village’s protector.
The patroness of the sick.
The mother who protects against evil.
Mother Miranda.
She recognizes your presence.
She allows the couple to adopt you.
She ensures that you are welcomed.
Living in simplicity shapes something within your heart.
I'm kind of tired of reading stories where the "reader" is always perfect, delicate, attractive, fitting perfectly into the mold. I want stories where the readers are strange, socially awkward, and outside the common norm. Normally, I always see the characters I love being the pervert, the weird one, the obsessive one.
Man, I'm weird, perverted, and obsessive. I genuinely want more Weird!Character x weird! reader fanfiction.
