Anna @ofcrowsandravens - Tumblr Blog

--- A Dark Omen: Valarr Targaryen (witch! female reader, Baelor lives! AU)

Requested?: Nope.

Word Count: ~10.5K

Summary: Dunk watches Prince Baelor fade beyond the maesters' skill until a crow appears to answer their prayers - an old friend. They venture into the woods to find Dunk's long-ago witch friend, who bargains with fate to bring the prince back from the edge. It costs a piece of herself, but she is happy to pay it.

Notes: I did not read this through once I was done, so I have no clue how it flows. Do I know anything about the arcane? No. Do I love witch readers? Absolutely. This will have other parts as well, so if you wanna see a specific witchy ability lemme know.

The pavilion smelled of poultice and blood. Dunk stood with his hands jammed into his armpits as if doing so would help him stay together. He was much too big for the space and far too helpless in it, every shift seemed to make the ground give way.

Prince Baelor lay on a low bed with blankets folded under his shoulders to keep him from rolling, though in truth the Prince had yet to show a single sign of life other than breathing. His head was turned to the side as to not put pressure on the affliction, his hair had been shorn where the blow had struck and the clean linen protecting the area was already turning pink at the centre.

The maester had washed the blood away and tried to staunch it as much as he could by filling the space, but Dunk could still see the shape of it in his mind, an ugly cavity where a skull ought to be smooth.

"Will this help?" a voice asked, too young and trying not to sound it.

Egg stood by the bed, clutching a folded cloth as if it were a sword. His eyes were fixed on his Uncle's face with a stubborn kind of fury, as though staring hard enough might keep the man tethered to this world.

The maester's mouth tightened. "It may ease his pain, if he feels any. That is all."

Prince Valarr was on the other side of the bed. He had not sat, or leaned, he stood straight-backed in his doublet as if he were already in a sept, made of marble like the statues of dead kings. His hands betrayed him, knuckles white with his fingers curled around nothing.

"He feels," Valarr said, voice quiet and uncharacteristically weak for a prince. It wasn't a question, it was a demand that could not be met.

The maester glanced at the bandages and Dunk saw something like fear flicker across the old man's face before it disappeared behind training.

"We have done what can be done. If the gods are... merciful, he may yet return to us."

Dunk swallowed whatever he wanted to say. Can't you do anything else? The maester held Baelor's head steady while he tipped a few drops between the prince's lips, he rubbed his throat to coax a swallow that came sloe and half-wrong. A thin line of liquid dribbled down his chin which was swiped away with a piece of linen.

"You'll save him," Egg said suddenly, and it came out harsh and brave. Desperate all the same. "You have to."

The maester's gaze slid past him, past Dunk, to Valarr. For a heartbeat his face softened, as if he wanted to say something kinder for a son watching his father die. What came out was the truth, plain and simple.

"We will keep him comfortable, we will watch, we will pray. If he is to live, it would not be by my hand alone."

Valarr remained steadfast but he stared down at his father with an expression Dunk couldn't begin to name. Grief, yes. But there was something else threaded through it, something that made the air brittle. Guilt? Perhaps, it was Valarr's armour that guarded Baelor, his armour that failed and allowed the injury to occur. But Valarr had not swung the mace. That was Maekar.

Dunk had seen it happen in a flash of panic and steel, Maekar trying to reach for Aerion. Striking his brother with a blow that was meant to deter.

Egg made a thin, furious noise. "There has to be-"

"There is not," the maester resigned.

Dunk's hands suddently felt enormous and useless, his thoughts scrambled for something, anything, that could make a difference. But he only had a sword at his hip and the certainty that steel was of no use against a broken skull.

Dunk stumbled out into the cold air as if fleeing smoke. The sky was darker now. He sucked in a breath and it tasted of mud and fear. There was nothing to be done. Prince Baelor would die. And he would die for Duncan.

Just when all hope seemed lost, the horizon opened for him.

Perched on a line of Baelor's pavillion as if it belonged there was a crow, black feathers slick against the twilight. It should have been a dark omen, an animal of death appearing at Baelor's bed but this crow was special.

It did not hop away when Dunk stepped closer, it only watched with a bright knowing eye, head cocked.

This one had a pale scar along its beak like a scratch left by an old knife. He had seen that scar before, years ago. When he had been bleeding out and feverish.

The tent rustled, and he heard Egg's voice, small now, asking something - begging perhaps. Dunk could not make out the words. The crow clicked its beak once, sharp as flint.

His hands curled into fists. He saw Ser Arlan's face as it had been when he was alive, heard his voice clearer now too.

The crow's her signature. Don't bring steel into her hollow.

Dunk looked down at his sword, one he hadn't parted from in days. His fingers unclasped the belt, he set the blade down on a crate beside the pavilion like a man laying a child to bed.

Behind him, the tent flap snapped open. Egg burst out, face puffy and blotched. He stopped when he saw Duncan without his sword. "What are you doing?" His voice more a plea than a scold. "Ser Duncan, what are you-"

Dunk pointed at the crow. "You see that?" He needed to check that his mind wasn't conjuring up images to give him hope.

Egg followed his finger. "It's a crow."

"Good, it's hers." Dunk said, surprising himself with how certain he sounded.

"Hers?" And then, because he was Egg, because he was curious even at the edge of grief. "Who are you talking about?"

"A... friend." Dunk said, awkwardly because the word was too small to describe what she had done. "A woman who... who pulled me back once when I ought to have died. A witch, maybe." She was definitely a witch but he couldn't just admit that.

Egg's eyes went huge. "A witch."

The tent shifted again, and the Young Prince stepped out into the open air. He moved like a man who had decided not to fall apart until later. His gaze flicked across their faces. "What is this?" Valarr asked.

Dunk hesitated. He could lie, say nothing. Few took happiness in the mention of witchcraft.

But inside the pavilion, Baelor was dying - because of him.

"There is someone," Dunk started. "Not far, or maybe far. I don't know. I've always been able to find her, when I needed her. Or she's found me. She's in the woods."

Valarr's face tightened at the word woods and the unspoken truth behind it. Witch.

"We have maesters," It sounded like something he'd been taught to say, something that was always worked before. "We have-"

"We have nothing that's helping him," Dunk cut it before remembering his station. "I beg your pardon, my prince."

Egg stepped between them as if he could break the tension with his small body. "If she saved you, maybe she can save him. We have to try."

Valarr looked at Egg as if seeing him for the first time, a boy with too much heart and not enough sense. "I have been told all my life to steer clear of witchcraft," He said. "That it is a lie that wears a woman's face."

