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When Egg had asked your name in return, you politely supplied it. He repeated it once, testing its shape upon his tongue. You had not heard your name uttered in a long time—not since your mother’s passing—and something about its sound in his tinny little voice was unexpectedly heartwarming. Egg, however, made no comment about whether your name was fitting or not. He was much more inclined to comment on other names of note.

Once you had set upon the dirt road, he was already well into a proud recital of all the knights he knew of and their accomplishments, scarcely pausing for breath. 

“...and Lord Tully of Riverrun, who wears a silver trout as a crest on his helm…”

“...then there is Ser Robyn Rhysling, the maddest knight of the seven kingdoms. He lost his eye in a tilt five years past…” 

“...also The Grey Lion, Ser Damon Lannister—Lord of Casterly Rock…”

“...Lord Ashford’s sons, Ser Androw and Ser Robert…”

“...and Lord Tyrell of Highgarden, oft called Leo Longthorne. He competed quite fiercely in a tourney at Kings Landing once…” 

“...a knight from the Vale of Arryn, he won a great melee at Maidenpool last year…” 

“...overthrew Ser Donnel of Duskendale—a knight of the Kingsguard—whose father owns half the crabbing fleets in Westeros…”

When his memory failed him at last and he could not recall any more knights, he launched off into song—a lively and somewhat irreverent ballad about The Hammer and The Anvil.

All of Egg’s endless prattle and singing might have been tiresome to anyone else, but to you it was quite welcome. After two weeks of travel spent mostly in silence—save for your occasional rambling to Old Lady, who only answered in snorts in brays—the presence of a new voice felt like a gift. In many ways, his spirited nature reminded you of yourself at his age, before the world had whittled you down. 

“I would have ridden in a lamb cart just to get to Ashford,” Egg declared suddenly, stopping midway through his lyrical recount of the Blackfyre Rebellion. 

“A lamb cart?” you snorted, air expelling sharply from your nose out of amusement before you could stop it. The image of a bald little boy wedged in a rickety old cart, rubbing shoulders with bleating lambs was surely far more ridiculous than a boy and a woman on a donkey. 

“Yes.” 

“And why a lamb cart?” 

“When I first arrived at that inn, I heard a farmer say he meant to travel north to Ashford with his flock. After that knight refused me in the stables, I thought I would have to chance my luck with the lambs. Fortunately, luck brought me you instead.” Egg then made a face, scrunching his nose in subtle repulsion. “And your donkey.” 

“What is wrong with my donkey?” You scoffed, tone incredulous, offended on behalf of Old Lady.

Old Lady was none the wiser, gray fuzzy head bobbing along with her steps the same way it did every day before. 

“I never imagined I would ever have to ride donkey-back anywhere,” Egg huffed petulantly. “Squires are taught sword and shield and riding. A knight is nothing without a horse.”

“Well, I’ll have you know Old Lady is as strong and as loyal as any horse—better, even. She’s doing well to carry the two of us, is she not?” 

“That may be true,” Egg conceded, “but no knight rides a donkey into the lists.” 

And with that he returned to his ballad, lending his voice again to the melody of green grass fields turned red with bastard blood.

Egg, you quickly learned, was quite the bold and hard-headed boy. He possessed an entitlement about him that you had never seen on any other peasant child, and he was more well-spoken and well-learned than any of them too. Yet as much as he was brazenly forthright with his opinions, he revealed very little of himself.

You knew nothing of true substance about him beyond his desire to squire at Ashford and his dead mother—a detail he told the knight at the inn, not you. He made no mention of a home or any other kin, avoiding it entirely. You did not ask it of him either, nor did he ask it of you. His secrets were his own to keep and so were yours. The unspoken agreement suited you, and you kept on to Ashford only speaking of trivial matters. 

The day was warmer than the last, but not hot enough to be wholly unpleasant—still fair weather for travel. The sky stretched wide and cloudless above, granting the sun its freedom to beat down upon the earth as it pleased. Spring rains had swollen the local rivers and the surface of its fiercely flowing waters reflected the sun’s bright rays, casting shards of light into the countryside. The breeze was faint, only succeeding to stir the wispy green grass of the rolling hills. Willow trees hung low along the roadside like silent spectators, their trailing branches offering shade to those who tread under it. Small birds with colorful feathers flitted about through the willow trees, chirping happily as they went. 

You had never dreamt you would ever behold such birds. Near the seaside, where you had once lived, the air belonged mostly to gulls and salt-laden wind. You had never dreamt you would have ever left that old cottage either. Honestly, though you had longed for adventure your entire life, you had never dreamt of any of this—the open road, the sun warming your face, the swollen river’s dancing light, the bald boy perched before you, the journey to Ashford—at all.

But what do dreams even mean, truly? 

Suddenly, your thoughts drifted to peculiar ramblings and wine-soaked breath, to a tall nose and tangled hair, to the handsome stranger at the inn.

What did he dream of?  

“Egg, what do you think of dreams?” you inquired, before you could reconsider it. 

“I think little of them,” Egg shrugged, squinting out at the road ahead. Then, he pondered upon the matter further. “I think they are oft mistaken for wishes. People take them to mean the same thing.”

“And are they not?” you asked, curious and eager to continue the discourse. 

Egg thought for a moment, then succinctly replied, “No.” 

“What, then, distinguishes a dream from a wish?” 

“I suppose it is their ability to come true.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Some believe their dreams are inevitably meant to come true,” Egg said matter-of-factly. “But with wishes, you can decide whether they come true or not of your own volition—they require will. Just as I wish to squire at Ashford and am doing everything in my power to secure it for myself.” 

Hm, what a fascinating notion. 

“You are a very clever boy, Egg,” you smiled.

“I hope the knight I squire for will think so too.” Egg smiled back, big round eyes twinkling with fervor.

It was then that you noticed his irises to be a deep, dark blue—almost but not quite indigo. 

“You know,” you began idly, watching the colorful birds fly above, “I have never met a knight. There was little glory where I lived, so no such men were ever drawn there. But when I was a girl, I read every tale I could find. Tales of the Dragonknight, Symeon Star-Eyes, Ser Ryam Redywne, and Florian the Fool. I even had their vows committed to memory.” A soft laugh escaped you. “I think the child I once was will be quite gladdened to meet a knight at last, once we reach Ashford. I have heard tell that Targaryen princes shall be in attendance too, and I have never met a prince either. I wonder whether any of our princes are to make good knights.”

“Prince Maekar’s eldest sons are shit knights,” Egg muttered, expression gone sour. 

You arched a brow at the boy’s sudden vehemence but did not press him.

“Well, let us hope you find a good and honorable knight to squire for, then,” you declared. “One that defends the young and the innocent, as he has sworn to in the name of The Mother.” 

That was always your favored vow. 

Egg nodded, and the trek to Ashford continued.

Old Lady plodded steadily onward, the clopping of her hooves a steady rhythm against the dirt. Your coin purse jangled like a tambourine at your side—one copper heavier than before, courtesy of Egg. Wind whistled across the countryside, taking the grass and the leaves to be their reed instruments. Rushing waters over stone river beds roared a fierce chorus. The birds weaved through the clear sky above with practiced beats of their wings, filling the air with songs of their own. 

Egg, of course, did not remain quiet for long. 

“What do you think of dreams?” he asked thoughtfully, reflecting your earlier question unto you.

It took you a long moment to compose your answer. 

“Before I began this journey, I thought nothing of them at all,” you replied pensively. 

Then that soft and reverent voice whispered, unbidden, in your mind once more. 

You are a lovely, lovely dream. 

“But now I find myself not quite so indifferent.”  

By late afternoon, Old Lady crested a gentle hill that revealed a grand view of Ashford Meadow. 

It was a broad place, stretching across a wide valley and the vast grassy field of green within it. At the far edge of the valley lay a castle that presided over the meadow, its slate walls gleaming in the sun and its banners stirring lazily from its towers—the Ashford castle, no doubt. Directly below it sprawled the tourney grounds, already bustling with life, servants making the final preparations for the festivities to soon commence there. 

Pavilions had already been set up in the tall grass of the field, accompanied by a makeshift market of merchant stands, wagons, and artisan stalls. There must have been at least threescore pavilions, each tent varying in shape, size, material, and color. Some were modest and weatherworn, others soared high and splendid. All had distinctly chosen fabric and streaming banners that flashed the vibrant colors and sigils of their noble houses. Every shade imaginable—deep reds, bright yellows, rich blues, dark greens, muted greys—dotted across the entire expanse. 

Thin ribbons of smoke curled upward from the pavilions, indicating the life to be found there. The distant clang of metal upon metal resounded in the atmosphere—blacksmiths tending to their trade, most like—alongside boisterous laughter and lively music heavy with fiddle. Even from the outskirts of the meadow, the strong scents of roasted meat, aromatic spices, hot iron, and musky earth pervaded the air. Looking closely, you could even spot the tiny figure of an old woman bartering for a wheel of cheese.

The place was thick with life, indeed. 

A river cut clean through the meadow, swift and glittering, separating the pavilions and market from the tourney grounds. A sturdy bridge spanned it, stout and ancient. The bridge never seemed to be devoid of crossings—wagons rattling, horse hooves beating, and smallfolk milling relentlessly over it in both directions. A monolith of grand stone archways marked the entrance to the tourney grounds, deep cracks and ivy climbing along its form as a show of its true age. The grounds themselves were massive, with more than enough space to allow for at least seven tilts to occur at once. 

The sight before you stole the breath from your lungs. 

You made it. 

Without thinking, you pulled the reins from Egg’s hands and urged Old Lady toward the meadow at a quicker pace. A thrumming sensation rattled through your bones, one of great anticipation. The breeze picked up as if to push you forward, to encourage you to fulfill your one driving purpose of honoring your mother’s dying wish. The distant chatter and vibrant colors beckoned you onward—you had no choice but to heed its call.

Ashford awaited. Your future awaited.

As you neared the outskirts of the meadow, the thread that wound you toward it suddenly snapped, untethered by a wild outburst from your young travel companion. 

“Wait!” Egg screamed, shrill and high, snatching back the reins with small, grabby hands. 

The sound was almost deafening to your ears and locked Old Lady’s stout legs firmly in place. 

“What is the matter?” you demanded, utterly bewildered. 

Nothing could possibly be worth stopping for now—not when you were so close. 

“There!” Egg lifted a pale finger and pointed into the distance, though at what you could not quite ascertain.

When you followed his gaze off the side of the road, you saw only a clearing within a dense forest. Tall trees crowded around its edges and rays of sunlight basked upon the open, uncovered space. It was uneven and wild, dotted with thickets and clusters of tangled shrubbery. A narrow stream ran quietly alongside it, shallow water slipping over smooth stones with a soft, ceaseless murmur.

Clearly, it was not the way ahead to Ashford, so why was it so important? 

Egg recognized your confusion, for you wore it plainly on your face, and let out an impatient sigh before granting you clarification. 

“That elm tree, there.” 

Sure enough, there was indeed an elm tree rooted upon a grassy knoll in the middle of the clearing. It stood proud and tall above the rest of the hedges, as though to show its dominion over the expanse. Its trunk was thick and weathered, the rugged brown bark ridged and furrowed with the years. Its branches stretched outward in long, sturdy arms, heavy with dense clusters of green leaves that whispered softly whenever the wind stirred them. The leaves cast a generous patch of shade across the grass below—a cool and inviting escape from the sun.

To sit under the elm tree seemed a perfect place to rest and enjoy the scenery on a beautiful day. 

Was that what Egg wanted? To rest? 

No. There must have been something else. 

Finally, you saw it.

The most interesting feature of the elm tree was not its trunk, or its branches, or its leaves. It was the two horses tied to it, peeking out from behind it. One looked to be an old workhorse with a sagging spine; the other, a large dark-colored destrier. 

The horses looked vaguely familiar. 

“Those horses belong to the knight at the inn,” Egg proclaimed. 

Before you could even reply, he wiggled from the saddle beneath him and hopped off Old Lady’s back—it took him an extra moment to finally land upon the gritty earth, though, for his legs were so short. Then he leapt into the grass, straying from the road and toward the elm tree. His long, ill-fitting tunic dragged through the thickets, but he remained determined to trudge his way forward. 

“Egg!” you called out after him, but he did not stop. 

With a frustrated grumble, you dismounted from Old Lady as well and followed after his small, hurried form without a second glance toward the meadow—its pull was lost on you now. You gathered up the skirt of your dress so that it would not catch on the shrubbery, and pulled Old Lady’s reins along with you. Luckily, the leather boots strapped to your feet helped to level your steps upon the uneven trek through the thickets. The boy was not so far ahead, and halted once he arrived at the base of the elm tree. 

When you reached Egg, you saw a modest camp set beneath the shade of the elm. Worn, dirty clothes were left hanging on a branch and miscellaneous items were strewn about the ground—a bedroll, saddlebags, pots and pans, and the like. Egg was already knelt over a large burlap sack, rifling furiously through the items inside it. Once he found what he sought, he pulled out a dented iron half-helm and a rusted chainmail hauberk. He held the armor up proudly, metal catching the sunlight, beaming at his discovery. 

“This proves it. These are the knight’s possessions—I know because I went through them last night,” Egg explained plainly. 

What an insolent boy he was. 

It made the corner of your lip twitch upward in amusement. 

“He must be a hedge knight, then,” you observed. 

You had only ever heard of hedge knights—but you had not realized they truly slept in hedges. You always thought it to be a gross exaggeration, a disparaging jest meant for tall tales. Now equipped with the whole truth, you still passed no critical judgement. A hedge knight is sworn by the same vows as any other knight, and sleeping in the hedges does not make him any less of one. 

An odd curiosity began to take root.  

Was the life of a hedge knight overflowing with adventure, then, if he was beholden to no true home? 

“I will squire for the hedge knight,” Egg said, nodding firmly, his mind already made up. 

“Egg, there are likely more noble knights to squire for among the pavilions,” you suggested, softly.

Even though you would not disrespect the life of a hedge knight, you could not say you were pleased to think of the young boy sleeping in ditches. 

Egg bristled at the suggestion of finding another knight, and shook his head vehemently. He did not want to squire for a noble—he wanted the hedge knight. You did not know it was truly because he feared recognition, intending to keep his identity hidden for as long as he could. 

“So what is your plan, then? Stay here until the hedge knight returns and beg him to take you as his squire? If I recall correctly, he already said no.” 

“I can convince him to take me.” Egg shrugged, a stubborn air about him. “He will need me.” 

From the tone in his voice, there was little use arguing with him. He plopped down under the elm tree and began rummaging through the rest of the hedge knight's belongings. There was a razor, a whetstone, and a small cracked leather belt that scarcely looked to fit around the hips of a larger man—the useless article was most likely the reason the hedge knight wore a rope instead to hold his scabbard.

“You may leave me here if you wish,” Egg offered, “I am not going any further.” 

For a moment you stood there unsure, hesitant.

The miniscule distance to Ashford still lay open behind you, the meadow bright and beckoning beyond the clearing. But now its call was not so fierce as it was before. You had meant to part ways with the boy at the tourney anyways, the alliance meant to dissolve once the destination was reached. Yet the thought of turning your back on him—of leaving him alone beneath the elm—sat strangely heavy in your chest.

In only a handful of hours, you had grown quite fond of Egg’s companionship. His chatter, his songs, and his bold opinions had filled the silence that had followed you these past weeks, and you would sorely miss it when it was gone. His youthful spirit inspired in you a liveliness you had not felt in a long time.

It felt wrong to go on alone again.

Suddenly, you were struck by a fragment of the counsel your mother had given you before she passed.

“You must make some good company once you are at the tourney—company you can trust,” she had advised sternly, desperate to secure your safety. “A woman alone at such unrestrained festivities is an invitation for trouble. Yes, there will be noble lords and knights present, but there too may be lecherous men sick from wine who mean to take advantage of a lonesome young maiden in the dead of night.”

A quiet realization settled over you. 

Perhaps it would be favorable to stay here, where a camp was already made and trusted company was guaranteed in the boy.

Perhaps you could beg sanctuary with the hedge knight, appealing to his vows, just as Egg meant to beg to serve as the hedge knight’s squire, appealing to his obvious need for one.

Perhaps the meadow could wait. After all, the tourney was not so short an occasion. You would have several days yet to see your true purpose through.

And perhaps the elm tree would serve you better than any pavilion, for the field was filled with constant clamor and you would surely be in need of quieter accommodations. 

At last, you sighed, tied Old Lady alongside the horses, and plopped down beside Egg. The shade of the elm was indeed comforting, and the grass was soft against your skin. Egg looked up at you with wide eyes, half-pleased and half-curious that you had chosen to stay with him. You merely tilted your head at him and smiled—a fond smile that crinkled at the corners of your eyes, one you had not worn in a very long time.

“So,” you mused, “how do you suppose we persuade the knight to accept us both?”

Egg grinned, the pale apples of his cheeks stretching wide, and eagerly launched into his scheme.

His first proposal was to groom the horses—a knight must needs have a well-kept steed. 

You found that the workhorse was of easy temperament, so old that he was wholly indifferent to whoever approached him. His coat was the color of burnished copper, and a broken stripe of white ran down between his ears to the end of his muzzle. The elderly horse snorted in contentment as you and Egg ran worn brushes—missing half their bristles—down his flank and across the bowed ridge of his back. It proved quite the easy task. 

The destrier, however, was another matter entirely. The great warhorse was wary and untrusting, snorting in protest and stomping a heavy hoof whenever you or Egg ventured too near. So large a creature should have been intimidating, yet you took the challenge in stride. Even if you owned only a donkey, you had always been quite fond of horses.

