starry nite

Bee. 🇵🇭 18+. Masterlist

[void--eyes]

The Silent Bell Knight│Chapter Four﹕Prima Luna Uespera, Trahit Una Sidera

Baelor Targaryen x FemaleKnight! OC

Summary:

A banquet, an echo of shattered ash, and a long conversation with a forgotten prince

words: 14.5k

Author's Note:

We were tooo sick to read over this chapter properly, the brain was finding it hard. I could not find a language created for the Rhoynar, so Nyrene speaks a mixture of Welsh and Latin that'll be dotted throughout because yeah. I also found some formatting errors in previous chapters, eugh. Probably this one too. Bear with me for when I eventually fix those. Also I added chapter titles because why not. @starrynite7114 HERE IT IS, MY FRIEND <3

"Endrew, check on the horses,"

Nyrene motioned at her squire, catching the veil he tossed her way before he disappeared out through the flaps of their pavilion. He'd helped dress her again for the impending banquet, the slightly intoxicated woman struggling to pull the fabric over her shoulders and almost losing footing before a blind scramble from Endrew sent her back upright.

Nyrene grumbled darkly to herself as she tied the veil loose around her neck, the shadows of the empty tent trailing after her movements in the flickering candlelight. Her breeches fit fine, her shirts and tunics more so. Even Ser Roy's mail she steadily had grown into— yet Ashford seemed intent on reminding Nyrene quite what her making was, given the hours spent suffocating in the old dresses. Hoisting the skirts through the muddied paths, straightening their fronts before she were to address the lords in the morn— some who eyed her with even less than what they'd give their own squires.

Become a man, neglect the woman, she thought, making note to eventually seek out garments that would fit her apparently new body, intending to sell or discard the near useless bundle of fabrics sitting within the corner that had remained vastly untouched for a long while.

Though, the idea drew despairing considering their coin reserve, and all they would lose should she fail in the tourney— but a once dormant swirl of nostalgia and a deeper twist of desire also stayed her hand, for it was due to the dress being the one piece of beautiful clothing Nyrene owned.

She slowly ran her hands down the front, feeling the whiskerings in fabric as Endrew had pulled the laces taut, the dress gripping tight to her exploits as a wandering blade carved in lean muscle beneath the cloth. It flowed long in length, dancing like darkened river glass up and across the tailored sleeves, the camlet dissolving like rising smoke into a fine silk-net from the shoulders to its high collar— perfect to hide the scars littered from past tourneys and skirmishes on the roads.

But it wasn't the deep murky green colour that she favoured, nor the ties to her back that weaved almost skeletal down the spine; it was the simple charcoal embroideries lost to the untrained eye that grew serpentine up from the hem, the artistry influenced by the deep south of Westeros.

Nyrene fiddled with the polished bone of her neck buttons, a mixture of pride and slight unease at the sight of her now standing in a different sheen that should have felt familiar, but was so far removed from her usual wear— yet no matter the cost or the rarity of the garment, a small part of her failed to hold any large regret in its purchase.

Crossing paths with a dressmaker from Dorne was a prospect almost unheard of in the wilds of the Westerlands, but she'd managed to bargain a price for the dress as it caught her eye in the market stalls. A blend in design born from the travels of its maker, it had sat overlooked in the coloured stocks, the vibrant weaves beckoning all others closer— and Nyrene's peculiar urge to search for the nostalgic pattern, to trail her own vine-covered hand, sent her brushing upon the dark shroud lying unwrinkled and undisturbed in a glossy pool of slumber.

Whether the almost blind woman suspected her origins or not, she gladly held close the forbidden package as Endrew gave her a shrug in understanding, noting the glee with which she spent their coin.

A garment reserved for the festivities of a lord, a garment she'd yet to wear. A garment to catch a subtle eye, to pass a flicker of interest across one's brow before she would melt like a shadow into the gathering bodies of revellers.

And so, despite her silent reserve and usual stray toward anonymity, Nyrene decided to don the dress that night.

The wine at Dunk's camp kept her warm in the evening chill, her blood pumping hot in fresh distraction. After bidding farewell to her squire, she startled the tall man waiting for her beyond the grasses, materialising suddenly out of the dark.

"Lay—I, err—you—," Dunk took a deep swallow, wide eyes following his hands gesturing before him. "I had no change in attire, Nyrene. Unlike yourself."

"No matter, Ser Duncan, you are of a fine sight. The celebrations are underway, I presume all the lords will be quite merry to ponder otherwise," she began leading them both in the direction of the castle as the sounds of its music teased in the distance.

"I must ask, you haven't hidden the same knife at your side?" Dunk soon inquired rather nervously, easing past the few people standing idle as they breached the tourney camps.

Nyrene almost let slip the deep laugh rising up her throat as she too, eyed the nearby members of the noble houses who had joined the trek. "Nay, I did not. The heat towards the lords of this land has well and truly simmered, Ser Dunk."

Not quite a lie, but not quite a pressing truth either.

"Even when you stoop," she continued in a smirk, lightly nudging his side with a jab of her fingers. "You're a weapon amongst men, Dunk. Besides, I don't expect a skirmish of sorts to break upon the castle floors— nor in the dark with you by my side, for that matter."

They walked for a while longer, meeting the adjoining path from the opposite of the pavilions where a sea of others were still making their way to the festivities. Dunk halted to his name being called, the pair turning in wait.

"Ser Duncan!"

A dark haired lad hurried forth towards them, large dimpled smile plastered across his face as he slapped the larger man on the shoulder. "Are you heading towards the banquet?"

"Aye, that we are Raymun. This is Lady Nyrene."

Raymun gave a nod as he was introduced. "Of the Fossoways."

"Hail Raymun of Cider Hall," Nyrene smiled, taking in the deep red in his wear. "Are you representing your house in the tourney?"

"No, my lady. That be my cousin Ser Steffon, who I am squiring for. He has already found his way inside— there wasn't much said in the way of squire attendance."

"Well Raymun, we shall find out if Lord Ashford has ordered our titles be scrutinised or our lord's colours— else we will make a banquet of our own. Please attend with us, I dare say it may be a far merrier time," she adjusted the small ties of the veil under her hair, pulling the fabric across her lower face as they were ushered forth beneath the castle gatehouse— much to the two men's growing wonderment.

"Are you representing your lord?" Raymun asked, the great hall growing ever near as the Ashford guards dotted the paths along the way.

"That I am, Raymun. He is—," she tried a glance up at Dunk, who was staring enraptured at all that was beginning to unfold in brilliant vibrancy around them. "—He is the Silent Bell Knight."

"Oh aye, that he is! There have been whispers of his presence here, though no one has seen him yet."

"Indeed not, he prefers a rather secluded focus at tourneys."

"In that case, a fair occasion for a group of three wandering camps," Raymun's voice drew louder once they entered to the source of the music, all manner of lords and ladies scattering across the threshold of the banquet hall.

The three paused in step, Nyrene drawing in a soft inhale as they took in all of what Lord Ashford had prepared. A great chandelier burned high above over the deep orange Ashford flags, the pointed stars of the house plastered across the walls in jagged heraldry. Heat pulsed from the burning hearth spotted across the floor, spluttering light upon the many streams of orange and white cloth hanging from the hall's beams. The fabric tickled the air as patrons moved past, while a group of minstrels sat in one corner, their strings and horns vibrating the stones the arriving group started to tread upon as they finally entered the room.

Nyrene turned her head to the side, scanning the beginnings of the long line of tables that were already crowded with cups and pitchers of drink. There for the taking, are you not, she thought, making note to take her own swill if their group were to be overlooked as the lowly attendees they surely appeared to the snobbery of the lords. The floors continued to hum with a euphoric mixture of chatter and laughter the further they made their way inside, the thrill of the festivities taking hold as sure as the differing houses wove a quilt of excitement amongst the light of the flames.

"Quite a coloured clan we are!" Raymun burst from atop the noise.

"The finest in colours I would have to agree, Raymun," Nyrene's eyes too, widening even more to the spectacle.

"I hope you will be celebrating twofold for you and your knight?" his dimples deepened in the warmth of the filtered orange light cast from the banners, trailing attention after the many servants carrying food and drink.

"Aye that I am, my Lord Fossoway."

She grabbed at a nearby tray of wine cups, handing one of each to her companions as the hall continued in its revelry. The boys began making their way through toward the tables of food on display, Nyrene halting to slowly lift at her veil.

"Aye that I am," she muttered to herself, staring down the hall's length to the large high table at the back where Lord Ashford was perched, flanked by the princes and their sons.

To where Prince Baelor sat gazing over all before him.

