The Princes and The Pauper › 5
young!Baelor Targaryen x fem!reader x young!Maekar Targaryen
(this chapter is for the maekar girlies!!)
During the Blackfyre Rebellion, a young apprentice healer works tirelessly in a crowded medical tent, tending wounded soldiers and princes alike while enduring fear, exhaustion, and quiet indignities. Through small moments of kindness and unexpected connection with the young princes, Baelor Breakspear and Maekar Targaryen, she finds the resolve to continue her work as war rages on around them.
Word Count: 6.9k
[Chapter 5/13]
Morning crept slowly across the camp, pale sunlight filtering through a thin veil of mist that clung stubbornly to the low ground. The rows of tents stretched across the hillside in quiet stillness, their canvas sides darkened by the night’s damp, ropes glistening faintly where dew had gathered along the cords. Smoke drifted lazily from a few early cookfires, carrying with it the mingled scents of charred wood, boiled grain, and the heavier odor of oiled armor and wet leather left to dry after the previous day’s march. Beyond the outer line of tents, the land sloped downward toward the field where the battle had broken the day before, the tall red grasses now flattened in wide swathes where men and horses had passed. Far above that ground, the ridge where the archers had stood caught the first strong light of morning, its rocky crown glowing faintly against the pale sky.
The soldiers who moved through the waking camp carried themselves with a looseness that had not been present the night before. Some sat upon overturned crates, tightening straps along their gauntlets, while others leaned against wagon wheels with cups of watered ale in hand, speaking in low voices that grew louder with every retelling.
The story had already begun to take shape in their mouths, sharpened and polished with each repetition. From the heights of the ridge, they said, the archers of Brynden Rivers had loosed their arrows in relentless storms that darkened the air itself. The rebel banners had faltered almost at once beneath that rain, one after another dipping or falling entirely as the shafts found their marks among the commanders below. Word spread through the camp faster than any official messenger—Daemon fallen, his sons struck down beside him, the black dragon brought low beneath a sky thick with arrows.
By the time the sun rose fully above the hills, the tale had already grown larger than the battle itself. Soldiers repeated it with a mixture of awe and disbelief, each man adding his own detail as though he had witnessed the moment from the ridge with the archers. Some claimed the rebels had never even seen the Raven’s Teeth before the arrows began to fall, while others swore the sky itself had turned black beneath the weight of the shafts. In their voices, the victory sounded clean and almost effortless, a triumph of cunning and precision rather than blood. The field itself lay quiet now beyond the camp, but the men spoke as if the echoes of that storm of arrows still lingered above the ridge.
Inside the healer’s pavilion, the morning unfolded far more gently than the frantic hours of the night before. The canvas walls glowed softly in the growing daylight, and the tables that had been crowded with wounded now stood mostly clear save for neatly folded cloths and bowls of fresh water. When the first soldiers arrived, they came walking under their own strength, brushing aside the tent flaps with sheepish smiles or exaggerated groans that drew amused looks from the assistants waiting inside. One man held his arm stiffly against his side while another limped with dramatic care, though both appeared far sturdier than their complaints suggested.
She moved among them quietly with a basin of water and clean linen in her hands, examining each injury with the same careful attention she would have given a far more serious wound. A shallow arrow graze along a forearm was washed clean and bound with steady fingers. A split lip received a small stitch beneath the lantern light before the soldier was sent back out with a warning to avoid smiling too widely.
One particularly theatrical man insisted he had suffered a mortal blow, clutching his ribs with such conviction that two of his companions had helped him into the pavilion. Yet when the linen was finally lifted, the terrible wound revealed itself as little more than a narrow scratch across his side. Laughter broke easily through the tent at that discovery. The man accepted the teasing with good humor as she cleaned the cut and tied the bandage snugly around his ribs.
All the while, the soldiers continued speaking of the ridge and the archers who had ended the battle before it could truly begin. Their voices carried a buoyant pride, the sort that came from surviving something dangerous and discovering that fate afterward had favored them. She listened without interrupting, her hands moving steadily from one small wound to the next as their stories filled the quiet space of the pavilion.