Dunk went to open his mouth but Valarr held up a single, shaking finger. "But I have also been told that my father will die." The crow hopped down onto a high crate like it had been waiting too long.

Valarr's eyes flicked to it. "If there is a chance," he said, and the words cost him something. "Then I will take it, take me to your friend."

Egg latched onto Dunk's sleeve at once. "I'm coming with you, Ser Duncan."

"No," Dunk began, but Egg's grip tightened and his stubbornness flared liked a flame.

"You said she is your friend," He said fiercely. "You said she saved you. I'm coming."

Dunk looked at the boy, and felt something soft and aching in his chest. "Fine," Dunk said. "But you stay close. Do as I say and you don't touch a thing. She gets cranky when people do that."

Egg nodded quickly. "Yes, ser."

Dunk turned back to the bird, as he took a step towards the dark line of trees beyond the camp the crow lifted, flapped once, and glided ahead, low over the grass like a shadow pulling them by the hand.

Dunk set his jaw and followed it into the trees, Egg hurried to keep up. Valarr's footsteps fell behind them, measured, as if a prince could walk into a witchwood without letting fear show on his face.

The woods took them the way deep water takes a stone, quietly, without hurry, like it had been waiting. Somewhere above, something skittered along bark, quick as lightning.

The crow had disappeared some time ago, every now and then Duncan could've sworn he saw it swoop through the trees in his peripherals but everytime he turned to look, it was gone.

Egg kept close at Dunk's elbow. The knight could tell he was trying to be brave in the way all boys did, too quietly, as if the silence could protect him. Even Valarr, who Dunk had never talked to outside of a few hours ago, was walking closer.

"You said she saved you," Egg whispered, like speaking too loudly would wake what slept between the trees. "Before. You said you ought... to have died."

"Aye," he said. "I was four and ten."

Egg glanced up at him, eyes wide. "How did you get hurt?"

Dunk's thoughts snagged on the old pain. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth, the way the world had blurred and faded and the last thought he had. So this is what death feels like.

"We were on the road," he said slowly. "The memories of that time are fuzzy. I can't remember the place's name. Some men thought an old knight and a young squire would be easy pickings. They were wrong about Ser Arlan being easy." His voice tightened as he continued. "But they had more knives than we had luck."

Valarr's footsteps drew closer, maybe he wanted to hear to story. To be reassured that this woman could save his father.

"One of them caught me. I got two blades, something in me ruptured. Internal bleeding, she said. I remember falling, I couldn't breathe proper and blood was coming up from my lungs. Ser Arlan tried to keep me awake and stop the blood but it kept coming."

Egg swallowed audibly. "And he took you to her."

"That he did."

"Did he know her?"

"He did. I asked how, once. He told me that some debts are best paid quietly. I think she owed him."

Valarr spoke for the first time since they'd left camp. "What did she do?" As if the act could be measured and judged.

"She told Ser Arlan to put me down," Dunk said. "Said I needed to feel the ground under me. Made him take off his mail and set it aside. She doesn't like having steel near." Valarr's gaze moved down to where Duncan's sword ought to have been.

"Did it hurt?" Egg's voice was small.

Dunk let out a small laugh. "Yes," he said. "It hurt. But I don't think it was her doing, I think that was just my injuries. Then all of a sudden it didn't. It wasn't like she had given me milk of the poppy. It was like the pain became far off. It gave me time to think and recover my senses."

He could hear Ser Arlan's voice again, low and careful. Do as she says, lad. Don't argue. Don't touch the charms.

"She told me to keep breathing, not to try. She told me to do it, like she was pulling on the reins of a horse. And I did. Something about her made me do it, maybe that was the true witchcraft."

They walked on, the trees grew closer, and branches knit overhead. After a time, Egg asked, "And you've been able to find her ever since?"

Dunk's lips pressed together. "When I needed her," he said, and it sounded like superstition the moment the words left his mouth. He hated that it did, he wished for the world to be a thing you could hit with a hammer until it made sense.

"She doesn't live like other folk," he added. "Sometimes you'll happen across her like she's always been there. Sometimes you'll turn around, and she'll be right there behind you, quiet as a shadow. You don't hear her coming."

Egg looked around at the black trunks and glistening leaves, as if Dunk's words would prompt her to appear. "That's not possible."

Dunk snorted softly. "A lot of things are impossible. And yet."

Valarr's voice came again, controlled and strained. "Why does she help you if the debt's been paid?"

Dunk thought of the first time he'd met her, of Ser Arlan's face lined with worry, of him kneeling on damp earth and speaking to a girl in a low voice that carried respect. He thought of the way she'd looked at Dunk as if she were weighing him up in her mind. Not his size, but something else. Something more valuable.

"I don't know," Dunk admitted. "Maybe she liked Ser Arlan, maybe she saw something in me worth saving." He swallowed before continuing. "I know what people say of witches. That they kill without mercy, but she's not like that. Not at all. I think she just likes helping people, she hides away because she knows what people would do if they knew what she was capable of."

Bringing people back from the brink of death. Valarr and Egg thought to themselves. A powerful skill, what else was she capable of? She must be one powerful witch. If it is true, she would be caged by some high lord. Forced to do their bidding over and over again.

Egg's pace quickened by half a step, eager despite the fear. "What is she like?"

"She's... calm." He said. "Not meek or anxious. She doesn't take insults from anyone, she'll give some remark or just stare at you like she's counting your bones. She feels deeply for people, perhaps more deeply than anyone I've met. But she hides that part. Sometimes, she laughs at things that aren't funny. That always made me feel like she knows something I don't...though, I am fairly certain she can see the future."

Egg shivered, from the cold or excitement, Dunk couldn't tell. "And she has a crow," Egg said, like that made it all more real.

"Aye, that one." Dunk looked to the sky as if the bird would appear. "Keep your coins, brooches, and chains hidden. It will steal anything shiny it can get its mouth around to give to her as a gift, as long as it's not steel. She keeps them as a collection."

"You're certain she can save him," Valarr spoke, now fully alongside them. It wasn't really a question, more of a line he was trying to hold.

Dunk wanted to say yes. To swear on his sword that his father would be safe for both Baelor's sake and Valarr's. "I don't believe her crow would come if there was nothing to be done. Besides, I'm certain the maesters can do nothing. And I'm certain she's done what shouldn't be possible before."

Valarr's breath hissed through his teeth, a sound like steel being drawn. Suddenly, a crow's call was heard ahead of them, it reverberated through the forest. Its wings could be heard beating, once, twice, as it disappeared into a deeper pocket of the dark. Dunk's heart lurched.

Egg grabbed his sleeve. "Ser Duncan-".