Her eyes narrowed in on his regal perch, the Targaryen blacks looming like a sobering reminder— and she moved the veil to down her drink, immediately replacing it with another from a nearby servant.

"Well met, Lady Nyrene," a familiar friendly voice whispered in her ear, Nyrene turning to the sight of Lyonel Baratheon donned in the full garb of his house colours.

"Well met, Lord Baratheon," she nodded, clinking her fresh cup against his own and pacing around the tall yellow and black figure in inspection.

Nyrene gave a quick flick at a loose curl whittling from the side of his head, his one gold earring heard twinkling over the singing minstrels.

"A fine choice in garment. You are not to wear your antlers tonight?"

Lyonel barked out in laughter, leaning close and giving a tilt in the direction of the high table. "Bit in poor taste, wouldn't you agree? Wouldn't want to upset the precious princes."

He held out an arm, Nyrene wrapping her hand around the soft silk as he led them over to his table. "You are quite the sight tonight, my lady."

"Thank you, my lord," she replied smoothly, darting eye over towards the dais where they locked on again to the distant prince. She raised the goblet to her lips, speaking over the rim. "Representing my knight is proving successful, it seems."

"Ah, so it is the Bell Knight," Lyonel's voice rattled at the side of her ear— loud enough for her to pick up on his intrigue but low enough so that passers by could only spot the glint in teeth as opposed to the words they allowed to utter.

Nyrene almost faltered in step before Lyonel just as quickly ushered her along, the sudden stiffness in her arm met with a reassuring pat as he merely chuckled.

"I am more observant than you give me credit for, my lady, even if I fall largely into the merriment. A mysterious woman enters my tent dressed in the colours of the mystery knight of the tournament."

She felt the man shrug, parrying her cold glare of suspicion from beneath the veil.

"How we may fare once we are to enter the lists proves as exciting as the lady upon my arm."

Nyrene regained a sense of command and pushed his shoulder at that, almost tipping her wine down her front and sending Lyonel into a deeper laugh. They continued moving through the patrons, earning simple nods or the raising of a goblet in their direction— or rather, Lyonel's— before finally taking seat on one of the long benches closer to the side of the main table.

"How fares my dance partner?" he asked, signalling to one of the many servants passing across the floors to bring a pitcher of ale. "I have missed you in my tent, I'll have you know."

"The sun has barely set once more, Lyonel."

He gave another shrug at that, handing her a fresh pint of ale. "The festivities do not stop where I'm concerned. Even more so at a tourney."

"Is that how you prepare for one?" she asked, slinking back slightly in seat so that Lyonel was between her and the sight of Lord Ashford. She scanned over the room, catching the attention of Dunk and signalling for him to make his way across with Raymun in tow.

"If it works— and it serves me well as I am still here," he smirked, waving his hand before him in a whirl of rings, the light brown of his eyes watching her finish the wine in few gulps before she started on the ale.

"Wine comes easy to you, does it?"

"Seems my bloodline aids in use other than for greeting the shines of the sun."

Lyonel stared at her closer, his brow turning momentarily serious despite his usual radiant nature.

"You are escaping a memory, are you not?" he asked, to where she merely offered her own shrug.

"I know that look," he continued in recognition, leaning on his elbow and twirling his fingers in the air before him. "It is a shallow light in the eye. Of a memory so dark, that many come to find themselves at the bottom of a tankard searching for a means to forget."

She narrowed her gaze on the stag lord, giving a great swallow of her drink before relenting under his stare, the veil billowing with her sigh as it fluttered back down. "You are correct, Lord Lyonel. Have you a suggestion in how I should behave?"

He suddenly slapped his hand against the table, the surrounding patrons startled at the loud noise— including Nyrene. She shot a hasty look over his shoulder, begging the sound of the stag not to stretch far.

"I am glad to lend aid, my lady. Fun we shall have this eve!" Lyonel gave another loud laugh, one that was drawing more and more attention atop the flurry of the banquet, and spotting the approaching Dunk where he was soon introduced to the Fossoway.

The music of the hall droned louder, the heat of the many patrons swelling in waves as Nyrene sat feeling her world begin to smooth over. Felt the pulse in the moving bodies, the voices singing into the air— and feeling the fires of a stare emanating from the high table to her side.

She began leaning towards the lick in flame, the invisible hand grasping at her chin— where she resisted the pull, opting to finish another ale and turning in the direction of the Baratheon instead.

The table spoke animatedly with each other, drinks flowing and cups emptying. Food was served endlessly, and the dark memories of the Rebellion were soon proving forgetful as the night wore on. The swell of people continued flowing through the large hall, around the long tables lined all over as members of the different houses greeted each other. Pockets of lords and ladies donning the vibrant colours of green, gold, red and deep blue sat eagerly entertaining each other, with each pitcher emptied, each merry laugh heard, a clasping in hands and food swallowed growing anticipation towards the tournament further.

The light of the candles, the brackets and braziers warmed against their flush faces where after a while, Lord Ashford rose from his chair and the hall quieted to listen. Nyrene reluctantly turned her head towards the dais as he spoke, the lull in the night offering a reminder of the unsettling sight sitting high before her.

He was already staring as the lord's speech got underway, head tilting lower squinting between his brows and turning Nyrene's own ears silent.

Not a word could be understood as Lord Ashford's voice echoed around the hall; none could register, the mismatched gaze of Prince Baelor searing like an arrow sent from the very heights of the Weeping Ridge. The castle hushed around the two locked in their quiet battle of hardened stares and glossy gazes, as if the room grew dark under a false new moon with the prince peering directly at her through its murky depths.

Nyrene's stomach began knotting painfully, joined by the liquors swirling within, her grasp around the goblet turning awkward as she forced her gaze to tear away from the dais and down. Her hands trembled even more as they followed a retreat into her lap, knitting restlessly together and recoiling into the dress that now seemed to shrink tighter as it pressed a shackled heat across her limbs. A tense suffocation, and Nyrene yearned to burst forth from the seams, to flee from the weight of the prince's watch burning at the edges of her vision.

But nay, she could not.

Stuck in the flanks of the hall, in the hallowed shell of torture inflicted by the royal who seemed to impale her with his own spear of condemnation, she remained frozen. Unmoving, save for the kneading of hands twisting ever more painfully.

Lyonel gave a soft cough to the side and she chanced a glance in his direction, to where he sat staring unblinking at the speaking lord, one finger curling in his hair. In a slow movement he lowered his arm to steady at her frantic fingers, placing a hand over the top of her own as they momentarily ceased.

The stag's grip anchored her back into the hall, the sights of the table before her beginning to sharpen again as she willed the Lord Ashford finish his speech, desperate for the night's merriment to continue and further her own disappearance into the shifting bodies once more.

After a gruellingly long period the room burst to life in applause, the Targaryens rising from their chairs, the minstrels bearing their sounds ease the dragons back into their seats. Nyrene's gut surged gratefully to the servants making their way back around, reaching for her cup to be filled and raising a shaky wine to her lips just as a black and yellow sleeve shot across her face.

"Ah, I think not, Lady Nyrene," Lyonel said, earning a turn in disbelief from the woman while he eased the goblet back down. "You are my dance partner— well, in tandem with the great lunk to the other side of me."

He gave a sly wink as others already began making their way from the tables to the floor. "Come my mystery woman. Let us dance."

Lyonel weaved through the crowds of lords and ladies, pulling Nyrene into the throngs of dancers, the pair falling into the easy steps like they were back in the stag tent.

The candles burned brighter, the Ashford star beaming down upon all while the chaos of the storm lord held her fast as sure as his hand at her waist. He whirled them together in circles across the dance floor to more applause and cheers, to the drums beating in a frenzy and the quickening in steps as the colours of the banquet swallowed Nyrene whole, pushing away the shadows darkening at the corners of her night.

Soon Dunk and Raymun joined the pair, crossing in and out, darting between partners to the horns of the musicians blaring louder— though deeper, like a signal to ride forth.

It was an eerily familiar sound.

Nyrene's head snatched across in search before Lyonel took her by her hand once more, twirling around and nudging at her waist or stepping to pull closer. The crowd parted into two sides like a broadened wall of bodies, the glint in armour of the neighbouring Ashford guards distracting her again as the revellers surged forth together.

Laughter began flooding into cries of anguish.

The clapping of hands to the ringing of steel upon flesh.

A growing sense of despair hushing throughout the moving peoples.

The lamps began dimming as the panicked woman stumbled in step, fires blurring from the faraway chandelier twisting to cloaks of grey under the shadows of the black dragon's wings. Ashford's sun upon banners fell to the rolling sea mists, the nearby Lannister crest morphing into the green and yellow Osgrey banners peeking above the fence of spears— even Lord Hightower's finery Nyrene accidentally fell into mutated to that in the haunting sigil of the three black castles, the Peake troops clashing with the Arryn vanguard and her own faceless men falling in the muddied stones.

