forever is the sweetest con

| trying to live out my sad girl autumn dark academia dreams |

[strawberymilktea]

|she/her | 20 | sagittaruis☼, leo ☾, aquarius ↑|

♡ feel free to leave any requests ♡ ♡ (please read the rules below before you do) ♡

♡ Masterlist ♡

Dispatch:

I'll still feel the same (Sonar x fem!reader)

Merry Christmas (I miss you) (Robert Robertson x reader)

ACOTAR:

Scared I'll Never Sleep Again (Eris x Winter Court!reader)

Dancing With Our Hands Tied (Eris x Winter Court!reader) (prequal to Scared I'll Never Seep Again)

♡ Rules ♡

♡ This is a hobby. I do this for fun. I'm a full-time uni student and that takes up most of my time, so please be mindful that that will affect my ability to write and post.

♡ Just be nice and polite. This is my safe space and I will do what I need to to keep it that way (no kind of homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, racism, zionism or any kind of bigotry is welcome. you will be blocked.)

♡ I don't actually like ACOTAR at all (I couldn't even finish the first book. Also fuck SJM). I enjoy and find some of the characters and ideas interesting. Please keep in mind if you do request anything that my knowledge comes from fanfiction and the wiki.

♡ I am very anti ai. Do not feed my writing into ai. Do not suggest ai content or send any pro ai content.

♡ If you are mean or your vibes are bad I will block you

♡ For any requests (or requests for a part 2) please come with a prompt of some kind and use the asks to send them

♡ I will not be doing taglists

♡ Do not republish my work - on Tumblr or any other platform. As it stands this is the only place where I post so if you see my writing anywhere else it's not me.

♡ I will not write: (this list is open to additions)

dubcon/noncon (between the main ship) 

incest

large age gaps

self-harm

age regression

student/professor ships

♡ Ultimately what I write is up to me, so don't get mad at me if I don't write your request or something

[the-darklings]

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𓈒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 4.

pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby (bb) contents/warnings: graphic violence, blood, body horror, self-worth issues, internalised blame/anger suppression, mentions of past emotional neglect in relationship. notes: This part got very long so if there's crustiness I'm sorry, but this one is vvv important for overall plot and setting up future stuff. Genuinely thank you SO much for the insane amount of warmth and support on the series so far!

📹 better bobby series masterlist.

You wake up still pressed into his chest.

For a moment, you don't remember why, and then you do. All at once. The grin in the dark, the teeth, the wet, tearing sounds. Your whole body tightens. Better Bobby's hand is already on your back, moving up and down your spine, languid and unhurried, like he's been doing it for hours. Maybe he has. 

You don't know how long you were out. Sleep here isn't sleep the way you understand it. It's more like your body surrenders to exhaustion while the yellow hum rocks you under, and when you surface, it's never with the feeling of having rested. Just the feeling of having stopped.

You pull back. Slightly. Just enough to see his face.

He lets you. His hand stills on your back but doesn't lift. He watches you with those pale eyes. They’re Bobby's eyes. Exactly Bobby's, the same shade, the same lashes, the same way they catch light and hold it. His expression remains open and patient under your scrutiny, and he doesn't fill the silence. He just waits. Let's you look at him. 

You've never studied him this closely before. You've been careful not to. Because looking too hard at Better Bobby means seeing the places where the seams should be and aren't. Confronting how good the copy is, how flawless. The earring sits in his lobe at the exact same angle, and the chain drapes across his collarbone with the exact same weight. 

Even the small scar on his jaw from when real Bobby walked into a cabinet door at nineteen is right there, a perfect replica of a wound that happened to someone else's body.

You sit up. Put distance between your body and his. Not much—a foot, maybe less—but enough that the air between you becomes a boundary instead of a shared warmth, and you see him register it. The slight tension at the corner of his mouth. The way his hand hovers where your back was and then settles, open-palmed, on the blanket beside him. 

He doesn't chase you. He lets you keep your distance. 

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Bobby's voice is never careful, not even this version, but soft, like someone asking a question they're not sure they want the answer to.

You don't answer that. Instead, you say, “Are you going to hurt me?”

He blinks.

“The way you hurt that thing.” Your voice is steadier than you expected. Flat, almost. The flatness of a person who’s run out of room for new fear and is now operating from somewhere clinical. Survival-practical. “Whatever it was. The sounds it made. The sounds you made.”

There’s movement behind his eyes. He doesn’t flinch, but you spot a shift, a recalibration, like a camera adjusting focus. He remembers what you heard. That low rumbling from his chest that didn't belong in any throat shaped like a human's.

“No,” he says. Immediate. No hesitation, no pause to consider. The word comes out of him with absolute certainty, like a reflex. “No. Never.”

You watch him closely. He looks back at you. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting that flat, shadowless yellow across everything. Better Bobby's face is open and sincere, but you don't believe him. Not completely. Not after what you heard through your closed eyelids. The shrieking and the wet dragging sound and the silence after, the horrible, total silence. The way he'd come back to you without a drop of anything on him. Like unmaking something in the dark was a minor errand.

And not after Bobby. Not after learning what it looks like when someone says I would never and means it and does it anyway. With the slow, grinding, erosive negligence of a man who might have loved you once but still started disappearing while standing right next to you. 

Bobby never hit you. Never raised his voice in a way that carried a threat. Not once. Bobby simply stopped. Stopped seeing you, stopped hearing you, stopped reaching for you in the morning, and the absence was its own kind of violence, bloodless and total.

Now you're in a yellow hallway with a thing wearing his face telling you never with the same mouth and you cannot—you cannot—take that word at face value. Not from that face. Not anymore.

And he sees it. The disbelief. He reads it on your face the way real Bobby used to read light through a viewfinder. With instinctive precision, without needing to be told what he's seeing.

Better Bobby reaches out. Tips your chin up with one knuckle. Gentle. So gentle. Guiding your face back to his when you'd started to drift, to look away, to find a spot on the yellow wall that was easier to stare at than his eyes.

“Why do you think I chose this face?”

He says this face with an edge to his voice. Not quite contempt, not quite amusement. But snide. A little sharp. The closest thing to edge you've ever heard from Better Bobby. This brief flash of awareness that the face he's wearing belongs to someone else. Someone who wasted it, and he knows it, and he wears it anyway because—

You're silent.

Better Bobby smiles. Gentle. The sharpness folds back into warmth the way a blade folds back into a handle.

“I heard you,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

“From the other side. Through the wall.” He says it simply, his thumb working carefully over the dip of your chin. “He used to come to the store. Bobby. In the beginning. Before you worked the night shifts alone. He'd come hang out, and you'd be downstairs together, and I could hear you. Both of you. I could hear what it sounded like when he was still—” He pauses, expression twisting. You see him choose and settle on his next words. “When he was still trying.”

The lights flicker. Once. Settle again.

“And then he stopped coming. And you were alone down there. And I could hear that too.”

Your chest goes tight.

“You used to talk,” Better Bobby goes gently, watching your face. “Not to anyone. Not on the phone. Just—out loud. To the room. To yourself. To him, even though he wasn't there. Do you remember?” His thumb traces your jawline, feather-light. “You'd say things like he doesn't listen anymore. And he didn't kiss me goodbye again today, that's the third day in a row, am I keeping count now? Is that what I'm doing? Keeping count?”

Your eyes burn, blurring his familiar features. 

“And I don't think he sees me. I'm standing right in front of him, and he's looking through me like I'm furniture. Like I'm one of Clark's display pieces. Something you walk around.”

“Stop,” you whisper.

He doesn't stop, but his voice goes softer. Almost tender.

“You were so lonely.” He says it like it's the saddest thing he's ever learned, and maybe it is. Maybe loneliness sounds different from the other side of a wall. Rawer, louder, the way a voice sounds in an empty room because there's nothing else to absorb it. “And so sad. And so angry, baby—”

You flinch because you don't—you weren't angry. You were hurt. That's a smaller, quieter, more acceptable thing than anger.

Because anger would mean admitting that what Bobby did wasn't just a failure of attention but a choice. Night after night after night, a man choosing the path of least resistance over the person lying next to him, and if you let yourself be angry about that, then the whole careful belief of maybe it's me, maybe I'm asking for too much, maybe love is supposed to feel like this after a while collapses, and what's underneath it is—

“—you were so angry, and you didn't even let yourself feel it. You said it like it was your fault. Like if you could just be more interesting or prettier or less needy, he'd—”

Hot, liquid feeling surges up from your chest to your throat. “Stop.”

He stops. But his eyes don't leave yours, and in them you can see that he knows. He heard it all, you realise. Every whispered self-indictment, every quiet renegotiation of your own worth to accommodate Bobby's shrinking attention.

He heard the thing underneath it too, the thing you buried so deep you forgot it was there. 

The rage. The white-hot, screaming, incandescent fury of a woman who gave everything to a man who couldn't be bothered to look up from a television screen, who turned your love into background noise and let you stand in doorways wondering if you were still visible. 

You buried it because anger felt like giving up. Because if you were angry, it meant something was wrong, and if something was wrong, it could be over. If it was over, then you'd given your whole heart to someone who let it sit on a shelf and gather dust, and that was unbearable. So you turned the anger inward instead, folded it into self-doubt, and let it eat you rather than the situation, because at least that way the situation could still be saved.

Better Bobby heard you bury it. He heard the burial, and he heard the body underneath it, and he's looking at you now with something that isn't pity or judgment. Isn't the performative concern that Bobby used to deploy in those final months when he bothered to notice you were hurting at all. That tight-jawed what's wrong that really meant please don't make me deal with this. 

This is something else. Recognition. The look of a thing that knows what it sounds like when someone swallows their own rage until it poisons them. Until it makes them abandon everything they once knew for a world of yellow, buzzing lights and monsters in the dark. 

“It wasn't you,” he says, his hand cupping your cheek. His palm is cool, his fingers curving, and he holds you there. There’s no force, no hard grip, he’s just holding. Cradling. The way you'd hold something you found in the dark that was shaking. “It was never you. You could've been perfect. You were perfect. And he still would've pulled away because that's what he does. That's how he's built. He gets close, and it scares him. So he retreats, and that's his malfunction, not yours.”

It’s then you start crying.

Not like earlier. After the attack. That was shock, adrenaline, your nervous system shorting out. 

This is different. This is slow and terrible, coming from somewhere so deep you didn't know the room existed. 

It's the crying you should've done months ago, in the apartment in Santa Clara, on the nights when Bobby was asleep three feet away, and you were staring at the ceiling, wondering when you became the kind of woman who measures love in absences. He didn't kiss me today. He didn't ask about my day. He didn't look up. Keeping count. Tallying the deficit. The anger you didn't let yourself feel and the grief you couldn't afford mixed with the loneliness you absorbed like radiation, quietly, invisibly, until it changed the composition of your bones.

Better Bobby pulls you in when the first sob breaks. Slow and careful, his arms folding around you, and your face presses into his chest.

He holds you while you shake apart. His hand moves on your back, but there's more uncertainty in it now. He pauses at your shoulder blade. Adjusts. Resettles his palm. Like he's figuring out the right pressure in real time. Learning the weight of comfort.

His chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel the slight furrow of his brow against your hair, the way his body is holding very still around the motion of his hand. He’s noting each shudder, each ragged breath, trying to understand the mechanics of this. What crying is. What it means. Why your body does it and what it needs from his.

“I love him,” you choke out. Waterlogged. Muffled against his chest. “I love him so much. And he just—he stopped. He just stopped, and I keep thinking if I'd done something different, if I'd been—”

“No.” Firm the way a hand on your shoulder is firm when you're about to step into traffic. “Don't do that.”

“—if I'd been less”—”

“No.”

His arms tighten around you. You feel his jaw clench against the top of your head, a brief flash of what might be anger.

At the sentence, at the shape of the thought, the idea that you would carve yourself smaller to fit inside Bobby's shrinking attention span. His hand on your back goes still and then resumes, slower, like he's reminding himself to be gentle.

“You did nothing wrong,” he says into your hair. “You loved someone. You loved them well. And they couldn't hold it. That's not a flaw in the love. That's a flaw in the hands.”

You cry until there's nothing left. Until you're just breathing, wet and ragged, against his chest. The sobs eventually thin to hiccups, then to shudders, finally settling into a deep, wrung-out stillness, the exhaustion that comes after. 

Better Bobby holds you through all of it. Doesn't shift. Doesn't pull back. Doesn't ask if you're okay, which is a kindness in itself because the answer is obviously no and being asked to say it out loud would be one more weight.

When you finally pull back, your face is swollen, and your eyes are raw. Better Bobby looks at you with an expression you've never seen on Bobby's face. Open and bewildered, creased with tenderness in a way that seems to be happening to him without his permission. Like he reached for the right emotion, grabbed something bigger than he expected.

He touches your face. Thumbs the tears off your cheekbone, one side and then the other, careful, methodical. His brow furrows. Curious. The furrow of a thing encountering a phenomenon for the first time and finding it far more complex than anticipated.

“Sad,” he murmurs. Almost to himself. Almost wonderingly.

You sit together in the yellow light for a long time. The hum fills the silence.

Then you reach out and touch his face.

Your fingertips on his cheekbone. Tracing the line of his jaw. The scar from the cabinet door. The corner of his mouth where real Bobby's grin always starts, one side before the other, that lopsided asymmetry that used to make your heart stutter.

Better Bobby goes still.

Then he hums. Low in his throat. Warm. A sound that starts in his chest and travels up through all of him like a vibration through a struck bell. His eyes close. His head tips into your palm like a cat pressing into a hand, like he's been waiting for this, this specific thing, your skin on his skin, voluntary and gentle, initiated by you.

The difference matters; it matters enormously, you can tell by the way his breath changes, goes uneven, almost delicate. 

His lips part, just slightly, lashes fluttering against your thumb.

“That feels good,” he whispers huskily. And then, quieter, with a note of genuine wonder, “How odd.”

You watch him lean into your hand, and the expression on his face is unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. Bobby's face, but not Bobby's expression. It could never be Bobby's expression, you realise suddenly, because Bobby would've turned it into a joke by now, would've kissed your palm or made a quip or done something to break the sincerity before it got too heavy. 

Your hand stills on his cheek. He opens his eyes. Looks at you.

“I need you to make me a promise,” you say.

There’s another ripple in his expression. The tilt of his head. That almost animal curiosity, the slight cock to one side that doesn't quite track as human body language. “A promise?”

“Yes.”

He studies you. Processing. “What is a promise?”

The question is genuine. Not rhetorical, not evasive. He's looking at you the way he looked at your tears. With concentration, focus, and a desire to understand. You can almost see the gap between knowing the word and understanding the weight, and he's standing at the edge of it, waiting for you to build the bridge.

“It's—it's a commitment. Something you say that you can't take back. Something you keep even when it's hard. Even when you don't want to. Even when circumstances change.” You swallow thickly. “When you make a promise, you don't break it. That's the whole point. It's the one thing that's supposed to be unbreakable.”

Better Bobby is quiet. Considering. His eyes move across your face in that precise, reading way.

“I understand,” he says carefully, solemnly. Like he's holding the concept in his hands and turning it to see all sides. “An oath. A contract between two beings that supersedes circumstance.”

You blink. “Something like that.”

He angles his face closer, attention fixed and unblinking on you. “Then ask.”

You drag your eyes over his face. Bobby's face, Bobby's eyes, Bobby's scar. The face of a man who loved you and couldn't say it and showed it by looking away until you forgot what it felt like to be seen. The face of a thing that isn't that man and chose to wear him anyway because it heard you through a wall and wanted to be the version that stayed.

“Promise me… you won't hurt me,” you say quietly. “Not the way he did.”

The words hang in the yellow air. The hum shifts. Not louder, but denser somehow, as if the walls themselves are listening, as if the promise is being registered by something larger than the two of you.

Better Bobby's expression changes. Curiosity dissolves. What replaces it is— 

You don't have a word for it. Not solemnity, a gravity older than language. It rises from the part of him that isn't Bobby: the vast and ancient thing beneath the boy’s face. The part of him that understands what you are asking is not a small thing. That the promise you want is, for a being like him, a kind of architecture. A structure that, once built, holds.

“I promise,” he says. No hesitation, no charm, no Bobby-grin to soften the weight of it. Just the words, low and clear, carrying the same absolute certainty as his no earlier. A reflex, a law carved into whatever he is at a level deeper than the face, deeper than the voice. “I will not hurt you. Not the way he did. Not any way.”

His hand covers yours on his cheek. Presses it there. Holds it.

“I don't know how to break a promise,” he tells you, quieter now. “But I think that's the point.”

You nod, unable to speak. Your hand is on his face, cool to the touch, and his hand is on your hand. You watch each other for a long time, unwilling to move first.

He breaks the stalemate first, taking your hand into his.

“Come with me,” he urges with that restrained excitement in his eyes, barely contained behind Bobby's careful coolness. Something almost boyish in its sincerity. “Somewhere that's not yellow.”

You look at his hand, using your other to wipe the tear tracks off your face. “Is it safe?”

And then it returns. 

Not the gentle Better Bobby who strokes your hair and says I've got you. The other one. It surfaces behind his eyes like a shape moving under dark water. Vast, amused, ancient. His chin dips slightly. His mouth curves.

And for a half-second, the thing looking out at you from Bobby's face is not performing warmth or mimicking tenderness. It's something that has walked these hallways since the beginning. Something that heard you through a wall and chose to want you rather than simply take you, and the distinction between those two things is the only reason you're still breathing.

“Baby,” he drawls, and his voice is Bobby's, but the tone is deeper, older. “I am what's safe here.”

It lasts a second. Less. Then he blinks and the ancient thing submerges and Better Bobby is back, warm-eyed and easy-mouthed, holding his hand out to you in the yellow light like nothing happened.

“Come on,” he says, lighter now. Normal. That crooked half-grin back. “Trust me.”

You take his hand, and he pulls you up.

He leads you through the hallways. Different route this time. Sharper turns, narrower corridors, and Better Bobby moves through them with liquid confidence, his hand secure around yours, his pace unhurried. You pass through a section where the carpet gives way to tile, and the tile gives way to something that feels like packed earth beneath your feet. 

The walls shift from yellow to grey, and you tense, your grip tightening, and he squeezes back. Once. Reassuring.

Then the hallway opens.

You stop.

It takes your brain a moment. Several moments. Because what you're looking at doesn't belong here, can't belong here, is fundamentally incompatible with everything you've experienced in this place so far, and yet here it is: sky. Actual sky. 

Not blue exactly, but deeper and richer. The colour of late afternoon, easing toward evening, a gradient of gold and amber, close to violet at the edges. And beneath it, trees. Dense, old-growth, the kind of towering canopy you'd find in the Santa Cruz Mountains, all ferns and filtered light and the rich, complex smell of living earth. A path winds through them, beaten dirt, dappled with sun. 

You can feel it on your face. Not quite the real sun of your world, but it’s not fluorescent. 

You stand in the threshold between the hallway and the forest, and you don't breathe because if you breathe or blink, it might disappear.

“Level 14,” Better Bobby announces behind you casually, tracking your reaction. “Some people call it Paradise.”

“How—”

“Doors.” He shrugs. “Everything here has doors. Entrances and exits. You just have to know where they are.”

You step forward. Grass. Real grass, or something so close you can't tell the difference, and the sensation is so overwhelmingly normal after the carpet and concrete and yellow that your eyes fill again, and you press your hand over your mouth.

Better Bobby steps up beside you. He's watching the trees with that curious expression, head slightly tilted, but underneath it, there’s satisfaction. Quiet pride. He found this, and he brought you here because you were crying on the floor, and he didn't know what else to do except find you somewhere beautiful.

You grab his hand.

Hard, sudden, fingers lacing through his, knuckles blanching. Because there are trees and you don't trust anything that looks like the real world, because the real world abandoned you.

Better Bobby looks down at your joined hands, and his lips part. That smile appears again. The new one, the one still taking shape on features designed for smirking, learning in real time how to hold something softer. Slow. Almost shy.

He doesn't comment. Doesn't tease. Just holds your hand back and starts walking.

“It's safe here,” he tells you, feeling the tension in your grip, the coiled readiness. “This level is safe. Nothing hunts here.”

“You said the yellow—Level 0 was safe.”

“Level 0 is my territory. Things occasionally wander in.” He says my territory without emphasis, but the words land heavily anyway, carrying the weight of what you saw behind his eyes a few minutes ago, the brief flash of the creature that owns these hallways. “Here—” He gestures with his free hand. The amber light moves across his skin, and he looks different in it, softer. More like Bobby at golden hour on the fire escape back home, and the resemblance hits you like a fist. “Nothing wanders. Nothing wants to wander. It's peaceful. Even the things that live here are gentle.”

You walk. He leads you deeper, and the canopy closes overhead like a ceiling, green and gold, light falling in shafts through the leaves and landing in warm patches on the path. You hear birdsong. Birdsong. You haven't heard birdsong in… you don't know how long. The sound cracks something open in your chest that you thought had scarred over.

Your grip on his hand loosens. Slightly.

The path winds along a stream. Clear water over smooth stones, the sound of it gentle. Nothing like the dripping in the pipes on Level 2. Simply water moving over rocks because gravity says so. 

The path opens into a clearing. Tall grass. A meadow ringed by trees, the canopy breaking to reveal that impossible sky, and in the centre a fallen log covered in moss, the kind of thing you'd find on a trail in Big Basin or Castle Rock. The kind of thing you and Bobby used to perch on when you went hiking in the early days and kiss until your mouths went numb.

Better Bobby guides you to the log. You sit. He sits beside you. Hands still joined.

A bird—small, brown, ordinary—lands on a branch above you and turns its head and looks at you with one bright black eye, and you stare back at it, your chin trembling. Because it's a bird, just a bird, and you'd forgotten how much of the world you were missing.

“I didn't think this place could be beautiful,” you say quietly, looking at the amber light filtering through the canopy, the way it falls on the tall grass in warm pools. “I thought it was just… yellow. And carpet. And things with teeth.”

“Most of it is,” Better Bobby replies honestly. Not sugar-coating it.”But most of anywhere is. The trap of this place, if you can consider it one, is that you’d never want to leave. How could you? When everywhere else there’s death.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because it shouldn't exist. Because this whole place is wrong. It's not supposed to be here. None of it. And somewhere inside all that wrongness, there's this—” You gesture at the meadow, the sky, the bird, the stream. “It doesn't make sense.”

Better Bobby is quiet for a moment. Watching you the way he does—full attention, total focus, the listening that feels less like politeness and more like study.

“Maybe that’s exactly why it exists,” he says. “Maybe it was built by mistake. Or maybe it exists because nothing is ever just one thing.”

You turn to look at him. He's sitting beside you in amber light with his earring catching gold instead of fluorescent. And his face is Bobby's face, but the expression on it is something Bobby hasn’t worn in a long time, if ever. Patient, present, content with simply being here without reaching for a camera, without filtering the moment through a lens, or needing a barrier between himself and the thing he's looking at.

“I don't want to call you Bobby anymore.”

He goes still.

The uncertain one. A brief, visible tension through his shoulders, his jaw, the hand holding yours tightening by a fraction. His eyes flick to your face, and the light in them is guarded in a way you haven't seen from him before. Wary. Like you've touched something unexpectedly tender and he's bracing for what comes next.

You see the calculation, the quick processing, and you understand. He thinks this is the beginning of something else. A rejection. A pulling away. You're not Bobby, you'll never be Bobby, and I don't want the reminder. He's already building the wall behind his face, that smooth, easy mask he can slip back into, the charming nonchalance to protect himself. 

“You're not him,” you go on quickly. Before the wall finishes closing. “That's—that's the point. You're not him. You're something else. And it feels wrong to call you by another person's name when you're your own—” You fumble. Gesture at him, at the clearing, at everything. “Your own being. Your own person. Or—whatever you are. Whatever the word is. Entity?”

His jaw loosens, shoulders dropping a fraction. The wall stops building.

“What would you call me?” he asks quietly. Like the answer matters more than he wants to show.

“Maybe… BB?” You say it, and it feels right. Simple. Still him, still connected, but his. Not borrowed. Not a copy of a copy. “If that's okay?”

He's quiet for a long moment, simply gazing at you. The light shimmers on his face, and his expression shifts through layers. The careful architecture of Better Bobby rearranging itself around this new information, this small, enormous thing you've just given him. A name. His own name. Not the one he stole. The one you chose.

You lean your head against his shoulder lightly.

You can feel it through the contact between you, through the place where your temple rests against his shoulder. Something in him settles. Deepens. A satisfaction so total it's almost palpable, like a beam slotting into place.

He likes it. Being seen as separate, being known as his own being. Not the understudy, not a replacement, not the better version of someone else, but simply a version of himself. You can feel how much he likes it in the way his thumb resumes its slow circuit over your knuckles, in the way his head tips to rest on yours, in the breath he lets out that sounds like it's been held for centuries.

“BB,” he repeats, testing it. His voice comes in a low, warm rumble. Bobby's timbre with something deeper underneath, and the two letters sit in the balmy air, small and perfect.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “BB.” A beat, then, “Thank you. For hearing me.”

A hum starts low in his chest, a thrum you feel before you hear it. It travels the length of his arm to where his fingers are laced through yours. He squeezes once, and when he speaks again, the easy charm has drained out of his voice, leaving it quieter, almost reticent.

“I was lonely too,” he admits.

Your heart squeezes, quick and helpless.

You sit together for a long, long time, the light pooling thick and lazy around you. And for the first time since you fell through the wall, what settles in your chest isn't fear, isn't confusion, and not grief.

It's peace.

The walk back is different.

BB leads you through the same threshold, and the yellow returns, followed by the buzz that resettles on your skin like a coat you forgot you were wearing. But something in you has shifted. Loosened. The meadow is still sitting inside your chest, warm and quiet. You carry it back into Level 0 the way you'd carry a cupped handful of water.

And you're talking.

Actually talking. Not the halting, guarded exchanges of the past weeks. Or the questions that go in circles, the silences that stretch like hallways.

You're talking, and BB is listening. Somewhere between the threshold and the familiar territory of your room, you say something about Clark—about the time Clark tried to assemble a display bookshelf himself and got the shelves in upside down, and you'd had to redo the entire thing at midnight while Clark stood behind you insisting it looked fine—and BB laughs.

It's a good laugh. It's Bobby's laugh. Low, surprised, that huff through the nose that real Bobby does when something catches him off guard, and it makes you smile. Actually smile. Your cheeks ache with it. 

You can't remember the last time your face did that.

“He sounds like an idiot,” BB remarks, grinning. That cocky half-grin, the one that crinkles one eye.

“He's not—okay, he's a little bit of an idiot. But he means well. He’s just going through a rough patch right now. He doesn't know how to—”

“Accept help?”

“I was going to say read an instruction manual.”

BB snorts. “Same thing.” 

He bumps your shoulder with his. Easy. Playful. And you bump him back, and the normalcy of it—the sheer, stupid, ordinary normalcy of walking and talking and bumping shoulders with someone—is so sweet it makes your throat tight with a different kind of ache. An emotion closer to joy, which is worse because joy in a place like this is borrowed. 

“You know,” you begin, squinting at him, “for a—” You stop, gesturing vaguely at him. “You're not bad company.”

“Not bad company.” He puts his hand over his chest. Bobby's mock-wounded face, the one real Bobby used to pull when you beat him at cards. “I'm overcome with emotion.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, I'm serious. I'm going to treasure this moment. Not bad company. I'm getting that tattooed.”

“Can you even get a tattoo?”

His mouth hooks into that infuriating half-smirk that unfailingly warmed your blood for years, “Baby, I can do whatever I—”

He stops.

Mid-word. Mid-stride. His body goes rigid so fast it's like watching someone get hit with a current. Every muscle locking at once, his hand tightening on yours hard enough to hurt. His head turns. Not the way a person turns their head. The way a thing turns. Too sharp, too angular, his chin cocking to one side at a degree that doesn't belong on a human neck with a faint click. His eyes go flat and dark, and the creature behind them surges to the surface, breaching deep water.

You suck in a breath, eyes snapping around you, searching. “BB?”

He doesn't answer. He's listening. Every line of his body orients toward something you can't hear, his nostrils flaring slightly, and the hum in the walls shifts tone. Barely. A semitone. Like the whole level just inhaled.

“BB, what—”

He moves.

He doesn't explain. His hand releases yours and both of his are on your shoulders, turning you, walking you. Fast, with an urgency you haven't seen from him before, not even with the strange thing in the hallway. His jaw is set, eyes scanning the corridor with a focus that's mechanical, inhuman, processing information from sources you can't perceive.

“Please talk to me—”

“Shh.”

It’s not BB's voice. But an older rumble. Something that's done calculating, moved on to acting, and doesn't have the bandwidth for warmth right now.

He takes you to your room. The warm nest. The blankets. He guides you down with one hand on the back of your head, the way you'd ease someone into a car, pulling the blankets around you, and you grab his wrist because his eyes are wrong. They're flat, black, and old.

The thing in the hallway, whatever it is, has made him become the thing he was in the dark with the Smiler, and that version of BB is a version you can't reach.

“Stay here,” he instructs sternly. His voice is low and tight, thrumming with that sub-frequency that vibrates in the walls. “Don't move. Don't make a sound.”

“What's happening? What's—”

“Stay.”

He looks at you. One second. A flash of the warmth—buried deep, almost submerged, but there, still—and then his expression closes like a door slamming. BB straightens and turns toward the hallway.

You blink, and he's gone.

Just gone. Between one blink and the next, the space where BB stood is empty. The air where his body was is settling, displaced, like water closing over the place where a stone sank. 

The hum holds its earlier shifted note. That slightly wrong semitone, tense and high, like a held breath.

You sit in the blankets with your knees pulled to your chest, heart in your throat, and stare at the empty doorway and beyond it, listening intently.

Nothing. No tearing. No shrieking. No sounds at all. Just the hum and the buzz and your own breathing and the silence so total it frightens you more. 

You wait.

The meadow is still inside you: the bird, the stream, the warm light, the way BB laughed when you told him about Clark's bookshelf. The stupid, gentle joke about the tattoo, the way his shoulder bumped yours, and you bumped him back, and for thirty seconds, you forgot where you were and what he was, and the whole impossible situation felt like a walk home from somewhere good with someone you liked.

You press your face into your knees. You wrap your arms around yourself.

You wait.

BB comes back eventually.

You don't know how long it's been. Time in the Backrooms is a broken clock. Sometimes the minutes stretch into hours; sometimes what feels like an afternoon is over before a thought can finish forming. 

You've been sitting in the blankets, knees to chest, listening to the hum slowly, slowly settle back to its normal pitch, the tension of Level 0 releasing one degree at a time. You didn't sleep. You didn't move. You just sat and breathed, holding the meadow inside you like a candle flame in cupped hands.

You hear him before you see him. Footsteps. Slow. The particular rhythm of his walk. Bobby's gait, but smoother, more intentional, the way a predator moves even when it's not hunting. Then his shape appears in the doorway.

Something's off.

He's standing the way he always stands—one shoulder against the doorframe, hip cocked, that easy lean—but the details are wrong. Slightly. His edges are too sharp. The line of his jaw looks as if it were drawn rather than grown. His skin has a quality to it, like wet paint, freshly applied. And his eyes.

BB’s eyes are settling. That's the only word for it. The flat, black depth that swallowed the warmth when he left is receding, draining away, and Bobby's eyes are rising to the surface again. You watch it happen. You watch him reassemble himself.

He was something else, you realise. Whatever he went to do, wherever he did while away, he dropped Bobby's face to do it. And what you're looking at now, standing in the doorway, is the process of putting it back on. Climbing back inside the shape of a person. Buttoning up the human suit.

“BB.”

He blinks. The last of the darkness drains from his eyes. He looks at you, and the warmth returns. In layers, like watching a photograph develop, his shoulders relaxing at the sight of you. The too-sharp lines of his face soften into the Bobby you know, and his mouth does that almost-smile, the one that says I'm here without words.

“Hey, baby.”

“What happened?”

Not a question. A demand. You say it flat and steady, holding his gaze, and you don't let him do the easy-grin deflection, the don't worry about it. You've had enough of that for one lifetime. You made him promise.

BB reads it on your face. The refusal to be contained.

He exhales through his nose—Bobby's habit, the one that means I don't want to talk about this, but I'm going to—and pushes off the doorframe and comes to sit beside you on the blankets. Close. His knee touches yours.

“There's something new,” he says after a pause. “In the Backrooms. Something I haven't encountered before.”

You stare. “An… entity?”

“Yes.” He turns the word over like he's not sure it's sufficient. “It’s been… circling. Mainly the perimeter of Level 0. Not entering. Not yet anyway. Just... moving along the edge. Testing it.” His jaw works. That muscle at the hinge, the one that flexes when Bobby's thinking, when Bobby's holding something back. “It's been doing it intermittently. Coming close, then retreating. Like it's taking measurements.”

A shiver skitters down your spine. “What does it want?”

“I don't know.” And you understand that BB doesn't say I don't know often or easily. BB is the thing that knows this place, that moves through it like blood through a vein, that owns Level 0. Admitting ignorance is not in his nature. It sits wrong on his face, like a shirt buttoned crooked. “It's different from the others. Not like the Smiler. Not like the Howlers, either. Not like anything in my experience. It's very new.” A tense pause, then, “And very, very powerful.”

The way he says powerful makes the hum in the walls dip. Just for a second. A brief, almost subliminal drop in frequency, as if Level 0 itself heard the word and flinched.

You stare at him, your heart thrumming in your chest. Bobby's face, creased with a concern that doesn't quite fit the cocky architecture of it. BB in a rare moment of honesty about his own limits. Something new, he said. Something powerful. Something that makes a thing that unmade another entity with its bare hands sit next to you on a pile of blankets and admit it doesn't have an answer.

You exhale, turning to stare at the yellow wall instead. 

“I want you to teach me,” you tell him after a moment.

His head turns. The dog-tilt. Quick, surprised.

You look back towards him. “About this place. The levels. The entities. The doors, the rules, whatever—I want to understand it. I don't want to just—” You gesture at the blankets, the room, the warm patch you've been sleeping in for however long you've been here. “I don't want to be something you put in a nest and guard. I want to know what's out there. How to move through it. I don't want to be helpless whenever you leave.”

BB studies you. That long, reading look, line by line, extracting meaning. You expect resistance. Protectiveness. The instinct to keep you in the soft, warm place where nothing can touch you, where he can fold himself around you like armour and pretend the world ends at the walls of this room.

Instead, slowly, he nods.

“There are rules,” he insists. The caution is audible. Measured, considered, a thing that’s used to absolute control, negotiating the edges of a concession. “I go with you. Always. You don't wander alone. Not until you understand enough.”

“Okay.”

“And there are levels I won't take you to. Places where my presence doesn't offer the protection it does on 0. Places where—” He pauses, choosing his words the way you'd choose a path through uneven ground. “Places where going would be… foolish.”

“Okay. Deal.”

You watch him watch you, just like earlier in the sunlight. “Okay,” he says eventually. “I'll teach you.”

Time passes.

You don't know how much. The Backrooms don't have seasons, don't have sunrise and sunset. No reliable Monday into Tuesday into Wednesday that structures a life on the other side of the wall. What you have is rhythm—the rhythm of sleep and waking, of walking and resting, of BB's hand on yours as he leads you through doorways you're learning to see.

You miss the real world.

It hits you at strange moments. 

Not when you'd expect, not during the long stretches of yellow or the nights when the hum shifts pitch and BB goes rigid and watchful beside you. It hits you in the quiet. In the nothing moments.

You'll be sitting in the nest sketching a corridor layout, and the pen will skip, and you'll shake it the way you used to shake the pens at Clark's register. And the muscle memory will drag the whole world through. 

The smell of the showroom, lemon polish and particleboard, the radio playing low from the boombox behind the counter, the particular quality of California dusk through the front windows when the strip mall parking lot emptied out.

The apartment. The couch. The sound of Bobby's camera clicking in the other room.

You miss rain. Not Level 14 rain, or drizzle of the Poolrooms. Actual rain, East Bay winter rain, the kind that hammered the apartment windows and turned the parking lot at Clark's into a shallow lake and made Bobby curse because he'd left the car windows cracked again.

You miss the smell of wet asphalt. You even miss traffic. The dull boredom of a slow Tuesday shift with no customers, leaning on the counter with a magazine, watching the clock crawl toward closing.

You miss cereal. The specific crunch of it, dry, eaten by the handful out of the box at midnight because you were too tired to make real food after a close. You miss the weight of your own blankets on your bed, not the gathered nest-pile BB assembled for you. You miss the answering machine clicking on. You miss the phone ringing at all.

You think about going back.

Not the way you thought about it in the first weeks. That was rantic, clawing, animal desperation to find the wall you fell through and push back to the other side. That's burned out. What's left is quieter. More deliberate. A slow, circular calculation that runs in the background of your brain like a programme you can't close: Is there a way? If BB knows the doors, if the doors go between levels, if levels connect to each other in ways that don't follow geometry, could one of them connect back? Could there be a threshold that opens onto Clark's storage basement, onto the real world?

You don't ask BB. Because the calculation always stalls at the same place, the same, indestructible wall. 

The wall in your chest. The one built from the last six months of your life in Santa Clara, from every unanswered question and unfinished sentence and cold sheet and blue TV light and grunt. 

The wall that asks one simple question: Go back to what?

Go back to the apartment where Bobby looked through you like glass? Go back to the doorway where you stood with your keys in your hand and your heart in your eyes, and he didn't look up? Go back to being the woman who measures love in deficits, who keeps count of kisses the way she keeps count of inventory, watching the numbers dwindle, knowing exactly what the shortage means, and not being able to stop counting.

Bobby is probably relieved.

The thought arrives fully formed, mid-step, on a walk through Level 4, and it stops you so completely that BB turns back, his hand sliding to the small of your back, his head doing that quick, concerned tilt. You wave him off. Fine. I'm fine. But the thought is there now, lodged behind your sternum like a splinter, and you can feel it every time you breathe.

Bobby is probably relieved. Bobby is probably sleeping diagonally again. Bobby is probably eating cereal over the sink, leaving his bowl on the counter. Watching TV with his feet up and the apartment is probably messier, quieter. Less cluttered without your books and your magazines and your shoes by the door.

Your presence in every corner asking to be noticed. 

Bobby is probably lighter, breathing easier. Maybe he looked up from the television one day and realised the doorway was empty and felt—what? Guilt? Or the guilty cousin of relief, the exhale of a man whose obligation to pretend has been finally lifted?

You haven't felt needed in months. Not once.

The realisation surfaces slowly, a gradual saturation of a truth you've been standing ankle-deep in since before you fell through the wall. 

Bobby didn't need you. Bobby needed the idea of you—the girlfriend, the warm body, the person in the apartment who made it feel less empty—but he didn't need you. The particular, inconvenient you who wanted to be talked to and looked at and held and kissed goodbye every morning. That version of you was too much work. 

That version required maintenance he couldn't be bothered to perform.

But the ache—god, the ache. It hasn't faded. You thought it would. You thought time and distance and the sheer alien absurdity of your circumstances would erode it the way the Backrooms erode seemingly everything. Until the original shape is unrecognisable. 

But the ache for Bobby sits in the centre of your chest like a second heartbeat, stubborn and alive, and it doesn't care that he let you down.

It doesn't care that the last thing he gave you was a grunt. Love has no quality control. Love doesn't audit the recipient and adjust its intensity based on merit. 

You still love Bobby with the same enormous, stupid devotion you loved him with on that Thursday morning when the sun was on the sheets and he ignored the phone and pulled you closer and rasped stay. That love has not diminished by a single degree despite every reason it should have, and the persistence of it is the cruellest thing about being here. 

Because it means you’re aching for a man who made you feel invisible while standing in front of a being who has never once looked away.

You cry about it. Once. In the nest, in the dark, turned away from BB, muffling it in the blankets.

He doesn't say anything. His hand finds your shoulder. His thumb moves, once, twice, a slow circuit over the curve of bone. He doesn't ask what's wrong because he already knows—he's always known, he heard it all through the wall—and the kindness of his silence, the restraint of it, the choice to hold space instead of fill it, makes you cry harder.

You stop crying. You wipe your face. You pick up the notebook.

And you start mapping instead.

BB finds the notebook for you. God knows where, god knows how, a composition book with a mottled black-and-white cover and pages that smell like basement storage. 

You hold it and the weight of it in your hands feels so familiar it aches. The pen he gives you is a ballpoint, blue ink, the cheap kind that skips if you press too hard. You uncap it and the click of the cap settles something in your chest. An old reflex. The same one that used to kick in when you opened the inventory binder at the store. 

The satisfaction of a system, a structure, a way to organise chaos into a shape you can hold.

If you can't go back, you'll go forward. If you can't be needed there, you'll be needed here. Anything but the slow decay of being unwanted. And then, one day, when you're ready, you'll ask BB to find you a door back.

One day.

Level 0 comes first. The hallways you know, the ones BB takes you through, the turns and junctions and the places where the carpet changes texture and means something. A border, a threshold, a shift in territory. 

You draw diagrams. Floor plans. Rough, imprecise, the proportions wrong because the proportions are wrong. Because the hallways don't obey geometry in any way you can verify. But the act of drawing them—of putting pen to paper, using the things Clark used to tell you about rendering shapes and rooms—makes it less vast. Less formless. Containable. 

The pen moves and the world shrinks and for the first time in months you have purpose.

BB watches you work with undisguised fascination.

He sits beside you while you sketch, his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck, and sometimes he corrects you (that corridor turns left, not right or there's a junction there you haven't found yet) and sometimes he just watches your hand move and hums in his throat. That low, warm rumble that you've started to associate with contentment. 

His chin digs into your shoulder when he leans in to see your shorthand and you flick his nose without looking up and he huffs—offended, amused, delighted, nosing closer—and the exchange is so easy, so thoughtless, so much like two people who’ve known each other long enough that the edges have been worn smooth by repetition.

Half the time you forget he's not human.

That's the truth you don't examine too closely. Because it would mean confronting what it says about you, about your standards, about how broken your idea of normal has become. 

But BB sits beside you with his chin on your shoulder and his warmth against your side. He asks about your shorthand, remembers the answer, asks follow-up questions. He brings you food without being asked.

The line between an inhuman entity wearing a man's face and a person who cares about me blurs until it's less a line and more a smudge, a gradation, a slow dissolve from one thing into the other.

He cares for you. Genuinely. Not the way you care for a pet. 

You see it in the small things first. The way he checks the temperature of the carpet before he lets you sit, and how he positions himself between you and the corridor when you sleep. His head turns toward you when you shift in the nest, tracking your movement the way a compass tracks north. 

Most of all in how he says your name. Not baby, not the endearment—your actual name, the one he uses rarely, carefully, like he's holding it in his mouth and tasting each syllable. When BB says your name, it sounds like a discovery. Like a fact he's still pleased to know.

“You're organising it,” he says one day. Amused. Impressed. “The way you organised the inventory at the store.”

“It helps me think.”

“You're applying human systems to a place that doesn't follow human rules.”

“Is that a problem?”

He considers this. His head tilts. “No,” he replies slowly, like he's arriving at a conclusion that surprises him. “No, I think it might be… useful. No one's ever tried to map it like this. Most wanderers are too busy surviving to catalogue."

“Well,” you say teasingly. “I've got you for the surviving part.”

He goes quiet. You glance up from the notebook. His face is going through layers again, rearranging, the cocky default giving way to the newer expression underneath. The one that showed up when you named him. A door opening inward.

He catches you looking, and the default snaps back, the half-grin, the raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he drawls lightly. Entirely failing to conceal the sudden warmth radiating off him like heat from a furnace. “Yeah, you do.”

You add to the notebook every day. Layouts, landmarks, and the sensory details that serve as navigation. 

BB takes you exploring.

Not every day. Some days the hum is wrong, or BB is tense in a way he won't explain, or you can feel the level holding its breath the way it did the night he disappeared and came back wearing a freshly assembled face. On those days, you stay in the nest. You write in the notebook. You read the pages you've already filled and trace the paths you've already walked and commit them to memory because memory is the only filing system you've got. 

On those days, the ache comes back—Bobby's hands, Bobby's mouth, the way he used to drop his forehead against yours in the dark and whisper your name, just your name, over and over—and you let it sit in your chest and you don't fight it. But you don't follow it, either. 

You just write around it. Inventory the grief the way you inventory everything else. Label it. File it. Move on to the next entry.

But most days, BB takes you out.

Level 1, first. BB walks beside you, and his posture changes here. Subtly mostly, the ease tightening into a coiled attention. His head on a swivel, hand at the small of your back with a pressure that says I'm tracking everything in this room and nothing will get within twenty feet of you.

You sketch the layout in the notebook while he stands guard. You mark the exits, the supply caches, the places where other wanderers have left graffiti on the shelving units. Messages, warnings, crude maps of their own.

You get braver. You ask questions. About the Smilers, the Howlers, about the hierarchy of things that live here. How they relate to each other and what makes some dangerous and some merely present. 

BB answers. Not always fully, not always clearly. There are concepts here that he doesn't have a human language for. Mechanics that exist in the gap between what he perceives and what your brain can hold, but he answers, and you write it all down, and the notebook fills.

You develop a routine. You wake up, eat whatever BB has found or produced, and you walk. You explore together, map, and come back. You sit together in the nest afterwards and talk. 

And the talking is easier now, less charged, less careful. You tell him about your life. The books you loved. The way you used to organise your bookshelves by colour rather than by author, because it made you happy to look at them. The hiking trails in the Santa Cruz Mountains, Big Basin and Castle Rock, the way the redwoods smelled after rain.

He listens the way he always listens. Total attention. Full presence. The thing Bobby couldn't do. The thing BB does like breathing.

And you catch yourself, one evening, doing something unthinkable. 

You’re sitting in the nest with your notebook open, pen behind your ear, telling BB about the time you got lost on the Skyline-to-the-Sea trail. You had to navigate back using a park map you'd annotated so heavily it was more your handwriting than cartography. BB’s laughing. That low huff through his nose, his shoulder pressed against yours. 

You're laughing too, and the yellow light is warm, and you realise, suddenly, that you haven’t thought about Bobby in three days.

The guilt is instantaneous.

A hot, lurching, physical thing that grabs you by the sternum and pulls. Three days. You went three days without the ache, and the absence of it feels like a betrayal so total it makes you nauseous. As if the love you carry for Bobby is a fire that requires constant tending, and you let it gutter, and that makes you—what? 

The kind of woman who forgets? The kind who moves on? The kind who finds comfort in a pair of borrowed eyes while the original owner of those eyes is somewhere in Santa Clara, probably sleeping diagonal, probably relieved?

You go quiet. BB notices. 

His shoulder presses against yours (a question, not a demand), and you shake your head, picking up the pen. Start sketching a corridor you mapped that morning, but the lines are slightly too hard, the ink pressing dents into the page. 

BB watches your hand and says nothing, and the nothing is the right thing, the exact right thing, and you hate him a little for being so consistently, unbearably right.

You grow comfortable.

Not comfortable like safe, or comfortable like home. Because this place is neither of those things, and you know it. The notebook full of entity classifications and danger ratings is proof that you know it.

But comfortable the way you get with a person—a being, entity, a whatever-he-is—when enough time has passed that their presence stops being a question and starts being an answer. 

You stop flinching when he appears in doorways. You stop tensing when his hand finds yours. You lean into his shoulder when you're tired, and he holds steady. The meadow on Level 14 becomes your Sunday, your weekend, the place he takes you when the yellow gets to be too much, and you need to remember what sky looks like.

You stop keeping count.

You don't notice it happening. It's quiet cessation of a habit so ingrained you didn't know it was still running until it stopped. 

No more tallying. No more, he didn't today, that's the fourth day in a row. Because BB doesn't generate deficits. BB doesn't create gaps to count. He’s present the way the hum is present. Woven into the structure of your days so thoroughly that his attention isn't an event anymore, it's an environment. 

You live inside his attention the way you live inside Level 0. It's just where you are.

But the ache for Bobby doesn't go away. Only migrates from the centre of your chest to somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter, a room in the back of you where it can sit with the memory of your first kiss and his arm around your shoulder by the ocean and the way he used to say stay and mean it. 

You don't visit that room every day anymore. But you know it's there. You can feel its weight when you lie down at night, BB's arm around your waist, his breath on your neck. 

The ache says remember, and you say I know, and you close your eyes, and you stay.

Your handwriting fills the notebook. Page after page. The careful, slightly messy script. A system. A structure. 

A way to survive.

“It's circling again.”

You look up sharply. 

BB is standing at the edge of the nest, head tilted, that almost-human listening posture—chin cocked, eyes unfocused, his whole body oriented toward a frequency you can't hear. His jaw is tight.

You set the pen down. “How close?”

“Closer than last time,” ee says evenly, too evenly. “It's running along the edge and then pulling back. Then running a little further.”

Ignoring the sudden chill at your nape, you say, “Like it's looking for a gap.”

His eyes flick to you. A beat of surprise follows. Quick and subtle, the kind he still has when you demonstrate that you've been paying attention to the lessons, that the notebook isn't just busywork but comprehension.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Like that.”