"There," Dunk said, though he had no reason to know yet. Something in him remembered this feeling, stumbling through the trees with blood spewing from his mouth and Ser Arlan's voice in his ear.

He pushed on, faster now. Branches snagged at Valarr's cloak as he followed behind closely. The trees thinned as if the forest was making space. The clearing was not empty.

Trinkets hung from the branches, strips of cloth, bones bleached white, little bundles of herbs, and twigs that had been arranged into symbols. They swung with the breeze that ran through the area.

Then the wind stopped as if the life had been sucked out of the clearing, and all fell silent.

As if the forest had exhaled her, she was there. Not a crunch of leaves or a snap of branches. Just there, in the alcove of a tree, watching them as if she'd been waiting for hours.

The crow was settled on her thigh, and Dunk's heart thudded painfully in his chest.

"You three are late." Your voice was as soft as moss, it hadn't changed since Dunk had last seen you.

He found his tongue at last. "Prince Baelor," He managed, the sound came out like a prayer and an apology. "He's-"

"I know," She said as she lifted herself from the ground, swiping any dirt away from her clothes.

Her eyes were on Dunk, but he had this sudden, unsettling feeling that she was looking through him, past him, all the way to the pavilion and the dying man inside.

She moved as though she belonged. Certain of herself and her abilities. Dunk had always felt clumsy compared to her, all boots and breath and loud human warmth.

Egg's gaze flicked over her abode. "You..." he began, then faltered, as if he weren't sure what to say. "You knew we were coming."

The witch's mouth curved. "Of course, I knew."

Valarr stepped forward a half pace. "How?" His voice was polite but bordering on anxious. "No one in camp sent word. No rider-"

"No," You agreed softly. Your gaze slid to him, taking him in the way you'd taken Dunk in years ago. "No rider would have reached me in time."

Egg blurted, "Then how?"

You tipped her head, considering whether the question deserved a serious answer before shrugging and saying, very simply. "The wind told me."

"The wind... doesn't talk." Egg frowned.

"It does, to us witches at least." There was a quiet finality that made the argument seem childish.

Dunk felt Valarr's stare, sharp and disbelieving yet so desperate. The prince's lips pressed into a line, as if he were reciting all the lessons he'd been taught about women in woods. Dunk could see the battle inside him, between what he'd been told and what he wanted.

No, what he needed.

Dunk looked at the trinkets laid out around her. "You've been... preparing." He nodded at the items.

Your eyes softened for a second. "I set out what I would need," you said. "How far is the prince?"

"Not too far," Dunk answered, looking back the way they came.

"He's sinking. I can feel it. And you wouldn't have come to me if he weren't."

Egg's breath caught, "Can you save him?"

The witch looked at the young boy before her. Your gaze was fond, sad and wary as the same. "He is not yours," you said gently. "Yet you are afraid for him all the same."

Egg's cheeks went red. "He's good." He said fiercely. "He- he didn't deserve this."

"No one deserves this." You murmured. "Perhaps, besides your elder brother. His soul has been consumed by the Targaryen madness."

Valarr's voice came out tight. "If you can help him. Then name your price."

"I do not bargain like a merchant over a dying man." You said, though there was no cruelty to be found in your voice. You looked at each of them individually before continuing. "Bring me to him. Now."

Your hands were stained, not with blood but with old green smears. Crushed herbs, perhaps, or something else. There were cuts along your fingers that were half-healed as though you'd been working for hours.

"You really knew?" Dunk said quietly.

You walked past him, carrying your copious amount of supplies. "I told you...the wind."

Egg hurried to keep up. "What did it say?"

"It said a good man was being taken." You replied. "It said that two young princes would follow a knight true at heart. It said grief would come hidden behind duty."

The path back was not the same path in reverse. Dunk was sure of it. The trees had shifted. The ground rose where it had been flat. He would have been lost in minutes, but the crow flew overhead, and the woman followed it without a moment of hesitation.

Valarr watched her hands, he didn't want to look too closely at her eyes no matter how welcoming they seemed. He watched her hands instead because they seemed safer.

Her hands were full.

A bowl was held carefully against her hip, a small bundle of different herbs tied with twine in the other. A pouch at her belt bumped softly with each step, heavy with whatever she'd packed, chalk, charcoal, bones, stones and perhaps even teeth. Strips of cloth were folded and tucked under her elbow, even the crow seemed to add weight, hopping from branch to branch over her.

Valarr's throat worked. He had been told, like many other followers of the Seven, that women like this were snares. That you did not speak too freely to them. That you did not accept gifts, and you did not offer help, because that would be an invitation, and that could become a binding.

But then he glanced ahead, imaging his father's tent, the way the man's chest barely rose. And teachings, for all their weight and worth, did not keep a man alive.

She stepped over a root without looking, like she knew where it would be before it was there. Her balance was too sure for someone carrying so much.

Still.

Valarr could not stand behind her like a boy being led. He had to do something with his hands, if only to stop him from thinking of what fate awaits his beloved father.

He moved closer, careful not to brush her sleeve. His voice came out steadier than he felt it. "- My lady." The words tasted strange in his mouth. He had addressed ladies of court with silks and jewels and perfumed hair. This woman smelled of damp earth, which actually might've been more appealing than the perfume, to be honest.

You did not slow or turn your head. "I'm no lady."

Valarr's ears warmed, but he kept walking alongside you, matching your pace. "Then..." He swallowed and cursed himself for fumbling like a squire. "Then-"

Your eyes flicked to him briefly, quick and assessing. "Then speak... my prince."

"You are... carrying a great deal." He gestured, awkwardly, at the bowl, the bundles, at everything. "Might I carry something?"

For a heartbeat, he thought she might laugh. Instead, she looked ahead and said nothing at all.

He held his hands out slightly, palms open, in the universal posture of 'I mean no harm'. It felt ridiculous.

"I can carry the bowl," he added quickly, before pride could choke him. "Or the cloth. Whatever you wish."

She slowed then, and her gaze slid to his hands. He got that odd feeling that he was being tested. "You're afraid of me." You stated. It was not an accusation, it was an observation.

Valarr's jaw tightened. Lying would be pointless. "Yes."

"And still you offer."

"Yes," he said again, because there was no other answer. His voice dropped without his permission. "Because my father is dying."

You made a quiet sound, almost a sign, almost a snort, and adjusted your grip. "You've been taught to fear us." Then again, though you look more amused now. "And it is not just because your father is dying."

Valarr's brows drew together. He kept his hand out anyway, stubbornly open. "Then why?" He asked, and it came out more honest than princely. "Why would I-"

She didn't look at him when she answered. Her eyes stayed on the path. "Because you're a good person," she said simply.