The dancers grew skeletal; macabre, likened to cruel puppets of The Stranger standing high above, tugging at their strings and forcing Nyrene to unravel further.

Wine turned to iron, turned to the salted breezes licking the cold sweat upon her face…

Whispering a deathly mark, a mournful cry.

Of the man that now appeared to loom over her, the blade through his cheek morphing to that of her own pointed down; the yellowing teeth, the saliva dripping like acid in the tears beginning to wet at her face.

And her chest.

The hidden phantoms twisted their cold tendrils within her lungs to the collapsing bodies in the shield wall, the screams of terror— and the bloodshed clamped her tight in a sickening fist, clutching at her bones as Nyrene started backing away from the dance floor.

She stumbled into a nearby table, one hand placed steady and staring into the depths of the forgotten goblet of wine grinning back at her in taunt. It sloshed over the rim dripping down the sides and across fingers, oozing upon the marks to her skin and the faint wounds beginning to grow hot beneath; and the groans of wounded men steadily bathed her in their cries.

She hastily pulled at her covering and downed the drink in one go, retreating into the nearby wall. Nyrene leant her forehead against its cool stones gripping at anything to keep her from collapsing within the banquet— to cast her back into the anticipation for the dance instead of the dread of a desperate final stand.

And through the frenzy of her memories twisting into her reality, in more cups of wine she turned to drown it all out— the burn of Baelor's gaze seared through the mists of her misfortune, either as a welcoming beacon or a daunting reminder of all that she'd wished to leave behind.

Yet only this time, she was not hidden within the confines of her veil.

New alarm plunged from her chest in icy trails, as she peered towards the table where she saw him lean forward from the back of his chair in true realisation, the dark of his shoulders swelling in size as they were lost within the garments.

Elbows upon his knees Prince Baelor seemed to openly glare at her presence, one palm turned upwards while the other pressed hard against his ring, the lines around his eyes deepening all the more. He traced the movements of her hand as she raised the fingers to her exposed face, Nyrene's heart pounding under his scrutiny and she pulled away to search for an escape from the banquet hall.

She hurriedly darted from her perch, gripping through chairs and tables shoving past all manner of patrons, the flare from His Grace's gaze never ceasing to sear at the whipping fabric disappearing across floors. The desperation to tear away from his presence, to leave the screams of the battle dancing behind her surged in her footfalls, tore at her heels even if she felt the ghostly reminders of men pleading for aid as the haunts of the red and black dragons soared about.

She finally burst forth from the castle doors, the noise of the banquet growing faint as Nyrene drew in deep ragged breaths as though she were still choking upon the prince's livid realisation and the gargle of salted winds in her throat. Sickened vertigo sent her searching the darkened corner of the castle wall to retch much of the contents of her stomach.

And the taste in fruits of her labours repeated the same no matter how often they were expelled from her body.

Wine.

Ale.

Mud.

Sweat.

Though, whatever escape into the crisp night air she had managed was short lived as footfalls sounded nearby— and she witnessed a Kingsguard making way down the stone steps, his armour shining in the braziers like a gleaming white omen.

"Lady Nyrene," Ser Donnel started, turning to usher her back through into the castle. "You are requested in the lord's solar."

"Why?" she dragged her hand across the watery eyes as they narrowed, and took a step back. "By whom?"

"The Prince of Dragonstone."

Her lungs seemed to falter again at the mention of his dooming title, and instead of following the order Nyrene gave a drunken wave, stumbling over to the nearby well instead.

Ser Donnel watched while she splashed at her face, cupping handfuls of water and drinking, willing sobriety welcome itself back before she were to approach the den of another dragon she had almost escaped from.

Whether he held any care towards the sight, Donnel only stood silent and waiting, his armours still flashing menacingly in the moonlight— but it rather to the reminder of the man who had sent him.

"We should make haste, Lady Nyrene."

"It has been years already, the prince can wait a while longer," Nyrene grunted, swirling another mouthful of water and spitting it to the side. She drew another haggard breath; though this one seemed to hold steady, the shudders in her limbs easing now that the fresh waters had slapped at her clammy skin.

It's just a castle, she thought in a poor attempt at reminder, closing her eyes to the moon wishing she were able to be whisked away in its glows instead of the fires waiting for her.

He's just a man.

Nyrene turned in reluctance, giving a steely nod to the still expectant Ser Donnel and following after the white cloak through the corridors felt to tunnel despairingly deeper into the castle depths.

After a while he finally stopped outside a large wooden door, and she looked over at him questioningly where he only gestured forth in reply.

"Seven hells," Nyrene let out in a small groan, forcing her usual pushing back of the shoulders. Knocking and without waiting for an answer, she gave a shove at the door and entered into the room beyond.

He was sat at the chamber's only desk, leaning lazily into the back of his chair one hand running softly upon the edge of the arm rest, the other gripping hard at its sides. While the corridors of the castle seemed to darken with each step, the solar's large brazier only offered a muted alleviation, the candles to the chandelier weakening in their wicks.

How long the prince had been waiting for her seemed to be spoken stark in the silence of the dim, as even the blacks of his robes morphed in the long shadows cast about the room.

"Your Grace," Nyrene started, still standing in the entryway.

He looked beyond her to nod at Ser Donnel, who closed the door behind in a soft thud. She turned expectantly at the prince, awaiting acknowledgement as he seemed to weigh her entirely.

Scrutinising again.

"It has been years, Nyrene."

His voice came out low— hollow, as if unsure how much feeling he were to put behind it.

"Years," he continued, standing at the desk and making his way closer. "And nothing to suggest that you were well. That you were alive."

He came stood in front of the large brazier, the fires lighting the silver against his temples.

"What would you have me say?" she questioned, barely above a whisper. "I've never a need to inform His Grace of where I am. Or where I go. What would you have wished to happen, my Prince? That I parade to King's Landing, announce myself to the Heir of the Iron Throne?"

She finished in a leer, and danger flashed purple between the blue and brown of his eyes.

"Do not mock the position in which you stand before, Nyrene," his voice deepened, arms clasped behind his back shoulders broadening all the more toward her.

"Then do not look at me like I am one of your subjects," she spat, and she took the few steps closer leaning a sliver too late to grasp at the stone ledge.

Baelor flinched to lend her aid, Nyrene dodging around and shrugging past the heated stones as the flames licked at its edge— and hiding her own embarrassment.

"You're drunk," he stated in mild distaste from behind.

"It was a banquet, Prince Baelor. It were be rude if I were not so," she sighed, bowing her head to steady herself as her hair fell in a protective shroud about her shoulders and face.

She felt him move away, hearing the liquid pour and footsteps halting close as she sensed his presence turning the air warm about her.

"Drink—," he ordered, and she slunk further away taking the goblet that was thrust in her hands. "—And sit."

"I will not entertain the latter."

She caught his brows glancing upwards between her strands, the grey of his beard twitching and he turned to prowl against the nearby bookshelves instead. Nyrene leant against the thick stones, back turned to the heat and the prince as she took the few moments in uncomfortable silence to will composure send back through her.

She steadily sipped at the water, only the crackling in fire and the thumbing of pages heard within the room.

"You were envisioning a spectacle that would cause the entire castle to bear witness," she tossed over her shoulder, watching him stiffen at her words. "It is why I crossed no other following your Kingsguard. Unfortunately for you, Your Grace, my anger was spent in today's waning sun. A bite at an innocent hedge knight, too."

"I am often found alone at such hours," his reply came sharp, and she heard a book snap shut.

Nyrene looked down into the water between hands, whispering into its glossy depths swirling in the candlelight. "The anger has turned to melancholy now. Not even the drink can stop it all."

In quick movements he was before her, hands taking grasp over her own as he set aside the goblet turning her face upwards.

"Why?" he asked, searching deep within her eyes, and she spotted the hint of pity even as her own dishevelled reflection swallowed his pupils.

Nyrene groaned, closing her own for a few moments feeling the back of her hand graze the pin atop his chest.

"Why?" she slowly blinked open to the cool metal upon the marks of her skin, to his brows now twisting in concern as his face sharpened into view— and she roughly tugged her grip free.

"Because of your rebellion I fought in."

She paced away from him, stretching the distance in the room as he stood like a dark beacon silhouetted in the firelight.

"The damage marked all, not just yourself. I trust the liquor is causing you to speak as such, is that it?" he replied easy, although with a mere hint of displeasure.

