𝖆 𝕮𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕱𝖎𝖗𝖊 ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ ᴀᴇʀɪᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x oc
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖶𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗌, 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝖺𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖠𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖳𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗒𝖾𝗇, 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾. 𝖠𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖦𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖲𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖽𝗈𝗆𝗌, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.
📖: Wattpad, Masterlist, AO3
ﮩ status ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ ongoing ﮩ
𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞-𝖙𝖜𝖔 ── 𝖔𝖞𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘
Madam had long since stopped asking girls their real names. Real names belonged to daughters. The girls who arrived at her door carried debts, bruises, and lies, the names they offered seldom belonged to them anymore. Just as hers no longer belonged to her.
Godsgrace had changed little in the years she'd been gone. The wells still ran shallow, the market still smelled of figs and dust, and the same old women still sat beneath faded awnings pretending not to recognize one another. Her mother had been buried two days before she'd arrived. By the time she left, there was nothing left to mourn.
Vaith lay on the road home.
It was a lonely place. Half its walls had surrendered to the desert long ago, their stones swallowed by drifting sands. Traders rested there only long enough to water their horses before pressing onward toward richer cities.
Madam intended to do the same. She had nearly reached the edge of the settlement when a voice drifted across the wind.
She turned. A girl stood atop a weathered stretch of sandstone overlooking the road. No older than twelve. Dornish, by the look of her. Dark curls escaped the scarf wrapped loosely around her shoulders, dancing with every breath of wind. Her dress had been mended so many times that no two patches matched.
She did not wave. She did not smile. She merely watched.
Madam frowned. "...Do I know you?"
The girl tilted her head ever so slightly. "You own a house."
Madam laughed once. "If I owned a house in Vaith, I assure you I'd remember it."
The girl shook her head. "Not here." She spoke quietly, "a house near the meadows, where girls forget their names."
Madam's smile vanished. The wind blew and somewhere beyond the broken walls, a camel groaned. "Who told you that?"
The girl did not answer. She crouched instead, dragging one finger through the sand between her feet as though tracing a shape only she could see.
"What is your name?" Madam asked.
The girl's finger stopped. "...Sahaerah." It was spoken hesitantly, as if the name had only just become hers.
Sahaerah looked toward the western horizon. "One waits."
Madam stared at her. Strange child. She had met fortune tellers before. Liars. Dreamers. Women who claimed the gods whispered secrets into their ears for the price of a silver stag. This girl asked for nothing. She simply... answered. "You shouldn't be wandering alone," Madam said at last.
Sahaerah looked back at her. "Neither should you."
Madam snorted despite herself. "Perhaps not."
She sighed. She had not come to Dorne searching for another mouth to feed. Gods knew she'd fed enough already. Yet leaving the child here felt akin to abandoning a stray dog beside the kingsroad. She would still be thinking of her halfway to the Prince's Pass.
Sahaerah blinked. "...I can clean."
A hesitant shake of the head.
Madam clicked her tongue. "You'll be useless."
Sahaerah did not answer. Instead, she looked at the sand beneath her feet.
Madam cursed beneath her breath. "Come along then."
Sahaerah looked up. "...Where?"
Four years passed before Madam began to understand why the child had called her by name.
The girl she'd found wandering the sands of Vaith now swept floors, folded linens, and stumbled over the words of whatever books Madam managed to place before her. Sahaerah had never become one of her finest girls. She lacked the charm to coax silver from lonely men, and she smiled so rarely that most mistook her silence for contempt.
Beauty had never favored her either.
A faded scar stretched beneath her collarbone, another curled around her wrist like a pale serpent, remnants of a life she never spoke of. The prettier girls laughed too loudly, sang too sweetly, and wore their perfumes like armor. Sahaerah did none of those things. Most patrons forgot she'd been there at all.