They praised Brynden Rivers freely, as though the victory belonged to every man who had stood beneath those falling arrows. One soldier claimed the shafts had come down so thick the sky itself seemed to darken for a moment, while another insisted the rebel commanders had fallen before they could even understand where the attack had come from. A third swore the Raven’s Teeth had not loosed a single arrow in haste, each shaft drawn and released with the precision of a master archer, perhaps with a little bit of sorcery too. Their admiration swelled with each telling, turning the distant figure on the ridge into something almost legendary.
She tied the final knot of a bandage and smoothed the linen flat against the soldier’s arm before stepping back to rinse her hands in the basin beside the table. As the water clouded faintly pink beneath her fingers, she found herself watching the men as they spoke, their laughter bright beneath the canvas roof. In their telling, the battle sounded almost beautiful—a clever maneuver, a brilliant victory, a storm of arrows falling like dark rain upon the enemy. The words carried excitement and pride, polished by the relief of survival.
Yet when her gaze drifted back to the table before her, the lingering stains of blood upon the wood told a different story. War, she thought, looked very different in the telling than it did beneath her hands. To the soldiers, it was a tale of skill and glory, something to boast about over cups of watered ale. To her, it remained something far smaller and sadder: a slow procession of wounded hands, tired faces, and men who tried to laugh even while their bodies trembled from the bitter memory of steel.
The next day unfolded beneath a sun that seemed too bright for the unease that lingered across the camp. Light spilled over the rows of tents and wagon lines, glinting off polished helms and spearheads as soldiers moved steadily through their morning tasks. Armor was buckled piece by piece, straps drawn tight with practiced motions while squires carried bundles of arrows and shields from one tent to another. Horses stamped impatiently near the picket lines, their breath steaming faintly in the cool air as grooms checked bridles and reins. Orders passed quietly between captains, spreading through the camp in low voices that carried a note of urgency beneath their calm.
By midday, the army had begun to stir like a great creature waking from rest. Columns of men assembled along the edges of the camp while banners were raised and tightened against their poles. From the healer’s pavilion, the movements were only partly visible through the open tent flap, but the distant rhythm of marching feet carried clearly across the ground. The sun climbed steadily overhead, its warmth pressing down upon the canvas roofs until the air inside the pavilion grew thick with the scent of herbs and drying linen. Those who remained behind worked in concentration, sorting bandages and filling basins while the distant preparations continued.
It was late in the afternoon when the sound finally reached them. At first, it was little more than a faint trembling along the horizon, a dull echo rolling across the hills like the far-off rumble of thunder. Then it grew stronger—steel striking steel, horns calling somewhere beyond the tree line, the low roar of thousands of men clashing beyond sight. The assistants paused in their work more than once to glance toward the opening of the tent, where faint plumes of dust had begun to rise above the distant woods.
When the wounded returned near dusk, they did not come in frantic waves but in small, steady groups that moved slowly through the camp. The sun hung low above the hills by then, casting long shadows across the ground as soldiers helped one another toward the healer’s tents. Armor clinked softly with every step, and many of the men wore expressions that hovered somewhere between exhaustion and exhilaration. Even while they lowered themselves carefully onto the benches or tables, their voices rose quickly with the need to tell what had happened.
She worked quietly among them once more, unfastening buckles and cutting away strips of cloth where blood had soaked through the fabric. A man with a shallow cut along his shoulder winced as she wrapped fresh linen around the wound, though the pain did little to slow his eager explanation. He described the moment the rebels realized they had been caught between two advancing lines, his grin crooked despite the sting of the bandage. The infantry had pressed forward with shields locked together while the cavalry thundered into the enemy’s rear, closing the trap with brutal certainty.
Another soldier nearby leaned forward at once, nodding eagerly as he joined the tale of what he called ‘The Hammer and The Anvil’. He spoke of the panic that spread through the rebel ranks when they understood there was nowhere left to run, how their banners wavered and broke as the lines closed around them. In their telling, the maneuver had been swift and almost elegant, a trap sprung with perfect timing beneath the command of princes who understood the shape of battle as easily as a smith understood the weight of his hammer. She listened as she worked, offering only small nods while their voices filled the pavilion once more with stories of victory.
The wounded were more numerous now, yet still far fewer than she had feared. Cuts, bruises, broken fingers, shallow spear thrusts—painful, but survivable. The soldiers spoke admiringly of the princes who commanded the line, and more than once she heard the name of Maekar Targaryen spoken with quiet respect. She smiled politely as she worked, though she said little herself. War still seemed distant to her understanding, something glimpsed only through the fragments of stories carried in by the men who survived it.