"The liquor only encourages what is already there."

"Is that truly what births the pain within you?"

Nyrene froze in her movements back and forth across the solar.

"What?" she snarled.

"You would do well to show care in the matters of which you speak," he met her with an equal growl, and despite the deep rumble of warning in his voice, his face held the same stoic form as he took in her words, absorbed them with a level of indifference as to their weight— even if they were of the heaviest for the troubled woman to utter.

"I showed care when I took to the battlefield, holding the line and watching men die mutilated in the mud— and I still see those men dying. Still hear their cries in the night. The men fighting for your birthright— I fought for your birthright, Prince. Ser Roy eventually died for your birthright," Nyrene spat, chest heaving in growing fury.

"I knew not of Ser Roy's death until much later. Until you all but confirmed it at House Varner."

The way in which he further spoke to her, softening the edges around his sentences as if giving mere rumination only challenged the anger swirling within Nyrene.

"Do not speak to me of House Varner," she hissed, narrowing in on his stare half hidden in shadow. "Of course, that is what you choose focus on. Ser Roy died not three moons after Redgrass, forgotten by the lords he sacrificed much for— and I was left alone, treading through Westeros like it were an endless waste."

"The memory pains you to speak aloud, I understand," Baelor hesitated before he neared closer to her again, as if closing the distance would will her heed his words. "I too, saw the ones slain. The horror in which I approached the fields for if I were too late to assist my brother, and all the men along with him. Assisting you, as much as Ser Roy. You are not alone in your feelings, Nyrene."

She scoffed in his direction, a ripple of frustration spotted surging through his furrowed brows before she turned away to begin pacing the room again, feeling his eyes take in each and every step made.

Nyrene paused after a while, the savouring taste of earnest spilling forth from her mouth, the honesty finally bearing her look up at him. "But that's what I needed. That's what you didn't understand— or chose to ignore."

Baelor gave a regretful sigh. "I failed on that part, Nyrene. Failed as your friend."

He seemed to grow heavier in standing, like finally speaking aloud the truths shrouded him in the full weight of culpability.

"What an understatement from His Grace," she muttered, skin itching beneath her dress and pushing the strands of hair falling across her face to better address the prince.

"You swore to me back at Kingsgrave, Baelor. When you took me atop the stable wall, and we sat together watching the sun set before your leave in the morn," she started launching at him, the fears of her night dulling while the wine steamed hot within her nerves.

"Where you spoke to me not as the King's heir, but just a boy wanting to reassure a friend. And I feared your absence deeply, the one person I could trust within that fucking castle disappearing back north," she swallowed hard to steady herself, pushing down the faint wines curling in the back of her throat. "Such a childish attachment. You said to call if I ever in need, that you knew what it was to be stood alone. Distant— but that proved a lie."

He finally appeared hurt at the last word, and the woman relished in the uncomfortable twist to his mouth.

"So you ask as to why you have not heard from me in all these years— but you already may know the answer," she finished bitterly.

Baelor drew in a short breath, pausing and offering low. "It is something I have sworn to remember. A promise that shaped who I want to be, how I am within the Realm. You taught me what it is to be relied on."

Nyrene gave a shallow laugh, "You mean to say, I was sacrificed for the benefit of the Realm? Do not give jeer, Baelor— though I understand it juvenile, I learnt as much. Especially when it happened once again. Mayhaps another time more."

One hand began running fingers over the other, Nyrene staring at the tattooed marks as they disappeared into the sleeves. "And placing hope in others? A cruel lesson I eventually triumphed over."

She shifted past the subdued man to the nearby window, picking at the familiar herbs seen growing upon its sill. The faint aroma tickled her tongue as she placed the leaf between teeth, hoping the fresh tastes could help fuel a bitter response to the prince— and speaking more so to her hands, to the hidden scars weaving silver in the struggling moonlight.

"You must think it fickle, that I hold resentment from an age long past," she murmured, grown considerably withdrawn. Heartsick, like the recollections hurt when brushed upon— because they did, the time spent since they were uttered aloud growing ever more painful by the day.

Nyrene turned to face him, continuing her barrage of unfiltered thoughts as he stood rigid and in wait. "You asked what truly births my pain, and now you may measure it much like you measure your subjects. It is long and arduous and it spans many years in the making. You wish to know if I have been well? In answer to that I fear, Your Grace, that I have not been. Not for quite some time."

The heat of the fires breathed in the tense air as she laid bare all that had plagued her at the feet of the prince, the coolness of the night leaking from the window panes she sought solace from gracing her back in encouragement.

"Shall I continue? You have grown rather subdued at my presence here."

"I have not heard you speak for some time."

He stared hard at her, and she wasn't sure the phrase proved a warning or an honest bid for her words to continue spilling forth. She eyed him in suspicion, grown cautious at his hidden contemplation.

"At the command of His Grace."

Baelor suppressed a sigh, brows relenting as he broke the tense gaze and paced back over to the shelving. "I am an enemy you feel."

"You are the easiest to claim so," she hesitated, the courage in her voice diminishing as she took in his tall frame standing solemn amongst the knowledge lined upon Lord Ashford's walls.

Nyrene gave a dismissive shake of her head, tugging at the once hidden feelings to remember themselves again.

"I've come to understand— been forced to understand— how war can twist one's emotions if they're left unchecked," she began, bridging the struggle lying between them. "But I cannot undo what has been caused, can only look on it as trying to find reason. I wished it that we could speak together, but I knew you had others. Your brother. Your family— but I foolishly thought I was one of them. You spoke to me as such."

Baelor suddenly gripped at the shelving, the knuckles spotted turning white in the candlelight.

Like in an anchoring for reserve, or a reminder of how he should act now that she'd presented a painful exposure for him to choose retaliation to.

"We can now," his voice came soft, catching Nyrene off guard as the words were whispered to the books. An attempt to ease at her wounds— but they were not deep enough to truly offer a compress, no matter how much she yearned for it to happen.

"No, we cannot, Prince Baelor," she met the haze of his eyes again as he turned a slow head, watched as his face shifted to the harsh declaration. Willed that he come closer, to strip away all that she could remember of the fields.

His voice to overshadow the cries of the dead; his arms to protect from the cold fog as it swallowed her whole.

"That time passed many years ago. No, you relinquished that right to know how I have fared in the years since. When you sent me away after I pleaded with you to give me something that would turn me in the right direction," Nyrene pushed past the cold light of the window, closer to the fires of the brazier never turning her eye from the prince.

"That night, when all had finally gone quiet in your realm, across the fires like we are now. I asked you for help. Desperate. And you turned me away. Do you know what it is you said to me?"

"I remember," he murmured.

"Then say it."

He paused, as if caught by the truth and his own wishes. She quickly started again, closing the door on his absolution.

"I will say it for you. You told me that you were not the one to help, and that you couldn't. That your efforts lay with another. I didn't ask you more than what a friend could offer—and you refused."

Baelor crossed over pensively in front of the flames, hands planting to the edge of the stones like he yearned for their words of wisdom in the flickering light. They graced his features as they grew forlorn, and without looking up at her he breathed them close.

"It is a lie, if I were to say that I do not regret it."

Nyrene crossed her arms to the sentiment, a shield to glance the beginnings of his repent.

"It matters not— I understand it all. I understand that being alone can give a dim light to the paths one takes next— if there are no others to help guide it," she answered him bitterly, her own pity spilling in the eyes raking over his still solemn— nay, guilty— standing.

"All I have to do is ride the feelings into the night. If it means that I choose to seek solace at the bottom of a goblet, then so be it."

Few moments of unsteady silence flowed between the pair— a heavier weight that once thought to be lifted when speaking such qualms, seemed to hold them fast in chains of shame and resentment. Unmasking pains of years prior, forming an almost stalemate in whether to beckon them forth once more or let them disappear into the night hours.

"I can understand too, the malcontent it may bring," Baelor then paused, like he'd breached the silence too soon. "Towards me."

Nyrene stayed quiet, chewing hard at the sodden leaf and moving past instead to the chair at the front of his desk. She took seat resting one elbow against the arm, her fingers covering her eyes.

"I'm not quite sure what I feel towards you, Baelor, now that it is spoken. Maybe you are an easy target for blame, easy to let it all fester. Willing that it all to be a facade of good that I suffered from. Forgetting that if you were a man without mistake, you would not be the fortunate prince I've come to watch from my distance— even if it is met with a certain level of malcontent."

She heard him silently sit opposite her, and she opened her eyes to gaze upon his handsome face appearing troubled in the candlelight.

"You've grown in the years since I saw you, Prince."

He gave a wry smile, leaning back and eyeing her with interest. "As have you, Nyrene."