You fetched a handful of oats from your saddlebag and held the golden grains out slowly in your open palm. Careful not to crowd the animal, you made sure to offer the enticing prize from a few feet away. The destrier watched you for a long moment, snorting deeply and dark eyes suspicious, until he could not resist his hunger any longer. His hesitation disappeared at last when he stretched out his thick neck and nudged his muzzle into your palm, hot breath spilling across your skin as he greedily devoured the oats. While he was occupied, you began brushing his glossy flank with your free hand and motioned for Egg to do the same.

Soon enough, the fierce destrier accepted the pair of you, won over by grain and gentle grooming.

Egg’s second proposal was to find food—a knight must needs have proper sustenance. 

The nearby stream proved generous enough, and while Egg had set about catching fish you figured you could prove your own usefulness in the meantime, too.  

You supplied the third proposal yourself: to wash the knight’s clothes—a knight must needs have a clean appearance. 

You perched at the water’s edge scrubbing the soiled garments as Egg waded into the shallows with a freshly sharpened branch clutched in his hands. He stabbed repeatedly into the water, childish glee and determination marking his every movement. The activity looked like was quite enjoyable, so you planned to join him once you had completed your own chore.

The knight’s clothes were thick with the scent of sour musk, sweat, and dirt. You wrinkled your nose as you worked. They were in dire need of a thorough washing. How they had come to be so soiled, you could not ascertain. Perhaps you could ask the hedge knight himself if the moment ever arose, assuming he allowed you to stay.

Once you had rinsed the garments clean, you draped them over a low-hanging branch to dry. Then you toed off your boots and waded into the cool stream. The water was refreshing and pleasant around your ankles and gave little resistance as you assumed a place beside Egg. He showed you his method with great enthusiasm, listing all the fish he had caught in the past as if they were legendary beasts. Even with his instruction, however, you caught none. The silvery fish darted quickly through the cold water, evading every thrust of your sharpened stick.

Egg, on the other hand, had managed to nab a respectable catch. He hooted and hollered at his success, splashing the water and twirling the fish around by the end of his makeshift spear. You laughed heartily, amused by the boy’s exuberant celebration—you had not witnessed such simple joy in a long time. When you had asked how he had gotten so skilled at the trade, his reply was delivered with nothing more than a shrug.  

“I like fishing.”

The final proposal was to build a campfire—a knight must needs have proper warmth for his camp. 

When the dark of night finally took charge over the sky, you discovered Egg was even more skilled at making fire than he was at fishing. A spark had lit and caught on his very first strike of flint against steel. It usually took you several attempts to coax a fire into being, but it came naturally to him, and he summoned one with ease. He commanded the spark with a strong hand, creating a sizable flame. Then he built the flame higher and higher, feeding it with small twigs and dry branches.

It roared before him, the dancing firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. The voracious blaze seemed to hypnotize Egg—it demanded to consume more, and Egg obeyed. You wondered, then, whether he was commanding the fire or if the fire was commanding him. 

“That is quite enough,” you said gently, bracing a hand on his shoulder to stop him from tossing in another branch. “Unless you mean to burn the hedge knight’s supper before he returns.”

Egg blinked, shaking from his fixated stupor, then hurriedly turned the fish over to roast on its uncooked side.

As you both settled beside the crackling warmth, you took a look around the camp. It had transformed entirely from how you first found it. The horses stood brushed and content beneath the elm. The knight’s garments were clean and set out to dry above the fire. The smell of roasting fish mingled with the scent of woodsmoke and drifted into the evening air.

Your gaze fell upon the boy across the fire, his tunic and hands caked with dirt. Egg had worked tirelessly all afternoon, determined to make himself useful before the hedge knight even returned. For all his stubbornness, there was an earnest and well-meaning ambition in him—a boy who wanted nothing more than to prove he was worthy of a knight’s service.

“I think you are to make a great squire,” you told him softly. “Any knight would be lucky to have you.” 

Egg grinned wide at that, his face illuminated only by the flame before him. As the pleased expression spread across his features in the wavering light, you noticed his big, dark blue eyes dip into a deep indigo color.

Your heart clenched immediately.

How strange. The boy’s eyes reminded you of another pair that had captivated you the night before.

Even now—even after a long, tiresome day of dust, dirt, sweat, and mud—your thoughts still wandered back to those eyes. 

Frosty irises of ice that bloomed into glistening violets.

Well into the night, the hedge knight finally made his return to his hedges at last. 

He trudged slowly through the wispy grass, his gait morose and his shoulders bowed dejectedly beneath the weight of the day’s disappointments. The breeze whistled a poor tune around him, as if to pity him for his shortcomings. The one man he had counted on to vouch for him had rudely rebuffed him without so much as a second glance. Ser Manfred Dondarrion had not remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree—he had not deigned to remember him at all.

Perhaps no one else would either.

What good was a knight who could not even enter the lists?

Before he could brood on the discouraging thought a second longer, his attention shifted when he noticed a low glow ahead. It was soft and orange—the glow of firelight—radiating from the hedges he had chosen for a home. He quickly rounded a thicket and beheld two figures settled at his camp, sitting by a crackling campfire underneath the elm tree.  

Rogues? Thieves? 

Much to his surprise, he recognized one of the figures to be a young bald-headed boy in a muddy tunic—the very same boy from the inn. The hedge knight’s eyes widened in disbelief, his brows shooting straight up to his hairline. This boy was like a bad cold he could not rid himself of, which worsened his already sour mood. Before he could think better of it, he stomped forward with heavy footfalls into the firelight to reveal himself and confront the boy. 

“You!” the hedge knight exclaimed. “What… what are you doing?” 

The boy calmly turned to regard the hedge knight, a somewhat bored look on his face. 

“Cooking a fish,” he said simply. Then he lifted a roasted fish off the fire and held it out in offering. “Do you want some?”

“No!” the hedge knight snapped. “I mean—how did you get here? Did you steal a horse?”

The boy shrugged and jerked his chin toward the other side of the fire. “I came with her.”

The hedge knight followed the boy’s gaze and only then did he truly notice you. You sat across the flames with your hands stretched toward the warmth, watching the exchange in silence. The firelight flickered across your face, bathing your features in shifting gold and shadow. The hedge knight’s mouth fell open in awkward embarrassment. He had been so busy shouting at the boy he had scarcely remembered the boy was not alone.

You rose slowly to your feet when his eyes settled on you, ready to address him. Mud clung to the hem of your dress from your bout in the stream earlier, but you brushed it away with an easy motion and painted a polite smile on your face in an effort to look presentable. It was of most importance that you gained the knight’s good will if you wanted to stay here. 

The hedge knight cleared his throat, tongue growing heavy in his mouth, suddenly aware of how loudly he had been shouting. True knights were not to act so unruly around ladies. His first full day as one and he was already violating long-held conventions of chivalry.

Dunk the lunk—thick as a castle wall, his late master’s gruff voice howled at him in his mind. 

“And…” Dunk began nervously, for he did not have much experience speaking with ladies—much less pretty ones like you. “Who might you be?”

“She’s the one who brought me here,” the boy interrupted plainly, before you could answer. “On a donkey.” 

Dunk rounded on him. “Did I ask you, boy?”

The boy shrugged and returned his attention to the fish.

You hid the faintest hint of a smile. Oh, Egg. 

“I hope we have not taken too great a liberty with your camp,” you said, voice smooth and lighthearted. “The boy, Egg, told me this was your tree.”

“My tree,” Dunk repeated. He glanced up at the wide branches of the elm as though to confirm the fact. Right. Yes. These were the quieter accommodations he had chosen. This was his pavilion. “Well… Aye. It is.” 

For a moment none of you spoke.

The fire crackled softly, filling the air with glimmering embers. Dunk shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The shield on his back was beginning to tire him, so he shuffled past the boy and set the heavy, chipped thing down against the trunk of the elm.

You gazed curiously upon him to observe his appearance, now that you had a closer view than from your window at the inn.

He was much taller than you realized, towering over you and the boy even with his hunched posture. Long, thick limbs and strong, broad shoulders defined his burly form. A shaggy mop of honey-bronze hair sat atop his head, with sun-streaked auburn strands that ran through it—likely the mark of a life spent in the hedges. He possessed kind, round blue eyes and there was a well-meaning, honest nature about him that made him quite handsome in a rough sort of way. 

He would serve as good company, you thought, if he so chose to grant you sanctuary with him. You hoped above hope that he would.

“You can’t make us go,” Egg piped up again, “She needs you, and I’d had enough of that inn.”

“Now, listen.” Dunk pointed at him. “I’ll have no more insolence from you, boy. I should throw you over my horse and take you home.” 

“You’d need to ride all the way to King’s Landing,” Egg responded, unbothered. “You’d miss the tourney.”

“King’s Landing? You’re from Flea Bottom?” Dunk could not help the way his voice wavered. If the boy was just a Flea Bottom urchin, like he had once been, then it would hurt all the more to turn him so coldly away again. 

“No.”

“Aye.” 

Well, that settled it. 

Dunk went quiet again, for he was not a man who knew how to choose the right words. Instead, he shifted his attention to observe his camp, as though seeing it for the first time. Something was different—not greatly so, but enough to set his brow furrowing. His eyes landed upon his clothes. They hung from a low branch above the fire, clean and swaying gently in the warm night air. He had certainly not put them there, nor had he washed them. 

“What are those doing there?” he asked. 

“She washed them,” Egg explained, pointing at you with a tiny pale finger. Then he jabbed that same finger toward himself. “I made the fire, caught the fish, and we both groomed the horses.”

Dunk blinked and looked around again. He had noticed the fire and the fish—and now the clothes—but had yet to notice his horses. Sure enough, there they stood, calmly flicking their tails with their shiny coats freshly groomed. Yes, every chore had been done indeed.

“I would have raised your pavilion,” Egg continued, a bit of condescension seeping into his voice, “but I couldn’t find one.” 

“There’s my pavilion.” Dunk nodded up to the elm and set his large hands on his hips. 

“That’s a tree,” Egg deadpanned. 

“Yes, and it’s all the pavilion a true knight needs. I’d sooner sleep under the stars than in some smoky tent,” Dunk declared proudly. The words were half-his and half-Ser Arlan’s, but the meaning held true all the same. 

“What if it rains?”

“The tree will shelter me.”

“Trees leak.”

“So they do,” Dunk wheezed out a reluctant laugh.

There was many a time he had need of shelter under leaking trees, but that was the only life he was accustomed to. Now that he ventured to think about it further, it did sound quite bleak once finally said aloud. Alas, it served. He never needed anything else.

“We’re hoping you would allow us to stay with you for the duration of the tourney, ser,” you explained, finally. “The boy wishes to squire for you—he’s proven himself quite capable of it—and I can lend a hand to help you anywhere I can, too.” 

“Beggin’ your pardons, milady, I understand the boy bein’ here and all..." Dunk tilted his head. “But what need would you have of me?”

“Protection and trusted company, for what else could a woman need of a knight?” you replied with an easy shrug. “I have come to Ashford Meadow on my own and I dare say that it is not the safest place for a lonesome woman such as I. All I ask of you is sanctuary.”

“I am not so sure the sanctuary you seek will be best secured with the likes of me,” Dunk murmured. 

“Nonsense. I have full faith in you, ser. And I have the coin to pay for your protection,” you offered, pulling out your coin purse. You knew hedge knights were sellswords, so perhaps you would have to barter for his services. 

“No—no, milady.” Dunk shook his head quickly and placed his palms up to stop you. “I could not take your money.” As much as I am hurting for it, he grimaced inwardly. “As a knight I swore to protect all women in the name of The Maiden. My ser, Ser Arlan, always taught me that a true knight keeps to their vows free of charge.” 

“So you will allow me to stay?” 

“I cannot find it in me to say no, milady. But I cannot promise your stay will be comfortable here, either.”

“I am sure I would do more comfortably here, under the stars, than I would do in a—what did you call it? A smoky tent,” you parroted the hedge knight’s words with a cheeky smile. 

Dunk’s ears burned a hot red. 

“You need not call me a ‘lady,’” you added, voice firmer to convey the importance of your request.

As a woman of no high social standing you were unworthy of the title. You were no lady, you were just… you. But that was quite alright, you much enjoyed the simplicity of it all. High collars and stuffy carriages were not so desirable a life to someone who longed to explore the rest of the world in an abundance of great adventures. 

“Forgive me, milady—uh—I mean…”

You laughed softly and supplied him kindly with your name.

Dunk gave a single deep nod of his head, committing it to memory.

Strange.

The corner of Dunk’s lips turned ever just the faintest bit downward. Even if you were only a common woman and even if your clothes were a bit drab… You had a certain air about you—an incredible beauty, a well-spokenness, a graceful demeanor—that suggested you had all the makings to be a great noble lady, had you been born into such status. 

“What’s your name?” Egg asked the hedge knight, curiously. 

“Dunk.” 

“Ser Dunk?” Egg’s brows furrowed. “That’s no name for a knight. Is it short for Duncan?”

“Yeah,” Dunk affirmed while he shook his head ‘no.’ Quite the paradox.

In truth, ‘Dunk’ was not short for anything, it was simply just his name. But he had dire need of a more sophisticated title—something puissant and preferably with more than one dull syllable—if he wanted to be taken as a worthy knight. ‘Duncan’ was as good a name as any, for half of it was already his.

“Yes. Ser Duncan of…” 

Ser Duncan of Fleabottom? No. That would not do. It was unbecoming. He thought harder, racking his thick skull for something well-suited to him that would roll off the tongue well. Growing up, everyone always told him he was stupid—but they also always told him he was tall. None could ever dispute it, and he always did well to use it to his advantage. 

Finally, he settled on a befitting title and stood up just a bit straighter to deliver it. 

“Ser Duncan the Tall.” 

You lay amongst the hedges on the outskirts of Ashford Meadow—a life you had never dared to dream of.

Dunk lay on one side of you, Egg on the other. The grass around you was cool and slightly damp from the evening dew, and the smell of earth and woodsmoke lingered faintly in the air. Just as Dunk had failed to refuse you sanctuary, he had also failed in sending the boy away.

Egg had gotten his wish at last. He was to serve Dunk for the tourney, provided he did as he was told. If he proved a worthy squire, Dunk promised him a life of rough-spun clothes and hard salt beef. There was something sweet in the way the hedge knight spoke of it all—so earnest in how he sought to provide for the boy, probably in the same way his late master had provided for him. 

You turned your head left, then right to look upon your newfound companions.

They made quite the odd pair.

Dunk was stretched long in the grass, all broad shoulders and long limbs, while Egg looked like he was being swallowed up by the bedroll he shared with you, scarcely bigger than a pea. One enormous, the other puny—but something about the pair felt right. As if they were always meant to find each other. You suspected that they would prove to be good company during the tourney, perhaps the best you could have ever hoped to find. 

A grateful sigh slipped from your lips before you reclined your head against your bedroll to gaze up into the night sky above.

The heavens stretched wide and endless. The clouds had long since drifted away, leaving the expanse clear of obstruction and dark as the depths of the ocean. Stars were scattered across it, each one burning cold and bright against velvet black. The number of pavilions littering the meadow were nothing compared to how the stars populated the inky abyss in the thousands. Out here in the hedges there were no lanterns, no torchlight, no inn windows spilling yellow light into the street. Nothing to dim their brilliance. They shone fiercely tonight, as though the sky itself had been pricked full of tiny shimmering silver needles.

For a time, none of you spoke, resigned to silence in search of sleep. The distant sounds of revelry drifted faintly across Ashford Meadow—bursts of laughter, muffled strum of fiddle, the clatter of tankards from the noble pavilions. Yet the noise felt far away out here beneath the elm.

The hedges held their own quiet, untouched by the cacophony of man. The fire had burned low now, its crackles and pops extinguished and the last embers glowing red among the stones. Somewhere beyond the clearing, a night insect chirped a soft lullaby in the grass. You had not expected the hedges capable of cradling such a profound peace. 

Slowly, you felt your eyes begin to grow heavy. Your gaze softened as you watched the stars twinkle overhead, their distant light blinking gently through the darkness. Perhaps the hedge knight had been right after all. There might be something fine about sleeping beneath the open sky, for where else could you get a view like this?

Your eyelids finally drifted to a close, but before they could fully shut, your attention was caught sharply by something miraculous. Something was moving swiftly through the abyss above. Your eyes snapped open just in time to see it.

A streak of blazing light cut clean across the velvet curtain of night, its movement brilliant and mesmerizing. For a heartbeat it burned a bright green against the stars—then vanished into the dark as though it had never been there at all. It was fiercely beautiful in its brief lifespan. 

It was a falling star.

Egg shifted beside you on the shared bedroll and then his tinny voice rang out to break the silence.

“A falling star brings luck to those who see it,” he said, steady and sanguine—recited like an inescapable truth rather than a flimsy notion. 

“Go to sleep, boy,” Dunk grumbled and rolled on his side, his huge mass shaking the earth beside you. 

“All the other knights are in their pavilions by now, staring up at silk instead of the sky.” Egg offered up the quiet observation like he was tossing a dog a bone. 

“Do you want a clout in the ear?” Dunk’s voice hardened as he rolled back over, not privy to the boy’s meaning. 

You smiled. You knew what Egg meant. It was a very clever implication from a very clever boy.

“So the luck is ours alone,” you whispered, soft and sacred, as if it was a tender secret to be kept. 