You pull your knees up. Wrap your arms around them. The notebook sits open on the blanket beside you, the page half-covered in your shorthand. A corridor map, danger annotations, the new symbol you invented last week for an unknown entity, and behaviour unclassified. You used it for the first time yesterday. The ink is still dark.

“What are you going to do?”

“I need to check the perimeter. See if anything's shifted. If it's been probing a specific section or moving along the full boundary.” He's already calculating. The ancient one surfaces behind Bobby's eyes, not all the way, just enough to sharpen the edges. To give his posture that predatory geometry that doesn't belong on a twenty-something in a crop top. “I want to understand its pattern before I kill it.”

“BB.” You say his name, and he stills. Focuses. The ancient thing recedes a fraction, and the warmth returns to the surface. You hold his gaze and say, carefully, gently, “Be careful.”

His mouth parts. 

He crosses the nest in two steps. Drops into a crouch in front of you, his knees on the blanket, and his hand finds the side of your head. His fingers glide over one side of your face slowly. He strokes, long, gentle, from your temple to the nape of your neck. 

“Stay here,” he says gently, his thumb tracing the curve behind your ear. “Stay in the nest. Don't go into the corridor. Not even the first junction.”

“I know the rules.”

“I know you know.” His hand stills in your hair, cupping the back of your skull. He dips his head until his forehead is close to yours, not quite touching, his breath warm on your face. His eyes are darker, layered, and the thing behind them is looking at you, too. For a moment, both of them are present. BB and the creature he's built on top of, and both of them are saying the same thing. “I'll be back.”

“You better be.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. Just barely. The private curve that's his and not Bobby's, the one you named into existence in a meadow on Level 14. He presses his lips to your forehead. Holds them there for a beat. You feel the hum vibrate through the contact, that low sub-frequency that lives in his chest and transfers through skin, settling behind your sternum like a second pulse.

Then he straightens. His hand slides from your hair. The softness drops from his posture in a single clean motion. 

What's left is the thing that walks these hallways, silent and certain and very, very old.

He rounds the corner, and the yellow swallows him.

You pick up the pen. Open the notebook to a fresh page. You write: Entity X — perimeter — closer. Testing the boundary for gaps. BB checking pattern. Unknown motivation. Unknown capability.

You underline unknown twice.

Eleven minutes.

You know this because you've been counting. 

Your brain just does it now, keeps a running tally of the seconds since his silhouette disappeared. Because your body has learned that when he's not here, the math of your survival changes. 

With him, you’re the safest thing in this strange place. Without him, you’re a girl sitting on a damp carpet in a place that eats people. But BB always comes back, you remind yourself. Always. 

You're sketching the rough map of the corridors you explored yesterday, trying to get the proportions right on a hallway junction that you're fairly sure had five walls, when you hear the footsteps.

Not his. His steps are almost silent, a predator's tread, weight distributed in a way that isn't quite human. These are boots. Multiple sets. Heavy, deliberate.

You close the notebook slowly.

Six figures come around the corner.

Not researchers BB warned you about. Wrong uniforms, wrong insignia, a logo you don't recognise stitched onto black tactical gear. They're armed. Not with the improvised weapons most wanderers carry. Real weapons. Professional grade. The kind that suggests funding, organisation, a chain of command that exists somewhere outside this place.

The one in front spots you and signals the others to stop. He says something into the radio on his shoulder, clipped and fast, and you catch the words “confirmed,” and “companion” and “entity absent.”

They waited for BB to leave.

“Ma'am.” The lead one steps forward. Voice flat. Professional. “You need to come with us. We're here to extract you.”

Your body tenses at those words, coiling, and you stand at once. “No.”

It comes out sharper than you expect. Hard-edged. The backrooms have made you harder than you realise.

“Ma'am, that's not—”

“I said no,” you repeat firmly. “I'm not going anywhere with a bunch of strangers.”

His jaw tightens. He glances at the others. Some signal passes between them. A shift in posture, a nod, the silent language you’re not privy to.

He reaches for your arm.

You hit him.

A closed fist, fast, driven by weeks of survival instinct and adrenaline and the specific, white-hot fury of being grabbed by a stranger in a place where the only person who touches you has earned it inch by inch.

Your knuckles connect with his cheekbone. The man’s head snaps sideways, and for one bright second, you feel savage satisfaction.

Then three of them are on you.

You kick. You bite. Drive your elbow into someone's throat and hear someone choke behind you. You're feral with it. No technique, no training, just the scrappy, vicious fighting of a girl who's survived the backrooms and is not going to be dragged by men who couldn’t even bother to introduce themselves. 

Your nails rake across someone's forearm and draw blood. You wrench free of one grip and slam your heel into a kneecap. Someone swears, loud, furious.

“Fucking—hold her, HOLD HER—”

A hand fists in your hair. Yanks. Your neck snaps back, and your eyes water. Someone wrenches your arm behind you hard enough that the joint screams. You thrash, snarling. Your free hand catches someone across the mouth. You feel a tooth cut your knuckle.

The lead one is in front of you again. There's a red mark blooming on his cheekbone where you hit him, and his professionalism has curdled into something uglier.

“You want to do this the hard way?”

You spit at him. It catches his vest.

He hits you.

Open palm across your face. Your head rocks to one side. The world around you whites out for half a second, and then there's carpet under your hands and knees. Your lip throbs, burning numb, and you can taste copper in your mouth, dribbling. A boot slots between your shoulder blades, pressing you flat, and your cheek presses against the damp fibres. 

Your wrists get pinned behind you roughly at an angle that sends bright, screaming pain up to your shoulder.

“Stay DOWN—”

You’re on the floor, bleeding. There’s a boot on your back and hands pinning your wrists. You’re away from the only safe thing in this place, and the carpet is wet against your split lip. You’re afraid. For the first time since your encounter with the Smiler, you’re terrified. Immediate, animal fear of being held down by someone stronger than you.

You open your mouth. You fill your lungs.

And you scream.

“BB—”

One word. It tears out of your throat raw and desperate, hitting the yellow walls, and the walls absorb it, and the walls move.

The fluorescent lights don't flicker. They detonate.

Every tube in the hallway blows simultaneously, glass raining down like ice, and in the darkness that follows, the hum of level 0 drops—drops—drops into a frequency that you feel in your teeth, in your ribs, in the boot on your back that suddenly isn't pressing as hard because the man wearing it has stopped breathing. Not dead. Frozen. 

The way an animal freezes in terror when it smells something at the top of the food chain.

The walls crack. Clean fissures running floor to ceiling, splitting the drywall in deliberate, surgical lines, as if something were tearing its way through the building's architecture. The carpet ripples under your cheek. You feel it. The backrooms responding, contracting, the whole of level 0 seizing like a body in pain.

The boot lifts off your back.

Not because the man chose to move it. Because the floor tilted. Subtle. Just enough to shift his weight. Just enough to free you. The backrooms—him, it, the thing that is both—clearing the path.

You hear them before you see them react. The soldiers. Breathing fast. The click of weapons being raised. Someone screaming “what the fuck what the fuck what the—”

He comes out of the dark.

Not through a door but from the dark itself. Like the darkness peeled open and someone stepped through the seam. 

He’s not fully human-shaped.

The Bobby suit is slipping. Shoulders too wide. Arms too long, hanging at angles that make your hindbrain scream. His fingers have too many joints—you can see them in the fractured emergency glow of the one tube that didn't shatter—long and wrong, curling like they're remembering a shape that predates hands. 

His face is still Bobby's face but the geometry behind it is pressing outward, cheekbones like blades, jaw too sharp, too angular, the skull beneath rearranging itself into something that was never meant to be looked at directly. And his eyes are black. Fully, completely, endlessly black. Two holes in the front of his skull that open onto something without a floor.

He sees you on the ground.

The blood on your lip. The bruises on your skin. The tear tracks cutting down your face.

BB sees the boot print on your back.

There’s a sound.

It booms from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling simultaneously. From every surface of level 0, because he is level 0, and every square inch of it is snarling.

The remaining fluorescent tube doesn't shatter. 

It melts. The glass softens and drips. The carpet under the soldiers' feet goes wet, soaked, saturated, as though the floor is turning into a swamp.

You press your face into the carpet and close your eyes.

It takes less than a minute.

You don't watch, but you hear it. Screaming that starts human and ends keening. Wet sounds. Heavy sounds. The particular acoustic signature of a body being opened by something that doesn't need tools. That horrible, snarling, clicking growl of pure rage.

One of them manages to fire a weapon, and the sound of the shot is enormous in the enclosed hallway. It cuts out, followed by a crunch of bone, and another, and another, and another—

Then there's nothing.

Silence.

The level settles. The hum reasserts itself, climbing back up from that sub-basement frequency to its usual buzz. You can feel it in the carpet against your cheek, scratchy and too warm.

One fluorescent tube fizzes back to life overhead. Yellow. Sickly. 

You feel the air change. The temperature drops, and you know he's close before anything touches you. 

When it does—a hand on your shoulder, delicate, so delicate—it's not quite a hand yet. Too many joints. The fingers too long, still retracting to Bobby's proportions, still remembering how to be the thing that strokes your hair instead of the thing that just—

You turn over.

He's crouching over you. Still wrong. The proportions haven't settled. BB’s arms are too long, and his spine is curved at an angle that doesn't work with human vertebrae. His face is a rough draft. Bobby's features sketched over the older, sharper one. Black fluid coats his hands. His jaw. His chest. Not all of it is black.

His eyes are still dark, but the blue is bleeding back in around the edges. Like ink dropped into water, spreading, reclaiming.

You reach for him.

Your hands are shaking so badly that you miss the first time. 

Your fingers slip against the wrong texture of his jaw, the skin too smooth, too cool, still settling back to its bony configuration. You reach again, and this time you get his neck (too long, the vertebrae too prominent, sharp ridges under your palms where Bobby's neck was smooth), and you pull.

You pull yourself into him, and you cling. 

Arms around his neck, face buried in his throat, legs curling up, making yourself as small as possible against his chest because if you can get close enough, maybe nothing will ever reach you again. 

You wrap yourself around him with a muffled sob. One sob, then another, then a third that breaks open into something ragged and ugly and not at all brave.

You’re shaking and bleeding, crying into the neck of a monster, and you don't care. You don't care about the wrong temperature, the wrong shape or the black fluid soaking into your shirt. 

You don't care.

BB freezes. One second. Two. The violence still running, the gentleness needing a moment to boot up. You feel it. The exact instant the system switches. His whole body shudders once, and then his arms come around you.

Tight. So tight. He scoops you up like you're nothing—one arm under your legs, one around your back—and pulls you into his chest and holds you against him like he's trying to absorb you. Like he could fold you into his body and keep you there where nothing touches you ever again. 

His chin comes down on the top of your head. His whole body curves around you. You feel the strength in every inch of him. The same strength that just did what it just did, repurposed. Every ounce of force that tore six armed men apart, now calibrated with impossible precision to the exact pressure of holding without breaking.

“I'm here.” His voice. Rough. Not fully Bobby's voice yet. There's an edge underneath it still, something vast and deep, like hearing someone speak from several floors down. “I'm here, baby. I'm here.”

You press closer. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. Bobby's jacket. Your face is against his throat, and you can feel the absence of a pulse under your cheek. No heartbeat. Just the hum. His hum. Vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“They—” Your voice is thick, muffled against his skin. “They grabbed me, they were trying to—I fought, I tried to—”

“I know.” His hand finds the back of your head. Cradles it. His fingers—the right number of joints now, almost fully Bobby-shaped again—thread into your hair the way they do in the nest, slow, gentle, the careful repetitive motion that means safe, you're safe, I'm here. “I know. It's over.”

“There were six of them and I couldn't—”

“You don't have to.”

His other hand finds your face. Tilts it up. His thumb traces your split lip with a touch so light it barely registers. Just the ghost of contact, the pad of his thumb skating over the cut, and you watch his jaw tighten. The blue in his eyes flickers. Darkness swims underneath it, surfacing and submerging, and you know he is looking at the blood on your mouth, and memorising who put it there, and the fact that they’re already dead is not enough. Will never be enough.

“Does it hurt?” Quiet. Bobby's voice now, almost entirely. That specific soft register he uses in the nest, the one that makes your chest ache.

“A little.”

His thumb moves to the bruise on your cheekbone. Traces the edge of it. Down to your jaw. Along the finger-shaped marks on your wrist, and the sound he makes is barely audible. Low, tight snarl. A vibration caught behind his teeth.

“I should have been here.”

“You came.”

“Not fast enough.”

You almost laugh. What comes out instead is a wet, clogged sound. “You came very quickly, BB.”

“Not fast enough,” he repeats, and means it. 

You put your head back against his chest. He holds you tighter. He hums. Shaky at first, the frequency wobbles. Then it steadies. Finding its rhythm. His song. The one that doesn't exist anywhere outside of him.

You feel the backrooms settle around you both. The lights dim softer. Temperature rises, degree by gentle degree, until the air feels like a room in a house instead of a hallway in purgatory. He’s doing that. Rewriting the space around your body because you’re shaking, and he can't make you stop shaking, but he can make everything else softer.

“BB.” Your voice is small. Muffled against his chest.

“Yeah?” Immediate. Soft.

“Don't leave.” You swallow. Press your face harder into the fabric of his jacket. “Just—for a bit. Don't leave.”

His arms tighten, cheek pressing against the top of your head. You feel him breathe—not because he needs to, but because you need to feel it, and he knows what you need, even before you know it yourself.

“Never,” he whispers.

One word. A law. Written into the fabric of this place. Never. As in: the sun will come up. As in: water runs downhill. As in: I will be here.

You close your eyes.

The shaking ebbs, not all at once but in increments, your body releasing its grip on the panic the way a fist unclenches. One finger, then another, then another. His hand keeps moving over your hair. Rhythmic. Patient. He will do this for as long as you need.

He will do this forever if you let him.

You stay like that. On the floor. In the hallway. Curled in the lap of a thing that’s just killed six men.

The backrooms are changing. You can feel it beneath you, a shuddering grind. Hallways folding. Routes sealing shut. The architecture of level 0 quietly, methodically, permanently rearranging itself around you both. Doors that used to lead here now lead nowhere. 

He’s taking you somewhere no one will find you.

And you let him. Eyes closed. Face against his chest. Listening to the hum.

You let him.

M.E.G. INTERNAL — MAJOR EXPLORER GROUP

DEPARTMENT OF ENTITY RESEARCH & CONTAINMENT

▓▓▓▓▓▓ CLASSIFIED // LEVEL 4 — RESTRICTED // URGENT REVIEW ▓▓▓▓▓▓

INCIDENT REPORT: IR-0-27 DOCUMENT ID: MEG-ENT-0000-IR-0-27 CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 4 — URGENT FILED BY: Operations Director ██████ DATE: ██/██/199█ RE: Unauthorised Engagement With Entity 0 / Companion — Hostile Extraction Attempt by External Agency STATUS: CRITICAL — ONGOING CONSEQUENCES

SUMMARY OF INCIDENT

On ██/██/199█, at approximately ██:██ hours, a six-person tactical unit operating under the authority of ██████████████████████████████████ (hereafter "the Agency") conducted an unauthorised extraction attempt on the individual designated "the Companion" in M.E.G. Entity 0 documentation.

M.E.G. had no advance knowledge of this operation. We were not consulted or informed. We were not given the opportunity to do what we have spent the last eighteen months doing, which is explicitly and repeatedly recommending against exactly this course of action.

Our recommendation, stated in Section 7.2 of the Entity 0 dossier and reiterated in no fewer than six inter-agency memoranda, was as follows:

"Do not intervene. Do not extract. Do not, under any circumstances, threaten the Companion's safety within Entity 0's perceptual range."

The Agency disregarded this recommendation.

All six members of the tactical unit are dead.

RECONSTRUCTION OF EVENTS

The following timeline has been assembled from recovered equipment (three body cameras, one partially functional radio unit) and corroborating seismic data from M.E.G. monitoring equipment on Levels 0 through 3.

██:██ — Six-person tactical unit enters Level 0 via access point ██████. Equipment and insignia consistent with ██████████████████████████████████. The unit is armed with ██████████████████████████████████. They are equipped for a hostile extraction. This was not a rescue. This was a retrieval.

██:██ — Unit locates the Companion in a hallway junction on Level 0, sublevel ██████. Entity 0 is not present. Body camera footage confirms the unit waited for Entity 0 to leave the Companion's immediate vicinity before approaching. This indicates prior surveillance. The Agency was watching. We did not know they were watching. This is itself a security failure that is being reviewed separately.

██:██ — Unit lead makes verbal contact with the Companion. Instructs her to comply with the extraction. Companion refuses. She states clearly, on camera, that she does not wish to be removed. Her exact words are "No" and "I'm not going anywhere."

██:██ — Unit lead attempts physical restraint. The Companion resists violently. Body camera footage shows her striking the unit lead in the face, drawing blood from a secondary operative, and disabling a third with a knee strike before being subdued by multiple operatives simultaneously. She fought like someone who has been surviving the Backrooms for ██████, and it shows. The Companion is subsequently struck across the face by the unit lead and forced to the ground. Bruising consistent with forcible restraint is visible on both wrists.

I will repeat that for the record: a civilian who had clearly, verbally, on camera refused extraction was beaten to the floor by a six-person tactical unit. 

██:██ — M.E.G. seismic monitoring stations on Levels 0, 1, 2, and 3 register a simultaneous anomalous event. The reading does not correspond to any known geological or structural phenomenon. Dr. ██████ has described the waveform as "an earthquake." I am including her analysis verbatim because I do not have a better description.

██:██ — The Companion screams.

██:██ — Entity 0 arrives.

The gap between ██:██ and ██:██ is approximately 1.3 seconds. Entity 0's last confirmed position was ██████████████████████████████████, an estimated █████████████ meters from the Companion's location. It covered this distance in 1.3 seconds. We do not have a theoretical framework for this. We are not going to develop one. It doesn't matter. What matters is what happened next.

██:██ (CONCURRENT) — What we did not understand at the time—and what has only become clear through post-incident analysis—is that Entity 0 did not move through the Backrooms to reach the Companion. It moved the Backrooms.

Temporal monitoring equipment across Levels 0 through 266 recorded simultaneous, catastrophic time distortion events at the moment of Entity 0's displacement. On Level 1, clocks ran backwards for approximately 3.7 seconds. On Level 2, a monitoring team reported experiencing the same eleven-second interval twenty times in succession. On Level 49, two operatives aged approximately 6 years in the space of 1.3 real-time seconds. Medical examination confirmed accelerated cellular turnover consistent with temporal compression. Both operatives have been placed on medical leave.

Entity 0 tore through the temporal fabric of the Backrooms to close the distance between itself and the Companion. It did not navigate. It did not transit. It ripped a hole through the structure of the intervening space.

The damage on the lower levels was temporary. The damage on Level ███ was not.

Level ███ is gone.

Level ███—a fully mapped, documented, and intermittently populated level of the Backrooms—no longer exists. It was not sealed. M.E.G. operatives who attempted to access Level ███ via three separate confirmed entry points found nothing. Not empty corridors. Not blank walls. Nothing. The space that Level ███ occupied is simply absent. As though it was never there at all. 

Entity 0's transit path between its last confirmed location and the Companion passed directly through Level ███. The conclusion is unavoidable: Entity 0, in the 1.3 seconds it took to reach the Companion, annihilated an entire level of the Backrooms as collateral damage. The way a bullet destroys the wall behind the target. Level ███ was simply in the way.

We do not know if there were casualties. Level ███ was classified as intermittently populated. Wanderers passed through; some may have been sheltering there at the time of the event. We will likely never know. There is nothing left to recover. There is nothing left to examine. An entire level of reality was erased in 1.3 seconds.

Dr. ██████ has requested that this section of the report be classified as Level 5. I have denied this request. Everyone needs to read this. Everyone needs to understand what we are dealing with.

██:██ through ██:██ — Body camera footage for this period is partially corrupted. What remains has been reviewed by myself, Dr. ██████, and Dr. ███████████. Dr. ████ has declined to review it. Her decision is respected.

Entity 0 was not in its standard manifestation. I am not going to describe the specific deviations in this report. The footage is available for personnel with Level 4 clearance and a strong stomach.

The engagement lasted approximately 42 seconds.

Entity 0 did not use weapons. Entity 0 is the weapon.

All six operatives were killed. Cause of death for four: ████████████████████████ Cause of death for the remaining two: ██████████████████████████████████. Recovery of remains has been deemed inadvisable at this time, as Entity 0 ██████████████████████████████████.

██:██ — Final body camera footage shows Entity 0 approaching the Companion. It is partially restructured to its usual template, but not fully. The Companion does not retreat. She reaches for it. She clings to it. Entity 0 gathers her. The word "cradles" appears in three separate reviewer notes, and I am allowing it despite its lack of clinical precision because nothing else is accurate, and assumes a protective posture. Audio, though degraded, captures the Companion's voice saying something indistinct, and Entity 0 responding with a single word. Audio analysis has been unable to confirm the word. Dr. ██████ believes it was "never." The camera fails shortly after.

ASSESSMENT OF CONSEQUENCES

I said in Section 7.2 of the Entity 0 dossier that I did not want to see what it does to us. I have now seen it. I was right not to want to.

But the killings are not the primary concern of this report. Soldiers die. Operations fail. This is the nature of work in the Backrooms. The primary concern is what this incident has done to years of carefully maintained observational neutrality between M.E.G. and Entity 0.

Entity 0 tolerated us. That is not an exaggeration or a simplification. We have operated monitoring equipment on Level 0 for eighteen months. Entity 0 knew it was there. It knew we were watching. And it allowed it, the way a homeowner allows a bird to nest in their gutter. Not because they approve, but because it doesn't bother them enough to act.

That tolerance is, as of this incident, in question.

Within 48 hours of IR-0-27, the following changes were observed:

Level ███ remains nonexistent. Repeated attempts to locate it via all known access points have failed. Dr. ██████ has formally recommended that it be struck from the Backrooms cartography index. The level is not missing. It was unmade. The temporal scarring along Entity 0's transit path shows no sign of healing or regeneration. This is, as far as we can determine, permanent. An entire level of the Backrooms has been permanently destroyed as a byproduct of Entity 0's emotional response to a threat against the Companion. 

M.E.G. monitoring equipment on Level 0, sublevel ██████ through ██████, ceased functioning. Not damaged. Removed. Every sensor, every camera, every seismic monitor. Gone. No debris. No evidence of destruction. The equipment is simply no longer there.

Three M.E.G. personnel conducting routine observation on Level 0 reported that the hallways they had used for months had "rearranged." Routes that previously led to confirmed Companion sighting locations now terminate in dead ends. Level 0 has been restructured. We believe Entity 0 has deliberately altered the architecture to prevent future observation.

The Companion has not been sighted since IR-0-27. She is not at any previously confirmed location. The blanket nest—documented across seven sighting reports as Entity 0's primary base of operation with the Companion—is empty. Every blanket, every scavenged item, every trace of habitation has been removed. As though no one was ever there.

Entity 0 has not been sighted on Level 0 since IR-0-27.

The implication is clear: Entity 0 has relocated the Companion. To where, we do not know. Dr. ██████ has proposed that they may have moved to a sublevel of Level 0 that is not represented in our current mapping. A level beneath the level, a space that Entity 0 has carved out or always possessed and simply never used until now. Until it had a reason to hide something it could not afford to lose.

We have, in the space of one unauthorised operation conducted by an agency that ignored every warning we provided, lost the single greatest research asset in the history of M.E.G. entity studies. The Companion is gone. Our access is gone. Years of carefully accumulated observational data has been rendered functionally useless because the subject has moved to a location we cannot find and sealed the door behind it.

FORMAL OBJECTIONS

I want the following on the record:

M.E.G. explicitly, repeatedly, and in writing recommended against any attempt to extract, contain, or engage the Companion. These recommendations were provided to the Agency through proper inter-organisational channels on ██/██/198█, ██/██/198█, ██/██/198█, ██/██/199█, ██/██/199█, and ██/██/199█. Each was acknowledged. None were followed.

The Companion was not a hostage. She verbally refused extraction, clearly, and on camera. The Agency proceeded with force. This is not a rescue. This is an assault on a civilian by a government-adjacent organisation operating without jurisdiction inside a space they do not understand.

The Companion was injured. She fought back and was beaten to the ground for it. She bled. And the thing that has been protecting her heard her scream its name. We told them what it does to things that threaten what belongs to it. We told them. They didn't listen. At least six people are dead because they didn't listen.

Entity 0 has, until now, operated within a framework that M.E.G. was beginning to understand. It was predictable. Perhaps not in its actions, but in its priorities. The Companion was the variable. The Companion was the key. And now the Companion is gone, and Entity 0 has demonstrated that its response to perceived threats is not merely violent but architectural. It didn't just kill the threat. It restructured its entire domain to prevent the threat from recurring. It sealed Level 0. It erased its footprint. It took its Companion, and it disappeared.

An entire level of the Backrooms was destroyed. Gone. Erased from existence as collateral damage during Entity 0's transit. If there were wanderers sheltering on Level ███ they are dead. Or worse. Or something we don't have a word for because the space they occupied no longer exists in any meaningful sense. We will never know. The Agency's unauthorised operation may have cost lives far beyond the six operatives they sent in, and we have no way to calculate the true body count because there is nothing left to count.

We do not know where Entity 0 is. We do not know if it will allow future contact. We do not know if, the next time an M.E.G. operative enters Level 0, Entity 0 will distinguish between us and the Agency. We may have inherited the consequences of someone else's stupidity, and we may pay for it in personnel.

RECOMMENDATIONS

All M.E.G. operations on Level 0 are suspended indefinitely pending reassessment.

The Agency is to be formally censured and barred from independent Backrooms operations until further notice. Their response to this censure is noted and disregarded.

No further attempts to locate, contact, or extract the Companion are to be conducted by any organisation, under any authority, for any reason.

If—and I stress if—Entity 0 re-establishes contact with M.E.G. personnel, the interaction is to be treated as a diplomacy scenario, not a research scenario. Entity 0 is not a subject. Entity 0 is, functionally, a sovereign power that we have just watched an allied agency declare war on. We will conduct ourselves accordingly.

Someone needs to tell the Agency what "apex predator" means. I have included a dictionary to help and clear the confusion.

Filed: ██/██/199█

Operations Director ██████

Addendum, handwritten:

She screamed his name, and the level cracked open.

I've been doing this for eleven years. I have never seen a response that fast. 1.3 seconds. It wasn't travel. He didn't cross the distance. The distance stopped existing. She called, and the Backrooms folded to put him where she was. And everything between them—every hallway, every corridor, every room, an entire level—ceased to exist because it was in his way.

The body camera audio from the aftermath is mostly static. But there is a moment, mostly degraded, where you can hear humming. And underneath the humming, faintly, a voice. Hers. Saying "don't leave." And then his. One word.

We are not dealing with an entity that lives in the Backrooms.

We are dealing with the Backrooms. And it is in love.

God help us all.

▓▓▓▓▓▓ END OF REPORT // FILE STATUS: OPEN — NEVER CLOSED ▓▓▓▓▓▓

[strawberymilktea]

this series is so insanely good i don't even know what to say

[gwendolinechristie]

the bisexual agenda

[grimgasm]

the uniform stays... half on?

[seewhoyouwanttosee]

TEARS - JACK ABBOT X READER

☆ WORD COUNT: 5.1K

☆ SUMMARY: Your crush on Jack was getting out of hand and seriously debilitating your ability to live a regular life. It doesn’t help that the man also always happens to bear witness whenever something goes horribly wrong in your life. Or in short, the three (3) times Jack Abbot saves your ass, and the one (1) time you pay him back for it.

☆ CONTAINS: Younger, fem!reader, alcohol consumption, suggestive content (barely), mentions wanting to drown, embarrassing reader, Jack is actually calm, cool and collected in this.

☆AUTHORS NOTE: Long time no see! I actually got second-hand embarrassment writing this, poor girl is really going through it. Can you tell my love language is acts of service? Also I’m not American, so I don’t know how tipping works, it might be too much– but then again, it would still be on par with how generous he is. Hope you enjoy it ;)

☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @angeliicide

1. 

The bar is crowded with your friends and colleagues from work, dressed in casual clothes and looking about ten years younger without the usual harsh glare of the white ER light beating down on them.

The straw in your drink is nearly chewed into bits by the time Trinity Santos nudges you, breaking you out of your reverie, giving you a pointed look.

“I know you’re not staring at who I think you’re staring at,”

You reluctantly tear your gaze away, blinking innocently at her with a cheeky grin stretched across your glossy lips.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” 

The subject of your affection moves, and so do you– or at least you attempt to, until Trinity grabs your arm holding you in place.

“Nope, no way– not tonight!” 

You pout, shaking your arm as you try to get her to let go.

“Trin, come on– I’m not going to do anything except talk to him!”

“Talk?” she repeats incredulously, moving to block your distracted gaze from him. “You look like you’re about thirty seconds away from pouncing on him,”

You gasp in faux offense, finally meeting her gaze with your sly one.

“How dare you! I have self control,” 

“I highly doubt that,”

Jack Abbot is leaning against the bar like he doesn’t even realize how much space he takes up in your mind, just by existing. Short sleeves straining over his biceps, on display for anyone to ogle at– his gray curls slightly mussed like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. 

He’s laughing at something Robby is saying, head tipped back just enough for your stomach to twist, the outline of his strong jaw entrancing you further.

“I just know he’s better than in my head,” you sigh out, going back to chew on your straw until your drink is snatched out of your grip. “Hey–” your protests are cut off with one glare.

“You finished it twenty minutes ago,” she shoots back, placing her hands on your shoulders and forcing you to actually face her instead of craning your neck toward the bar and towards the night shift attending. 

You perk up at her words, a mischievous glint forming in your eyes.

“I’ll get us some new drinks then!” you chirp, narrowly avoiding her grip as you wiggle your fingers at her in lieu of a goodbye.

Weaving through the crowded floor, you coincidentally end up right next to Jack by the bar. When he doesn’t notice your arrival, you roll your eyes, before lightly bumping his shoulder.

“Oh my gosh– Doctor Abbot! I didn’t see you there–” you try to sound casual, but it comes out rather breathless instead.

Jack grunts quietly at the impact, before turning around, shoulders dropping when he sees that it’s just you.

“It’s all right,” he reassures you, and then it looks like he’s about to turn back around.

“So!” you exclaim, wincing at the sudden volume of your voice, “Are you having fun?”

He stops mid-turn, then faces you once again, this time fully. You gulp, fighting the urge to check him out when he’s this close to you– looking even more tempting than he does in his usual black scrubs.

Don’t even get me started on the SWAT-uniform–

Jack’s face comes into view as he catches your line of sight again, a soft smirk on his face.

“Am I boring you already?” 

 “No! No, not at all– never, actually– well, not never, but like–” you wave your hands quickly, laughing a little too loudly.

Stop. Talking.

You clamp your mouth shut, and the silence stretches for a moment too long, before you start to scramble sentences together again.

“Anyway! I was just coming to get drinks,” you gesture vaguely to the bar, which you are, in fact, not ordering from.

Jack nods, pursing his lips slightly and you wonder if he’s going to just keep letting you embarrass yourself like this for the entire interaction, or end up taking pity on you and say something.

“Let me buy you a drink–”

“I’ll get you one–”

Your sentences overlap, and you regret the fact that you didn’t take at least one shot before coming over to talk to him. What was your plan in the first place?

 “No, you– you go first,” you gesture toward him, already regretting every life decision that led you here.

Jack studies you for a second, something akin to amusement flickering in his eyes again, like he’s actually starting to enjoy this.

“I was just going to say I’ll buy you one,” he says, nodding toward the bar.

“Right! Yeah– I mean, I was also going to say that. But, like, for you,” you say quickly and trail off nervously, dragging a hand through your hair.

Jack turns slightly toward the bartender, lifting two fingers to signal, then glances back at you. 

“What do you want?”

Your brain, the traitor that it is, short-circuits again, and you spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Sex on the beach,”

With him.

“Okay then,” Jack nods, and you swear you saw him stifle a laugh before he turns back to the bartender, voice smooth and low when he orders.

In an urge to try and make up for how incredibly awkward it was and to try and maybe even impress him, you tap your card on the small card reader the bartender placed where you’re standing. Jack blinks, a small frown forming on his face when you beat him to the punch, the sleek, black card in his hand landing on the bar with a clang!

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, eyes narrowed in what looks like offense, like you’d just done something unimaginable.

You smile, waving him off, shoulders rolling back as you try not to let the satisfaction you’re feeling show. 

“It’s okay! I wanted to–”

A loud beep interrupts your sentence, and you watch in horror as the bartender gives you a sad look.

“Sorry Miss, the transaction failed,”

The words cause a wave of embarrassment to wash over you, and you feel your face warming as you let out a laugh, loud and high-pitched.

“That’s– that’s so weird,” you say through silent puffs of air.

You tap it again, and it gives that same, low pitch beeping sound again.

Amazing.

“It declined again–” The bartender quips, like you can’t already see the huge red words on the small screen, and your smile tightens. “Do you maybe have another card?” she asks carefully, eyes flickering between the grip on your card and your eyes– was that unshed tears?

“I– yeah, I mean, I do,” you say, already digging through your bag with way too much urgency. “Somewhere. Probably. I just, hold on–”

You do not have another card.

You know you don’t have another card. What you do have is a lip gloss, three crumpled receipts, a pen that doesn’t work, and your dignity rapidly disintegrating.

The sound of metal clinging breaks you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you look up just in time as Jack taps it, a cheerful ding confirming that it was indeed a lack of funds on your side.

You watch horrified as it goes through immediately. Turning to him immediately, your eyes widen. 

“No! No, you don’t have to, I was literally just about to–”

“Find another card?” he finishes, one brow lifting slightly, then orders for both of you again like nothing happened and you latch onto that small extension of  mercy with your entire being. 

When he turns back, there’s something different in his expression now, still amused, but softer. His hand slides the drink over to you, and you feel your fingers brush against his as you grab the stem of the glass, cursing internally at yourself for also choosing the ugliest, most egregious looking drink on the planet.

“...Thanks,” you mutter in defeat, taking a sad sip from the loopy straw.

Jack lifts his whiskey in silent cheers, mirroring you and taking a sip. You meet his gaze over the rim of his glass, and despite how utterly humiliated you feel, somehow, your stupid heart is racing like it’s still a win, having a drink with Jack Abbot.

Just as you’re about to speak up again, the sound of someone calling his name across the bar breaks the moment, and Jack turns towards the sound, lifting a hand in greeting, then turns back to you.

“Buddy of mine from the army,” he explains, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d almost say he looked regretful. “I should go say hello–”

“Yeah! Totally, that’s…that’s totally fine,” you wave your hands dismissively, practically shooing him away, “Don’t let me keep you, and uh– thanks again for the drink,”

The sooner he leaves, the sooner you can jump over the bar and crush that fucking card reader–

Jack shifts his weight, his eyes flickering down to your lips and the way they move as you chew on the straw and stare behind the bar, before he looks back.

“Anytime,” he responds, not forgetting to place a crisp twenty dollar bill on the table before leaving.

When he disappears into the crowd, your head falls into your hands, a loud groan escaping you.

2. 

“Stupid fucking, piece of shit garbage!” you cry out as your eyes water, feeling that lump in your throat that reveals exactly what’s about to happen next.

Your head thumps against the steering wheel, loud snivels filling the space of your car.

As if your day hadn’t been bad enough, your car chooses right now to break down as well. 

Normally, you’d brush it off and take the bus, but it was as if the sky had opened up and the ocean was falling from it. No warnings on the forecast, so you sure as hell weren't carrying an umbrella around in your bag either. 

Ordering an Uber was out of the question, since the last of your money had just been taken by a mysterious Apple charge you had no way of cancelling– and even if you did, your nine dollars weren’t going to cover the thirty minute long ride fare to your shitty apartment across town. 

Taking a deep breath, you shove your phone into your bag and zip your jacket up– not bothering to try and avoid the rain.

“I hope I drown,” you mutter, the rain pounding down mercilessly on your head, the thin jacket you have on doing nothing to warm you as you waddle across the parking lot and onto the sidewalk.

Within seconds, your hair is plastered to your face, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin as your shoes splash through shallow puddles forming across the cracked asphalt– currently soaking through your socks.

The sound of cars whooshing along the road can be heard, but you keep your head down.

That is until you hear a car pull up to where you’re walking, and a window rolling down as a voice breaks through the loud noise of water rushing.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You squint, blinking through the wet droplets clouding your vision as it focuses on the black truck that’s stopped in the middle of the road.

Sitting there in all his glory is Jack Abbot, a concerned look etched onto his face as he takes in your soaked figure, the way your clothes cling to you and how your shoulders are slumped inwards, like you’re trying to cover yourself, while simultaneously having given up.

Naturally, it had the red flags in his head blaring.

You blink at him like he’s a hallucination. Honestly, with the day you’ve had, it wouldn’t even be that surprising if he was one.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you shout back over the rain, your voice wobbling despite your attempt at sarcasm, your arms crossing as you another gust of wind blows.

“It looks like you’ve lost your mind,” he says dryly, and it almost sounds like he’s concerned for you, already reaching across to shove the passenger door open. “Get in–”

“Oh, no– I’m okay, I’m taking the bus–” you shake your head wildly, motioning to the bus stop just right ahead. A car honks, and you see Jack roll his window down, motioning with his hand for it to drive around him, clearly having no plans on pulling away just yet.

“You’re not standing in this, waiting for a bus,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can drive you home,”

The cars continue to honk behind him, yet Jack is in no rush to move, still arguing with you through the lowered window.

“I don’t want to, like… inconvenience you,” you try again, even as your teeth start to chatter, completely betraying you. “It’s really not that far and I–”

“Get in the truck,” he drawls, not even turning around anymore when the cars honk, simply waving his hand out of the driver side window and letting them pass.

“You’re causing a traffic jam–” you counter, an uneasy look on your face as you notice multiple people roll their windows down and shout out profanties. You didn’t blame them, you were being unreasonably stubborn, but you couldn’t be alone with him, not when you looked like this and he looked like that.

You also didn’t trust yourself to not start crying when feeling the, what looked like, smooth, expensive seat of his car. The rough cushion of your own wouldn’t even allow you to attempt wearing shorts in the summer while driving. 

“I’m not moving,” he cuts in simply, eyes locked on yours. “So you can either keep walking and make this worse for everyone, or you can get in the car,” 

His voice can barely be heard over the sounds of the horns blaring, and you frown, debating for one more moment before you finally succumb to the pressure, hurrying around the front of the car as he pushes the door open from the inside, watching your drenched form climb inside. 

Once the door closes, the outside noise is cut off, only leaving the sound of the heater and your uneven breathing as you try to stop your shivering. 

You sit there, dripping onto what you now know are very expensive seats, hands hovering awkwardly like you’re afraid to touch anything. Water pools beneath you anyway, completely undoing all your efforts. 

Jack exhales slowly through his nose, one hand tightening on the steering wheel before he reaches over and cranks the heat higher.

“Seat’s already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You’re not going to make it worse. Sit back,”

You slowly lean back, cringing at the way the leather squeaks under you, hands clasped together in your lap as Jack starts driving.

“Sorry,” you say quietly after a while, staring straight ahead and watching as the windshield wipers work overtime.

“For what?” he says gruffly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes. Seeing as your hands are still shaking in your lap, he reaches down, turning the seat warmers on as well.

You shift uncomfortably, shrugging while you start digging in your backpack, pulling your phone out. At least that had managed to stay dry. You really couldn’t afford getting a new phone right now.

“Everything, I think. Shit, you need my address, right–”

“No, I got it,” Jack says, one hand on the steering wheel whilst the other pushes the turn signal indicator, and maneuvers the car smoothly.

“You know my address?” you ask dumbly, head whipping around to look at him. 

Oh my God– this is it! This is your chance, he’s clearly–

“I dropped you, Javadi and Matteo off after the last staff party, remember? It’s still in my navigation,”

You visibly deflate, sinking back into the warm seat as your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Oh. Yeah, I remember that– that was a fun night,”

Getting wasted with your colleagues and faceplanting in front of your crush at the annual PTMC Christmas party was objectively not something you’d recall as being a fun night.

In fact, it was actually the night your inconvenient crush on Jack had started– after he silently bought the entire table a round of drinks, and jokingly gave you a wink when you saw him excuse himself to secretly pay the tab.

The car falls silent as you stare out of the window, lost in your thoughts. Jack looks over again when he notices, watching your damp hair stick to the side of your face, the subtle sniffles you let out every now and then. His hand twitches, the urge to reach over and brush a lock out of your face is strong, but Jack’s willpower is even stronger.

Forcing his gaze back onto the road, his fingers grip the wheel tighter instead, and he clears his throat.

“I thought you had a car?” he asks, hand dropping down to shift the gear stick. 

You smile sheepishly, tucking your hair behind your ear as you look over at him, trying not to stare at his arms flexing at his actions.

“I do. It just decided to give up, and apparently Pittsburgh now has a monsoon season, so,” You motion to yourself and the clammy state you’re in, chest fluttering in something akin to pride when you hear Jack let out a soft huff of laughter.

“And the Uber app happened to give up as well?” he quips back, cocking an eyebrow in your direction.

Your smile drops just as quick and you look down at your hands now twisting in your lap, shrugging.

“No, that was my bank account…again,” you mutter in embarrassment, trying to will the memory of that night in the bar away.

Jack hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t comment on it any further– your embarrassment is evident in the way your hands are fidgeting, and he fights his instincts once again to stop you from picking on the skin of your nails.

“Do you have my number?” he decides to ask instead, and when you don’t reply he looks over to find you already watching him. When your eyes meet, you snap out of your reverie, fumbling with your phone instead.

“I think so, uh– I can check–” you scroll through your contacts as if you don’t already know and have memorized his number from the day you got it.

“Call me the next time you need a ride,” he cuts in, then just reaches for the radio, low music filling the air for the rest of the drive.

3. 

The rain has settled into a small drizzle by the time Jack reaches your place. 

Unbuckling the belt, you open the door and step out of the car, sheepishly wiping the seat with your sleeve. You had managed to get dry during the ride, but unfortunately, Jack's car had taken the brunt of the damage.

“Hey, no– leave that,” he grumbles, swatting your hand away, and your skin tingles where his hand accidentally brushes it.

A soft laugh escapes you, and you swing your backpack over your shoulder as you stand by the door, shifting on your feet as you prolong the goodbye.

It’s not everyday you get alone time like this, not any day, actually– considering the fact that the night shift attending shockingly only worked the night shift.

“Thanks for the ride,” you mutter shyly, eyes flickering up to meet him. Jack nods, stifling a smile at the sudden bashful look on your face– so unlike your usual loud and boisterous self that he would so often see at handoffs. 

“Don’t forget what I said–”

You roll your eyes, even though your mind is running thousand miles per minute– the thought of casually texting Jack and asking him to pick you up feels awfully domestic to you. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say absentmindedly, grinning again when he gives you a weak attempt at a stern look. “Alright– okay, I promise,” you concede, and only then does Jack lean back in his seat, looking feeling awfully enamored by the soft, warm version of you he’s getting.

When you finally close the car door and start walking towards the apartment building, you’re stopped by the sight of a large, bulky cardboard box by the entrance. Curiosity takes over, and you quickly take a peek at the name on the waybill, only to freeze once you see that it’s your own.

Shit– you had ordered a new bedframe, but you didn’t think it’d come so soon. Since when does anything ever get shipped on time? Apparently when you’ve already had a crap day, and the one time the elevator is under maintenance. 

Cursing under your breath, there’s not much else you can do than to dig your heels in and try to pull the package– only to get absolutely nowhere.

“What the fuck did they put in here– bricks?” you whine, letting go of it again. Stepping back, your hands land on your hips as you assess the situation. Sighing, you wrap your arms around the large box and pull again, groaning loudly as you do. 

“You just can’t stay out of trouble, huh?”

A yelp escapes you at the sound, letting go of the box and whirling around to find Jack watching you with an amused look on his face.

“I thought you left!” you say breathlessly, stepping away from the package and trying not to show how simply pulling it had knocked the wind out of you.

“I was waiting for you to get inside,” he responds simply, like his words aren’t causing you to shortfunction. 

This entire situation was the reason you tried to deny the ride home in the first place– already feeling mortified over failing to buy him the drink a week ago, to being caught trying to take the bus after yet another monetary issue, and now seeing that you’re unable to even lift a fucking box by yourself.

How on earth were you supposed to convince him that you’re a grown person worth loving and willing to care for him, when you couldn’t even take care of yourself?

“Alright– get the door and I’ll get the–” Jack begins, already moving towards the package. You quickly step in front of him, hands landing on his chest as you stop him, only to quickly drop back at your sides when you realize what you just did, eyes widening.

“No! Sorry– but still, no– I got it. Seriously, you already dropped me off, you don’t need to do this,” you’re borderline pleading at this point, a desperate look on your face. 

You cannot let this man do you any more favors or your chances will officially be flushed down the drain, and he’ll see you as some incompetent woman-child, instead of a potential partner.

Not that your chances were particularly great in the beginning, but at least there was a possibility. Now, each moment you spend in his presence out of work only slims that window of opportunity down further. 

Jack frowns, the lines around his mouth deepening at your words. Stepping around you, he grabs the package, lifting it over his shoulder in one, smooth motion.

You gape at the sight, having just spent the last five minutes pathetically tugging on it, only for him to lift it in seconds.

“That was a lot heavier when I tried to–” you begin, only to realize he’s carrying pounds of furniture on his shoulders and you’re standing there yapping. In an instant, you’re opening the entrance door, watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he grips the box, holding it steady.

“What floor?” he grunts, not bothering to stop walking.

You stumble behind him, swallowing down the drool that's collecting in your mouth. 

You’re pretty sure you had a dream just like this before–

When he glances over his shoulder, you clear your throat, finally answering.

“Second floor,” you say, sounding short of breath despite not doing any of the physical labor.

Watching as he makes his way up the stairs, you bite your lip, glancing at his leg. Surely this was painful, even for someone as fit as him. 

Before you can comment on it, he reaches the second floor, and this time you don’t wait for him to ask, before you’re leading him to your front door.

Thank God you tidied up before heading to work today.

He sets the box down carefully once you guide him inside, rolling his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. You, on the other hand, are still standing in the doorway like you’ve forgotten how to function in a straight line.

“Where do you want it?” he asks, gaze flitting across your apartment as he takes it in, the warm lighting, the small trinkets and stack of medical books lining the shelves, even the scent being so utterly you that he has to grip the box harder to try and ground himself.

You try not to react at the sight of Jack Abbot in your apartment– looking so out of place yet somehow, right at home.

“Anywhere,” you say, blinking at him.

Jack lets out a low chuckle, leaning the box against the wall as he sees the way you’re looking at him– pupils dilated and unabashedly obvious, even though you always convince yourself you aren’t.

“What?” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head as he stares back at you, the shoe sized apartment you live in suddenly feeling even smaller.

Shaking your head, you step back, regardless of the already large distance between the two of you. You needed to get further away, maybe even leave the room if possible.

“Thank you,” you say earnestly, swallowing thickly.

Jack realized that he likes seeing you this way, more than he probably should. You depending on him, then wearing that wide eyed, impressed look on your face like he cured cancer, rather than just dropping you home instead of letting you walk through a rainstorm or lifting a fucking box– like he wouldn’t tear the stars from the sky if you asked him to.

Or if you kept looking at him like that.

“You know how to build this thing?” he says instead of any of what he just thought, watching as you fumble with your phone.

“I think so, I saw this tutorial on Tik Tok–” you say, perking up at the thought of finally not having to bother him any longer, only to have your enthusiasm fade away once you see the unimpressed look on his face. 

“What?”

+1

The last piece of your bed-frame is screwed into place, and Jack steps back, hands clasping behind his back as he takes in his work, making sure everything is in the right spot.

God knows you wouldn’t call him to fix it if it wasn’t.

You’re leaning against the doorway, wearing the same guilty expression that’s been on your face since he opened the box and started assembling your bed frame.

“Well? Is it approved?” He jokes, then falters when he sees your face twist as a frown forms on your lips. “Come on, don’t make that face– I wanted to help,” Jack reassures, only for his words to fall to deaf ears. 

“You’ve been constantly helping for weeks,” you mumble defiantly, crossing your arms.

Jack tilts his head, eyebrows raising as he takes note of the slight frustration in your tone of voice.

“And that’s a problem for you?” he provokes, biting back a grin as you fall for it.

“Yes!” you snap, pushing off the doorway and pacing a few steps into the room. “Because it’s always you doing something for me. Driving me around, paying for things, carrying stuff, fixing stuff– ” you gesture at the now fully assembled bed frame like it’s reminding you of what a failure you are.

“Well if it bothers you that much, you can just make up for it,” Jack retorts easily, walking closer to where you’re standing.

You waver, contemplating his words for a minute before looking back at him hesitantly.

“Make it up to you– you’d accept that?” you repeat incredulously, eyes darting across his figure like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being serious or not. 