Then another wave of stretchers came in; the boy could not have been more than fifteen. He lay half-curled on the table where the stretcher bearers had placed him, one hand pressed weakly against the bandage another healer had tied in haste around his side. Blood had already seeped through the linen in uneven patches. His armor—too new, barely scratched—had been set aside beside the table.
She knelt beside him and carefully lifted the cloth to examine the wound beneath. The cut was deep, but clean enough that it might yet be closed. As she began rinsing it with water, the boy stirred. His fingers searched blindly until they found the sleeve of her robe, clutching the fabric with surprising urgency.
“Mother,” he breathed, the word slipping out in a frightened whisper. “Don’t let them send me back.”
The plea was so earnest that it stilled her hands for a moment. “I’m n—” she began instinctively, but her master’s voice cut across from the next table before she could finish. “Leave the arguing for another day,” he said dryly, never looking up from the arrowhead he was drawing from a soldier’s thigh. “The wound first.”
She flushed faintly and bent back to her work. “All right,” she said more softly. “Hold still.”
The boy obeyed at once, though his fingers remained knotted in her sleeve. His eyes drifted half-open as she cleaned the cut and pressed fresh cloth to it. “It hurts,” he murmured.
“I know.” His voice softened again, wandering somewhere between wakefulness and memory.
“You used to say it would stop hurting… if I was brave.” Her hands slowed for a heartbeat. Across the tent, her master’s tools scraped faintly against the metal tray as he worked, but he said nothing more. She finished binding the wound, careful and steady. When she spoke again, her voice had gentled in a way she had not intended. “You have been brave,” she said quietly. “Braver than most.”
She tied the linen firmly around his ribs. “Rest now. Brave knights are allowed that.”
The boy’s breathing eased a little. When her hand settled briefly against his shoulder to steady him, he leaned toward the touch without opening his eyes. “Don’t go,” he murmured faintly. “Just… stay a little.”
“I’m right here,” she said. That seemed to be enough. His fingers slowly loosened from her sleeve as exhaustion finally claimed him. Two assistants came to carry him toward the quieter side of the tent, where the breathing cases were watched. She nodded for them to lift him carefully, then turned back to the next patient already being laid upon the table.
She stayed there a moment longer than she needed to. When she finally stepped away, her chest felt tight, as though the air inside the pavilion had grown too heavy to breathe.
The next stretcher that pushed through the pavilion entrance carried a man whose presence seemed to shift the air around him. The soldiers bearing it moved with unusual care, their shoulders tense as they navigated the crowded space between tables and lantern stands. Beneath the wavering glow of the oil lamps lay a broad-shouldered man clad in the battered colors of the prince’s company, his cloak half cut away where blood had soaked through the cloth. One gloved hand remained pressed firmly against his thigh, though the dark stain spreading across the leather told the story plainly enough. The moment she saw the sigil stitched upon the torn surcoat, a murmur passed between the attendants nearby—a captain bearing House Arryn sigil, if she remembered correctly. A captain meant responsibility, meant men who would ask after him, meant a life worth fighting harder to keep.
They lowered him carefully onto the table, the wood creaking beneath the sudden weight of armor and exhaustion. When his hand lifted from the wound, the lantern light revealed the cut beneath: deep and jagged, where a blade had bitten through leather and flesh alike. Blood welled slowly from the seam, thick and dark. She moved forward at once, sleeves already rolled high, pressing fresh cloth against the wound while calling for clean water and thread. For a moment, his jaw tightened with the shock of it, breath drawn sharply through his teeth. Yet even then, as she began washing the blood from the torn skin, the captain’s eyes flickered open with a faint spark of recognition.
“So this’s where they’ve dragged me, eh?” he rasped, voice rough but stubbornly amused. His gaze drifted slowly across the lantern-lit tent before settling on her face. “Healer’s table. Could be worse, I s’pose.” The attempt at humor earned him a warning glance from one of the older healers nearby, though it did little to quiet the faint crooked smile tugging at his mouth. When she asked him to hold still, he obeyed with a soft grunt, gripping the edge of the table as she threaded the needle and leaned closer to the wound.