The words landed wrong, like a cloak thrown over him that doesn't quite fit. Valarr almost stumbled on a root he didn't see. "I-" he began, then stopped. Praise from courtiers was easy, they always wanted something. This didn't sound like that.

The witch glanced back at him then. "Don't argue. It's clear as day." She looked at the space around him, over his shoulder, as if searching.

Valarr looked down. "You don't know me."

"I can see it. Do not tell me what I can and cannot see. It's right there." You gestured around him. "You cannot escape it."

He forced himself to stay calm. "What," he said, carefully, "is there?"

You exhaled through her nose, the smallest hint of impatience. "Your aura," she said, like naming it made it easier to understand. "The shape of you."

Valarr stared at her profile, trying to decide if this was some trick meant to unsettle him. "That's not a thing."

"It's a thing," she replied. "It's just not something people are taught to notice. But some people are more sensitive to them. Have you ever gotten a bad feeling about someone you've just met? It's similar, just deeper."

He frowned. "An aura."

"Yes." She shifted the items in her arms. "Everyone has one. Some people glow like hearth fires. Some people are like smoke, cunning, and not to be trusted. Others are... cold."

Valarr's fingers flexed, hands unsure of what to do with themselves. "And mine?" He asked before he could stop himself.

"Yours is clean... warm... and light." She said slowly, like she was trying to select the truest word. "Not spotless. No one is. But clean like river water over stone. Purifying. It tells me that others are cleansed in your presence. You inspire others to do better. I imagine your father's is much the same." It shouldn't have pleased him the way it did, it did soothe his nerves though. "Your aura leans forward. Towards people. Toward the needs of others. The cruel ones don't do that, they curl inwards. They take."

Valarr swallowed. “And you can tell that just by looking.”

“I can,” she said. “It’s why fear doesn’t impress me. Half the men who fear witches are good men who were taught wrong. The other half are bad men who don’t want others to see them for what they are. Vermin.”

His hands hovered again, still offered. “Then let me carry something,” he said, stubborn. “If you can see what I am, then you can see I mean it.”

"...Very well," she said at last. She leaned forward and held out the bowl, herbs, and other bits and pieces that were hidden in the folds of her clothes.

He took them with both hands, careful, reverent despite himself.

"Don't let it touch the ground," she told him.

"I won't."

"And don't let anyone else touch it. I've only allowed you to."

"No one will," Valarr promised, and meant it with a fierceness that surprised him.

You believed him, and not just because his father's life was on the line.

Egg lifted his head like a hound catching a scent. "We're close." He whispered.

Dunk didn't answer, but he could see torchlight now between the trunks, they shone like little wavering stars that made the dark seem less endless.

The elder prince kept a half step behind the witch, items steady in his hands. Her loyal crow swooped over the camp's edge and landed on a stake, watching the tents like a sentry. A few men nearby saw it and made signs against ill-luck without thinking. They knew that the crown prince's life hung in the balance, and under normal circumstances, a crow would be the last thing you wanted to see.

"Seven save us," someone muttered. The words made your skin prickle, made it burn. When Dunk turned to look at you, knowing the effect such words could have, you looked unimpressed if a little uncomfortable. Gods and curses were small talk you'd grown bored of years ago.

A guard stepped forward with a hand raised. "Halt. Who goes-" He got as far as the princes before stopping, startled. "Prince-"

"Enough, Prince Baelor is dying." Dunk had said, voice rough.

The guard's eyes darted to Valarr as if astonished that the hedge knight was making a demand, but the prince had nothing to say. He didn't think he could speak even if the Gods demanded it of him. Not with his father so close. The guard looked to the woman beside them, silent, and he hesitated, confusion and suspicion making him stupid.

It was Egg's voice that cut through, steady with command. "Out of our way."

Rank did what fear could not. The guard stepped aside at once, and the group of men around him shifted as if the ground was burning. They watched the witch pass with a morbid fascination.

"That's a woods-woman-"

"Gods above, she's got charms-"

Egg tucked closer to Dunk, as if the words were being sent his way. Dunk wanted to scoop him up and hide him in his cloak like a pup.

The witch moved through the camp as if walking through mist. Knights, squires, and servants alive found themselves stepping away as she grew closer.

They reached Baelor's pavilion, and Dunk shoved the flap aside. The maester looked up sharply, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. "Ser Duncan, you cannot simply-" He fell upon the woman, and his voice faltered before returning twice as sharp. "What is this? Who is that?"

Egg rushed towards the bed. "He's still breathing," he whispered, relief and terror mixing as he watched his Uncle's chest barely lift.

Valarr stepped in behind them, holding the supplies as if it were Baelor's skull in his hands. The maester's eyes widened at the sight of a prince holding items for a witch like a serving boy.

You stood still for a heartbeat, taking in the area. Then your gaze went to Baelor's face, and something in you shifted, recognition. "He's slipping," you said, the words sliding off your tongue without meaning to.

The maester bristled at her words. "And you, are a-"

"A nuisance," you supplied, calmly as ever. "Yes, have you anything useful to say, or shall I get to work?"

Dunk flinched, expecting outrage, but the maester's mouth opened, shut, and opened again like a fish. He couldn't quite believe the audacity.

Valarr's voice came controlled, but there was steel to be found there as well. "She has come to help."

"To help?" The maester reiterated like the idea was unfathomable. "This is a prince of the blood. This is- this is-"

"-a man," the witch said, and the simplicity cut through his indignation. You stepped closer to the bed and stopped just shy of touching. "A man with his skull caved in."

Her eyes flicked to the maester's chain around his neck. Then to the tools of his kit, the buckles, the metal clasps.

"No steel inside the circle," You said, moving items off the floor so that you might place down a cover that you can draw on.

You drew out a large circumference before gesturing Dunk and Valarr over to the cot that held Baelor. "Prince, give me your items. You two are going to lift him, carefully, into the middle of the circle. Turn him until I say so."

She gestured forward with her head as her hands were now full again, and both men wasted no time before lifting the prince up by the wooden slats on either side. They slowly moved into the circle, as to not disturb the crown prince.

Once in the centre, they moved in opposite directions to change Baelor's orientation. "Stop," The word came suddenly from the witch's lips. "Put him down gently."

Egg stepped around the circle, not quite sure what he was allowed to do. "Why does he need to face this way?"

"His head is to the east. So that the sun might shine its light on his soul first."

It made no sense to anyone else in the room, and Valarr honestly had no idea how she could tell the cardinal directions from inside a tent just off feeling alone, but realised that if she could see auras, then this truly wasn't all that weird, all things considered.