“Sure,” Jack shrugs, only stopping when he’s right in front of you, looking down at your distrusting face. “Why not?”

“Okay…” you give in, tilting your head up towards him, too focused on what to give him to realize how close you’re currently standing. “What do you want?”

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts playfully, “You’re supposed to come up with it yourself, remember? You don’t want my help–”

“I do!” you spill, running a hand through your hair in distress, “I really do, which is the problem, because if you keep seeing me like this you’ll just feel bad for me, and feel like you need to help me, and I don’t know about you, but I usually don’t end up dating the people I pity–” you ramble, hands moving more frantically with each word you speak.

“Did it ever occur to you that I do this because I want to?” Jack interjects your tangent, lips twitching as he holds back a smile.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“You do? Why would you–”

Your sentence cuts off when you realize what he’s saying.

Oh.

Oh.

You’d been so caught up in your own feelings that you’d missed the hints he’s been giving since the beginning. Jack Abbot was a kind, patient and responsible guy– and you had clearly overestimated how far he was willing to go to help out platonically.

Jack’s gaze drops briefly to your lips, then back up to your eyes– like he’s giving you time, like he’s waiting for you to catch up. When he sees the realization in them, he tilts his head.

“Any way you can think of making it up to me now?”

Your hand jerks up instinctively, gripping the front of his shirt as you pull him closer, then pressing your lips to his. 

It takes Jack approximately two seconds to realize that you’re kissing him and that he’s standing there like an idiot instead of kissing you back.

A soft gasp escapes you when his hands grip your hips, holding you in place.

Jack pulls back enough to catch his breath, a small laugh bubbling in his chest as you eagerly chase after his lips, not quite as ready to pull away as he seems to be.

A small pout forms on your lips, and he can’t help but to lean down and press a shorter peck against it, then moving to your cheek, exhaling at the side of your face, before finally moving his head so that the tip of his nose brushes against yours. 

Your heart beats fast in your ribcage, and you let go of his shirt, opting to grip his shoulders instead.

“...I think I have some more making up to do,” you breathe out shakily, then pull him down into another searing kiss.

Jack laughs into the kiss, but can't find it in him to pull away this time.

☆END NOTE: I have no idea what car he drives, or if he even drives, but I do know that whatever it is, it’s going to be big, sleek and manual (it’s possible for amputees to drive them, and especially below the knee amputees such as Jack.)

☆TAGLIST: @realwhoreforfictionalmen @iloveclarkent @dilfsffx @777bambi777 @zar6 @halcyonwithletters

[hollanovlover81]

HE COULD HEADLOCK ME AND I WOULD THANK HIM

[abbotly]

compromise

Jack Abbot x resident!reader

Synopsis: Your attending is worried your mouth is putting you in unnecessary danger with testy patients, which you find ironic coming from a man who gets shot at as a side gig.

Warnings: Jack’s swat shift injury is a little more serious than canon (also mentions of bullets/being shot), violent patient/code hula hoop, they say fuck a lot, Did Not do enough rewatching/research and probs butchered everything medical in this SORRY

A/n: fighting jet lag and simply could not get sweaty swat shift 1pm jack out of my head, soooo! oops

——

“Knew that mouth was gonna get you in trouble one day.”

Dr. Jack Abbot murmurs his admonishment for you in a voice so low that you barely hear it over the steady hum of alarms and voices, not to mention the residual sound of blood pounding in your ears from adrenaline.

Standing in front of you where you sit on the exam bed, his presence looms over you such that you can’t help but feel he’s looking down at you.

Down on you and the decisions that he thinks landed you here.

His grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head to the left and the right, flecks of concern marring his hazel eyes.

You smack his hand away.

“Are you blaming a female healthcare worker for violence from a male patient twice her size?” you challenge, quirking your brow in mock offense.

You know that’s not what he means, and you almost feel bad when his face falls in guilt. But you’re still fired up from the encounter and you can’t ever resist a chance to spar head-to-head with your attending — unlucky for him, this one’s been served to you on a silver platter.

“Should we call Gloria?” you press. “I can get Javadi to make a TikTok.”

He retracts his hand back to his side where it belongs — not anywhere near you, as far as you’re concerned. It’d be frozen, hovering at the side of your face.

“Good point,” he says, hands now on his hips. “Sorry. You okay?”

You blink your rapidly swelling eye, dabbing at your split lip gently with the pad of your ring finger. “Yeah. Never better.”

He shakes his head, any concern replaced again by disappointment. “You gotta call hula hoop, kid.”

“Why? I knew you were watching.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, rolling over the tray Lena had prepared for your room. “Well I’m not always going to be.”

You doubt that — sometimes Jack felt like a fly you could never swat away, right over your shoulder when you least needed him to be. You guess tonight is an exception.

“Those procedures are in place to keep you safe. If you’re gonna run your mouth—”

“Again, with the blaming,” you accuse.

“I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault,” he says. “But sometimes…”

He trails off, ripping open a swab, bringing it to your lip. His other hand holds your face again as he dabs at your lip.

The bleeding had stopped after a while once Lena supplied you with gauze to hold against it, rattling off assessment questions while you could still hear Jack and Crus working with security to restrain the patient in the background.

She looked at your eye and begged you to let Shen order a CT, but you’d sat there frozen, reeling until Jack had appeared where you were situated in the empty room next door, his chest heaving and hair mussed, clearing everyone else from the room and telling them to get back to work.

The swab stings a little, even with his feather-light touch, and you can’t help but rear back, even if you don’t slap his hand away this time.

“Sometimes what?”

“Hold still,” he says, hand tightening on your chin. He keeps dabbing, swearing when you feel a new line of blood start to trickle down your chin. You grab a pad of gauze off the tray and hold it up to your chin yourself, before he grabs it from you and wipes it himself. “Sometimes I just wish you’d mouth off a little less.”

You scoff, and he pulls back with frustrated resignation, like he’s ready for the monologue you’re about to burst into. He’s heard them enough times.

“Sorry I don’t just let these daddy’s money fucks walk all over me for our patient satisfaction scores,” you spit, your lip aching, head throbbing, heart pounding. Traitorous tears push at the back of your eyes. “They don’t scare me, and neither do the suits upstairs. They’re all cut from the same cloth. I came from a hospital way worse than this.”

“I’m sure,” he nods, still paused with the swab in his hand, holding the gauze pad with the other. “But you’re at my hospital now. So cool it. If not for your own sake, then for your attending’s, who has to sign off on all of these reports, yeah?”

“What happened to being the weirdest and wildest?” you say. “Hooah?”

“You can do that without having to enter concussion protocol,” he argues, dropping the gauze to the tray. “Night crawlers gotta be careful, too. Probably even more so.”

“Um, that’s wild. Was it not you I heard earlier telling someone to shut their fucking mouth?” you retort. He still holds your jaw, his grip firm but not harsh — nothing like the man who’d done this to you — continuing to dab at your lip until he’s satisfied before discarding the swab onto the tray next to the gauze.

He grins at your remark then, some tension evaporating from the room, even if he still scans your face with intensity. He looks kind of silly, trying to smile with a crease in his brow.

“Touche. I for one can’t wait to read the review he leaves,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll get a CC on that one.”

“‘Stupid bitch doctor didn’t let me obstruct an active investigation,’” you say. “‘Cut my ugly Brooks Brothers golf shirt off. Papa’s lawyer will be in touch.’”

Abbot’s still smiling and you find yourself doing it too, wincing when your lip stretches over the broken skin. “Motherfucker.”

“C’mon, res,” he sighs, reaching for another swab, ripping it open. You let him fix up your lip unbothered this time, not speaking. He doesn’t feel the need to hold your face still this time, but you almost wish he would.

When he speaks again, it’s no longer chastising.

“How about,” he starts, throwing the second swab on the cart, shucking his gloves into the trash and opening the monitor across the room with his badge. “‘Put my stupid, privileged hands on a pretty resident and got tossed into police custody. Zero stars.’”

He makes another off-handed comment not to laugh at that and fuck up your lip again before he mumbles his way through your chart. But you’re not laughing at all, your stomach actually flipping at his words.

“Patient presents agitated.”

“Wait, what are you doing?” you say, standing, nudging into his space to see he has a chart open for you. “Can’t we keep this off the books?”

He laughs, still typing, his arm moving against yours. “Not a chance in hell. Go home.”

——

You’d noticed something off about Jack as soon as he’d entered the ED during the day shift half of your double, yelling and sweaty in his SWAT gear, bringing a wave of testosterone onto the floor along with his colleagues.

But he’d struggled throughout the entire procedure, leaning on you and Robby for every step.

“Bag him,” he practically winces, shuffling out of the way, hands held up while you take over Hiro’s intubation.

With Hiro’s vitals closer to stable, Garcia nods for him to be taken upstairs into a waiting OR, and Jack barely cracks a pained smile to an insult about being an adrenaline junkie — nothing smart to say for once.

He exits the room promptly at Robby’s question about contacting Hiro’s family, saying someone else on the team can help him, passing directly behind you.

“You’re with me,” Jack says, his breath fanning against the nape of your neck. “Now.”

His eyes find yours for one brief, weighted moment as he shoulders open the Trauma 2 door with a poorly concealed wince.

If not for your worry, you’d have immediately made a snide remark.

You look to Robby, slightly shell-shocked, wondering if he’d heard. Perlah definitely had, if the eyes she’s giving Princess say anything.

Robby just shakes his head. “I don’t think he was asking.”

You sigh, ripping your gloves and gown off into the bin and stalking off in the direction he’d gone, seeing a flash of camo duck into one of the South rooms across the way, wondering what you could’ve possibly even done to tick him off in the measly 10 minutes he’d been here.

You open the door after taking a deep breath outside the room.

“You know you can’t boss me around when you’re not even on shift,” you start.

“Shut the door,” is his instant reply. Message not fucking received.

Jack’s sitting on the bed already, the curtains drawn closed around the entire room, only a small gap left for you.

The room quiets as the door clicks shut behind you, and you draw back the curtain just enough to join him bedside before closing it again.

“What’s—”

One of his elbow pads already discarded on the bed, Jack is undoing the velcro straps on the right side of his Kevlar, but there’s that wince again once he moves to his other side. He tries to reach around his torso, but he can’t get the angle right, and he looks at you.

“Please help me get this thing off.”

You still have yet to learn why he’s clearly in pain, but you can tell the sweat running down his temple isn’t just from the July heat anymore as you step into his space.

“You’re hurt,” you realize, undoing both velcro straps on his left side. You dig your hand into the slight gap between his camo quarter-zip and the vest, pulling the straps out of the plastic loops attached to the back panel of the vest.

“Not badly,” he says, stilling as you push his hand away where he’d been trying to free the straps on the other side, doing it for him.

Both sides undone, you stand back slightly, moving your hands toward his shoulders. You detach the radio he has clipped onto the vest’s collar, placing it on the bed.

“Ready?”

He nods.

The vest comes off easy, but it’s heavy — he still winces as it drags over where he must be injured.

“Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” he breathes. “Just throw it wherever.”

You set it aside on one of the chairs, taking his radio, too, and setting it on top. When you turn back around, he’s already swearing under his breath and struggling with his long sleeve, caught under the remaining elbow pad.

“Alright,” you say, slightly annoyed, but mostly worried. “Do you want my help or not?”

He manages to undo his elbow pad, but grimaces as he shakes it off his good arm. He stops struggling with the shirt after a bit, his right arm stuck halfway through his sleeve. You can’t help the smile that sneaks onto your lips.

“Wow,” he says, but he’s smiling a little, too, incredulous. “This is funny to you?”

“Only a little,” you say. You assess how his arm is awkwardly caught in his sleeve, deciding on your next move. The thing is, you know exactly what you’d do if this was a patient, and not your attending. But you suppose he’s more one than the other right now.

“Do you mind?” you ask, gesturing to the bottom of his shirt.

“No. Not at all,” he says.

“Okay,” you say. “Let me just…”

You pull his right sleeve taut, your other hand going up under his shirt — thankfully, you feel an undershirt on the backside of your hand. He snakes his arm through the rest of the sleeve, and you stretch the shirt up over his head, his sweaty curls flattening further on his head. You really ought to offer him some electrolytes, and maybe a towel.

“I can’t believe they make you guys run around in all this gear when it’s this warm out.”

“Supposed to—” he winces as you drag the rest of the shirt down the arm on his injured side “—keep us safe.”

“Results may vary,” you say under your breath, setting his long-sleeve on the bed.

“Bullet could’ve gone right through without it. I’ll take my chances.”

Your mind catches on the first word, frozen as Jack seems to barely pay it any mind. Why would he, you wonder to yourself, given his history and his reputation — a troubling affliction for adrenaline.

“You got shot?”

“Shot at,” he says, shrugging. Another grimace. “Fuck. It should be a superficial wound, but it’s on my back, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to treat it.”

Your gaze assesses the last layer between you and his skin, his black undershirt, fitted across his chest and arms. No way you’re getting that off of him without it hurting like hell if he can barely undo his elbow pads.

He narrows his eyes. “What are you—”

“It’s the only way.”

“This is my nice shirt,” he warns slowly, eyes tracking you across the room to one of the drawers he knows as well as you do stocks the fabric shears.

“You’re sweating and bleeding all over it,” you say flippantly. “Or do you really want me to try and pull it off?”

He huffs a sigh.

“It’s a fucking t-shirt, Jack,” you say, already hacking at his sleeve. “We can get you a new one. Size small?”

“You little—“

“Extra small. Got it.”

His left arm free after you cut a line from the sleeve to the collar, his pale, freckled shoulder now exposed to the room, you finally get a chance to look at what he’d been complaining about.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, leaning over the side of the bed, getting the best look you can.

“S’not that bad, is it?” he asks, turning to look over his shoulder, grimacing once again.

“Stop moving,” you say, your hand on his face, pushing it away from you. “Have you taken any pain reliever?”

“Got kinda busy,” he says. “You rocked that shit in there, by the way. With Hiro. I’m sure you knew that though.”

Your hand falls away from his jaw. “Doesn’t hurt to hear.”

You come around to cut the rest of the material away, suddenly painfully aware you hadn’t gloved up again in the rush of it all. You pull the fabric from his body as far as you can, but your knuckles still brush against his stomach, his chest, his sternum as you make your way up. The butchered material falls away as you push it off of his body, guiding it down his good arm. You turn away pointedly as soon as he’s properly shirtless, bunching up the ball of fabric and placing it with his vest just to have something to do.

“Just trash it,” he says softly. “I might have you get another from my locker, though.”

“All that fuss,” you say, finally putting a pair of gloves on. “And you had a spare.”

He’s smirking when you do turn back around, and you roll your eyes.

“Let me see, will you?”

It’s quiet after that as you assess the wound. He’s right that it’s superficial, but it still could probably use a few stitches.

You tell him as much, and he nods.

“Whatever you suggest, doc.”

You pull your mouth to one side, still assessing, your hands light. “Maybe we get Robby or someone else in here, just to check. Or I can grab you a mirror?”

You see him shake his head. “I didn’t ask Robby to come in here. I asked you. I’m your patient. Make the call.”

You stop crouching over him just as he turns around again, his gaze fixated on you, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.

“I’ll grab a suture kit.”

He nods. “Good. A shirt too, yeah?”

You snap your gloves off and throw them in the trash, flipping him off when they miss and you have to pick them up off the floor.

“I’ll have Dana get it when I put in the order for the anesthetic,” you say, logging into the monitor by the sink after sanitizing your hands. “I think some imaging, too. You’re in a lot of pain.”

“Don’t involve anyone else. I’ll sign off on the order,” he says, then pauses, and you can see him squinting at you in your peripheral. “What are you doing?”

“Starting a chart for you,” you murmur mindlessly, entering his details into the demography section. “Patient presents agitated.”

“Off the books,” he says firmly.

You scoff, tapping the rest of the current line of your assessment out before saving it, locking the display, like he’s in any shape to lunge over and delete it. “Not a chance in hell. Be glad I saved you a little speech about being careful. They’re quite dull.”

“No hula hoop on a SWAT raid,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, wincing when he remembers he can’t do that right now.

It’s too late though — the image of your attending shirtless, wearing camo pants and sweating all over the exam bed, arms taught over his chest, will be burned into your retinas for the foreseeable future.

“Maybe there should be,” you mumble, crossing the room to him again. You look at his wound one more time, mentally noting you’ll need irrigation, too, and maybe a Plastics consult that you know he’ll refuse.

“Yeah?” he asks, looking up at you when you stand full height again. “You worried about me?”

You shrug. “If you die and leave me stuck under Robby…”

He chuckles. “‘Cause they’d never stick you with Shen, right? You’d get fuck all done together.”

You can no longer help the smile that has irritatingly been threatening to break through for a while — ever since you’d discovered he actually was okay, really.

“It wouldn’t be good for the hospital.”

“So maybe we both agree to be a little more careful then,” he suggests, wincing as he stands again, pushing himself off of the bed. “Deal?”

“Deal,” you say.

“Your eye looks good, by the way,” he says. Your eyes narrow at the way his voice has dripped into that deeper register. The same one it takes on when he tells you atta girl and you’re with me, now. “Healed nicely.”

Open bullet graze, sweaty curls and all, Jack makes his way to where you’re standing, his hand grabbing your face like he had just last week, titling your head side to side. This time, his thumb brushes softly over where your lip had split, the skin new and soft under his calloused fingertip.

“This, too,” he murmurs, pressing down just slightly.

You let him linger for just long enough, chancing a look up at him through your lashes, reveling in the way he looks down at you now — something that had annoyed you only last week when you were up on that bed instead.

But then you smack his hand away.

“Don’t think any of that’s gonna convince me not to submit this to your police department.”

[imbambii]

I wanna CHEWW ON HIS ARM ARGHH

[sun-snatcher]

Park the Shark x overprotective trope... i just wanna see him flash his teeth at a patient for being combative with y/n. 'Nobody can bully her except me' shtick hhhnnnggg

( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )

☤ ─ PEARLS BEFORE SWINE

summ.  Ortho is paged to the ED. Park the Shark fortifies his fierce reputation. pairing. brendon 'shark' park / f!resident!Reader w.count.  2.5k! a/n.  Implied power-imbalance , corrupted mentor/mentee dynamic if you squint , an annoying amount of eldritch maritime motifs . Apologies if Shark is ooc here given he had like 3 minutes of total screentime— I hope y'all enjoy nonetheless! & Thank you @lumissandbox for beta-reading this shipwreck of an imagine 🥀

          UNCANNILY SHARP MOLARS are a common sight when Dr. Park snarls out and berates hapless surgical interns amid long procedures. 

Anyone who’s ever worked with him— let alone heard of him, is aware of Park the Shark, who’s come around to be some cautionary, fantastical fable.

A mythological creature of PTMC’s Orthopaedics Department— some beastly, thalassic leviathan— who’s all jagged rows of endless teeth and killer instinct; Made out to be a divine, merciless warden of the sea responsible for piecing together centuries old bones buried five fathoms deep into bedrock.

A virtuoso of his field who you owe your knowledge to. Who’d taught you the fearlessness common of surgeons, but also instilled in you the fear of failure that’s needed to temper it.

What is it that Garcia and Walsh like to call you residents under his wing (or fin—), again? 

Shark pups. 

Left to fend for yourselves most of the time. Sink or swim. A dogfight of devouring each other alive in a desperate attempt to keep your head above water; to make it through this riptide of a Residency and be the best of the best.

Park the Shark stands on a mantlepiece of his own making. A faultless reputation sharp enough to cut, and the stringent attitude to match that’s a given considering his medical prowess and achievements. The other juniors— aw, these your shark pups, Park?— tenderfoot and wet behind the ears, worship the ground he walks on like suck-up remoras.

You admire him, yes. But most of the time you just… try to get by. Keep your head down and stay out of his way. 

(Not that you never advocated for yourself, that is. Being a woman in a particularly male-dominated specialty has only drilled into you an extra layer of thick-skin from criticism and inherent misogyny. You don’t fawn to the quote-unquote Ortho-bros, and have enough clever sense to know when to be candid without crossing the line.)

Perhaps that’s why he’d quickly clamped his jaws around you.

Always seen as the ‘favourite’; the ‘Prodigal Daughter/Mentee’, even if it never remotely feels like you’re worth any of Park’s precious time. 

Resentful, the other Residents eventually came to the conclusion that competition starts with you: 

Always the one personally selected to assist in Park’s odd cases, always the one his shark-like gaze searches for first in a crowd, always the one getting teeth sunken into and then humiliatingly chewed out for the smallest, mindless things because You’re supposed to be the competent one out of all the others, for fuck’s sake. 

They spin yarns of boyish rumors. Call you names that stick. Sharkbait, Catch, when they’re feeling particularly bitter. Or the Jewel of the Sea; Park’s prized (Mother-of-)Pearl, when they’re feeling particularly childish.

It’s fine. You can ignore those, and let your work do the talking. Besides, they never do address you that way around Dr. Park, anymore— not after he’d nearly bitten the head off of one of the R3’s after he’d overheard you openly be called Chum-dump in passing.

(“The fuck did you just say?”

“Uh… Nothing. I— It won't happen again. Sorry, Dr. Park.”

“The hell you apologising to me for and not her?”)

You tell yourself it’s just because Park doesn’t want to be associated with the likes of you; that it’s nothing to do with him being chivalrous— he’s just being professional. Doing his due duty as your Senior Attending to browbeat workplace misconduct.

(Don’t think too much of it. He doesn’t care. You’re not of value to him in any way you think.

How does the saying go? Never cast pearls before swine—)

You wonder if he’s aware of how much his implicit bias has you isolated in an already isolating field for a woman. A target on your back. How his apparent unspoken ambition for you and your capabilities alone have become somewhat of an albatross around your neck. 

You’ve done the work to get here, you remember him muttering mid-procedure once. I might make a surgeon out of you yet.

Park is utilitarian; he doesn’t waste time on petty endeavours— he couldn’t possibly be doing it on purpose, could he? To keep you orbiting close to him whether you like it or not, lonely from the ostracism you receive from your fellow peers, all for the sake of imparting in you what’s best. Deliberately exploiting his influence into favouritism so you rely on him and only him for company; starved for kinship.

None of which he ever gives you, either way.

Just his stoic, brooding silence. A single hum of assent or curt nod when you answer his questions flawlessly during one of his rare moods of actual teaching (“Hm. You’ll close after I’m done, pup.”); Or his lingering presence over your shoulder in the breakroom when you’re brewing a fresh pot of coffee, shoulders brushing (“I take it black.”).

Feels more like bait, really. Dangling right in front of you; waiting for you to take the bite. 

Or have you already bitten?

“ED’s paging. You don’t need me in here,” Park declares, over a traumatic pelvic crush injury slowly coming to its end. He nods to the surgeons in Vascular when they say they’ll finish up the rest of the procedure, and jerks his head at you to degown. “You. With me.”

The elevator sinks both of you all the way down to the bottom-dwellers. Emergency Medicine: a never-ending bustle of nervous energy and raucous commotion of sounds that grates at Park’s ears. When he sails into Trauma Bay 2 with you tailed close behind, medical staff part for him like the Red Sea; shoal of fish dispersing from an apex predator.

Robby greets him calmly despite the patient groaning his lungs out. Garcia is already rattling off an efficient presentation. …Crush injury to foot and ank… Compartment syndro… torn between salvaging the limb t… what do you think? 

Meanwhile, a pair of impressionable Med Students observe, rapt, as you glove up and curiously round the writhing patient in the exact same way Dr. Park does— an unconscious habit you’ve picked up from him; circling calculatingly like a shark sniffing out blood in the water. (Do you hear that? quietly nudges one of the Residents, the JAWS theme?)

They watch as you shadow Park, comically insignificant against the hulking brawn of him, scrutinising the X-Ray of the patient’s shattered foot. It’s a unique case, alright: a complex multiple fracture of practically every bone in his foot up to his ankle from a freak accident. 

Even Park reacts with a tiny, impressed snort that only you manage to catch by chance proximity.

“Give me something for the fucking pain already!” a voice lashes out, synchronising you and Park into sparing a narrow glance up from the bedside of the patient’s gurney.

“Mr. Aldrich, we’ve already given you more pain meds after the regional block,” soothes one of the ER nurses, “the ketamine will take a minute to kick in—”

“Screw you nurses!” he hisses, thrashing his head pointedly at you as he squirms in place. “Get me a real doctor!”

“You’ve got multiple in one room here to help you, Sir,” Garcia overrides, humorously, “take your pick.”

An exasperated growl. “Fucking, I don’t know, a bone doctor?!”

“Good news! You’ve got Orthopaedics to your left,” she gestures, shooting you an amused look.

Mr. Aldrich glares harshly at you. “Well? Move, bitch, and let me talk to the big guy behind you.”

Across the bay, Robby doesn’t get to snap at the verbal harassment in time. No, it’s—

—Dr. Park, pinning his tenebrous gaze at the patient as he cocks his head ominously.

“You’re gonna wanna speak respectfully to the ‘bone doctors’ responsible for getting you back on your feet, Sir,” he drawls, sangfroid as always before returning his attention completely to Robby.

(You don’t try to pick apart the notable undercurrent of… something in his tone. Chalk it off as non-negotiable decorum. If it isn’t Dr. Park who’d have said something, you’re sure someone else would have.)

Hell of a fracture, you ignore the patient, running a mental map of the potential procedures it’d take and what the prognosis would look like. Dr. Park busies himself with more details regarding the injury: mechanism, labs, drugs. Pokes and prods clinically at the patient’s numbed foot.

“We’re gonna need your consent, Sir,” comes everyone’s eventual finalised conclusion, where you keep your tone as calm as possible in a bid to deescalate the tension, “before we get you prepped for surgery.”

“You better fucking make sure I walk again,” he seethes. “My legs are my livelihood, you know that? Do you know who I am?”

“Mr. Aldrich,” you answer, patiently. “I’m taking that as a yes?”

“Oh, you think you’re fucking funny, do you—?”

An iron-grip stops the patient’s forearm short well before you even register it:

A swing at you. An attempt to snatch at you from the bedside to drag you like an undertow.

Sharks are a predatory species born with sixth sense. An innate electroreception that helps them zero in on the most sensitive of muscle movements within close-range. Top of the food chain. Evolutionarily driven by pure, lethal instinct leading them to their prey.

You wonder, idly, if Dr. Park has it too—

Bloodlust. Untamed animalism prowling somewhere behind his hunter eyes. His scrub sleeves are pulled tight from the flex of his biceps, tension of corded muscles in his forearms taut with brutal force from where he’s canceled out the threat in a whipcrack of a second: shackling the patient’s wrist effortlessly in a dizzyingly lightning-quick reflex.

Your heart stutters at the scene.

“Go on,” Park dares, voice glacially cold and sea-pelagic dark. “Take a swipe at my resident again, and I will break each and every single bone in your hand before resetting all 27 pieces of it back together.”

A beat.

You’d have been able to hear a pin drop in the trauma bay, somehow, from how suspended everything feels.

Akin to witnessing an abyssal leviathan come to breach ashore after being provoked.

It makes something treacherous take flight in your chest. 

That for as much as a supercilious asshole Park is sometimes, he still keeps a controlled, watchful eye on those in his wake as a mentor. Utilises that intimidating, ubiquitous command of presence he carries to his unfair advantage when things go leeways into dangerous waters.

It’s not heart, per se. But it’s certainly something rare. Some abstract, omnipresent patina of his that surrounds your being like a levee and safely harbours you. Shoreline rock armour, almost: Feeling like the broad, muscled stonewall that is Dr. Park has become your own living, breathing, metaphorical breakwater. 

You find yourself foolishly replaying his words like a broken record in your head.

My resident.

The patient visibly deflates, snatching his weak arm free from Park’s vice-like clutch as he rears back and loses all bravado. “I consent to the surgery,” he grits out, still turning his nose up against everybody. “After that I’ll sue all of you assholes for— for harassment. And you! For threatening me.”

Robby and Garcia bite back a laugh at the irony.

“Looking forward to it,” Park sneers, aggressively snapping his gloves off. He turns back to you and, uncharacteristically, nods at you to sidle past first and make headway towards the exit. “I’ll book an OR.”

Thanks, Shark, Robby calls out, gaze flickering curiously between you two before it lands as a side-eye to Garcia— who also seems to be trying to decipher something nameless as Park hovers close behind you.

The entire ordeal leaves a buzz under your skin.

My resident, you repeat again. His chum. His catch. His coveted pearl; his favourite pup—

The words are muffled in your memory. Underwater. The flash of canine-sharp teeth as he bit the threat out, cavalier, deceivingly calm. The unbidden warmth of safety blooming in your ribcage after he’d put himself between you and danger, and you’d essentially been tucked protectively behind the fabled Shark of PTMC’s Orthopaedics.

You should neither be allured nor girlishly thrilled at the idea of Park showing any semblance of anger at your behest— you’re in a hospital, for christ’s sake, not the cold open of a romance novel— But who doesn’t like to be defended at times? Let alone by the most notoriously unsympathetic surgeon you’ve ever come to know yet? 

“Thank you,” you muster the courage, once both of you are taking the silent ride back up to the Ortho-wards, “for earlier.”

He scoffs. It’s delivered, surprisingly, with less bite than you steeled yourself for.

“How about you keep your head on a swivel,” he advises pointedly, glaring down at you with disapproval. “Should’ve just let him grab you. Might’ve learned a lesson or two.”

But you’ve worked alongside him long enough to catch the minutest of tidal shifts in his callous voice— an antsiness; the faux-calm of doldrums out at sea. Something hadal in you knows that had the patient actually managed to snatch you in that riptide grip of his, Park would have ensured the man left the hospital with no functioning hands at all.

Or perhaps it’s just a delusion. Feverish calenture. A self-indulgent desire to have secretly collared the terrifying Park the Shark to be your own proverbial seadog: 

Bristling and snapping his serrated teeth at anyone that got too close; orbiting you like a predator possessively guarding their own claimed territory. Exclusively yours. 

(“Only I get to call you pup,” he’d said, once upon a time. Out of context, it makes your head reel every time you recall it.)

“Yeah. Sorry,” you say, pathetically. A force of habit; defaulting into deference.

Only—

“Are you?” he narrows, shrewdly.

It feels like something’s buried itself right into its target. Harpoon to a siren’s heart. 

“I—I…” you blink. Stumble your words. No, comes the candid instinct. You think of how he’d stepped in, how he’d handled the danger; All for you. I liked it.

“Don’t get used to me playing nice,” he continues at last, looking damningly straight into your soul.

It lights your body aflame. Feel a rush to your cheeks at the unintended (perhaps?) implication of his words. “That’s your nice, Dr. Park?”

The elevator dings through the charged air. He turns back forward lazily.

“For you,” he grunts dismissively. “Yeah.”

You blink. The doors slide open. 

Park the Shark stalks off, and you don’t get to answer.

[phr-oh]

Horsebreaker

Baelor Targaryen x fem!Reader (House Blackwood)

summary: Young Prince Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne, comes of age and is granted a rare privilege by his father: to choose his own bride and future queen, trusting his son’s judgement. He travels the realm on his father’s behalf while he searches, combining two duties at once. During his circling progress through the Riverlands to secure peace among the lords, he stays at Raventree Hall. There, Drogon—his beloved friend and horse—breaks free and escapes from the stables into the Whispering Wood, where you are walking in peace. Out of the mist appears an impossible image: a royal stallion lost in unfamiliar terrain, utterly out of place. It is you who guides the steed back to the prince and makes sure he does not forget it. – [AO3] tags: erotica · suggestive · slow burn · forbidden desire · angst · mutual pining · canon divergent WC: 13k a/n: This piece is long and raw [concept here]. This fic flashed through me, front to back, like life flashing before your eyes in a near‑death experience. I woke up at 6 a.m. and finished editing it at 1 a.m. the next day. I just had to rip it out of my system. I’m too exhausted to polish every word. It’s not perfect: you can see where I was inspired and where I was getting tired. But I love every bit of it. It’s entirely self‑indulgent, but I do believe other people might enjoy it. If you want more chapters, let me know! I'm not sure if I should continue this one since the chapters are very long and heavy and feverish. Thanks for reading!

The servants should have known better than to bring out the black.

The yard behind the stables was still blue with morning when the stallion tore the tether free. One moment, he was standing, gleaming and restive beneath the groom’s hand; the next, his head snapped up, ears cutting the air, nostrils flaring at something only he could scent in the cold. The white steam of his breath gusted once. Twice.

Then he exploded.

The steed shot upwards, its front hooves flailing against the pale sky, and the groom cried out, stumbling backward as the leather strap seared through his grip. He came down awkwardly, the stallion, in a half-turned, half-twisted motion, his rear end bunching as if to propel him forward. The tether, looped through a hoop in the post, tugged sharply, resisted for a moment, and then snapped free, its iron ring echoing loudly against the wood.

“Easy, Drogon,” Baelor said, his voice cutting through the air, his feet already sending him onward with an automatic urgency. The steed’s eyes rolled white, catching the pale autumn light. He danced sideways, shoulder striking an empty cask hard enough to overturn it, muddy water sloshing over the packed earth.

A kitchen boy, hurrying across the yard with a basket full of wood, stopped dead in the animal’s way.

“Move!” Baelor barked.

He didn’t. The stallion reared up, the loose leather whipping behind it with a sharp crack, and then bolted forward with an angry snort. With a gust of wind, the boy’s basket was knocked from his hands, and sticks and bark tumbled across the cobblestones a heartbeat later. By the time Baelor reached the fence, the horse was already in full flight, black flank slick with cold sweat, tail streaming.

“Close the south gate!” someone shouted.

“Too late, he’s past—”

Hooves hammered over stone, then muffled as they hit the softer earth beyond. In a breath, the stallion was gone: a streak of black cutting through the mist, vanishing toward the tree line. Silence fell in his wake, thick and embarrassed. The air stank of churned mud and animal fear. A couple of chickens, disturbed from their pecking, took flight briefly before landing again with disgruntled squawks. The kitchen boy stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, splinters of kindling at his feet.

Baelor’s eyes blazed as he spun to confront the stablehand, his knuckles whitening on the sword hilt, a silent promise of pain in the air.

“What were you thinking?” he snapped. “You know he spooks at sudden noise, and you bring him out when they’re beating barrels? Gods, Gerren, I told you—”

The man blanched, broad face folding in on itself. “My prince, I—I checked the yard was clear—”

“It plainly was not.” The words came out too sharp, each one like a thrown bit of gravel. “That horse is worth more than—”

He stopped himself there, jaw locking. The kitchen boy had flinched at his first shout. Now he stood stiff, gaze fixed on the ground, fists curled in the air above his empty basket. A flush crept up his neck and onto his face, a warm, spreading tide that made his skin tight and his eyes sting.

The anger pulsed within Baelor, ricocheting off his ribs and shattering against his inner resolve. He drew a slow breath, long enough that it smoked visibly in the chill. He released it through his nose, pressing two fingers briefly to the bridge of it. His pulse thudded once, twice, then steadied.

“My temper was for the horse,” he said, this time quieter. “Not for you.”

Gerren shifted, uncertain. The kitchen boy risked a glance up and then away again.

Baelor softened his tone deliberately, the way a rider relaxes his hands on the reins. “No harm was meant. I know that.” He looked back toward the open gate, where the mist was lifting over the fields beyond; the low rise of the woods already a solid, dark line. “But a lot has been put into him.”

Baelor didn’t say years. He didn’t mention that the powerful stallion, a creature of untamed energy, was the only consistent presence in his life, bridging the gap between the thunderous tourney fields and the suffocating, oppressive halls of court. That when everything else required a posture, a word, a calculated smile, the horse had required only consistency. A steady hand. Honesty.

“He’s my favourite,” Baelor said instead, the admission feeling bare in his mouth. “We must retrieve him.”

“We’ll send men at once, my prince,” Gerren offered, half eager, half anxious. “Four riders, maybe five. The wood’s edge is—”

Baelor’s mouth tightened. The edges of the local woods were a hungry place, a place that consumed anything unable to navigate its paths.

“I’ll lead the search,” Baelor said.

Gerren stared at him. “Your Grace, with respect—”

“I am not yet king,” Baelor cut him gently. “And I am not sending anyone chasing him who cannot read when he’s about to bolt again.” He looked back towards the forest, observing the Riverlands mist gathering in the hollows, its white tendrils weaving through the trees and its grey form clinging to the branches.

“Saddle another mount. Light and quick. We’ll stay to the edges.”

“As you say, my prince.”

Baelor reached down, picked a fallen sliver of kindling from beside the boy’s boot, and set it back into the basket himself before straightening.

“The fault was mine,” he addressed the boy, meeting his eyes just long enough to make the words stick. “I startled him as much as any of you.”

The boy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Yes, my prince.”

Baelor’s shoulders slumped as he turned toward the gate, the biting wind chilling him to the bone and a hollow ache settling in his chest. His jaw set with determination. Behind his composed profile, the thought gnawed: a black stallion, loose in Whispering Wood, his training undone in a heartbeat.

It was a familiar feeling.

The forest woke differently from the castle.

It did not clang or chatter. It exhaled.

Mist hung in the lower branches like breath held between teeth, a pale film clinging to the undergrowth and sinking into hollows where last year’s leaves lay in damp, matted layers. Above, the canopy filtered the weak, late-autumn light into thin, greenish ribbons that slanted down across trunks, interrupted by patches of moss, old wounds, and the deep, vertical lines etched by time.

You moved through it with familiar ease, like entering a room where the quiet hum of conversation had only paused for your return. Your boots sank half an inch into the leaf mould with each step, making a soft, sucking sound. The cold seeped up through the soles, a clean, metallic chill that bit pleasantly at your toes. Your trousers, damp to the knee from the dew-wet ferns you had pushed through earlier, clung to your calves and thighs.

Your attire suited the surroundings, not the observers: a dark riding surcoat, belted snugly over a linen shirt, wool trousers tucked into scuffed boots, and a cloak the color of wet bark draped open and loose from your shoulders. The only bright thing on you was the small weirwood-and-raven brooch at your throat, the Blackwood sigil dulled by age and touch.

Even though the morning had barely begun, stains already marked your gloves. The smaller basket on your arm cradled the spoils: pale, fleshy discs of oyster mushrooms arranged as if they were scales of some soft, subterranean fish; a cluster of chanterelles, their undersides finely ridged; a single, perfect hen of the woods, dense and layered like a ruffled fan, pried carefully from the base of an old oak. Mushrooms told on the forest as well as tracks.

You knelt beside a rotting log; the wood long gone to sponge under your palm. A scatter of tiny, translucent caps trembled there, almost invisible until you leaned close. You did not touch them. They emitted a faint shimmer, an oily sheen that caught the fog-filtered light, creating an unsettling, in a way, wrong feeling.

“Not you,” you murmured, more to yourself than to them. “You’d have my liver for breakfast.”

You straightened, knees damp, and let your eyes travel. Everywhere you looked, something had left its mark. The story of the place was etched into its marks, twists, and empty spaces. A sapling, twisted unnaturally and snapped at the top, bore witness to passing deer during last rut’s mating season, their antlers snagging and tearing. A darker, smoother patch on the bark of a beech, greasy with the rub of a bear’s flank months ago, now drying to a dull, scabbed sheen. Higher up, four long, parallel scars sank deep into the trunk, the width of them and the smoothness of their edges saying claws rather than blades. On another oak, the grey bark had been stripped in a lengthy, clean swath for nesting fibres;

Beneath your feet, the earth was freshly disturbed, marked by the distinct tracks of hooves, larger ones, forming a trail that led toward the babbling stream, showing a small herd of deer had recently passed. You read the depth, the spread, the slight drag of a back hoof and stored it away without effort. The Whispering Wood was a book you had been reading since childhood. Every morning you stepped into it was another page, another short paragraph added to a lifelong story. The chapter today was veiled in mist, its edges sharp with a slice of cold, and carried the earthy scent of soaked foliage, ancient bark, and a subtle, metallic undertone. Early autumn. The leaves had only just begun to turn, tips tinged yellow, a few bronzed scouts already fallen and dotted with mould. The air was thick enough that each breath felt like drinking; it lay on the back of your tongue, damp and green.

You had spotted a promising ring of mushrooms at the base of a hornbeam, their caps brown and rounded, not too glossy, the gills neat, when the forest offered you something else.

The first thing that caught your eye was a flicker of motion, an anomaly. Not the quick, countless flickers of birds, or the furtive scurrying of small things in the undergrowth. This was heavier, a deeper disturbance. A shadow slid between two oaks at the edge of your vision, then vanished behind the white veil of low-lying fog. You turned, one hand easing the birch bark basket closer against your hip, the other dropping instinctively to the knife at your belt—not because you meant to use it, but because your body liked the reassurance of steel. For a moment, there was nothing. Just mist and trees and the quiet drip of condensed fog falling from a high branch.

Then he stepped out.

For a heartbeat, you truly wondered if you had misjudged the strange little cluster by the log. That some treacherous cap had slipped into your basket and was now blooming hallucinogenic visions within your bloodstream.

The stallion materialised out of the grey as a piece of night undone. He was big: taller than most northern stock by a hand and more—but what struck you first was not his size or noble frame. It was the way he held himself, even in panic. He was all clean lines and hard curves: long neck arched, the crest thick with a mane as black and glossy as the rest of him; shoulders falling into a deep, powerful chest; back short and strong, croup sloping into a tail that hung like a sheet of obsidian silk. His coat was a deep black that seemed to absorb all light and trap it underneath, but even through the grime of dried sweat and mud, a subtle sheen remained, glistening in dark, inky patches on his sides.

He looked like something bred in a place that believed in perfection as a sacred duty.

The saddle on his back confirmed it. You knew leather; you knew what coin could buy. This was not some lordling’s best. This was royal. Dark, supple leather, too fine to squeak, too well-used to shine, moulded precisely to a single rider’s seat. Silver mounts and buckles chased with dragons and flames, tarnished now with dirt, glinting dully where branches and old bark had scored them. One strap had a fresh, ugly scrape, the leather abraded white where it had kissed something rough at speed. The flap of the saddlebag bore a small, distinctive stamp: a three-headed dragon in relief.

Your lungs burned, reminding you that you had unknowingly held your breath.

“Brackens be damned,” you muttered, almost amused despite yourself. “Either I picked the wrong mushroom, or some Targaryen princeling has misplaced a very expensive piece of horseflesh gifted on his name-day.”

The stallion saw you at the same moment.

He checked, hooves skidding a fraction in the leaf mulch, head snapping back. His ears went flat. The whites of his eyes showed, a rim of stark, startled moon around the dark. His body thrummed with a tense, coiled dread, a feeling that felt like it was burning through him, more suited for a creature built for flight than for combat. Something had chased him. His flank muscles quivered, and faint, straight scratches marred the skin above his hock, too shallow for serious wounds but too defined for brambles, betraying its presence. Claws? Branches? A boar’s tusk? He smelled of sweat and fear and the cold, metallic tang of water—a stream, probably, crossed in panic.

You did not move toward him at once. Instead, you lowered your eyes a fraction, softening your shoulders, letting your body fall into the loose, non-threatening posture you used on half-wild colts and offended hunting dogs. You shifted your weight deliberately, the crunch of your boots on the fallen leaves a slight, familiar sound he noticed.

“Easy,” you whispered, as if he were an old friend you’d surprised in a compromising position. Your voice sounded small in the vastness between the trunks, but it was steady. “I’m as out of place as you are, I promise.”

He snorted, a sharp, uncertain noise, and danced sideways, the reins trailing, catching briefly on a low fern and then slipping free. The bit clinked softly against his teeth. His front hooves lifted an inch, came down again. He wanted to rear, but he’d run out of outrage somewhere between the castle and here. What was left was nervous energy and the edge of exhaustion.

You slipped the basket from your arm and set it down carefully on a patch of moss, making a point of letting him observe the movement. Then, keeping your hands where his eye could track them, you reached into the leather pouch at your belt.

“You came a long way to the wrong wood, handsome,” you said, fingers closing around the cool, familiar shape of the apple you’d tucked there out of habit before leaving. “Let’s see if southern princelings feed you the same as northern ladies do.”

You brought the fruit out slowly. Red over green, a little bruised on one side. The horse’s ears twitched toward the front, then back again, indecisive. His nostrils flared, catching the scent. You took a step forward. Then another. Not directly at him, that would be a predator’s approach, but on a slight angle, letting your path arc closer rather than cutting straight. His glinting black pearls tracked you, head tilting with minute precision.

“Smells better than fear, doesn’t it?” you breathed. “Come on.”

At three paces, he stiffened. You stopped. The mist between you thinned, then thickened again as a stray draught moved through the undergrowth, bringing with it the faint sound of a crow’s distant complaint. You extended your hand. The apple sat on your palm, your fingers flat so your knuckles wouldn’t feel like teeth. For a long, taut moment, nothing happened.

Then he stepped in.

It was small, a half-step, as though he were ready to bolt the instant he smelled something wrong, but it was toward you. His muzzle dipped, the delicate, whiskered skin of his upper lip quivering as he investigated. The warm puff of his breath washed over your fingers. He brushed the apple, a slight jolt running up your arm, and then held it, his teeth brushing your palm with a sting that was sharp but safe. You let him have it, resisting the urge to flinch. A flinch at this moment would tell him you were just as unsure as he was.

“There,” you said in a soothing tone, as he crunched. The apple’s crisp echoed, ripples of sound spreading in the muffled morning, crunch after crunch. A piece of apple fell, bounced in the leaves; he nosed it up, less polite now that the first barrier had broken. “See? Not all strangers mean to drive you into trees.”

While he chewed, you extended your hand with deliberate accuracy, letting your fingers caress the moist, velvety texture of his neck. He tensed, eyes flashing white again, then seemed to decide that the sweetness in his mouth outweighed the new intrusion. His skin twitched once under your fingers, but did not pull away. Up near at hand, you could see the faint ripple of his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat. It matched, almost absurdly, the thud in your own chest. You ran your palm along the muscle, feeling the way it bunched and eased under your touch. He smelled of leather and sweat and something faintly smoky: familiar stable straw, perhaps, or the lingering ghost of the yard. Presence of the royals at Raventree Hall was foreseen, a strategic move in their Riverlands campaign, though their swift arrival caught you off guard. Your thumb snagged on the rough, slightly raised edge of a recent scratch near his side. You hissed softly through your teeth, sympathetic.

“Whoever frightened you is getting their ears boxed,” you told him. “If they have any sense left after your master is done with them.”

Master. Rider. Dragon.

Your gaze slid to the saddle again, to the small, scuffed sigil on the leather. Three heads, one body. Red on black, even under the mud. Of all the horses in all the woods in all the kingdoms, a royal Targaryen stallion had walked out of the morning mist into your reach, dripping black dread and pride in equal measure. You laid your forehead briefly against his neck, feeling the warmth there through the biting air, the way you sometimes did with the big wolfhounds at home when they came in from a hunt, trembling with leftover adrenaline.

“All right,” you said, more to him than to the gods who’d arranged this ridiculous gift. “Let’s find the princeling who was foolish enough to lose you.”

A soft chuckle escaped your nostrils. “Clearly, they were far more adept on dragons than on horseback.”

You gathered the reins, feeling the weight of the fine leather in your hand, and swung into the saddle in one smooth, practiced movement, the way you had mounted onto a hundred lesser horses since you were little. The stallion danced under you for two steps, testing, then settled when your seat settled, when your thighs and calves closed around him with the firm, unafraid contact he understood. From up here, the forest looked different. The mist was a little thinner. The trunks seemed less like pillars and more like markers on a road you hadn’t known you were riding until now. You clicked your tongue once, low and encouraging.

“Show me the way, then. You know where you came from. I’ll see you back.”

He exhaled, a sound akin to a sigh, and then faced the distant scents of smoke, man, and stone. With a gentle lightness in your hand, the reins guided him as he stepped down, his sure footing a promise as he bore you from the forest towards the life intended for him. You, astride a dragon’s black stallion, a steed reserved only for the royal family, vanished into the fog with him.

A woman in hunting clothes with a basket full of mushrooms and no skirts to trip her, riding a creature that was destined to bear no one but a prince.

By the time the shout erupted, Baelor had worn a path into the yard.

The search yielded results slowly and in fragments: first came two riders, their clothes caked in mud and their faces grim, already offering apologies before dismounting. An hour later, another pair arrived, their broken branches and scraped shins bearing silent witness to their failed attempt. The mist, thick and clinging, spread low over the fields as the sun rose, pooling along the fence line like spilled milk and resisting the morning’s warmth. At this point, the edge of it sat twenty yards beyond the open stable gate, a soft, grey wall. The forest further on might as well have been a separate realm.

Baelor stood facing it, cloak drawn close against the damp, jaw set hard enough that a muscle jumped now and then at the hinge. The sound of other horses’ hooves, a dull clop on the packed earth, followed him as the search party dismounted, their tack jingling with that defeated, hollow noise animals make when their riders are lost.

“He will not have gone far, my prince,” Gerren tried, from somewhere at his shoulder.