The stitching was slow work. Each careful pull of the thread drew the torn flesh closer together, and with each movement, his fingers tightened against the wood beneath him. Yet he made little sound beyond the occasional sharp breath, his attention drifting somewhere beyond the pavilion walls as the lantern light flickered across his tired face. After a moment, he spoke again, voice lower now, though the pride in it remained unmistakable.
“Prince Maekar held the line,” he muttered, as though the words themselves steadied him. His gaze flicked briefly toward the tent roof, remembering the field beyond it. “Just like he said he would.”
She glanced up briefly at that, though her hands never slowed.
“Aye, and when the hammer came down…” he breathed, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the pain. “Gods, you should’ve seen it, girl. Came down hard as a smith’s blow. Damned rebels didn’t know which way to turn.” His grip tightened again as the final stitch pulled through the skin. “Our prince saw the shape of it clear as day. Told us to stand fast … and we did.”
The last knot was tied and trimmed, the linen bound snugly around his thigh to hold the wound closed. When she finished, she pressed the cloth firmly once more before easing her hands away. After that, he simply lay there breathing slowly, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening now that the pain had dulled. Then he turned his head slightly toward her, offering a small nod of quiet gratitude. “Looks like I’ll live long enough to drink to the prince’s victory after all,” he murmured hoarsely. “Reckon I owe you that cup.”
Exhaustion followed close behind the words. His eyes drifted shut almost at once, the stubborn half-smile still lingering faintly at the corner of his mouth as sleep finally claimed him beneath the warm lantern light of the healer’s tent.
The last man brought to her table arrived already fading. A spear had pierced clean through his chest, the shaft broken short to carry him more easily from the field. Even before she touched the wound, she saw the truth in her master’s eyes: the man was beyond saving. Still, they worked. Cloth pressed tight against the bleeding, herbs crushed and forced into the wound, hands moving quickly in desperate defiance of the inevitable. For several long minutes, they tried, but the soldier’s breath grew shallow, then still. When her hands finally withdrew, they trembled despite her efforts to steady them.
She pressed harder against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding enough to see what lay beneath. Blood seeped steadily between her fingers, warm and relentless. Each time she lifted the cloth, more followed, pooling darkly along the curve of the man’s side before dripping onto the ground below.
The older healer stepped beside her and pushed the soaked linen aside with careful fingers. He studied the wound only a moment before reaching toward the lantern hanging above the table. The light was lowered. Under the stronger glow, the wound opened more clearly to their sight—a deep, ragged tear where the spear had passed through flesh and muscle. Something inside had been badly damaged. Blood welled from the darkness within faster than they could clear it away.
She tried to look deeper, leaning closer, her hands searching carefully through the torn flesh.
“If we can find it…” she began, voice trembling in panic.
The older healer guided her wrist, shifting her hand slightly. “Here,” he murmured.
She pressed down where he indicated. The soldier’s breath rattled painfully in his chest, a thin sound that rose and fell unevenly as they worked. “I can’t see the vessel,” she whispered. Neither could he.
More cloth was packed into the wound, layer after layer. Each strip of linen darkened almost at once, the red spreading through the fabric until it was indistinguishable from the last. The table beneath the soldier’s side had grown slick, and blood slid slowly over the wood before dripping to the ground. For a brief moment the flow seemed to lessen. She leaned closer, searching the torn flesh for the source of it, hope flickering suddenly and dangerously in her chest.
Then the soldier coughed. The sound was low and wet, deep within his chest. His body shuddered beneath their hands, and a thin ribbon of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth, tracing a slow path across his cheek and into the rough stubble of his beard.
Her breath caught, yet the seasoned older healer did not move. He simply watched the man’s breathing, his expression steady in the lanternlight as the soldier’s chest began to rise in shorter, uneven pulls of air.
She pressed harder against the wound. Her hands had begun to tremble now, though she tried to hold them still. Blood seeped warm between her fingers and ran down along her wrists, soaking into the sleeves of her robe. She shifted the cloth again, searching desperately for something she might grasp or close, some hidden vessel she had simply failed to see.
The soldier coughed again, weaker this time.
“Stay with us, ser,” she whispered. The words wavered despite her effort to steady them. The man’s lips moved as if he meant to answer, but the sound that followed was only another wet breath that stained his beard darker. For a moment, his eyes found hers. They were dull now, unfocused, drifting somewhere beyond the lanternlight swaying above the table.