"Your hair is shorter. Silver in parts."

"Yours is not."

"I like your wear."

"You've a remarkable dress."

She motioned with her fingers, waving away the distractingly warm moment.

"I've watched you lead. Your commanding of the people, heard their whispers in admiration— and I can't help but resent all that I missed. Running from shadows across the realm. Hacking at my own path, fighting off the very memories I still flee to this day."

"The strength in which you've managed to continue is not lost on me, Nyrene— and that stark reminder may have been why I grew irate after I realised who you were today."

"You in anger? Do not feign so at something minute."

Baelor turned in slight disapproval at her.

"Then tell me how I managed to achieve irking the prince so?" she asked, rephrasing her question. "Or when."

He furled his lips, frowning in concentration.

"It may have been the markings up your arm," his gaze flickered across at the fingers still resting on her face. "Or the way you wring your hands together. There is a certain colour to your eyes as the light hits I may have recognised, even if you do try to hide much of it behind a veil. Or mayhaps it is in the way those same eyes squint whenever you are thinking— that has remained over the long years."

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, Baelor adding to the movements in a moment of reserved mirth.

"It may have been when you began to curse at my brother."

"You swallow the presence of all before you, it seems," she parried in mild sarcasm.

"I do my best to recognise them," he hummed. "Though, taking counsel with you tonight has made me realise not only did I forget a true friend of mine, did I too forget the sacrifice in cause by the many who expect me to lead."

Nyrene's fingertips drummed lightly across her lips, "So this is all just counsel."

"You know that is not what I meant."

She sighed further into her chair. "I am failing in my reserves at keeping with frustration, Prince. Though as to your contemplations; it is a first step, if you are willing to gain more wisdom than you currently have. Or mayhaps you need a reminder, a whisper behind your ear whenever you enter into the domain of your people."

He seemed to stare longingly at her then— almost calculative.

"Do not look at me like that."

"In what manner?"

"Like when you weigh how best to honour the Realm. You may save that for your council members, not me," she gave another wave in dismissal, though the venom in her voice drew thin with each word— and the prince seemed to have picked up on it so, his body slackening further into his chair.

"You've grown stronger."

"What?"

"Across the years."

"I really must purchase new garments," Nyrene muttered, fiddling with the edges of the chair.

"In yourself. I pick that more than your growing physique, though that is admirable. You always did have a sense of determination," Baelor's eyes glittered in the gloom as he slowly raked them over her, the growing silence allowing his scrutiny.

—Nay, a wandering gaze.

For it led to another pause, as they seemed to mull all that had been said— and all that had been unsaid, Nyrene felt. Still, despite her own discomfort, the silence had settled from the intensity of when she first entered. The ales and wines within her drawing in a faint fog— but there still wasn't a true understanding, as if something else were hanging hidden in the air between the two. Toiled over in his intense stare and her own vacant one.

"You have made the acquaintance of Lord Baratheon," he started, taking a turn in subject.

And it begins to unveil.

Nyrene gave a slight groan, unbuttoning parts of her neckline as the heat grew hotter within the room. "Ask what it is, Your Grace. I have done as much this night."

"How fare you with your mystery knight during the celebrations?"

One finger marked in black stone traced upon the prince's brow, the shadows of his chair crowning high on the wall behind as he waited for an answer. Like a storm wanting to break over her ill-fated reply— and she rose to this new challenge in defiance, to this pry into her presence, the wine still flowing strong enough to ignite her defences.

"It concerns you not the company I keep, Baelor," she countered, running a hand across her clammy neck. "Whether they be a mystery knight or any lord otherwise."

The once calm intrigue turned to one of rigid speculation as the prince sat unmoving— or unsatisfied— swallowed in his ever darkening contemplations.

"You want to know more."

"Yes," he finally said, almost in a hiss.

"You do not want to enter into these waters, Your Grace," Nyrene warned.

While his expression grew further unreadable, his hands began working within his lap, twisting the same rings she remembered of years prior in anticipation. He seemed to grow in stature, rising before her as he gave the merest lick of his lips, hungry for her response.

"No," she stated firmly, the clouds of his anticipation visibly lightening as she dismantled them with her own command. "You do not get that."

He took a turn to his side as if made aware of who he was— as if he had forgotten all that had come before, assuming a look of passive interest.

But Nyrene would not let the man forget, let the man escape the beginnings of the cold plunge into their shared memories.

"You do not get that, Your Grace. Any such leverage ceased that night years ago, if you have not forgotten."

"I have not," his reply grew soft again, eyes scanning her lightly up and down in a fruitless attempt at calm. "The reminders provoked an unkind response to your entering this room earlier."

Nyrene frowned in confusion. "So deceit was not your only harboured resentment?"

"You left."

The simple words subdued her, uttered heavy and loaded.

"Did you leave House Varner to join the Bell Knight?" he asked without waiting for a response, though she spied the faint lines in his face quivering unnaturally, like he was begging to withhold the full intent of his question.

She gave a slight furl of her lips. "So it is the mystery knight that truly interests you then. Why?"

"I need to know." he offered low.

Nyrene clenched hard at her chair. "You are treading dangerously."

She heard the change in his voice as with each spilling of sound he seemed to harden, like he were growing tired at unknowing.

"A lot is proven folly to those who leave the royal presence— without dismissal."

Though she had thawed somewhat in confronting the prince, at this new moment the swell of anger began drawing back— and as he leant forward onto the desk, shining resentment in his eye, Nyrene too, pushed closer through the small distance between them.

"You do not get to choose our history. And I was dismissed. You said as much so—"

"—You were not. And you have not been since—"

"—You did not want me," she spat forth in a low growl. "You do not get to go back."

If the room was previously tense with the painful pasts of knights taking to battle, of witnessing the trauma of men and of forgotten friendships— it was vastly different to what was presented now.

A new form of primal surge. What was finally able to withdraw itself, casts its shadow over the two.

Nyrene had once pushed at it deep down, hiding it within her chest as the years told her to dismiss it, to forget it even existed at all. The night in the old castle had lulled her into false serenity, allowing her to beckon it forth before it was snatched in a cage so tight and in full show to the one other who dragged it against the bars in cruel puppetry.

And when it were finally within her grasp, she threw it away and had avoided it ever since.

"What do you want, Baelor?"

"I thought I made it quite clear, though you did not deign to listen."

"Now that is quite enough," Nyrene shot to her feet, planting her hands onto the the desk and leering over at the prince. "Enough of your cryptic phrases, your facade of honesty. You need to speak plain to me now."

"Sit," he simply commanded, after a long pause eyeing up at her.

"No."

Baelor slowly relented into the back of his seat, the soft thud failing to hide the agitation at her dissent, eyes never breaking from her own. His jaw went to clench in the candlelight, the grey black of his hair doing little to mask the flex in movements as he glowered at her.

"I have grown tired of repeating words spoken plain to you, Nyrene."

Flames reflected dangerously within his pupils, rendering her helpless under his stare, as if they were burning through every one thing she wished to hold in.

"I told you I wanted you— all of you." he continued, an unfamiliar irritation heard seeping from his lips.

"You threw it away in the dawn, and I chided myself for ever allowing you to touch it," she hissed, parrying away his considered reality. "I thought I were wiser, and while I ached for you for years I couldn't believe it finally true when you whispered sweet nothings into my ear under the covers. As you reached for me like you were searching for the hold that kept you in the reality that yes, you did want to take me that night."

The differing eyes that had haunted her for years trod the familiar trail over her form— as if an awakening memory fell before him, piecing together the intimate moments in which she spoke. Over her face, her lips, her hair— and down, to the parted neckline of her unbuttoned clothing she forgotten to fix. To her hands that were still gripping on the tabletop, moving into clenched fists as if she were about to swing, to strike out at the prince— but Nyrene's words hit first in a satisfying turn.

"Lust, Baelor. I am used to it."

She eventually took her seat, giving in to his wishes as she finally allowed herself to utter the very reason that had driven her to flee Varner Castle, to stretch as far as she could away from the prince.

"You believe that was what it was—?"

"—I am speaking to you as a man, not as a royal. Your feelings of superiority in conversation will not beckon a kindly response," she rubbed at her eyes again, wanting to halt the visuals of his past chambers from mixing into the image of him sitting before her. "But I am growing tired at the subject, and I grew tired of wondering what cause you had that night. I thought I had known better, so it came as a shock in what we did together— like I'd undone all the work at moving on."

Her words unravelled quick after spending so long muted within. Pushed from countless thoughts to her lips seeking an escape, and as she thought she'd brought them to heel, they'd festered quietly. Waiting— hoping to be given opportunity to lash out strong.