Baelor did not answer at once. His eyes were on the mist. In his mind, the steed’s dark form ghosted through the trees, a silent, aching reminder of a joy now lost. Every snapped branch, every unseen dip in the ground replayed as a break, a fall, a shattered leg. Having witnessed the plight of many broken horses, he found it difficult to design any other outcome. Baelor swallowed, the taste of sour worry heavy on his tongue.

“Send for hounds this afternoon if he’s not back by—”

“Your Grace!”

The call cracked across the yard like a whip.

A younger groom’s voice, a nervous, wavering sound teetering between fear and excitement, reached you. Baelor’s head snapped toward him, irritation flaring; then he saw where the boy was pointing.

The mist.

Initially, the fog alone was present, swirling as a gentle breeze meandered through the trees. The shape coalesced within its darkness—a towering figure, moving with a slow, rhythmic rise and fall, far removed from the panicked, headlong flight of a galloping horse.

A black stallion emerged from the cool grey.

He came at a trot, neck arched, ears pricked. Mud speckled his legs to the knee and flecked his underside; the fine leather of the saddle stained and scored along one side, but his movement was clean: no hitch, no favouring of a leg. Each hoof landed strong and sure.

A faint, ragged sigh escaped Baelor’s lips, a sound he made no effort to hide.

Then he saw you.

For a heartbeat, his mind rejected the image: a trick of mist, some strange mirage conjured by exhaustion and worry. No one rode that horse. No one had ever ridden that horse but me. He had broken the stallion himself under the eye of the master of horse, with more bruises and more pride at stake than he would ever admit.

But you were there—on top of him.

You sat astride as if you had been born that way: hips moulded to the saddle, thighs close around the horse’s barrel, weight balanced in the easy, unconscious manner of someone who does not need to think about the body beneath, because you had always known how to listen to its natural rhythm. Each step of the steed's trot carried you forward and back in a smooth, unbroken motion, your pelvis rocking with the creature’s tempo, not fighting it.

Your cloak—dark, heavy wool—hung open and soaked, hem darkened to near-black where it had dragged through wet undergrowth, clinging in damp folds around your thighs. Your trousers were worse: plastered to your legs up to the knee, the fabric moulded to the shape of muscle and bone, showing the clean line of your calves, the flex of your knees as you absorbed the movement—details he’d memorized a hundred times on horses, never on a woman.

A smear of dirt streaked one of your cheeks, where you must have brushed at it with the back of a hand. Your hair had come loose from whatever braid it had started the morning in. Sodden strands of it, cool against your skin, clung to your temples and neck. You shed all ladylike pretense, appearing as if the very essence of the forest had mounted the horse.

The stallion’s ears flickered, yet he remained unfazed by the sounds and quick motions. As you moved from the soft earth to the firm, hollow sound of hooves on packed yard, he lessened his pace of his own volition, his trot softening to a walk beneath your hand with no visible or audible signal.

Baelor sensed a shift in the stable’s atmosphere, a hushed, collective breath as everyone present: grooms, stableboys, and riders alike—turned their heads to witness the object of the prince’s captivated gaze.

“Who,” Baelor said, and his own voice surprised him. It came out low, rougher than he had intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who is on top of my stallion?”

“Lady Blackwood, Your Grace,” Gerren answered at once, half awe, half disbelief.

More than any title could, the name embodied what he was seeing.

You drew the horse to a halt a few yards from Baelor with a light hand on the reins, the creature’s warm breath puffing in short, contented clouds, not the harsh, stuttering pant of panic. As you turned in the saddle, your eyes found his.

In that instant, the yard dissolved into a narrow, airy passage directly between you.

A dark, assured look settled in your eyes; then a swift, scrutinizing gaze swept across Baelor’s face, followed by a steady, unwavering stare that caused a knot to form beneath his ribs. You took him in the way you take in a horse: not the colour of the coat, but the posture, how the weight was carried, the tension in the jaw.

He discovered, with a flicker of anxiety, that he did not know what you saw.

Then you broke the gaze yourself with an economical movement, swinging your right leg over the steed’s back and dropping lightly to the ground. Your boots met the flat surface with a gentle thud, your knees instinctively softening the landing. For a heartbeat, your hips were level with the horse’s—a straight line of woman and animal—and then you stepped away, the long, wet fall of your cloak separating you.

Your hands stayed.

You turned back to the horse immediately, fingers going up to his jaw, along the line where cheek met neck. His ears flicked back, then forward again, mildly curious but unafraid. Baelor couldn’t quite make out your hushed words, a sound more than meaning, as the horse lowered its head, the hard ridge of its nose nestling into your palm as if it recognized the touch.

“Such a good boy,” you breathed, half coo, half praise, soft enough that it felt indecent to overhear. Your lips softened around the words, going round and full, your mouth almost a pout as you pressed a quick kiss to the damp, velvety patch between his nostrils. “Easy, easy. This one is feisty,” you added, fingers scratching lightly at the base of his mane. “But absolutely, rightfully so.”

The creature closed his eyes briefly, the long lashes fluttering once against your skin. He had never done that for anyone, barely even tolerated the master of horse. He allowed Baelor and no other.

Baelor realised his hand had clenched, unthinking, around the edge of the stable doorway. Wood bit into his palm at the exact moment his mind chose to remember how firmly your legs must have gripped the saddle—and refused to grant him any kinder image.

“Lady Blackwood,” he said, forcing his fingers to relax. The name tasted unfamiliar, though he knew the house: rivers, ravens, the poisoned tree, old kings in the ancient castle that had bent the knee late and grudgingly, but aided Aegon the Conqueror, regardless. “I assume this is my horse. Drogon.”

You turned your head back toward him, one hand still on the Drogon’s neck, the other resting flat against his cheek as if to reassure the animal you wouldn’t stray too far.

“Yes, I would assume so, my prince,” your voice, a deep rumble with that unmistakable Riverlands cadence, lent a deliberate, thoughtful weight to every word you uttered. “I did not think he belonged to the village dairyman.”

The yard’s edge rippled with a brief, choked-off sound of laughter. A smile tugged at Baelor’s lips, threatening treason, but he kept his face schooled.

“He was startled,” you continued with a plain tone and no smile in sight, thumbing at a smear of mud on the Drogon’s jaw as you spoke. “Far from here, in the wild parts of the woods, where the stream bends and the old beeches grow close together. The ground was torn where he’d skidded; there were fresh claw marks on some trunks.” You glanced at the long, shallow scores along his flank. “He took a few branches, maybe something with tusks, but no more. His hooves are whole. Knees and ankles intact. No heat, no swelling that I felt.”

Your fingers had run up and down the tendon as you said it, gentle, testing, fingers spreading then coming together. The intimacy of the touch—precise and skilled and yet soft—made the words land with double weight. Baelor’s gaze stayed on your palm for a bit too long, a moment of distraction his mind couldn’t justify, his lips pressing together as he swallowed.

“The saddle is scratched,” you added as if you were responsible while brushing the thumb over a raw strip where the leather had turned pale. “But that matters less than the precious thing beneath it.”

“The scratches are of no consequence,” Baelor said, a feeling so true it would have seemed alien to him an hour earlier. His eyes were on the Drogon’s legs, tracing the familiar lines, checking every fetlock, every joint for the faintest hitch. There was none. “Leather can be replaced.”

You nodded once, satisfied with the answer.

“He is a beautiful creature,” you said. “I have never seen one quite like him.”

Pride burned through Baelor then, hot and swift and embarrassing. He felt it flare in his chest like a coal teased by a hidden draft.

“He is Prince Baelor’s pride and joy,” Gerren put in, half eager, half still a little afraid. “Bred from royal stock across the Narrow Sea, they say.”

You glanced between the man and the beast again, as if measuring the claim.

“It was a privilege to ride him,” you said, and there was a flicker of something like mischief in your eyes now, quickly smoothed over. “Even in such circumstances.” You paused, and for the first time a hint of conventional courtesy slipped into your tone, though it sat oddly, like silk over mail. “And I apologise in advance for doing so without your leave, my prince. He was too far in and too unsettled to lead on foot all the way. The path back is long. And,” you added, almost as an afterthought, “roadless.”

The emphasis on the last word was mild, but it made Baelor’s mind draw unhelpful pictures of your inner thighs tightening around the stallion’s sides, squeezing the saddle, as Drogon picked his way through roots and ruts, your hips smoothly shifting with each unpredictable dip, cloak dragging in briars, damp hem slapping against your boots with an unexpected sound.

“It is… unseen,” he said slowly, pulling his thoughts back into order, “that he lets anyone ride him. Besides me.” His eyes dropped to Drogon’s muzzle, where the animal was now lip-searching your sleeve for more apple with the greedy assurance of a beast that had decided someone belonged to him. “However, he appears tranquil in your presence.”

“Lady Blackwood is the best horsebreaker and trainer in the Riverlands, your Grace. Forgive my intrusion,” Gerren said fervently, as if the words themselves might ward off the prince’s anger. “Bless the Gods, Old and New, she found him. Should another person mount your stallion, it would undoubtedly be our gifted Lady Blackwood.”

The words hung in the air, charged with a significance that wasn’t intended by Gerren. Baelor’s ears picked up on every subtle implication and resented the way his body agreed with all of them, a pang of annoyance at its willing response.

Horsebreaker. Best in the Riverlands. Calming something too wild for anyone else. Feisty, but rightfully so. Riding without permission because the path was long and roadless.

Baelor’s mouth went dry. He sensed the intensity of numerous eyes darting between his face, your expression, and Drogon; every man in the yard heard the same echo, a sound that resonated within them, yet they all strained to maintain stoic expressions.

You seemed, for a heartbeat, to hear it too. Your brow lifted a fraction. Instead of looking away, you met Baelor’s eyes full on, one corner of your mouth curling in the barest suggestion of a smile that was not quite polite.

“If it consoles you, my prince,” you said, fingers still stroking the stallion’s neck, “he did make me work for it.”

It should not have felt like a confession. It did.

Baelor’s throat worked. The word ‘privilege’ lodged somewhere unhelpful. For one, sudden, unprincely instant he wondered whether the horse had been the only one. He caught himself, smoothed his face, and inclined his head.

“Then I am doubly in your debt, Lady Blackwood,” he said. “For bringing my friend back to me. And for managing what no one else has.”

The political matter had taken three days. Again.

Baelor had sat through two dinners, one arbitration over river rights that had been festering since his grandfather’s reign, and a very long afternoon listening to Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken explain, with the thin courtesy of men who had been killing each other’s great grandfathers since before the Conquest, why the other one was wrong. He mediated with the patience and precision of a seasoned prince, understanding his regal presence subtly influenced conversations, a tool as potent as any blade.

Baelor had done all of this. He had done it well. He always did it well.

On the second morning, as mist settled low over the Blackwood courtyard, he stood at the guest quarters’ window, gazing at the wooden chest secured to his accompanying carriage. The political matter wasn’t the sole purpose of his journey, this time.

He had been working toward this conclusion for some weeks.

It was logistics; he told himself. The Riverlands were on his route. The horse needed a destination. A gift delayed too long becomes an insult. There were a dozen reasonable, unimpeachable reasons to stop at Raventree Hall on the way back from a perfectly legitimate diplomatic errand, none of which had anything to do with a wet cloak or the way a stranger’s mouth had softened around such a good boy and made the words sound as if they belonged in a darker room. Baelor told himself all of this. His body, stubbornly, believed none of it.

The rumble of the horse carriage echoed across the main yard in the late morning, a sound that marked the end of their meetings and Lord Blackwood’s generous offer of the hall. Baelor had thanked him with the warmth of genuine liking—the old lord was blunt, loyal, and pleasantly uninterested in flattery—and asked, with a casualness he had rehearsed once, whether Lady Blackwood might be sent for.

“She’ll be with the kennels,” Lord Blackwood replied, without surprise and without apology, a man who had made peace with this reality. “Someone will fetch her.”

Baelor nodded, expressed his gratitude, and went to wait in the yard.

He’d had the horse prepared before he left the road. The two grooms who’d travelled with the animal had done their work well: the carriage door gleamed, the tapestries folded and pinned neatly along its sides. The chest sat on the second cart, iron-bound, lid closed, strapped securely. Baelor stood beside his own mount with his hands loose at his sides, watching the courtyard’s routines carry on around him: a stableboy crossing with buckets, ravens wheeling above the great weirwood in the inner yard, a grey-muzzled hound ambling across the stones with the profound self-certainty of a dog that had decided it owned this particular patch of ground and all who moved across it.

Then he heard them.

A complex, interwoven chorus of barks and whimpers emerged from the kennels, as if the dogs were in a democratic debate over their next destination. Nails on stone. The scuff and slide of boots. Three dogs rounded the corner first, their ears and jowls flapping with every bouncy step. Two hounds, along with a broader, lower, and more menacing-looking dog whose blunt head and rolling shoulders suggested a purpose beyond mere good looks. Their attention was not on Baelor. They were not, precisely, in pursuit.

They were following.

You came around the corner after them.

His immediate thought was that the visit had been a miscalculation, though not one he regretted, but rather the opposite.

Your working jacket, made of heavy oiled leather, hung open over a once-white shirt now stained with the day’s beginnings, its fur trim dark and clumped, hinting it had been used as a towel at some point. Your leather trousers, tucked into boots that were muddy up to the ankle and beyond, bore a perfect paw print pressed in something dark and earthy across the left thigh: a large paw, four-toed, a testament from a decisive creature. Your hair was down, or most of it. A braid had survived somewhere at the back, but the rest had been liberated, and a loose strand curled against your cheek, apparently having been there long enough that you’d stopped noticing it. There was a smear of what looked like kennel mud along the inside of your right forearm, and something that might have been dried blood—animal, not yours, the quantity too small for worry—on the heel of your hand.

Baelor knew what ladies were meant to look like: silk pinned so tightly it creaked when they sat, gold at throat and wrists, hair coaxed and powdered into shapes that took three women and half a morning to achieve, a laugh produced on cue for the benefit of half a court that spent its days arranging itself around them. Gold that lay in the hollow of the neck like a collar, something a lord could close his hand around behind polite doors and have the body follow without a word.

You looked like none of that. You looked like someone entirely occupied with something that mattered, a woman who put collars on other creatures and expected them to mind you instead; A lady of an old lesser house who handled her own dirty work, unaware that the world expected her to clean up before being seen.

Baelor’s mind strayed to a place it shouldn’t have: what it would be to be led that way himself, contemplating the sensation of being overpowered, to feel a hand close at his throat and have his body go quiet and obedient without consulting his rank. It was an idle fancy for a man who was second in the realm and bred to hold reins, not give them up. He shut the door on it, a fraction too late.

As he wrestled with his thoughts and began to lose, Baelor conceded with a weary, specific clarity: Ah. Of course.

You noticed his horses first, their sleek coats gleaming, followed by the vibrant colours of his attire, and finally, the man himself. Something shifted in your face and beyond—a quick reorganisation, the eyes sharpening, the body adjusting posture without quite committing to formality.

Then the dogs caught up.

All three arrived around your legs simultaneously, completing the orbit they’d been executing since the kennels, looking up at you with the expectant attention of creatures awaiting permission to do whatever they were about to do. You glanced at them. A single look, no words, your hand dropping briefly—one flat, downward press of your fingers.

Every dog sat. Not in stages, not with a shuffle or a half‑hearted slump, but in the same instant, the way birds turn on a wind. Three animals of different sizes and tempers hitting the ground because your hand had said so.

Baelor looked at the dogs. Looked at you.

It was the forest and the stallion again, except the creatures at your feet had teeth and would gladly open a throat for you if asked. Something low in him answered the sight with a feeling he would not, under any circumstances, name. His fingers twitched at his sides, an unconscious, useless answer to the urge to see what you could make him do with only that hand.

You were already moving toward him, brushing your palms briefly against your thighs as you walked, and he could see the moment you registered the full state of yourself—a small, almost invisible pause behind your eyes, the kind not meant to be noticed. You did not apologise for it. You did not reach for your hair. You simply arrived at him, exactly as you were, and let that be the thing.

“My prince.” Your voice carried the familiar, deliberate rhythm he recalled, each word precisely placed as if pre-calculated. “I was not told to expect you.”

“The fault is mine,” Baelor replied. “I did not want to alter your morning.” He let his gaze move over you once, brief, and allowed something close to a smile to surface; the easy one, the one that said I find this charming, while some less disciplined part of him noted mud, leather, throat, the loosened strand of hair with a care that had nothing to do with courtesy. “It appears I failed.”

“You interrupted a hound that was halfway through a lesson.” The look you gave him was dry. “He was not pleased.”

“I apologise to the hound.”

“There’s no way he’ll take it.”

You took in the carriages with a practiced assessment, accustomed to deciphering their contents purely by observation. You scanned its contours, taking in its size, the ventilation grates, and the peculiar, slightly agitated movement of unseen mass within.

“You brought a horse.”

Not a question.

“I did.”

A subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurred within you, like a mere degree of change. A small brightening, quickly reined back in. Baelor caught it.

“The debt I mentioned,” his voice dropping a register, deliberate as a key in a lock. “I told you, Lady Blackwood, I do not forget.”

“You were not required—”

“I rarely do what I am required to do,” he said pleasantly, “and frequently do what I decide to do. You’ll find there’s a difference.”

You looked at him for a moment. He could see you measuring the exact width of that sentence, deciding whether to argue with it. Then your eyes returned to the carriage, and whatever debate had been occurring behind your expression adjourned.

Baelor nodded to the groom. The carriage door.

Opened.

The horse descended the ramp, its entrance as graceful and unannounced as a masterpiece entering a gallery, its presence immediately altering the atmosphere and making the surrounding air rearrange itself. Much as a woman had once ridden out of the trees and rearranged his.

He had chosen this one for that very reason. There were sound explanations, of course—bloodlines, suitability, the practicalities of Riverlands terrain—but beneath them lay a simpler truth: he liked watching people see what only Targaryen heirs could casually bring into a yard. The right horse, at the right moment, could do what titles sometimes could not.

He was young—four years at most, his body still holding the last suggestion of colt-length in the legs, the chest not yet fully filled, which only made the potential of him more startling. His coat was a rich, deep brown, which, in the shadows, deepened to an almost black hue, possessing a subtle, iridescent sheen like mother-of-pearl. The weak autumn sun illuminated the layered hues of his hip and withers, the colour of ancient heartwood, vibrant and full of life. His mane was a breathtaking sight: long, flowing waves with a delicate curl, possessing a hue reminiscent of pale hay softly kissed by late summer light; it absorbed the very essence of it, appearing almost white when illuminated and giving off a faint glow that made it look like molten gold. It was full and loose, and the breeze stirred it against his neck with a movement that felt unnervingly free.

His belly, which Baelor had observed stopped people in their tracks, was marked with patterns resembling shallow water flowing over white sand. Faint dappling, almost transparent, barely-there spots and stripes that shifted as the horse moved and disappeared when it stood still, the kind of thing you second-guessed yourself about, wondering whether you had seen it or invented it.

The grooms had placed a necklace that morning: a delicate white gold chain set with stones of black and red, the colours of Blackwood, which fell against his chest and caught the light with his every movement. The tapestries across his back bore ravens in flight against white trees, the fabric deep crimson and black, chosen to fall across the dark of his coat without clashing. It was, without exaggeration, the sort of animal one expected to see under a Lannister in full cloth-of-gold, or parading with a Tyrell tournament entourage, rather than stepping into a muddy Riverlands yard just because a prince had chosen to entertain the consequences of its placement.

His left eye, dark and liquid, held the ordinary miracle of a horse’s gaze. His right, though.

Baelor watched the realisation move through the fence line like a shiver.

The nearest Blackwood groom went very still. The armed men in the distance adjusted their positions, their glances not quite meeting. Someone’s mouth opened on what might have been a comment and closed again on a swallow. No one said a word. They did not have to. Every person who had stood close enough to the prince to see one brown eye and one unmistakably Targaryen violet now saw it looking back at them out of a stallion’s head.

He had chosen the horse for many reasons. Bloodlines. Temperament. Potential for distance and cold. That was the story he would have told if anyone had been foolish enough to ask. The truer reason was simpler, and lived in the small, private satisfaction of this exact moment: a blue right eye, set in a dark face, watching you.

The grooms had done their work; the necklace lay at the colt’s chest, the Blackwood colours blazing against his coat, the ravens and heart‑trees riding his back like a herald’s dream. But it was the eye that stopped you. You devoured the lines of him with the focused hunger of someone finally reading a text they’d waited years for, your attention locked from neck to shoulder to hip to hock, entirely uninterested in the gasps at the fence.

Then your gaze reached his head.

Left, dark. Right, blue.

You stilled in a new way.

Your expression was completely empty for a split second, just the raw, empty intake of facts. Then your eyes left the horse and found Baelor’s across the yard, and he watched you see it: brown, violet; brown, blue. The deliberate echo. The insult to common sense and good modesty that was putting a stallion with the prince’s gaze under the keeping of a minor Riverlands lady.

It was not subtle. It was not meant to be.

You held Baelor’s look for a fraction longer than courtesy required, as if measuring how far you were willing to let the implication travel. Your jaw did a small, traitorous thing—tightened and released—and your tongue pressed once against the inside of your cheek in a gesture that would have passed for nothing if he had not been specifically watching for it.

Then you looked back at the horse.

Your professional calm guided you as you detailed his finer qualities, but the knowledge sat between all three of you now like a hand on the reins: you would ride a stallion who carried his colours and his eye. You would put your knees to his sides, your weight behind his withers, your hands on a neck Baelor had chosen in his own image, and every time you did it some part of you would be forced to admit that this was what a prince’s vanity looked like when it stopped pretending to be anything else.

It was petty. It was possessive. It was, Baelor acknowledged to himself with a slow, private satisfaction, very nearly obscene in its intimacy.

He had no right to touch you.

He could, however, make sure that when you swung your leg over this beast and settled your hips to its stride, you would be doing it astride a piece of him, however symbolic. A lesser lady on a horse better suited to Lannister cloth‑of‑gold or Tyrell procession—except that your thighs, not theirs, would be the ones closing around the saddle. Your hand, not theirs, would lie against the warm, flexing throat beneath that mismatched gaze.

You understood that. He saw the moment your awe and your sense rebelled at it at the same time, and the moment your desire for the horse won.

You took one step closer.

The blue eye tracked you as you came, curious, unafraid. Beneath your ribs, an unseen force nudged you forward, compelled by an unacknowledged inner voice. Baelor’s fingers curled once, slow and tight, around the rail, savouring the fact that he had managed, with a choice and a coin and a bloodline, to arrange it so that whenever you mounted this creature, you would have to think, if only for the length of a single breath, of the man who shared its gaze.

The stallion reached the ground, took three steps, and stopped. His blue eye found you.

You froze in place. It wasn’t the composed quiet of the court, but the stillness of a body that no longer knew how to pretend. Your lips parted; the hands that had been moving to brush mud from your sleeve hung motionless at your sides. Whatever words you might have had for him earlier in the day had been quite cleanly removed.

The way you observed the horse was akin to how others behold perfection—a palpable yearning that transcended facial expression, manifesting instead in your body’s slight forward inclination and suspended breath. A distinct satisfaction washed through Baelor as he stood close enough to see it. This, too, was a language he knew: the moment when someone realised that what stood in front of them was more than they had ever expected to be offered. Power moved differently then, and he liked the feel of it.

You had not gawked at him in the mist. You had met a Targaryen prince and heir with steady eyes and a plain voice, as if his face and his reputation were facts to be filed rather than wonders to be admired. Now, though, you were standing absolutely struck in front of something he had chosen with you in mind, and some unprincely part of him uncoiled at the sight.

Baelor watched you look at it. He felt something move in him that was not, precisely, strategic or measured. Memory was unhelpful; it supplied the sound of your voice in the mist, low and pleased on such a good boy, and laid it over the way you were looking at this one now until his skin felt too tight. It was a ridiculous thing, perhaps, for the second man in the realm to be pleased that he could make a lady’s composure slip with nothing more than a horse and a decision—but he was, and the knowledge ran through him like heat.

“My prince.” Your voice came back to you a beat slower than usual. “This horse has never seen winter.”

Baelor folded his hands at his back. “He has not.”

“He is built for a king’s parade,” you said, and there was something almost sorrowful in it, as if you were arguing yourself out of something while the argument was still arriving. “For a lady in silk on a summer road. For a knight going somewhere that will remember him.” Your eyes tracked the blaze of white gold at his chest, the tapestried ravens. “Not for mud and frost and two hundred miles of northern track.”

“That is what I assumed you would say,” Baelor answered.

You looked at him.

“His dam is Essosi,” he said, allowing nothing into his voice but the clean interest of the information. “Bred for plains and cold both, built to move in wet ground without tiring, to go long between water. His sire is Crownlands stock—fast, responsive, lungs like bellows. The noble silhouette.” He paused. “Northern garron mares were used as a foundation as well, for hardiness, thick bone, and winter tolerance.” He met your eyes. “Hardy enough for the North, elegant and smooth enough for a lady.”

“Exotic enough to show off obscene wealth and ambition,” you added. The people in the yard were dead silent.

Baelor let a gentle chuckle escape his lips.

“The crossbreed is—untested. In the formal sense. Should my lady desire it, I am ready to tell everything about this particular stallion.”

You could practically taste the smug satisfaction in Baelor’s voice as he spoke the line. Someone cleared their throat.

“Untested,” you repeated.

“He has never been ridden,” Baelor declared, his violet eye glinting with a hint of impatience as he stared you down.

Something shifted in your expression. Not the doubt, not quite. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met his before darting away, as if the unspoken words had settled in several places and you were unwilling to acknowledge them all. Baelor kept his tone bland. His pulse was less disciplined.

“His hooves?” you asked. Your voice had gone quieter.

“Hard. Wider than pure Essosi breeding gives. Built to grip.” Baelor paused. “His health record is here, if you want it. The farrier’s notes as well. I brought them.”

You were looking at the horse again, not at him. The blue eye tracked you, curious, without fear, which was, Baelor knew, extraordinary in a young, unridden stallion in an unfamiliar yard. Most of them danced, pulled and found something to be afraid of. Its intelligent eyes studied you, as if an unfamiliar presence were being meticulously evaluated.

“He doesn’t know me,” you said, almost to yourself.

“No,” Baelor agreed. “He doesn’t know anyone.” He let a beat fall. Then, quietly, with precision: “You are the best horsebreaker in the Riverlands, Lady Blackwood,” he said at last. “It would please me to see the truth of that said about you. In action.”

A fractional pause. “If the lady allows.”

The yard fell silent again, the chirping of birds abruptly ceasing. No one repeated Gerren’s praise this time. They did not need to; every man present heard the echo, and every one of them suddenly found something else to look at.

You turned your head toward Baelor, and the look you gave him was different from before. It wasn’t the hurried judgment one might receive from the stable yard, nor the cool, evasive response of a woman keeping a prince at arm’s length. This was more direct. Your eyes travelled his face, settling with a thoughtful, unhurried intensity, like a person contemplating the difference between what is seen and what is truly felt.

Baelor met it.

You held the gaze long enough that he felt it—the specific, quiet pressure of being actually looked at, not as a prince, not as a title, but as a person who had brought a gift, that could mean several things and was waiting, carefully, to see which meaning you took.

It was not the open, hungry staring he knew from tourney stands and court halls, the wide eyes that drank in his face and saw only story: the Realm’s Delight, the tourney champion, the future king. It was narrower, steadier, almost inconveniently calm. You weren’t trying to impress him, or to be impressed by him. You were simply… taking stock. As if he were a horse you were considering: bone, balance, temper.

The first time you had seen him, you hadn’t even noticed the eyes. That had stung, absurdly; half the realm told stories about the Targaryen violet, and you had looked straight through it, filing him away without so much as a second glance. Now, though, after the stallion with the mismatched gaze, you looked at him and saw it. And there was a flicker there, a tiny, traitorous acknowledgement that you understood exactly what he had done.

Heat went through him like a struck vein. It showed up in small, betraying places: the way his fingers curled once against the back of his wrist where his hands were clasped; the way his throat worked as if the air had thickened; the slow, heavy pull of blood lower, coiling in a body that had no business reacting to a look as if your gaze were a forbidden touch. Being regarded like this, with unblinking attention, aroused him with an intimacy that no amount of courtly admiration had ever managed. Deliberate. Full. He felt a jolt, a visceral response to being seen so completely, so intensely, like a predator brought to bay, an awakening far more profound than the superficial praise. A forbidden current within.

For a fleeting moment, a wild, insane sense gripped him almost by the throat: that if you held his gaze any longer, if you decided to stay there with a patience of a horsebreaker, to linger, and discover what lived behind the purple and the brown; some crack in him would show itself without his permission, and an involuntary vulnerability would break through.

And the worst of it, the thing that made his grip on his own composure feel suddenly, precariously thin, was that a part of him wanted you to.

“You chose an unknown breed,” you said. “Deliberately.”

“I chose an excellent horse.”

“You chose one I’ve never handled.”

“I chose one no one has. There have been attempts, though, with dire consequences.”

A silence. The horse shifted its weight, the necklace chiming softly against the chest.

“This is a very expensive gift,” you said, “from a man who is not my kin and is not my lord.”

“It is a debt repaid.”

“It is far more than a debt.”

He inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying, letting the silence answer for him. Your jaw worked once, as if there was a plainer word you would have liked to use and had to swallow instead. You did not want to owe a prince; he had expected that. He had counted on it. The resistance put a keener edge on his own intent, the way a whetstone made a blade more itself.

“You understand what you’ve done, my prince,” you said, still looking at the horse rather than him. “No man in all kingdoms would willingly let a woman from a lesser house sit a creature like this. He will be stolen within a month, and I’ll face severe reprimand for my scandalous display: parading in the mud on something so outrageously bred it makes the Bracken studs look like plough nags, mere farm animals. The North and the Riverlands do not forgive that kind of spectacle.” You tilted your head, considering the blue eye. “Especially not when the faces in question already spend their days smeared in their own horseshit.”

The yard broke like a wave.

Laughter, sharp and delighted, spilled over the fence, devoid of any pretense. A stable boy slapped the rail. One of the men‑at‑arms bent double, wheezing. Even Lord Blackwood’s steward allowed himself the ghost of a smile, which in him might as well have been applause.

“Lady Blackwood,” Baelor said with a smile that appreciated the joke.

The sound of his voice cut cleanly through the noise. He let it sit a heartbeat, looking down at his own leather boots drenched in mud as he shifted his weight, hands clasped behind him—modest, almost, if not for the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Then he raised his head.

The moment his eyes landed on you, the violet fleck in his right iris seemed to capture every particle of the wan autumn light.

“All the Seven Kingdoms will know whose gift he is,” he said, each word measured, almost lazy with assurance. “No one will dare lay a hand on a horse that carries my colours and my eye. And especially not the lady mounted on top. Not Brackens, no other Riverlords or Lords in the North, not any Lannister or Tyrell, not any man in any muddy yard who values his own skin.”

He let the next phrase fall with the pleasant finality of a gauntlet.

Possession. Ownership. Without a single touch or command.

“That is a crown’s promise.”

The chuckle that went through the men then was different, lower, edged with something like approval and relief. A prince staking a claim in plain hearing, wrapping a lady of a lesser house in the quiet, territorial arrogance of a Targaryen guarantee.

Baelor was absurdly, privately pleased by how good it felt to say it—and by the fact that, for once, the weight of the dragon on his breast did not feel like duty alone.

There it was, the calculation, running openly behind your eyes. Not whether you wanted the horse: you had decided that before you finished looking at him, and you both knew it. The question was the cost. What you would owe after, and to whom, and whether a gift accepted was something left open. You did not want to owe a prince. Baelor had expected this. He had counted on it, in fact, and then found, somewhere between the planning and the standing here, that he liked the clean, unbending honesty of it rather more than he’d expected.

You looked at the horse.

The horse looked at you with its blue eye.

“What a stallion,” you whispered, your voice carrying further than you intended.

“He has never been ridden,” Baelor said again, softly. “He is waiting for someone who knows what she is doing.”

You took a breath. Let it out slowly.

“If I accept this—”

“I will want to watch,” he interrupted, “from the first touch to the moment he gives you his back.” His tone stayed pleasant; the words did not.

Another silence. Your throat gave a small, involuntary gulp, a tiny crack in your maintained calm, and your fingers ghosted over your wrist, as if to confirm your pulse was behaving itself. The broad-headed hound’s tail resumed its slow, stubborn wag against the ground.

You turned back to the horse. You took a tentative step, then another, your hands already lowering into the relaxed posture that had calmed Drogon in the mist. The blue eye tracked your approach. The horse did not step back. His ears perked up, wide with curiosity, deciphering your motion like an animal senses truth: the depth of your awareness, the absence of threat in your posture, and the deliberate calm of someone who has all the time in the world. Your hand reached his nose. He sniffed once—long, searching—and then, to Baelor’s very private satisfaction, pressed the flat of his muzzle into your palm as if there had never been any other choice.

“Ridiculous creature,” you said, very quietly. Baelor could not have said with certainty which of them you meant.

“I’ll need a week with him before anything of note,” you said, not turning, fingers already learning the map of the bone beneath the skin. “Possibly more. The process takes months, but I can achieve initial results in days.”

Lord Blackwood hummed in approval.

“I am in no hurry,” Baelor said. It came out lower than he intended, almost velvety, as if his conversation implied something else entirely.

“To go anywhere in particular.”

Your hand paused for the space of a heartbeat on the long muscle of the horse’s neck, thumb pressing in, as if testing not his steadiness but your own, before resuming its slow, sure path. You said nothing to that. But your fingers curved around the horse’s jaw, initiating the slow, deliberate process of building trust, and you chose not to turn him away.

It was a ridiculous thing, perhaps, for the second man in the realm to be pleased that he could make a lady’s composure slip with nothing more than a horse and a decision—but he was, and the knowledge ran through him like heat. What followed was less comfortable.

Baelor wanted her to look at him that way.

Not at the Targaryen colours, not at the tournament record that preceded him into every hall in the realm, not at the face his mother’s ladies had called beautiful with a reverence that had always struck him as faintly impersonal, as if beauty were a property of the station and not the man. You had given him none of that in the mist. You had looked at him the way you looked at everything: with a steady, appraising patience that gave nothing away and required nothing from him in return. He had found it irritating. He had found it, if he was honest, intoxicating.

The horse had moved you. He had not.

The thought landed with the specific, unpleasant burden of an unforeseen issue he was now fixated on. What would it require? Not his title, not his lineage, not the effortless ease with which he could command a room. Something else. Something you had decided, by your own private measure, was worth the concession.

He did not know what that was. The not-knowing was new.

His father had granted him leave to choose. Not a diplomatic arrangement, not a match made in a council chamber over maps and alliances, but a choice: the particular, rare indulgence of a king who trusted his heir’s judgment in most things, including this. Baelor had taken the commission seriously and had conducted it with method. He had stood in the great halls of the Great Houses and watched ladies move in silk and gold with the practised eye of a young man, the first prince, who understood that a marriage was also a partnership, a prolonged negotiation, and that the body beside him for the rest of his life had better be one he could at least bear to sit across a table from without something in him going dim.

Baelor had not yet found the answer. He had not been looking for it in a muddy Riverlands yard.

You were not the answer; he told himself. A minor house. A woman who kept kennels and broke horses and met princes with dry courtesy and unimpressed eyes. Not a match his father would have circled on any list, not a name that solved anything he needed solved.

You were, he thought, looking at you now with your hand moving slow and sure along an animal that no one else had ever managed to reach—you were, perhaps, the last of something. The last question before the answer was given. The last afternoon of good riding before the road closed in and required him to be only what he was supposed to be.

Baelor was second in the realm. He would be first, in time. The stallion’s days would end when the harness went on, and he had known that since boyhood with a clarity that left no room for complaint.

He watched your fingers find the long line of the colt’s jaw and felt, with a quiet and unprincely resignation, that he would spend a very long time wondering what it would take to make you look at him that way instead.

You were the last clean gust before the window shut: a brief, wild draft of freedom he meant to drag into his lungs and get drunk on, once, hard, before he turned back to the still air of a highborn marriage. A final storm let loose in a dim candlelit room, before he bolted the shutters, straightened his crown, and resigned himself to breathing nothing but duty for the rest of his life.

[strawberymilktea]

Genuinely eating this up so much. It's so good everyone needs to read it. I can't wait to see it all develop

[knightbloods]

— where dragons lay dying.

pairing. valarr targaryen / healer!reader

synopsis. reader is a skilled woodswitch who heals with herbs and whispered spells, summoned to the red keep she must heal a dragon or watch him die.

content. slight canon divergence (vaccinated valarr arc??). graphic depictions of illness & death. plague descriptions. probably incorrect folk medicine. sexism. canon typical themes. lots of grief and angst. comfort. possible tragic ending (haven’t decided yet)

word count. 8.5k

note. ahhh ok my first one shot && ofc i made it more than one part… pls go easy on me as I’m new to posting my writing on tumblr.

part ii.

The cottage smelled of smoke, damp wool, and crushed herbs.

Bundles of drying plants hung from the rafters like small, silent guardians—sage, thyme, bitterroot, and strips of willow bark bound carefully with twine. Their scent lingered thickly in the warm air, mingling with the steam rising from a pot that simmered slowly over the hearth. The sharp bitterness of the brewing herbs stung faintly at the back of the throat, a smell both medicinal and strangely comforting.

On the narrow bed beneath the window, Lord Smallwood writhed beneath his blankets.

His dark hair clung damply to his temples, sweat soaking through the linen pillow beneath his head. Each breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, as though the air itself burned his lungs. Fever had painted his cheeks an unnatural crimson, and every so often his body shuddered violently beneath the weight of the covers.

Near the door, two servants hovered uneasily.

“Should he be sweating like that?” one whispered, glancing nervously toward the bed.

“Seven save him,” the other murmured back. “He’s been like this for three days.”

Neither of them dared step closer.

You ignored them.

Kneeling beside the hearth, you worked slowly with the stone mortar resting in your lap, grinding dried willow bark and mint together beneath the steady pressure of the pestle. The brittle leaves cracked and crumbled with each turn of your wrist, breaking down into a coarse, pale powder.

The rhythm was steady. Familiar.

Grind. Turn. Grind again.

The sound had always calmed you.

The old woman who had raised you used to say that the rhythm itself could settle a healer’s nerves. “Your hands must be steady,” she would tell you, her voice thin with age but sharp with certainty. “If the healer trembles, the patient will follow.”

You tipped the crushed herbs carefully into the pot hanging over the fire and stirred.

The liquid inside had already darkened into a cloudy amber from the earlier mixtures. As the powder touched it's surface, a sharper scent rose into the air—bitter enough that one of the servants coughed softly into his sleeve.

Behind you, the lord groaned.

You turned at once.

Lord Smallwood’s hand clawed weakly at the blanket as another wave of fever rolled through him. His breathing had grown ragged now, each inhale scraping from his chest like dry leaves dragged across stone.

You rose and crossed the small room in two quiet steps.

Pressing your palm lightly against his forehead, you felt the heat immediately. Still burning, but no worse than before. That mattered.

“Help me sit him up,” you said.

The servants hesitated.

“He’s very weak, my lady,” one said uncertainly.

“So lift gently,” you replied.

After a moment’s pause, they moved forward, carefully sliding their arms beneath the lord’s shoulders. You slipped one arm behind his back to steady him as they raised him upright against the pillows.

His body radiated heat even through the thin linen of his shirt.

You lifted the wooden cup from the bedside table and held it carefully to his lips.

“Drink.”

His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice, unfocused and glassy with fever. “Bitter…” he rasped weakly.

“It is meant to be.”

He managed a weak swallow, then another. A little of the liquid spilt down his chin, and you wiped it away with a cloth. When the cup was empty, you eased him back against the pillows.

The servants watched the entire process as though witnessing something sacred, and in a way, perhaps they were.

You dipped a cloth into the bowl of cool water beside the bed and wrung it out before laying it across the lord’s neck. His overheated skin steamed faintly beneath the touch. The fever had been climbing steadily all day. If it rose much higher, there would be little left to try.

“They said you brought Lord Harroway back from death,” one of the servants said quietly, as if speaking too loudly might disturb whatever fragile balance held the fever at bay.

You did not look up from the cloth in your hands, wringing and laying it again across the lord’s brow.

“People say many things when a man survives,” you replied.

The servant hesitated, glancing toward the bed. “But… It’s true, isn’t it?”

You did not answer immediately.

The fire cracked softly in the hearth, sending a brief flare of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind moved through the tall pines that surrounded the cottage, their branches whispering together in the darkness like distant voices.

At last, you said, “Lord Harroway lived because his body chose to fight.”

The servant frowned slightly. “And you?”

You adjusted the blanket around Lord Smallwood’s shoulders, tucking the wool carefully beneath his arms.

“I asked it to try.”

Silence settled once more over the small cottage.

The fevered man shifted restlessly beneath the covers, his breath quickening again as another surge of heat moved through him. You watched the change carefully, studying the rhythm of it.

Every illness had its own pattern. A rise. A fall.

Sometimes the body found its way back from the brink, sometimes it did not.

You reached for the small leather pouch tied at your belt and loosened the cord. Inside were carefully wrapped bundles of dried herbs—lavender, sage, and several others gathered from the forest hills.

You selected a few brittle lavender buds and crushed them gently between your fingers. Their soft scent drifted into the warm air beside the bed. It would not cure the fever, but it might help the body rest, and sometimes, rest was the first step toward survival.

Then, almost without thinking, you murmured the old spell. Your voice was low enough that the servants barely heard it. “Root and leaf, draw the heat. Bone and blood, remember sleep. Fever passes, and breath grows slow, Let the quiet body know.”

The old woman had insisted the words mattered less than the intention.

“People trust rituals,” she used to say. “And trust is medicine too.”

Lord Smallwood’s breathing stuttered, then steadied.

You sat beside the bed and waited; time seemed to stretch slowly in the dim light of the hearth. The servants eventually stopped whispering, busying themselves by replacing the cold cloth that lay on their lord’s head every time it warmed.

The fever burned for what felt like hours, rising and falling like a tide. Several times, the lord stirred violently, muttering half-formed words, his hands clutching at invisible things. Each time you cooled his skin and spoke softly until he quieted. Eventually, the trembling eased. His breath slowed. Then, gradually, the tight lines of pain in his face began to soften.

One servant leaned closer. “He’s sleeping.”

You waited a beat to confirm. “Yes.”

“But… he hasn’t slept in two days.”

You leaned back slightly, though your eyes never left the patient. Sleep was a good sign.

Not a victory, but a beginning.

“You saved him.” The second servant looked at you as though seeing something extraordinary.

You shook your head gently. “No.”

“But he was dying.”

“Perhaps.”

The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind had begun to calm. You rose and moved back to the hearth, setting another bundle of herbs beside the pot.

Behind you, Lord Smallwood slept on; the servants watched him as if afraid he might vanish if they blinked. After a moment, one of them whispered, almost reverently, “A miracle.”

You stirred the simmering brew, the bitter scent filling the room again. “No,” you said quietly. “Only patience.”

You sat down on the low stool near the hearth and stretched your tired fingers toward the warmth of the flames. The long hours of tending had left your shoulders stiff and your eyes heavy. Outside, the forest had grown quiet. The wind whispered softly through the trees, rustling the branches like distant voices.

Sitting again, you started to clean your tools; any moment of peace was best used and not wasted. You cleaned them slowly, more out of habit than necessity.

The mortar still carried the faint scent of crushed willow bark—sharp and bitter beneath the softer sweetness of mint—and the smell lingered stubbornly in the stone no matter how often you rinsed it. Fine green dust clung to the inside of the stone bowl, caught in the tiny scratches carved by years of grinding.

You poured a little warm water into it and rubbed the inside with a cloth, turning the bowl carefully as you worked. The sound of stone against cloth was soft and steady, almost meditative.

Every movement was practised and measured.

The old woman had insisted on that.

Clean tools meant clean work. Clean work meant fewer mistakes. And in healing, mistakes could not always be undone.

When the mortar was smooth again, you wiped it dry and set it beside the window where the cool night air could reach it.

Your hands paused for a moment over the pouch at your belt.

The leather was worn soft from years of handling, the drawstring darkened where your fingers had tied and untied it countless times. When you loosened the cord and opened the pouch, the smell of dried plants rose at once—earthy, bitter, comforting in its familiarity.

Inside were small bundles wrapped carefully in scraps of cloth.

Lavender for calming sleep.

Sage for cleansing.

Bitterroot for stubborn fevers.

Thyme for the lungs.

Each bundle was tied with a thin thread and marked with small knots that the old woman had taught you to recognise even in the dark.

You checked them one by one. The habit was older than you could remember. Healing began long before the patient arrived. A healer who did not know what she carried in her pouch was no healer at all.

The memory came to you then, the way many scents did—quietly, without warning.

One moment, you were standing beside the narrow bed in the cottage, listening to the restless breathing of a fevered lord. The next, the faint smell of crushed thyme lingering on your fingers had carried your thoughts years backwards, to a morning deep in the forest.

You had been younger then—small enough that the dew-soaked grass reached nearly to your knees. Every step soaked the hem of your dress and chilled your ankles, but you had not minded.

The forest had always felt alive in the early hours, as though the world itself were waking slowly around you.

It had been quiet that morning.

Not silent—never truly silent—but filled with the soft, living sounds of a place that had not yet been disturbed by the day. Birds called somewhere high in the branches above, their voices echoing faintly between the tall pines. A breeze moved through the needles overhead, carrying with it the cool scent of damp earth and pine resin.

Several paces ahead, the old woman walked slowly along the trail.

Her back had already begun to bend with age, though she moved with a steady patience that never seemed to falter. She leaned heavily on her crooked walking stick, which had been carved from a twisted length of ash wood so old the grain had turned nearly silver with age. Her hair had been the colour of frost—long and thin, gathered loosely at the back of her neck with a faded strip of red cloth.

She noticed everything.

Every few steps, she would pause beside the path, not because she was tired but to crouch carefully beside some small plant growing half-hidden among the roots of the trees.

That morning, she stopped beside a patch of pale green leaves. “Come here,” she called without turning.

You hurried forward, nearly slipping on the wet stones beneath your feet.

When you reached her side, she gestured toward the plant growing low against the ground, brushing aside the surrounding grass so it could be seen clearly.

“Well?” she asked.

You crouched beside her.

The leaves were thin and slightly curled, their edges jagged like tiny teeth. Small white flowers had begun to bloom at the centre of the cluster.

You studied them carefully before answering. “Feverfew.”

The old woman nodded once. “And what does it do?”

“It cools the blood,” you said, recalling the lessons she had repeated countless times before. “It helps break fever and ease aching joints.”

She plucked a single leaf from the plant and held it up between her fingers, turning it slowly so the morning light caught the faint veins running through the surface.

“And what does it not do?”

You hesitated; the question had always struck you as strange. “It does not cure death,” you said at last.

A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Good.”

She placed the leaf carefully into the woven basket hanging at her hip before straightening slowly with the help of her walking stick. For a few moments, she said nothing, simply continuing along the path as though the lesson had already ended.

You followed behind her.

After a while, she spoke again. “People will say many things about healing,” she said, her voice quiet beneath the whisper of the wind moving through the trees.

You had heard this lesson before.

“They will call you wise,” she continued. “Some will call you blessed.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “And some will call you a witch.”

You frowned slightly. “Are you a witch?”

The old woman snorted softly at that. “If I were, do you think my knees would ache this much?” That made you laugh, which only made her smile.

She walked a few more steps before stopping again, this time beside a narrow stream that cut across the forest path. The water ran clear and cold over smooth stones, its quiet rushing sound filling the space between the trees.

She crouched beside the bank and dipped her fingers into the water. “Listen carefully,” she said.

You knelt beside her, watching intently.

“The body knows how to mend itself,” she said slowly, her walking stick tapped lightly against one of the stones beside the stream. “We only remind it how.”

You studied the moving water. “But what if it doesn’t?” you asked.

The old woman did not answer immediately.

For a long time, she simply watched the current moving past the stones, the expression on her lined face thoughtful.

At last, she turned her pale grey eyes toward you, “Then it was never ours to mend.”

You frowned again. “But that means people will still die.”

“Yes.”

The word came easily; there was no cruelty in it, only truth.

She pushed herself slowly back to her feet, leaning heavily on the stick once more. “That is the hardest lesson a healer must learn,” she said quietly. “You will help many people. More than you think possible.”

Her gaze softened slightly. “But you will not save them all.”

You walked beside her again as the forest path wound deeper between the trees. “How do you know when to stop trying?” you asked.

She smiled faintly at that.

“You do not.”

She tapped the walking stick against the path again as she walked. “You try,” she said. “And when the body chooses to fight, you help it.”

The wind stirred gently through the branches above.

“And when it doesn’t?” you asked.

The old woman did not look back this time. “Then you make certain the patient does not face the end alone.”

The memory faded slowly.

The crackling sound of the cottage hearth returned, along with the smell of simmering herbs and the soft breathing of the sleeping lord in the bed behind you.

The old woman had been gone three winters now, yet sometimes—especially on long nights spent beside the beds of the sick—you could still hear her voice as clearly as if she stood beside you.

