here i am to humble ask for a princess!reader and ser roland of crakenhall (its just me or hes just...hot?) he's sworn to protect her bus the most time they spent together more he falls and yearn for her...like..YEARNING ik just one touch, one nignt, just to feel her body, forgetting the vows he made 🤭🥺
The Loyal Knight (Ser Roland Crakehall x Princess!reader)
A/N: I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to get to this! Can’t even make excuses but yeah… sorry :( But queen, it is not just you!!! He IS hot, and he deserves fanfic and to be thirsted over! Thank you so much for sending this in, and again, I’m so sorry I took forever to get to it!
Summary: Having a loyal, faithful King's Guard is supposed to be good. He is there for your protection, your constant shadow. But why does having Ser Roland always there feel like such sweet torture?
Word count: ~4.3k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, slight age gap? (I don’t actually know how old he is but I’m assuming he’s older), younger!reader (20s), smidge of jealousy, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), naked female x clothed male, (not even sure if this range of motion is possible in armour but oh well), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any). Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
You chewed on your lip as you lay on the chaiselongue in the sitting room, a fan held lazily in your hand, barely moving. You were staring out of the balcony doors, eyes dazed and set on the blue sky.
It was a hot day in King’s Landing. The sky was blue as forget-me-nots, the sun blazing and scorching the paving stones. You did not feel like doing much, weighed heavy by the heat, and you were lucky that you did not have many responsibilities regardless.
There was something about hot and lazy days that made you pensive. Perhaps it was all the time you spent laying around, all the time you had for your mind to wander. On this day, your thoughts set upon the man standing guard just outside the door.
Ser Roland had been your loyal guard for six months. Six months he had followed your every move like he was your own shadow. Six months he had stood outside your door, frowning and deterring others from bothering you if unneeded. And six months he had tortured you by simply being himself.
Ser Roland was a grump, and you had called him that to his face more than once. He frowned more often than not, only grunted in response to those he could, and had a generally stormy countenance.
But with you… oh with you, he was the perfect knight in shining armour. Perhaps that was why you were so enamoured. His face softened when you came into his sight in the mornings, and though he did not smile, you liked to think he would if he was allowed. He always addressed you with a kind “my princess”, and again, though it was his duty to do so, there was something gentle in his voice that made you want to purr and curl up against him.
But the biggest sign was that he did more than his duty bade of him. He stood just in front of you if he ever perceived a threat, glaring the person down until they moved on, then turning back to check if you were alright. If he noted even an ounce of distress in your expression, he walked up close to your side, leaned in and whispered to ask if you were alright, if you wished to leave, if you wanted for anything. He always knocked and leaned in first to ask if you wished to receive a messenger rather than simply sending them in. He carried your books for you to and from the library, held your cup of wine if you required your hands, and did whatever you asked of him without question.
You sighed, blinked slowly and sped up your motion with the fan a little. There had been a bit of a breeze through the open balcony doors a moment before, but that too had died in the heat it seemed.
“My Princess?” A knock at the door, the knob turning, the door opening just enough for Ser Roland to step half his body in.
He could not see you from there, your body entirely hidden by the back of the seat, and he frowned until you rose up, draped your bare arm along the seatback, and turned to face him with a soft smile.
“Yes, Ser?” You asked, blinking at him. He could only stare for a moment, taking in the image of you laying there, your bare skin on display. Though he could just see a bit of fabric on your shoulder, you looked naked. He swallowed harshly, cleared his throat, and averted his eyes.
“The maids have come to say that your bath is ready,” he stated gruffly, one hand on the pommel of his sword. You frowned in confusion for a moment, head tilting just a little and your mouth gathering at one corner.
“My bath?” You asked aloud, and then it seemed to dawn on you as you let out a little ‘ah’ sound. “Oh silly me, I asked for one earlier in the morning and I did not even remember I did so.” Then you giggled, a tinkling sound that made his chest tighten.