Silence fell over the hedges once more. 

A sincere hope took hold within you—a hope that the myth was true. That the beautiful star truly had blessed fortuity upon its only three spectators in the entire meadow. The tourney was to begin on the morrow, and you all sorely needed a falling star and its luck to face the challenges that lay ahead. 

Finally, your eyes closed completely. 

In the last fleeting seconds of consciousness before you surrendered to sweet slumber, your mind wandered once more to the stranger at the inn. It was as though he was a beacon, pulling you in every time you had a quiet moment to yourself. His hold over you was inescapable and, strangely, you found yourself unwilling to let go of him either. 

Perhaps you would dream of him tonight.

Under the same twinkling night sky, lay a drunken prince in a forgotten street a day’s ride from Ashford Meadow.

When the prince’s eyes blinked open, he found himself unsure of his whereabouts. His back was braced upon cold, wet cobblestone, his long limbs stretched wide as if to welcome something—what exactly, he was not quite sure. A modest inn stood tall over him and there was only torchlight to illuminate his surroundings: a quiet town, profoundly still at such a late hour. The view around him was quite dreary, so he chose instead to gaze upward into the endless abyss of obsidian above, dotted with countless speckles of sparkling silver. 

A falling star shot across the sky. 

He watched it pass above him wholly indifferent, barely affected by it at all.

Then, suddenly, he thought about his brother. Where had he run off to? With the alcohol coursing so fiercely through the prince’s blood, he could not find it in him to care to look just quite yet. Perhaps, if his little brother ran far enough away, he might escape the madness sown in their family’s blood—that was a comforting thought.

But what would his little brother say about a falling star? Probably something terribly idealistic. Something that was a waste of the drunken prince’s time, for any moment felt wasted if it was not spent with a cup of wine in hand.

His memory supplied him, unbidden, with a whisper he heard his brother utter many a time before when faced with such a fleeting phenomenon of the heavens. 

“A falling star brings luck to those who see it.” 

The phrase was little more than a shallow regurgitation of their late mother’s bedtime stories. Before she passed, she had sought to teach her children the ways of the world through strange Dornish platitudes—ones that came from her upbringing in Starfall. The prince was never certain whether his brother even remembered her for he was so young when she passed. Yet the proof of his sharp memory lay in the way he kept her words alive every day. But that was all they were. Words. Silly, meaningless words. Nothing could bring their mother back, and they were all the worse for it. 

After all, his dreams of her downfall had never helped him to prevent it. 

Luck. What ridiculous irony. A falling star could bring him nothing in the way of favor. He was doomed to misfortune. A miserable shell of a man who could never be more than what his damned dreams told him he could be. The best thing a falling star could bring him was another cup of wine. He let out a mirthless chuckle at the thought, the sad sound echoing against the jettied, half-timbered facades of the town.

The wet stone beneath him pressed harder into his back as he laughed, reminding him of where he was once again. The feeling of the cobbles was quite familiar, and he was sure he had lain in this same manner upon this very same street before. But something was missing this time—someone. Someone with soft hands, enchanting eyes, soothing voice, and a kind spirit.

A woman’s face flashed in and out of his vision, but he couldn’t hold onto it long enough to remember it fully. Only glimpses remained. Pleasant features and the certainty that she had been breathtakingly beautiful.

He turned his head to the left, and beheld the shadow of a young woman crouching over him. The next second, she was gone—replaced only by an empty, lonely street. He thought, then, that he might have remembered green linen. His arm braced around her shoulders, the feeling of her dress in his hands. It had been something worn and plain. A garment that might have been drab on anyone else but magnificent on her, simply because it was her who wore it. 

The prince had seen many a woman in his lifetime.

Servant girls that scurried nervously around him while he sprawled drunk in his royal chambers at Summerhall. Noble ladies paraded through court, adorned in glittering gold and flashy jewels to reign in a worthy suitor—for that was all that the world told them they were bred for—yet never tempting enough to draw his eye. Whores in brothels dressed provocatively to cater to the carnal desires of men—ones he had indulged in when he foolishly thought they could drive the dreams away, but alas they had not so he filled his haunted nights with only wine instead. Septas robed in muted greys, kneeling in prayer—ones he saw when his father forced him to attend his princely duties at the Sept, though prayer to The Seven had never saved him from his misery.

Yes, he’d seen many a woman in his lifetime.

Yet none had ever consumed his very being like the woman in green linen.

“Are you alright?” A sweet voice whispered faintly, only in his head. It was filled with gentle concern and kindness, something he never believed himself worthy enough to receive. 

“There you are,” the voice echoed again, followed by phantom featherlight touches combing through his hair and gliding across his chin and jaw.

He tried to reach out and grab the phantom hands, if only to lace his own ruinous fingers between their soft ones and keep them there in the street with him. 

The voice and the sensations haunted him just like his dreams, perhaps more so. He wondered if the woman was even real. He surmised she probably was not, just as he had the first time when he fruitlessly searched for her in a pool of spilled crimson. His mind seemed to delight in tormenting him—although he always thought its sadistic preference was to torture him only in his slumber, not in his waking moments. How dreadful, then, that his mind was set to take every last bit of peace from him.

Shall it come for the wine, too?

Without the wine, he was nothing. Perhaps, he already was. 

A sinking realization hit him all of a sudden. For the first time in the drunken prince’s life, he felt truly lonely. His heart ached. His hands felt sorely empty—even more empty than they felt when they were not clutching a goblet. It felt as though a piece of him he had never realized existed was now missing. Lost to him forever. Gone before he even knew it had been there. 

A deep, intense sorrow washed over him like the crashing waves of a stormy sea. It was a feeling he knew quite well, but this time it stung more than before. This time he was not just drowning but already drowned.

In moments like these, he had only one absolution—more wine.

But as his body screamed for it, he found himself unwilling to heed its call just yet. Instead, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and chose to remain stretched out on the cold floor for just a little while longer. 

Yes. He could stay here, insensible upon the cobbles, just a few minutes more. 

His arms lay open, welcome and waiting. 

He hoped perhaps—if a falling star truly did bring luck—a lovely, lovely dream of a woman with soft hands and enchanting eyes might soon return to find him here on this street once again. 

A/N: yay! that was part 2! hope y'all liked the bit of daeron yearning at the end there, because it was super fun for me to write! on the other hand, the other parts of this chapter were actually quite difficult for me to write. i find it very hard to balance canonical dialogue and plot with my own creative liberties—how to walk the line between staying true to/incorporating the source material while also not making a reader-insert feel way too cliche. one of the most challenging parts for me was to make sure I was writing dunk and egg in a new way that wasn’t blatantly ripping off of GRRM’s work in The Hedge Knight—i wanted to make sure to embellish the character with my own writing style and interpretation, not just regurgitate what GRRM has already written. hopefully i succeeded! i’ll be in the thick it for the next chapters though because I’m really throwing myself into the deep end with the reader accompanying dunk and egg at ashford tourney… but challenge accepted! it’s obvious to note: full credit to GRRM for these amazing characters and the rich fictional world he’s created in his books along with Ira Parker for wonderfully bringing it to life through television. This fic would be absolutely nothing without them. So shout out to them, george and ira yall are certified legends™. with all that, i hope you enjoyed pt.2 and please feel free to leave feedback in the comments or in my ask box! i hope to see you in the next part!

ˋ°•*⁀➷taglist: open! lmk if you would like to join!

Beyond the dirt road underneath your feet lay a vast horizon of the countryside’s rolling hills and distant rocky mountains. The undulating landscape of soft grass was littered with oak trees and shrubbery, a patchwork of greens and browns. The unpaved road cut straight through the terrain and went on for miles, empty of any other travelers but you and Old Lady. You knew, though, that this was still a road frequently traveled, judging by the numerous footprints, hoofmarks, and wheel ruts deeply imprinted across it. You too left your mark among the raw earth, your boots crunching against its gritty texture and kicking up dust, just like all the migrants who had before you. After a few hours, your footsteps grew heavy and your back grew sore with the exertion of walking for so long. Even so, your spirit was strong and undeterred—physical weariness of the body would not stop you. 

One resounding command drove you forward, settled deep in your heart. 

“Go to the tourney,” your mother had whispered, her voice hoarse. Her body was weak in those final moments as she lay on her deathbed, but her entreaty to you was strong. “Make your name known there and carve out a place for yourself in this world, my darling girl.” 

After she took her last breath you had sobbed for nearly three days straight. When the tears had finally run dry, when you were left with only swollen eyes and a sniffled nose, you packed your things and obeyed her final request. Leaving everything you knew behind was not quite an easy task.

A quaint cottage was what you called home, on a fairly large parcel of land in a far southern corner of The Reach. It was a favorable location, close to the seaside with fertile soil and moderate climate. A small garden and barn abutted the cottage, which provided a place of hard work and productivity. The garden was your mother’s pride and joy, but you spent most of your time in the barn. There you had raised and tended to livestock. Cows, chickens, and sheep yielded milk, eggs, and wool you could sell in a nearby town for a pretty penny. 

It was a sustainable life, but without much luxury, led by the simple platitude to only buy what was needed to get by. 

As you had grown older under the cottage’s thatched roof—when you had noticed the hardships of others far less lucky than you—you had begun to wonder how your mother originally came into such a fortunate possession of all that land and its amenities. You felt a bit undeserving of it, for the both of you were neither noble nor wealthy. Quite the opposite, really.

Every time you asked, she would brush you off with the same terse words. 

The land was inherited from a family member.

But your mother had no family that you knew of.

It was only ever just you and her.

Over time, you stopped asking and you learned that you were not to ask about her past either. Her life’s stories were sealed tightly away from you, the path to them like a vast uncrossable ocean. It was not until her last day in this world that she finally revealed everything to you.

But the quenching of your long-held curiosity did nothing to make the sting of your mother’s death hurt any less.

What use did you have of the truth of your home’s origins if you were leaving it all behind anyway? 

The cottage reminded you of your mother, but your mother was gone. It was now only an empty shell, where a past life was lived never to be relived again. Just as your mother had urged you, it was high time you flew the nest.

You sold the land and livestock, except for your donkey, to a local lord. The transaction brought you quite a hefty sum, but your coins had since dwindled from the start of your journey. Perhaps it may have been unwise to have blown most of your money staying at inns every night, but it was better than risking an encounter with the dangers that lurked in the dark. 

To be quite honest, even if death and the shocking revelation of your mother’s past was what prompted your journey, you were invigorated to finally explore the world beyond your quiet cottage. This was your first adventure of, hopefully, many more to come. You felt a profound sense of pride to have made it so far already by yourself. 

Here, on this dirt road, you were free. 

The afternoon breeze blew through the trees, eliciting an acoustic sound of rattling leaves that rang pleasantly in your ears. There was a clear blue sky above—thank the Gods—a welcome reprieve from the last few days of relentless rain. Even if the arduous trek to Ashford had failed to deplete your tenacity, you had grown quite sick of the rain. You were sure that you had encountered more precipitation in your time on the road than you had ever seen in your entire life. An older and more frail traveler would likely have dropped dead had they been forced to encounter that kind of oppressive weather. 

The Stormlands must be quite the dreary place, then, if it was truly named after its climate.

What if, by the end of the tourney, you decided to make your name and place there? You were not sure that you could survive a life steeped in that sort of gloom. But you had yet to even reach Ashford, so the question of your future home was a problem to solve for another day. 

By eveningfall, you happened upon a small town.

It was quiet, defined by thick stone walls of gray and half-timbered houses with jettied upper stories and tiled roofs. Lanterns and torchlight illuminated the winding cobblestone streets, leading to an empty courtyard. Further down, the street ended at a modest inn and its adjoining stables. The homely building stood out like a beacon of salvation, a golden glow pouring from its windowpanes to indicate the warmth and sanctuary to be found inside.

Without a moment’s hesitation, you decided you would make your stay at the inn for the night, until sunrise. The sky was darkening quickly already, eager to usher in the twilight hours, and the eerie sound of howling wolves in the distance had begun to pervade the air. Even if your coin purse suffered for it, it was much safer to sleep sheltered by four walls with a hot meal in your belly than outside, unprotected in the cold.

After all, Ashford was only a day’s ride away—time would not quite be wasted in stopping a bit for comfortable rest. 

Old Lady’s hooves clicked upon the cobblestone floor, the sound bouncing off the surrounding storefronts, as you led her by her reins to the stables. The ground turned to dirt again there, where her hooves made only soft padding thuds. There was no stable boy around to tend to her, so you tied up her reins yourself and made sure she was comfortable in her stall. You gave her a kiss on her head, tufts of gray fur soft against your lips, and a handful of barley before you parted from her for the night. 

By the time you returned outside, the sky had gone pitch black.

As you made your way to the inn, the night welcomed itself in full force. Thankfully, the howling of wolves had dissipated, replaced only with the soft chirping of crickets and the distant bleating of local livestock. A cloud passed above and revealed a large silvery moon that bathed the world in its ethereal glow. A blanket of cool, crisp air settled among the darkness, which brought a profound sense of stillness. Timeworn facades of the town’s buildings reflected the dancing gold of torchlight, rooted in place like silent sentinels. 

Then, an unexpected groaning sound disturbed the peaceful hush of night, echoing from a dark alleyway between the inn and the stables 

Suddenly, a man emerged from the shadows, swaying on wobbly long legs.

You watched, dumbfounded, as he stumbled his way forward, tripped, swayed, and fell out onto the street in front of you in a flurry of red and gold. He surely would have knocked into you and took you down with him had you not reflexively stepped backwards in surprise. You cocked your head down towards the ground and saw him laid out on his stomach at your feet, hands curling against the cobblestones for purchase.

Inwardly, you felt a bit sorry that you had not attempted to catch the stranger or steady him before he fell. He looked like such a poor, helpless creature sprawled out on the cold floor the way he was. You felt compelled to come to his aid, the urge tugging fiercely at your heart against your better judgement.

You were reminded, then, of your mother. She always thought you to be doomed by your empathy. Her voice whispered in your head warning you to choose your good deeds wisely, imploring you not to waste yourself on lost causes.

This world is void of human kindness, she used to say.

But maybe, you thought, that is why I must supply it.

Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, you crouched to your knees beside the man. Luckily, he did not look to pose much of a threat to anyone in his pitiful condition. You hovered for a moment, unsure of how to take the best course of action.

First, you had to make sure he had not simply just dropped dead. 

“Excuse me,” you prodded softly. “Are you alright?”

The man let out a weak grunt and babbled something unintelligible, muffled by the cobbles. 

Aha! So he was alive!

You warily turned him over, and scanned his body for any injuries.

He wore a damask mantle of velvet over a long gold tunic stained in red all over the front. You startled at the sight, mistaking the stains for blood at first, but calmed when you realized that it was just wine. The shimmery black sleeves of his chemise jutted out from the armholes of his mantle, lined with ornate beading and the cuffs crusted with wine stains too. Belts of fine leather wrapped around his waist where you noticed a dagger hanging from his left side, sheathed and haphazardly tucked between the belts. The dagger was an opulent thing—far better than your own—its hilt made of pearly white ivory and gold.

With garments of such high quality, you surmised he was a lordling of some sort. A very drunk lordling. 

“Come, my lord, let’s get you up,” you implored, as you looped your arms around his torso and pulled him upwards off the street. 

The stranger grumbled something unintelligible again—possibly sounding out the consonants of the word ‘dragon’—but did not make any move to fight your attempt to help him.

His body was limp, moldable. You fashioned his arm over your shoulders and wound your right arm around his waist to secure him to your side. You succeeded in heaving him forward a few feet, however that was but a small victory. It was a struggle to get any further for he was so much taller than you. Without even making it another step, his body leaned sideways, pulling away from you and toward the street again, forcing your shoulder down uncomfortably beneath his weight. You tried in vain to push onwards again, but your grip on him was slipping. Breaths came heavier and muscles began to burn with the strain.

Frustration took hold of you, shooting through your veins like wildfire.

You had quite enough of this.  

“I cannot drag you like this alone!” you exclaimed, trying to rouse the stranger from his drunken stupor. “If you do not intend to use those long legs of yours, then I will drop you right back where I found you!” 

The man suddenly turned to look at you, as though only just realizing someone had been beside him all this time guiding his movements.

His body stiffened at first as he tried to make sense of his whereabouts—as he tried to make sense of you. He gazed down at your feet, then slowly upwards, openly observing your form, his mind turning as hard as it could in its intoxicated state. Once his inspection was sufficient enough, he relaxed. If he had any objections to your aid, he did not voice them. 

Then his face loomed closer, his nose almost bumping into your own.

At such a short distance, you could smell the strong, acrid scent of alcohol on his breath. Icy blue eyes cut through the curtain of tangled sandy-blonde hair that hung over his face, and once they caught yours you were left completely disarmed.

You had never been so taken by a pair of eyes before. For a fleeting moment, beneath the flickering torches—when the orange embers glinted upon them just right—his irises seemed to shine a deep violet. The changing color stole your breath away and your fingers tightened unconsciously around his waist.

Alas, it could only be a mere illusion. A result of the low light on the street and your weariness from a long day of travel. 

Finally, the stranger spoke to you. 

“How odd,” he laughed dryly, voice slurred. “I went out to take a piss. Now I’m here with you. Must have… must have lost my way.”

“Perhaps you should not have indulged so heavily,” you remarked, unable to conceal your judgment. 

The stranger let out a grunt of disagreement.

“I still dream. Perhaps I should have indulged more,” he murmured thickly.

What a peculiar thing to say, you thought. 