Correcting the way you tied a bundle of sage. Reminding you to watch the patient, not just the sickness. Or scolding you gently when you forgot to eat.

The cottage where she had lived still stood at the edge of the forest, though you rarely returned except to gather herbs from the familiar hills. The roof sagged more each year without her careful hands to mend it, and the garden had begun creeping slowly back into wildness. Foxglove had overtaken the old herb beds, and the mint had spread across half the yard.

It had felt wrong to stay there without her; you kept expecting to find her around the corner or to wake with her humming softly as she cleaned herbs. So you had moved, not far but somewhere else, somewhere your own.

A faint smile touched your lips. She would have liked this cottage; it had good soil, plenty of water, and hills thick with wild herbs. The mornings carried a clear light she would have appreciated.

For a while, you simply sat and listened: to the quiet breathing of the sleeping lord, to the steady crackle of the fire, to the distant rustle of the forest beyond the walls.

Healing often required nothing more than waiting; your mentor had always insisted on that.

“Patience first,” she would say.

You reached for another cloth and began drying the mortar again, though it was already clean. Your hands needed something to do while the night stretched slowly onward. Somewhere far beyond the cottage walls, a dog barked once in the distance, the sound carried faintly through the trees before fading again into silence.

Dawn would come soon enough, you thought, and when it did, the villagers would begin to arrive; they always did.

Someone with a cough, a twisted ankle, or a child burning with fever. Illness did not rest simply because one patient had begun to recover.

You set the mortar back on it’s shelf and rose quietly.

Across the room, Lord Smallwood slept on. His breath was slow now, even. For tonight, at least, the body had chosen to fight.

And that, in the end, was all a healer could ever ask for.

Morning came slowly through the forest.

At first, it was only a faint paling of the darkness beyond the cottage windows, a thin grey light filtering between the tall pines that surrounded the clearing. Mist clung low to the ground, drifting lazily between the tree trunks like pale smoke.

Inside the cottage, the fire in the hearth had burned low.

A few stubborn embers still glowed beneath the ash, casting a faint reddish light across the wooden floor. The smell of last night’s herbs lingered heavily in the warm air, mingling with the faint scent of damp earth drifting in through the open window.

Lord Smallwood still slept.

You stood beside the bed, studying him carefully.

The fever had not vanished during the night, but it had weakened. The flushed heat had not left him entirely, but it no longer burned with the same savage intensity it had hours before. His breathing had deepened, each rise and fall of his chest slower than before. The harsh rasp of fever had softened into something steadier, though his skin still shone faintly with sweat in the glow of the fire.

A cloth rested across his brow, cool from the basin of water beside the bed. He seemed content at last, and you felt safe enough to leave him alone to rest.

The servants had withdrawn to the outer room after the lord finally settled, their anxious whispering fading into the soft murmur of the wind outside. Once or twice, you could hear the creak of the bench as one shifted or the faint clink of a cup, but they kept their distance now, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that had settled.

You stepped outside the cottage quietly, pulling the door closed behind you so the hinges would not creak.

The morning air struck your skin with welcome coolness. Dew clung to the tall grass in the clearing, soaking the hem of your boots as you crossed to the wooden basin beside the door. It held water gathered from the nearby stream, it’s surface smooth and dark in the morning shade.

You plunged your hands into the cold water.

The chill bit instantly at your skin, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath. You scrubbed the faint stain of herbs from your fingers. The water stung where small nicks lined your knuckles—tiny cuts from knives, thorns, and bone needles gathered over years of work. You hardly notice them anymore.

Morning air filled your lungs as you straightened. It smelled of wet soil, pine sap, and the faint sweetness of crushed grass beneath your boots. After the thick herbal smoke and heat of the cottage, the forest air felt startlingly clean.

For a while, you simply stood there, letting the cool air wake the last heaviness from your bones. Your shoulders ached from hours spent leaning over the bed. The dull fatigue behind your eyes lingered stubbornly, but the forest had a way of easing it, as though the quiet itself could steady a weary mind.

Somewhere in the distance, a crow called harshly from the branches overhead. A breeze stirred the tall pines, sending a soft whisper of needles through the air.

Peaceful.

Familiar.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the calm.

You looked up.

A boy from the nearby village came running across the clearing, his boots slipping slightly in the damp grass. His chest heaved with effort, and his hair stuck wildly to his forehead where sweat had gathered.

You had treated him during the last harvest when he had broken his arm falling from an apple tree. When he saw you watching, he waved both arms frantically. “Someone’s coming!”

You frowned slightly. “Who?”

The boy skidded to a halt beside the basin, bending over with his hands braced against his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“A rider,” he managed between gasps. “From the road.”

Visitors were not uncommon; farmers sometimes arrived with injured animals. Villagers occasionally came seeking remedies for coughs or broken bones.

But riders were rare.

And they almost never arrived alone.

“Did he say what he wanted?” you asked.

The boy shook his head quickly, still breathing hard, his breath coming out in little white clouds. “He asked for the healer.”

You wiped your hands against the edge of your sleeve, the rough cloth absorbing the last of the cold water.

Before you could ask anything further, the sound of hooves reached the clearing. Slow at first, a distant, hollow rhythm echoing between the trees—Then louder, like thunder over a dark sky.

The boy turned toward the narrow path leading through the trees, his eyes widening with excitement. “He’s coming!”

A moment later, the rider emerged from the forest.

The horse stepped into the clearing first, its dark coat streaked with dust from the long road. Sweat darkened its flanks, and its breath steamed faintly in the cool morning air. Foam gathered along the edges of the bit where it worked its jaw restlessly.

The man astride the horse looked little better than the exhausted animal beneath him. Travel dust coated his cloak and boots, and the deep lines around his eyes spoke of many days spent riding without proper rest.

When he reached the clearing, he pulled the reins sharply, bringing the horse to a halt. The animal let out an indignant noise and pawed at the ground sharply, it’s tail flicking like a whip.

His eyes moved quickly across the cottage, the herb garden beside it, and the two of you standing in the grass.

Then he swung down from the saddle. His cloak shifted as he moved, revealing the dark doublet beneath. Even before he approached, you noticed the emblem fastened to his clothes.

Deep red on a field of black, a three-headed dragon.

The sigil of House Targaryen.

The boy beside you sucked in a quiet breath of awe.

The rider approached with careful, deliberate steps, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. His gaze moved across the clearing, lingering briefly on the hanging herbs near the door, the drying racks beneath the eaves, and the open window where the scent of willow bark drifted faintly outward.

“Where is the woodswitch?” he asked, stepping forward, expression serious. His voice was formal, but you could tell he was tired.

You stepped forward. “Here.”

His gaze settled fully on you then, not rudely, but with the careful scrutiny of someone who had travelled a long distance in search of something very specific—and was quietly wondering whether he had truly found it.

“You are the one who treated Lord Harroway?” he asked.

“I treated him.”

“And he lives.”

“Until the gods decide it is his time, yes.” You regarded simply.

The rider’s brow creased faintly at the answer.

Then he reached into the leather pouch at his belt and withdrew a folded parchment sealed with deep red wax.

“The crown sends for you.” He held the letter out.

The wax seal bore the three-headed dragon clearly, the imprint sharp and unmistakable.

The boy beside you gasped.

You took the parchment slowly, feeling the thickness of the fine paper beneath your fingers. It was far finer than anything used in the villages.

You broke the seal hesitantly, trying not to show the slight tremble in your fingers. The parchment inside was smooth and heavy, the ink dark and precise.

You read the message slowly.

To the healer reputed to have cured Lord Harroway,

Word of your skill has reached the Red Keep. The royal family is afflicted by the spring sickness, and the maesters have not yet halted its spread.

I ask that you come to King’s Landing with all possible haste.

Prince Valarr Targaryen.

The forest seemed suddenly very quiet, like nature had held its breath along with you. Even the crow that liked to squawk in the early hours of the morning had fallen silent.

Beside you, the boy stared up with wide eyes. “What does it say? What does it say?”

You had almost forgotten he was standing beside you, but the small tug he gave your sleeve made you jolt in surprise. You gave him a small sideways glance— then your gaze shifted to the rider who was regarding the boy sharply.

Then you read the letter again.

Spring sickness.

The words carried a weight you knew too well. You had seen it before, or well, a similar affliction, it had broken out during the late autumn when all the trees turned orange.

Years ago, in a river village where the houses stood too close together, and the wells ran shallow in summer. The sickness had begun with a single fever.

By the time anyone understood what it was, half the village had taken ill.

Children first.

Then the old.

Then anyone who dared tend the sick without care.

It had spread like fire through dry brush. When the fevers finally broke, the burial mounds outside the village had doubled.

The ache of many sleepless nights assisting the old woman, treating people, crawled back violently as if it had never ceased; the feeling made you shudder. That was when you had doubted your ability to be a healer; you had cried after losing so many people you had poured all your efforts into saving.

If the old woman had not been there to pick you up, you surely would not have survived the ordeal yourself.

You folded the letter carefully, the smooth parchment sliding between your fingers easily.

“How long has it been in the city?” you asked. While you had heard of some cases of sickness in more populated areas, it had not yet leaked into the countryside, where you preferred to spend your time.

The rider shook his head, a grim expression settling over his face. “Several weeks.”

“And the maesters cannot stop it?”

“No.” He hesitated before adding quietly, “Many have already died.”

The boy’s excitement faded at once, and his gaze dropped toward the ground. Whatever he thought might happen, it was clear it was not this; to talk of such grief in front of a child… it was not savoury. The itch to send him away grew, but before you could say anything, the rider spoke.

“You are requested at once.” his tone was firm, as though he feared you might refuse.

You looked past him toward the road disappearing between the trees. King’s Landing lay many days south—farther than you had ever travelled, farther than the old woodswitch had ever allowed you to go.

Treating farmers and minor lords was one thing, but treating the royal family was something else entirely. What if they did not improve? Would they have your head for it? The thought made you shudder.

The boy tugged your sleeve again. “You have to go,” he insisted. “If anyone can help them, it’s you!”

You almost laughed.

People always said such things after someone survived an illness, as though healing were certain, as though herbs and patience could command life itself.

Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you.

Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you. Inside, Lord Smallwood still slept. If the fever returned stronger tonight, he might yet die despite everything you had done.

Healing was never promised, only attempted.

The rider waited patiently.

At last, you asked, “Why me?”

The rider blinked once, clearly surprised by the question.

“Your name was recommended,” he replied after a moment.

“By whom?”

“By those who claim you have saved lives others could not.” The words carried more belief than you were comfortable with.

You studied the letter once more, mind spinning.

Prince Valarr Targaryen.

A man you had never met. A prince you had never even seen. Yet somehow he had heard your name in a distant village and believed it worth sending a rider across half the realm.

The wind stirred gently through the clearing, and for a moment, you imagined the old woodswitch standing beside you again, leaning on her crooked stick.

“A healer listens. If someone is ill, you go. Even when you know you might fail.”

You let out a long breath, emptying your lungs completely before lifting your gaze back to the rider. For a moment, you said nothing, weighing the words of the letter against the quiet life you had built here, against the forest and the patients who came to your door each morning. When you finally spoke, your voice was calm, though the decision behind it felt heavier than you expected. “All right,” you said. “I will come.”

Relief spread across the rider’s face so quickly he made no effort to hide it. Beside you, the boy stared in open amazement before breaking into a grin so wide it seemed to light his whole face. “You’re really going?” he blurted. “To the Red Keep?” The excitement in his voice made the journey sound like some grand adventure rather than a desperate summons from a prince.

You turned back toward the cottage, already thinking through what would be needed. “If I’m to travel that far, I’ll need time to prepare,” you said, brushing the dampness from your hands onto your sleeve. “There are medicines to gather, and I’ll have to make certain the villagers are looked after while I’m gone. Illness doesn’t wait simply because its healer has ridden south.”

“That won’t be a problem,” the rider replied quickly, stepping forward as though eager to remove every possible obstacle. “If you need help making arrangements, I can see to it.”

You nodded absently, though your attention had drifted back toward the clearing. Pausing at the doorway, you glanced once more at the forest stretching beyond the small patch of open ground. It looked exactly as it always had—quiet and unchanged beneath the pale morning light. The tall pines swayed gently in the wind, their shadows moving slowly across the grass, and the familiar scent of damp earth and sap hung in the air.

It was peaceful here.

Familiar.

Safe.

For a moment, it was difficult to believe that somewhere beyond those endless trees a city was choking on sickness, and that a prince you had never met believed you might be able to save the people he loved.

You pushed the cottage door open and stepped inside, already reaching for the worn leather pouch that held your herbs. “Give me an hour,” you said over your shoulder, your voice carrying out into the clearing where the rider and the boy still waited. Then, more quietly, almost as if speaking the thought aloud made it real, you added, “Once I’m ready… we ride.”

The mule moved at a steady, tireless pace along the winding road.

When the farmer had first pressed the reins into your hands years ago—insisting you take the animal as payment for healing his wife—you had expected something slower. The mule had looked ordinary enough then: broad-backed, thick-necked, with a stubborn tilt to her ears that suggested she might refuse to move whenever it suited her. But she had proven stronger than she appeared. Sure-footed on uneven ground and patient with long distances, she walked with a quiet determination that rarely faltered once she had set her mind to the road.

“She carried sacks heavier than you through half my fields,” the farmer had said proudly, patting the mule’s neck as though the animal understood every word. “She’ll see you where you’re going.”

Now, as the road wound south through the low hills, you found yourself grateful for the gift. The mule’s hooves struck the packed earth in a steady rhythm, unhurried but relentless, her ears flicking now and then as the wind stirred the tall grasses along the roadside.

Beside you, the royal rider kept an easy seat on his horse. The animal beneath him was leaner and finer-boned, bred for speed rather than endurance, but the rider had slowed his pace without complaint to match the mule’s steady gait. Dust clung to both horse and rider from the miles already behind them, dulling the shine of leather and cloak alike.

The countryside had begun to change as you travelled.

The tall pine forests surrounding your home had gradually thinned, giving way to open hills and wide fields where golden grass rippled beneath the wind like the surface of a quiet sea. Small farms dotted the valleys below, their roofs pale against the dark soil of half-harvested fields.

Ordinarily, the road between villages would have been busy this time of year. Farmers would be hauling grain in creaking carts, neighbours walking between fields to trade news or tools, children running along the roadside until called back by impatient parents.

Today, the road was strangely quiet.

You noticed the silence first when the path carried you past a small cluster of cottages beside a narrow stream. The fields nearby lay untouched, though the harvest should have been well underway. No one worked among the rows of grain, and the doors of several houses stood closed despite the mild warmth of the morning.

A thin column of smoke curled upward from a shallow iron pan set in the middle of one yard.

The smell reached you as you rode past.

Vinegar.

You slowed the mule instinctively, studying the cottages more carefully now. One house had a cloth draped loosely across its doorway. Another had its shutters nailed shut from the outside, the boards hammered crookedly across the window frame.

From somewhere inside the cluster of buildings came the faint, ragged sound of coughing.

Your hand tightened slightly on the reins.

“We should stop,” you said quietly.

The rider glanced toward the cottages without turning his head fully, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. The mule had nearly slowed to a halt when the rider spoke again, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet morning air. “No.”

You looked at him. “If the sickness has reached this village already—”

“We ride.” He shook his head once, the gesture small but final.

Your gaze drifted back toward the cottages. Something moved behind one of the shuttered windows—a faint shape shifting in the dimness beyond the glass. For a moment, you thought you saw a hand press weakly against the pane.

“I could at least look,” you said. “It would only take a few minutes.”

The rider guided his horse slightly sideways, placing the animal squarely across the road ahead of the mule. The movement was calm, deliberate, leaving no space for you to pass.

His voice, when he spoke again, was not harsh. But there was a firmness to it that suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed. “The prince sent for you.”

“And they’re dying.”

“They are already dead.”

The words struck harder than you expected.

“You don’t know that,” you said, staring at him.

His gaze met yours steadily. “I know the sickness.”

The wind shifted across the road then, carrying the sour smell of vinegar and illness from the silent cottages behind you. Somewhere above the fields, a crow cried sharply, its voice echoing across the empty hills.

The rider spoke again, more quietly now. “If we stop at every village that coughs along this road, we will never reach King’s Landing.”

You did not answer.

Your eyes lingered on the cottages, on the shuttered windows and silent yards. The coughing had stopped, or perhaps the wind had simply carried the sound away.

Either way, the village looked still now. Too still.

You knew what the rider meant. You had seen sickness move like this before—swift and merciless, leaving little behind but empty beds and grieving families. Often, by the time a healer arrived, there was little left to do but comfort the living.

And you had been summoned somewhere far worse.

Slowly, you loosened your grip on the reins.

The rider let out a breath you had not realised he had been holding and nudged his horse forward again. The mule followed without hesitation, stepping back into her steady rhythm as though she had never intended to stop.

The cottages disappeared behind you as the road curved southward through the hills.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The mule’s hooves beat a quiet rhythm against the earth while the pale sky stretched wide above the empty countryside. The wind moved softly through the tall grass, whispering across the fields like distant water.

Far ahead, beyond the rolling hills and winding rivers, waited King’s Landing.

And somewhere within its crowded walls, a prince believed you might still save someone.

You had never seen King’s Landing before. But even as the city came into view from the road, you knew it could not look the way it did now.

Every traveller you had ever met who had passed through the capital described the same things: crowds thick as river reeds, shouting merchants, markets overflowing into the streets, carts rattling past one another in endless noise and motion. A city too large to ever truly fall quiet.

But the place spread beneath you now felt wrong even from a distance.

The towers of the Red Keep still rose high above the hills, catching the dull grey light of the afternoon. Ships clustered in the river below, their masts packed tightly together like a forest of bare trees.

Yet the roads leading toward the gates carried far more people leaving than arriving.

Families walked north with bundles tied to their backs. A farmer urged two thin oxen along a cart piled with sacks and blankets. A pair of septons moved barefoot along the roadside, heads bowed in prayer as they passed travellers without looking up.

All of them moving away.

You reached the city gates near midday.

Long before the walls themselves came fully into view, you could smell the city.

The wind carried it across the road in heavy waves—coal smoke, cooking fires, animal waste, and the sour odour of too many people crowded too tightly together. Beneath it all lingered another scent, sharper and more unsettling.

Sickness.

You had smelled it before in villages struck by fever.

It clung to the air in the same way smoke did, invisible yet unmistakable once you learned to recognise it.

The road climbed steadily toward the massive walls of King’s Landing. Their red-streaked stone towers loomed higher with every step the mule took, casting long shadows over the crowded approach to the gate.

Dozens of people waited there: Merchants with loaded wagons, travellers carrying bundles of belongings, a handful of farmers leading livestock.

Yet the mood was not the bustling impatience you might have expected from the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

Most of the faces you saw looked tired, worried.

A man near the front of the line doubled over suddenly, coughing into his sleeve with such force that the sound echoed harshly against the stone walls. Those standing closest to him stepped away quickly.

The rider moved past them with a practised calm, using his horse to force them to move from his path. The guards at the gate wore golden armour that glinted in the setting afternoon sun.

One stepped forward, raising a hand. “State your business.”

The rider lifted a small token bearing the dragon crest. “Royal summons.”

The guard studied the seal briefly before nodding and waving two others closer. “Escort them through,” he instructed gruffly.

Two guards on horseback appeared, one carried a long spear, the other rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he gestured toward the street beyond the gate. “This way.”

The moment you crossed beneath the stone archway, the sound struck you like a wave.

Voices, shouting, carts rattling over uneven cobblestones and the distant clang of hammer on metal somewhere deeper within the city.

King’s Landing was enormous.

Buildings crowded so tightly together that the streets between them seemed carved from stone and shadow. Wooden balconies leaned precariously overhead, their supports creaking beneath the weight of years.

The road beyond the gate stretched wide between rows of tall buildings, but half the shutters had been nailed closed. Others hung open like broken teeth. A market square lay just beyond the gate—but the stalls stood abandoned, their canvas awnings sagging where no one had taken them down.

Someone coughed nearby—deep, ragged, uncontrollable. The sound echoed hollowly through the narrow street. In an alley, a septon knelt beside a man lying against the wall, whispering prayers as the man trembled beneath a thin blanket.

You watched a woman stagger from a doorway, clutching a cloth to her mouth as she leaned heavily against the wall. Her skin looked pale beneath the grime of the street, and sweat darkened the loose strands of hair clinging to her temples.

No one stopped to help her.

The rider guided his horse closer to your mule. “It wasn’t like this a month ago,” he said quietly.

You believed him.

Illness had a way of changing places quickly.

The Gold Cloaks led the way through the winding streets, pushing aside the few pedestrians who wandered too close.

“Make way!” Out of the road!” they barked harshly.

People stepped aside reluctantly and ducked their gazes while you passed, some stared openly though, and you worked to keep from meeting anyone’s desperate eyes, nausea welling inside you.

You could see the signs everywhere now.

At the edge of the empty market square, a cart rolled slowly across the stones. Two men pushed it together, swatting at the flies that buzzed around them like a thick cloud. A rough blanket covered the long shapes piled inside; the cloth shifted as the cart lurched over a rut.

A pale hand slipped briefly into view before one of the men hurried to pull the blanket back down.

You looked away.

Farther along, a doorway had been marked with a crude smear of white chalk.

A warning. Sick inside, do not enter.

You tightened your grip on the mule’s reins.

One of the Gold Cloaks muttered under his breath. “Seven save us.”

The rider beside you said nothing, only kept his gaze forward, expression unreadable.

The smoke thickened again as you passed a small square where several makeshift bonfires burned brightly, fueled by flesh instead of kindling.

“Nowhere to bury ‘em,” one of the Gold Cloaks said when he noticed you watching.

Behind you, another cart rattled slowly over the stones, heading toward the square with the fires. You did not turn to look this time, afraid of what or who you may see it carrying.

Even without ever having seen the city before, you could feel it. A place this large should have been chaotic with energy. Instead, the streets felt strained.

As if the entire population were holding its breath.

The road began to climb again as you approached the hill where the Red Keep stood.

The castle rose high above the city, its massive red walls glowing faintly in the late afternoon sun. From below, it looked less like a home and more like a fortress watching over the sprawling chaos beneath it. The closer you came, the quieter the streets became. The poorest districts gave way to wider roads lined with sturdier stone buildings. Fewer people lingered outside.

More guards appeared.

The mule’s hooves rang loudly against the cobblestones as you crossed the final bridge leading toward the castle gates.

Then the buildings parted dramatically, dropping away to nothing.

The Red Keep stood before you.

You had heard the name all your life—spoken with awe by travellers who had glimpsed it from the harbour or the city below.

But hearing of it was not the same as seeing it.

The fortress rose in layers of deep red stone, vast and uneven, its towers climbing into the dimming sky like jagged teeth. The walls were higher than anything you had ever seen, their surfaces worn smooth in places by centuries of wind from the sea. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon hung from the battlements. Even in the fading light, the scarlet dragons seemed to coil and twist as the cloth stirred slowly in the evening breeze.

The gates were large and heavily guarded.

Armoured men stood on either side of the entrance beneath the towering archway, their polished breastplates catching the last pale light of the sinking sun. Spears rested upright in their hands, and their eyes followed every movement in the yard beyond.

Unlike the guards at the city gate, these men did not wear cloth across their faces. Perhaps the sickness had not reached the castle, or perhaps they believed the stone walls protected them.

One of the guards stepped forward as your small group approached. “State your business.”

The rider lifted the dragon-marked token once more. “Royal summons. The healer requested by Prince Valarr.”

The guard stepped aside, with a small bow of his head. “Go on.”

The gates of the Red Keep swallowed you. Inside, the courtyard opened wide beneath the darkening sky.

For a moment, you forgot the sickness in the city below.

The yard bustled with movement. Stable boys hurried across the packed earth, leading restless horses toward the stables. A group of servants crossed the courtyard carrying heavy baskets between them. Somewhere near the far wall, a hammer struck metal in sharp, ringing blows. The noise felt strange after the hollow streets outside. Yet even here something felt… strained. The movements were too quick. Voices were too quiet. No one lingered to talk. Everyone seemed to be hurrying somewhere.

Your mule slowed uncertainly as you rode into the yard, ears flicking at the unfamiliar sounds.

Two servants passed carrying armfuls of fresh linens stacked so high you could barely see their faces. Another man hurried past with a wooden crate filled with glass bottles that clinked softly together as he walked. A pair of maesters crossed the courtyard near the far tower, their grey robes billowing slightly in the wind. One of them spoke quickly to the other, gesturing with a scroll clutched in his hand.

You caught the faint smell of herbs drifting across the yard.

Sage, Mint, something sharper you did not recognise.

The rider dismounted beside you at last. “Come.”

A stable boy hurried forward to take the horses. He reached for the mule’s reins cautiously, eyeing the sturdy animal with open curiosity.

You slid down easily from the saddle. After hours on the road, the ground felt strangely unsteady beneath your feet. But you could not afford to dally and quickly pulled the saddle bags from your mule, herbs you had brought from home poked out of them.

The rider handed the boy the reins without ceremony. “See, they’re watered.”

“Yes, ser.” The boy nodded quickly and led both animals away, casting another glance back at the mule as though surprised anyone had ridden such a creature into the Red Keep.

You followed the rider toward a broad doorway set into the castle wall. The doors stood open, revealing a dim stone corridor beyond.

The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

Cooler, still.

Your footsteps echoed faintly along the floor.

Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames flickering gently in the draft from the open doorway behind you. The light threw shifting shadows across the vaulted ceiling above.

Servants passed through the corridor now and then, most of them carrying trays, cloths, or small bundles of herbs.

One girl hurried past with an armful of lavender tied in thick bunches. The scent followed her down the hall. Another servant carried a basin of steaming water that smelled faintly of vinegar. You glanced at it instinctively, following her form as she hurried away.

The rider continued without slowing, guiding you deeper into the keep. The corridors twisted and branched in confusing directions, passing beneath narrow archways and along staircases that climbed steeply toward unseen towers. The stone walls seemed to close in around you the further you went.

You realised quickly that you would never find your way through this place alone.

At one turning, a pair of maesters stood arguing quietly beside a table stacked with glass jars. “…the fever worsens after the second day,” one of them said.

“And the coughing?” the other replied, but they fell silent as you passed, watching you with harsh gazes.

The rider did not pause, striding with determination.

The castle felt larger the deeper you went. Passageways branched into more passageways. Stairwells spiralled upward or vanished downward into shadow. The air carried the scent of herbs everywhere now: mint, Rosemary, Something bitter, something spicy.

At last, the rider slowed before a tall wooden door set between two narrow windows. Two guards stood there, instead of the black and red of House Targaryen, they wore pearly white armour that almost glowed against their surroundings; they were members of the Kingsguard.

They straightened as you approached, and you felt small under their gaze; you could practically feel the sweep they did of you, assessing for danger, perhaps even signs of illness.

The rider muttered something to one of them, and he nodded, gesturing to the door briefly. The raider didnt hesitate and knocked once. It rang out against the thick wood, echoing around the corridor they stood in.

A voice came from within that made your skin prickle with anxiety. The king's guard didnt just guard any old rooms for fun, only when a royal lay inside. With a click, the rider pushed the massive door open and stepped inside curtly.

“The healer, your grace”, he announced with a bow.

part ii.

© knightbloods : do not copy, repost, translate, claim or alter my works & do not feed/do anything related to ai with my works.

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[tothosewholisten]

wild at heart: chapter 2 - not a lot, just forever

ser duncan the tall x secret targ fem! reader

summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.

authors note: hate to say it, not my fav chapter i’ve written. for some reason I wrote chapter 5 before this cause I was eager to move on. but it is finally done and I hope you like it, lmk what you think! thank you for 200+ followers. egg and reader is my top friendship so far. not proof read, im lazy.

warnings: language

word count: 10k+

Masterlist

<previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon!)>

You woke with the taste of wine still lingering on your tongue, and your head aching in slow, pulsing waves that rolled through one after another. When you opened your eyes, the sky above you blurring until the colors bled together before finally settling into something you could bear to look at.

You did not remember lying down.

You remembered laughter and music and feet moving until they hurt, too much wine and too much noise. But not this. Not waking beneath a tree with the smell of damp earth around you, not being wrapped in your own cloak with another much heavier one layered over it, and especially not the crooked bundle of cloth beneath your head, a pillow assembled with care but little skill.

You pushed yourself up carefully, slow enough that the world did not tilt too violently.

Something moved beside you.

Dunk lay close, stretched out on his side with one arm half extended toward where you had been, as if he had meant to keep watch and simply fallen asleep. He shivered in the morning cold, uncovered, while his bedroll sat a few paces away.

It was still fuzzy, but you pieced together what must have happened. You had too much to drink, and Dunk had brought you back to his camp, steady and responsible as always. The thought stirred a quiet warmth in your chest, the familiar reassurance of how carefully he watched over you.

You rubbed your temple and tried to steady yourself, and that was when you felt it. Not a sound or a movement, but the unmistakable sense of being watched.

You turned.

A boy sat near the horses with his knees pulled tight to his chest, too still, watching you with a curiosity that made your skin prickle. His hair was shaved almost bare and uneven in places, like it had been done quickly and without care.

For a moment, you dismissed him. A stray Dunk had taken in, maybe. A runaway. Someone who had wandered too close to camp.

Then he stood and took a few careful steps closer.

Recognition flickered across his face before you could stop yourself from seeing it, and when your eyes met his, clear and unmistakably blue, your breath caught painfully in your chest.

“Aegon!” You were on your feet at once, the name tearing out of you along with a rush of confused sound that barely resembled words.

The boy startled and hurried toward you, pressing a finger to his lips and glancing back at Dunk as the knight shifted in his sleep.

“Please,” he whispered. “Not here.”

Your heart hammered as you grabbed the back of his cloak and pulled him farther away, far enough that the trees might swallow your voices. Your head protested sharply, and you had to pause, breathing through the pain.

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to grab his shoulders and shake sense into him. But even lifting your voice felt impossible.

“Explain,” you said instead.

He swallowed hard.

“I did not mean to cause trouble,” he said quickly. “I was with Daeron on the road to the tourney, as expected, but he does not pay attention. All he cares about is drinking. He shaved my head to hide me and thought it was funny.” His hand went up to to his head, as if only now remembering.

You stared at him.

“I thought if no one knew who I was, things would be easier,” he went on. “I could just be a boy. Then I met Ser Dunk. He is kind. And I always wanted to be a squire. Just not for Daeron.”

There was something hopeful in the way he said it, like he expected that to explain everything.

“I do not even know what to say,” you said, pressing your fingers to your temple. “You should not be here. This is not safe.”

He frowned, confused at first, then stubborn. “Then why are you here?” he asked. “You are not safe either. Father would be angry.”

Your chest tightened at the mention of him.

“Father is always angry,” you said quietly. “And I am tired of caring.”

Egg studied you, his face pinched in thought as he tried very hard to understand something too big for him.

“If you are fine,” he said slowly, “then I am fine too. We are both doing what we want.”

“When Dunk wakes,” he added, brightening suddenly, “we can meet properly. Like it is the first time. He does not need to know yet.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the surrealness of the situation pressing in on you from all sides.

“Fine,” you said. “But you listen to me. This is not a game. And this talk does not end here.”

He nodded, serious again, and for a heartbeat, you saw not a boy, but the shape of something heavier waiting in him.

Once Dunk woke, the two of you did exactly what Egg suggested. He introduced himself as the man’s squire, and you claimed you were only a friend, the lie settling uneasily but holding all the same.

By the time you left camp, the sun had climbed high enough to burn away the chill, though the ache at your temples lingered stubbornly. Dry salt beef sat heavily in your stomach.

As you walked, Dunk explained that he had spent the day before meeting back up with you searching for a way into the tourney, and that no one seemed to remember his Ser at all. He sounded disappointed but not defeated, already moving on to his next idea, asking the great houses directly instead.

Despite his urgency, Dunk’s long stride shortening without thought to match yours as he talked, repeating the story of Ser Arlan and the houses they had once served. Behind you, Egg walked quietly with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze flicking between the two of you.

He listened less to the words and more to the way you moved together. The way Dunk bristled at your side. The way you pushed closer without ever pulling away. He had once seen married people speak like this, his own parents, long ago.

He did not know what to make of it.

Dunk’s eyes scanned the crowd for older knights, men whose armor showed years of wear. His stride lengthened when he thought he knew someone, then slowed once again. He stopped and started as hope sparked and dimmed.

 “There,” he muttered, pointing. “No. Too young. Keep moving.”

You stayed quiet, letting him search while your thoughts slipped back to the boy walking between you. 

It was hard to watch. Dunk, kind and earnest, was trying to be heard by men who had already decided he was beneath them. You told Egg that if they truly knew him, they would understand that all he wanted was a single chance.

After several failed attempts, Dunk finally stopped at Leo Tyrell, who could not even be bothered to give him his full attention. But his gaze was elsewhere, his brow furrowed as if Dunk’s words were nothing more than noise beneath the day’s bustle.

You stood with Egg a few paces away from the failed discussion. Around you, squires hurried between tents calling for water, armor, and breakfast, the air thick with the smell of fresh bread and roasting meat. It was almost enough to distract you from Dunk’s frustration. Almost.

“This is a losing battle,” Egg sighed, kicking at a stray stone and watching the dust rise around his boots.

Your eyes swept the rows of tents, banners flapping lazily above them. “There has to be someone else,” you said.

“The tourney could end before then,” the boy grumbled.

Dunk approached, shoulders slumped but already preparing himself to try again. Sweat glinted at his temple in the sun.

Egg was the first to speak. “Was he a shit knight?” He twirled a small twig between his fingers, pretending it was a lance.

“He was not a shit knight,” Dunk muttered, jaw tight.

“Well, he couldn’t have been a very good one if no one remembers him.”

“I think all of these knights are too far up their own arses to listen to anyone else,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to. Both of them turned toward you.

Dunk lifted his arms in defeat. “There’s nothing I can do about it. I just can’t join the lists.” His shoulders sagged further, and his boots scuffed the gravel beneath him.

You stopped walking, forcing them to stop with you. “You are a knight of the realm. There will be someone who listens. And if not, fuck their permission.”

“Ride into the lists and call out Longthorn Tyrell,” Egg added helpfully. “Turn his arsehole into a lance-hole.” His voice was small, but it carried.

You nodded. “See? The boy gets it.”

Dunk looked at the two of you, frowning. “Enough now. You don’t seriously think I can just demand—”

“These royal lapdogs are not your betters,” you said, lifting your chin to meet his big eyes.

You continued walking and talking as common folk and nobles alike brushed past. Children ran between legs, squealing, chasing small wooden swords.

“They are my betters,” Dunk insisted, voice almost lost beneath the bustle. “You two are too brazen for your own good.”

Fanfare cut him off.

Two men dressed in Ashford orange stood on top of a high tower. The crowd shifted, then surged as the sound carried. Dunk turned to you, startled. “Who’s coming?”

The answer arrived before you could speak.

The Targaryens rode in, banners black and red, with a column of mounted men whose presence seemed to tighten the air itself.

“Perhaps, I should go back, ser, check on camp,” Egg said, tugging lightly at Dunk’s sleeve, trying to pull his attention away from the spectacle ahead. His small voice had an unusual seriousness and the flicker of worry in his eyes. “Make sure no thieves have been nosing about.”

“No,” Dunk said firmly. “I don’t want you going alone.”

“I’ll go with him,” you said, stepping closer to the boy.

Dunk blinked. “You’re sure?”

“Definitely,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “and I think you should march yourself into the castle and demand to be heard.” You puffed out your chest.

“That’s a horrible idea,” he said weakly, shaking his head, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword as if the suggestion had physically struck him.

You leveled him with a stern look, heels digging lightly into the dirt road. “What else have you got lose?”

He hesitated, then nodded once. “I’ll give it a try.” He glanced back at you before turning away, resolve settling into his stride.

“Can I have your sword to run people off with? Or a mace?” Egg called after him.

“You have a knife! That’s enough. And you two best be around camp when I come back.” Dunk’s voice. He was mainly talking to the younger of you. “Egg, you rob me, and so help me I’ll hunt you down with dogs.”

“You don’t have dogs,” the two of you called out in unison, despite the warning.

“I’ll get some!” His voice yelled out over his shoulder, the sound echoing across the open ground.

“Where..?” Egg asked, stepping forward, eyes wide.

Dunk turned back once more, the corners of his mouth twitching into something like a grin before he barked. The sound was sharp enough to make both you and Egg stumble back, as you laughed at the boy who thought he was being serious.

You laughed until the man disappeared. Then, the moment faded and the weight returned.

You think back to moments ago, the aspect of becoming known grew closer now that your family arrived. You touched the hair at your nape, fingers lingering where silver hid beneath dye, and the fortune teller’s words burned in your memory.

Egg nudged your side, a small reminder that you weren’t completely alone, but even his presence couldn’t cut through the weight pressing at your chest. 

“Market?” you asked, quietly. “I am still hungry.”

Egg shook his head, though his stomach betrayed him. He followed as you turned, moving into the press of bodies, the noise swallowing you whole.

Vendors called out prices, children laughed, iron rang as a smith tested a blade, and the air smelled of saltfish, honeyed bread, and something fried you couldn’t name.

You moved fast, too fast. Egg hurried to keep up, small boots skidding over cobbles, weaving between legs with the ease of someone used to being overlooked. He stayed close to your side, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours whenever the crowd surged.

“My lady…” he began.

You winced and rubbed at your temples, the dull ache flaring. “Don’t,” you said quietly. “You don’t have to jest anymore, Egg. No one here is listening.”

“Fine,” he said softly. “Sister.”

“I only mean,” you said more carefully, “I know you have your reasons for hiding. But coming here alone.” You glanced around as if the stalls themselves might be listening. “It was dangerous. You had no one watching you.”

“But you’re doing it.” Egg tilted his head up, meeting your eyes. For a moment, it was like looking into a looking glass, same stubborn spark. “You came alone, too.”

You didn’t answer right away. You stopped at a stall selling sugared figs and twisted pastries, their glaze catching the sun. The vendor smiled at you.

“Two?” he asked.

You nodded and passed a coin across, then handed one to Egg. He took it with both hands, reverent, like it was something precious.

“It’s different,” you said as you started walking again. “No one is hunting me. You are a prince of the realm.” You lowered your voice. “Once Father realizes you never showed up, they will look. Everywhere.”

Egg picked at the pastry, not eating it yet. “They won’t find me.”

You snorted softly. “You’re terrible at staying put.”

That earned a smile, quick and bright, but it faded just as fast.

You reached up, fingers brushing the brown strands at your nape out of habit.

“You’re too young,” you said, softer now. “No matter how old you feel. You shouldn’t have to make these decisions, to run away.”

Egg finally took a bite, sugar dusting his lip. He swallowed hard. “But I’m not alone. I have you.” Then, quickly, like he was afraid the words might vanish, “And Ser Duncan.”

You could hear Dunk in your head, his sigh, his worry, his voice.

“Does he matter to you?” Egg asked suddenly.

The question caught you off guard.

“He’s good,” you said after a moment. 

“There's nothing else you feel?” He pressed on.

You stop. “What are you trying to imply?”

“Nothing that you already don't know.” 

You huff, not taking his words seriously. “What I do know is that he’ll be hurt when he learns we lied.”

Egg frowned, just for a moment. Then he nodded, like it was something that could be dealt with later.

“We can be happy,” Egg pressed on. “Just for a while. The three of us. I know it was reckless, but I couldn’t stay with Daeron.” His voice grew, cracking as it did. 

Your chest tightened; it was a child’s dream, happiness.

“Sister,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t mean to hide forever. You know that.”

You stopped beside a stall selling wooden toys, little knights with chipped paint, dragons with snapped wings. You crouched so you were level with him, the crowd flowing around you like a river around a stone.

“As long as you listen,” you said. “As long as you do what we tell you. Then nothing has to change.”

The words felt heavy as lead. Egg’s eyes filled instantly. He nodded, fierce and earnest, then stepped forward and clutched at your skirts, just as he had when he was smaller, when the world had been simpler and safer.

You rested a hand on his head, steadying him, shielding him from the noise and the light. “Let’s go back.”

You and Egg sat beneath the tree, waiting for Dunk. Your fingers twisted through your hair, restless, trying to distract yourself from the ache at your temples.

“Does your head still trouble you, sister?”

Egg’s eyes were soft, steady.

“How did you know that?” you asked, leaning a little closer.

“You always look so,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “so troubled when it aches.”

“You’re cleverer than you ought to be,” you said, a small smile touching your lips.

After a while, Dunk returned, nearly running, his face alight with triumph. “It worked!”

Without warning, he scooped you up, twirling you around. “It worked! They listened to me. You blessed woman, how did you know that would work?”

For a moment, you felt the familiar warmth of his body, and then he set you down, cheeks pink as he realized what he had done.

“I had meant to find Lord Ashford,” he continued, words tumbling over each other, “but the princes were there. And Prince Baelor—he was fair! He remembered Ser Arlan and didn’t even scold me when I stumbled over my words or said the wrong thing.”

You let out a cheer. “I do not know. I merely guessed they would have little choice but to hear you.”

It was not quite the whole truth. Of all your family, your uncle Baelor was the most even-handed, with a heart generous enough to listen to anyone.

“There's something in the grounds I wanted to show you two, come with me.” The man led you back into the bustle of the day. Today, you learned from Dunk that the first round would commence.

You and Egg followed Dunk to a yellow tent, filled with noise and color, laughter and movement. The canvas walls rippled slightly in the wind, and the smell of wax and timber drifted faintly from the stage inside. Your brother broke away from you at once, vanishing into a crowd of children who sat cross-legged and wide-eyed before the puppet stage. You and Dunk lingered at the opening of the tent.

“Wow,” you let out.

It was a spectacle unlike anything you had ever seen. Life-sized puppets moved with startling grace, their strings glinting in the sunlight, shadows dancing across the crowd as elaborate sets unfolded behind them. The story was lively and clear enough to hold even the adults in place.

You split your attention between the show and Egg, making sure he was staying close.

Dunk’s eyes brightened as he looked between you and Egg, who was talking to a few girls. The expression on your face made his heart beat faster; it was almost maternal the way you attended to his squire.

When the play ended, and the crowd dispersed back into the tourney grounds, Dunk motioned for both of you to follow him. He led you to one of the performers.

A woman, who had a striking sort of beauty, she had long curls gathered into a loose braid. Decorative earrings caught the light, and a flowing blue shawl draped around her shoulders. She stood tall, only a few inches shorter than Dunk himself. As you got closer you could smell the faint scent of incense seemed to cling to her.

You watched as Dunk fumbled in his pockets for coins, eventually pressing two into her hand—one for today’s performance, one for last night’s. Your eyes twitched at the interaction, you hadn’t known he’d attended then, a small curiosity pricking your chest.

“That was great,” Egg said eagerly. “How’d you do the fire tricks?”

The woman spoke and demonstrated, tossing a handful of pollen over a nearby candle. The flame flared suddenly, bright and alive. You instinctively stepped back, your skin prickling at the sudden burst of heat and light.

She brushed her hands together to remove the residue and waited.

Then, silence.

You waited. Egg waited. Even the distant murmur of the grounds seemed to dim. All of you waited for Dunk to speak, a reason why he had brought you here. But instead, he only stared at her.

It wasn’t a friendly stare, nor mean. It was something measured, intent, the same careful attention you remembered Raymun giving you long ago, and it twisted your stomach in a way you didn’t understand.

Even as Egg peppered her with questions about the puppets, Dunk didn’t break his gaze. You focused on the stitching of your sleeve, on the dust at your feet, on anything but the way his attention remained fixed elsewhere.

You told yourself it was foolish to notice. Foolish to care. A strange, quiet feeling made you feel invisible, like the world outside the tent had dulled.

Dunk spoke, but his words didn’t reach you as he lifted his shield, gesturing for the woman to examine it. How odd, to feel sharp jealousy when you had no claim to him at all.

Egg tugged gently at your cloak, looking up at you. That broke the spell. Now, Dunk was introducing himself properly, and you finally learned the woman’s name, Tanselle.

“Are you all right?” Egg asked quietly.

You swallowed, forcing the feeling down before it could take shape. “Yes.”

When you tuned back in, you learned that Dunk had given Tanselle his shield so she might paint it and design a sigil of his own. And you told yourself, firmly, that whatever that feeling had been, it meant nothing at all.

And now you could finally leave.

When you moved on to the next stretch of the grounds, you found yourself unusually quiet.

A makeshift bar tent stood nearby, crowded with tables and patrons pressed close together, one side left open to the fields beyond. The smell of cider and roasting meat drifted on the warm air. Dunk and Egg had fetched cups of it, while you chose water instead.

You all sat down on one of the benches near the tent. The wood was rough beneath your fingers, splintering faintly as you settled.

Next to you, a tug of war had broken out in the open field. Lords and common folk alike strained against the rope. Boots slipped in the churned dirt. Rank forgotten in the heat of it. Laughter and shouting carried easily on the warm air.

It was a beautiful day.

You felt none of it.

“You’re quiet,” Dunk said.

You lifted a hand to your head. “My headache, ’tis all.”

It was not the headache.

Dunk looked at you more closely then. The way you would not meet his eyes. The careful set of your mouth, as if you were holding something back. He took it for embarrassment, perhaps lingering discomfort from the drinks the night before.

“You sure?” he asked.

“I’ll refill your cups,” you said quickly. “I need more water anyway.”

Before either of them could answer, you took their mugs from the table and disappeared into the tent.

Dunk watched you go, unsettled. After a moment, he turned to Egg, who was still staring after you, his expression tight with something like disappointment.

“Did I say something?” Dunk asked.

“Yes,” Egg replied. “You did a lot of saying.”

That only left Dunk more confused.

He felt stupid standing there with empty hands and no understanding of what he had done wrong. He had warned you before that he was no good with people. Words often came out wrong, or not at all. Still, after all the time you had spent together, he had thought he might be doing better.

He tried to think it through.

Nothing had happened. All he had done was talk to the puppet girl, Tanselle. Or tried to. He always got tripped up around women, especially the pretty ones like you.

He had not meant anything by it. Had not even realized there was something to mean. Still, a small knot of unease twisted in his chest, a quiet worry that perhaps he had crossed some unseen line, though he could not say how or why.

You foolish, foolish girl. Stop this worrying. The words pounded in your head as you walked back over to your table. But when you returned, your companions were nowhere to be seen until you heard intense shouting.

Fearing for the worst, you walked over quickly, only to find your boys engaged in a tug of war with Lyonel Baratheon of all people. Suddenly, he walked out of his spot, making his team and the audience that crowded around them all groan. The man taunted them, saying he’d only be a second.

But you didn't expect him to find himself in front of you.

“Hello, my lord,” you greeted.

“My dear!” He reached out in a grand, theatrical gesture. “You were incredible, absolutely marvelous! I’ve never seen a woman take charge like that.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, glancing at all the new eyes on you. “I don’t remember much of last night.”

Lyonel grinned. “Neither do I.” He leaned closer, placing his rugged hands on your shoulders with a friendly, warm squeeze. “But I remember you. You are welcome in my tent, anytime.”

Dunk’s eyes flicked toward Lyonel, a faint tightening at his jaw and a shadow crossing his expression, though he forced himself to return his attention to the rope.

“Thank you. But uhm, the game?” you reminded.

“Oh, right,” Lyonel said while stepping back, hands loose on the rope.

Boots sank into the dirt as they continued to battle. Shouts and laughter carried across the field.

Egg, tiny as he was, ended up wrapped at the front, gripping the rope like a stubborn knot. His little legs wobbled, heels digging in, but he wouldn’t let go. “I’ve got this!” he shouted, voice high but fierce.

You pressed your hands to your mouth, eyes wide. “Hold on, Egg!” you called, though your voice barely reached him over the roar of the crowd.

Lyonel’s arms strained beside him, fingers white around the rope. Your eyes traced the line of Dunk’s arms, broad and corded with strength, and a quiet warmth settled in your chest at the thought of just how steady he could hold anything, even a storm of shouting men. He was the anchor, immovable, steadying the pull of the others with an ease that made your heart beat faster just watching him.

The opposing team pulled with all their might. Boots slipped in the dirt, dust rising in soft clouds. The rope jerked, then slackened, then snapped taut again. Inch by inch, Lyonel’s team gained ground.

Egg squealed as the rope tipped in their favor, but he was no longer on the ground; he was wrapped in rope. “We’re winning! We’re winning!”

Dunk grunted, muscles straining, leaning back like a steadfast tree. Lyonel followed, matching him step for step. Egg bounced slightly as he fought to stay on. You leaned forward instinctively, gripping the edge of your dress as if your own strength might somehow help.

Then, with a final, mighty pull, the rope lunged forward. The other team stumbled, groaning as the rope went free. The crowd erupted. You gasped, running forward, heart pounding, drawn in by the rush of triumph.

People surged around the victors. Dunk stood tall, chest heaving, a shy grin on his face. Lyonel pumped a fist in the air. Egg tumbled backward, laughing and breathless, then the two men helped him to his feet.

Everyone clapped and shouted, swept up in the celebration. Strangers slapped the victors’ backs, and children danced around their legs.