Valarr swallowed as he looked down at his father. "Tell us what you need," he said, because that was something he could do, something that sounded like a command rather than a plea.

The witch held out the bowl to him, "Place this at the foot of the bed," she said. "Carefully."

Valarr knelt, the movement looked wrong on him, and yet he did so without hesitation. He set the bowl down as if it were a sleeping babe.

"Good," she murmured.

The witch's fingers brushed the air over Baelor's bandages, not touching, hovering as if feeling for heat. Though Dunk knew she had lost that ability long ago. Her hand trembled once, subtly.

The maester's eyes narrowed. "Whatever you plan, I will not permit-"

"You will," she said without looking at him. She drew herbs, charcoal and other items they could not name from her satchel. "Because if you don't, he will die."

Silence swallowed the tent. The maester went still at that before falling back helpless.

She moved around the circle silently, drawing insignias into the circle at seemingly random spots. They were too old and too wrong to be letters. A few times, she flicked a few drops of mysterious substance onto the chalk line, and the air seemed to thicken.

"A boundary," she spoke unprompted. "To ward of spirits that might wish to take advantage of Prince Baelor's predicament."

She finished the last mark and sat back on her heels before looking up at all of them. "Now, move nothing unless I tell you. Speak to him only if I ask. And if anyone breaks my line-" her eyes slid to the maester, "-then you will watch as the spirits tear him apart."

Valarr's breath trembled in anticipation. "I won't let anyone touch it," he said. Just as fierce as back in the forest. The witch's gaze softened with approval. Then she nodded once and turned back to Baelor as if the rest of them had become nothing more than furniture.

The witch dipped two fingers into the bowl at the foot of the bed that she'd poured another unknown liquid into (it was grey-tinted but that was about all they could make out. She drew a wet line down Baelor's wrist, then another along the inside of his forearm.

She murmured under her breath, nothing in the common tongue. An ancient language only she seemed to know. Valarr couldn't make any sense of them, but his skin prickled at their sound nonetheless.

She pressed her palm, very lightly, against Baelor's breastbone. "Breathe," she told him. It was a command, but a light one, like she was coaxing him into it. Like she'd commanded Dunk, years ago, with blood in his mouth and death close enough to taste.

Baelor's breath hitched.

Egg's eyes went wide, and he looked to Dunk, who didn't seem all that surprised. Just hopeful. Valarr leaned forward on his feet and stopped himself from approaching his father with visible effort.

She closed her eyes. Her brow knit in concentration. Her hand moved to the side of his father's neck where the pulse lived. The flame of the lantern dipped.

"It's time to return." She whispered, meant only for Baelor. "It doesn't have to be all the way. Just enough." She paused again before continuing, quieter now. "Your son is waiting."

Her fingers of her right hand slid to the bandage at the back of his skull while her left hand picked herbs from her satchel. She slid the greens into the Prince's mouth with little fuss, and he swallowed them down on his own.

The maester wasn't looking at the witch but at his prince's face, desperate and helpless. "Father above," he whispered so that only those closest to him could hear. Dunk and Egg. "Mother, have mercy. Warrior, lend him strength..."

She could not hear the prayer, and it wasn't meant as a weapon, but Dunk watched as the witch's fingers tightened into a fist. A faint hiss escaped her teeth.

It wasn't in pain per se, but rather irritation, like how one might act when a mosquito flies too close and draws blood. The skin above the veins in her hands flushed red as if her blood began to boil.

Egg didn't notice, but Valarr certainly did. "What-?" His breath caught.

The witch looked over her shoulder, searching for the cause of her irritation. She looked past them, trying to keep her attention tethered to Baelor and not the sour sting crawling under her skin. "Pray in your mind... or better yet, go outside," she said, words clipped.

The maester faltered mid-prayer, startled more by her tone than anything else. "I am praying for the prince," he stammered, defensive and ashamed all at once. "Not against you."

Dunk swallowed, he had seen this before when he'd run into the witch sometime ago. Intent mattered. He'd watched her burn worse when men and women alike prayed at her, not for someone. When the faith was a blade, and she was the target.

Despite the fear being for Baelor and not of her, it still scraped because, despite what people liked to hope, their gods were not merciful. And they had no love for her.

The witch flexed her hand once, shaking off the nettle sting. "I'm aware. But your gods don't like me, and they'll take any chance to strike me even if you don't mean to. If you must pray, please specify that they do not harm me. That would be much appreciated."

The maester's lips pressed together at her words. He looked torn between indignation and desperation. "Why?" He demanded, and truthfully, Valarr wished to know as well. "If you do good, with your... abilities. If you truly mean to save him, why would the Seven-?"

"Because I'm not one of theirs, and if you wish for the truth?" She said, looking at them fully now. "Fate has decided that Baelor should die today. They don't like that I've made a habit of disagreeing, or actively fighting back." The red on her skin had faded now, and she seemed more comfortable.

They had nothing to say to that. Fate has decided...

The maester continued to pray quietly, but must have heeded her words because she didn't respond like before.

Her fingers hovered at the back of Baelor's head again. She did not touch, but she held her palm there. Baelor's chest rose.

Then rose again, smoother than the last.

You shifted your stance, bracing yourself, and then you began the real work. Murmuring those old words again, tracing invisible lines over Baelor's throat and brow, forcefully anchoring his breath.

"Now," you murmured, "Stay." The words landed heavily in the same space. Egg swallowed hard, and Valarr's nails dug into his palms.

Baelor's chest rose steadier yet, like he'd settled into sleep instead of death. Your hands slowed, and your lips moved one last time. Then you lifted your fingers up through the air as though you were closing an unseen door.

She sat back on her heels inside the chalk circle, and nothing happened. There was no sudden gasp, or opening of eyes, and certainly no sudden miracles.

Egg let out a thin breath that sounded like it might've been trapped in him for hours. "Is... is it done?" He whispered.

You didn't answer straight away. You were staring down at your hands as if they belonged to someone else. You flexed your hands, once, slow and then placed the palm against the earth, grounding yourself like you'd told Dunk to do long ago.

"It's done, "she said at last, voice flat with fatigue. "Now we wait."

The maester's hand hovered uselessly over his kit. "If the swelling-"

"Will settle," she cut in "If you stop jostling him like a sack of grain. Keep him dim. Keep him quiet. Let him sleep. You'll know within a few hours if the thread holds."

"Hours." Egg repeated, maybe he could bargain with time by saying the word.

You reached into your pouch and drew out a bundle wrapped in cloth. You loosened it and spilled its contents onto the ground. Bones, all kinds of bones, and a set of worn cards with edges softened by use, their faces marked with inked figures.