Which was precisely why Prince Aerys unsettled her. The boy had married scarcely half a year before. Word spread quickly through the lands whenever dragons quarreled amongst themselves. It was said the prince had taken a bride, yet had never shared her bed. Madam paid little heed to court gossip. Noble marriages were rarely built upon affection. Still... Princes did not visit brothels to discuss books.
Yet every afternoon, as faithful as the setting sun, Aerys crossed her threshold carrying another beneath his arm. History. Poetry. Treatises on the Freehold. Whatever curiosity had seized him that morning.
He never asked for wine, or a room. Never once looked twice at any of the women lounging about her hall. He asked only of—
Madam watched from the gallery above as the girl emerged from the kitchens, wiping flour from her hands onto her skirts.
Aerys smiled. Not the smile of a customer, nor that of a prince indulging a whim. He smiled, almost... relieved.
"I've brought another." He held out the book.
"The one about King Viserys?"
"The one after. The Dance."
Sahaerah accepted it with both hands, as though he had entrusted her with something sacred.
"You said," Aerys continued, "that stories remember people longer than monuments."
Madam frowned. The child had always spoken strangely. Fragments. Questions. Little truths no one had asked for. Most men found her unsettling. The prince listened as though every word were prophecy. She did not like that. She liked it even less when she noticed Sahaerah smiling. It was the first smile she had seen upon the girl since she had first learned to read.
Somehow... that frightened her more than if Prince Aerys had taken her upstairs.
The camp had not grown any quieter. Servants hurried between tents buckets of supplies, and baskets of bread. Stable boys dragged sacks of hay across the yard while soldiers barked orders beyond the fences. Everyone had somewhere to be.
I scanned the grounds before spotting a servant carrying two pails toward the kitchens. "Excuse me."
The woman slowed. "...Yes?"
"I was wondering... where do you fetch the water from?"
She looked at me, eyes narrowing and eyebrows scrunching. "The well."
"Which one?" I asked, because there were several.
The servant frowned, picking her steps up again. "...I've work to do." She gave me a forced smile and continued walking before I could ask her another question. I watched as she disappeared through the kitchens.
"Right..." I muttered under my breath. Perhaps someone else. I wandered toward the stables, and saw an older man stood brushing down one of the horses, his back turned toward me. "Ser?" I asked, cautiously.
"I'm trying to understand where Prince Valarr was before he fell ill."
The man shrugged. "Couldn't tell you."
"Did he leave his tent yesterday?"
"Did he eat anywhere else?"
Another shrug. "You'd have better luck asking someone else." He returned to brushing the horse.
I lingered for a moment before promptly stepping away. "...Uhm... Thanks, I guess." The words went unanswered.
God, why is everyone so rude around here? I had expected the guards to dislike me, even a few nobles... but the servants... I'd never quite spoken to any of them before today. With a sigh, I made my way back toward Valarr's tent. Think. If no one wanted to answer my questions, then I'd just have to work with what I already knew.
So the fever had come first. Then the vomiting. The abdominal pain. If it had been the water... No. Everyone drank from the same wells. Unless Valarr had wandered elsewhere. Or... My footsteps slowed. Seasonal flu? Could be... If that's the case, it would probably be easier to treat him. I rounded the corner, and to my dismay...
"..." I blinked. "...What are you doing?"
Aerion looked up from where he sat comfortably atop one of the guards. The poor man lay face-first in the dirt beneath him, his muffled protests barely audible. Another guard knelt a few feet away in much the same condition.
Aerion glanced between me and the men before answering matter-of-factly. "These two speak far too much for their station." He shifted his weight slightly. "So we're playing a game."
My eyes narrowed. "...A game."
He nodded once. "Whoever remains quiet the longest wins."
I stared at him. "...This doesn't seem much like a game when their mouths are full of mud."
A smile tugged faintly at the corner of his lips. "That was merely one of the additional challenges."
You know what? I'm not even... I'm not even surprised anymore. Somewhere between digging leeches out of a prince and watching Aerion threaten half the camp, I'd stopped questioning whatever strange thing happened next. "...Carry on. I guess."