Egg looked up at Dunk and Lyonel, eyes sparkling. “We did it! We actually did it!”

Dunk lifted him onto his shoulders, steadying the boy as the crowd roared around them. Lyonel shouted beside them, his laughter loud and full. You laughed too, swept into it, letting yourself be part of the moment without touching the rope.

After the tug of war, the sky darkened, and the crowd began to thin, drifting off to prepare for the tourney. Even Lyonel, still flushed from exertion, asked if he might count on you to cheer for him and receive your favor. You gave a polite but firm reply, stating that your favor was reserved for your knight alone.

Dunk’s chest swelled with pride at your words, a bright grin spreading across his face, before he scuttled off toward a blacksmith to discuss armor, shoulders squared with quiet purpose. 

After Dunk disappeared toward the blacksmith, Egg tugged lightly at your sleeve. “Shall we… wait somewhere?” he asked, glancing around at the thinning crowd.

You nodded, scanning the grounds until you spotted a smaller, quieter barish tent tucked a little way off from the main bustle. It smelled faintly of apples and damp straw, a little dim inside, with rough-hewn benches and a few patrons murmuring. You led the way, holding Egg’s hand so he didn’t get lost in the remaining crowd.

Once seated, Egg fiddled with the hem of his tunic, still glowing from the tug of war. “I’ve never been part of anything like that,” he admitted, voice small. “It was… thrilling, though. Terrifying too.”

You smiled faintly, taking a sip of water. “You were brave. You held your ground.”

Egg’s eyes brightened. “I wanted to make you proud.”

You shook your head gently. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. Or to anyone.”

A pause fell, broken only by the distant shouts and laughter from the outside. Egg looked up at you, curious. “Do you think… Dunk was proud?”

You let your fingers brush his hair back. “He always is. Even when he doesn’t say it outright.”

Raymun passed by you, moving quickly through the tent; you only recognized him by the glint of his colors and the house sigil embroidered on his shirt. You called out, your tone light, friendly, carrying over the hum of the grounds. He froze mid-step, as if something invisible had struck him, eyes flicking toward you with surprise.

He almost ran over to you thats how fast he came over.

“My lady! Fancy seeing you.” He cheered.

“Egg, this is Raymun Fossoway, a squire to his cousin. Raymun, this is Dunk’s squire, Egg.”

The man shook the boy's tiny hand with ease. “This tent is produced by my house.”  He gestured grandly to the stalls and tables set with crates and baskets. “Would you– would you two want to sample some products. On the house, of course. I would love to know what you think.”

Before you could reply, he waved to a pair of workers, and they began setting out an array of apples, pastries, and small bottles of cider and juice. The smell was sweet and crisp, drifting over the warm air of the tourney grounds.

Egg’s eyes lit up immediately. “We get to taste them all?” he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Yes,” Raymun said, a big, cute smile appearing on his face. “And I expect honest answers on what your favorite is.”

The two of you could have eaten until you barfed; everything was amazing. Egg was halfway through a small basket of spiced apples puffs, licking his fingers with delight, while you sampled each one carefully, savoring the different flavors.

“I’m telling you, this one has just the right snap,” Egg said, holding it up like a trophy.

“You’ve said that about three already,” you teased, reaching for a small pastry. “All of them have snap. You just like to be dramatic.”

Egg grinned, unconcerned, and took another bite. “Well, they are different! You have to taste carefully.”

You laughed softly, leaning back against into your chair.

“So,” Egg said after a moment, crumbs on his lips, “if we’re in here until the tourney starts… do you think we could sneak in another basket of apples? And more treats.”

“Maybe,” you said, reaching for another apple.

Egg made a solemn vow with a dramatic gesture, his tiny fists raised. “We have to save some for Ser Dunk.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “If you don't eat it all.”

Dunk looked around, puzzled at where the two of you went, entering tents, looking around the grounds. Only stumbling upon your tent when he was out of ideas. He watched as you two talked, food plastered all over your table. Food that had to cost money.

Dunk stepped inside, eyes sweeping over the food. His brows lifted in mild surprise. “Where did all this come from?”

You smiled, brushing crumbs from your hands. “Raymun gave it to us. This is a Fossoway tent. He said we could try everything.”

Dunk’s mouth twitched at the corner, a small, approving grin forming. Without a word, he moved closer, pulling up a chair and sitting down as he leaned in to take a slice of pastry.

Egg held one up dramatically. “This one! This one is the best!”

You reached for the same one. “No way. That’s too sweet. This one’s perfect,” you countered, waving the pastry like a flag.

Egg gasped, eyes wide. “You are wrong! Absolutely, completely wrong!”

You laughed, reaching for another treat. “And you are stubborn. Everyone knows it.”

“Not stubborn! Precision! Technique!” he insisted, pounding a tiny fist on the table for emphasis.

The argument went back and forth, rising in mock intensity, until Dunk finally leaned over, resting his large hands on the table with a grin that made both of you pause. “Now,” he rumbled, voice low but firm, “let’s settle this properly.”

You both looked up at him, waiting.

Dunk picked up one of the pastries, took a deliberate bite, and chewed thoughtfully. “Huh. That one’s too sweet. That one,”—he gestured at another—“needs more spice. But this one here,” he said, pointing, “perfect balance. You’re both wrong about the others.”

Egg’s jaw dropped. “He chose mine!”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “That’s only because he’s biased.”

Dunk grinned, swallowing. “Aye. But it’s the truth.”

You and Egg exchanged a quick, conspiratorial glance, then both laughed once again, the warm sound filling the quiet tent. 

Dunk’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, the way your laugh mirrored Egg’s little bursts of delight. He couldn’t help the faint thought that crossed his mind, how much you two looked alike when you were caught up in something you loved. Not just in expression, but in the lightness of it, the way joy seemed to animate every small gesture. He shook his head slightly, dismissing it, but the image stayed with him as he leaned back in his chair, watching the two of you savor the moment.

“You know, the old man lived nigh on sixty years and was never a champion. If I could call myself a champion of Ashford Meadow, even for an hour, maybe some great house might take me into its service,” Dunk added.

“Perhaps even House Targaryen.”

The two of you slowed your eating, caught up in the thought.

“You suppose the dragon house employs many hedge knights, Ser?” You nudged Egg lightly on the shins for his words.

“Enough of that,” Dunk grumbled. “I’ll have you know I ran into Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard, and he’s but a son of the crabber.”

Your expression tightened as you knowingly gritted your teeth. “Ser Donnel of Duskendale?” you whispered.

“Yeah!”

“His father owns half the crabbing fleets in Westeros,” Egg stated, matter-of-factly.

Dunk’s face dropped. “What! How would you know?”

“I like fishing,” Egg said, shrugging.

Before Dunk could dive deeper, he was cut off by the loud screech of a horn. All across the grounds, people broke into cheers.

“It’s time!” Egg called out.

Dunk stood first. “Right. Come on, let’s go.”

You and Egg followed after him, but he moved too fast. “Come on, pick your feet up. Let’s go!”

“Egg, stay close,” you said, extending a hand. The boy grabbed on, and the two of you ran after Dunk.

The horn blew again, and suddenly the roads were crowded, no space left empty.

“Wait!” Egg shouted as Dunk’s silhouette moved farther and farther ahead.

You looked around. “Duncan!”

He turned at the sound of your voice and quickly ran back. Noticing your struggle, Dunk lifted Egg with ease and set him on his shoulders, then took your hand firmly so he would not lose you again. You neared the tourney grounds moments later.

An area that had only been set up the day before was now crawling with people.

“You all right, you two?” he asked, his words dripping with care.

“Yeah,” you replied.

Instead of sunlight, candles illuminated the jousters as they prepared. You finally settled into the crowd, pushing toward the front of the commons. Luckily, no one protested your cutting through, needing only one look at Dunk to step aside. You found yourself ushered forward by the man before him, nearly pressed to the fence that separated you from the arena.

It gave you the best view. Enough room for Dunk and Egg a few paces behind you, and close enough for Dunk to keep an eye on you, just in case.

Not just the jousters, but the crowd itself stirred your blood. Cheers and clapping rose around you, infectious. You glanced back at Dunk and Egg more than once to be sure they were still there.

When you were not looking at them, your gaze drifted to the royal box, and your body tensed. A family you had not seen in days sat there, prim and proper in red and black.

Your stomach tightened. Not at your father, but at Aerion. Your elder brother had always made you uneasy, and for good reason.

If they were closer, they could spot you.

Your attention was pulled away by a man shouting. A Tully, whose name you did not care to know, sat astride his horse only a few steps in front of you. His auburn hair shone brightly in the candlelight.

“For the old gods and the new!” he shouted, before pulling out a raw fish and biting its head clean off.

The sight nearly sent you stumbling back in disgust. You glanced at Egg instead, who was cheering at the madness. You decided this must simply be normal tourney behavior.

The Tully quickly disappeared, rejoining the others as they prepared. Then it began. Squires shouted at, lances and shields rushed into waiting hands. Horses neighed as if they sensed battle.

You watched the knights line up one by one. The Tully. Lyonel. A Hightower. Leo Tyrell. Two Ashfords. One figure stood out to you in particular.

“Hey, who’s that?” Dunk called to Egg.

“Prince Valarr, Baelor’s son. Second in line to the throne,” Egg replied.

The mild-mannered boy you had grown up with shared your fascination with tourneys. Your cousin was one of the few you would willingly seek out whenever he visited Summerhall, or when you were sent to Dragonstone.

You had never truly considered that they all began on the same field like this, even with all your knowledge of tourneys.

A hush fell over the crowd once the line was set and all was ready.

“Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!” a man beside you yelled.

Laughter erupted at once. Even a few lords and ladies in the high box failed to suppress their amusement as Lord Ashford squirmed in his seat.

The horn blared again, and the jousters charged. It was hard to track every match at once, but when lances shattered on impact, the crowd roared, and you with them. The knights shouted for fresh lances, their squires scrambling to obey.

As you watched, a thought crept into your mind. You did not know everything about being a squire, but the work was clearly not easy. It would be harder still for someone as small as Egg to manage Dunk’s lance and shield. The man was tall enough on foot, even more so atop Thunder.

Egg seemed to be thinking the same when he asked for Dunk to set him down before the next charge. As the knights thundered forward again, you felt a small tug at your sleeve. Egg wanted to stand beside you.

“Don’t be discouraged. You can do this as well as any other squire,” you said, rubbing his head. The boy straightened with pride.

Valarr struck the Hightower clean from his horse. You found the irony hard to miss, given your house’s history. But the green knight did not merely fall. He flew, crashing through the dividing fence and tumbling into Lyonel’s path.

You shut your eyes as the horse nearly landed atop him, missing by inches. You grimaced when Lyonel was struck by his opponent’s lance moments later and also went down, splintering another section of fence.

Dunk pressed in close behind you, his large hands settling carefully on your shoulders. He and Egg shouted in awe, unconcerned. But your eyes widened as Ser Humfrey Hardyng, who had been on the ground seconds before, reappeared mounted once more.

Then you felt Dunk’s hands tense. You turned to see him breathing too fast, his eyes darting between the horses, you, and Egg.

You took his left hand and held it close. “Breathe,” you said softly, showing him how. After a few moments, he followed your lead and steadied, murmuring an apology. You only shook your head.

“Even brave knights get frightened sometimes.”

He nearly beamed.

The rest of the tourney went without issue. And when it was over, everyone rushed back to their tents. You were so tired you don’t even remember who won.

Egg ran ahead of you on the walk back to camp, still cheering.

“Would you like me to carry you, m’lady?” Dunk asked.

Your face warmed. “Why by the Seven would I make you do that?” you laughed, uneasy.

“Because I did it last night,” he said, as if it were nothing.

You pause.

“Duncan, stop me if you ever see me drinking like that again,” you muttered.

He only laughed, guiding you forward with a gentle hand.

Even back at camp, Egg was still brimming with energy. Wanting to tire him out, you indulged him, sparring with sticks as he pretended to fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion.

“Take that!” he squeaked. “Die! Do you yield, Blackfyre bastards?”

“Never!” You shouted back.

With the fire crackling and the sound of your play, you almost missed how quiet Dunk had become. You tapped Egg lightly on the head to draw his attention.

“Are you well, Dunk?” you called.

When he didn't respond, you looked at Egg to add on. “Splendid riding tonight. Mm, the part with the fish was disgusting.” 

“Aye.” You replied.

Still no response. Dunk stared into the dark.

Then he spoke. “Do great knights live in hedges and die beside muddy roads?”

Sorrow stirred at the mention of his old Ser.

“I think not,” he went on. “Ser Arlan was no great swordsman or lancer. He drank. He whored. He was hard to know and harder to like. He made no friends. Lived nigh on sixty years and was never a champion.”

He swallowed. “What chance do I have, truly?”

You and Egg drew closer to hear him. Though the fire burned bright, it felt as though his light dimmed.

“But he was good to me,” Dunk said quietly. “I was not his blood, but he kept me as though I were. He raised me to be honorable. And all these noble lords cannot even remember his name.”

He paused.

“His name was Ser Arlan of Pennytree. And I am his legacy. On the morrow, we will show them what his hand has wrought.”

You realized then how wrong you had been. The memory of his ser did not dim his fire. It fed it. And with it burning so bright, you had no doubt he would become one of the greatest knights the realm would ever know.

Taglist: @kitkat1690 @astridbaby @lehlyx @livy1320 @lovelywritinglady @qardasngan @secretsandtinyoceans @scmdsblog @rrhaenyszn @annetheperfect @fuckingcryptic

[ofcrowsandravens]

--- 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 best 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."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.

[asoiaflors]

Endeared, Valarr Targaryen

pairing: valarr targaryen x lannister!reader

summary: you, a lannister lady, accompany your father to king’s landing for the name day tourney thrown for prince valarr targaryen. you approach prince valarr with the intention of seducing him how you had been taught, by batting of your lashes and giggling softly— yet you mess up. everything goes horribly and you are sure that the prince will avoid you from that moment on. you are wrong.

tags/cw: fem!reader, clumsy + anxious!reader, reader’s father is toxic, kind + attentive valarr, but nothing happens because of propriety

a/n: i really like this one and i hope you do too! i definitely see it having a part 2 if anyone is interested👀 i wrote reader a bit anxious and i hope it comes off genuine

The name day of a Targaryen calls for great celebration, especially when said Targaryen is the grandson of the king and the first son to the heir. The occasion was a week-long event; high-ranking nobles flocked to the capital.

Including you and your father, Lord Damon Lannister. He had deemed this the perfect event to introduce you to the Keep’s court, for he wishes to find you a husband.

“Prince Valarr,” your father names, motioning to the prince a few paces before you. He speaks with simpering nobles, unintimidated of how they seemed to surround him like trapping prey.

The sight of him steals your breath, in honesty.

He is beautiful. His face is the kind that bards sing about, cut as clean as glass. His expression is open, encouraging those around him to continue with quiet prompting. His pale lips press together as he listens, hands tucked behind his back. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, drawing your attention to his eyes.

They are two different colours. You tilt your head slightly as your focus reins in upon his irises. One blue, and one brown. It is an odd trait, yet it is not off putting how you may have imagined. He moves his head as he listens, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the silver streak within his brown hair.

He is enchanting.

You watch as he stands tall, but not towering. He stays engaged with those he speaks to, and his voice is soft from what you can hear faintly from your place.

He seems kind, far less arrogant than you expected of a prince.

And you were meant to take advantage of that.

“Father, I do not know if—” you attempt to argue your father’s plans, making your voice small to attract no one’s attention but his own. Despite who you direct your voice at, you are still staring at the prince.

“Nonsense,” your father cuts you off, voice firm. He casts a glance around to make sure no one is near enough to listen to his words. He has always been a private man.

With his body angled to hide his words, head ducked so only you may hear, he speaks harshly: “You will speak to him as I taught you.”

You shrink slightly underneath his glare, but he does not soften until you nod in agreement.

“Of course, father,” you say, a small smile on your lips. You lean forward to place a kiss upon his cheek, before slipping from his grip. You do not wish to stay for more scolding.

Your feet bring you in the direction of the prince no matter how your brain argues. It is the perfect time to approach, for he is currently alone, having finished his prior conversations. You feel dread beginning to form, heavy and solid within your stomach. You exhale shakily.

Your grip tightens upon the folded fan you carry, wishing to use it to cool yourself down. Yet your lessons of how to seduce with it linger in your mind. It was a tool meant for more than fanning the sweat from your brow.

In a quick motion, you use your free hand to pinch at your cheeks in hopes of bringing colour back to them. You always looked ghostly when you were nervous.

Although when you lift your eyes, fingers in the midst of squeezing your flesh, you find the prince’s mismatched eyes locked upon you.

You straighten, lowering your hand as if it had burned you. Your brain flounders. How utterly embarrassing to be caught off guard by him.

“My—” you begin to greet, though you falter when a servant passes through the space between you with a quick apology. You are too far away to speak comfortably at all, your mind swirling with mortification and regret as you move closer.

You have to fight to keep your eyes upon him, for you long to duck your head in shame. He has turned towards you now, and you swear you see a twitch of his lips but you must have imagined it.

At least he is not mocking you.

“My prince,” you say politely as you stop before him. You hope you can make him forget your mistakes with a few pretty words.

“My lady,” he says courteously, inclining his head. He puts forth one of his hands to take yours, but you startle slightly. He stops.

You are merely caught off guard by the action, no matter how used to it you should be. You did not have a kind relationship with touch.

He does not move until you relax, his grip gentle as his fingers cradle your hand. He brings it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. You watch the entire thing transfixed, focused on how his lips look touching your skin.

“It is an honour to meet you, my prince,” you marvel quietly, realizing you’ve been silently staring for too long now. It is hard to think properly when he is so close, his chin lowered to hear you better.

You feel your cheeks warm, pulling your hand back.

“As is you, my lady,” he replies. His hand flexes briefly as it drops from yours, before he returns it behind his back.

You fidget with your fan, thinking of what your father told you. How to make him fawn, how to make him fall.

“…your father?” The prince asks, eyes shifted away from you. Your own eyes widen as you stare at him, worried that you spoke your thoughts aloud. His jaw flexes as he surveys the space behind you.

“What?” You whisper in question, completely convinced he is speaking of something that slipped from your lips, instead of the man watching you both.

His gaze finds yours again, and his eyes soften slightly at your expression. He cocks his head slightly, leaning in to whisper to you.

“Lord Damon, is your father, isn’t he, my lady?” He mutters, casting a look past you once more. You take the hint to take a look yourself.

Your father was poorly hiding his attention upon the pair of you, sipping wine as another man spoke to him. You flushed further, placing a hand over your face.

“Yes,” you confirm in a shy voice, turning back to the prince. “I apologize, he only cares much for me.”

“Yes, of course,” Prince Valarr nodded, pressing his lips together as his forehead wrinkled.

With the reminder of who is watching, and what is relying upon this conversation, you plaster a smile upon your face. It is one that you practiced many times in preparation. Many mornings had been spent being taught how to entice men.

You hoped you looked charming enough to vanish his questions about how it happened so abruptly, but that hope is crushed when his eyebrows furrow. He seems confused, but you do not let him speak.

“I apologize, my prince,” you say airily, the embarrassment making your breathing shallow. Thinking only in half thoughts for a way to earn favour back, you lift the fan within your hand before he can respond to you.

You flick it open—

Too hard.

It falls to the ground between you and the prince, the corner of the handle scraping against the stone path.

All you can see is that something your mother had given is lying dirtied below you, so you bend at the knees to fetch it. Your fingers miss it twice in your haste, humiliation filling you as you rise.

You can feel the eyes that are now upon you, the murmurs that stir at your expense.

“My lady,” the prince tries, his voice softened. You had not noticed he moved, but now he straightened and withdraws his hand. It only makes you feel worse, and you wish you could leave.

“Forgive me, I…” you whisper, drawing in a slightly shaky breath. Your throat feels tight, eyes stinging with the warning of tears. You keep your gaze lowered, not wishing for him to see you in such a pitiful state.

You hear someone laugh to your right, and it makes your heart sink. Everything has gone so wrong because you are too much of a coward to right it.

He does not join their laughing.

“My lady,” the prince tries to gain your attention again, stepping forward slightly. He keeps himself at a proper distance away so as not add more scandal to the situation.

You think the act is a kind thing to do, and it helps you to calm yourself a bit.

“I am fine,” you clear your throat, raising your eyes again. You blink a few times to keep moisture from gathering and you faintly hope it looks as if you are batting your lashes. It is silly, for you are aware how you are more likely to gain pity than desire.

All that time you spent being taught how to charm men, and you could not even apply it in a true conversation with the man it was meant for.

“I did not mean it, I am so very sorry, your Grace,” you rush out, your gaze shifting away from him to an entrance to the Keep. You dip into a curtsy, bowing your head. You need to leave, you have to get away from these last few moments.

Your fingers grasp the skirt of your dress, lifting it slightly as you turn on your heel with a respectful parting bow of your head. You walk fast towards the door that would lead you inside, ignoring how your father stares you down. You do not wish to see him so soon.

You hear the prince call for you once, but you do not slow.

You had not even wished him happy name day.

Your father leads you through the section that holds nobles who are important to the crown. Like your father, and you.

His face has been tight with irritation since you had that poor interaction with Prince Valarr, and he had not spared you lectures upon lectures. He sent you to bed without supper three days in a row, claiming that you did not deserve to eat.

You spent your days with your septa as if you were nine again, her harsh voice not helping with your mood.

You sit within your seat, casting a glance at the ladies near you who you know well. You are sure that is is you who they are whispering about behind their hands as they giggle, but you try to ignore it.

Chatter echoes from the stands, both from where nobles sit and peasants stand. The sun is bright above, but thankfully not sweltering. It shines kindly off the softly flowing banners and armour. You thank the Seven that you will not need to squint to see, for you would end the day with a worse headache than you already possess.

You have your fan again. It feels like a great weight in your hands after the situation that had occurred days ago, but you refuse to leave it behind. It had been a comfort for years, one your father clearly disliked. He always said that you carry your mother’s tender heart.

You flick it open gently, fanning yourself as your dress begins to feel tight.

It was an extravagant gown that your father had commissioned for this event, meant to flaunt the wealth of your House. It was a pretty crimson, hugging your frame.

You did not like what it symbolized.

Your father was never a man who gave up, and even now you could see how he watches the men who are to compete. You follow his gaze nervously, roaming over the men who are each older than you. Strangers.

Your breathing picks up as you allow your thoughts to wander. One of these men could become your husband if that is your father’s wish. A man who will own your every movement and thought, who will want for nothing more than you to birth an heir.

You feel as if the heat has become worse. Your dress is too tight, almost as if it will not let you breathe. Everything is too much; too loud and too bright.

But then your eyes land upon him.

He is standing beside his horse, dressed in dark steel armour as servants adjust it in final preparations. It looks heavy, elegant. It has his House sigil upon the chestplate, a red three-headed dragon that does not allow you to forget his importance. He wears his helm, and yet somehow you feel as if he is staring at you.

The idea of his attention on you of all people makes you tense, but your breathing has calmed and your body cooled. You shift within your seat in an attempt to see him better, but you cannot truly see where he is looking from so far away.

You had prayed that he would forget you. Before bed and in the morning at the Sept, you would kneel and beg for the prince to forget that he had ever met you.

You feel as if you have gone mad, for he plagues your every thought.

You watch him as he hauls himself up onto his horse with ease, making the motion look effortless in a way that stalls your thoughts. His hands gather the reins as he turns the horse toward you, the stallion moves forward with the nudge of his heel.

He was approaching the stands.

You wish to shrink back, but you only hide behind your fan. You curse him in your mind for his decision, which you quickly apologize to the Seven for. He has done nothing wrong and surely is not ill-intentioned.

But you do not understand why. Your father had told you that Prince Valarr would not ask for any lady's favour until he was betrothed, for it often got twisted into politics. You had only brought your favour in case another knight thought to ask.

You turn to your father in hopes he will provide guidance, yet he is talking with other lords about plans and such. He does not draw his attention away from them until the noise of others hushes into murmurs at the prince’s path towards your section.

He then looks to you, his expression twisting with disappointment as he sees how you cower. He snatches your fan from your grip, giving you a glare that makes you sit straight.

You know he thinks he trained you better than this, and you hate that assumption.

“Your favour,” your father directs, gesturing to the Myrain silk ribbon within your lap. You obey, your fingers grasping the ruby coloured fabric. It was something you had personalized yourself, embroidering the edges with golden stitching of flowers. It had kept your mind busy.

You are not able to think about it long as your father pushes you to stand, which is the custom thing to do. You catch yourself on the gallery rail with your free hand, your heart pounding as you stay there for a few moments to collect yourself.

Prince Valarr is before you in seconds, giving you a small nod of his head in greeting as he gets the horse to stay where he wants it. The animal is big, clearly bred strong for a man like the prince. It seems impatient, stomping its foot before the prince calms it with a gentle pat.

The young man below you then reaches up to remove his helm, lifting it to reveal himself beneath. His short brown hair is slightly tousled from being under the armour, the silver behind his ear catching in the sun.

He tilts his head back to look up at you properly, blinking a few times to adjust to the change in light. He squints slightly as he stares at you.

You wonder if his lighter eye is more sensitive to the sun than his other.

“My lady, would you allow me to ride with your favour?” he asks, his voice even as you feel nauseous enough to actually bring up. You give him a small smile that you hope looks encouraging instead of concerning. It is a miracle he has approached you at all, and you cannot waste it.

You swallow as you nod, for it would be stupid to deny his ask. You have no real reason to. You do not think anyone would accept your excuse of feeling like a cornered animal.

“It would be an honour, my prince,” you accept, leaning forward over the rail to extend your favour to him. The breeze blows the fabric gently as it dangles from your hand, the prince’s gaze fixated upon it as he moves his horse closer.

He raises his hand to grasp for it, yet the steel of his armoured fingers wraps around your hand fleetingly. You almost gasp before he pulls back, making that brief contact known by only the two of you. His grip is upon only the fabric now, so you release it to allow him to have it.

Your pulse races as you straighten back up, hands settling upon the wooden rail with a tight grip born of the stress of him.

His head is ducked, seemingly caught in looking at the details of what you have embroidered. You feel even more embarrassed at the thought, for even if there is nothing scandalous in the stitching, you had still not thought it would be seen by anyone else.

You did not think you would be asked for your favour.

“My prince,” you call, the words impulsive. You solely needed his gaze somewhere else.

It works, Prince Valarr raises his head to look at you once more. You know he is not the only one awaiting your words, and you know you must make them good.

“Good luck, and happy name day, your Grace,” you wish, your voice softening as you become unsure of what you say. Is that the best thing to tell him? You did not wish to insinuate that he needed luck.

Your brows furrow as you overthink your own words, feeling as if you have messed everything up again. But the sight of how the corner of his mouth is pulling faintly tears you from your doubt.

“Thank you, my lady,” he responds. He puts his helmet back on over his head, your favour still tangled within one of his hands as they return to the reins. He lingers for a moment longer, eyes upon you through the visor, before he steers his horse away with a measured pull. The stallion carries him back towards where he is waited on as you step back from the rail.

You smooth your hands over your skirts, wiping off your sweating palms as you settle back within your seat next to your father. You look at the man, hoping he may be proud of you for having Prince Valarr ask your favour, but he looks as satisfied as usual.

Which is little.

“Good,” he says simply, as if that entire thing was entirely expected. He hands you back your fan as he leans back in his seat.

Your shoulders relax as you realize it has pleased him, even just some. You try to calm down, but it only stresses you out more to feel how fast your heart is beating within your chest. You wish to place your hand over your breast to check, but you do not dare.

Instead, you let the noise of the crowd stirring draw your attention back to the tourney.

Your eyes lift to look for Prince Valarr, and you find him sitting upon a still horse instead of moving to the lists as others were. He waits as a servant knots your favour around his upper arm, the soft silk looking delicate compared to his blackened armour.

You thought he would have tied it upon his lance. Instead, it rests in a safe place tied to his bicep.

It seems he does not intend to lose your favour.

thank you for reading! don’t forget to like/comment /repost if you enjoyed!

[goonofthrones]

Famous Last Words 1/2

Valarr Targaryen x mute!reader

Summary: When visiting Kingslanding with your father you have an unlikely encounter with a prince in the forest, discovering a solace in each others presence you had not felt before and raising the question, what would you do to keep it?

Tags: Tully reader, selective muteness, lady’s maid OC for reader, you guys are going to need to pretend the Kingswood is closer to Kingslanding for the purpose of this fic, the reader's mother dies at the beginning, reader's hair is described as being plaited, possible inaccuracies (sorry!), Slow burn-ish, eventual smut in the second part, possible mistakes since nothing I post at the minute is beta read, emotional turmoil.

Word Count: 7.7K :O

—Part 1— —Part 2—

A viper’s nest. That’s what your mother had always called kingslanding. She had grown up there as a lady in waiting for Queen Myriah Martell before she had married your father, Lord Tully. She had always told you stories of the queen, royal court and her time there but never failed to mention how the political scene of the Red Keep was enough to wear on anyone, no matter how strong willed they were. Back then she was the youthful Lady Florent and many had sung of her beauty. It was often you were told that you had inherited that same quality of hers, much to your chagrin. You struggled to believe it, having been but 14 years of age when she was taken by the flu you were struck by the loss so deeply you struggled to believe you could ever sum up to be anything like the woman your mother was. Your mother had always been an integral part of your life before that moment, you had done everything together; from collecting stones and picnics on the banks by the river when it was sunny to reading stories and playing inside when it wasn’t. Sometimes you felt as if a very part of your soul was torn from you that day and that you hadn’t stopped bleeding since. Once a talkative and lively child, the death of your mother had rendered you mute and melancholy, drifting to the background in fear that should anyone see you truly they would understand that you were broken. Your father grew frustrated by your silence at first feeling as if he lost both of his girls that day because despite your presence it was at times as if you weren’t there. He had begged and pleaded with you to speak to him and share your burden yet no matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t. 

He knew you had to get out of Riverrun even if for a short while so when years later the opportunity arose, he took it. You were 18 now, a girl grown and he had hoped that bringing you along with him for his trip to the castle to celebrate the birth of the king's grandchildren by his son Rhaegel would lift your spirits and help you get out of your shell, though the years of silence had worn his hopes away greatly, he still held hope. 

The carriage ride was quiet, same as with everything in your life, punctuated only by your fathers occasional comments about livestock he notices as you pass by. It was a habit he had picked up, filling the silence where you could not and you would communicate what you could back with your face. He had once told you that you possessed a uniquely expressive face, jesting that you ought never get into the business of spying lest you give away vital information by painting it plainly with your visage. He was fond of his ‘funny’ comments. 

“Yet another sheep!” He exclaimed as if it were exciting news as you fixed him with an agitated stare for interrupting your reading. Again. 

“Do not look at me like that, you glower at your own father without remorse simply because I am attempting to find some enjoyment on this dreadful journey.” He paused a smile gradually stretching its way across in his face in a way that told you he thought himself hilarious, “Besides it is not like you’re good conversation.” You could only roll your eyes at his barb while he chuckled at himself. There was only a single, blissful moment where you thought you could finally have peace to read your book before he pierced the silence again again. “You know I hear there is to be princes at this celebration” He said pointedly, though you should have hoped there were princes at the celebration given it was the royal family hosting. His fingers brushing his mustache in an attempt to seem indifferent before repeating, as subtle as a thousand stomping horses, “Handsome princes.” At that he waggled his eyebrows at you and you could only stick your tongue out, pointing your finger into your throat in a fake vomiting gesture as a response. 

“Does my little minnow not wish to lure a handsome Targaryen prince into her waters?” At that you almost actually threw up, switching between vigorously shaking your head and making shushing motions at your father in an attempt to convey the depth of your desire for a topic change away from luring anything into your waters. You were thankfully saved by a bump in the road which caused your father to become occupied with leaning out the window to yell at the coachmen. It was a wonder his old bones weren’t creaking with the motion. The melody of his annoyance was not the peace you wanted but anything was better than the mortification of continuing the prior conversation.

Soon enough the sounds of the city became louder and your carriage slowed until you came to a stop. Outside you heard a herald with a thunderous voice announce your arrival and your father patted your knee in a reassuring gesture as he exited first. You felt dread settle in your gut at the inevitable judgement you’d face when the royal family realised you could not speak. Whether they looked on you with pity or distaste it made no matter to you as both made your skin crawl. You took a shaky breath in, smoothing your skirts to ground yourself before taking your fathers waiting hand and exiting the carriage.

Before you the expectant faces of the royal family watched, lined up with King Daeron’s face first to greet you, his eldest son and heir Prince Baelor next to him with only one of his sons next to him, something you noticed causing slight confusion to pass over your face. Prince Baelor must have noticed your look and you had to inwardly curse yourself for not being able to hide your feelings better. “My eldest son Valarr is currently preparing himself for the tourney, you must forgive his lack of attendance. I had thought he would be back by now.” Thankfully the Prince spoke loudly, to both yourself and your father instead of directly to you, saving you the embarrassment. Your father laughed good-naturedly, placing his hands on your shoulders and pushing you slightly towards the royal family, much to your despair, before responding, “This one here is always running off to do god knows what, if it weren’t for the rain I fear we’d never get her inside!” Your cheeks turned a shockingly bright red as you flushed in humiliation, whipping your head around to look at your father incredulously as the royal family chuckled politely at your expense. Prince Baelor addressed you directly then, “My Lady, you must tell me, how did you enjoy the ride here, I trust it wasn’t too unpleasant?” You panicked at his direct address and looked to your father for help. He sighed before speaking, placing a hand on your back to silently reassure you as he stepped forward, “I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive my daughter my lords, it is not that she will not speak, it is simply that she can not. Her mother’s death had unfortunately wounded her so much it stole her voice away from us, she speaks best she can with her face and writing but other than that no words will leave her. Gods know I’ve tried.” His voice cracked lightly at the end of his speech and you kept your eyes downcast to avoid what was surely looks of pity. It was silent for a short moment before the eldest prince cleared his throat to respond, “Do not fret over anything my lord, I know it is awful to have such a tragedy befall your household and I am certain we shall ensure that all your needs are met during your stay here, won't we father?” He turned to the king who nodded resolutely, a look of pride across his face at his eldest son’s diplomatic skill before he responded, “I shall ensure my servants keep your daughter’s chambers stocked with ink and paper so she may communicate more clearly with us during her stay.” and at that your father gave an appreciative nod. After that all there was left to do was greet the rest of the entourage with a curtsy before the servants began to show you to your chambers and you made your way inside, leaving the royal family to greet the remainder of their guests. 

The guest chambers were grand and eccentric, a large, four poster bed waiting for you in the middle. You waited for the doors to close behind you as your father finally departed, leaving you alone, before you took off into a sprint throwing yourself onto the bed. Propriety thrown to the wind. You rolled onto your back feeling the soft fabric beneath your fingers as you ran your hands carefully over the covers, a smile spreading across your lips. It was exciting leaving Riverrun, you had not travelled since before your mother died and you were craving to see what the capital had to offer. From your vantage point on the bed you felt the ominous weight of the dragon tapestries watching down on you. The Targaryens hadn’t had their dragons for a very long time yet still saw fit to decorate their walls with them. You could not blame them exactly though, for if you were a dragonlord you too would be insufferable about it. Unfortunately the Gods saw fit to make you a fish, a silent, timid minnow of all things. You cannot imagine how it must feel, being responsible for the loss of the very thing that gave you power, that made you so revered, that inspired amazement and wonder into the hearts of the common man and woman. You would say that the numerous dragon related ornaments around the keep were rather excessive but when you think of your own house you can’t exactly blame them since for as long as you remember fish had swam along the walls of your home. 

You heard a knock at the bedroom door that was shortly followed by a shout, “Lady Tully, I have your luggage to be placed in your room, along with the paper requested by the prince!” You quickly jumped up trying to smooth down your appearance as you opened the door for the servants to bring in the chests with your belongings. To give them space while they worked you walked over to the window and perched on the ledge peering out at the city and across the horizon. Just outside the city the Kingswood caught your attention. You knew it was used primarily for hunting but your mother had told you about a section of it fenced off for recreational purposes, where herself and the other ladies in waiting of Queen Myriah had spent plenty of time having picnics or going for walks. An idea struck you then and you rushed over to the desk to pick up the quill so you could write a message for the servants who were still organising things around your room. When you’d finished writing you caught the arm of one of the chamberers passing by you and pointed so his eyes were drawn to your message. 

“Oh! Um, a carriage ride to the Kingswood will take you about an hour my lady, but with all the guests arriving it will most likely take us another hour for us to prepare the carriage itself.” You nodded to show your approval before quickly writing that you would like the carriage prepared as soon as possible and nodding again in thanks as they left, leaving you alone.

You had an hour now to rest and refresh after your journey. You decided to change out of your travel gown into a simple light blue dress that your father wouldn't be too upset if you got dirty. You lay out the gown on your bed and started to undo the laces of your clothes, having to bend at an odd angle to reach them since there wasn't a maid to help you and getting one would be too much fuss when you were in such a rush. When you’d managed to strip down to just your shift you walked over to the basin that the servants had filled with water when they came in and dipped the washcloth that had been set on the side into it before rubbing it carefully across your face, under your arms, and along the backs of your legs to remove the perspiration caused by the days on the road. You used a towel to dry yourself before you moved to the vanity to take out your hair from the plait it had been put into by your ladies maid before you set off. 

You were supposedly meant to have a substitute ladies maid for your stay at the castle but she hadn’t come to find you yet. You would have to wait for her to do your hair and help you redress so you took to dozing off on the grand bed so you might feel more energised for your adventure. After an amount of time had passed that you could not name, a knock sounded at your door and a honeyed voice called your name before the door creaked open and a slim girl around your age in a maids uniform entered. She had a kind face and was by all means very beautiful in your eyes, when she met your look across the room she gave you a warm smile and curtseyed, “My Lady, my name is Elena, I am to be your ladies maid for your stay at the castle.” She paused walking closer as if unsure about whether to continue so you gave her a smile and nodded your head hoping to encourage her to speak her mind. It worked as she began speaking again “I was informed of your… condition and selected by Prince Baelor. You see my brother had a similar affliction to you so they had thought I would be the best fit to accommodate you during your time here.” That brought a smile to your face at the thoughtfulness of the prince and your maid’s kind nature. You rose from your bed and gestured to her to help with your dress and she got to work. While she laced up the back of your dress she chatted on, filling the silence with courtly gossip and information on who would be competing at the tourney tomorrow. As you sat at the vanity she put your hair half up in an intricate braided pattern leaving the bottom half to flow free. You applied some of your perfume to your neck and wrists thinking it best to at least attempt to keep up appearances even if you were going to sneak away. “What do you think my lady?” Elena asked, placing her hands upon your shoulders as you both admired her handiwork in the vanity mirror. She had done quite a magnificent job and you almost regretted that she had made you so beautiful for just a secret excursion to the Kingswood. You smiled as a knock rang at the door, a voice calling to tell you your carriage was ready. You stood taking Elena’s hand and pulling her to join you as you ran down the halls, her giggling behind you as you went.

The wheelhouse ride to the forest was peaceful, you were finally able to finish your book with Elena humming quietly as she read something of her own across from you. Eventually, the sounds of the city faded into the melody of nature, marking your arrival. You exited the carriage and a light breeze caressed your face, you looked around at the lush green scenery and a smile took over your face at the feeling of freedom. You took off into a sprint ahead, Elena urging you to slow down as she attempted to follow behind. Eventually you ran so fast and far that her voice faded away and you were left with just you and the wilderness surrounding you. Through the bushes to your left you heard the gentle rushing of a stream so you reached out, the bristles of the bushes scratching lightly against your fingers as you pushed through and stepped out into the clearing. The image before you could only be described as picturesque with untouched gassy riverbanks and crystal clear waters. Without wasting a second you slipped off your shoes and placed them on the banks, feeling the grass between your toes before you stepped into the gentle waters, the mossy pebbles slippery beneath your feet and the cold water rushing past your ankles as you peered into the shallow stream. You looked around, trying to spot any interesting rocks you could take back home as a souvenir from the trip. 

Unbeknownst to you, you were not alone for long. The young prince stood at the edge of the clearing, watching what he believed must be either a water nymph or the light playing tricks on him. He took a step closer in order to get a better look at the vision in front of him, in doing so however, he stepped on a stick, the loud snap that came from it alerting you to the presence of your audience and causing your head to snap up with a gasp. He raised his hands in defense crouching slightly as if you were a wild animal he did not wish to frighten away. “Hello…” he started as you just looked at him, trying to discern if he was here to hurt you. You took in his attire, his clothes looked too fine and expensive for him to be trying to rob you. It was then that you noticed the dragon sigil embroidered into his tunic causing you to finally notice the white streak of hair on the side of his head. A sudden look of shock spread across your face as it dawned on you that this was the very Prince Valarr that was missing this morning during your arrival and you quickly dropped into a curtsy, the bottoms of your skirts getting wet. 

“Oh! No you don’t need to do that.” He said rushing towards you to pull you up with his hands on your arms. When you raised your head to look at him it dawned on you how unintentionally close he had gotten as you could intricately admire each of the freckles on his face. As you stepped back to put some distance between you, you noticed his eyes shone two different colours, one the pale violet of Old Valyria and the other the deep brown of Sunspear. It was the same as his father, you thought, though here in the clearing the light caught them in a way that was so enchanting it made you feel as if you were being pulled into their depths. You understood now the tales of the beauty of Old Valyria.

You shook your head slightly and looked down to hide the flush on your cheeks from staring at a prince so openly. It was then that you realised he had walked into the water to reach you, the bottoms of his breeches and shoes being encompassed by the water. It seemed the realisation dawned on him at the same moment as a guttural groan ripped itself from his throat as he splashed out the water. You had to try your best to hide your amusement behind your hand as you watched him pull off his boot to empty the water out, his brows furrowed in dismay. His cheeks had turned a bright shade of pink, clearly feeling embarrassed, and he altogether was a pitiful sight for someone who was meant to be the future of the realm. 

“You must forgive me,” He began, not looking up from his laughable attempts at drying himself off, "you see, I’m competing in the tourney tomorrow and I just came out here to clear my head away from the eyes of the court.” He explained, clearly feeling the need to justify himself to you despite not even knowing who you are, a thought that seemed to dawn on him too. “I am Prince Valarr by the way, though it seems as if you already know that and it is not fair for you to know my identity while I am left in the dark about yours.” Your mouth opened wanting to tell him but you could not conjure the sound to do so. You pointed to your mouth trying to convey your inability to him but his brows only seemed to furrow in further confusion. You grew frustrated as he struggled to understand making a shushing moment before pointing to yourself, ultimately feeling like a fool humiliating herself for others amusement. When all hope seemed like it was lost he seemed to have an epiphany and stepped back pointing out you while exclaiming,”You are Lady Tully! I’ve heard rumours about you!” he smiled, clearly proud of his own revelation though not stopping the next words from tumbling out his mouth, “They say your mother was poisoned by your father and that he cut out your tongue so you couldn't tell anyone!” An idiotic smile was stretched across his plush lips as he spewed filth about your family and your previous amused expression dropped off your face. He quickly noticed your drastic shift in mood as his mind caught up with his mouth and quickly rushed to fix the situation “I’m sorry my lady, I didn’t realise, I should have thought before I spoke out of turn about your house.” For all his worth he did at least look apologetic, standing there barefooted in his soaked breeches. You decided you would tease him a little more before you let it go and instead turned to stick your tongue out at him childishly, proving it was in fact still there. His mouth dropped open as a shocked laugh escaped him. 

“I know you cannot answer properly my lady, but may I at least ask why you are out here? All of the other guests are back at the castle preparing for the welcome feast.” You thought for a second about how you could answer his question before you bent over to pick up a particularly smooth pebble from the stream, being careful of your skirts so you wouldn’t end up as bad as him. You held it out to him so he could see and his eyebrows raised, “Rocks?” he asked with surprise and you nodded, biting your bottom lip to conceal your amusement. He chuckled quietly before thinking for a moment about something, ultimately ending up bending down to roll up his breeches and coming to join you in the water. You looked at him with confusion and he met your questioning gaze expectantly, “I do not feel like explaining to my father why I am walking around the castle with squelching shoes, I may as well do something worthwhile while I wait for them to dry.” He smiled at you as he spoke and you rolled your eyes softly before turning away to go back to scouring the river for any interesting rocks. He took that as the cue to begin his own search and you worked in quiet tandem for a while, only stopping to occasionally tap each other on the shoulder or arm to present any interesting finds. After a while you both elected to retreat back to land and lay on your backs beside each other in the sun waiting for your feet and clothes to dry in blissful quiet. “You know I think this is the most talkative I’ve been…ever.” The prince’s voice ruptured the silence as you turned your head toward him, giggling slightly under your breath at his words. He looked toward you at the sound and an incredulous grin widened as he laughed “Do not laugh at me!” To that you only laughed more, breathless huffs of air escaping you. “Everyone always tells me I’m too quiet, the heir to the throne should be assertive and confident not meek and passive.” You gave him an exaggerated pout in response though you did partially understand where he was coming from, you too had been told that men like a pleasant voice to listen to and don't want a skulking ghost for a wife.

“Sometimes I feel like I’ll never live up to my father, everyone always says how great a man he is.” 

His confession hung in the air for a moment as you contemplated how to respond. He was no longer looking at you, his gaze having returned to the trees above and you allowed yourself to study his expression. The look in his eyes was distant and you could tell that he was sucked into whatever was going on within his mind. In a surge of boldness you could not explain, you reached out and took his hand not allowing time for reason to catch up with you. His palm was rough and warm in yours, obviously worn from time spent training with sword and lance. His gaze immediately snapped back to meet yours and his dual-coloured eyes roamed your face intently, almost making you shy away from the attention. The hand gently closed around yours, the large palm encompassing your hand as he searched your face. He seemed to reach a conclusion of sorts because he opened his mouth to speak again, “You know-”

“My Lady!”

The sound of Elena’s voice rang through the clearing as she pushed her way through, followed swiftly by two guards. The shock caused you to stand up swiftly, the prince's hand reluctantly falling from your grasp. “Thank the gods you’re all in one piece, your father would have my head if something happened to you!” It was then that she noticed the royal elephant in the clearing and dropped down into a sudden curtsy so low you feared she may fall over, “My Prince! You must forgive me for my intrusion; it is just that I must take Lady Tully back to the keep to prepare for the feast.” Prince Valarr’s gaze had not yet moved from you as you turned to him expectantly for his answer; your eyes meeting his, allowing him to break from his stupor. 

“Of course that is fine, I believe I too should start to head back for the feast.” He reached down to pick up your shoes and passed them to you so you could put them on before leaving. Once more he turned to face you again and reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips to place a brief kiss against your knuckles, “My Lady.” As you pushed past the bushes on the edge of the clearing you turned back, his eyes having not left you as he remained rooted in his spot. The sight caused you to flush and quickly look away, your heart practically vibrating in your chest.

The carriage rumbled along the road back to the castle in contemplative silence as you looked out the window at the scenery rolling by. You could tell Elena was itching to say something about what she had stumbled across from her scalding stare, burning into the side of your face. You decided eventually you’d had enough of the tension and swiftly turned your head to fix her with a questioning look. She met your gaze with a challenging one in return before she began to speak, “You and the Prince seemed…close. Have you met before?” it would not take a fool to realise she was testing the waters, attempting to get a feel for your side of what she had witnessed. You shook your head ‘no’ in response but other than that gave her nothing, to be honest you were unsure about the interaction yourself. Almost feeling as if it was a dream induced by fever, made up entirely by your own mind to torment you. If someone were to tell you a day ago that you were going to spend a leisurely hour searching the river for rocks, barefoot mind you, with a prince of the realm you would’ve thought them mad. Elena began to speak again, her teasing tone breaking you from your trance-like state, “You know…it’s not exactly appropriate for an unmarried highborn lady to be alone with an unmarried prince of the realm as you were. If someone found out it could cause quite the scandal.” You could only roll your eyes at her as you leant back in your seat, electing to ignore her provocation, though it wasn't like you could say something back anyway. 

Soon enough you were saved from the stifling tension in the carriage as it stopped and you both stepped out allowing one of the waiting men to help you down. It seemed the castle was still very much alive with the excitement and preparation of the celebrations, which allowed you to slip past most of the people unnoticed, Elena’s hand clasped in yours as you again dragged her along behind you. You managed to dash into your room having avoided anyone of significance and could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Save for Elena you were alone at last.

“Where have you been?” 