He watched you turn away again, sitting up properly and shuffling a little before you stood and rounded the chaise, tossing your fan carelessly onto it where you were sitting before. You were wearing a pretty blue dress, the same colour as the sky, made of a light flowing fabric that was surely from Dorne, and perfect for the weather. The sleeves were just bunches of fabric over each shoulder, exposing your arms and a long V down your neck and chest. Roland clenched his hand tighter around the pommel of his sword.
You breezed over to him as he held the door open for you, waiting until you were safely through before shutting it behind you and following, ever the dutiful shadow.
“It is far too hot today,” you sighed, turning back to him with an exasperated smile.
“Hm, yes it is, my princess,” he responded curtly, but you were used to the tone, disregarding it.
“Do you not feel hot in your armour, Ser?” You asked, frowning with curiosity.
“I am used to it,” he cleared his throat a little, adjusting his shoulders as he walked a scooch closer to you.
“Oh,” you nodded, lips pursed.
As you arrived at the doors of your chambers, he leaned forward and quickly grasped the handle, opening the door for you and waiting to be dismissed.
“Thank you, Ser,” you smiled at him, and then watched him close the door behind you.
“Hello, my lady,” your maids greeted, standing around the bath and preparing sheets and new clothes for you to change into.
You toed off your slippers and pushed the sleeves of your gown off, humming quietly to yourself as you stepped into the bath, holding Rosylyn’s hand to steady yourself. The bathwater was neither warm nor cold, but you preferred it that way on a day like this. It would cool off quickly while not giving you a jolt as you stepped in.
“Did you see how Rowena fawned over him last evening?” Rosylyn asked Cyrelle over your head, gathering your hair over the edge of the tub and beginning to braid it quickly so it would not get wet.
Your ears perked up, one of your eyes cocking open as you glanced at Cyrelle kneeling beside the tub, folding some linens. She smirked and nodded, scoffing a little as she looked back up to Rosylyn.
“I was rather surprised at how bold she was when she knows what he is like. I suppose I commend her confidence but still,” Cyrelle giggled, dipping the cloth in the water then rubbing it over a bit of soap.
“Who do you speak of?” You asked with a little gasp, giggling as you looked between them. They were more your friends than your maids at times, and you did not mind that they chattered and gossiped around you, but only if you were included as well.
Both of them smirked and pursed their lips for a moment until you raised an eyebrow and sat up a little more. “Come, come,” you urged, turning between them with a mischievous smile. “Who was this Rowena fawning over? Where did this happen? You know I enjoy a bit of gossip!”
They looked between each other again and then fell into a fit of giggles before leaning in close to you, draping their hands on the edge of the tub and hurriedly telling you the story.
“This occurred the evening before, my lady. We had a little do in the kitchens for the serving staff, lovely food and drink bestowed upon us by Prince Baelor, may the seven bless him. The fire was roaring, some of the stableboys know how to play lutes and flutes and did so, and we just danced and drank and made merry,” Rosylyn set the scene, nodding as she spoke.
“And some of the King’s Guard who were off duty joined us, and we of course welcomed them. They can be quite charming when they wish to be, you know,” Cyrelle added, placing the soap and cloth down beside her as she smirked. You giggled at that, nodding enthusiastically.
“Well, Ser Roland was dragged in with some of the others though we could tell he wished to leave and sleep. But Ser Donnal and Ser Lynton managed to convince him to stay for one drink, and he sat himself down by the fire with his cup of ale.” Your smile dropped a little and you straightened up in the bath, hands clenching on the rim of the tub. You blinked quickly, head flashing back and forth as you looked between the two girls.
“Rowena is rather promiscuous on a good day,” Cyrelle murmured, and Rosylyn laughed and nodded in agreement.
“Yes, and she of course took her chance when she saw the handsome knight sitting there, ripe for the taking. It is common knowledge that the King’s Guard is not the most… adhering to their vows, shall we say,” Rosylyn intoned, raising her eyebrows, “and why should she not try her lot?”