A cutting voice echoed through the courtyard. "My Lady!"
I turned just in time to see Tirza running toward us. She looked dreadful. Her breathing was labored, strands of hair had escaped her braid, and there was a redness about her eyes I hadn't noticed before. She stopped a few steps away, trying to catch her breath. "Cod..." she managed. "White bread... oysters... and wine."
I blinked. "...That's what he ate?"
She nodded. "Last night."
I frowned. None of that sounded particularly unusual. "...Are you certain?"
"The servants remembered." Tirza swallowed. "They... they showed me the meal."
I don't know why but.. there was something in her voice that caught my attention. "Tirza?"
She avoided my eyes. "...I need you to come with me."
"...Please." Her voice cracked. "My friend..." She hesitated. "...Mina." She exhaled slowly before steadying her words. "...She's dead."
"I found her in the servants' quarters."
Tirza nodded immediately.
I had barely taken a step before Aerion's voice came from behind us. "You aren't finished?"
I glanced over my shoulder.
Aerion rose from the unfortunate guard with all the urgency of a man standing from dinner rather than another human being. The guard lifted his head. Aerion promptly nudged him back into the mud with the toe of his boot, and simply followed us.
The servants' quarters had grown gloomy. A few servants stood gathered around one of the cots, speaking only in whispers, the rest threw quiet sobs around Mina's covered body. The moment Aerion stepped inside, whatever little conversation remained died altogether.
"I'm sorry," I began. "I just... I need to ask a few questions."
No one answered. Honestly, it felt horribly insensitive asking them anything when their friend had only just died, but if Mina had eaten the same meal as Valarr... I needed answers.
Aerion stepped beside me. "Who prepared Prince Valarr's supper?" Silence met him. "I asked a question." Nothing.
One of the younger servants stared so intensely at the floor I was half convinced she planned on digging through it. All others literally just avoided Aerion's eyes, like meeting it would mean the end of their life.
I sighed. "They're terrified of you."
"They should answer regardless."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. God, he's impossible. I stepped in front of him before he could argue otherwise. "We're not here to punish anyone," I said as gently as I could. "We only want to know what happened."
Still nothing. All the response we were getting seemed to only be fidgets, and scared glances.
"...Please." A knot settled in my stomach. I wasn't getting anywhere...
Before I could try again, Tirza rose from beside Mina's bed. Her eyes were red. She wiped them quickly with the sleeve of her dress before turning toward the others. "They're trying to help." Tirza continued. "I know you're frightened." Her voice trembled. "I am too." She glanced toward Mina. "But if we don't tell Lady Aesarys everything... someone else could end up beside her."
The room fell. An older kitchen maid was the first to break. She hesitated. Then, she exhaled softly. "Mina liked to eat." All eyes in the room followed her.
Another servant let out a shaky breath. "The nobles' meals."
"Whenever the cook wasn't looking," someone admitted, "she'd ask for whatever was left."
"Sometimes..." an older woman murmured, "...there weren't any leftovers, so she'd sneak a bite before they were served."
Nobody met my eyes but I looked between them. "So Mina ate the same food as Prince Valarr?"
This time, several servants answered together.
I turned toward the linen that had been pulled neatly over Mina's face. "...I'm sorry." The words felt inadequate. "My condolences... but thank you." I looked at them with as much sincerity as I could give. "Thank you all."
An uncertain murmur passed through the room, and I glanced back toward Tirza. She still hadn't looked away from Mina. I remembered what she'd said earlier. Cod, white bread, oysters, and wine. Oysters.
Back home, we'd always been warned about shellfish. Especially oysters. Warm water made them dangerous. The closer summer crept, the easier bacteria spread. It was why outbreaks weren't exactly uncommon. Spring was nearly over and... wait.
"I don't think Valarr has the Spring Sickness."
He studied my face for a moment. "What do you think he has?"