Your fathers voice thundered from where he sat behind you and your heart must’ve dropped down through your stomach and out your arse. You whipped around to face him, cursing the disheveled state you must be in with your mussed up hair and dirtied gown. Trying to subtly brush yourself off as you willed your face to not give away your transgression. Your father briefly looked to Elena, who had flattened herself to the nearest wall in an attempt to go unseen by him. “You may leave us, come back in half an hour to ready my daughter for the feast.” He said, turning his eyes back to you, unyielding. Elena bowed muttering out a quick, “Yes milord.” as she seemed to dash out the room, leaving you alone to face your father’s ire. You held his stare as she left waiting for him to break the silence. It was only as the door finally banged shut behind you, signalling her departure did he speak. “Imagine my shock when I decide to come visit my darling daughter, to check in and see how she’s fairing after an arduous journey to an unfamiliar place, only to find she is not where I left her safe and sound.” You stepped forward to defend yourself opening your mouth and willing the words to come, but as always they failed you. He held up his hand silencing you despite there being no need so he could continue. “Imagine then my panic, frantically asking around to try and find said beloved daughter only to discover, from a steward no less, that she had commandeered a carriage to the Kingswood accompanied only by one measly lady’s maid.” You cringed and rushed forward to take his hands in yours, your eyes pleading with him to forgive you. He sighed in defeat, weighing his options before gently squeezing your hand in reassurance. He knew you would always be his weakness and hung his head steeling himself before looking up at you once more. “You cannot frighten me like that minnow, my old, trout heart will give out if you do.” You let out a huff of amusement at the joke and his own lips curled leisurely, “Besides, who’s going to stop your brothers from pestering you if you scare your father to death.” You truly smiled at that and your father stood up, feeling the matter was resolved for now. He gave you a soft kiss on the cheek pulling back to hold your arms, “I’ll come to see you before we depart for the feast, please allow your lady’s maid to make you look somewhat presentable.” 

With that he finally left, leaving you properly alone with your thoughts. You felt a mess and were certain you looked like one too. You decided something needed to be done about it and gave a note to the guard requesting a bath be drawn for you. The evening was beginning to creep in as you washed, lathering your arms and legs in a wildflower soap. You preferred to wash alone, without the help of servants as from a young age you’d found the feel of hands upon your skin irked you. Only a select few like your family were allowed to hold you; anyone else who tried would cause a fit. You thought back to Prince Valarr and the way you’d held his hand. The feeling of his calloused fingers through yours had not irked you; they had instead felt grounding and pleasant. It was something you were not used to, most boys your age did not give you the time of day once they realised your muteness, though it was not like it bothered you for you hardly cared much for them either. That is why the afternoon with the Prince vexed you so much. It had held no expectations or mockery, just quiet understanding. 

Plus you did have to admit that your father was right, Prince Valarr was rather handsome. And kind. He would certainly make a good husband to whoever would end up being lucky enough to have him. A small unbidden part of your mind whispered that it could be you, you certainly had a moment together today. However moments are fleeting and you probably would only see the prince in passing at the very most for the rest of the tourney. If anything you would leave the celebration friends at most. It was unlike you to get caught up in girlish fantasies so you plunged yourself into the bathwater, rinsing the foolish nonsense from your mind with the soap. 

Even if you did see each other again properly nobody would want to take to wife the girl who cannot speak.

You clambered from the tub and wrapped yourself in a soft wool robe as you walked into the main part of the guest chambers, finding Elena setting out a dress for you on the bed. She turned at the sound of your footsteps, facing you and smiling, seemingly relieved your father hadn’t roasted you alive for disappointing him. You got prepared for the feast in a peaceful quiet, Elena seemingly having registered your need to think. It was only broken while she was doing your hair as you sat at the desk trying your hand at writing some poetry. “I know it’s not right to gossip… but could you at least tell me a little bit of what happened with the prince. Of course, now you have parchment and ink you can just write it down!” You rolled your eyes fondly, having known the girl for less than a day yet you chose to entertain her wishes. She was far too excited for you to deny her. You began to write; 

He came across me in the clearing and stumbled into the river by accident. He decided to stay with me and look for rocks. 

“That doesn’t explain why I found the two of your holding hands.” You could only turn to fix her with a look that told her you were getting to that bit in response. She didn’t seem to care and only urged you to turn and keep writing so she could continue working on your hair. 

He chatted with me as we looked and eventually we went back to shore to dry off. He confessed an insecurity of his to me and I took his hand in order to comfort him.

“He chatted with you?” You nodded. “It’s just… I’ve always thought him the quiet type, hard to imagine him chatting about anything.” Your eyebrows furrowed, you had thought he was overexaggerating when he complained about others finding him to be too quiet in the forest. A privileged prince trying to find strife where there was none at most. It made you wonder how much he actually said to others beyond the necessary polite articulation. Elena broke you from your thoughts again when she spoke, “And when you say you took his hand to comfort him.” She was teasing you, you realised after a moment, turning around to glare at you as she giggled in response. You took up quill and parchment in defense.

Not like that.

You made a point out of aggressively underlining it before continuing.

It’s a habit my father has. He takes my hand when I’m upset or nervous and I must have just picked it up.

“Hmm you must have.” Her tone was light and airy, finding great amusement in your desperation to justify yourself. You had already put yourself in this trench of defense so you figured you may as well keep digging.

I doubt the prince and I will interact again during the rest of my visit so it’s best to let it go.

You fixed her with a pointed look again, this one signalling that you were done with the present conversation. She took the hint and went back to doing your hair, humming as she did. Your dress for the feast was a deep blue, patterned with elegant, graceful shapes. The long flowing skirts and sleeves made you look more like a water nymph than a regular lady. Elena fixed your hair adding a finishing touch of a sapphire encrusted headpiece your father had given you for your birthday a few summers prior. When you looked in the floor length mirror you felt as if a goddess was staring back at you wearing your skin. Elena stood proudly behind you before going to open the door when your father called in. He entered with a flourish, dressed in his noble finery as he walked over to embrace you, placing a kiss on your cheek. 

“You look lovely my dear, just like your mother.” He was clearly getting choked up with emotion and you placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, attempting to calm him so he could actually find enjoyment at the feast. Your father composed himself and linked your arm through his as you walked together to the hall. The herald announced your arrival as you entered, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other as your heart pounded in your throat. The shift was immediate. You felt eyes on you from all around, the whispers seeming louder than they actually were. You couldn’t help but feel self-conscious and gripped tighter to your father’s arm, keeping your head bent lower to avoid being studied as much as you could. You approached the head table to pay your respects to the hosts you bowed deeply, not wanting to meet any of the royal family's eyes for the same reason. As you shakily rose, however, you could not help but feel your gaze pulled up by some indistinguishable force and your eyes connected with two multi-coloured ones that were wordlessly staring back at you. 

For a moment you were frozen in place, lost in the depths of his gaze, until your father gently pulled your arm to urge you to move away and you blushed furiously at the embarrassment of being caught. As a result you elected to keep to yourself for the rest of the evening and observe the others as they ate and drank and danced. The whole time you felt the gaze of the prince burning into the side of your head though you did not dare meet his gaze again out of fear of humiliating yourself further. The prince and you had formed a very brief connection of friendship, nothing more, and it would do you no good to be consumed by fantasies that indicated otherwise. Eventually you felt the heat of his stare move off you as his attention was stolen by something else and you thought that maybe you could finally relax for the rest of the feast as you ate your food. That was until the sound of a throat clearing caught you off guard, making you drop your fork with a loud clatter down onto your plate, the sound of it making you wince slightly. 

“Forgive me for frightening you my lady, I just could no longer watch your beauty go unnoticed and unappreciated.” The voice was smooth and unfamiliar and when you looked up the face of the man before you was not one you recognised. You shot him a questioning look before turning to get your father’s help. The man, however, beat him to the punch, opening his mouth to introduce himself formally,

“Forgive me for my informality, I am Ser Runceford Redwyne and I only meant to come over to ask if the lady would be willing to join me in a dance?” His proposal shocked you and you turned to check with your father who nodded in encouragement before you took his hand, accepting the offer to take to the floor. The man offered a slight smirk as your fingers enclosed around his, though the contact made you slightly uneasy, you bore it anyway.

What you hadn’t noticed was Valarr standing by the head table, having been on his way over to ask you the exact same thing as the Redwyne. The line of his jaw hardened as he stood there, watching, and he felt his fist clench in an effort to contain his emotions in the public setting. He could only turn on his heel and exit the hall, trying to find somewhere quiet to think. His solace came in the form of a window seat, overlooking the city and horizon beyond.

He could see the Kingswood from here. The very thought reminded him of his time there with you, causing something painful to twist in his gut as he remembered the sight of you taking the hand of the Redwyne heir. He placed his chin in his fist upon the windowsill while he attempted to pick apart his emotions. He was always so composed that he couldn’t begin to understand what was happening to him. He couldn’t even explain what it was about you that drew him in, you were beautiful yes but there was something more. The time he had spent doing something as simple as searching for rocks in the little creak in the clearing had perhaps brought out a vulnerability he did not think had possessed since childhood. Life with his level of responsibility meant he bore a heavy weight and yet… you had made him forget it all for a time without even speaking a word. The more he searched his mind to place a finger on what exactly he was feeling, the more lost he became. It seemed your smile, your eyes, the feel of your hand in his haunted him around each corner as he felt despair beginning to take hold of him. If he couldn’t keep himself together at the thought of a girl who hadn’t even graced him with words how could he be expected to sit the iron throne one day. You must have bewitched him, he had thought it when he first saw you, that you were a water nymph, but now he was sure of it. 

“Needed some fresh air I take it?” The voice startled him and he scrambled to stand up straight once he saw who it was. 

“Father.” He bowed his head in respect as Prince Baelor sat back down on the seat, nodding for his son to resume his earlier position. 

“It is not like you to depart from an event early Valarr” The heir began. 

“I know father I am so sor-” Valarr rushed to apologise but his father only held up his hand, cutting him off.

“I am not here to scold you, you must understand that.” He took a breath in, studying his son’s face as he calculated what to say next. “You seemed troubled at the feast, I noticed the turmoil in you from the moment you locked eyes with the young Lady Tully” Valarr tensed up at the mention of you and felt his face flush hotly with mortification that his father had caught his ogling.

 “I only wonder if I could perhaps help you carry the burden of what may be going on.” He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder in order to bring his attention away from studying the stone floor. Valarr searched his father’s eyes for a long moment, weighing if he should share his torment with him despite fearing the judgement. His father had always been the example for him of what a perfect man should be, and he had never seen his father struggle with something as simple as feelings. In the end his head won out and he fixed the man with a smile that most likely looked more akin to a grimace than a grin, inhaling deeply so that his voice would not falter. 

“It is nothing I cannot handle father, do not worry yourself for my sake.” His father’s eyes seemed to flash with disappointment for a second and Valarr felt regret deep in his gut for not confiding in him as he wished but the act was already done and he was sure it would be for the better in the long run. He could not have his father babying him when he was almost a man grown. Baelor only squeezed his shoulder in response before letting go so Valarr could stand and return to the feast. Yet as he walked away his voice called out to him once again.

“Valarr.” 

He stopped turning to face the man he looked up to once again.

“I have no doubt you will handle whatever is going on, though I should remind you that a true man should never lose courage to seek what he wants.. lest it slip from his grasp.”

The words had a clear underlying meaning to them that Valarr allowed to strengthen his unruly heart with hope, offering his father one last wordless nod before departing.

A/N: TOLD YOU I WAS COOKING UP SOMETHING FIRE FOR VALARR!!! I pray this does well because it took me a week to write and had me on the grind during my college frees 🙏

Yk I had to push myself to get it out on the day of the final episode tho!!

[tothosewholisten]

wild at heart: chapter 1 - fire in my heart

ser ducan the tall x secret targ fem! reader -

summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.

author notes: you can look any way in this fic I’ve only determined hair color. all I can say about this chapter is: challengers between lyonel, the reader and dunk when? also thank you for all the love on the prologue and all my new followers it makes me so happy. making a pinterest board and playlist for fic soon. happy finale day!

warning: language

word count: 12k+

Masterlist

<previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon!)>

The “final stretch,” Dunk said, but your mind was too heavy to follow. You were still pretty damp from last nights rain as you swayed with the horse’s gait. Half-listening as he muttered about something, the words drifting around you like wind through leaves. You nearly slipped off, and he cursed softly, steadying you with strong hands.

Then you woke or half-woke against him, feeling the solid weight of his arm and careful steadiness. He moved around you quietly, as if your presence made the world fragile. Even the horses seemed to sense it, answering only to his soft commands.

It took him a second for him to place it, the faint scent of flowers clinging to you like something you didn’t even realize you carried.

Your eyes fluttered closed again, the roads and towns sliding past like painted scenery. You leaned against him he was just so.. big. You felt at peace when wrapped in the quiet rhythm of his steady breathing. When your senses returned, light and warmth pressing in, you whispered a soft apology. He only chuckled, brushing your hair back gently that clung to him. He didn’t mind. Being with you seemed to make him… lighter, somehow.

“Just a little more,” Dunk urged. “It shouldn’t be far now.”

Instead of answering, you gasped.

He startled briefly, half-thinking something was wrong. That was until he followed your gaze. To him, it was only another stretch of land. Wide, yes. Green, sure. Familiar all the same. Just earth and sky doing what they always did.

To you, it was everything.

The road had finally fallen away. No more narrow paths clawed tight by trees. The grass rolled endlessly, uninterrupted, and the sky stretched so far it felt like it might swallow you whole. Sunrise washed over the fields, turning everything gold. Making the world soft and unreal, borrowed from fiction instead of reality.

“It’s…” you began, eyes wide, leaning forward in the saddle as though you might spill straight into it.

“Beautiful,” Dunk finished, reaching out on instinct to steady you.

You barely noticed his large hands. You were already somewhere else. You knew then that you would never tire of Westeros. Not when it still held places like this. Not when it kept opening itself to you, for you to gaze upon. It felt designed for you, as though no one else were watching.

As you rode down the long slope, the land finally revealed what it had been hiding.

The tourney grounds.

They sprawled farther than you would have thought possible. Rows upon rows of tents. Banners snapping in the breeze. People moving like bright flowerbeds scattered across the grass. Music drifted faintly. Laughter. Life everywhere you looked.

Dunk watched you take it all in. Your wonder was so open it almost hurt to see. He had not expected how much it would move him to be there for that first look. Even feeling a small pang, the realization that your awe belonged entirely to this moment, not to him.

Then the thought came, uninvited. It pained him.

This was where it ended.

His mouth tightened slightly.

You felt it too, though you did not look at him. He had done what you asked. He had brought you here. After this, there was no reason to stay. Even if you wanted him to, you would never keep him from the tourney.

You could not help him. You were no squire. And you had no courage to ask.

At the edge of the grounds, Dunk reined in. “This is it,” he said lightly. “Told you. More people than you’d like.”

You swallowed. Then whispered, “What do I do now?”

The question was honest. Almost bare.

“Well,” he said, eyeing you with a grin meant to hide his frown, “first you find somewhere to sleep. After that—” He shrugged. “Explore. Find whatever it is you’re chasing.”

You nodded, then reached for your coins. Your fingers brushed the leather of the coin pouch, feeling the small weight of it, proof that you could give something back, even if only a little.

He shook his head.

“Please,” you said, pressing it toward him. “I want to.”

“No,” Dunk said immediately. “I can’t take that.”

“You taught me. You sheltered me. You kept me safe,” you insisted. “I won’t leave you with nothing.”

He hesitated. “You weren’t a burden,” he said quietly. “Truth is, I learned some things too.”

That earned a smile from you as you put it back into your bag.

It made him shift, restless, like he needed to move before the moment settled too deeply. He let himself watch you, a quiet pride swelling that he rarely allowed himself to name.

“Well,” he said, stepping back, “best I go.”

“I’ll be cheering for you,” you said. Because that was the only thing you could say.

He smiled, broad and boyish, then looked away before he could think better of it. A moment later, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, his three horses trailing after him.

Yours stamped once in protest.

“I know,” you murmured, patting her neck. “Me too.”

Away from the noise, Dunk found comfort in his horses again. They moved slowly, stubbornly, dragging their hooves. “Enough,” he muttered. “We couldn’t stay forever. I’ve got a tourney to enter. No, she was not the first woman I’ve ever seen!”

The words rang hollow. He had thought, stupidly, that maybe you would keep walking together. That there would be more roads. Instead, you were probably already gone, blending into the sea of strangers, beginning something new without him.

He exhaled and rested his forehead briefly against his horse’s neck. “But she was lovely,” he whispered. And he could still feel the echo of your wide eyes, the tilt of your smile, as though you had carved a little space in the world just for him, and he had no claim to it.

You tune out the crowd, and the clamor around you dissolves into a deafening silence. Sharp and grating as it leaves a silent screech pressed against your skull. With every step, you drift away from the crowds. Leaving behind everything until they become a distant hum behind you. The space that Dunk left behind pressed heavily on your chest. Half expecting him to come back, you kept turning around. Hoping to feel a sudden sense of purpose in his trail, but always finding nothing.

People pass you in groups, each step certain, each path clear. You stumble behind them. Joy should fill your empty heart; this is what you have longed for. The bustle, the color, the noise, they should mean an easy future. Yet, you are not happy.

Your mare huffs for a break, and needing a break also, you find yourself at the nearest wooden post.

Your silence is torn apart by the sound of angry, sad tourney-goers who enter and exit a purple tent. It was a dark color, almost like a frequent bruise. It appears to blow out fire as smoke coils from its entrance in twisting spirals, carrying the scent of herbs, ash, and something sharper. More people stand by it in a line, waiting for their turn to go in with fated breaths.

Pleasure has never looked this painful, you think.

“Excuse me, Ser.” You wave down a man in line. “What goes on in this tent?”

“A fortune teller,” he says, “the best, this side of the Reach.”

Although the far future was never the first thing on your mind, you were more interested in living to see the next hour, but the idea being presented to you was something you’d never experienced. Before you knew it, you had joined the man in line.

It only took a few minutes until you were next up in line. Your body exhaled all its pressure from before and regained the uncertainty of what this woman could say to you. It could not be true at all, but then again, she could always predict everything perfectly. And of course, there was much room in between.

When you entered the tent, the smell of burning sage flooded your nose, clogging it for a while to come after. The room seemed never-ending on the inside, either in terms of how big it was or in terms of witchcraft. It was filled with candles for moody lighting, books of every kind, and artifacts that were only sold in the back alleys of towns. Like crystals, animal parts, and dolls made for cursing.

This was just like in the books you used to read as a child; the woman even had a crystal ball on her shelf.

“Hello,” you say softly to announce yourself.

The woman barely lifts her eyes from the table where she played with cards. But her dark and piercing eyes could still be placed as she watched you enter her space. Her head was almost fully covered by the hood of her robes. Her look felt as if it was carried by the air of lands far away, across the Narrow Sea, where people traded in knowledge and fate.

Her voice is disgruntled and choked, with a heavy accent that you could not understand at first.

“I’m not surprised you stumbled in here. It was only a matter of time,” she says while looking you up and down in the same mimicked critical eyes of others before. “With or without this disguise, I see you.”

A chill coils in your chest when she speaks as she sees right through you. It was jarring. Is this what all fortune tellers are like?

“What is it that you are wishing to know?” She beckons you over with a wave of her hand to the seat directly in front of her. “Speak it now and clearly.”

You hesitated. Not realizing that when you joined the line, you would already have to know what you want to hear. “I’m not sure…”

“I know you do not know, but what your heart desires is different. You would like to know what's in store. After the tourney.” The woman says this casually, like it's just another thing.

“How do you know that?” You gasp.

She smirks when pushing through her cards. “Is that not what everyone wants to know?” Her smooth fingers land on one card in particular, before pulling it out to show you.

This card showed a princess in the middle, happy and beautiful. But above and below her showed two fates. Freedom and death.

Your hands gripped the chair beneath you. “Why do you show me this?”

“I told you already, girl, I see you.” The woman pauses and then drops the cards on the table, putting her full attention on you. She leans her head into the palms of her hands and takes a shift closer to you. “How does it feel to live such a life? I am but a woman from humble beginnings; I would not know.”

Your mouth opens, but only air comes out.

“You feel as if you are being pulled apart, living a life that is not your own choosing, as the world watches and laughs when you fail again and again. To want what is forbidden and grasp nothing, no matter how hard you try?” She continues.

“That’s not—” you start, but your voice falters.

“Quiet,” she interrupts. “Remember this, do not turn from this path. Forget your place at your peril. No one escapes what the gods and fate have set before them. Even girls like you.”

She stands up, leaving no room to argue about the validity of her claims. Her body moves like a shadow and stalks towards a small brazier. Without warning, she lights a fire with flames that leap higher than you expected. You shrink back into the chair, but the heat presses tightly against your skin.

This was more than warmth; it moved with you. Bending and curling with each of your movements as if it were alive. The flames twisted and reached, almost recognizing something in your blood.

Leaving you no choice but to lower your gaze to your lap to get away.

“This fire,” she says, voice low, “is like the fire in your heart. It follows you. Wherever you go, whatever you touch, whatever you love, it will find its way. Smother it if you dare; it will not die. It will wait. It will follow. But you already knew that didn’t you.”

“Now you may leave if you wish. Or learn more.” The woman hypnotized you more than the fire could ever dream of. First, she says she knows you, then aligns you with this fire and gives no more answers. This would not be over until you’d had your true fill.

When you stayed seated, the woman smirked once again. “Thought so,” she returns to her seat and her cards. When you looked back at them, gone was the princess card. Now they reflected each of the gods. Seven cards with illustrations of their fate.

“How do you know?” you manage, voice trembling. “How can you know any of this?”

She studies them, tilting her head. “I have walked many roads, child. In the Free Cities. I have learned to read hearts and cards, fear in the bones, desire in the eyes. It is not magic. It is seeing. Even you can see the way I see.”

You stare at her, trying to catch up as if she’s on the other side of a mountain. A stranger from the Free Cities speaks as though she has followed your every step. Somehow, you believe her cryptic words.

“For all, paths will split, many. Some lead forward, some to ruin, some to survival, never as you hope, but they always reach an ending.”

“For you, you will walk them all, and the fire will follow. The blood that burns inside you will shape more than these roads, it will never let you forget who you are.”

“And when is this supposed to happen?” You squeak

“As for when you walk down these paths, that comes later. For now, you came here alone.” She adds. “You belong to no one’s story yet. You stand at the edge of many endings. None of them clean, none of them easy.”

Every instinct was telling you to leave it at that, yet the woman’s gaze held you fast.

“What do these paths entail? And why so many?” Infinite questions flood your brain.

“Some paths will offer you violence dressed as protection,” she says. “Others will offer devotion that costs more than you know. Whether you survive to the next is up to you.”

“Do I get to choose?” you whisper.

“You already did,” she says. “You simply do not yet know which choice will shape you most.”

“Soon enough, everything you care about… everything you think is safe, will be taken,” she hums, finger hovering over a card. Shadows curl across it. “Not tomorrow. Not soon enough to prepare. But soon enough to break you.”

Your chest tightens. You think of Dunk, the one who gave your life direction, the quiet moments that kept you steady, and a cold panic twists in your belly.

“Why me?”

“The gods have chosen you,” she replies, calm and unyielding. The fire flares in the background, shadows twisting across the walls and your own face. It stil moves with you, alive, insistent. You cannot escape it. You cannot outrun it in the room.

She finally reveals her last card. “The dragon.” But does not explain. It makes you shudder.

Then, she speaks again. “You will leave this tent soon. The world awaits. But remember this: no place, no crowd, no path, no decision can make you forget the weight of the fire. It follows. Always.”

“Now run along, I’m certain I'll see you again.”

You nod, though you are not sure whether you understand. Slowly, shakily, you rise from the chair. The fire bends toward you one last time, flickering and curling alive. You step back into the tourney grounds. The noise crashes over you again like it never left, banners bright, crowds moving in certainty. But nothing feels the same. The world is larger, stranger, heavier. You are still alone. And in the depths of your chest, the fire waits.

“My lady.” A voice called out to you. It was dark now, and you were very hungry, lost in thought.

At first, you did not respond, but the voice stirred recognition. It was the older knight from your travels. Adorned in the same red cloak and worn armor, he was alone this time, no horse in sight.

“It seems the roads and the fates favor us. To what do I owe this pleasure?” he added.

This time, you really took him in. Before, anger and the need for justice had clouded your vision, but now you saw him clearly. Golden blond hair barely brushing his neck, a lion clasp on his armour.

Fuck. “You're a Lannister?” you breathed out.

He grinned. “Indeed. I am surprised you did not notice before, when you put yourself between my men and a blade.” He held out his hand for you to shake.

“Must have not noticed,” you said slowly, shaking it. His rough fingers almost refused to let go.

“I’ve seen men triple your size never put themselves in tough situations. I'm afraid a moment like that will not escape my mind for some time,” he said, then paused. “Speaking of triple your size, where is that knight of yours?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I am not sure.”

The Lannister hummed. “Interesting. He’s left you by yourself. Is he entering the lists?”

“Yes, and he's going to win,” you added, pride brightening your expression at the mention of Dunk.

“Now that, I’d be interested in seeing. But I must get back to my tents; the hour grows late. Where are you staying, my lady?”

Despite almost making an enemy of one of the greatest houses, the man seemed calm. It was clear he meant no harm.

“I–” You started to form a lie, but your attention was pulled elsewhere. A tall man was being called over by another, their conversation deep, serious.

You had finally found him.

“Deepest apologies, Ser. I have found him, just that way.” You pointed. “It was lovely speaking to you again.” You shook his hand once more and turned to walk toward Dunk.

In that brief moment, the Lannister barely had time to respond. “I hope I’ll run into you again,” he called out.

No, you thought, I really hope not.

As you rushed toward Dunk, the fortune teller's words echoed in your mind. The fire follows, yes, but with him, you have direction, a tether to reality in a world that threatens to swallow you.

“Duncan!” you yelled, startling both men. Dunk’s head whipped toward you, his previously blank expression melting into a surprised grin.

You stop short of the men, with your horse, blocking the way of the man dressed in red. Dunk stared down at you. “M’lady! I did… I did not expect to see you again. I thought you’d be far gone.”

“Well, you’d be wrong,” you smiled. “I hope I’m not interrupting knightly talk.”

“No, no, no… absolutely not.” He coughs, eyes going back to the shorter man in front of him. “M’lady, this is…”

Finally, you come face-to-face with the brown-haired man who had been all smiles and sunshine when you walked over. But his face suddenly drops, and he staggers in his movements. At first, you think the worst when he does not speak.

“Uhm. This is…” Dunk egged on.

The other man’s eyes lingered on you as though you were some long-lost treasure unearthed, and he could scarcely tear his gaze away. Face turning a nice new shade of red, like an apple.

“Geez, man, are you alright?” Dunk patted him on the back. That seemed to wake him up. “As I was saying, this is Raymun Fossoway.” He gives him your name back.

Even though he was back to talking, his eyes stayed very wide. “I apologize,” he coughs. “Aye, that is me.”

You give him a polite, cheerful look. “Hello.” He looked like he could combust when you spoke back to him.

Dunk looked at you two. “What is it that you were asking me before?”

“What? Oh! I was trying to ask if you were hungry?” Raymun stammers.

You and Dunk exchange a look. “Always,” you reply in unison.

The jumpy man, you soon learned, was the squire to his cousin Steffon Fossoway. By proxy, he had been introduced to fellow houses during the starting days of the tourney, including The Laughing Storm, Lord Lyonel Baratheon.

That was whose tent he was leading you to.

He only stopped to talk to you. “My lady,” he started, “it would be an honor to unburden you from this horse and tie her up to a post. Where I give you my word, no harm will befall her.” He put his hand on his heart to show his utmost seriousness.

“Alright…” you trailed off as he walked away with your white mare.

Dunk could not believe this turn of events. Raymun had known you for less than five minutes, and already he was clearly smitten. A tightness coiled in Dunk’s chest.

He was the one who journeyed with you, shared quiet moments and dangers, and yet here was another man, entranced by you so quickly. He shook his head, forcing the feeling down, keeping it buried.

When Raymun returned, the three of you entered the Stag’s Den. Not only decorated to the extreme in drapes of gold and black accents, but it was also filled to the brim with tons of people, doing all sorts of things: drinking, eating, dancing, playing instruments. It was almost impossible to go noticed in the crowds, and it was also extremely difficult to find a seat at the tables.

Eventually, the three of you squeezed in directly in the middle of one of the tables. You sat facing Dunk as Raymun stood up to pour ale in his goblet. When he offered you some, you politely declined with a smile, sending the man spiraling.

A large boasting of laughter broke Raymun’s gaze. It traveled the room like wind, deepening into every crevice of the tent, before reaching you. The three of your eyes followed the noise back to the man himself, Lyonel Baratheon, who sat with fellow lords and ladies at a higher table in the back of the room.

“I thought he’d be bigger…” Dunk stated.

“He is awfully… flamboyant,” you added, watching him point his antler crown at a man like he was going to hit him with it.

Before he even went noticed, Raymun patted Dunk on the back and took off, sparing you one last look of admiration, then disappearing into the chaos of the room. Dunk’s face displayed fear and confusion. “Where is he going?” but there was no answer available.

Despite the loudness of the room, you could hear Lyonel’s voice as he started to go off on a tangent. “Four thousand years ago…” He loses his train of thought. “Four thousand years… ago.” Lyonel lets out a deep sigh. “Cunts. I can’t hear myself.”

The lord throws his hands up in the air as if he were a child, then raises his voice, halting all other sounds. “I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen.” Everyone looked up at him, almost eager to know what he had to say, like he was a septon preaching.

“Four thousand years ago… our ancestors gathered in that big field outside to blood each other with sticks. And have a little bit of gay fun… and they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. Well, I say…” The man prolongs the end of his speech when he moves in closer to his guests, slightly leaning off his chair as he prepares for the final blow.

Then, all the momentum… stops. “Uh, the fuck was I gonna say?” It was clear to you that the man was quite drunk already.

Dunk took this moment to pour himself more of whatever Lyonel had been on. Once again, you were offered some, but you just shook your head.

“First ever joust. Ah.” Lyonel mutters. “Ah! Men could not have devised such a joy… so who was it?”

Your attention is brought back to Dunk as he interrupts the man-made silence by slurping on his ale. You give him a sideways glance. He immediately sipped lower.

“Huh? Who was it?” Lyonel addressed the room. His patrons all looked at him with high praise, awaiting his answer.

But nobody had an answer. He shrugs and laughs before continuing, “Fuck it, a hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best.” He yells out, flipping a bag of coins onto a table, which makes everyone in the tent erupt in joyful shouts. “Now, eat your birds so we can dance!”

The two of you were mistakenly out of place when everyone started cheering. All you could do was look at one another and realize what you’d gotten yourself into.

Plates of bird were smashed into each section of every table, ready and awaiting to be consumed for the benefit of the lot. You watch as Dunk’s eyes fall onto a ginormous turkey leg, which even in his large hands still looks too big. He carefully digs in with the rest of the people. You find one that’s maybe a bit smaller but still bigger than your hands, and take a few bites at a time, giggling as you watch Dunk’s turkey leg go in almost in an instant.

By the time the two of you moved on to desserts, no one had stayed seated. If they were not continuing the music, they were dancing and clapping. It was foreign, the wild display in such a place as a tourney, but you still liked it, in fact, you even clapped along.

In a split second, Dunk was gone from your side, too, leaving you all by yourself as you twirled around with others. You could not look for him as you were too busy dancing and talking to everyone in the room.

Making friends was easy in this space.

That was until you noticed Lyonel’s loud voice again, joined by Dunk’s softer one. You excused yourself from the ladies you were with and walked all the way to where the Lord’s table was.

“Is there a problem, my lord?” You barged in, interrupting whatever spew of words Lyonel was saying.

“Now you bring someone else?” Lyonel accuses. “Who are you?” He slurred.

You puff your chest. “We were brought in by the Fossoways, tis all.”

“Fossoways? Now, who is—does this woman speak for you, man?” The lord looked you up and down, trying to piece together a connection with his brain.

Before Dunk could utter a word, “No, any knight can speak for himself. But I give you my word that it is the truth. If you do not believe me, I can fetch a Fossoway now and have him answer.” That was a straight-up lie; you had no idea where Raymun was.

Lyonel looked peeved. “Are you here for my head?” He gasped. It was like he did not hear anything you just said.

The way he spoke was as if he had all the confidence in the world. Sure, he might have had a certain appeal to his nature and good looks, but you could not stop yourself from wanting to roll your eyes.

“What!” Dunk choked. “No, no!”

“Then, why are you in my fucking tent?” This was a lost cause, you deemed. Knowing that you should just get going, you turned around to get in one more sway to the music and grab more food.

Before you could make it, Dunk’s frail words reached your ear. “S-supper.” He stuttered.

Time stopped for a moment; all the lords, including Lyonel, went silent. You for sure thought that this was the end, no tourney, no more food. The Baratheons were sure to hang you for treason, or even worse.

Instead, Lyonel gaped at the taller man like a fish and started chuckling; his volume even made the whole table join him in laughter.

“Alright. Actually, that makes sense.” Lyonel muttered to his fellow lords. “What are your names, then?” You thought he had forgotten about your lingering presence.

Dunk responded quickly. “Dunk—Ser Dunk.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Lyonel furrowed his brow. “And you?” he asked.

You introduced yourself shortly, just like Dunk.

Lyonel waited for something to happen. “Of house…?”

“I am.. I am not a lady.” The men looked surprised, even Dunk.

“Really?” Lyonel leaned in.

“Aye…” You squinted and leaned in, also.

“Well, answer this: do you two fancy some wine?” This man had gone from saying you were trying to kill him to becoming your best friend. “Not the horse shit of Ashford. Some real delicacy from Dorne herself.”

Dunk responds sharply to upset the Lord any further. “Yes, we’d be delighted,” he squawks.

“Oh no, I do not drink.” You added. The men fell silent once again.

“You're not a lady, and you don’t drink… now I believe you're trying to trick me.” Lyonel sneers.

“I’ve just never drank, my lord. My father would not allow it.”

Lyonel stood up with the highest degree and yelled over the crowd. “The first person to get this woman a drink will be a richer man for it!” He shouts. You opened your mouth in pure terror. Everyone instantly went from drinking and partying to shoving drinks in your face, some even their own.

“Go ahead now, girl. Even a sip won’t kill you. Trust me, we’ve all had more than a sip.” The room chuckles, now awaiting your first taste.

You begrudgingly grabbed a drink from the nearest woman and took a small sip. Your face crumpled from the taste. “This is disgusting.” You cough.

“M’lord, she did not mean that. I’m sure it’s amazing!” Dunk scarcely adds, fearing him and the mob.

Instead of the lord banishing you, he takes the drink in your hands and downs it himself.

“Let’s dance!” He belches out. Every able body in that space got up and cleared the floor for dancing. As if this could not get any stranger of a night. The Baratheon man sheds himself of his cloak and links arms with you and Dunk, while dragging you two over to the dancing.

Bodies swayed in every direction, prancing around like peacocks showing off their feathers. They were being egged on by the beat and the clapping of others. You flourished dancing with all, but could not stop glancing at Dunk, who seemed to be having a bit of a harder time finding the rhythm.

When switching partners you made your way over to him, to make sure he was alright. He only flustered in response. Full of ale and warmth.

You had never seen such a man of equal stupidness and chaos like Lyonel Baratheon as he mucked about. His dancing became more sporadic as he took hold of the room.

At this point, you had even shed your own cloak to let the wind flow through your dress. The blue dress clung to your figure, and the white puffy straps that were a size too big for you bobbled around your arms with every bounce you took.

You only sat down that night when you became too tired, and your feet too sore from your cramming boots. You gazed at the two large men in front of you, doing some type of dance that required stepping on one another. It was stupid, but hilariously funny when you started cheering them on.

All the hollering of the night left your throat very dry. Seeking a water basin, all you find is the same stuff from earlier, which you nearly choked on. Without seeing any other options, you drank the whole thing against your better judgment.

Before you knew it, you had drunk two, four, and then six while singing out and joining drinking games with others. Maybe you had lied about the taste being so bad, because now you could barely taste it at all as you continued.

Somehow, someway, as the party progressed, you found yourself on top of a table. Men and women alike crowded near you, anxious to hear whatever drunk thing you were gonna spout next. First, you told them that men and women should all be allowed to be knights, lords need to get off their asses and do the things they claim, all women should all be allowed to wear pants without scrutiny, and many more. Those were the only things that made sense. The room let you say anything, and they held onto it like gospel; you thought yourself to be the new king of the party.

Dunk was sitting with Lyonel, the two of them blissful in each other's presence. But, without your noticing, Dunk would sneak a spare glance at you now and then, he said to himself, it was to make sure nothing bad was happening to you.

“That girl is no..” Lyonel coughs. “Common folk. Trust when I say I will find out.” The drunk man made it his personal mission.

“Find what out.” You batted your eyelashes at him, stealing his antler crown and sitting on their table to get the best view. Dunk winced when you put the crown on your head, fearing it would make the lord mad. He only looked at you with amusement.

“Nothing to fret yourself about.” He smirks. “Are you enjoying yourself, my queen?”

You grabbed his drink. “Why, yes, I am.”

Despite how drunk he was, Dunk looked at the two of you with a tightening in his chest. Perhaps it was your personality or just how you always spoke your mind, but it seemed to him that you clashed better with Lord Baratheon than you did with him. It even made him a bit sad, as he thought back to his title and what he was.

What woman would ever find company in a hedge knight when she could do just as fine with a lord?

Your voice ripped him out of his head. “Are you ready, Serrr?” You trailed on. “For the tourney.”

Dunk took a moment to think. “Aye, I think so. But I keep agonizing, you know? I'm quick and strong, sure. But so are you.” He gestures to Lyonel, who had taken a hammer to crush his food. “Plus, you’ve trained sword and lance with the finest masters-at-arms in the realm. I mean, what chance do I have truly?”

After finishing his feelings, he looks back at the two of you. He should've realized then that it was a losing battle trying to talk to people, so in their own world, they could not fathom paying attention.

He watched as you and Lyonel traded food and kept drinking.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Lyonel actually looks confused. Dunk sighed with a hearty shake of his body.

You placed a hand on Dunk’s chest. “No, no.. I heard you, Ser. And you need not worry.” You balanced yourself on the ground when you got up. Finding a better place on the armrest of Dunk’s chair. “You will become the best champion there ever was. You know how I know? Its cause you have my blessing.” You nodded.

Dunk did not know to look annoyed or rejoice. “Really?” He muttered.

“Yes!” You raised a cup, which in turn made the rest of the room look at you. “To Ser.. Duncan, Ser Duncan the Tall. The greatest knight in the seven kingdoms!” You spewed. The room was too loud to know what they were cheering for, but they all cried out the same.

He actually quite liked that title, and he would not mind having your favor either. The three of you continued conversing till Lyonel decided it was time for more dancing, and carried you off to the floor of the tent. Dunk sat there, contemplating something, before looking up to find the man he had been looking for all the second half of the day.

He looked for you before springing up out of his seat. If he could talk to the man for a second or two, it would put an end to his worries about getting into the tourney. And if it was only a second, he did not need to be worried about leaving you.

You, on the other hand, had no idea he even left until he came back. A look of slight frustration graced his beautiful blue eyes when he told you that you two would have to make your leave.

“Now? You whispered to him.

“Aye, the hour has gone on long past nightime, and your horse has been waiting,” Dunk claimed.

“But-”

“There will be more parties in the future, I'm sure of it.” He continues.

“Well-”

“Let’s go.” He wraps his warm hand around yours and tugs lightly. You feel the cold air on your face without even realizing you were already outside.

“What am I doing out here?” You whisper out into the air.

Dunk gives you a disappointed look. “If that was truly your first time drinking m’lady, you have overdone it.”

“Pssshh, personally, I do not think I drank enough my Ser.” You swat at him, barely missing.

Your vision finally cleared to see that you were walking towards the forest with Dunk by your side, holding onto your mare with careful fingers. His other hand was still around yours.

Regaining your cheerful feeling, you start to skip and chant. Increasing your speed and running circles around the extremely tired man.

He calls out your name with a groan. “You're going to trip and fall, you're not coordinated, m’lady.”

“Psssshhh.” You continued bouncing around, your boots hitting the hard concrete without care for how loud you were being. Doing all of this despite the numbness of your body and mind.

“M’lady…” he warned again, his voice low, almost cautious, like he was testing the sound.

“Ser Duncan, do not jest. I told you I’m not a lady.”

“Aye, mayhaps,” he said slowly, letting his gaze linger on you for just a heartbeat, “but you are… in the ways that matter.”

“You speak in riddles,” you replied, narrowing your eyes. “You mean I’m… courteous, or refined, or boring?”

Dunk shrugged at your disdain, almost imperceptibly. “Not that. You’re… You hold yourself… like someone who ought to be called m’lady, even if you say otherwise.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and muttered, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Sure,” he conceded, voice rough but softening. “But the word… it fits, m’lady. In my eyes.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked away, trying to hide the effect his words had. “I… suppose I could allow it, for now,” you said quietly, half teasing, half unsure.

Dunk’s lips twitched in the faintest smile, and he inclined his head. “That’s all I ask, m’lady.”

Then, just like he feared, you slipped on a patch of mud. But before you could tumble, Dunk acted instinctively, his arms shot around your midriff, catching you with ease.

“That’s it,” Dunk huffed, still holding you tightly. Slowly, he let go of your horse for just a moment and wrapped you securely in his thick arms as the two of you continued toward his makeshift camp.

“Excuse me, Ser!” you cried, your head bobbing like a feather in a storm. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, actually, I do not,” he replied, steady as ever.

“I am the… I am…” You froze mid-step, your body stiffening. “I am…”

And just like that, you were asleep.

Immediately, you shifted a little, letting out a tiny groan, one leg swinging forward, the other kicking lightly, as if your subconscious was still trying to keep pace with your dramatic monologue.

Dunk’s eyebrows rose, and he muttered under his breath, “By the Seven.” He adjusted his hold, one arm under your knees, the other around your shoulders, rocking you gently to keep you from toppling.

Despite being frustrated with many things, he could not help the small, fond smile tugging at his lips. He was not annoyed. This was his duty, after all, to serve and protect.

But somewhere deep inside him, he wished you would just reveal who you were. So he could finally get over wanting something he knew he could never have.

Once you guys reached the camp, you almost tumbled out of his grasp. Dunk steadied you and laid you down on a bedroll, still grasping onto your hand.

“Safe now,” Dunk whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. He could feel the slow, even rhythm of your breathing begin to settle, yet your lips kept moving, soft words and laughter spilling in fragments:

Dunk listened quietly, his chest tightening at your vulnerability.

The small boy had wandered off a little earlier, telling the horses he was going to catch some fish and make a fire. Now he returned, humming to himself as he approached the campsite.

Dunk blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing correctly. “You!” he hissed.

The boy did not even flinch, though his face twisted into confusion.

“What... what are you doing?” Dunk questioned. “Going to cook some fish,” the boy perked up. “D’you want some?”

“No, I mean, how’d you get here?” Dunk twisted back and forth as you stirred slightly in his grasp. “Did you steal a horse?”

Egg ignored his question entirely. “I see I am not the only person to accompany you. Who’s that?” He asked with childlike wonder.

To anyone older, this scene would have looked more sinister. A woman unconscious in a secluded area next to a man, Dunk grimaced at the implication. “She’s… she’s… don't worry about it. You'd best be answering my questions now.”

“I rode in the back of a lambcart.” The boy replied. He didn’t get a clear look at you, just brown hair tangled and wild across your face.

“Well, you'd best find another one.” Dunk huffed.

The boy shook his head. “You can't make me go. I’d had enough of that inn.”

Dunk pointed his finger in the air, feigning sternness and failing slightly, being a bit drunk. “Now, listen, I’ll have no more insolence from you, boy. I ought to throw you over my horse and take you straight home.”

“You'd have to go all the way to King’s Landing.” Egg smugly replied. “You’d miss the tourney and your lady.”

“You're from Fleebottom?”

“No.”

Dunk squinted at the boy, then glanced back at you. What in the Seven Hells had he gotten himself into?

“I washed the clothes of yours I found, made the fire, caught the fish, and groomed the horses,” Egg continued proudly, holding up your satchel. “I was just about to comment that it is strange you had a bag full of...” He digs his tiny hand inside. “Womanly things, but it’s all starting to make sense.”

Dunk nearly gasped. “Give me that! Did no one teach you not to go through other people’s things?”

Egg ignored him. “I would've raised your pavilion, but I could not find one.”

“A tree is all the pavilion I need,” Dunk said, hands settling on his hips. This was true; in his mind, he did not wander into inns as much as sleeping outside. He made that exception for you.

As the night wore on, they conversed quietly enough not to wake you. Egg had formed his opinion of the knight. This man needed all the help he could get, yes. But he did think more positively of him. Dunk was neither cruel nor dull. He meant to enter the tourney, and he had even said Egg could stay.

This could be good. This could be his life…

When the two men finally lay down, they watched a shooting star glide past them in the night sky. And they carefully listened to the world around them, the horses, the trees, and the fire cracking.

Then, everyone was asleep.

Taglist: @kitkat1690 @astridbaby @lehlyx @livy1320 @lovelywritinglady

[tothosewholisten]

wild at heart: chapter 0 - where no one is watching

ser duncan the tall x secret targ fem! reader

summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.

author notes: you can look any way in this fic I’ve only determined hair color. could eventually become a multi chapter fic. not proof read. word count: 17k+

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The road was narrow, winding through trees crowded close enough to steal what little starlight remained in the night sky. You did not witness how dark it was, your head bowed and your eyes closed, chin dipping and lifting again and again in slow, betraying motions. Sleep was a sin here. It tugged you down into its depths despite the cold, the sway of the saddle, and the knowledge that you should not, could not, rest.

Your horse neighed when you slumped completely, jolting you upright as if saying that if she could not sleep, then neither could you. It startled you, but not as much as the weather, which seemed to change from sunny and warm to a freezing night in only seconds. You had not known it could get this cold. You had not packed for it.

The white mare that carried you was not the only thing making noise. The forest surrounding your path had its own sounds, the scuttling of creatures through the trees. They were not threatening, simply living, the same as you, completely indifferent to whether you passed through or not.

As the hours passed, your sense of distance began to slip. The road stretched and folded in on itself, making it impossible to tell how far you had truly gone. Once again, you fell victim to sleep, only awakening when the world stilled. There were no more gradual steps. Your mare slowed beneath you, her strides shortening, then stopping altogether. For a moment, your heart hammered so hard it made you dizzy.

The dark pressed in, unchanged and uncaring. You listened hard, absurdly afraid that the sound of your own breathing might carry.

“No,” you whispered. “Please.”

You urged her forward. Once. Twice. She did not move.

What happens next? Your legs ached. Your back burned. Everything in you felt wrong, too tight, too loose, too tired to turn back, if that was even still a choice. Behind you, the road stretched away, empty. Ahead was the same copied nothingness. You could not tell which direction felt worse. Maybe this was a mistake. The thought of fleeing came unbidden, heavy with exhaustion. This was mad. You had not even known where you were going. Even now, you still did not.

Your body leaned forward as you pressed your forehead against the mare’s warm neck. Breaths shuddered out of you as the words you did not say lodged in your throat. Pleas meant for ears that had once listened, for people who had once answered. They were nowhere near you now, not on this treacherous road. The horse’s warmth was the only thing keeping the night from feeling absolute.

She was weary in her own way too. You did not blame her for stopping. She had suffered the worst of it, fed poorly and ridden worse. She was little more than a show pony, not meant for roads like this, not meant to be pushed without rest or warmth or knowing hands. She wanted home. You could feel it in the tension of her muscles. You wondered, briefly, what would happen if she decided she could not go on at all. She was all you had. And all you were.

You slid down from the saddle and nearly collapsed, catching yourself against her broad body. She did not take this as her chance to run. She stood, patient despite everything, while you steadied yourself on the uneven road.

“I know,” you murmured into her mane.

You did not ask again. You pleaded.

“Just a little farther.”

When you mounted again, the drowsiness was gone. In its place was a sharp, aching awareness that made the world feel too close. It was not all bad, though. Ahead, through even more trees, the forest opened slightly into a clearing only large enough to house the two of you, if you kept close. But it would do.

You guided her there, tying her to a pointed rock and feeding her an apple. Your last one. Unsure of what to do next, you thought back to simpler days. Make camp, people said, as if it were a simple thing, as if the words themselves carried instructions. You had no tent. No bedroll. Only the clothes in your pouch, a dagger you had never used, and food already going stale. 

The cold pressed closer now that you had stopped moving, creeping beneath your cloak and into your bones. You could die out here, you thought. The realization was almost curious. You gathered wood with frozen, numb fingers and knelt to arrange the pieces the way you assumed they ought to be arranged. Careful. Symmetrical. The larger sticks supporting the smaller, built into a tall, perfect pile. It even looked right.

It did nothing.

You struck flint you had found by the roadside. Sparks leapt and vanished against the night sky.

Again. Nothing.

You tried not to think about how far the road still went. You tried not to think at all.

You struck the flint again.

Still nothing. Your fingers had gone stiff by then, so that you barely felt the edge of the stone.

For a moment, you almost called out on instinct. Your mouth opened and closed before you remembered there was no one to hear you. Restlessness followed. You shoved the sticks together without caring how they looked. The sound echoed too loudly in your ears, and you flinched despite yourself.

At last, the flame caught. It was small. But it was alive.