"I can look," you offered, as if you were speaking of checking the weather. "Bones and cards. But it won't change what's been decided. It will tell us which way the wind is blowing."

Valarr stepped forward as you gestured for him. As Baelor's son, he should be the one present. He stared at the bone as if they might bite. "You can... see the future."

"I can talk to the wind, I can see auras, I can read the cards and the bones to see what is possible. The paths. Visions of the future come more rarely, even if I do know the gist of what is to happen."

She lifted one of the cards, pinched it between two fingers, and for a moment Dunk saw her blink, once, twice, like a woman trying to fight sleep. Her face tightened with confusion.

She held the card closer to the lanternlight.

Egg leaned in, curiosity fighting fear. "What does it say?"

The witch stared at the card as if the ink had shifted without looking. "It says..." she paused before she brought the lantern closer, and realisation settled on her features. "Ah, it says what it has always said."

The men looked between each other, somewhat confused. She looked from the card before lifting the herbs next to her to the light, fingers brushing over the more colourful flowers attached to them. Then, she looked up towards, the tapestry hung on the wall. The intricate weaves. The colours. She hummed, nodding to herself as if taking stock of her surroundings like they were brand new.

"There's no need to worry yet. It's my own affliction that is confusing me, not the prince's."

Dunk's stomach tightened, because he'd recognised that look. He'd seen it once before, when you'd saved him and gingerly reached for the campfire like it was a stray dog that might bite. Back then he'd thought you were only tired, now he thinks he knows better.

"Come closer, Prince," you said, and Valarr obeyed at once, sitting in front of you as you gestured his down.

You turned to your bones first, forsaking the cards. They gathered in your palm, warming with your breath as you whispered into them. You cast them onto the cloth.

They clicked as they fell, the sound too loud in a tent too quiet.

You leaned in and studied the way they'd landed. Valarr watched your face with intent as you hummed, turning back to your cards once more.

You spread them out in a neat arch, you held your hand out over them in demonstration. "You are his closest blood, so it will be more accurate if you do this part." Valarr's spine straightened with your words. "Hold out your hand like so." He hovered his hand over the cards, and you placed yours over his. Your touch was ice cold despite the heat in the tent. "Now, you will move your hand over the cards. The relevant cards will move on their own."

Gingerly, he did as he was told. Palm flat over the cards, he moved it slowly and watched with awe as cards nudged towards you from the neat arch you had laid them.

You lifted your hand away at last and gestured towards the bones. "Three of them are strong. One is weak." Your gaze flicked up to Valarr's eyes. "That's good odds for living."

Then you turned the first card, the second and the third.

A figure inked in black stood upright, arms raised as if holding up a roof. The second card showed water, dark and contained. The third was a wheel. You stared for a long moment, then nodded, a short decisive motion that made Egg's shoulders sag with sudden, shaky relief.

"He wakes."

Valarr's whole body went taught, as if someone yanked a string through his limbs. "When?" He demanded, too quickly, too hungry.

You didn't snap at him for it like Dunk thought you would've. You looked back to Baelor and spoke with the same blunt certainty you'd used when you'd told him to breath. "Not tonight. Tomorrow perhaps. The bones say it will be sooner rather than later." You fiddled with a few of the pieces. "Long before the sun reaches its peak in the sky, soon after the it rises in the east."

"He'll be...him?" Egg asked, they knew what magic could do to one's soul if used incorrectly.

"He'll be him," you confirmed. You drew another card from the arch and observed its contents. "He'll have headaches. Bad ones, some days. And if he is too stressed or angry, his body may seize." Your gaze cut to the maester. "Turn him on his side. Clear his mouth. Don't put a spoon between his teeth like fools. Let it pass. They will not kill him."

The maester blinked, and despite his previous disdain he absorbed the knowledge readily. "Treatable," he said, like he was tasting the concept.

Valarr swallowed. "No graver affliction?" He asked, voice small like a young boy's.

You shook your head. "I have seen blindness after my work, Paralysis. But the cards preempted those issues then. If they do not speak of it now, it will not become a problem."

Dunk's knees threatened to give, relief hitting him like a blow. He braced a hand on the bedpost to stay upright. For a moment, no one spoke but then Valarr looked up at you, and duty returned to his face like armour sliding into place.

"What do you want?" he asked. "For payment. If he wakes up, we will give you anything. Truly."

The maester's head jerked up, and Egg went still. Dunk knew they had nothing to worry about, you had never asked for payment before. Ypu didn't even glance at them. You looked at Baelor, then your face twisted in something like weary amusement.

Men and their payments.

"I want you to keep him alive," you said. "This man will be king and he will be a great one. He will be respected but he will also be loved. He will do many great things."

Valarr blinked. "That's-" he faltered, searching for the proper words. "That's not payment."

"It is to me," you replied, simply.

"But-" He swallowed again. "Gold. Land. Protection. A vow. Anything. Name it."

You leaned back on your hands. "I will stay," you said simply. "To ensure his care...After that, you owe me nothing." You added a shrug on the end as if the deal had already been made.

Valarr's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion of you, but in suspicion of the world. Magic of this kind did not come without cost. Of all the things he'd been taught, that was a certainty like a statue.

"Nothing?" he repeated. "That's not-" Possible, he stopped. His gaze slid over you, the way you held yourself too still, the faint tremor you hid. His eyes dropped to your cards, then the fire which you'd kept glancing at when you thought no one was looking.

"You..." Valarr began, voice rough. Dunk felt it, the moment the thought finally found Valarr and settled behind his eyes. If the debt was paid, and no one else had paid it... then-

"You paid it."

You hummed quietly, and your fingers gathered the bones and the cards around you.

His throat bobbed. "What did it cost?"

You didn't answer immediately. Not because you couldn't, but because saying it out loud always made it real in a way you preferred to avoid. Your fingers paused over the bones and then resumed your careful gathering.

"Enough," you said, voice tired.

Valarr's jaw tightened. "That isn't an answer."

You looked up them, and the lanternlight caught your eyes. Dunk saw it clearly now, how your gaze didn't settle on the bright things in the pavilion the way others might. Earlier, you were taking in the shapes and edges. The card you'd held when you got confused held intricate colours, in the dim lighting even Dunk could see that from his distance. It was one of the few reasons he was able to discern what it depicted.

It was strange that you couldn't, you'd had to bring the lantern to it to figure out which card it was.

"What colour is the tapestry?" His voice came unbidden, you'd looked at earlier in your confusion. You'd analysed it carefully.

You blinked once, slow. "I can see it. I can't see what colour it is."

Dunk swallowed. "You could," he said. "You could see colours earlier."

"A few hours ago, yes." You agreed. Your mouth twitched with what might be humour.