But their enthusiasm had waned in the years since, their basic meaning all that was left.

"You were lonely," she continued in a muted tone, lifting her head to his piercing hazy stare as he appeared caught in her deep beliefs. "Lonely in those halls, the travels far from your home. And at the time— so was I.

"I had longed for it yes, it is the truth. Even when you had told me your feelings for another. I had accepted it, for how could I not? The gods couldn't re-thread our lives together. We were of vastly different paths, and your duty as the heir sent you to another," her voice trailed off as she began losing focus on her hands.

"I only spoke of mine in desperation to cause you to stay, else I would have kept it to myself. At least have some semblance of self respect after the Rebellion. But maybe at House Varner I wanted to show you what it was that could have been, or maybe I wanted to relish for a night in what I'd yearned for. To turn away from what happened after Redgrass— maybe I just wanted a connection. Or use you to avenge a pain that suited me instead— though all of it doesn't matter now. I've moved on from the futile wants of a desperate adolescent, and the woman who thought feeding the lost fantasies would mean something."

Nyrene shied away from his continuing gaze as she'd chanced it's still existence.

"But what made it worse was that you seemed to know all of that. Read me like one of your fucking books." she groaned in bitter distaste at the recollections, the embarrassment in the way she had acted. Even when grown stale in existence, merely acknowledging the memories held a level of self contempt.

"I did know you for years, Nyrene—"

"—Tacē, Baelor," she muttered, internally blaming the drink for her native slip of the tongue to command his silence. Commanding a Prince of the Realm no less, struck sharp even if she wished to speak to him as someone who was once her friend instead. She frowned into her lap, a conflict of pride and unease forming her lack of apology.

"I will give you your answers, for that is what you seek." he stated somewhere in front of her, Nyrene still unwilling to look in his direction after speaking such familiar insult and cursed frailties.

"I've long since quieted my ears to your truths of that night."

"I will do so anyway."

"Fine, Your Grace," she said, with a level of indifference.

"No, not as a prince."

Her face creased in confusion, finally looking up in surprise at the manner in which he was willing to divulge, while Baelor continued.

"I was blind to what it meant when I spoke to you last at Kingsgrave. Of—," he paused, staring down at the desk.

"—Of my betrothal," he finished low, glancing back up at her as if unsure whether to go on. "Please, do not dismiss what it is I am describing. I treasured your company, Nyrene, and my responsibilities elsewhere I did not articulate well. Nor did I realise the true realities of your time with your family, despite the reasonings behind my stay."

Nyrene's expression turned stony, beginning to find it difficult to bear his vulnerability as she'd struggled with her own. "Baelor, we were barely above adolescence. It was so long ago now that I do not think it wise to judge the actions of your younger self. Why would I expect you to navigate the ascensions of an asinine house, when you had rather serious handlings elsewhere in the Marches? And that's without dealing in the lost realities of a bastard."

"It was rather difficult for you, that I know."

"I do not cry for them, Baelor, not even when I left. Nor myself for that matter,"

"That may be. But, I gave an unsteady foundation on which we left. Such actions do not bode well in enacting truth upon others," he gave a slight cocking of his head. "I dare say, you must follow your own advice at times. Listen to your own sound words."

Nyrene responded in a scoff. "I'll speak what I want and follow what I wish—"

"—I am aware of that—"

"—The two are not the—"

She suddenly faltered, shooting Baelor a lethal glare and waving a hand in front. "Semantics, Prince. But I do not think what you described is entirely true, only a naive misstep in the direction towards me."

Baelor gave a turn in disagreement, a glancing of a brow toward his silver temple. "No, it may seem small, but your impact upon me was deep even if I feigned naivety in how far it went. To the both of us."

He stood from his chair, beginning to pace in thought barely able to look in her direction. He almost appeared— unsettled, Nyrene watched. Unsure of himself— and she'd never seen his reserve crack as such, even if it mere ruminations on the failures of a boy green to the world— or his guilt, it seemed.

Despite the harboured resentment, the slow dismembering of detached anger she'd held for those short years after began to his continuation.

"I had wondered about you as our lives turned away from each other— because how could I not? You were important to me when I suffered under an important time. Helping navigate the pressures of my father and path to the Throne," he turned to her with one hand gesturing from his side. "We were not so different, you and I, when it came to finding our place within families. Finding our own identities— maybe that was what drew us together."

"We share mothers of the same region, aye, but I would consider your experiences vastly different," she replied, her eyes creasing at the corners.

He gave a subtle shrug, nearing his chair and taking hold at the sides. "Now. As you've grown older, with more knowledge of the affairs in the world— but to a young man who was looked on in reluctance by his court for resembling the south. An heir that rather did not resemble the bloodlines of Kings who have sat upon the Throne— not so much."

His thumbs ran slow across the domed top rail, Baelor staring downwards in thought. She watched them run across from another, her heartbeat steadily elevating in intensity…

…How careful in touch he were, growing more pensive with each stroke of a thumb…

"—It meant a lot to that boy, becoming friends with another— and I have spent a long time reflecting on it while life has passed me by," he finally— finally— looked up at her then, pulling her away from the sight of his hands.

"I never did thank you for that."

The pure honesty in his words made Nyrene recoil hard into the back of her chair— this was not something she'd ever thought to bear witness to, had never prepared for, spending far too long focusing on the satisfaction at lashing out at him to even fathom a resolve.

The prince was explaining himself to Nyrene— explaining his feelings to her, and the vulnerability was so jarring it caused her heart rate to elevate even more.

"To say that I did not care for you after was a lie— I did," he continued, barely above a whisper. "Yet, I focused on my new family. Of the responsibilities to the Realm as the Rebellion began to stir— but seeing you upon Redgrass, alone in the mists. Standing there and witnessing your survival of the bloody affair— for what could have happened for you to have possibly been led to such a place?"

He appeared to grow bruised at the recollections, the blue burning a bright violet in his one eye.

"It stirred something deep in me I foolishly had not recognised. When I held you in that field, Nyrene, feeling the full weight of what happened. Knowing that your struggle was so real— it would be dishonest to say it did not pain me to experience."

"I do not like of this talk, Baelor," she began quickly.

"I— you deserve the truth, Nyrene," he stated honestly. "If it does not trouble you so."

Nyrene clenched at her jaw, hands twisting slow and hard in her lap.

"Aye then, I think I would do well to hear it," she replied in reluctance, taking a deep swallow of the still pungent herb now almost turned to mush in her mouth.

Baelor drew seat again, a heavy sigh leaving his lips, and he took a long pause in watching her fingers.

"What I did to you was unkind, I know that well now. I fear I always knew," he became subdued at the words, like he toiled in how best to describe what he ought to have uttered many years before. "I should have not left you the way I did. Push you away to tend to those wounds alone. Those scars stray far beyond the simplicities between man and woman, and I struggled at those notions. Struggled with the kinship towards you, and the weight of my responsibilities to my family— to my wife."

Nyrene inhaled sharply, pushing from her chair to cross the floors, her tread in step the only noise to break at the quiet of the pair.

But a small, incredibly tiny part of her found his words enticing. Every phrase, every thought of his once hidden now spilling forth, welcomed by a steady hope that had begun building over the coursing minutes.

But the other raw layers in words rattled the hope to quell itself, reminding her of the years wondering what he meant. What he did— forced to grasp at his actions instead of wishing at his meaning.

She made her way towards the forgotten goblet, grabbing the metal now grown warm against the brazier. Pulling the sour leaf from her mouth, she threw it into the flames while the waters hissed as they were whipped across. Nyrene made to refill the cup with wine, hesitating before filling another, and feeling the prince's eyes never leave her form as he waited upon the goblet now placed before him.

"These are many words spoken, Baelor," she said over the rim of her own, the dark stone of his ring seen glittering in the firelight as he took a slow sip. "Far more than I have been expecting."

"It is an accumulation of what should have been spoken far sooner than it has."

Nyrene took swill of her own drink, running the liquid in her mouth giving a hefty swallow and easing back into her chair.

"I fear I may turn villainous in your tale."

His lips had pressed into a thin line at hearing the caution in her words.

"Ah, you should not. The responsibilities of each of us formed our position within the royal family. They were deep, but different— and both of us agreed, though loyalty was always a strong point," he placed his goblet down, fingers running the length of its base in silent contemplation.

"Faced with such a predicament I ran from the confusion of those feelings— from the one who spoke to me in innocent desperation."

Nyrene gave a great sigh in return, placing her own cup upon the table. "How can we fathom all that we did in those days, considering all that we faced. Mayhaps—,"

"—It was not noble."