Your smile fully dropped away now, your stomach churning a little as you set your eyes squarely on Rosylyn. She was surely wrong. Surely she was wrong about the King’s Guard and their vows and this… woman.
“And?” You asked quickly, voice breathy and wavering.
“Well, she sits herself down beside him, practically attaches herself to his side like she has been nailed there, and just talks his ear off. She’s always filling his cup of ale again, stroking his arm or even his chest, and smiles at him like she has never seen a man before!” Cyrelle giggled harshly, pressing her hand to her mouth as Rosylyn tells the tale.
“Oh,” you breathed out, nodding and forcing yourself to lean back a little in the tub. Your spine felt too rigid, your hands were shaking a little, and you were filled with this mix of anger and dread that you did not wish to speak of. You rubbed your lips a little, any physical motion to distract your mind.
“But bless him, the poor man looked tortured. He kept glancing away to Ser Donnal and Ser Lynton, kept leaning away from her grip, kept ordering her not to refill his cup, but she did not listen. I believe she was hoping that he would eventually become drunk enough to take her to bed, but after enough time had passed, he stood abruptly, slammed his cup down on the nearest table and stormed out.”
“Oh,” you said again, the same breathy voice, but this one a little brighter than before. You blinked quickly, something inside you easing. You could imagine his scowl so clearly in your mind, the huff he would have let out in annoyance. You brought your hands under the water and laced them together in your lap. “Oh my.”
“Oh my indeed!” Cyrelle exclaimed, finally leaning back and picking up the soap and cloth again. “Lift your arm, my lady, I’ll clean them,” she gestured, and you nodded quickly and happily followed.
You stayed silent for the rest of the bath, thinking about the anger and the relief, grateful for the chatter between Rosylyn and Cyrelle. When they had finished scrubbing and cleaning, you requested them to leave, that you wished to sit in the water for a while longer and would dress yourself.
They happily obliged, cleaning up what they could and leaving the towel in easy reach of you. When the door had closed behind them, you let out a long sigh and sunk deeper into the tub. You stared out of the open balcony doors and into the sky, enjoying the large expanse of blue once more and returning to the pensive mood you had left behind in the sitting room.
The King’s Guard were loose with their vows. This was news to you. They were of the highest rank, proud creatures who took vows for a reason. But then again, you were not very surprised either. They were often handsome men, tall and broadshouldered, why should they stay shackled to chastity when people were ready to throw themselves at them?
Did Ser Roland take those opportunities? Had he sullied his vows since he had taken them? You chewed on your lip as you pondered the question. You would not be surprised if he had...
You sat up a little in the bath, suddenly overcome with thirst, and you turned onto your stomach, folding your knees under you in the tub to face the door.
“Ser Roland!” You called, arms draped over the edge of the tub as you rested your chin on the rim.
The door opened and he stepped in, eyes widening a little before he quickly averted his gaze to the ceiling. He could not turn his back to a royal, and he could not chastise you for how wrong this was. He could not leave but surely he could not stay.
He glanced back at you once, the sweet tantalisation of it too much to bear, then he looked at the ceiling once more. He wasn’t quite sure, but he could almost see the curve of your behind in the water over your shoulder.
“Yes, my princess?” He asked, voice rougher than usual, a harsh swallow bobbing in his throat. You smiled, a spark of mischief now alive in your eye. You casually traced your fingers over the rim of the tub, taking your time to speak.
“Would you call for some wine? I am rather thirsty,” you asked sweetly, smiling though he was not looking at you.
“There is wine on the sideboard, princess,” he responded quickly, jumping on the opportunity to have something to look at. You glanced there as well, your smirk widening a little at the gift you had been given.
“Oh, wonderful. Would you be a dear and pour me some then?” You asked, tilting your head innocently as you looked up at him.
Ser Roland glanced down at you again, mouth opening and closing as he reached for something to say. He should not. He should say ‘this is not appropriate, my princess’ and walk back out of the door to stand guard. He should call for a servant and have them deal with this, or send for someone to bring your maids back up. He should not be here.