You shared a meal with your mare beside the fire, feasting on the hard bread from your pouch. You lay back against the rock, your bag serving as a pillow. Finally, your tired eyes found the night sky. 

The forest shifted and breathed with you through the wind. 

Someone could come upon you like this, you thought. Anyone. Exposed and vulnerable. They would see the fire first, hear the horse, and you would hear them last. 

But there was nowhere else to go. The thought passed as you pulled your pale blue cloak tighter around yourself. This was a device of your own making, after all. 

For a moment, you allowed yourself to be still. Then sleep took you where the road could not. To peace.

The sun was a welcome presence when you opened your eyes. It did not warm you much, but it was a sign that it was safe to venture on. Morning had its own sounds, softer and less watchful. 

Your throat ached when you swallowed. Water, but where? You stood as if you were dancing with two left feet, your cloak swaying as your head turned again and again. No water was visible. You would have to venture in through the thick trees and deeper into the forest.

The woods swallowed you quickly, trees closing in until both firelight and road were lost behind you. Then without warning, the forest opened into leveled ground and thinning trees. Bunches of small flowers ruled this area. Every color imaginable bloomed here, their petals stirring softly in the breeze. At the center lay a lake still as glass, reflecting the sky so perfectly it looked like an opening into another world. You returned swiftly with your mare so she, too, could drink from this temporary oasis. 

After you stopped short of the clearing just to simply take it all in once more. This was what you had been chasing. Complete silence. Without thinking, you knelt to pick a few flowers, twisting them between your fingers and weaving some into your mare’s mane. You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

It made you think back to similar times, you had been so small then, before you learned what it meant to be watched. 

A six year old you, running into the woods after a cluster of rabbits, laughing as you tripped and dirtied your dress, only stopping to collapse in a bed of flowers just like these. Nothing delighted you more than movement and light and being left alone. But that chapter ended as it always did as hands closed in around you, pulling you back into a world that required things from you. 

Your mare was already at the water when you reached the edge. You knelt again, slower this time. The lake was clear enough to show your reflection, wavering slightly with each breath you took.

You did not look for the dirt on your face or the fatigue in your posture. You looked for what had changed. Your hair lay heavier against your shoulders than it once had. Maybe even curlier, but it was for sure darker. The sight unsettled you more than you expected, not because you missed what had been, but because you feared how easily it might revert back to how it once was.

You hesitated when running a hand through the water, wondering if the brown color would bleed away the moment you dipped your body into the water, as if bathing would betray you. 

With your hair stealing who you were, and the blue cloak fastened over an dark brown gown beneath, you were reminded of the woman who came before you. Your mother.

Breaking your gaze at last, you cupped water in your hands and drank despite the cold shock. It tasted clean. There was no avoiding it. You needed to wash the grime of the road that clung to you, stiff and uncomfortable. Since the thought of carrying it farther made your skin crawl.

You stood up then slowly and deliberately, undressed. There was no audience, no judgment. Only the water and the open sky. 

The cold stole your breath at first, but it softened, wrapping around you in a way that felt almost kind. You scrubbed your skin, letting the soreness and dirt and the weight of days sink away. Standing there bare and unmarked, you felt something close to what you once had as a babe. Light and unclaimed. Untouched by the day. Not exactly happiness but innocence.

When you stepped back onto the shore, the world sharpened again. The weight of the road still remained. The choices you had made still stood. You dressed quickly, reclaiming the unbareable weight of cloth and consequence. 

Once more, you glanced into the water just to make sure everything remained. Sighing as you touched your unchanged hair, you remind yourself there was no need to worry yet. 

Then you turned back to the road.

The silence followed you as you left the clearing behind. Something in you tightened at the thought of lingering, even here, with the water still and the air soft with the scent of crushed flowers. Because even at home, you learned comfort was always temporary. That motto made you feel guilty, as if the forest might notice you taking too much of it.

You are just a small thing living in the world around you. The road does not narrow for you, the sky does not lower itself, hills rise where they please and, forests stretch without asking where you intend to go. It is strange, moving through a place that knows nothing of you. You ride forward just because forward exists.

Every thought that could've been in your head at that moment ceased to exist when your eyes latched onto the silhouette of a person stopped on the road. You blink and stare up a few times to make sure your eyes didn’t deceive you as you watched him move around. 

One of his three horses snorts and his low, smooth, apologetic voice follows. It did not match the type of stature he carried. “Easy. Easy, now. I know. I know.” A pause. “You’ve had worse days than this, have you not?”

The first person you would see on the vast path was a giant. Before you could realize it, you beckoned your mare to slow down and gawked at the man.

Seven hells, you cannot help it. He is enormous. All long limbs and dust, standing between the three horses as if he has not yet decided which one needs him most. A sword hangs at his side, his cloak is patched and his helm is strapped to one saddle, dented but cared for. He looked like a knight, but with the makings of an tree. You moved closer to find his sigil, but you only found one you did not recongize. 

He looks up to see your indescribable look of pure confusion.

You both freeze.

“Oh,” he says.

Not startled. Not angry. Just caught between reasons for why you are there. For a moment, neither of you moves. Only your horses who shifted at the sight of eachother, hooves scraping softly against the dirt, and also the forest that shook with a curious steady breeze, almost like it was leaning in to listen.

He is the first to remember himself.

“Are you,” he starts, then stops, frowning faintly as if choosing the right words matters more than saying them quickly. “Are you all right?” His question wrong-foots you making you move back in your saddle.

“Yes,” you say automatically. Then, after a beat, quieter, “I think so.”

He nods once, as if that helps when his eyes flick past you towards the road behind then back again. “You’re alone,” he asked cautiously. It was not an accusation more like a problem he has just been handed.

“So are you,” you reply before you can stop yourself. 

That earns you the barest hint of a smile. Surprised, crooked and gone almost as soon as it appears.

“Well,” he says, gesturing awkwardly with one hand, “not exactly. I’ve got these.” He glances at the horses, as if they might contradict him.

You look at them properly then. Three. All saddled. All tired, like your mare. “Why do you need so many?” you ask. Your tone comes out sharper than you intend, almost defensive.

He notices that and straightens his posture like he was bracing himself, even though he was the man with the sword. “They’re not all mine,” he says. “Not really. I’m just taking them with me now.”

“But why?”

He hesitates. Then, simply, “My ser died.”

The words land between you, heavy and unadorned.

“Oh,” you say, and it means something very different from when he said it. Your posture softens before you can stop it.  “I’m sorry,” you say. It comes out quiet.

He nods again. “Thank you.”

Then more silence follows. Not awkward. Just full. The man did not have personable skills you could tell that easy. You are the one to break the silence this time.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“Ashford,” he says. “There’s a tourney.”

Something in your chest lifts before you can school your face. You feel it happen. Your eyes brighten. Your attention sharpens. The road suddenly feels less endless.

“Ashford,” you repeat, almost gleeful.

He notices that too. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Why?”

You swallow. “Would you,” you begin, then stop. You adjust your voice to sound more professional. “Would you take me there?”

His brows knit together at once. “I” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “I don’t know you.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”

He looks at you without making eye contact. Your horse. Your gear. Or lack of it. “You shouldn’t be out here like this,” he says, and immediately looks like he regrets how it sounds. “I mean alone. It’s not proper.”

“I know,” you say again. 

He exhales, long and slow. “I’ve already got a lot on,” he says. “I’m not good with people. I don’t” He gestures vaguely at himself. “I’m not much help.”

You reach into your pouch before you can overthink it. The coins feel heavier than they should as you press them into your palm. “I can pay,” you say, your voice dropping into the same careful whisper you used with your horse. “Please.”

That stops him cold. He glances into your eyes and then at the coins.

“You don’t do that,” he says gently.

Your arms protrude back as you grip the coins in your palms, embarrassed and confused all at once. “Do what?”

“Offer money so quickly. Not when you look like you’re expecting someone to take it and you with it.” The words are not unkind. They are concerned.

You nod. “All right,” you say. “I won’t.”

Then you fall back into silence, staring at each other. The look on your face begs him a million times over. He sighs, looking down the road, then back the way he came. He was weighing things. Responsibilities. The kind he does not know how to set down.

Finally, “You’re headed the wrong way,” he claims.

You blink. “I am?”

“Yes,” he says, with certainty now. “Ashford’s the other direction.” You looked past him, at the road you had been following so faithfully.

“Oh,” you said. He waited for you to argue. You did not.

After a moment, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I can take you as far as Ashford,” he said. “That’s all. After that, you find somewhere safe. Agreed?”

Relief hit you so fast it almost hurt. “Yes,” you said. Then, softer, “Thank you.”

He nodded awkwardly, rejecting praise. Already turning to lead one of the horses forward.

“I’m called Dunk,” he added, as if he had nearly forgotten. You gave him a name that felt wrong in your mouth. It came too quickly, untested, shaped from nothing and passed off as truth. You did not correct it once it was said.

He repeated it, testing the way it sounded on his tongue. “Well then,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

You turned your horses around together.

Joining him on his journey to Ashford opened the floodgates. Little did Dunk know, you were not shy by design. Words spilled out of you faster than it came into your mind, questions tumbling over one another without order or care. Where he was from. How old was he. How long he had been on the road. Why three horses for two men. Whether one of them bit. How he was so tall. You asked a new question before he had finished answering the last, words tripping over themselves. 

It felt good, embarrassingly good. Dunk answered as best he could, a little slow, a little awkward, clearly unaccustomed to being interrogated at such speed. He stumbled over a few words, scratched at his jaw, and glanced at his horses as if they might help him out. Still, he answered honestly every time.

Then, just as suddenly, you ran out of breath. The questions dried up in your throat, leaving a silence you had not prepared for. Because now it was his turn.

He looked at you, not sharply, not suspiciously, only curious as he opened his mouth. “Why’re you on the road by yourself?” he asked, then paused. “Forgive me, m’lady. I don’t mean offense. It’s not often you see a maiden riding without company.”

You went very still.

You had not practiced anything for this. No half truth dressed neatly enough to pass. Your mind reached for words and found nothing but air. Dunk noticed. Of course he did. Instead, he shifted in his saddle and cleared his throat, eyes returning to the road ahead.

The words should not have mattered as much as they did.

“I left because..” you said, looking down at your hands. You could not force the words past your throat.

He did not press further, even thinking himself a buffoon. But he gathered what was needed to understand. “It’s alright don’t force yourself. It’s a long journey to ashford, I’m sure i’ll hear it eventually,” he said, trying to make it sound like it would be all right.

“Why are you being so jolly?” you asked. The question slipped out before you could soften it. “You are a knight, no?”

Dunk blinked, thrown off enough that he nearly missed a step in his horse’s gait.

“Nice, you mean,” he repeated, genuinely confused.

“Yes,” you said, a little too quickly. “You don’t know me.”

The truth of that settled heavier than you expected. You had trusted him with frightening ease. His voice, his patience, had almost lulled you into forgetting that he was a stranger. A knight with a sword. A man you had just agreed to follow down an open road. The thought made your stomach tighten.

He could be lying, you realized. About everything.

Dunk frowned slightly, as if still puzzling over the question. “Well,” he said at last, “I couldnt just leave you standing there going the wrong way. It’s a knights duty to serve.”

That was all. Just a fact.

A lot of knights you knew did not share that same sentiment.

You looked at him again, really looked this time. At his kind eyes and slouching posture, and felt your fear ease its grip just a fraction. “What was your ser like?” you asked. The question came out quieter than the others, as if you already knew it deserved care.

Dunk did not answer right away. He slowed his horse a fraction, eyes fixed ahead on the road as if the words might be written there if he looked hard enough. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher, not with grief exactly, but with use.

“Good,” he said. Then, after a moment, “Mostly.” He cleared his throat. “He wasn’t much for speeches. Or lessons, neither. But he fed me. Made sure I had boots that fit. Taught me which fights were worth finishing and which weren’t.”

That earned a small, surprised huff of breath from you. “Is that it?” you asked.

Dunk shrugged, one shoulder lifting awkwardly beneath his cloak. “The rest I figured out watching him,” he said. “Or not watching him, when that was the wiser choice.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “He never pretended to be better than he was.”

That, more than anything, seemed to matter to him.

“Always fought with honor.”

You nodded. You understood that kind of goodness, the kind that did not announce itself. The kind that left you unprepared for its absence.

“He sounds,” you searched for the word, “steady.”

Dunk considered that.

“Aye,” he said. “That’s a fair way of it.”

“Why d’you want to go to Ashford?” he asked lightly, as if it were no more than another mile marker on the road.

“I want to see the tourney,” you said. The words sounded small once they were out. “I’ve never been.”

Dunk hummed, weighing that. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it’s a big one. Plenty of noise. More folk than you’ll like, most likely.”

“Aye,” you echoed. Something known to you but never spoken. “I’m sure it’s grand fun.”

“Aye.”

The road carried you forward without asking anything in return. Hooves fell into an easy rhythm, four sets now instead of one, the sound steady enough that your shoulders finally lowered. You stopped counting the miles. You stopped watching the trees for movement that was not there. Dunk rode a little ahead, then a little beside you, adjusting without comment, as if he understood distance the way some people understood manners.

You caught yourself watching him when you thought he would not notice. The way he sat his horse without stiffness. The way his hand rested loose at his side, never far from his sword but never grasping for it either. There was a gentleness there you had not expected. Something careful, as if the world had taught him how easily things break.

You breathed easier than you had in days.

“Getting dark,” Dunk called out. He glanced up once, gauging the sky ahead. “There might be an inn a mile or two on. Or there might not. It’s hard to say at night.” He laid back in his saddle, fingers tightening briefly on the reins. You could almost see him weighing it, roads versus roofs, safety versus coin. You waited for him to finish. You were good at waiting.

“If we don’t find one,” he added, slower now, “we’ll need to make camp.”

“I don’t mind,” you said.

You did mind. Sleep here was not easy to maintain. You had gotten lucky through pure exhaustion, but that did not mean it would always be so. Camp still meant nothing concrete in your mind. Only cold ground and dark.

Dunk frowned thoughtfully. “You don’t have to be brave about it,” he said. “If you’d rather a roof, we can try for one.” The idea of the inn sounded nice. Well, it sounded like people. 

“I… don’t know,” you admitted.

That seemed to settle it for him. “All right,” he said, nodding once. “Then we’ll stop before full dark. Safer to choose the place than let the night choose it for us. We’ll find an inn at daybreak for food and, god’s willing, better rest.” He turned his horse off the road toward a rise of ground just visible through the trees. You followed.

Dunk chose the spot carefully, though he didn’t say as much. A rise of ground that wouldn’t flood if it rained. Trees close enough to break the wind, far enough back not to crowd the fire. You watched him dismount and begin as if this were a thing he had done a hundred times before.

He watched as you fiddled with getting your mare to follow you and stand in place after being even more restless than last night. “Hold her,” he said. Then, after a beat, gentler, “She’ll stand.” She did. It was that easy, but you treated everything like it was a daunting task.

Dunk gathered wood while you stayed where you were, unsure what your hands were meant for. Eventually, you crouched and began picking up smaller branches, copying him badly. He showed you how to strike the flint, not by taking it from you, but by adjusting your grip with two huge fingers, quick and respectful, gone almost before you felt it but their warmth lasted on your skin.

“Like that,” he said.

The spark caught. You startled, then laughed before you could stop yourself, a short, surprised sound, almost like a snort. Dunk blinked at you, then looked away, embarrassed by your laughter as if it were more praise.

The fire settled into itself as night fully claimed the road. Dunk fed the horses, speaking to them under his breath in the same low tone he used with you. 

Your body slouched by the fire, knees drawn to your chest, cloak pulled close as you watched sparks lift and vanish. But your mind was clouded with hunger, with no way of solving the problem; there was no more stale bread. Your starving body let out a loud belch that made you cower in shame.

Dunk glanced over. “Hungry?” he asked.

“No,” you said immediately. Your stomach disagreed fiercely.

He reached into his pack and tossed you a green apple without comment. You caught it clumsily.

“Thank you,” you murmured. You ate slowly to savor it, juice running down your wrist.

Dunk chewed his own apple in silence, his gaze on the fire. When you finished, you realized you’d been staring at him. You felt bad for the large man who had ate so little.

You looked away just as fast.

“So… you’re riding in the tourney?” You hesitated. “For a house, I mean?”

You eyes went back to the spread-out man, finally getting comfortable in his place.

He hesitated, then said, “Not for a house. Just me.” That came out flatter than he probably meant it to, like he was bracing for the question that always followed. “I don’t have a lord backing me,” he went on, glancing ahead instead of at you. “No banner. No fine armor, neither. Just my sword and what I can manage.” There was something almost apologetic in the way he said it, as if he expected you to think less of him for it.

You nodded slowly, thoughtful. “That’s… harder,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Riding unbacked, I mean.”

Dunk looked at you then, his brow creasing.

You cleared your throat, softer now. “I mean, so I’ve heard. You know.. since tourneys favor names. It’s easier when someone wants you to win.” The words sat between you, too precise to have come from nowhere. Dunk studied you, not suspicious, just curious in that plain, honest way of his.

“You know a bit about tourneys,” he said.

You felt heat rise to your face. And not from the fire. “It’s a big fancy of mine.”

“Doesn’t much matter,” he said after a moment. “I’ll ride anyway. If I win, good. If not—” He shrugged. “At least I tried.”

You found yourself hopeful. “I know you’ll do well,” you said. And you meant it more than felt proper.

Dunk ducked his head. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I could use the luck.”

The fire had settled into a low, steady burn, throwing more glow than heat now. You were still talking. You’d been talking for a while. Jousting, mostly. The tilt of a lance, the way the crowd held its breath before the clash, the infighting that seemed to always occur after. Dunk listened. At least, he meant to.

Somewhere along the way, the words blurred into rhythm, and he found himself watching instead the way the firelight caught on your face, softening it, making you look less guarded than you had on the road. Your hands moved when you talked, animated and certain, like you’d forgotten for a moment that you were supposed to be careful with yourself. You looked alive. The thought surprised him enough that he shifted, staring into your eyes.

You stopped mid-sentence. “Oh,” you said, blinking. “I’m tired.” It sounded like a discovery.

Dunk cleared his throat. “Aye. It’s… been a day.”

The quiet that followed was different from before. Not heavy. Just unfamiliar. Sleeping arrangements were unspoken and suddenly obvious in his mind. Dunk stood up quickly. “You can take more space,” he said, gesturing toward the side of the fire that looked marginally flatter. “I don’t need much. I’ll sit.”

“You don’t have to,” you said at once.

“I don’t mind,” he replied just as quickly, then paused, gentler. “Truly. You ought to lie down proper.” You hesitated, then nodded. You didn’t argue. 

You settled on your side of the fire, cloak pulled tight around you as you turned your back politely but deliberately. The flames crackled low between you. It made a small, shared border. Dunk sat with his back straight, arms resting on his knees, staring into the embers long after they’d stopped needing tending.

You shifted once, then stilled. After a while, your breathing evened out. Dunk stayed awake longer than necessary, listening to the forest, to the horse shifting softly nearby, and to the quiet proof that you were there and unharmed. Eventually, the tension eased from his shoulders, and he let his eyes close. Not fully resting, but not quite keeping watch either.

Dunk woke with a groan, hand going instinctively to his lower back as he straightened from the stiff, half-slept curl he’d kept through the night. “That was a mistake,” he muttered, waiting until something in his spine finally gave a dull, protesting shift.

The fire had burned down to ash. Morning light filtered through the trees in thin, pale bands. Once he fully adjusted, he got up. The first thing he noticed was you. Rather, the lack of you. You weren’t where he’d left you. The space by the fire was empty, your cloak folded where you’d lain. He turned sharply, heart giving a small, unpleasant jump. 

He called your name, keeping his voice low despite himself. No answer. He pushed to his feet, boots crunching softly in the dirt, eyes already scanning the treeline for movement, for some sign he’d missed something in the night. That’s when he heard it. Not a cry. Not a struggle. A voice. Yours. He followed the sound a few paces into the trees and stopped short. You were standing with his horses.

One hand rested easily on the nearest mare’s neck, moving with quiet confidence as you spoke to her in a soft, steady stream of nonsense. The kind people used when they weren’t expecting to be understood, only heard. One of the reins had been loosened, and you were braiding a section of mane with slow, careful patience, as if you’d done it a hundred times before.

The horses stood for you. All three of them.

Dunk stared. You glanced up then, spotting him, and smiled, almost shy, like you’d been caught doing something private. “Good morrow, Ser.”

He blinked. “You don’t have to call me that.”

You paused, fingers stilling in the braid. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Dunk’s fine.”

You tilted your head. “Is it short for something?”

He hesitated, then said it more quietly than before. “Duncan.”

“Duncan,” you echoed. “They’re very polite,” you said. “Did you know that?” Dunk opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“They don’t like being ignored,” you added, continuing the braid. “And the white one’s jealous. She keeps leaning in.” 

Dunk let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Well,” he said finally, rubbing at the back of his neck, “they’ve got better manners for you than they ever had for me.”

You grinned.

You two set out again once the horses were ready. The light had changed. It was less sharp than yesterday, as if the world had decided not to press you quite so hard today. You had grabbed some flowers and leaves from the ground for safekeeping, which Dunk found funny.

When going up a hill, he rode a little ahead at first, then slowed when he realized you weren’t matching his pace. “Don’t push her,” he said, glancing back at your mare. “She’ll go farther if you let her choose the speed.” You nodded, adjusting your reins the way he showed you.

“How long have you been riding?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Like this? Not long.”

He grunted. “Figured.” He winced. “You’re not a bad rider, I mean no offense. Sorry.”

You bit your lip and smiled. “No offense is taken, Duncan,” before showing off and riding in front of him.

By midday, the road had softened into a pale ribbon of dust and grass, worn smooth by carts and travelers who knew where they were going. The land opened wide on either side, fields stretching out under the sky like something deliberately unfinished. You rode nearer to Dunk without realizing it. At first, it was practical, since the wind had picked up while tugging at your cloak, and with less distance, it was easier to hear him since you didn’t have to shout.

Then it became a habit. Your mare fell into step with his horse as if she’d decided the matter for you. But Dunk was not bothered. He welcomed it. He even leaned in closer to point things out as you went. A stream good for water. A stand of trees where the ground stayed firm even after rain. The faint grooves in the road where wagons favored one side over the other.

“You see that?” he said once, slowing so you could look. “Means there’s an inn not far. Folks don’t haul ale farther than they have to.”

You watched the marks with new interest. “I never would’ve known.”

He shrugged. “You’ll learn.”

Voices carried ahead, laughter, curses, the creak of axles. The smell of smoke and something rich and fatty drifted in the air, and your stomach responded before you could stop it. “There,” Dunk said, nodding ahead. Just like he predicted, the inn rose from the roadside like it had grown there out of noise and need, wide-beamed, two stories tall, with banners hanging crooked from the eaves. Horses crowded the yard, some tethered neatly, others barely restrained. You could hear more people too, men shouting over one another, even someone singing very badly.

It was perfect, in his eyes. Big enough that no one would look twice. Busy enough that no one would look closely. Dunk slowed, watching the place with a practiced eye. “We should stop,” he said. “Proper meal. Warm. You’ll feel it in your bones otherwise.”

You hesitated but followed his lead. He dismounted first, moving unhurriedly. Then he held your mare steady while you climbed down. His hand lingered at the reins. He could almost sense what you were thinking just by the look in your eyes. “Inns like this,” he said quietly, leaning in just enough that only you could hear, “folk mind their own business. Too many stories, not enough time.” That eased something in your chest.

Inside, the noise hit you all at once. Tankards thudded on tables. A fire roared in a stone hearth big enough to swallow a man, but not the one beside you. Smoke clung to the rafters, thick with the scent of bread and onions and meat turning on a spit. You shrank without meaning to. Dunk didn’t rush you. He set a hand lightly on your back, guiding you. You took that time just to feel how big he truly was. He steered you toward a corner table where the light was low and the wall solid at your shoulder.

“Sit,” he said gently. “I’ll order.”

You watched him at the bar, tall and awkward and unmistakably out of place among the shouting men, yet somehow fitting all the same. He spoke little. Listened more. Counted his coins carefully. When he returned, he set down bread still warm, two bowls of stew dark and steaming, and two wooden cups of cider.

“Eat,” he said, pushing the bowl toward you.

The stew was better than you expected. Thick, peppered, and with bits of carrot that still had some bite to them. You tore the bread apart with your hands and dipped it straight into the bowl, uncaring of manners.

“Good?” he asked.

You nodded, then swallowed too fast and had to cough. “Very. I forgot food could taste like this.”

“Road’ll do that to you,” he said.

You glanced around the inn, the crowded tables, the laughter spilling over itself, the fire snapping loud enough to drown out thought. “Do you ever get used to this?” you asked. “Always moving. Always… passing through.”

Dunk considered that, spoon hovering. “You get used to the moving,” he said slowly. “Not the passing.” 

The noise of the inn softened as the night wore on. Songs turned slurred. Laughter dulled. You both looked over to witness spilled ale and a man cursing the floorboards like they’d wronged him personally.

Dunk glanced toward the door, then at the dark beyond the windows. “It’s late,” he said. “Road’s no place after sundown.”

You knew what he was really asking. “Could we stay?” you said. “Just for the night.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Aye. We’ll stay.”

Relief washed through you so strongly that it almost felt embarrassing. Dunk stood, towering as ever, and went to speak with the innkeeper. When he came back, he set two keys on the table.

“Two rooms,” he said, as if he needed to explain. “Didn’t want to presume.”

You looked at the keys. Then at him. “Thank you.”

He ducked his head, suddenly very interested in his cup. “We’ll leave early,” he added. “Before the road gets crowded.”

The door shut softly behind you.

For a heartbeat, you stood there, listening as if the inn might change its mind and call you back. Voices drifted up faintly from below, laughter dulled by floorboards. There was proof of life. Proof you weren’t alone, even when separated by walls.

You set your satchel down and sat on the edge of the bed. It dipped under your weight, unfamiliar but solid. You pressed your hands into the mattress, testing it, then let yourself breathe.

Somewhere else in the inn, another door closed.

Dunk stood in his room longer than he meant to, helm still under his arm. The room was barely larger than a stall, a narrow bed, a single chair, and a peg for his cloak. He took it all in with the same careful attention he gave unfamiliar roads. He set the helm down last, gently, like it might complain if handled roughly.

You unfastened your cloak and folded it neatly, habit guiding your hands. Only then did you loosen, sitting back, the tension easing in small increments you barely noticed.

Dunk tugged off his boots and winced, rubbing at his lower back. He’d slept in worse places than this, barns, ditches, open ground, but this still was not the best.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to you. First, if the room was okay enough for you. Then, to how quickly you’d started talking once the road felt less sharp. To the way your questions came tumbling out, eager and unguarded, like you were afraid silence might swallow you whole. To how suddenly you’d gone quiet when he’d asked the wrong thing or maybe just the true one.

Now, he was a man with honor. If you did not want to answer his questions, that was fine by him, but he could not help but make a backstory up for you in his brain. Though nothing seemed in character.

Maybe you were a lady running away from her husband, a thief evading the law, an orphan who just did not look the part. The ideas were never-ending.

You washed your face in the basin; the water felt cool enough to ground you. When you looked up, your reflection felt… different. Tired, yes. Changed. But not wrong.

You lay back, staring at the ceiling beams. Your hand rested near the dagger out of instinct, then drifted away. The walls felt sturdy. The fire below hummed low and constant. You could rest easy; there was no threat.

You thought to Dunk. Was his bed too small for him or the right size?

Dunk sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He wondered if he’d done right bringing you along. Wondered what kind of trouble walked beside him now, not the loud, obvious sort, but the quiet kind that made your chest ache when you thought about it too long.

He wondered what you were running from. He also wondered, not for the first time, why it felt important that you’d trusted him at all.

You turned onto your side, pulling the blanket up just enough to feel its weight. The road was still there, waiting, patient as ever, but for tonight, it had loosened its grip.

Dunk lay back stiffly, hands folded over his chest, staring at the ceiling as well. Sleep did not come easily to him. It never did when something new had entered his life.

But eventually, the inn settled. The noise softened. The night was held. Two rooms apart, you both listened to the same quiet and let it mean safety, if only for a while.

Dunk was awake before the inn fully stirred.

He dressed quietly, movements careful out of old habit, and strapped on his boots while the hallway outside remained hushed. Down below, someone clattered a pot. The smell of bread drifted up through the floorboards.

Then he found himself walking over to your room, and he stood outside your door longer than he meant to. Not for any noble reason. He just… hadn’t decided how to knock. Too loud felt wrong. Too soft felt worse. He lifted his hand, lowered it, shifted his weight, then finally rapped his knuckles once against the wood.

He heard a pause. Then footsteps. Then the door opened.

There you were in all your glory. You stood there freshly dressed, hair tidied, eyes bright in a way they hadn’t been the night before. He noticed your clothes were different also cleaner, and for a moment, Dunk didn’t quite place you as the same girl who’d ridden in beside him yesterday; that girl was dust-streaked and wary.

“Good morrow,” you said, cheerful and unguarded, as mornings had never done you wrong.

Dunk forgot to answer. Not because of the clothes. Not even because of that bright smile.

He’d stepped back automatically and had to tilt his head down farther than expected to meet your eyes. On horseback, the difference hadn’t registered. Everyone sat high, everyone looked more even. Standing like this, with solid ground under your feet, it was suddenly obvious.

You were small. Not in the way of height. Just… compact. Self-contained. Like you took up less space than the world expected you to.

“Oh—” he managed, then cleared his throat. “Good morrow”

You blinked at him, then smiled wider, clearly amused by something he hadn’t said out loud. “Well,” you said, folding your arms loosely, “you look like you slept about as poorly as I expected.”

He snorted before he could stop himself. “Didn’t snore, did I?”

“No,” you said. “I would have heard.”

He nodded, as if this mattered deeply. “Good.”

There was a brief, awkward silence, not uncomfortable, just… unused. The kind that happened when two people weren’t quite sure what they were allowed to expect from each other yet.

“We should eat,” he said at last.

You fell into step beside him as you headed down the hall, already talking. About the smell of bread, about how inns sounded different in the morning, about how you’d never been to one, about nothing and everything all at once.

And Dunk listened. Because something about seeing you like this, rested, smiling, standing on your own two feet, made the road ahead feel just a little less heavy.

Breakfast came easily, like the inn itself knew how to keep people moving. The common room was already awake by the time you reached it, benches scraping, voices overlapping, steam rising from bowls and mugs. Everyone with slight fogginess about the night before.

You ate faster than you meant to. Not hungrily, exactly. More like you were afraid it might vanish if you didn’t. The bread was warm. The eggs tasted like salt and butter and something close to comfort.

Dunk huffed. “Inn food’s either real good or real bad. No middle.”

You smiled at that, then grew quiet, finishing the last of your bread. For a moment, you just sat there, hands folded, as if waiting for something else to happen.

Then you reached into your pouch.

Dunk noticed the movement too late. You placed the coins on the table neatly, stacked without clatter. More than the meal cost. More than his meals usually did.

“My treat,” you said lightly, already standing. “I’ll get the horses ready.”

Before he could answer, before he could even decide what to say, you were gone, weaving through the tables and out into the morning light. The only thing he saw was your dress flapping in the wind.

Dunk stared at the coins. Then he swore under his breath.

He pushed back from the table and followed, catching up to you in the yard where the horses were tied. You were already at your mare’s side, murmuring to her as you checked her tack, the movements gentle and familiar.

“You don’t need to do that. Truly.” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck.

When you hesitated, he added, quieter, “On the road, folk notice money quicker than they notice faces. Best not to give them a reason.” It wasn’t a warning. Just something said the way one might mention the weather.

“Ah, thank you.” You’d never thought about it like that. It was true. Pulling out money so easily was dangerous. You pinched yourself in your mind for not thinking of it.

This time, when you took to the open road, you took Chestnut, his third horse, to even the load. He thanked you for that.

“I need to think of a name for my mare,” you said out loud for no reason in particular, just feeling like you needed to tell him.

“All great horses have them.” He rubbed Thunder’s soft hair. “But that’s an interesting lookin’ mare. Where did you get her?”

He was talking about her fluffiness.

“My father, he won her for me, a very long time ago.”

A couple of days ago, you would’ve let that follow you to your grave. But now, with him, you felt more inclined.

He hummed in response.

The road, miles from where you’d started, dipped low between two rises of stone, narrowing until it felt less like a path and more like a funnel. Smoke hung in the air, old, sour, half-forgotten. The kind that clung to the back of your throat.

There was a crowd.

Not large, just a dozen or so souls, gathered in an uneasy ring beside the road. At first, you thought they were street performers. But as you drew closer, you noticed they had no banners or music. Just people standing close to one another, voices low, eyes burning with fury.

At the center stood a man on a crate. His voice reflected his age, and it carried farther than it had any right to.

“Fire where there should’ve been none,” he was saying. “Fire that eats without hunger and leaves nothing but ash. We all know what kind of fire that is.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

“Dragon fire,” someone muttered.

“Aye,” the man said sharply. “Even when the beasts are gone, their stain lingers. Blood remembers.”

Your stomach tightened.

Dunk drew his horse to a slower walk. “Best we pass quietly,” he murmured. “This isn’t our business.”

A cart sat crooked at the edge of it all, one wheel split, its canvas burned black along one side. That’s where the smoke was coming from. You nodded, though your eyes kept drifting back to the burned cart. The wood looked warped, as if it had twisted while it burned.

The old man’s gaze swept the crowd and caught.

Not on you.

On Dunk. On the horses. On the shape of him. Tall, broad, unmistakably knightly even without bright armor or known sigils.

The murmuring shifted. Heads turned.

“Traveler,” the man called, his voice sharpening. “You ride easy for a man on land that’s been scorched.”

Dunk did not answer.

“We’ve all paid for them,” the man went on, stepping down from the crate. “Some with fields. Some with kin. Some with silence that never quite leaves. And now the dragons are gone, they say, but still the fires come.”

His eyes flicked, then snagged on you. He stopped walking.

“You,” he said. Not accusing. Not yet. “Girl.”

Dunk’s horse took one more step and halted. His shoulders squared.

“Yes?” you said, before you could stop yourself.

The man studied you in a way that made your skin prickle. Not leering. Not cruel. But searching. Measuring. As if he were trying to fit you into a story he already believed.

“You ride with a knight,” he said slowly. “And yet you don’t look like smallfolk.”

A ripple passed through the crowd. Someone leaned forward. Someone else narrowed their eyes.

Dunk spoke then, firm. “We mean no trouble.”

The man smiled, thin and knowing. “That’s what they always said, wasn’t it? We mean no trouble. Right before the sky burned.”

Your pulse beat loud in your ears.

“You’ve got the look of it,” he said to you now. “Not dirt-born. Not used to roads.Someone who wants to rough it with us average people.”

A woman hissed. A man spat onto the road.

“You ever hear a dragon scream?” the man asked, almost conversational. “Dragons used to fight dragons. Now they turn to us.”

Dunk shifted in his saddle. “Enough,” he said. “We’re passing through.”

The man held your gaze a moment longer, then lifted his hands in mock peace. “Go on, then. Ride away. But don’t pretend the blood doesn’t show. It always does, in the end.”

No one moved to stop you.

That was worse.

Dunk did not wait. He nudged his horse forward, taking your reins and guiding yours alongside his, his presence suddenly solid and shielding in a way that made your chest ache.

You didn’t breathe again until the road curved and the voices thinned behind you. For a long stretch, neither of you spoke.

Then Dunk muttered, low, “Folk like that don’t need proof. Just a story they’ve been telling themselves long enough.”

After that he said little, and you said less. The words you’d overheard still clung like burrs, sharp and unwanted, turning over in your mind no matter how you tried to set them down. People always needed someone to aim their anger at. You had learned that early. Still, it sat wrong in your chest. The ease of it. The way hate could pass between strangers like a shared joke.

Dunk cleared his throat once, as if to speak, then thought better of it. You watched the road instead. Watched the dust curl under hooves. Counted your breaths. 

And kept your face steady.

Somewhere ahead, water murmured. Not loud. Not urgent. Just present. When the stream finally came into view, it felt like permission to breathe.

Dunk dismounted without comment, leading his horse down to the bank. You followed, the mare stepping carefully, ears flicking as the water touched her legs. Cold splashed your boots, sharp enough to pull you fully into the moment, whether you wanted it or not.

As he turned back around, you waited. You stood there a second longer than necessary.

“Wait,” you said, stopping him with a simple hand on his chest, the word slipping out before you’d decided on it.

Dunk stayed, puzzled, as you bent and picked up a stone that was flat and smooth. You weighed it once in your palm and sent it skipping across the water.

Once. Twice. Three clean skips.

You looked back to smile at him, almost egging him on. Just like that, the tension cracked.

Dunk blinked. “That hardly seems fair.”

You questioned him before you could stop yourself. “Fair?”

He chose a stone the size of his knuckles and hurled it with the confidence of a man who used force to solve most things. It struck the water like a challenge and vanished immediately.

You laughed, very loudly. The sound startled you both. Dunk stared at the ripples, then shook his head ruefully. “I’ve been a squire,” he said. “Learned how to strike shields at full tilt. But this river?” He sighed. “Victorious.”

You handed him another stone, thinner this time. “Looser wrist,” you said, surprised at yourself. Not just speaking, but teaching.

He tried again. The stone skipped once. Then twice. His face lit, sudden and boyish, like he’d been handed a crown made of nothing at all.

You two lingered longer than you should have.

Stones flew. Dunk muttered curses at the water. You cheered small victories far too loudly. For a while, the weight of other people’s hatred slipped off your shoulders.

And when you finally turned back toward the horses, your smile stayed.

Until it faded, later that day. 

Three knights rode abreast, armor clean, cloaks a red bright enough to catch the sun’s glance. One of them reined in when his eyes found you, forcing the other two to stop as well. His gaze lingered with the easy confidence of a man who expected the road, or anyone else, to give way for him.

“Look, lads, that’s a strange sight,” he said lightly. “A fair lady riding alone. Run away from home, miss?”

The words landed wrong. You felt it before it showed on your face. Just a brief tightening at the corner of your mouth, almost gone as soon as it came.

You did not correct him.

You gave him no dignity of an answer from your lips, acknowledging him as you would the wind as you and your horse kept pace.

“Need help?” another one called as they pinched in closer.

But they weren’t asking in the ways of chivalry.

You were about to show them just how alone you were. Then Dunk rode up beside you, broad and unmistakable. Tired, evident in his eyes, but still alert.

The knight laughed. “Seven hells. You’re a big man, aren’t you? Mommy fuck a giant?”

The others laughed with him.

His eyes moved over Dunk slowly. Not judging skill. Judging whether he was worth taking seriously.

“Are you a knight?” When the words left his mouth, they were filled with something close to disgust. As if he were embarrassed to share a title with him.

Dunk hesitated. “I was knighted.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He stepped closer, forcing Dunk to stop.

“What’s with all the horsepower, giant man? A meal for supper?”

Another knight leaned forward in his saddle. “Armor like that usually comes off a dead man.” He pointed to the bit that hung off Dunk’s second horse.

Dunk replied with nothing. No big words to say. He never did. You felt him withdrawing. The familiar closing-in, as if he’d learned that silence hurt less than argument.

Something sharp flared in your chest as you reined in. “I won’t have him questioned like a thief,” you said.

The first knight turned his attention back to you, amused. “If he’s a knight, he can answer.”

“He is a knight,” you replied. “And he owes you nothing.”

One of the others laughed. “Honor doesn’t hide.”

“No,” you said evenly. “But it does recognize when it’s being baited. Now you let us pass.”

The main knight ignored you as if you were something discarded at the side of the road.

Then he swung down from his horse, armor thudding loudly. The sound of his boots hitting the dirt was deliberate. He stepped closer. Close enough now that Dunk could reach him in a single stride.

“Then let’s see what he’s wearing,” the knight said, gesturing toward Dunk’s sword belt. “If the steel’s true, the rest follows.”

The road tightened, as if waiting. Dunk moved a half-step forward, caught between instinct and restraint, breath shallow. You felt it. 

So you did not hesitate when you dismounted. The sound of your boots on the dirt was quiet, unlike the knight’s. But it cut through everything.

You stepped forward and placed yourself between them. You did not glance back. Did not check distance. Did not spare a thought for how close steel now was to your unarmored body.

You did not care.

When it came to Dunk, a new fire lit your eyes.

“You will not touch him,” you said.

The knights mouth curled. “Careful, girl,” he spat, the words shaped like a warning.

For a breath, no one moved. You sensed it. The shift in the air. The way his men tensed. The way Dunk’s hand inched closer to his sword despite himself.

One wrong word. One step too far. And this became blood. Your blood. On Dunk’s hands.

But you were no prude.

You did not step back. You stepped closer.

“If he were false,” you said, voice low and steady, “you would still not lay hands on him.”

“You don’t know who you’re speaking to,” the knight snapped. He moved closer, too. Almost too close. You could smell leather and dust.

Dunk shifted behind you, a sound breaking in his throat.

Your gaze did not waver. “No, and I wish not to find out,” you said. “But I know exactly what you are. And I would never associate with the sort.”

Silence.

“You speak of honor,” you continued, “yet you mock before you greet. You threaten before you judge. You call it testing.”

Your voice did not rise.

“That is not honor. That is fear, dressed loudly in tacky armor.” You paused. “Maybe even fear of him. He’s already a better knight than any of you by his actions. Perhaps a better fighter, too.”

“Should we find out?” the brute whispered near your ear.

His hand tightened into a fist.

For a heartbeat, it looked like he might strike you.

Dunk tensed fully now, breath gone, every instinct screaming.

And then—

“Enough.”

The word cut clean through the moment.

Hooves approached from behind, slower, heavier. A larger group drew up, and at their head rode a knight older than the rest, his armor worn smooth by years rather than neglect.

His eyes took in everything at once. The hands near Dunk’s sword. The dismounted knight. You standing squarely between steel and flesh.

“What’s this?” he grunted.

“We were determining if he was truly sworn,” the knight said, stiff now.

The older man’s gaze flicked briefly to Dunk, then returned to you. He studied the set of your shoulders. The way you had placed yourself without thought of retreat.

“I see,” he said. “But we do not batter fellow brothers in arms on the road. And their woman.”

Then, without raising his voice, “Mount up.”

They hesitated.

His eyes cut to them.

Then they moved at once.

“You’ve got spite, girl. We’re all luckier for not being the ones facing your fury,” he said. His gaze lingered, searching your face as though trying to place something just out of reach.

“Good day, my lady. Perhaps we might cross paths again at the tourney. I shall look out for fire.”

The word again. You did not correct him. But for a split second, your mouth tightened, then smoothed.

“Good day, Ser,” you said flatly.

He rode on, and his men followed. Only then did the weight lift from your shoulders.

You remained where you were, the cold expression still set on your face like armor you had forgotten you were wearing. Only when the road was empty again did you turn to Dunk, and the moment you met his eyes, the hardness vanished.

You blinked at him. “Is there something on my face?”

Then you turned back to mount your mare.

Dunk did not know what to say, he could feel a deep pit of frustration boiling in his stomach.

But inside, your heart was still pounding. You had not expected Dunk’s eyes to watch you, so dark with something you couldn’t name yet.

He kept replaying it Dunk knew better. The way you stepped down without hesitation. The way you placed yourself squarely between him and them. How close that knight’s hand had been to striking. How close it had been to you.

“You didn’t even look back,” he said finally, his voice sharper this time, cutting through the hum of the road.

Your face scrunched. “Look back?”

“At me,” he snapped. “Did you think for even a second about how close they were? Or that one wrong move and—” He bit the words off, jaw tight. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”

You swallowed hard. Heat rose to your cheeks. Did you?  Maybe you didn’t. You just, he had to be safe.

“I knew where you were,” you said, trying to steady your voice.

“That’s not the point!” His words came fast, clipped, dangerous. “I could’ve been thrown into the dirt—or worse—and you just… stepped in. Like it meant nothing!”

Your stomach clenched. His worry was sharp enough to make your chest ache. “They wouldn’t have struck,” you said softly.

“Wouldn’t have?” He threw up a hand, frustration plain in every line of him. “They were curling their fists! They didn’t need a reason, only an excuse! And you just… volunteered!”

You hesitated, a little shaken by the intensity of him. “I was protecting you. He.. He stopped. He stopped because he understood. If he crossed that line, it would no longer be a game.” You explained.

“I’m a knight. I can protect myself!” His hands tightened on the reins, knuckles white. “You don’t get it. That was reckless! Pure bloody reckless! One mistake, and—” His voice dropped lower, near a growl. “Do you even care what could’ve happened to you?”

“Men like that watch for fear first,” you looked down.

Dunk fell silent.

He thought of the fight in you he had seen there, sudden and contained, like something forged and banked rather than wild. He thought of how natural it looked on you. How little it seemed to cost.

“I was… focused,” you admitted, filling the silence.

“That’s worse,” he muttered, voice hard. “Because fear makes sense. Choosing like that doesn’t. You—” He stopped, taking a ragged breath, jaw still tight. “You can’t just put yourself in the path of danger because it feels… right!”

You looked ahead again. “Someone had to.”

Dunk’s eyes bore into yours, stormy and unrelenting. “No. You didn’t have to. Not like that. Not without thinking. Not without me knowing. That’s not brave—that’s stupid. Do you hear me?”

The sting of his words made you flinch slightly. 

“Yes,” you whispered, almost to yourself.

“That’s—” He cursed under his breath, voice low and rough. “Unbelievable. Unbelievable and maddening.”

Dunk swallowed. His hands tightened on the reins. “That was no good. No. Don’t try that again. They could’ve hurt you.”

That was all. You fell into silence.

Your frown was as sharp as Dunk’s sword. 

The road dipped, and the light shifted, shadows stretching long across the ground. Dunk rode closer without thinking, his horse nearly brushing yours. His jaw was tight, eyes still dark, but there was a flicker of relief, and you felt it in your chest, a small, unexpected warmth.

After a while, his voice softened slightly, though it still carried heat. “No one’s ever stood in front of me like that before, except for my Ser.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“They usually stand behind,” he added, voice rough. “Or wait to see if I fall. Not like this. Not knowing the risk.”

Your mouth tightened, not grimacing now, but something close. “They misjudged you,” you said. “I will not.”

He exhaled, something warm and awed beneath the frustration. “Thank you,” he muttered, still stealing glances at you. In just a few days, he had already seen more of you than he expected to see of anyone. And you found yourself realizing, with a quiet thrill, that maybe the road stretching on infinitely wasn’t so bad if it meant riding beside him.

The rain hammered down, turning the road into a slick ribbon of mud. Lightning split the sky, thunder shook the hills and wind whipped around the both of you. You urged your mare forward, but the path had already vanished under water and churned earth.

“This won’t do,” Dunk shouted, pulling his horse to the side. “We can’t keep going. The road’s a river!”

You nodded, teeth clenching against the cold, rain-soaked wind. Every crack of thunder made you flinch. You hugged yourself under your cloak, but it did little to keep the chill at bay. Dunk had on sturdier clothes, as he was prepared for any weather. You did not.

The rain darkened your hair, making it cling to your face, streaking lighter in places as it ran down. Every drop felt sharp, a reminder that the storm didn’t care. Not for knights, not for travelers, and certainly not for anyone trying to stay dry. 

Dunk spurred his horses toward a hollow beneath a stand of gnarled trees, their branches bending under the storm. “Here. We can wait it out,” he said, tying them securely to a trunk. You followed, boots sinking into the mud. The horses shivered, stamping nervously.

He stepped close, brushing rain and mud from your cloak and making sure your hood stayed in place. “You’re soaked,” he said quietly, voice calm. “And cold. Keep close.”

You pressed against him without thinking, letting his warmth shield you from the rain and wind. Dunk stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard by how close you were, then shifted slightly so your back pressed against him fully. He felt a strange warmth creep up his neck, a fleeting flush he hadn’t expected. 

Every flinch, every tremor of yours, he noticed. He stayed near, steady and protective, letting you lean on him, though inside he was quietly aware of how unusual it felt, how unnervingly close you were.

“This wind, the rain… it’s too much for anyone tonight.” He looked down at your form. Your chest tightened, not from fear of the storm, but from the way he looked at you. Steady, patient, protective. You realized how easily you could lean on him here.

You thought back to the road earlier, to the knights and how you had placed yourself in the line of danger. Without thinking, you blurted, “I hope this does not cause a divide between us, for what it’s worth. I’m sorry I got carried away.”

Dunk felt it then. Even now, soaked and shivering, you worried about him more than yourself. Pride swelled quietly in him. You had faced steel for him, faced danger without hesitation, and still you thought of him first.

He gave a small nod. The wind tore at the hollow, the rain pounded the leaves above, and mud clung to boots and reins, but in that little sheltered space it all felt distant. He stayed close, calm and unhurried, letting you lean against him without question. 

Every heartbeat, every shallow breath of yours, he felt it, and it made him steady, grounded. Outside, the storm raged on, but here, between the gnarled trunks and the hollowed earth, time stretched thin. You pressed closer, and for a long while neither spoke, letting the wind, the rain, and the dark wash past you both, together.