Valarr's hands curled at his sides. "So that's what it cost. You paid with-"

"With a piece," you finished for him. "A sliver of my soul. Pieces can be given to hold the door open for those who have lost their way."

Egg hugged himself. "Why would you do that?"

You looked at them again. "Because fate takes," you said. "It takes the good in the world and leaves the rest as a lesson. I've never been fond of such lessons. Besides, what is the importance of colour? Compared to the magnificence of a future King?"

Valarr stared at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "And when there is nothing left?" He asked.

You shrugged casually. "Then I die," you said. "I will have given myself away one threat at a time."

The prince edged forward, hands fisting and unfisting at his side. "Tell me how to repay you," he said, voice strained. "Tell me what to give so you don't have to keep-"

You shook your head once. "There is nothing to replace what has been lost. It cannot be made right. But perhaps there is one small thing you can do." Valarr looked up at you as you extended the olive branch. "I will stay to tend to Prince Baelor. I would appreciate if you men refrained from calling me a monster and trying to make your gods strike me harder than they already have."

Valarr's jaw tightened. "No one will touch you," he promised with steel. He knew his father would agree, he would be grateful that you saved his life magic or not because you'd done it selflessly and Baelor had always appreciated acts of selflessness.

You nodded, as if considering the way you'd considered his aura. "Good."

"Now," you said briskly, as if you hadn’t just confessed your own slow death, "sit with him. Quietly. If he stirs, don’t crowd him. If he seizes, don’t panic. If the maester starts bleeding him because he doesn’t know what else to do, stop him."

The maester bristled faintly, but you only chuckled at his ire. Valarr's voice cracked despite him. "And you?" He asked. "Are you- are you alright?"

Other than giving away part of your soul, predicament.

You paused, before your expression softened into a grateful smile, something kind and gentle. "I will be."

Morning came slowly.

The pavilion was dim by design, the flap kept mostly shut so the sun could not stab its spears of light inside. Still, it crept in around the seams, pale in the early hour, turning everything into soft shapes. The camp was waking as well, muffled bootsteps, a horse snorting nearby, distant voices trying to speak quietly and failing.

Valarr had not slept. Not properly. He'd sat with his back to a tent pole until the ache in his back became familiar, his thoughts became sludge several times throughout the night before he forced them to sharpen. He counted his father's breaths like a prayer.

Now it was just the three of them in the Pavilion. You and Valarr. The maester had been sent away at dawn, 'to fetch fresh water,' Valarr had said, and the man had gone with a stiff nod. Dunk had been ordered to get something to eat, and Egg had been peeled away only after he fell asleep sitting upright, head lolling against a bedpost like a little doll with its strings cut.

Valarr remained, as did you.

You were turning something over in your fingers, a little charm made of twine and bone. You rolled it as if doing so helped keep you tethered.

"You can listen to the wind, you can see auras. What else can you do?" Valarr asked quietly.

You didn't look up. "Plenty."

"That's not an answer," he muttered, and even exhausted, he couldn't quite keep the princely edge from his voice.

Valarr shifted, wincing as pins and needles bit his legs. “You said you can see auras,” he said. “You can talk to the wind. You can read bones and cards.”

You watched Baelor's chest rise and fall before you answered. "Sometimes," you said, "things people have carried for a long time tend to carry them back."

Valarr frowned, "That's a riddle."

"It's true," you corrected, and your eyes slid over him in that quiet, measuring way. "Give me something of yours. Something you've had for a while."

His brows drew together. "Why?"

"You asked what else I could do?" She parried with a mischievous smile. "And because you'll understand the so-called riddle."

Valarr hesitated, then reached down toward his belt. He moved carefully, and his fingers found a small buckle hidden beneath his doublet, old and worn at the edges. Not steel.

He held it in his palm for a moment before offering it to you.

"It was on my first belt," he said. "When I was little. My mother had it made." His voice softened.

Your fingers closed around the buckle, and the change was small but unmistakable. Your thumb traced the carved vine, guiding you somewhere.

"Sunlight," You finally spoke. "Through light curtains." Your voice was quiet, as though you didn't want to disturb what you were seeing. "A chamber that smells of beeswax and... oranges. Someone is humming." You paused, brow creasing with faint surprise.

"You're laughing. You're-" Your eyes flicked under your lids like tracking a moving thing. "You've got the belt on wrong. Twice around your waist. You speak of being ready to be a knight already. You're about two feet tall."

Valarr's lips parted, and let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh. "I did," he said, voice warm with recognition. He'd forgotten about that. "Gods, I did that."

You nodded, still half in the memory. "She kneels before you," he said, and for a heartbeat, your tone gentled. "Because you're small, proud, and won't ask for help." Your thumb stilled on the buckle. "Her hands are quick, though her nails are bitten. She smells like rosewater." A wide smile came to your face at the feeling of maternal care, it was bright. Like you were experiencing warmth for the first time. Your own mother had never cared for you in such away, especially not after discovering what you were capable of.

You continued, voice low. "She says-" You paused. "You'll be tall one day. But you'll always be my boy."

Valarr's breath left him slowly. He stared at the buckle in your fingers like it had just given him his mother back for a moment. Not just her life. Her voice, her smile. Alive and ordinary.

You blinked again, and your gaze returned fully to the tent, to Valarr's face. You held the buckle a moment longer, then extended it back to him

"Thank you," you said simply.

Valarr took it carefully, reverent without meaning to be. "For what?" he asked.

"For sharing her with me," you replied. "Even if you didn't mean to." Your mouth curved again, small and sincere. "Memories are sacred. People guard them. They lose them. You let me hold one."

Valarr swallowed, the buckle warm in his palm from your touch. "I had lost it. It felt like remembering properly."

"Yes," you murmured. Then, after a beat, you added, almost gently, "Your mother was beautiful."

Valarr's eyes stung. He didn't look away this time.

"She was," he said, voice rough with gratitude. "She really was."

You nodded, and it settled something inside you.

And then Baelor made a small wet sound in his throat. Valarr's head snapped toward the bed. Baelor's fingers twitched beneath the blanket, and you both sharpened to attention.

Every muscle in Valarr's body was braced. Baelor's lips parted and a breath dragged in deeper than either of you had heard from him all night.

Valarr swallowed loudly. "Father?" he whispered.

Baelor twitched stronger this time. The hand nearest the edge of the blanket flexed as if searching for something to hold. His brow pinched in the faintest grimace.

Pain, Valarr realised. But pain arrived with waking. You were already rummaging around your bag for some pain relief for the prince when his lashes fluttered.