Roland shut the door behind him and walked quickly over to the sideboard, gripping the handle of the jug so hard the metal almost bent under his palm. He sloshed the wine into the goblet, and then clanked over to you, one hand on the pommel of his sword like always.
You reached out for the cup, still hiding your chest against the side of the bath, and let your fingers brush along his as you took it from him. His eyes traced all the way up your arm, over the droplets clinging to your skin and across the curve of your shoulder. His lips parted just a little.
“Thank you, Ser,” you told him softly, biting your lip a little as you looked up at him. He looked so strong and wide in the armour, so gallant in the white.
“Of course, my princess,” he answered, nodding his head and moving away quickly, forcing himself back to the door.
“Um, wait!” You yelled quickly, eyes darting around for an excuse, anything to keep him in the room. “Um, would you be a dear and hold my towel?” You asked, pointing toward the little table. You gulped quickly from your cup of wine then put it down on said table, smiling sweetly up at him once more. “I do not want to slip getting out.”
“I shall call your maids back, my princess,” he told you firmly, jaw clenching as he looked at the table with the towel instead of you.
Surely this was Roland’s hell, he thought, his punishment for the life he had lived. A young pretty thing like you, the princess he was sworn to protect, the woman he had spent months silently pining over, now taunting him like this, teasing him.
Did you know how he thought of you? Did you know that he fisted his cock to thoughts of you in the darkest of night? That he came with ‘my princess’ bitten back behind his lips? Perhaps you or the Seven were punishing him for those weak nights, for those exact moments.
“No, no, do not bother them. They have only just gone and I do not wish to have them dragged back. There is no need for it. Just simply hold the towel up.” You waved your hand in the air to dispel his worries like gnats, as if it was completely normal for a knight to see his princess in such a state of undress, as if any of what had happened since he entered this room was normal.
Roland grunted, but he could not find it in him to keep disobeying, to deny himself this secret, guilty, pleasure. He walked over to the table and took up your towel, standing beside the tub and holding it up. He still averted his eyes to the ceiling, still attempted a sense of chivalry, but it became more and more difficult when he heard the sloshing of water as you stood up.
You dripped into the bath, humming quietly as you carefully stepped out of the bath and onto the mat left for you. You stared at Ser Roland, at the way he tilted his head back and held the towel open wide for you. You smiled a little to yourself, shivering as the water began to cool on your skin. You felt the rivulets going down you, heard the ‘plink!’ as the droplets hit the rim of the tub, and then you moved forward and into the width of his arms.
He could not help himself then, glancing down when he felt the towel pull a little as you leaned yourself into it. His arms automatically came down, wrapping you up in the fabric. His hands paused at your shoulders, resting there.
You were so close, barely a hair’s breadth from him. He could smell your hair, warm and soft like soap. Your skin too, clean and flowery like the things that still bobbed in the bath. You trembled a little in his grasp, your chest fluttering up and down like a petal in the wind.
You turned in his hold, facing him once more. Your mouth was parted, your eyes fluttering, your hands shaking as you raised them up between the edges of the towel and placed one against the plate of armour on his chest.
You glanced up at him, eyes hooded, and he didn’t realise that he held you tighter, pulled you a little closer. You licked your lips, tilted your head back to look up at him. His eyes were already on yours, and you raised higher on your toes and pressed your mouth firmly to his.
For a moment, Roland did nothing. He let his eyes flutter shut, let his grip on you tighten, and did not move more than that. But when your lips trembled a little against his, moved just a bit to press further into the kiss, he breathed out through his nose and leaned into it.
It was soft, gentle, caressing and sweet. It was slow, the barest of movements lasting a lifetime. You pulled away first, just enough to breathe in, rubbing your nose against his. Then you rested back on your feet properly, still close by, still with your hands on his chest. He looked down at your gentle eyes, your soft smile, and he felt his insides melt and turn to mush.