"...I think I know how to save him."
Valarr looked better. The fever had eased, if only a little. His breathing no longer came in shallow, frantic bursts, and the colour had begun returning to his face. The bowl of boiled water, honey and salt sat empty beside his bed.
I pressed the back of my hand against his forehead one last time. Still warm. But at least he was no longer burning.
“…Keep giving him small sips,” I reminded the servants quietly. “Not too much at once. If he starts vomiting again, send for me immediately.”
The older maid nodded without hesitation. “We will, m’lady.”
I blinked. M’lady. No one had called me that all day without sounding as though it pained them. “…Thank you.”
She dipped her head. “No.” The woman glanced toward the prince resting upon the bed. “…Thank you.”
Something changed ever since the visit to the Servant’s Quarters. I no longer felt like an unwelcome guest standing amongst strangers. Maybe they finally believed I knew what I was doing. Or perhaps… They simply wanted the prince to live. Either way, I wasn’t about to complain.
I stepped out of the tent. Night had already settled over the hills, leaving only the crackling of nearby fires and the distant chorus of insects hidden amongst the grass. Aerion sat just beyond the entrance. He hadn't moved very far.
He shrugged. “Had nothing better to do.”
I lowered myself onto the log beside him with a tired sigh. The wind drifted lazily through the camp, carrying with it the smell of damp earth and dying fires. Near us, a horse snorted.
“I think he’ll live,” I murmured.
Aerion nodded once. “I know.”
“…You sound very confident.”
“I trust your judgement.”
I looked at him. “…You do?”
“You haven’t been wrong yet.”
I glanced sideways. He was staring toward the treeline, his expression unchanged. As though pinning guards to the ground and saving princes were equally ordinary afternoons. They probably were to him, and almost as if sensing me watching, he turned.
His eyes narrowed. "You've been staring."
He continued looking at me for another moment before facing the night once more. I studied him quietly. No matter how hard I tried… I couldn't understand him. He was cruel, blunt, needlessly violent, and completely insufferable. And yet… He'd never once questioned me today. I don’t even remember him questioning me at all. He'd simply… done all I’ve asked so far.
He didn't look at me. "...For what?"
I smiled faintly. "...For being you."
He remained perfectly still, flinching slightly as his brows pulled together. Then… a quiet laugh escaped him. Unexpected.
He looked out across the sleeping camp, the ghost of that smile still lingering upon his face. "I've never heard that before."
His smile faded just as quickly as it came. As the critters that surrounded us continued their whispers, I found myself calming. But it wasn’t long until that calm had been eroded.
The voice cracked across the camp. Maekar strode toward us, boots kicking dirt behind him. His face had been plastered with fury, and before Aerion had so much as risen to his feet—Pang! His hand had struck the back of Aerion’s head.
"You witless fool!" Maekar snarled. "Must I leave you alone for half a day before you turn the camp upside down?"
Aerion didn't move. He simply looked back at his father.
"You've guards wrestling in the dirt, servants whispering, and your cousin lying half-dead in his tent!"
I pushed myself to my feet. "My prince, it wasn't—"
Maekar's gaze snapped toward me, cold enough to stop the rest of my sentence in my throat.
I swallowed. "The prince didn't have the Spring Sickness."
"What?" He looked at me with genuine confusion.
"Spoiled oysters. I treated what I could, and his fever has begun to break."
For the first time since arriving, Maekar looked past us and toward Valarr's tent. The anger remained, but reluctance had now crept into it. Though the calm had not stayed.
Heavy footsteps approached from somewhere beyond the camp. One of Baelor's household guards emerged between the tents, breathing hard after what looked to have been a long ride. He didn't bow, he barely even stopped walking.
"My Prince..." His voice caught. He looked first to Maekar. Then to Aerion, hesitant to speak but he did so anyway.
Taglist: @oh-miniso, @snorklingfae, @mckaylarkendra5608, @confusedwhitegirl10