He hovered in place, trembling like a man caught at the edge of a cliff. You lifted one hand, palm outward, a quiet signal for patience.

Baelor's eyes opened. They were half-lidded and unfocused, like he was surfacing from deep water, but his gaze was searching across the tent.

His mouth moved, and no sound came at first. He swallowed and tied again.

"W-" he rasped, voice rough. "Where..."

Valarr's chest tightened so hard it hurt. "You're safe," he said quickly, too quickly. "You're safe, Father. It's me. I'm here."

Baelor searched until his eyes snagged on his son's face. Recognition didn't bloom all at once. It struggled through the fog and then, like a door finally finding its latch, it caught.

"Valarr," Baelor breathed.

Valarr's eyes burned again. He nodded hard. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes. I'm here."

The crown prince tried to lift his head and immediately winced. Instinctively, his hand rose towards the back of his skull, searching for the damage.

You moved just enough to intercept. Catching his wrist with the gentlest pressure and guiding the hand back down to the blanket.

"No, my prince," you spoke, close and steady. "Leave it and breathe."

Baelor's gaze moved to the sound of your voice. He stared at you, trying to piece together the wreckage that was your mind. His brow furrowed.

"Who...?" He managed, and the word broke apart around the edges.

"A friend," Valarr said, voice thick. He swallowed and tried again, softer. "She saved you."

Baelor's eyes lingered on you, then his gaze drifted to the crow that was now perched above him. It clicked its beak and cawed loudly.

His lips twitched, a small smile. "A... crow." he rasped like it was the strangest thing in the world.

Valarr almost laughed and cried at one. "Yes. Yes, a crow."

"Sorry. He can get excited." You added looking up at the bird.

The elder prince suddenly looked exhausted. Waking must have taken everything he had. His voice came again, fainter now. "My head..."

"It must hurt. I can remedy that." You said matter-of-factly. "You were struck hard but you're going to be okay."

"Maekar. He must be worried." He whispered.

Of all things Baelor could have reached for in the fog, he reached for his brother. Even now.

"He is," Valarr said quietly. He glanced at you and then back to his father. "He's... he's beside himself."

Baelor's brow furrowed in confusion. "I remember him hitting me. He was trying to get to Aerion."

Valarr nodded once, and despite his anger at his Uncle, he spoke honestly. "He didn't intend-"

"I know," Baelor breathed, and the certainty in it was astounding. "He didn't mean for this."

Forgiveness offered before anyone had even asked for it. Baelor truly was unchanged.

You stepped forward with a small vial. "This will help," you said softly, holding it to Baelor's mouth. "For the pain. It won't steal your mind the way poppy does."

Baelor's eyes flicked to you, still dazed, but he drank when you pushed your hand forward.

Valarr watched the way his father's breathing remained even.

Alive. Alive.

Baelor exhaled, long and slow. "Thank you," and the gratitude in it wasn't courtly, but honest and true.

You inclined your head. "Rest," you replied, like it was the only thanks you would accept.

Baelor’s eyes closed, not in collapse this time, but in surrender to healing. His breathing stayed steady, no wet hitch, no faltering thread, just sleep taking him gently.

Silence settled in the pavilion.

Valarr sat very still, listening to his father’s breaths until he could trust them. Only then did he turn his head toward you.

You were gathering your things again, cards stacked, bones wrapped, the little twine charm rolled between your fingers as if it anchored you. The way you moved was careful, economical, like someone who had learned not to waste anything... not even motion.

Valarr stared at you for a long moment. Then he stood, slowly, as if he was afraid to disturb the air.

"I don’t know how to say it properly," he said, voice low. "I’ve been taught manners and gratitude and a hundred pretty phrases that mean nothing when you've-" He faltered, then forced the words through. "When you gave up part of yourself for him."

You didn’t look up. “Don’t make it into worship, prince.”

“I’m not,” Valarr said quickly. His voice roughened. “I’m-” He swallowed. “I’m thanking you.”

You paused, just a fraction. Your fingers stilled on the cloth bundle. Valarr exhaled shakily. “He spoke Maekar’s name first,” he said, almost to himself. Wonder and heartbreak tangled together. “Even after… even after what happened.”

“That’s who he is,” you murmured.

Valarr nodded. “That’s why it mattered.” He took another breath, steadier now. “Maekar thinks he’s killed him.”

You hummed, quiet. "Then you should go and end that misery before it festers."

Valarr’s jaw tightened. "I will." His gaze flicked to his father’s sleeping form, then back to you. "But-" He hesitated, and his cheeks warmed. "When he’s more awake... when he understands what happened... he’ll want to thank you himself."

You snorted softly, humourless. "Kings and princes always want to thank with gold and promises."

"He’ll want more than that," Valarr said, and there was certainty in it now, born of knowing his father. "He’ll want to keep you close." He looked away briefly, embarrassed by how it sounded. "Not as a... not as a prisoner. As protection. As honour. As-"

You seemed to understand. For a moment you almost look caught out, like someone who's spent a lifetime slipping through the cracks and had forgotten what it felt like to be offered a door.

"That's dangerous," you said.

Valarr met your gaze. "So is letting you vanish back into the woods after what you've done," he replied, voice firm. "Many saw you come enter the camp with us, they know why you've come. Once they discover that Baelor has survived such an injury, they might come hunting.

Valarr's fingers curled around the old buckle in his palm. "I won't force you, and I won't allow anyone else to either," he said. "But... if he asks, will you at least hear him?"

"I’ll stay until I’m sure he’s steady," you said at last. "That was my word."

Valarr’s throat bobbed. "And after?"

You looked back at him, eyes that saw the world in shape and shadow now, but still saw people with unnerving clarity. "After," you said, "we’ll see what the wind says."

Valarr nodded, accepting that as the closest thing to a promise you would give. He stepped carefully around the chalk line, stopping at its edge like a man respecting a border. Then he bowed sincerely.

"Thank you," he said again, and this time the words didn’t shake. "Truly."

Your mouth curved, faint and tired. "Go," you told him. "Before your uncle makes himself sick with guilt."

Valarr turned toward the pavilion flap, hand already reaching for it, then paused and glanced back once.

Baelor slept on. Alive.

And you sat beside him in the dim, a witch in a prince’s tent, having given him a piece of her soul to ensure his survival.

Valarr swallowed, steadying himself with that sight, and slipped out into the waking camp to go find Maekar, and end one brother’s torment with a simple, impossible truth.

He lives.

Boy oh boy, I am churning these out. The creative juices are flowing. My boy Valarr, I love him with all my heart, and obviously I had to write Baelor surviving cause we all know he would've been the best Targaryen king.

If anyone has requests let me know :), I'm open.

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