His chest rose once more.
Slowly.
Then it fell.
And did not rise again.
She remained where she was, both hands still pressed firmly against the wound, as though the bleeding might yet stop if she simply held the cloth there long enough. Her fingers had stiffened around the linen without her realizing it. Around them, the pavilion carried on without pause. Stretchers passed behind her in hurried steps. Somewhere across the tent, a wounded man cried out as steel was drawn from bone.
The older healer reached out at last and laid a hand lightly over her wrist. The touch was calm, almost gentle. She looked down at the soldier’s face. The strain had gone from it now, the deep lines of pain easing into stillness beneath the flickering lanternlight. Slowly, her hands loosened. The cloth slipped away, revealing the wound beneath—dark and terrible where they had tried to close it.
The older healer gave a small nod toward the waiting bearers. They stepped forward in silence and lifted the body from the table, carrying it away toward the dim edge of the pavilion where the dead were laid beneath blankets. She did not follow them—she could not.
Her hands trembled faintly as she stared down at the basin beside the table. Blood had soaked through the discarded cloths piled there, staining the linen and the wood beneath. It covered her fingers, her sleeves, the front of her robe. Across from her, the older healer rinsed his hands in the basin. The water slowly clouded red as he worked, but he was unphased, as though this were nothing new to him.
When he finally spoke, his voice remained as steady as his movements. “The wound had been too deep, girl,” he said quietly. The spear had torn something no healer’s hand could reach. “There is nothing we can do.” But the words seemed to drift past her. In her mind, she could still feel the moment when the bleeding had slowed beneath her fingers, the fragile hope that she might yet hold the man to life.
If she had found it sooner.
If she had pressed differently.
If she had known where to look.
The thoughts circled endlessly.
The older healer finished washing his hands and wrung the water from his cloth. He watched her for a moment before glancing toward the next stretcher being lowered onto the table. The wounded man, upon it, groaned weakly, clutching at the arrow lodged in his shoulder. He nodded toward another table, where another man was still breathing. Then she drew a slow breath, wiped them clean on fresh linen, and stepped forward again—though the weight of the man they had lost lingered heavily in her chest. He had been her first.
She remained where she stood, and the knife was still in her hand. Only when she noticed did she set it carefully back onto the tray. Her fingers felt strangely numb, as though they belonged to someone else. The lantern light seemed too bright, suddenly. The smells of blood and crushed herbs pressed heavily against her senses, and the murmur of voices inside the pavilion swelled into a dull roar in her ears.
She took one step backward.
Then another.
No one noticed as she slipped away from the table, weaving past the stretchers and the healers bent over their work. At the edge of the pavilion, she ducked through the tent flap and into the night air. Thinking herself alone, she stumbled toward the rear of the pavilion, each of her step was unsteady, heart hammering as nausea curled in her stomach. Her hands flew to her face, damp with sweat and streaked with blood, as panic threatened to overtake her.
She vomited, dry heaves wracking her body, then doubled over behind a bush just outside the tent, shivering violently as tears broke free. The memories of the day—the screaming men, the boy who had called her ‘Mother,’ the frantic limbs, the smell of blood, the man who died in her arms—hit her all at once. The world seemed impossibly loud and unbearably close, and she felt utterly exposed, embarrassed beyond measure to be seen in such a state.
She pressed her hands to her face, wishing she could vanish, hoping no one would find her like this. But then movement caught her attention. A long shadow stretched across the lantern-lit ground, and she realized, with a jolt that made her chest seize, that a figure had followed. The tall frame blocked the light. She froze, the cloth in her hands trembling, every ounce of pride and composure crumbling.
Before she could even speak, Prince Baelor arrived after hearing the words of the wounded captain in the tent, and immediately knelt beside her. His hands rested gently on her shoulders, grounding her, guiding her breath. “Breathe with me, my lady,” he said, voice warm as it wrapped around her panic. “You’ve done everything you could. Look at them—they live because of you.” His words were calm, steady, and her chest pressed closer to the earth, trembling against the strength of his reassurance, feeling both comforted and mortified.