Slowly, he reached up and gripped you over the shoulders, moving the towel just so to dry you. He did it over your arms, then at your waist and hips and your upper thighs. He dried you in little squeezes and pats, and took one of the corners of the towel to dab away the water that had splashed onto your chin. You sighed, something akin to a moan of pleasure, and he clenched his hands a little tighter into the fabric.
When his hands stilled once more, you carefully unfurled your fingers from the towel. It slowly slid down your body, catching here and there before dropping onto the floor around your feet. Your hands trembled with the action and you resisted the urge to cover yourself. Roland let his gaze trail down you, over your face and your neck and your breasts, your nipples pinching tightly at his gaze. He watched the tremble of your stomach and the lines of your thighs and calves, the way you stood barefoot on the mat and the dark place at the apex of your thighs.
He leaned in and kissed you again, soft and warm and licking only just at your lips before he pulled away. His back curved as he leaned down even lower, trailing the kisses along your cheek, your jaw. One of his hands came up to cup the other side of your face, guiding your head to the side so he could press his face into the crook and lave wet kisses down your throat.
His breaths were little puffs against your skin, like hot brushes of fingertips. His back ached a little at the angle, but he continued down to your chest, lowering his knees so he could access your breasts.
The kisses were wet presses, little spots of saliva cooling where he left them. His mouth softly engulfed your nipple, his lips wrapping around it as he licked it. He sucked, just enough to send a spark through you, a huff of breath falling from your mouth. You placed one hand on his shoulder, just somewhere to grip. He sucked it and licked it until he was satisfied, then kissed his way to the other one. The same treatment ensued, the wet licks and unbearable heat that made you tremble and your core pulse.
He pulled away, looked right into your eyes with his blazing blues, and then kneeled down right in front of you. When he was settled on his knees, he breathed shakily and gripped either side of your hips. He kissed along your stomach, running his lips on the soft skin, and then down he went.
Your blinks began to slow down, your eyes becoming hooded as you dropped your chin to your chest. He caressed your hips as he kissed over your mound, dug his thumbs into your waist as he pushed his chin into the space between your thighs and notched his tongue into the crease of your cunt.
He licked there, a long drag of his tongue in the place that pulsed and throbbed. Yes, it was throbbing. Your insides clenched around nothing. He licked again, notching the tip of his tongue into your entrance before forcing it up and to your clit.
He closed his eyes, pressed his face harder there. You were breathless, making soft noises that were not quite moans and not quite whines. It was hot inside you, like fresh mulled wine or a boiling bath.
He wrapped his lips around the nub, sucking on it, pulsing his lips around it. You shook, hands coming down to press onto his shoulders to hold you steady. He lapped at it, stuck his tongue between the lips of your cunt and dragged it up and down. His hands slid around to hold your plump behind, to press you impossibly closer to his mouth.
“Ser,” you breathed, “ser,” you whined, “ser!” Each sound more high-pitched than the last, more desperate as the pleasure climbed inside you, as it shot down each leg and crackled inside your breasts like lightning.
You pushed yourself against his mouth, chasing the feeling as he stuck his tongue out and let you ride it. You moved your hips back and forth, back and forth, urged on by his grip. One of your hands moved to his hair, just clenching there. He groaned against you, the rumbling shaking through you.
“Ser!” You gasped, and then you were lost. Back and forth, licks, hot and wet, back and forth, and it was cresting, there it was, so close, you pulsed, and pulsed, and throbbed, you were clenching, clenching so tight, and there and there and- “ser!”
You came like you were being washed away by a wave. You clenched your hand in his hair, bucked yourself against his face, almost fell down on top of him. He gripped you tightly to make sure you stayed upright, continued lapping at your core until you whined.
You rocked back onto your heels a little, teetering but balanced by your hand on his shoulder. You blinked your eyes open, gazing down at him in a daze. He caressed your side, rubbing it up and down with his palm. Neither of you said a word, just looked at each other and felt the humming in the air.
There was a change in it, in the electricity that passed between you. It was like a door had been unlocked, like your whims and desires had been given free passage, no warnings, no restrictions. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hip and your hand tightened on his shoulder. He licked his lips, gathered the slick along them and sucked it back into his mouth. All you could do was tremble.