You did not voice your perplexity, though, for you were beginning to lose your breath from the burden of holding him upright all this time. 

The stranger sensed your fatigue and adjusted himself. He clung closer to you, distributing his weight more evenly so that he was no longer dragging you both toward the ground. In an instant, the strain on your shoulder finally eased and you released a heavy sigh filled with profound relief. He found his legs—at long last—and began to move them of his own accord. His maneuvers were clumsy and stilted, but nonetheless you were grateful that you did not have to drag him the full distance to the inn all by yourself anymore.

Trudging forward was much quicker with your combined efforts, and you both soon reached the large wooden door of the inn. You raised your free hand and pushed through the heavy oak, the door creaking as it opened. Together, you stumbled inside.

The place was held together by large beams of timber, quite aged with ivy tendrils hanging through the cracks in the ceiling. The common room was completely empty, all its potential patrons probably gone to the tourney. A small hearth crackled by the entrance and provided decent heating to the space, a welcome change from the cold air outside. Wooden barrels of wine stood in every corner and miscellaneous pots, jugs, ceramics, cutlery, bits and bobs littered any available surface. 

You guided the stranger to a table at the far end of the room and sat him down.

He landed ungracefully upon a bench of elm, with a heavy thud and the seat squeaking in protest beneath his weight. He groaned and leaned over the table at an awkward angle, head bowed and almost touching the wooden surface. Long, lanky limbs once again went limp, compromised by his excessive drinking. You sat down beside him, your movements more mindful than his, and attempted to prop him upright. Hands grasped at the smooth velvet of his mantle, pulling him into better posture. Once you made sure he was steady, you turned him toward you by the shoulders to examine his condition. 

Without thinking much of it, you brought both your hands up and gently brushed his hair away from his face.

“There you are,” you whispered softly, as you tenderly smoothed the tangled locks from his forehead. Any remaining stray strands were tucked carefully behind his ears too.

With his face finally uncovered, you took him in properly, studying him beneath the low glow of candlelight.

Your gaze roamed eagerly over his visage, captivated by the striking features found there. The Gods had given him a tall, straight nose and thick, heavy brows—deeply angular shapes that cast shadows over the hollowed spaces beneath them—creating the contours of a dashingly regal face. His skin was pale as porcelain, faintly sallow and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his lips were shiny and stained a deep pink from wine. Sparse freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and stretched across his cheeks, hardly visible had you not been looking so closely. Coarse blonde stubble gathered along his sharp jaw and over the charming dimple in his strong chin. Dark red circles rimmed under his eyes, which accentuated those shining irises of enigmatic color you’d already been acquainted with out on the street. 

Even in his haggard state, he was undeniably handsome.

His mouth hung slightly agape as he stared at you, utterly transfixed. Perhaps he was taking the same liberty, too, studying your features in the wavering candlelight. It was the way he stared that disarmed you the most, beholding you as though you were something beautiful, something sacred.

A thought struck you all at once—you must be wearing the same dazed expression yourself. You shook yourself from it, snapped your mouth shut, and looked instead at the wall. It was not becoming of a common woman to gaze so openly above her station at a high lord in such a way.

You cleared your throat awkwardly and attempted conversation, if only to distract yourself.

“Are you alright, my lord?” you asked, eyes averted. 

“As fine as I could be.” He swallowed, then raised his voice toward the kitchen adjoining the common room—probably where the innkeeper resided. “But I am in need of more wine!”

“I am not so sure that is a good idea,” you murmured.

“Nonsense,” he snorted. “I pay the woman well. She must bring me wine. I cannot bear the dreams.” 

Again with the dreams…

“Well, I shall bring you water,” you insisted. “I do not know how it fares against dreams, but you need it more than wine—and you do not have to pay me for it.”

Without a moment of hesitation, you took your waterskin from your belt and brought it to his lips. You wrapped the fingers of your free hand gently around his chin and tipped his head up with care. When you nodded at him to encourage him to drink, he did.

He was pliant to your every gesture and simply stared up at you, body gone slack as he sipped from the waterskin. His expression held vulnerability and wonder—raised brows and wide glistening eyes searching for yours. Your fingers traveled upward from his chin to his jaw, leaving featherlight touches against his face, a silent praise for his obedience.

The tender ministrations placated him, as if it were a comfort he never imagined himself worthy enough to have. 

Once he had finished all the water, you released his face from your grip and tucked your empty waterskin away. Your fingers tingled strangely at the loss of his skin beneath yours. It had been so soft and his stubble had prickled in an oddly pleasant way.

When your gaze lifted back up to him, he was still staring openly at you.

Despite yourself, you stared back. 

There you both sat, two strangers in an empty inn gazing upon each other for what felt like hours when it surely could not have been more than a few seconds. 

A longing feeling took hold over you. You longed to be closer to him. You did not know why. It may be that the same feeling took hold over the stranger too, for he leaned in closer—his face scarcely a hair’s breadth away from yours—too drunk to consider how he invaded your space.

“You are kind to help a man such as I, my lady,” he whispered reverently. “You are a lovely, lovely dream.”

His expression shifted then, sad and haunted.

“Surely not a dream that belongs to me. Mine are filled only with death and despair.”

Then, suddenly, his lids grew heavy upon his eyes and he passed out.

His head fell against your shoulder, a tangled nest of blond hair tickling your chin. The warmth of his body against yours was not unwelcome and you could not find the effort within you to push him away. At a loss of what else to do, you simply let him lie unconscious at your side and pondered upon the encounter.   

What strange things the man had uttered.

In what little he spoke to you, a notable bit of it was dedicated to his dreams.

You had never thought much of dreams. They were just illusions of the mind, nothing more. The real, waking world demanded too much of your focus and attention, and you had little use of wondering about the fleeting fantasies that pervaded your slumber. So why was this man so concerned about his? 

You figured, perhaps, only rich lordlings were afforded the time and boredom to worry about such silly matters—for commoners like you never had the luxury. 

“Never you mind him, dear,” a woman said behind you. “How can I service you?” 

You had been so engrossed in your thoughts that you had not heard the woman—presumably the innkeeper—approach you, so when she spoke she startled you. Her voice had a blunt edge to it, which you figured was perfect for commanding others to do chores around the inn and stables.

You looked up to see her, a round-faced woman in drab clothing. Her hair was tied up in a tattered scarf and she wore a shaggy robe over a dirty apron. She was holding a cup of freshly poured wine and set it down on the table in front of the stranger. No doubt she had heard the man’s loud request to the kitchen earlier and came to fulfill it.

She stared at you expectantly as you regarded her newfound presence, her features pinched in impatience and the aged lines of her face deepening. 

Oh. Right. She had asked you a question. 

You looked back down at the stranger snoring softly on your shoulder. A cool dribble of drool had begun to collect on the collar of your dress. 

“I came to his aid. I found him on the street in a drunken haze,” you explained, rather dumbly for that was not what she had asked you. 

“I do not doubt that. This is the fourth time that man has passed out today, and he only ever asks for wine. He pays in golden dragons, so I do not care to question it. Now…” The innkeeper sighed deeply, leveled you with a pointed look that reminded you of your mother when you misbehaved, then repeated the question you still had yet to answer. “How can I service you?” 

Right, yes. Why were you here? 

The encounter with the drunken stranger had left you soft and unguarded. But you had matters at hand, and you needed to get a hold of yourself. You had one purpose—reach Ashford—and in a world like this one, you could not let a man become a distraction and affect you so.

“I would like a room for the night and a hot meal,” you replied, voice firmer now, less dazed.

When you set your posture straighter, the stranger slid off your shoulder toward the table. A pang of regret hit you at the loss of his warmth. 

The innkeeper plainly stated her available accommodations. “Most of my rooms are empty, so you can have your pick of the lot. The most spacious room is above the stables on the upper floor. I can prepare lamb roasted with a crust of herbs for you, if you’d like.” 

The room above the stables and a plate of roasted lamb sounded as fair a bargain as any. You assented to both and paid the required coins, the cool metal clinking softly as it fell into the innkeeper’s palm. The scent of cooked meat soon filled the air, rich and savory, setting your mouth to water and your stomach grumbling. When the meal was brought, you dug in heartily and the stranger remained asleep on the table beside you, none the wiser. 

Once your hunger was satisfied, you prepared to retire to your lodgings. You got up carefully, so as to not disturb the stranger’s slumber, then crossed the common room to the stairs. At the foot of them you paused—only for a moment—casting one final glance at the disheveled figure slumped over the table before ascending.

The aged, wooden steps creaked in protest beneath your tread, almost as though to tell you to return to him. 

You had climbed halfway when a sudden clatter shattered the quiet, followed by a sharp curse of ‘Seven Hells!’ from below.

Your steps faltered as you looked toward the sound. 

Back in the common room, the stranger had woken with a start. In some clumsy attempt to take stock of his surroundings, he had flung his arms wide, sending the cup in front of him tumbling over. Wine spilled across the table in a wave of crimson. 

“Oh gods,” he muttered with a humorless chuckle. “What a mess I have made.” 

He called out once more toward the kitchen for another cup, voice rough and slurred, before he slumped forward and collapsed across the table—likely unconscious again. His face landed squarely in the spreading pool of wine. It did not seem to trouble him, though. Perhaps he was right at home there. 

A strange disappointment tightened within your chest as you watched the pitiful scene unfold.

The man’s disorderly manner, the careless forgetfulness of it, had made something abundantly clear.

Upon waking, he had not even remembered how he came to sit at that table—which meant he had not remembered you. He had not remembered how you picked him up off the street nor the strange words he uttered to you. He had not remembered the way he looked upon your face, as though you were something wondrous, and stirred within you a feeling you had never known.

All of it had slipped cleanly away.

Some foolish part of you wished he had called for you instead of the wine. You imagined the words he could have spoken. "Where is the woman that helped me?" But no such question came. 

Such is life, you lamented, as bitterness settled low in your chest. We meet handsome strangers we are never meant to meet again… and in time, we forget them. 

With a quiet sigh, you continued your ascent and disappeared into the upper floor. As you trudged wearily through the dim hall to your lodgings, you did not witness what continued in the common room below.

You did not see any of it at all. 

The man’s eyes blinked open once more.

They searched blearily to his right with restless urgency, seeking the sweet warmth that had so recently steadied him. A crease formed between his brows when he found the seat beside him cold and empty. A slow, confused hurt settled into his expression. He could have sworn that a kind, beautiful woman was just sitting there.

His right hand reached outward, pawing at the empty space, grasping for the woman and finding nothing. After a fruitless search, it landed hard against the table and dragged through the spilled wine, spreading the stain beneath his ruinous touch. A low, wounded sound left him and his shoulders sagged in defeat as he was hit by something that felt dangerously close to loss. 

How pathetic of him to think that she was real.

Only his dreams of dragonfire and death were meant to come true—not a lovely dream such as her.

At last, he yielded to his haunted slumber once more, his cheek resting in the spill of his own making.

You lay sprawled upon a bed stuffed with straw, restless and ill at ease. 

Nearly an hour had passed since you withdrew to your lodgings, yet sleep still continued to evade you. The pallet beneath you provided more comfort than bare earth, yet was too uneven to invite your slumber. The room was sizable—just as the innkeeper had promised—but such an excess of space unsettled you. You had grown accustomed to finding refuge in narrower quarters, within walls that pressed closed and cradled you. The windows were cracked open to allow circulation, but they admitted much more into your chambers than just cool air. 

Crickets trilled beyond the shutters. A dog barked somewhere across the small town and was answered by another. Local livestock bleated in their pens. Wind whispered and shuffled through the leaves. Torches along the street crackled and hissed.

The night refused to grant you a quiet moment of peace.

The darkness did not sleep, so neither did you.

The thin walls and floorboards were the worst feature of the lodgings, only adding to the night’s cacophony. They were composed of rotted oak, darkened and chipped with age. Oak that held no loyalty to fostering a hushed atmosphere. 

The floorboards were laid well enough so that nothing could collapse through, yet narrow cracks ran between the planks—cracks that carried the life of the stables below upward whether you willed it or not. Just moments ago, a stable boy had tied up what sounded to be at least three horses. Their hooves stomped upon dirt and shook the earth, their nickers and snorts reverberated in their stalls, and their teeth steadily ground against oats in a dull, unending rhythm.

All the equine commotion kept you steadfast in the waking world. 

Beyond your door, the inn did not sleep either.

Just like the floorboards, the thin walls acted as a poor barrier for a peaceful slumber. Cups clattered together as they were cleaned away in the common room below, the sound floating up the stairs and slipping right through the feeble wood. Small, hurried feet pattered along the hall, the thumping sounds invading your space—the innkeeper’s children, no doubt, sent scurrying to finish their chores.

Every step, every murmur, every careless movement found its way to you. 

You could hear everything. 

Another patron entered the inn, the heavy door creaking open and then slamming shut.

His voice joined the din, low and roughened. Quite impressively, he requested two full meals for himself. He must have been a man of great appetite or great size—or both. Heavy wood struck against wood, as though some broad object had been set down upon a bench. A shield, perhaps? Words muffled through the walls as the innkeeper spoke of the tourney, critical of the knights who were bound for it. But if the patron truly did carry a shield, then he was a knight bound for it too. 

Rest slipped further from your grasp when you heard the drunken stranger awaken again, disturbed by the arrival of the new patron.

Without fail, the mumbling of his dreams clung stubbornly to his tongue. A bench scraped across the floor and a stair railing creaked as he retired to his own lodgings. His trek up the stairs was loud and clumsy, harsh footfalls causing the wooden steps to groan under the force. He lurched into the hall and staggered uneasily through it, making a ruckus as he went.

A shoulder scraped along the wall. Then a sudden thud of a body fell against your door without warning. Impatient hands tried the latch, rattling the rusted metal. 

You went still. 

The handle twisted once, then twice. He let out a frustrated curse when he found it was locked, and let out another when he realized his mistake. He was not at the door of his own room. A long, rough groan followed, heavy with drink and confusion. Why had he been so drawn to a room that was not his?

His steps resumed, their rhythm stilted and uneven, until they faded at the far end of the hall. A door thudded shut and silence settled.

He never found you. 

A few moments passed before you could finally breathe easy again.

You could not imagine what you might have done had the latch yielded, had the door given out under his weight. Quite honestly, you had no appetite for such fanciful speculation anymore. If he had stumbled upon you he would not have known you, and you could not pretend otherwise. There would have been no recognition in his enigmatic eyes, only the glaze of confusion and wine, and there would have been no happy reunion, only awkward intrusion.

Wishful thinking had left you, your mind and spirit completely drained from the night’s events. 

You lay once again sprawled upon a bed stuffed with straw, even more restless and ill at ease than before. 

Eventually, you registered two voices rising from the stables below, cutting through the split boards. The first voice was high and squeaky; the second was thick and vaguely familiar. Upon listening closer, you surmised they belonged to a young boy and the patron from before—whose muffled words had confirmed him to be a knight.

“I’m a knight, I’ll have you know.”

The two continued to converse and, since sleep still had yet to claim you, you saw no other choice but to listen. 

You caught the key bits of their discourse quite clearly. 

“Take me with you, ser…” the boy asked, his squeaky tone raising with hope. 

The boy and the knight’s voice weaved in and out of the cracks of the floorboards, some words indistinct at first, until one name carried clean and bright through the wood.

“—you could bring me to Ashford, I could squire for you, ser—” 

Ashford. 

The name rang straight to your core and bade you rise just like a supper bell. You were pulled upright before you knew you had even moved. From the way the boy pleaded with the knight, it seemed he wished to get to the tourney just as fiercely as you did.

You leaned forward, scarcely aware you had shifted halfway off your pallet, while you listened to the knight rebuff the boy. 

“—clout in the ear. Fill me a sack of oats. I’m off for Ashford. Alone.”

The knight’s voice was firm, final. Yet when he spoke again, something in his tone betrayed him, softened with honest sympathy.

“Look, lad, I promise you… You’re better off not squiring for the likes of me.” 

A solemn quiet suspended between them as the boy wordlessly helped the knight prepare his horses for travel.

Then impulse seized you. Bare feet struck the aged wood planks as you leapt off the pallet and towards the window. You leaned close against the panes, if only just to get a good look at the boy and the knight as they left the stables. 

The street lay open beneath you. Directly below, the stable doors parted. A tall broad-shouldered man stepped out and mounted a white palfrey on strong, thick arms. Two other horses trailed behind him, followed by a stubborn-looking boy no older than eight or nine.

The man was dressed quite plainly, with only a belt of rope to hold his scabbard. A battered shield was strapped to his back, the only thing to distinguish him as a knight, bearing the flaking painted sigil of a winged chalice. The boy wore a long tunic—far too long for his tiny body—that dragged upon the floor, the hem stiff with dried mud. His limbs were skinny and his head was completely bare and pale, much like an egg.

You watched the scene unfold before you with avid curiosity.

The knight flicked a single shiny copper toward the boy, the metal chiming as it flew through the air, but the boy made no move to catch it nor did he stoop to claim it once it landed on the dirt floor. He simply looked at it then looked back up. Once the knight rode away from view and the hoofbeats faded, the boy was left alone staring out into the empty darkness of night. His shoulders drooped dejectedly and he continued to gaze after the knight who was already long gone, showing plainly his desperation to leave the inn. 

All he wanted was to go to Ashford.

You understood him, you hungered for Ashford too. 

You had overheard him tell the knight that his mother was dead.

The knowledge settled quietly within you. Perhaps you were both alike. Two strays who had lost their mother and were left only with lofty aspirations, looking toward the same distant meadow to pursue them.