"Be that as it may," Nyrene paused, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "What you had was of great importance to you, and dealing with me was obviously difficult— and that is aside from what we too, had fought in."

"I have navigated your difficulties before."

Nyrene shot another glare in warning at the continuation of his quick remarks.

"Should you wish to hear more insults, prince? Then listen when I say, I do not think you should vehemently admonish your younger self so— not in the wake of well, this unveiling. It forms quite the embarrassment if we scrutinise it longer than we should. I know that," she finished in a mutter, the heat in her voice growing subdued.

Baelor only gave a small smile that graced his face in soft lines. "The follies of youth."

"Aye, indeed."

She heard the creaks in his chair as he made to address her again, though he seemed to dither at bringing it forth.

"Nyrene, I wish to continue if you will allow."

She gave a moment to weigh his intent, and Nyrene wondered if the prince had finished his drink causing his thoughts to flow so easily like her own had earlier in the night. Even so, she grew suspicious at what need he'd have to continue, when he'd already opened himself bare enough for her.

Incredibly telling, and not lost on Nyrene considering quite who he was. One who was constantly cloaked in gravitas, whose very presence demanded respect.

And something she was inclined to openly ignore, apparently, on drunken instinct.

"I— what is it?" she asked to her wine.

"I have long cowered under my actions since last we met."

She snatched her head up as he uttered words belonging to their last time together, to the last time he'd hurt her— and she was unsure she was well equipped at the present moment to deal with, now that her own wine had lowered once more.

"I should not think it best we cover that, Baelor, else I may retire from your presence."

He frowned, swallowing another gulp from his goblet. "I should have realised how great a deal it is to be left alone by the one person you want."

Nyrene nervously swirled the shallow contents of her cup.

"No. You do not need to explain, it is enough," she gave a shake of her head. "I've already thought this, Baelor."

The old friends now drawn quiet, sat together burdened by each of their own vulnerabilities. Sharing the late night drinks, growing distant in meditation. The candles had burned far lower in their wicks almost disappearing into smoke, the brazier now wheezing in a faint glow as the room seemed to darken with every passing minute.

Nyrene leant forward on her knees, rubbing roughly at her face.

"I fear the resentment I once held has been— alleviated, momentarily," she said between fingers. "Your words bring clarity, and I understand more so now in why it happened. Surprisingly, many images of my past have disappeared too, since being in this solar. You've eased at some of the memories."

She peered up at him, and he appeared to slacken— relax into her gaze. Nyrene pushed her brows together in thought, sensing further expectation from him.

"I think the throes of war will— hurt, a little less now that something has risen from it," she finished awkwardly, uncertain herself as to what it meant when she was to next face the reminders, granted Baelor's new admission of guilt.

"Will you come to me if it happens again?" his request came from far away.

"I— I cannot say, Baelor. If it will happen again at Ashford."

"I did witness a portion of it tonight."

"And they are details you will wish to unhear if I was to describe them."

Another stony silence, like hesitation had forgotten to leave an ease in the room for a response. Nyrene's blood began pumping hot, the new wine quickening in pace with her skin prickling down her limbs.

"I will take my leave, if it allows," she nervously said, pushing up from her knees and making her way towards the door.

"Nyrene."

The way in which Baelor spoke her name chained her in stead— the desire in his voice wavering melodic in the air, singing to her softly from behind.

She heard him rise and draw closer to her, Nyrene gripping at the stone plinth to will herself steady as she feared his presence, feared what the simple mention of her name could bring forth.

She could feel him close behind her, the steady breaths as the prince stood silent— waiting for her to acknowledge all that it was that he wished to give.

"What is it you want now?" she whispered, the quiver in her voice betraying her stoic standing.

He slowly weaved his fingers within her own, tenderly— hesitantly, as if he drew reserve in feeling her for the first time. And she frustratingly relented, rekindling the memory of his touch— allowing him to pull, turn her softly so that she faced the tall prince in the light of the dying fires.

Baelor dipped his head slightly, meeting her gaze. "Do not leave yet."

She breathed heavily out through her nose, offering a small hum as her brows knitted together again.

"I do not wish to speak with you any more, Baelor."

His head tilted from one side to the next, brows casting shadows upon his eyes in the dimly lit chambers— like they willed him to stop pushing through his unspoken message, the intensity in which he willed her to listen.

"I meant every word that I said that night."

Nyrene suddenly took a step back, pulling away her hand and clearing her throat. "No, you've spoken enough this eve."

"I have spoken not nearly."

"I do not want to hear it," she stated firmly, feeling her chest to tighten and drawing further distance away from him. "I sent that feeling, those memories far away. I left them in that castle."

"I did not," he offered up simply, leaning against the stones, hands either side of him so that his shoulders dipped square, level in watching her mull over her hurried protests.

"Do not breach this, Baelor," she warned, shaking her head. "Breach the topic of all that was said. We may leave it be tonight. I have enough to see me through the days, bearing your standing here. I've— I've no wish to speak in what I've already moved on from."

At her last words Baelor seemed to flinch, the smallest of jolts as he failed to steady his voice growing rasp at the edges.

"I was foolish in thinking that all that had passed was well, that you had forgotten my actions toward you— all of it. And I grew selfish that what I saw between us— what I felt— was strong enough to push through all else. You say that I was lonely, and for a long time I was— but I was lonely for you. Without you. That is the true bearing of it, of what I failed to make clear."

"Don't," she urged, as the prince immediately came stood in front of her, interrupting the beginnings of her pacing with a swallow of darkened finery. "I don't need any of this, I— I don't want you, Baelor."

"I want you."

He took a step closer, Nyrene backing away and stretching the distance from his continued confessions that sought to wrap her in the velvet warmth of his voice.

"I have wanted you for a long time."

He was steadily making his way towards her with each footfall, each word uttered— and she should have fled, should have taken quick pace upon stone and escaped from his clutches.

—But she didn't.

"I wanted you, Nyrene, before House Varner. Before it all grew sour between us."

She watched as the Hand pin drew close, forcing herself not to look him in the eye as it neared. The palm of her hand itched in phantom pain, as if the very mention of the halls and all it heralded— the night with the Prince— reminded her of her ability at self preservation.

A reminder of how close she had been in the gardens, of what had happened in the wake of it— at all that she had created for herself, running from the memory that had kept her awake in the nights following. The tossing in her sleep, of the pain in his discarding.

The sweetness in his voice as it brushed along her neck, whispering into her ear.

Baelor's hands suddenly reached to grip softly at her waist, the heat spreading from his touch guiding her closer as she felt the plinth nudge her from behind.

"I missed hearing your voice, and in how you speak," he drew in quiet declaration. "I heard your thoughts tonight and saw them pass across your brow."

His thumbs brushed circular over her dress, lightly kneading.

"I missed how your breath changes as you're faced with a challenge— your defiance in how you challenge me."

His voice was dripping in longing, her heart aching as it listened.

"The sure truth in your words— even if they're spoken venomous," at the last beat of his sentence it dropped deeper at the end, vibrating within her body for how close it were said to her.

Nyrene closed her eyes as she felt his head dip lower, felt the tingle of his course hair brushing against her neck where the collar was left open for him. As if it were enticing him to lay claim, to stamp a mark against her.

"I am sorry."

Her breath hitched at his whisper, his words running across the unbuttoned gap as if they looked to burrow themselves deep. Like they were pulling at her chest as it ebbed and flowed unsteadily, weaving across the goosebumps littering her skin. His lips ghosted above her neck, hovering before he finally lowered them to seal his apology within.

One hand began snaking around her back holding her firm while she leant towards the burning embers, feeling its warmth as she tilted dangerously further. His other traced from her shoulder, smoothing down her arm meeting the hand raised as she gripped at his head, while Baelor sent more tender kisses along her neck.

He slowly withdrew, looking her deep in the eyes with the want that she had waited for so long, thought to be a mere phantom flickering at the edges of her existence in mocking cry. He softly took her hand in his own, long fingers clasping over the tattooed lines as without looking away he kissed at the faint scar from their time in the gardens.

They paused for a moment, Nyrene staring into his differing eyes, his pupils nearly full blown in the dark of the room. They darted briefly down at her lips, the hand still placed to her back weaving her falling hair softly through his fingers— before Baelor finally lowered, closing the small space between them and catching her mouth with his own.

She felt herself naturally lean into the kiss, felt him grip tightly around her in desperation as it deepened further. Her hands slowly ran up his chest, searching past the silver metals gripping at the garments and pulling him down into her, their bodies a dark mist of want. Like they were trying to melt together— and she felt him hold her tighter, as if he were to lose his grip she'd disappear into the smoke drifting from the embers below.