My AKOT7K fics are now also available at AO3! All my other fics (mostly Tolkien) are there as well!
Same fic names and username if you want to search yourself!
See also My HOTD Masterlist
Characters with written/upcoming fics:
Lyonel Baratheon, Baelor Targaryen, Raymun Fossoway, Daeron Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Ser Roland Crakehall of the Kingsguard, Aerion Targaryen, Ser Dunkan the Tall
The feast in your family’s honor was brighter than you remembered court ever being.
So many important faces filled the hall. Members of the small council, princes and princesses of the blood, great lords with careful smiles and sharper ambitions. Your husband sat near the King and Hand, newly named Master of Ships, already speaking in low tones with admirals and councillors about harbors, tariffs, and the royal fleet.
You sat across from him, your daughters on either side, your two sons further down the table trying very hard to look like young men and not boys overwhelmed by splendor. Your youngest, ten years old and solemn tonight in a dark blue doublet, kept stealing glances at the white cloaks stationed near the dais.
You followed his gaze.
And that was when you saw him.
Ser Roland Crakehall stood near the king’s chair, tall and immovable in white enamel and heavy wool. The candlelight caught along the curve of his armor and lit the strong planes of his face. He looked broader than you remembered, his shoulders filling out the cloak in a way that spoke of years in steel and discipline. His hair was shorter now, his expression more restrained, but there was no mistaking him.
For a moment you did not breathe.
He turned his head slightly, perhaps sensing your stare.
Your eyes met across the hall.
The years between you collapsed in an instant.
You were sixteen again, barefoot in the grass behind your father’s keep, skirts hitched up as you raced him toward the orchard wall. You were laughing, breathless, when he caught you by the waist and lifted you clean off your feet.
“I will be a knight,” he had said, grinning down at you. “And then I will ask your father for your hand.”
“And if he says no?”
“He will not.”
You had believed him.
You had believed everything then.
The present rushed back in with the sound of applause as the king rose to toast your husband’s appointment. Roland’s expression had shifted to something properly neutral, but you saw the flicker of recognition, of surprise, before he lowered his gaze in courtesy.
Later, when courses had been served and servants moved in a steady rhythm around the tables, he approached.
“My lady,” he said, bowing.
“Ser Roland.” Your voice felt steadier than your pulse.
Up close, the changes were clearer. A faint scar near his brow. Lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there when he used to squint into the sun beside you at the shoreline. He carried himself differently now, every movement measured.
“It has been many years,” he said.
“It has.”
Long enough that you had stopped expecting to see him in any crowd. Long enough that you had trained yourself not to wonder.
“You have gotten old, Roland,” you tease, succeeding in getting a chuckle from him.
“You remain the same, my lady,” he answers politely. You doubt you do, but it was nice to hear.
He glanced briefly toward your husband at the king’s side. “I offer my congratulations. Master of Ships is no small honor.”
“He has worked very hard for it,” you replied. “The sea has always called to him.”
“As it did to you.”
You smiled faintly. “You remember.”
“I remember you wading out too far and refusing to come back when the tide turned.”
You laughed softly, the memory sharp and sweet. You had been fourteen, skirts soaked, hair whipping in the wind. He had waded in after you fully clothed, furious you hadn’t listened to him. Any longer and the tides would have pulled you out, you did not know, of course.
“If you drown,” he had snapped, dragging you back toward shore, “I will never forgive you.”
“You cannot forgive a dead girl.”
“Then do not die.”
He had kissed you that evening for the first time, salt still on your lips.
In the present, his voice gentled. “How are you?”
The question was simple, but his eyes searched yours as they always had.
“I am well,” you said honestly. “Truly.”
“And your husband, does he treat you kindly?”
There it was again, that careful concern. It stirred something old and tender in your chest.
“He does,” you answered. “He honours me. He is patient. He is good to our children.”
Relief softened his expression.
“I am glad,” he said. “I would not wish you otherwise.”