Just as you were compelled to help the drunken stranger, you felt the same fierce urge tugging deep at your heart to help the boy. Before you could temper the urge, you pushed your window open wider and called out to him.

“Boy!” you shouted into the street. “Have I heard you right? Do you wish to attend the tourney at Ashford Meadow?” 

The boy’s pale head snapped up at once to the sound of your voice. He squinted into the dimness, trying to make out your form in the window above. When he saw only a lone young woman, his head tilted. He was quiet as he assessed you, and for a moment it seemed he was never going to respond to you at all.

Perhaps he did not think it clever to talk to a woman he did not know. Perhaps, to him, you looked like a lunatic. You certainly felt like one, sometimes. 

“Yes,” he answered at last, his voice holding an air of confidence beyond his years. Then he went silent again. He looked as though he were contemplating between telling a truth or telling a lie. You were unsure which of the two he chose when he opened his mouth to speak again. “I am to squire for a knight there.” 

Satisfied enough with his answer, you decided to extend your aid to him. He needed you and he seemed to be harmless. Furthermore, it would be quite refreshing to have a companion on the road besides Old Lady. 

It was so simple a decision that you never considered how it would twist your fate forever. 

“I depart for Ashford at dawn,” you announced. “You may join me if you’d like, I would not mind the company.” 

The boy vigorously nodded his bald head once, then twice to show his assent. 

“Meet me by that stall at first light.” You pointed down toward the one that housed Old Lady. “Else I shall leave without you.”

You did not wait for the boy to reply before you shut the window with a muted thud. Crossing back to the pallet, you felt the weight of the day settle fully at last—limbs heavy and lids drooping. The straw gave out a reedy sigh when you collapsed into it, but you were too far gone to notice. 

All at once, sleep finally claimed you.

The welcomed slumber brought with it a swirl of striking features. Fleeting flashes of blue-violet irises and hair the color of sun-warmed sand danced behind your eyelids. A voice whispered, soft and reverent, echoing into the dim corridors of your subconscious mind.

You are a lovely, lovely dream.

The phrase repeated over and over until the steady rhythm of its consonants lost their edges and blended into a melodic song.

Below, the boy bent down to retrieve the knight’s copper from the ground. His small, nimble fingers closed around it, the cool metal pressing into his palm. He turned it over and studied its form, foreign to him, for he never held one before. 

He had no need of coin—never had in his entire life. 

But perhaps you had need of it, so he pocketed the coin to give to you in the morning.

"Yes" you called back, but doing so caused you to cough, a harsh hack that you couldn't suppress "Road dust in my throat, I think".

Dunk furrowed his brow in concern, but did not call you out on your lie. He noticed slump in your shoulders, and when he passed some hard salt beef to you, and you refused, he knew something was wrong. In the time you had been travelling together you had never once turned down a snack.

Later that afternoon, Dunk noticed he hadn't head a cough from you in a while. He turned again in his saddle and let you catch up to his horse. Your head hung forward as you sat loosely atop Sweetfoot, and he realized you had actually dozed off while riding your horse. Sure, the palfrey's gate was smooth, but only someone with extreme exhaustion could manage to sleep while riding. He nudged your knee with his own, causing you to wake with a start. "Oh, gods, I was really out" you rubbed your watery eyes "I must admit, Dunk, I don't feel well."

"I’m cutting this day short." He said. "Not five miles from here there is a town. We will make it there before dark. You need a proper bed under a roof tonight" You were too tired to even protest. You just noted your mouth feeling impossibly parched and even though it was a warm summer day, a chill ran through you.

As soon as you entered the inn, Dunk sat you down at a table before speaking to the innkeeper. You gratefully slump down, as you couldn't even hold a conversation to ask for a room to save your life right now. Exhaustion overcomes you as you sit down and feel like you might fall asleep again right here on this bench.

"I need two rooms for the night" Dunk tells the innkeeper "And supper. And the horses will be needing oats too."

"Fifteen coppers, ser" the innkeeper tells him, not even bothering to look up from the mug she is drying. Dunk studies the twelve coppers in his hands. All the coin he has in the world right now. His stomach sinks. He glances over to you, using your sleeve to muffle a cough, and then looks back to the coins in his hand. If he stares at them long and hard enough, maybe the coins could multiply in his hand?

"Ser?" prompts the innkeeper, who is now looking at him expectantly.

"How much for the one room?" Dunk says.

"That would be ten copper, ser"

And Dunk wordlessly passes the innkeeper the coins.

Dunk follows closely behind you as you climb the stairs up to your room, his hand hovering over your elbow to make sure you don't lose your footing in your weak state. As soon as he closes the bedroom door behind you, he blurts "You may take the bed for tonight."

The sight of a soft mattress and pillow nearly make you cry with relief. Or maybe it's the fact that you don't feel well. Or maybe it's that your sweet knight has given up so much for you to be comfortable, and the limits of his kindness seem unending. You throw your arms around his middle and sag your weight into him. The tears are actually coming now. Hot tears leaking from your eyes, hiccupping that only makes you cough more. Your feverish skin burns into his rough-spun shirt. "Seven above, little lady you're burning up" he presses the back of his hand onto your cheek. "Let me get you some supper from downstairs. Chicken broth with vegetables. And I'll bring it up to you. Jus' get into bed and I'll worry about the rest." He removes your arms from around him and scratches the back of his neck nervously.

"Okay" your voice is watery and weak. "I'm so sorry that this derailed our progress, please forgive me."

"Dry your eyes, now. There’s nothing to give to forgive."

You make your way over to the bed, fingers beginning to unbutton your dress, so you can be more comfortable for sleep.

"Erm right. Supper." Dunk awkwardly makes his way to the door, keeping his eyes averted at the floor.

Just as he is darting out the door to give you your privacy, you croak "Wait Dunk, thank you. You take such good care of me."

He stammers something incoherent as he closes the door and stumbles down the steps in a daze. He knows that your travel progress is delayed, and he is going to have to sleep in a chair by the bed tonight, and on the morrow he will wake with an awful crick in his neck, but it was worth every ache to hear those words from you.

The wine is not enough. That is the trouble with it tonight. 

Not that it is poor wine -he is honest enough to admit he doubts he ever drank wine for its taste-, nor that there is too little of it. The scattered servants lingering still have been dutiful enough in that regard, appearing and disappearing at the edge of the smaller dining chamber with the quiet, practiced misery of men who have learned the shape of a prince’s worst habits. 

A cup emptied, a cup filled. A flagon replaced before it is asked for. A candle trimmed. A glance lowered. All of it a dance so familiar that Daeron has long since stopped noticing the steps. 

He had meant to sleep here, he thinks. Or perhaps he had only meant to drink until sleep became a less frightening notion. There is a difference, he knows it, though it has grown thin after so many hours awake. He has slept only in scraps these last few days, if scraps may be called sleep at all: his eyes closing for a breath or two between one cup and the next, his head dipping toward his shoulder before the body startles itself back into obedience, the darkness behind his eyelids already too crowded to trust. 

No dream has taken him tonight, and that should be a mercy. It is not, because he knows that it only means they are waiting. 

They do that, sometimes. Withdraw long enough to make him foolish, to find him with defenses lowered. Long enough to make him think perhaps the body can outlast them, perhaps wine and wakefulness and motion can hold the door shut if only he is clever enough, stubborn enough, ruined enough. Then, when he inevitably fails, they come back. With teeth. 

So he drinks. 

Or tries to. 

The cup is halfway to his lips when the ring catches against the rim. 

A small sound, nothing more. Silver against gold, clear and bright and indecently clean in the muffled room. 

Daeron stills. 

The servant nearest the wall stills with him, as if the sound were command enough. Daeron does not look at him, his gaze has dropped instead to his own hand, to the ring there, to the pale gleam of it around a finger that does not feel entirely his. 

It is not the first time he has noticed it, of course it isn’t. Rings are made to be noticed; vows are made to be remembered. That is the cruelty of them, or perhaps the mercy, if there is a difference between them at all. 

He is married. 

The thought arrives first as a fact, and only after a breath as a wound. 

Not because the word displeases him, though he sometimes wishes it would. That would certainly be simpler. Crueler, perhaps, but simpler.  

No, the word has the opposite danger. It is too warm a word for what has been done to you, too intimate for a bond you did not choose, too claiming from a man who has spent the weeks since your wedding making of his absence a mercy. 

His wife. 

He does not often allow himself the shape of that thought without placing something else around it like a frame. Vow is safer. Ceremony, witness, some public facing architecture of a thing that might otherwise become want if he lets himself look at it for too long. Duty is easier, a public contract is easier, the Gods know both are things he knows how to fail and how to survive breaking. 

The ring rests against the cup. 

Wine below, vow above. 

The jest would almost be good, if he were less tired. 

There had been other answers once. Poor ones, ugly ones. Warm rooms where no one asked too carefully what a prince wished to forget. Laughter softened by coin, by wine, by habit. Hands that did not need to be known in the morning. Mouths that did not ask for truth before biting. A body could be made into a simpler thing in such places, and for a few hours the world might have been kind enough to believe the lie. 

He does not go there now. Not since you were married. 

It is not virtue, he knows himself better than to try and find that in himself. It is only a vow, and a vow, he has found, is sometimes easier to keep than a self. 

He has so little of himself left to give you. This, at least, he can keep from anyone else. 

The thought is small. Ridiculous, perhaps. A beggar’s candle laid at an altar. He does not know what you would do with it if he ever had the poor taste to offer it aloud. Pity him, perhaps. Worse, thank him. Worse still, accept it for what it is. 

A poor gift, really, which is why it remains unsaid, unrevealed. But it is a promise he can keep, a vow he can keep from breaking, and he has little else to offer.  

Fidelity, if nothing else, might be one of the last things left in him worthy of offering to you. 

Daeron sets the cup down. 

The servant shifts, “My prince?” 

The wine trembles once in the cup, a tiny wave, then settles. 

Daeron looks at it a moment longer, as if it might yet become useful, as if it might yet open some road beneath him where sleep is only sleep and the dark behind his eyes is only dark. 

It does not. 

He stands. 

The room moves with him, not spinning, not quite, but drawing itself a little too slowly into place. He is not drunk enough, the realization is a weight on his chest. Not sober enough to be steady, not drunk enough to be safe, the worst state between. 

“My prince,” The servant tries again, softer now, “Shall I-” 

“No,” Daeron tells him, though he does not know what is being offered. More wine, a chair, a bed, a mercy. It hardly matters, “No, I have been admirably tended to, but I require nothing more.” 

It is meant to sound light. It almost does. 

He leaves before the man can decide whether to believe him. 

___ 

Summerhall sleeps badly. 

Perhaps that is only because Daeron does, perhaps houses are innocent of the futures men place inside them. Stone is only stone, timber only timber, shadow only shadow, and it is no fault of Summerhall’s that the dark gathers in the wrong corners. 

Still, at night, the place feels less built than waiting. 

The corridors are nearly empty at this hour. A few guards stand at their posts with faces made blank by discipline, the torches burn low in their brackets. Autumn has begun to thin the warmth from the walls, drawing summer out of the stones by slow degrees, and the air that moves through the halls carries the first sharpness of the season to come. 

Summerhall was refuge once, home once. 

It still is, in some ways. That is the cruel part. Grief clings to the old stone, yes. His mother is part of its walls as surely as mortar is, part of the rooms no one names too directly, part of the hush that gathers around his father’s worse days, around certain doors and certain hours. But it has no ash in its memory yet. No blackened stone, no terrible fire anyone speaks of but him, on nights where sleep does not let go of him and servants find him incoherent and half-mad, in the worst grief his dreams draw from him.

He grew up beneath these arches, learned the turns of these passages, the windows that catch dawn first, the stair that groans in the rain, the place where the mosaic above the east gallery has cracked and never been properly mended. 

It should be safe. It remembers him young, after all. Almost happy, almost whole. 

Instead, it feels haunted by what has not happened. 

A shadow lies along the pale stone ahead of him, too dark to be only shadow. For a moment it looks like soot, as if some fire has already passed its hand along the wall and left the proof behind. Daeron blinks, and it is only the angle of torchlight, only night, only his mind making ruin out of darkness because it has grown too practiced at the work. 

He keeps walking. 

Movement is useful, it gives the body instruction. One foot, then the next. A turn. A stair. Another corridor. So long as he walks, he is not lying down, and so long as he is not lying down, sleep remains a thing at distance. A country glimpsed across water, a door closed but not yet opened. 

He does not think about where he is going. 

That is what he tells himself, at least. 

The castle knows the path even if he does not. Or his body does. It carries him through Summerhall with a purpose his mind refuses to dignify, to linger on. Past the gallery, past the windows where the night presses black against the glass, past a shutter that rattles softly in the wind -sounding for one breath too much like a whisper, or a wing, or a hand against wood-. 

He touches the ring as he walks. 

Not fondly, not even consciously at first. His thumb finds the edge of it and turns there, worrying the metal as if it were a thought that might be worked smooth by repetition. 

His wife is asleep somewhere in the castle. 

No, not somewhere. The correction comes before he can prevent it. He knows exactly where. 

He stops at the next turn, absurdly, as if stillness might undo that knowledge. It does not. 

The corridor beyond is familiar. Too familiar. The guards at the far end are familiar, the door between them is familiar. 

Your chamber, he thinks. 

The law has made it his as well. 

Theirs, it insists. 

The word sits badly. 

Him and you. You and him. Joined by words as if words have ever been a harmless thing. To think of the room as something of the two of you feels like reaching for more than a door, more than a bed. It feels like placing himself beside you in a sentence and expecting the sentence to hold all the weight. 

Still, he has not asked for separate chambers. 

You haven’t, and some foolish part of him clings to that fact and makes him not quite able to ask for them either, even if for your sake he ought to.  

He cannot say he remembers the path that took him here, the thoughts, if there were any, that led to the decision to drag himself to your doorstep. 

Calling it your doorstep is not really accurate, he gathers, but he cannot bring himself to even name himself the distance he knows he ought to put there -the distance he owes you, the distance you deserve-. 

So he has done the kinder thing, or what he has told himself is kinder. He has slept elsewhere. In chairs, or couches. Once in a garden bed after too much wine and not enough sense. In guest rooms when some excuse could be found. In rooms that smelled of smoke and spilled drink. Nowhere that required you to learn the weight of him beside you. 

He has spared you, with great dedication. Has made a habit of it. 

And yet, here he is. 

One of the guards straightens as he approaches. The other looks briefly toward the door, then away again with admirable discipline. 

Daeron smiles before he can decide not to. It is a thin, trembling thing, but he remembers his manners. 

“My prince,” The guard greets, keeping his voice low, “Shall I announce you?” 

The absurdity of it nearly makes Daeron laugh. 

Announce him. At the door of the chamber that is his by law and not his by any honest measure. Announce him. A visitor, a petitioner, a man who has arrived somewhere he has a right to enter and still stalls, awaiting permission that won’t come. 

He lets his words carry the smallest theatrical offense when he answers, 

“At this hour?” Daeron asks. A beat passes. His smile remains, his certainty does not. “It is late, is it not?” 

The guard’s eyes lower at once. Kindness, perhaps. Or discomfort. Often they look the same. 

“Very late, my prince.” He confirms. 

“Good.” Daeron says, though he has no idea what good means here. 

He looks at the door. 

He should leave. 

The thought is clear enough that ought to count for something. He should turn around, he should go back to the dining chamber, or to some chair, or to whatever patch of floor first offers itself. He should not bring wine and wakefulness and the stink of fear to your threshold. He should not stand outside your room like a stray hound that has mistaken pity for invitation. 

His hand lifts anyway. 

The latch is cool beneath his fingers. When his ring makes the slightest sound against the metal of it, it sounds less like a call to heel than a comfort. 

For a moment, Daeron does nothing but stand there with his hand on the door and his ring cold against the metal. Behind him, the guard breathes carefully. Ahead of him, wood and silence, just quiet. 

No. Not quiet. 

Something softer than that, less daunting than that. 

The faintest shift of sheets. The low, faint crackling fo a dying hearth. And beneath it, so slight he might have imagined it, the steady rhythm of someone sleeping. 

The room beyond the door is quiet, but it is not empty. 

Daeron opens the door. 

The room receives him before he understands that it has. 

That is what feels most dangerous, most daunting. Not the darkness, not the hush, not the low, dying glow of the hearth.  

There is little enough light to see by, only a weak gold caught in the embers, a faint redness under ash. The sort of firelight that should trouble him with its closeness to other things. burnt things, blackened things, screaming things. It does not. 

Daeron stands just inside the door with one hand still on the latch, and some part of him loosens before he has given it permission. His shoulders. His jaw. The small, ugly clench behind the ribs that has held him upright for hours, days, however long it has been. It eases by a fraction, and the easing is so unexpected that it almost feels like being caught. 

He closes the door. 

His body does that, too, before his mind has quite approved it. 

The latch clicks into place. It is a small sound. Soft, really. Careful. Still, he flinches as if it has struck the room instead of merely closed it. The guards are on the other side now. The corridors, the cold, the low torches, the palace with all its waiting shadows. Behind him. Kept out. 

Or he has shut himself in. 

Or he has shut himself in with you. 

The thought is absurdly difficult to place, shelter and trap wear one another’s faces in the dark. A cornered thing does not always know whether it has found a den or a cage. Worse still, Daeron cannot decide which of you is the beast cornered. 

So he does not decide. He remains very still. 