But Nyrene was the one to break them apart, pushing at his chest with such force it caused him to stumble backwards. She turned away, gripping at the stones as the dizziness of their actions sent her nearly spiralling, and between deep gasps she sent across her shoulder a scathing remark in his direction.

"We cannot do this, Baelor. It cannot be fixed in such quick words spoken in the night."

He remained quiet, and she whirled around to read his reaction.

The prince simply stood before her, simply began running his hand across his chin silently, and she could see in the gloom all manner of thoughts flashing through his eyes as he stared hard at her— unsure quite what to believe, or how he were to act in what manner.

"I've— We've been here before and I—I spent years dealing in it without you, and— and— I need to get back to my camp," she said quickly, straightening her dress as it gripped ever tighter.

"You are to go back to him, to your knight?" he asked, the low inflections soaring towards her in shards.

"That is where my efforts should lie in my time here at Ashford. I have done much to create that for myself," she grit through teeth, acutely aware that Baelor too, was beginning to grow in exasperation. "I am required for the tourney, not to be forced to deal with issues I've pushed away."

She made her way across the floors, his next quiet question coiling around, stranding her in place and freezing the hands desperately buttoning at her neckline.

"Do you regret that night?"

Nyrene groaned quietly, closing her eyes before she turned to address the man standing solemn in the middle of the room, barely seen in the darks of his wear save the Targaryen red flashing from the depths of his robes.

"I do not regret it— but I regret the years spent longing for it," she whispered, her last reserves enclosing around her in defence. "I buried it so deep, Baelor, where I let it lie. And for years I kept it caged."

Nyrene turned her head away from him, taking short breaths in quick succession. "You quenched its thirst that night to the north, and you grazed at it again tonight. I— I cannot let myself cross the line again— the line that you had drawn— etched out between us. No matter your own intentions, your own wishes— all of it, I—,"

She sighed heavily, offering her last parting words in honesty. "The failures in my own have never waned with each day, Your Grace."

Nyrene wrenched the door open, pausing only to take one last glance at the pained expression plastered across the ageing lines of his grandeur.

The door to the solar slammed shut behind her, Nyrene only making short way down the corridor before she stopped to grip at the nearby balcony ledge. All manner of feelings surged upwards within her, everything that she had kept at bay making itself known once she'd left the prince's presence. Both hands planted on the cold stone of the open arches, she bent over struggling to breathe as all the frustration, all the pent up anger and pain rushed forth from her in jagged breaths.

A soft clinking sounded nearby, and she shot up from her position taking quick strides towards Ser Donnel who had appeared to witness the frantic woman, standing in half motion clearly unsure whether to lend her aid or keep guard.

"Ser Donnel," Nyrene gasped, coming stood in front of him and turning to gesture at her back. "Loosen my—my ties, if you please."

She heard him hesitate, felt the puzzlement to the request before he finally moved to draw the strings holding her tight within the confines of her dress.

"Thank you," she placed her hands upon her hips able to move easier within the garments, taking deep inhales as the panicked breathing finally began to subside.

"Are you well, Lady Nyrene?" she heard him move behind her, approaching the balcony and resting his arms on the ledge.

"As well as I can."

He gave a noise in what could be assumed as a chortle, and Nyrene joined him to look out beyond the castle walls, the night breeze coursing cool air over the pair.

"Quite the conversation the two of you appeared to have."

"Is it that obvious?"

"It was heard so," his expression turned from mild wit to a more settled form. "I remember you."

"That's another one tonight," she rolled her eyes, unwilling to look in his direction and focusing on the distant clouds shifting across the skies. "I remember you too, Ser Donnel."

"My memory served in the morn. I'd recognise the bastard of the sands and mountains— and her sharpness even if we weren't in a stable. You were a skinny thing, fighting in those courtyards then," he turned and rested on one elbow, his hand sitting lightly against the hilt of his sword. "Brought him many pleasant memories."

Nyrene scoffed, lowering to stretch out her back and muttering from below. "I don't doubt they will be the only ones he cares to toil over."

"Mayhaps. Few can read what the Prince mulls in his silence. You're one of them."

"Sometimes," she sighed, pushing back up to meet the guard. "He is of the same as what I met him approaching near two decades past, but also different from what I remember. He speaks of difference."

"Fortunate he's willing to speak as much at all. Alas, we're not the same as what we were in the Red Mountains, the three of us younger than some of the princelings here. I know you've changed in the years since. I'd wager many a tale in what you got up to— and where you ran off to."

"Nowhere. Everywhere," she hummed.

"Saw you in the wake of Redgrass Field," he stated after a pause, earning awkward grimace as Nyrene awaited how far he were willing to hack at her notoriety. "And House Varner."

She laughed bitterly to the revelation. "What else have you not seen?"

"There are many, but when it comes to His Grace there is little I may miss," Donnel shrugged, the night hours stretching the grey colouring of his form from the top of his head down through to his sabatons. "We are a watcher as much as a Kingsguard, burdened with not being able to speak of it."

He gave her a once over, reserve in what he may offer next fading as he carried on.

"You've led a troubled life. I could see that from Lord Ashford's banquet— and on its outskirts," Donnel's white armour glinted in the pale light of the moon as the shadow moved past. "May I offer you words, my lady?"

Nyrene motioned with her arm. "Seems you are already doing so, ser."

He shifted closer, gripping firmly at her shoulder. "To bear the pain means you have lived through it. Do not seek ease at the bottom of a goblet, else it tears us all apart."

Donnel patted sharp on her back, jarring Nyrene enough to take in the seriousness in which his blue eyes peered through the moonlight.

"The world is hard enough as it is. Do not make it harder on yourself."

She did little to mask her snort, shrugging out of his grasp. "It be of my own making that I must suffer. I can sure feel it at least in my stomach now."

"I've seen what it does when one turns to drink— or when one believes they are at fault for all their wrongs. Even if it is well beyond our own doing. Foolish naivety or not," he simply said, moving in the direction of the solar door a few paces down. "I've watched him do the same for many years, though that is without the tastes of wine."

The twist in Nyrene's brows must have willed him to go on.

"I dare not fully speak for His Grace, but for you I will. For a moment."

"And why would you do that, Ser Donnel? You are charged with his well being, not my own," Nyrene stiffly inclined her head in the room's direction.

"Because I knew you when you were young. Knew you both, for that matter, and in some of the years since. I may excel in battle, sword and shield. But even I saw what it was between you— and never once in all this time has he cared less."

Ser Donnel nodded at her, finally moving back to his position by the door. "You be keeping your sword sharp, Lady Nyrene. You may have use of it before the tourney ends."

She stared after him in disbelief, growing ever more unsettled at all that her night had given. Nyrene turned to leave the silent Kingsguard and his watch, taking the long path back to her pavilion as the moon witnessed the woman's laboured attempts at grappling with her plight.

[ohmylul]

Bertie Carvel as Prince Baelor Targaryen A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS | S01E04 - Seven

[frmurasaki]

I love how he looks in his red sweaters

[cinematvdaily]

BERTIE CARVEL as PRINCE BAELOR "BREAKSPEAR" TARGARYEN A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: 1.04 — Seven

[frmurasaki]

Thursday 18 December 2025 19:22, UK

[ohmylul]

Look, it's this fucking smug ass, cheating ass, gaslighting ass, just a general ass, bitch ass Simon.

Bertie Carvel as Simon Foster Doctor Foster | S02E04

[ohmylul]

Bertie Carvel as Simon Foster Doctor Foster S02E02

[gameofthronesdaily]

DANIEL INGS as Lyonel Baratheon A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS S1.01 ‘The Hedge Knight’

[ohmylul]

You have another choice. Whether it is a better one or a worse, I cannot say. And so, I ask you again, Ser Duncan the Tall, how good a knight are you, truly?

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS | S01E04 - Seven

[ohmylul]

It's our favourite toxic demented sorry ass bitch ass get your shit together for the love of all that is holy couple!

DOCTOR FOSTER | S02E05

[behindfairytales]

Bertie Carvel in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (s1) as Prince Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen

[ohmylul]

BERTIE CARVEL as SIMON FOSTER DOCTOR FOSTER | S02E02

[canesbian]

"no means no" chant begins in raleigh after carter hart plays the puck

[theforcediaries]

Bertie Carvel attends the press night performance of "War Horse" at The National Theatre on June 02, 2026 in London, England.

[ohmylul]

"Not right now, princess. Dada is very stressed."

BERTIE CARVEL as BAELOR TARGARYEN A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS | S01E03 - The Squire

[valaena]

Bertie Carvel as Baelor Breakspear Targaryen in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

[frmurasaki]

Beanie Carvel