She wanted to vanish entirely, to curl into herself and disappear from their sight, but Baelor’s steady presence held her in place. Her cheeks burned, hot and raw, every shuddering sob a mark of her inexperience, her youth, and her fear. “I… I’m sorry, my prince,” she stammered, voice barely audible over the night air. “You shouldn’t have seen me… like this.”
Baelor’s hands remained gentle on her shoulders, his gaze calm. “All is well,” he said quietly, the warmth in his voice steadying her in ways she could not name. “You’ve done what no one else could. We cannot save everybody.”
Maekar lingered just behind, his tall frame rigid, fists unconsciously clenched, eyes fixed on her trembling form. He, too, rushed after some soldiers reported of an Arryn captain in the brink of death had just been saved. Even in the dark, he could see how small she seemed, how fragile in the wake of the day’s horrors. And yet—how fiercely she had carried herself under fire, how steady her hands had been when it mattered most. Their own youth reminded him of it; they were older, yes, taller, stronger, more experienced in war, but she was so young, and yet had done what many men twice her age could not.
He wanted to say something—something that could make the shame and fear retreat—but words failed him. His jaw tightened, frustration simmering at his own inadequacy. Unlike Baelor, he could not soothe with gentle speech, could not offer comfort in measured phrases. All he could do was remain there, a protective presence, a silent promise that she was not alone, even as she bowed her head in mortification and pressed her hands to her face.
She glanced up, catching his shadow against the faint lantern glow, and felt the weight of their eyes—both protective, both measuring her, both realizing again how young she truly was. And she, in turn, understood how young they still were, even with the trappings of command and courage, and yet how much their presence meant.
A sharp shout carried across the camp, and Baelor’s head lifted immediately. “My apologies, my lady, but I have been summoned somewhere else,” he murmured, voice gentle as he rose, long strides already carrying him across the trampled grass toward the commander who had called. He cast one last look at her and his brother, reassuring and steady, and then he was gone, leaving the night quieter, punctuated only by the distant shuffle of the wounded being tended elsewhere.
For a while neither Maekar or the girl spoke. The river moved quietly beside them, its slow current reflecting the silver light of the moon. When at last Maekar finished rinsing the cloth, he set the basin aside and looked toward her with an awkward sort of resolve.
“My captain lives because of you,” he said simply. The words were not grand, but they were spoken with complete sincerity. After a brief pause, he added, “If anyone troubles you… You may come to me. Personally.” For Maekar, the promise carried more weight than any jewel or token. It was protection, authority, and trust offered all at once.
For a heartbeat, she sat still, chest heaving, hands pressed to her face, and wished she could sink into the earth and disappear. The terror and exhaustion of the day clung to her like a second skin, and the embarrassment of being seen so undone burned fiercely. Her hair clung to her damp brow, her sleeves were streaked with blood and sweat, and every shiver reminded her how utterly exposed she felt. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” she whispered hoarsely oce again,, as if speaking to the empty night, but she knew the prince had seen everything.
Moonlight lay pale across the field beyond the healer’s pavilion. The long grasses bent softly in the night wind, their silvered tips whispering together as the breeze moved through them. Not far from the tents, a narrow river slipped quietly through the dark earth, its surface broken here and there by slow-moving ripples that caught the light of the moon. The water glimmered faintly, a thin ribbon of silver winding between the black shapes of reeds and low stones along the bank.
Behind them the pavilion still glowed with lanternlight, and the smell of blood and crushed herbs clung stubbornly to the air. She did not make it far before the sickness came.
Her breath hitched sharply in her throat, and she turned away from the princejust in time. One hand braced itself against a rough wooden post as her body folded forward. The sound that followed was small and helpless, the violent retching breaking the quiet of the night as she emptied what little remained in her stomach onto the trampled grass. Her hands shook badly as she vomited once again. When she lifted them weakly toward her mouth, they trembled so violently the motion seemed almost beyond her control. Blood still streaked the backs of her fingers, dark beneath the lanternlight.
Maekar had been watching her more closely than she realized. His eyes dropped to her hands, to the tremor running through them, and something in his expression shifted—so slightly it might have passed unnoticed by anyone else. He said nothing at first. Instead, he lifted one broad arm and gestured toward the darkness beyond the pavilion. “There,” he said quietly.
His voice carried the rough weight of a man unused to gentle instruction. Yet it was softer than usual, the edge sanded down. “The river.”