The room is nearly blind around him, though he can make out the dark shapes of furniture by degrees: the curve of a chair near the hearth, the small table beside it, the heavier shadow of the bed. The air is warmer than the corridor, though only just. Warm with what remains. Linen. Ash. The faint trace of the oil you use in your hair, something soft and foreign to Summerhall, carried here with you and made ordinary. Beneath it, almost imagined, the dry ghost of lavender tea. 

You have made a place of this room. 

A shawl left over the back of the chair by the hearth, one end slipping toward the floor. A book, open-faced on the seat as if you meant to return to it and sleep had interrupted you. A pair of gloves laid neatly together, fingers touching fingers like hands intertwined. 

Small things. Things of yours. 

Daeron looks at them because they are safer than the bed. Or, at the very least, he tells himself they are. 

The chair by the hearth catches him first. He can imagine you there too easily, and because the imagining comes without permission, he hates himself for the sweetness of it. You sitting while the night gathered at the windows, you reading with the shawl drawn around your shoulders, you turning a page. You, pausing at some sound in the corridor that was not him, or perhaps was never going to be him. 

Perhaps thinking of him. 

The thought is obscene, and he pushes it away. 

Not because there is anything indecent in it. That would almost make it easier. But there isn’t, the thought is soft, domestic, harmless. The idea that you may have sat in this room, in the quiet, and allowed him some place in your mind not shaped by duty or dread or regret. That you might have wondered where he was, whether he would come, whether he slept. 

He should not want that. He should not want to have been thought of kindly in a room he has spent weeks avoiding. 

The bed is there. He has known it all along, and he turns toward it finally, because all the smaller proofs of you lead there in the end. 

You are asleep on your side, turned slightly toward the room, one hand drawn near your face on the pillow. The dying hearth almost gives nothing of you to sight. A line of cheek, the loose fall of hair, the line of the sheet near your shoulder. The faint suggestion of fingers resting open against the silk, soft in a way that makes his own hands feel suddenly large and ruined and too badly made to hope for the touch of yours. 

He looks away. Then looks back. 

Only once. A brief glance, a stolen thing. But enough. 

The moment feels breakable, that is the word his mind does not quite form and his body knows regardless. Breakable. As if he has opened the door upon something made of glass, or frost, or morning before anyone has spoken into it. The dark around you is only dark, the night is only night. You sleep as though sleep is something one might enter without being dragged there, as though the body might surrender and not be punished for it. 

He has brought the wrong world to your door. 

Wine, wakefulness, cold corridors and old fears. Shadows that become soot if looked at too long, fire where there are only embers, screaming where there is only wind. He keeps it all inside his skin by will or habit or some uglier thing, but skin has never seemed a reliable border to him. 

He does not wake you. He does not even truly consider it. 

There is a world, perhaps, where he does. Some other world made kinder by accident. In it, your eyes open without fear, your face does not tighten at the sight of him, your mouth does not shape his name as accusation or pity. In it, you see him in the dark and do not wish him elsewhere. 

Perhaps you shift aside, perhaps you lift the covers. Perhaps you say nothing at all. No questions, no startled breath, only room made for him. 

In that world, he is the sort of man who climbs onto bed beside you. 

In that world, he is the sort of man who can gather you against him as something real and loved and his -not owned, never owned, but held-. A tether, to this time, this house, this body, this world where the walls are not yet black and the dead are not yet calling. 

Or in that world, perhaps you hold him. The thought comes worse, a blade, a wound. 

In that world, your hand tangles in his hair, your palm settles softly at the back of his neck. In that world, there’s a touch moving over him as if there’s nothing in him that might cut you for coming too close, as if the skin that has always felt to him like something flayed and exposed might learn, beneath your hand, to be only skin. 

In this world, Daeron closes his eyes. 

When he opens them again, nothing has changed. You are still sleeping, the room is still dark, the bed is still impossible. 

Not forbidden, that would imply a gate, a guard, a rule. This is simpler than that. A man may stand beneath the Dragonmont and understand that dragons will never fly above him again, a boy may look toward the stars and know he has no road there. One might desire a thing and never mistake desire for reach. 

The bed is yours. 

The law has made room for him beside you, but law is a clumsy, useless thing. It cannot build belonging out of witnesses and words alone, it cannot make him the man who would be allowed to lie down in the warmth you have left open by sleeping. 

So Daeron approaches, but he dares not climb into the bed, dares not touch it. 

Heavy steps take him to your side of the bed, though he does not name it that. There is no question of the other side. The other side is the place a husband might claim if he had courage enough or cruelty enough, but it means nothing. The bed is soft because you are in it, the room is shelter because you occupy it. If there is any warmth in the world in this night, it gathers where you breathe.  

He is not brave or cruel enough to climb into bed, but the Gods know he is not strong enough to step away from it, from you. 

He goes to the floor beside it instead. 

He lowers himself carefully at first, then less carefully. 

By the time he reaches the cold floor, the movement feels less like sitting and more like yielding. The boards are cold beneath him. He notices it distantly, and almost welcomes it. Cold is honest, hardness is honest. Neither asks anything of him, neither allow him to forget himself. 

His shoulder comes to rest against the bedframe, the edge of the mattress. 

For a moment he sits upright, knees drawn toward him, boots still on, cloak still around his shoulders. A trespasser, dressed for leaving, dressed to give away how much he does not belong here. His hands settle against his knees, fingers curling into the fabric there. He isn’t sure if he’s holding himself in place or holding himself back, and gathers the difference does not matter. 

The ring presses cold against his finger. 

He touches it, deliberately, once. Only once. 

Above him, you shift in your sleep. Daeron goes still. 

The sheets whisper. Your hand moves a little on the pillow, fingers loosening, palm open and empty beside your face. He looks at it, because a hand is safer to look at than a cheek, the delicate fan of lashes, a mouth he knows the softness of. Because a hand may be imagined without the gnashing violence of wanting the person it belongs to. 

But even that is not safe. 

Your fingers are soft with rest, and his own tighten in his clothes until the knuckles ache. 

He thinks, absurdly, of touching nothing. 

Not you, not the sheet, not the covers hanging near his shoulder. Not the edge of the mattress where his head has begun, without permission, to lean. He thinks of making himself into a shape that asks for nothing and leaves no mark. He thinks that if he can be still enough, quiet enough, perhaps this will not count as taking. 

Only a moment, he tells himself. 

That much is allowed. 

Perhaps not allowed, but forgivable. So small an indulgence it may pass unnoticed by Gods and wives alike. 

Only a moment, and then he will go. He will rise before morning, before the servants breach the quiet, before light can make something of him. You will wake to nothing worse than the room you had before him, the bed undisturbed, the air untroubled. You will never need to know that he brought himself here and then thought better than to burden you with the knowledge. 

He will spare you this. 

He lets his head rest, barely, against the edge of the mattress. 

The covers are soft beneath his temple. Not warm, not enough. Enough. 

Your breathing moves above him. 

In. 

Out. 

The room follows it. 

Or he does. 

The hearth gives a low crackle no more than a settling ember. Once, that night have become something else. Tonight, it remains small, contained, simply a sound in a room where someone is sleeping. 

Your breathing returns. 

In. 

Out. 

The dark does not empty itself around him, it has a rhythm now, a body. A witness that asks nothing, knows nothing, but stays. Daeron listens to it with the attention of a man counting waves from a shore, though he does not know what shore he has reached, or whether he is meant to be there, or how long before the tide drags him back. 

Only a moment, he thinks again, but the thought has lost its teeth. 

His fingers loosen in the fabric against his knees. 

His body, traitorous and wise, gives up another inch of itself. Then another. The line of his spine softens against the bedframe. His eyes close. 

He means to open them. 

He will. 

Before morning, before you wake, before this becomes anything that must be answered for. 

Above him, you breathe, and sleep takes him before he can forbid it.

The room is loud enough that, for a while, it almost passes for mercy. 

Not quiet, never quiet. Quiet rooms are for men who have made some peace with closing their eyes, for men who can surrender themselves to sleep and trust that sleep will not open its maws and bite pieces off them. Quiet rooms are for honest and welcome exhaustion, for hearths gone low and beds that promise warmth, rest. 

Daeron has never known what to do with quiet except drink against it. 

So, he remains where the noise is thickest, pressed into the heat and smoke and laughter of the room until the borders of himself grow mercifully indistinct. Someone is singing near the hearth, too loudly and badly enough that every other voice must rise to drown it. Cups strike against tables. Dice skitter over wood. A woman cheers with her head tipped back, throat bare and warm in the candlelight, and somewhere behind her a man curses over a lost throw. 

“That was never a six.” Daeron says, or thinks he says. 

The man across from him looks up, affronted. “You accuse me of cheating, my prince?” 

“I accuse you only of optimism, ser.” Daeron returns, and that is enough. The table laughs, comes alive. 

For one small, tolerable moment, he is almost there with them. 

Not whole, not well, nothing as miraculous as that. Just present enough to watch the man theatrically clap a wounded hand over his chest as if Daeron’s accusation has pierced him clean through, present enough to notice the woman beside him chuckling into her cup, present enough to feel the crooked pull of his own mouth and know, distantly and awkwardly, that this part is not always false. 

He can do this. Often. Sometimes. 

He can sit in a room and make a man laugh over dice, he can tilt his cup in lazy surrender when someone declares him cruel, he can answer a joke with another and let the room mistake it for the ease of a man comfortable in his own skin. He can be pleasant company, when enough wine has softened the edges of him and no one asks him to be anything sturdier. 

There is wine in Daeron’s cup. There is always wine in Daeron’s cup. 

He does not remember who filled it last. That is one of the smaller graces of rooms like this. Hands move, cups empty, cups fill, someone leans too close, someone speaks with sickening familiarity and he focuses on the familiar instead of the nausea. Nothing is required of him here, except the shape everyone has already agreed he occupies. 

The drunken prince, the ruined prince. The man with eyes gone soft and unfocused, with his collar open and his mouth wet with wine, laughing half a breath too late at jokes he has not entirely heard. 

It is, strangely, a kinder fate than being listened to, than being believed. 

If he’s drunk, no one asks what else he is. If he smiles, no one asks what he has seen. If his hand trembles when he lifts the cup, there is a reason for it already waiting in the room, a reason simple enough for other people to carry. Too much wine, too little sense. Daeron the Drunken, poor Daeron, useless Daeron, sweet enough when he is too far gone to make trouble and clever enough only in ways no one has use for. 

Better that. Better wine-sick than frightened, better ridiculous than prophetic, better a familiar disappointment than a thing anyone thinks of looking at too closely.  

He drinks. 

The taste is long past mattering, it has turned sour at the back of his throat, thick with smoke and something coppery where he has bitten the inside of his cheek without noticing. He swallows anyway. Past pleasure, past taste, past the little dignity he once had of refusing a cup when his stomach has begun to turn against him. 

He knows he is not drinking toward pleasure, if he ever did. Pleasure is too delicate a word for what he is doing. 

He is drinking toward the point where sleep cannot find him whole. 

That is the hope, if such a thing can really be called that. Not rest, for rest would require trust, and trust would require a world that has not taught him what awaits him. Rest would require the innocence of believing that closing his eyes is only closing his eyes. 

So he drinks. Until the path between wakefulness and sleep is damaged, until thought loses its clean edges, until whatever waits in his dreams must claw through wine and exhaustion. He drinks, so he will not have to go to bed a willing man. He drinks so that, when sleep comes, it will have to take him by force. 

It is one of the last means of defense he has, one of the few remaining mercies he wrenches from this world. 

Around him, faces come apart. 

A mouth red with wine. A ringed hand thumping the table. Teeth flashing in decadent joy. A sleeve brushing his wrist. A curl of dark hair stuck damply on someone’s temple. Gold at a throat. The blurred oval of a face turning toward him and away again before he can decide whether he knows it. 

Whole people require a kind of presence he knows he does not have to spare. 

Fragments are easier, fragments cannot ask to be remembered. Fragments do not return, covered in blood and soot, screaming and dying, in his dreams. Fragments do not claw their way to him and accuse him of having known and done nothing to save them. Fragments do not stand whole and warm before him while some future flame licks at their hems. 

A cup is only a cup. A hand is only a hand. A laugh is only a sound. 

Until it isn’t. 

The laughter rises suddenly from the far end of the room, many voices at once, sharp and bright and too high. And for the smallest part of a breath, the sound twists. 

Not laughter any longer. 

Screaming. 

Daeron goes still. No one notices. Or perhaps they do, and they call it drunkenness, which is kinder. 

The man beside him is still laughing, shoulders shaking, face flushed and stupidly alive. Someone pounds the table, someone shouts for more wine. The song near the hearth falters and begins again from the wrong verse. 

Laughter, then. Only laughter again. 

His fingers have tightened around the cup, and when he notices he makes the mistake of looking down. 

Wine has spilled over the rim and onto the table, dark where it gathers in the grooves of the wood. It spreads slowly, patiently, finding every carved line, every knife-mark, every small injury men have left behind without meaning to. For a moment it is only wine, but then the candlelight catches in it, and the red deepens, thickens. 

Daeron lifts the cup before the thought can finish forming, and drinks what remains.  

Across the room, the door opens. 

Cold air pushes in, alive and sudden. The nearest torch flares as if taking a breath, and its flame leaps high, gold-white at the heart, and the smoke twists hard toward the ceiling. The smell catches in his throat. 

Burning. 

No. Tallow, smoke. Nothing more. 

His body does not believe him, and his mind has long since been lost to him. 

For a moment the room tilts, enough that he has to set the cup down or risk dropping it. The table is beneath his palm, the wood rough and sticky. Someone’s knee knocks against his under the table. Someone’s hand claps his shoulder, hard and friendly, and the weight of it lands like a command to remain. 

There. Here. Now. 

The present returns by force of contact, by the truth of a human touch. 

Daeron lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh. It must be close enough, he gathers, for the man beside him grins as if they have shared some joke between them. Perhaps they have. Perhaps Daeron has said something, perhaps he was amusing. He often is, when enough of himself has been put away. 

The hand remains on his shoulder a moment longer than necessary. 

Daeron does not move away. 

“Still with us, my prince?” 

The question comes from somewhere almost close enough to touch him. Almost. 

Daeron turns his head because turning is easier than answering, and finds the man beside him smiling with the loose, ruddy affection of someone who has never had cause to distrust his own sight. His hand is still on Daeron’s shoulder. Broad palm, heavy rings, a thumb pressing once, companionably, against the bone. 

“I try not to be.” Daeron answers. It earns him another laugh. 

Good. There, at last. Proof of life.  

The room accepts the answer and moves around him again, forgiving the stillness it had not understood enough to condemn. The man’s hand falls away and Daeron tells himself he doesn’t miss the touch. Dice are thrown again and Daeron pretends they don’t sound like horses galloping for war. Someone calls for another round, someone protests a debt with all the wounded dignity of a lord dispossessed. 

He smiles at that, because for a moment, the room is only a room again. 

That is the trick of it, the cruelty and the mercy at once. Because it does not fail all at once, no ruin is kind enough to come with one gust of wind, with one beat of a dragon’s wings. The wine turns to blood and then back to wine, the laughter sharpens into screaming and then becomes only joy again, the smoke catches in his throat like a memory of burned flesh and then thins into tallow. 

The world gives itself back in pieces, and Daeron has learned to hoard them. 

A cup. A table. A song. A joke. A hand. 

Especially a hand. 

The next one comes to his wrist. 

Not hard, not even possessive, at first. Fingers touch the inside of his sleeve, just where the cuff has slipped loose, and linger there as if by accident. Daeron looks down before he looks toward the person it belongs to. 

A narrow, thin hand. No rings. Nails bitten short beneath the stain of wine. Warm fingertips against the place where his pulse is making a fool of him. 

“There you are.” A voice says, amused. He does not know if they mean the words kindly or not. He does not know if it matters. 

For the space of one breath, perhaps two, everything that had been spreading too wide and too thin inside him narrows to the small, ridiculous fact of fingers at his wrist. Not fire, not blood, not whatever waits beneath sleep with its patient mouth. Wrist, sleeve, skin. The simple, almost animal certainty of pressure, of contact. 

He should pull away. Not because there is danger in it yet, not exactly, but because he knows all too well the treachery of small mercies, how quickly the body begins to ask for the thing that quiets it, how shamelessly it learns. 

He does not pull away. 

Instead he lifts his gaze, slow enough that the room blurs in the corners of it. 

The face above the hand is a face only for a glimpse. A mouth first, curved as it has been smiling for some time, a cheek warmed by wine, hair escaping pins -or perhaps never pinned at all-, eyes he cannot hold onto. The candlelight moves, and the features moves with it, rearranging themselves before they can become anyone he might have to remember. 

“Am I?” He asks. 

The mouth smiles wider. 

“With us.” They clarify. 

A reasonable thing to say, he’s certain. A harmless thing. The kind of thing people say to drunk men when they have gone quiet at the table. 

Daeron looks down at the fingers still resting at his wrist. 

“With someone.” He says, aimlessly, helplessly, and does not know until the words have left him whether he meant them as jest or confession. 

The mouth laughs. 

So it was a jest, then. He lets it be. 

The fingers tighten once, gently. Reward or answer, he cannot tell. Warmth moves into him through that narrow point of contact, absurdly powerful for how little of it there is. It does not comfort, no. comfort is too large a word, too clean. This does not make the room safe or the night shorter or sleep less hungry. 

But it gives the panic somewhere to land, and that is enough to make him choke with something like gratitude. 