You turned slightly, gesturing down the table. “You have not met my children properly. I’ve had 4, 2 boys and 2 girls. Our eldest is nearly a man. The second boy insists he will be a knight one day.”
Roland’s gaze followed to your sons. “Does he.”
“He watches the white cloaks as though they are carved of legend.” You smiled. “He reminds me of someone.”
Roland huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Gods help him.”
“He is stubborn. And earnest. And far too quick to leap before looking.”
“Then I will be glad to spar with him, if he wishes it,” Roland said. “Better he learn to fall properly.”
You pictured your dark-haired boy squaring off against the Kingsguard knight you had once imagined as your husband. The thought was strangely bittersweet.
“He would speak of nothing else for a year.”
Roland’s gaze shifted to your daughters, who were whispering together over sugared almonds. “And the girls?”
“Too clever by half,” you said fondly. “They will rule whatever houses they marry into.”
Roland’s mouth curved faintly. “Like you did, I’m sure.”
There was a pause, then you asked softly, “And your family. How fare they at Crakehall?”
He seemed almost startled by the question, as though he had grown unused to speaking of anything beyond duty.
“They are well,” he said. “My brother manages the lands capably, he writes me occasionally. There are nieces and nephews I have met only once or twice.”
“Do you miss it?”
He considered that. “Sometimes. The smell of the fields after rain. The noise at supper.” A faint smile. “But I made my choice.”
You remembered the day you learned he had taken the white.
You had already been married by then. A dutiful wife, learning the rhythms of another household. When the letter came, you had read it twice, then folded it very carefully and placed it in a drawer.
He had written only that he had been given the honor, that he would serve faithfully, that he wished you every happiness.
You had cried that night, quietly, so your husband would not hear.
“I used to think I would marry you,” you said before you could stop yourself.
The honesty hung between you.
“So did I,” he replied.
No bitterness. No accusation.
Just truth.
You remembered sitting beneath the orchard tree, his head in your lap, tracing idle patterns in his hair.
“When you are a knight,” you had teased, “you will be insufferable.”
“I will be magnificent.”
“And will you still belong to me?”
“Yes, I shall serve as your knight only.”
You had believed that, too.
“I suppose it didn’t work out the way we planned as children,” you said now, voice low.
“No,” he agreed. “It did not.”
Your father had seen advantage elsewhere. Roland had not yet earned his spurs. You had both assumed there would be time to argue, to persuade, to insist.
There had not been.
You married where you were told. He rode away to war and tourney and, eventually, to the Kingsguard.
You had not seen one another since.
“I never thought of you with anger, despite the way we parted,” he said quietly. “Only with hope that you were happy.”
“I was,” you answered. “I am.”
And you meant it.
Your husband was a good man. Your children were healthy. Your life was full.
But some part of you would always remember the boy who had promised you the sea.
A ripple of awareness passed through you suddenly. Conversations around you had shifted. A few glances had lingered too long.
You drew back slightly, smoothing your skirts. “We have been speaking for quite some time.”
“We have,” he said.
You felt the distance returning, polite and necessary.
“It is so nice to see you again,” you said gently. “To have a friendly face here.”
His eyes softened.
“The same to you,” he replied.
For a moment you both seemed suspended between then and now. Between orchard shade and candlelight. Between what might have been and what was.
He bowed formally, white cloak falling in a clean arc behind him.
“My lady.”
You inclined your head in return. “Ser Roland.”
It was so different from the last time you had see each other. That day had been all unshed tears and stubborn pride, both of you certain the world could still be bent.
Tonight there was no pride. No anger.
Only acceptance.
You turned back toward your husband, who was looking for you with a small, questioning smile. You smile back at him, assuring him you were well. Your youngest reached for your hand as you sat back in your seat.
Across the hall, Roland returned to his post beside the king.
There was nothing else to do now.
And yet, as the music swelled and the candles burned lower, you could not help but feel that some quiet, tender chapter of your life had closed again, not in pain, but in finality.