She followed the line of his arm and saw it at last—the pale gleam of water moving slowly beneath the moonlight. For a moment she hesitated, but then she nodded faintly and allowed him to guide her away from the pavilion.
The grass whispered beneath their steps as they walked. The farther they moved from the tents, the quieter the world seemed to grow. The distant groans of wounded men faded into the wind, replaced by the soft murmur of the river slipping past its banks. When they reached the water’s edge, the moon hung high above them, casting a long path of silver across the slow current.
Maekar crouched first.
The movement was not graceful. He was a tall man—tall through the back and heavy in limb, more accustomed to the weight of armor and sword than careful tending. When he lowered himself near the bank, the reeds shifted beneath his boots and a small stone rolled into the water with a quiet plunk.
He dipped his hands into the river. They were large hands. Thick-knuckled. Scarred along the fingers and across the backs where blades had once kissed too close. The nails were short and uneven, the skin roughened from years of training with steel.
Not the hands of a healer certainly, but he tried. Maekar scooped water carefully into his palms and lifted them toward her. “Here.” The word came quietly, almost awkwardly.
She hesitated only a moment before stepping closer. The cold water spilled gently over her fingers as he tipped his hands forward, and the shock of it made her inhale sharply. Blood ran from her skin in thin pink threads, drifting away with the current. He repeated the motion again and again.
Each time he dipped his hands into the river, bringing the water up slowly so it would not spill too quickly through the gaps in his fingers. The gesture was clumsy, almost childlike in its care, as though he feared that moving too fast might somehow break the fragile calm that had settled over her.
When the water ran down her wrists, he reached for the cloth tucked into his belt. Even that looked strange in his grasp. The linen seemed almost delicate against the size of his hands. When he rinsed it in the river, the fabric slipped once between his thick fingers. He caught it again quickly, frowning faintly at his own clumsiness before wringing it out as gently as he could manage.
Then he held it out to her. She stared at it for a moment before accepting it. The cloth was cool and damp against her skin as she wiped the last streaks of blood from her hands. Her fingers still trembled slightly, though not as badly as before.
Maekar watched in silence. Only when she had finished did he speak, “You… you did well.” The words came slowly, as though each one had been chosen with care.
Heat crept into her cheeks despite the chill of the night air. For a moment she tried to answer, but her voice caught somewhere in her throat. Nothing came out. Her fingers tightened faintly around the cloth instead.
Maekar noticed that too.
The faintest hint of something softened his expression—almost a smile, though it vanished before it could fully take shape. “House Arryn and I owe you a great debt,” he continued, his voice rougher now, more familiar in its bluntness. “I’ll see that he knows it.”
He shifted slightly where he crouched beside the river, resting his forearms against his knees. The wind moved softly through the reeds around them. The river carried the last faint ribbons of red away into the darkness downstream. Around them the pavilion carried on in its endless rhythm—boots passing across the packed earth, the low murmur of healers calling for herbs, the quiet groan of wounded men waiting their turn beneath the lanterns.
For a while neither of them spoke again. They simply remained there beside the quiet water, the moonlight resting pale across the river and the distant sounds of the battlefield drifting faintly through the night behind them. His hand rested briefly against the hilt of the sword at his side, a gesture so natural it seemed almost unconscious.
Beyond the canvas walls, the night had grown colder. A sharp wind moved through the tall grasses outside the camp, rustling banners and tugging softly at the edges of the pavilion. Somewhere across the field another wounded man cried out, his voice carried thinly through the darkness before fading again into the distant murmur of the army.
The quiet between them felt strangely fragile. Yet despite the fear still lingering in her chest—the memory of blood on her hands, of breath slipping away beneath her fingers—she found herself aware of something else as well. The steady weight of his presence beside her. He said nothing more. He did not need to. In the dim glow of the lanterns, with the battlefield still whispering beyond the pavilion walls, he remained there like an unmoving pillar of calm in the storm she had just endured. And somehow, without understanding why, that steadiness made the night feel a little less overwhelming, perhaps exactly what she needs.
From the other edge of the camp, Brynden Rivers had watched the entire exchange unfold. Few things escaped his notice, and this quiet scene beneath the moon had told him more than any conversation could. The healer girl, the youngest prince, the lingering shadow of Baelor’s kindness—threads weaving themselves into something far more delicate than war.