Someone fills his cup again. Wine sloshes dark against the rim, and Daeron watches the red tremble without letting it become anything else. The hand at his wrist remains.  

Daeron laughs quietly, because this time he means to. 

It comes out low and a little ruined, but real enough that the mouth beside him softens with interest. 

The fingers at his wrist slide, only slightly, until they rest over the jump of his pulse.  

Daeron lets them. 

“Careful with him,” Someone says from across the table. “He’s promised now, is he not?” 

The words should be nothing. 

They are spoken over dice and wine, tossed into the room with the same carelessness that has tossed everything else tonight: accusations, cups emptied too quickly, songs begun without knowing the words. 

A harmless comment, really. A passing cruelty so ordinary no one thinks to call it cruel. 

Daeron does not look up once. 

Promised. 

It is a strange word for a thing that has never belonged to him. Promised makes it sound soft, almost holy. A ribbon tied at a wrist, a hand offered before a septon, a cloak gently covering shoulders, a vow spoken with firelight trembling against the walls. Promised makes it sound as if there is wanting somewhere in the arrangement, as if there is anything in it but names and ravens and seals pressed into wax by men who will not be made to lie beside the consequences. 

Still, the thought idly lingers in his mind. 

He is promised. 

No. 

He has been given. 

That is not right either. 

Somewhere, there is a woman who has been given to him. 

That is worse. 

The thought settles with a weight wine cannot soften. It sits beneath his ribs, quiet and exact like a knife, more solid than the hand at his wrist, more real than the room around him. You. A woman. A name he has heard and deliberately not held onto, a House a father and a deal, a date moving toward him with all the patient cruelty of things decided elsewhere. 

Poor thing. 

The pity comes at once. Cleanly, so cleanly it nearly feels like a wound. 

Poor woman, poor stranger with your future folded and sealed and sent ahead of you like a letter. Poor thing, to be delivered into the hands of a man who cannot keep hold of a cup without trembling when the room turns wrong; to be told there is honor, privilege, in this; to be dressed, veiled, named wife, and bound to whatever Daeron has made of himself. 

He wants to laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it is the only sound he can allow his throat to release. 

“You look stricken, my prince.” Says the person beside him. 

The fingers at his wrist move again, a small stroke over the veins. Too gentle to be an accusation, too intimate to be nothing. 

Daeron lifts his gaze. 

The face is still difficult to hold. Mouth, cheek, lashes lowered briefly over eyes he cannot name the color of. The candle behind them makes a halo out of stray hair, then smoke moves between them and the shape loosens. 

“Do I?” He asks. 

“You have the look of a man being led to virtue.” 

That earns laughter from the table. 

Daeron smiles, because the room expects him to. He lets the smile come crooked and mild, lets his eyes lower toward his cup as if the joke has landed where jokes are meant to land. 

“Then someone has taken a wrong turn,” He says, “I have never been accused of knowing the way.” 

Another burst of laughter. A cup hits the table. Someone declares that if virtue has any sense, it will bolt the door before he arrives. 

And just like that, the room accepts him back into the shape of himself that amuses it. The hand at his wrist remains, wine gleams in his cup, the spilled red on the table has gone dark and sticky around the edges.  

And like a beast hungry and denied of a taste the thought circles its way back to him. 

His betrothed. 

No, not his. His betrothed, as if language can make possession clean. His betrothed, as if you have walked willingly into the title. 

He pities you most of all. 

Not because he is kind, he does not trust kindness in himself enough to name it. He pities you because he knows with the bitter intimacy and inescapable certainty of a man looking down at his own ruin, what is being tied to you. The wine, the dreams, the days after nights like this. The laughter that comes too late, the silences that come too early. The body absent from itself, the mind never his to begin with. The name Daeron the Drunken, carried before him like stink, like song, like warning. 

You have done nothing to deserve him. That is the truth of it. 

And still.  

The thought arrives so softly he almost misses the sheer violence of it. 

Still, there will be a room somewhere. A marriage bed, a door closing, a woman breathing near him because the world has arranged it so. A presence that does not leave at the end of an hour, a hand that might remain because it has nowhere else it is expected to go. 

No. 

He cannot think that. 

The hope is obscene here, under the fingers of a stranger, with wine souring on his tongue and laughter thick around him. Obscene, because pity should be cleaner than want. Obscene, because he knows you are being forced to be bound to him and still some starved part of himself lifts it head at the thought of being less alone. 

Someone, you, might stay. 

Not love him, he is not yet drunk enough for that kind of stupidity. Not want him, not see him and find anything worth keeping. 

Only stay. 

The word opens inside him, like a reopened wound. 

He looks down at his cup before he can imagine it bleeding. 

The hand at his wrist tightens, mistaking the movement for invitation or weakness or both. A thumb presses over his pulse, and for a moment the touch is useful again. Wrist, skin, pressure. Here. 

“Will your betrothed mind?” The mouth asks, voice lowered now, near enough that the words are more breath than sound. 

Daeron should ask what they mean, but he knows. 

The room has begun to narrow around the place where they touch him. 

“My betrothed.” He repeats, as if testing a language that his mouth has no right to. 

It is a foolish phrase, too courtly for this room, too clean. It should call to mind banners, courtyards, hands folded in laps. 

Instead, because he is drunk and ruined and cruel in all the ways hunger makes a man cruel, he thinks of a hand in the dark. 

He drinks before the thought can become more than that. 

“She would be wise to mind a great many things.” He says instead. 

The person beside him laughs softly. 

“And you?” 

Daeron looks back at the hand on his wrist. If he focuses for too long on the touch, it feels as if it is pressed over exposed nerves, as if some unbearable coldness is seeping from it. 

But it would take something from him to move away. Some intact and sober little piece of himself would have to rise, gather itself, decide against warmth, decide to be alone again inside his own skin. 

He cannot find it. 

“I have never been wise.” He says instead. 

It is treated as permission. Perhaps, he knew it would be. 

The mouth does not ask him again. It should matter, he thinks, or almost thinks. It should matter that the question has passed and no answer clear enough to warrant the name has followed it. It should matter that his betrothed is still there as certain as another body sitting at the table, faceless and wronged and impossible, and that his own words have done nothing to move her aside. 

The room does not think it matters. 

Cups strike wood. Someone makes a low, approving sound.

The table has only heard the shape of a jest, and Daeron has given them enough of those tonight to make this one easy to accept. I have never been wise, a fine answer from a drunken prince. 

They laugh, and the sound is pleasant enough. Low, near, human. It does not turn into screaming this time, and for that alone he could forgive a great deal. 

The hand finally leaves his wrist. He feels the absence of it at once. 

It is absurd, humiliating. A small withdrawal of warmth no more meaningful than a candle guttering in a room on fire, and still some part of him notices the absence with the quick, starved attention of a dog hearing a door close. 

Then the hand is at his cup instead, easing it from his fingers. 

“There are stronger things than wine, my prince.” 

The table laughs. Not cruelly, not entirely. There’s affection in the sound, or something close enough to pass as it in a room like this. Someone else says something he does not catch, something vulgar enough to be answered with another burst of amusement. The words move around him, warm and indistinct, and the woman smiles as though all of this has been agreed upon by everyone who matters. 

The loss of the cup should trouble him more. And it does trouble him, more than he can admit, more than he can understand. Somewhere beneath the wine, beneath the heat, beneath the thumbprint of vanished pressure at his wrist, an instinct lashes out, an animal lifts its head and takes note. No cup, no hand, no clear path back to the thing he had been using to keep sleep damaged and silent. 

The fingers touch his sleeve again. 

The instinct sleeps again, the animal quiets. 

“Come away from the table.” The person says. Or orders, commands, sentences. It is not a question and Daeron is almost grateful. 

Daeron turns his head, slowly, and the room takes a moment to follow. 

A face, nearer now. Still not whole. Mouth first, wine-dark lower lip, a cheek with a. faint mark near the jaw. Eyes catching candlelight and giving none of it back in any color he can hope to remember. A face assembled from fragments. 

“Careful,” A man from the other side of the table calls out, grinning, “His bride might send assassins after you.” 

More laughter. 

His bride. 

The words move through him more cleanly this time, perhaps because they have found the wound already made for them. 

Poor thing, he thinks again. 

It is immediate, almost steadying. Poor thing, who will be told that vows make sense of what men have already decided; who will be given a place beside him and be expected to stand near enough to inherit the smell of wine and ash from his skin; who has not yet seen him like this and already deserves apology. 

And beneath it, worse than pity, worse than shame, the thought he had tried to drown before it learned its own shape. 

If you stayed… 

The woman beside him has risen, and Daeron notices only when the hand at his sleeve becomes a hand at his elbow, urging rather than touching now. 

It would cost so little to resist. 

A turn of the wrist, a laugh made sharper, a prince’s coldness, if he could find it. Even a drunk man can refuse a hand, Daeron knows this. Men refuse things all the time. Cups, debts, Gods, women, warnings. 

Daeron does not refuse. 

Refusal asks of him to gather himself from every place the room has scattered him. From the wine soaked grooves in the table, from the smoke above the hearth, from the laughter that for a breath was screaming. From the thought of the woman who will be made his wife. From the warm place at his wrist where fingers had been. From the mouth near his ear saying come, my prince, come now. 

He cannot gather that much of himself. He is not even certain he wants to. 

The hand at his elbow tightens. 

“There,” She murmurs as he rises too quickly and the room lists hard to one side, “Easy.” 

Easy. 

The word lingers somewhere bitter in him. 

His knee catches the bench, but someone steadies him with a loud chuckle and a congratulatory slap to his back. Another hand. The table cheers with the lazy vulgarity of men who believe they are watching a willing prince be led toward a familiar sort of pleasure. 

Perhaps they are. He certainly wants them to be. 

Other nights, the story has been true enough. 

He has sought it, bought it, gone willingly to hands and mouths and the blessed numbness of a body given something simple to do. There are women in this city who know the look of him after a dream that finds him despite his best efforts, who know how quickly he drinks after, how little he likes quiet, how easily pleasure -his or anyone’s- gives him an escape from himself. 

Daeron lets himself be pulled upright. 

For a moment his hand finds the edge of the table. Sticky wood beneath his palm, wine drying black-red in the knife marks. The room bends around him: faces, mouths, cups lifted, teeth flashing, flame catching on rings and eyes and spilled drink. 

The hand pulls, and of course, he goes. 

Daeron the Drunken goes where he is led if the hand is warm enough, if the room lough enough, if the night has not yet finished with him. 

The woman at his side says something to the others. He does not catch the words, he catches only the amused tone. The table answers with another cheer. 

His cup remains behind. 

That, if nothing else, should make Daeron stop. 

Instead he looks once toward it and then away. 

The hand has found his wrist again. Warmth closes over the pulse, firm enough now that it is no longer only anchoring. 

She leads him toward the back of the room, where the shadows are thicker and the song from the hearth arrives softened by smoke. The floor is uneven beneath him. His shoulder brushes a hanging curtain. Someone’s perfume burns his nose, sweet and stale. The air changes. 

Behind him, the room continues without injury, without hiccup. 

That is another thing Daeron has learned to expect, to almost find comfort in: how little the world changes when he leaves it. He promised Egg not to linger on such thoughts, though. 

At the edge of the corridor, he turns his head once, though he does not know what he means to look for. The table is already closing over the space where he thinks he had been, a man reaches for his abandoned cup. Someone laughs, and the dice begin again. 

No one calls him back, no one looks his way. 

The hand at his wrist tugs lightly again. Daeron follows. 

The curtain does not lead to a room, Daeron understands that late, and only in pieces. 

A hanging of dark, moth-eaten wool. A sliver of a passage behind it. Barrels pushed against the wall, their iron hoops dull with old damp. Linens thrown over something shapeless on the floor, greyed by dust and old spills, more rag than cloth. 

Not a room, but a place behind a room, a place for things no one wants to look at while candles are lit. 

The woman who has brought him here does not let go of his wrist until he is inside. Some disgusted, self-flagellating part of himself thinks to tell her she need not secure a leash, the faint unspoken promise of a warm touch is enough to make him obey, always has been. 

Her touch changes before he can make a joke at his own expense. 

That is the thing Daeron notices first, before fear, before shame, before anything in him can gather itself into a shape worth naming. At the table, the hand was an anchor, but here it becomes something with intention. 

By the time the curtain falls closed behind them, she has become a woman in pieces. 

A mouth, wine-dark and smiling. A hand at his collar. A voice low with amusement, telling him to look at her as if looking is a simple thing, as if faces have not been coming apart in the candlelight all night. 

“There,” She says, when his gaze finds hers for half a breath before he loses it again. “You are very far gone, aren’t you?” 

He is. 

The truth of it moves through him without force, without malice. He could agree with her, perhaps. He could tell her that far gone is the point, that he has been drinking toward absence with all the desperation better men reserve for prayer. But his tongue is thick behind his teeth, and the room keeps arriving late, and her hands are already making decisions before his body has decided to make one. 

He has to lean against the wall before he knows he has reached for it.

The wood meets his shoulder hard enough to make him blink. His head is too heavy, his mouth too slow, his hands full of delayed intentions. Every part of him seems to arrive after itself: breath after fear, shame after touch, thought after the body has already been moved.

She makes useof his weakness, and presses his body against the wall, unfastening what is easiest first. 

For some reason, he lingers on the lack of care in the undressing. There is no cruelty great enough to blame, only the practical confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed by loosened laces and drunken men. His collar gives way beneath her fingers, his coat is pushed from one shoulder, the belt at his waist is handled before he has finished noticing her hand has left his throat. 

Daeron looks down. 

Her knuckles. His waist. The dark line of fabric pulled from his body. The pale inside of her wrist. The place where his body is answering as if reminding him that not even his own flesh is his.  

He should say something, he thinks that very clearly. Or almost clearly.  

Something. 

Not wait, not stop, perhaps. The thoughts do not form with enough shape to be chosen. They drift beneath the wine, beneath the heat, beneath the immense exhaustion weighing at his very heart. 

She says something with the shape of a question. Daeron does not answer. 

She smiles as if he has. 

That is how it happens, or how it begins to happen. No force great enough to give him something to resist, only a warm mouth and a body that answers, only the loss of the pieces of himself where refusal might have lived if he had been sober enough to build it. 

Hands guide him backward until the wall presses against his back, the cold seeps past his clothes. The figure before him presses closer, leg slotting between his. 

Daeron looks at the wall over her shoulder. 

For a moment, the shadow there is dragon-winged. 

For a moment, the room smells of smoke. 

For a moment, the noise beyond the curtain becomes something else. 

Then a hand enters his hair and pulls, not cruelly, but not gently either, and the world once again narrows to a single point of sensation. 

Scalp, neck, breath. Body. Here. 

The relief of it is so immediate that he hates himself for it. 

His body has always been easier than his mind. More treacherous, perhaps, but simpler. The body can be given instructions. Touched here, moved there, made to answer even when he is absent from the answering. The body does not need prophecy explained to it, nor sleep made safe. It knows pressure, heat, pain, the bluntness of another body close enough to block the dark. 

The woman says something, but Daeron does not catch the words. 

He catches tone instead, and it is enough. Amusement, want, satisfaction with his pliancy. With the way his head tips when fingers tighten in his hair, with the way he does not move away when she falls to his knees before him, with the way he lets her decide what will happen now that the wine has done most of the work of hollowing him out. 

Her own clothes are adjusted with the same efficiency. A loosened tie, a shift of fabric, a glimpse of skin he does not know what to do with. She does not feel indistinct in the way his own body feels. She is -frighteningly- present in pieces. In a mouth biting too hard, in hands freezing and scalding at once. In a thigh against his knee, in hair slipping forward as she leans over him, in breath warm at his cheek.  

“Stay with me.“ She murmurs. 

It is almost funny. Almost. 

He might laugh, if he trusted laughter to come out of him as laughter.

But there is something else too near his throat, something rawer and wetter and far less useful, and he swallows it down because even now, even here, some part of him understands that there are sounds a body should not make in front of another person.

Her hand takes his and puts it where she wants it. Daeron lets it be put there. 

The shame of that arrives late, and weaker than it should. His fingers curve because fingers curve when guided. His breath catches because breath is a thing the body does before the mind can forbid it. She makes a pleased sound, small and close, and the sound goes through him but it hurts too much to become pleasure. 

It becomes instruction instead. 

There is, at last a role. And with it comes relief, and horror at the relief. 

He does not have to know what he wants, he does not have to gather himself. He does not have to explain the wine, the smoke, the laughter that became screaming, the thought of you, of his betrothed, like a closed door with light beneath it. Someone else has decided what he is for, and there is relief, and there is grief, in that. 

His body knows old instructions. 

His body can be guided, coaxed, made to answer pressure with movement, breath with breath, touch with the dull, obedient reflex of living flesh. The body can remain, can be present, even if he is not. The body can betray him. 

It is not the same as wanting, and her mouth on his is not the same as a kiss, and her hands on his skin not the same as a caress. But this place has no use for distinctions that delicate, and neither, it seems, does she. 

The night loses sequence, loses sense. 

It comes to him in fragments. 

The wall cold through his shirt. 

The floor hard beneath his knees, then his hip, then his back, each change arriving before he has agreed to the last. Dust and old linens caught beneath his fingers. Her hand at his jaw. His name breathed too close to his ear. Fabric caught beneath his hip. The curtain moving.  

The distant room, laughing as if nothing in the world has changed. The world remains assembled. 

A cup strikes a table, a man shouts the end of a song. Someone laughs again, ordinary and drunk and alive, and the sound passes over the curtain as if there is no reason it should stop. 