When Maekar finally rose to return to the command tents, Brynden Rivers fell easily into step beside him. Their path wound through the long rows of soldiers resting after battle—men sitting beside dying fires, armor loosened, some asleep where they had collapsed upon their cloaks. The night wind stirred the tall grasses beyond the camp, carrying the distant groans of the wounded from the healer’s pavilion.
For a while they walked in silence. “Prince Baelor has always been good with people,” Brynden remarked at last, his tone mild, as though the thought had only just come to him. Maekar did not answer immediately. Ahead of them, a group of soldiers parted to let the two princes pass. The lanternlight caught the sharp line of Maekar’s jaw as he looked straight ahead.
“He has patience,” he said shortly. “Like our father.”
“Mm.” Brynden inclined his head. “A rare gift among princes.” His mismatched eyes flicked sideways toward Maekar. “The wounded seem to find comfort in it. Even the healer, I think.”
Maekar’s stride did not falter, but his hands flexed once at his sides. “She was doing her duty,” he said. “As were we.”
“Of course.” Brynden’s voice was smooth as polished glass. “Still… I noticed how long he stayed with her. Lantern in hand, watching her work.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Admiration suits him.”
Maekar gave a low scoff. “Baelor admires half the realm.”
“Not quite half,” Brynden said gently. “But he admires courage when he sees it. And she showed a great deal of it tonight.”
Maekar said nothing. Brynden let the silence stretch between them as they walked past the dim glow of the healer’s pavilion in the distance. “I suppose it is natural,” he added lightly after a moment. “Two princes noticing the same young woman. Strength tends to draw the eye.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened slightly. “She saved one of my captains,” he said. “Any commander would notice.”
“Quite so,” Brynden replied. “Yet commanders rarely linger in a tent that reeks of blood, my prince.”
The remark hung quietly in the night air. Maekar did not look at him, but Brynden caught the briefest glance the prince cast toward the pavilion’s lantern glow before the younger man pushed open the council tent and stepped inside. Brynden followed, his faint smile hidden in the shadows.
Later that night, Brynden found Baelor Targaryen standing outside the council tent, gazing thoughtfully across the quiet camp. The fires had burned low now, and most of the soldiers had settled into uneasy sleep beneath the stars. “Still awake, my prince?” Brynden asked as he approached.
Baelor turned, offering a tired but easy smile. “Sleep is difficult after such a day.”
“Indeed.” Brynden folded his hands behind his back. “The fighting may be finished, but the wounded keep the healers busy.”
Baelor’s gaze drifted briefly toward the pavilion where the lanterns still burned. “They worked wonders tonight,” he said softly. Brynden nodded once. “Especially the young healer.”
Baelor’s expression warmed faintly at the mention. “She showed remarkable steadiness,” he said. “Many older hands would have faltered.”
Brynden studied him for a moment. “Prince Maekar seemed… particularly concerned for her welfare,” he said casually. “I believe he placed guards near the pavilion.”
Baelor chuckled under his breath. “That sounds like my brother.”
Brynden tilted his head slightly. “You are not troubled by it?”
“Troubled?” Baelor shook his head, amused. “Hardly.”
“He appeared rather protective,” Brynden continued, as though pursuing a harmless curiosity.
Baelor’s smile softened. “My brother loves fiercely, Lord Bloodraven,” he said simply. “When something earns his loyalty, he guards it with everything he has. I would sooner see him happy than victorious,” Baelor added after a moment.
The remark seemed to genuinely surprise Brynden. Baelor glanced back toward the quiet camp, thoughtful now. “Besides,” he continued lightly, “my father once mentioned that a lord of House Dondarrion had offered a daughter in marriage for me, should I return safely from this war.”
Brynden raised an eyebrow slightly. “And what did you think of the proposal?”
Baelor laughed softly. “I believe I am in no place to have a say in such an arrangement. If it serves the realm, I shall serve the realm as well.”
Brynden inclined his head. “Wise kings often do.” Baelor only smiled again, the matter clearly of little concern to him. Brynden studied the young prince for another quiet moment before turning away, the faintest hint of amusement touching his lips.
Some seeds, he reflected, took root quickly. Others fell upon far more stubborn ground.
chapter 6