Daeron tries holding onto the floor because it, at least, does not ask him to answer. It is only there. Hard, filthy, but certain. A place for the body to be when the mind has gone too far to keep it. 

The candlelight moves against the fabric. Her mouth says something. 

Her weight. Her breath. His own hand clutching the linen. 

The thought of his betrothed appearing and vanishing, faceless and impossible. Poor thing.  

Forgive me. 

No. Not forgive. 

You owe him nothing, especially not forgiveness. 

He tries not to think of you. He fails. 

Not because the woman touching him resembles you. She does not, she cannot. You have no face in him yet, no voice, no hand he has any right to imagine. 

That is what makes it worse, somehow. 

You are not there, and still the thought of you stands somewhere beyond the room, like a warm hearth behind a pane of glass. 

Some touch might not feel like it takes. Some presence might feel like safety. Someone might stay. 

Hope opens its mouth, bares its teeth. 

Daeron turns his face away. 

The woman above him mistakes it for something else and follows. Good enough. 

Let the body be misunderstood if misunderstanding it keeps it occupied. Let hands make use of what everyone has decided he is careless with. Let the night spend him down past dignity, past pleasure, past the instinctual recoil that has nowhere to go. 

At some point, his eyes close. 

Not in rest, never in rest. 

Only because keeping them open has become one more choice he cannot make. 

When he opens his eyes again, the light from the outside is dimmer. 

The corner is colder than it was. Or perhaps he is, he isn’t sure. The noise beyond the curtain has thinned into something distant and shapeless, a few voices, a burst of laughter, the dull strike of a cup against wood. Life continuing on elsewhere. 

The woman is no longer touching him. 

For a moment, Daeron does not understand the absence. His body has arranged itself around pressure, around hands, and now the pressure has gone. The shape remains, but not the weight, not the warmth. Like a handprint left on skin, like a door closed after light. 

He turns his head. 

She is standing now, straightening her skirts. Not hurriedly, not guiltily. There is a moment of comfort in the ease of her, in the practiced fastening of laces, the smoothing down of fabric, the small satisfied exhale through the nose as she reaches for a discarded sleeve. 

She looks whole, in a way he does not feel. Pleased, in a way he doubts he’s capable of. 

His mouth is dry. 

There is something he should say, but he does not know what it is. 

She glances at him and smiles. He resists the urge to flinch. 

“There you are,” She says again, softer now, “I thought I had lost you for a moment.” 

For a moment. 

As if it is charming, as if his absence had been a tricked played for her pleasure, as if she had noticed him slipping away and found it sweet, or useful, or simply not important enough. 

Daeron looks at her, and the effort it takes is immense. 

She laughs under her breath and leans down, close enough that her shadow falls over his chest. 

“You really are far gone, aren’t you?” The words land plainly this time. 

She touches his cheek with the backs of her fingers, almost fondly, almost mockingly. His skin does not seem to belong to him quickly enough to flinch. 

“Sleep it off, my prince,” Then, after a pause, with a glance towards his rumpled and loosened clothes, the old linens and rancid wood beneath him, the wreckage of him, “Your bride will have her hands full.” 

The curtain barely stirs as she leaves. 

A gasp leaves him as if with her she takes the air of the room. Or perhaps with her absence he can breathe again, he isn’t sure.  

She goes as easily as she came, taking her warmth with her, taking the shape of the corner they occupied with her, taking the last false use of this body with her. 

The space does not become empty at once, and instead it empties by degrees. 

First the space where he lays, the scattered linens over hard wood. Then the air where her voice had been. Then the place on his skin where the last touch cools. 

The curtain falls still behind her. 

Beyond it, the room continues. 

A cup struck against wood, someone calling for more wine, the end of a song dragged loose and crooked from a dozen drunken mouths. Ordinary, familiar sounds, the same sounds that held him together earlier, or close enough to together that the difference had not mattered. 

They do not hold him now. 

Daeron lies where she has left him and listens to the room living past him. 

It is almost funny, how little the world requires of him in order to go on. A cup abandoned, a chair filled by someone else, a prince missing from a table, a body behind a curtain. 

The floor is hard beneath him, that is the first thing that seems willing to remain true. 

Not kind, not warm, not safe, only true. 

Hard boards beneath his shoulder, old linens against his cheek, dust caught in the damp of the back of his neck. His clothes loose where she left them, his skin cooling in the places where the night has touched him too much and not enough. 

He had been led away. He had been made useful. He had been left to sleep it off. 

The story is so simple when told from outside his body. 

Inside it, nothing is simple. 

Inside it, the wine is sour behind his teeth, and his pulse is still trying to answer a hand that is no longer there, and the place where the old wood digs into his back feels less like the floor than evidence. His body has been forced present and then abandoned with the present still clinging to it. 

He had wanted collapse, he had wanted to be overcome, he had wanted sleep to come without asking anything of him. 

And now he is closer to it than before, emptied out and heavy-limbed, eyes burning, skin cooling the room tilting gently around the edges as if the world is considering finally letting him fall. 

But the dreams will find him anyway. 

And now, with the last clear cruelty the night leaves him, Daeron thinks they will find him like this. 

Not whole, not defended, not even properly absent. Only spent. 

The word comes to him without mercy. Spent, as a cup is spent, as a candle is spent, as a body is spent. The floor holds him because he has not yet found the strength to rise from it, the linens beneath him have become cool in places and damp in others. His skin knows where hands have been before his mind can decide what to do with the knowledge. 

He does not move. 

Movement, he thinks idly, irrationally, would make the body his again, and he is not certain he wants it again. 

The candle gives a weak little jump, and for a moment, the shadows move across the wall like wings. 

Daeron closes his eyes, and forces them open half a breath after. 

Sleep is too near now.  

He has brought himself here with such care. Cup after cup, smile after smile, touch after touch. Past pleasure, past taste, past dignity, past himself. He has made of himself a road toward collapse, and walked it willingly, knowingly, and so no one ought to be found guilty for leading him the last few steps. 

And still. 

His body is heavy enough for sleep now, yes. His limbs feel poured into the hard floor, his mouth sour, his thoughts slow and fraying at the edges. He has succeeded, in that small and miserable way. The body has been worn down, the body has been used up, the body will not be able to fight sleep for long. 

And yet the worst of it is that some dull, animal part of him understands this as success. 

Not happiness, not mercy, nothing so beyond him as comfort. Only success in the small and miserable terms that he had given the night. The body has been brought low, the mind has been dulled, and the road to sleep has been damaged enough that perhaps the dreams will have to crawl through wine and exhaustion and shame before they can find him. 

He has gotten what he was after, and it should feel like relief, like mercy. It does not. 

The floor presses hard beneath his shoulder, the linen has twisted under his cheek, rough with old dust and the damp warmth his body left in it. His clothes sit wrong on him, loosened and crooked and cooling where hands had made careless work of them. The air behind the curtain is close, stale with smoke and wine and perfume, but the warmth is going out of it. 

Nothing gathers around him. No hand returns to his wrist, no voice lowers near his ear, no weight settles beside him and makes the ground less hard by simply sharing it, no one draws the linen over him despite the fact it would make a poor covering. No one remains long enough for the dark to become anything else. 

No one has stayed to make this collapse into rest. No one has remained to turn the spent thing back into something worth keeping, no one has made a shelter of scattered linens on the ground, or a mercy of the dark, or a hand of the weight pressing down on his chest. 

The dark is only dark. The floor is just the floor. 

His hand moves before he gives it permission. 

Not far. Only to his own wrist, where your fingers -no, not you, not you, the woman from the room, the woman whose face he cannot keep, the woman who had known he was far gone- had held him. 

His fingers close around his own wrist, loose at first then tighter, until the pulse beats against his palm. 

There. Here. Now. 

It does not work the same when he is the one doing it. Of course it does not. 

He almost laughs, it catches somewhere in his throat and stays there, dry and ugly and small.  

His betrothed. 

The thought arrives without a face. Perhaps that is why it can come at all. 

Not a woman yet, not a voice, not eyes to disappoint or a mouth to turn away from him. Only a title, a fact, a vague shape of a future. His betrothed, as if words can make any worthy thing out of what will be done to you. 

The pity is duller now, exhausted by its own return, but it is still there. Poor thing, somewhere in the world, perhaps asleep right now in a bed that has not yet learned his name. Poor thing, who will be brought to him and told there is honor in standing close to ruin if ruin has a dragon’s blood in its veins. 

You have done nothing to deserve him, he knows this with the same certainty with which he knows the dreams come true. 

And still, because he is cruel, cruel in the private ways starvation makes a creature cruel, the thought of you reopens an already-bleeding wound. 

Betrothed. Wife, soon. 

Not the woman from the room, who has left. Not the voices beyond the curtain, everyone’s and no one’s. 

Betrothed, wife. His. 

A word that means a presence expected to remain after the candle gutters. A body not hired by the hour, not carried away by amusement, not gone once the use has been through. A touch that might linger when the room empties, a hand that might not withdraw simply because the night has ended. 

He turns his face onto the hard ground before the thought can become a wish, turns his body on its side and ignores the stabs of pain from making out of nothing a shelter. 

It is obscene to want that of you. It is obscene to pity you and need you in the same breath. 

Obscene to lie in this corner, in this body with the room still holding the shape of what has been done to him, and let some ruined part of himself lift its head toward a woman who has not yet had the chance to hate him. 

You will not stay because you want to, you will not touch him because you see in him something worth keeping. He knows that. 

He knows that. 

His fingers tighten around his own wrist anyway. 

For a moment, he lets the pressure pretend to be another hand. Only for a moment, only because the dreams are near, and the room is empty, and the title has no face to be harmed by what he does with it in the dark. 

His wife. 

The words are too soft, too dangerous, too close to prayer. 

Daeron opens his hand. 

The pulse beneath his skin remains, foolish and living and impossible to quiet. 

Beyond the curtain, someone laughs again. This time, it is only laughter, and this time, that makes it worse. 

He lies still on the ground, curled in on himself on a corner that has not become shelter, with the dark gathered close and sleep coming for him at last, and tries not to imagine anyone beside him. 

He fails before his eyes close.

212AC

You had awoken to your nightgown soaked through. Your unborn child making it difficult to even sleep anymore. You haven’t had any dreams for almost a whole year.

You were terrified. Maesters, handmaidens, a wet nurse surrounded you. You felt the walls caving in on you.

You screamed and screamed. You cried out for someone, anyone, to come help you. The maester told your handmaiden to shush you, something about the babe being stuck.

That shook you out of your head. “No!” You scream. You fought against hands, groaning at the feeling of the blood.

You had knocked yourself into a deep, delirious sleep. Your mother was there, so was Matarys.

When you had awoke, the room was quiet. Except for small cooing and whispers.

You reluctantly opened your eyes, wishing this was all a dream, that you weren’t pregnant, still unmarried.

But when you followed the noise. Aerion was holding the babe near the window. The moon beaming in, casting light on the babe.

“Aerion?”

He grins at you. “You have gave me a son, dear wife.”

You felt weak. Your mouth parched, scratching your throat as you swallowed back bile.

Standing up, off the birthing bed, as if you hadn’t almost bled to death birthing that thing. “Amazing news, cousin.”

Aerion noticed your state, how you weren’t begging him to hold your child, how you were so eager to leave. “I think the boy wants a name.”

You shrug, wrapping yourself into your robe. “You pick. He’s your son.”

“Our son.”

You didn’t feel like fighting. You felt pure bliss that the leech isn’t inside your womb no more. “Of course, husband.”

He walks closer to you. You could hear the thing cooing, probably hungry. Aerion is trying to kiss your cheek, but you move quicker.

“I need to go on a walk.”

Aerion raises a brow. “In your condition?”

You scoff. “I have no condition. You have an heir. Congratulations.”

You don’t wait for a response before you’re literally speeding down the halls. Hoping, praying that Kiera is roaming the same halls, expecting you.

And she is. Daeron at her side. She looks confused that there’s no child in your arms, expecting bad news about the outcome of the babe.

But you shake her off. Explains where he’s at.

“You don’t look happy, cousin.” It’s Daeron’s hoarse whisper that cracks into the air.

You sigh, picking at your nails. “I never wanted the.. babe.”

Kiera nods. “Of course, not. It’s understandable. Everything happened very quickly.”

She leans forward, resting her hand on yours. “I know what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking… it will pass.”

The King insisted you name the babe, before he is announced to the people of the council and Kings Landing.

It was one of the first times you actually held your child. He was already three moons old. Your dreams began to haunt you, once more.

He stared at you. Blinking with his white eyelashes, with your mother’s blue eyes. He had his father’s pure white hair.

The more you sat, examining this child, you realise how beautiful he is, how he looks at you like you’re his whole world.

“Valarys?” You whisper. His hand comes to your face, babbling, spit rolling down his chin.

It wouldn’t be a moon or so later, that you and your son become sick, heavy with fever, and a rough cough.

The maester told you it was common for mother and child to get sick at the same time. Since they spend so much time together. But how could you explain that you’re just getting used to having him.

Aerion tried to help both of you, before it started to get worse for Valarys.

You had mended in no time, being able to eat your meals at the table again. You began to breastfeed your baby, as the maester advised to boost his health.

It wasn’t until after you had came back from dinner, with Aelora trying to make odd conversation with you, Alys being snippy across the table, that you go into your chambers, taking your overheating child into your arms once more.

Valarys had became your comfort over time. You enjoyed watching him grow up, and how he was beginning to look more like you everyday.

He had babbled in happiness to see you, screeching when you took him into your arms. You had began to nurse him, rocking him back and forth, when Aerion struts in.

He slams letters down on the table in front of you. His knuckles white with tension, face red with anger.

“Care to explain?”

You look at the letters, seeing that they were your letters that you had sworn you had sent off to Duncan.

“Aerion, I–”

His open hand stops you, as you gasp in shock that he had slapped you. In front of your child.

You growled. “I don’t know how it’s any of your business who I send letters to! I’m just worried for your brother and his caregiver.”

“Caregiver?” He scoffs. “I should’ve known what happened in Ashford… should’ve known I married a whore!”

You try your best to ignore him, rocking Valarys as he begins to get restless because of the raised voices. You cover your breast again. His head on your shoulder.

“You gave me an heir, but he’s constantly sick! How will our family line continue if their king is a sickly one.”

You close your eyes, hoping this ends soon.

“Perhaps your womb is rotten. Will I just get sickly children from you?”

You swallow. “Perhaps.”

He scoffs again. You flinch back. Aerion notices and steps down onto his knees in front of you.

“I’m sorry, wife. I.. I let my anger get the best of me.”

You ignore him. Your cheek was hot.

He sighs. “Even the maesters are feared for the boy. They say he–”

“I don’t give a fuck what the maester says. They couldn’t save my mother, my brothers. Why should I trust them to save my son?”

You finally look at him. “He just needs time.” You felt tears bitting at your eyes. “Valarys will be a strong child, I know it.”

Aerion nods, his hands comes to rest of the boys head, kissing his cheek, before kissing yours. Valarys is snoring lightly, whimpering in his sleep when Aerion leaves.

It wasn’t until the year was almost over that life just had to knock you over one last time.

You had awoken to the sound of screaming, crying, shouting. You had jumped out of bed and ran to the nursery, pushing past handmaidens that had crowded the halls and doors.

Aelinor is in front of you, her arm wraps around you to stop going further. “No, sweet girl.”

“But Valarys!” You try to fight against her, until the maester is standing.

“He is dead, princess.”

You gasp. “What?”

“He had many ailments, and diseases that we know no cure of.” He looks down to the ground, almost in shame, begging for forgiveness.

You grab onto Aelinor, almost for something to ground you. “My son?”

The maester nods. “I’m sorry, princess.”

You felt your knees go weak, your eyes getting cloudy. “You… who can you save?!” You scream. “My mother, no cure. My brothers, no cure. And now my son!”

You didn’t mean to shout and scream. But knowing that your son is just behind this old man, hurts your chest, your heart beating far faster. You want to see him, hold him, nurse him back to health.

But you don’t. Your knees don’t make it to his cot before you’re on the floor, sobbing, screaming. Aelinor is there. You think Kiera is, too.

You scream until you’re choking on air, scratching at your skin. You scream until you’ve passed out into your aunts lap.

You dream of your father, how you would stand with him, watching the knights practice on the grounds. The night after another rough dream. How you held his hand and didn’t let go.

When you got ready for the funeral, you were still weak, not able to eat, or sleep. Even walking past the nursery makes your heart drop.

Standing and watching the pyre go up in flames. Aerion doesn’t look your way, once. He was the first to leave. You were one of the last.

Silent tears ran down your face. Blood collecting at your fingernails.

“Niece,” it was Maekar. “I have heard what my son has been saying about you and your ability to make children.”

You gulp, expecting him to support his son. Claim you’ve been cursed, to go and pray profusely until you’re with child again.

But he doesn’t. Instead his arm is around your shoulder.

“My son is an idiot.” He speaks. “Valarys’ death has nothing to do with you, or even the babe himself. He was just a sick child, that has no proper medicine to cure him.”

His words do little to comfort you.

You think he can tell.

“Just know, you’re not to blame, niece.”

You try to pretend that you agree with him. But you’re starting to believe that you were cursed.

Ashford Meadow was crowded. Lords, Ladies, squires, knights all herding around the grounds to set up their pavilions, tend to their horses, clean their armour, and drink to their heart's content.

You paid much mind to the crowds, as it was all you could do, stuck in a carriage, fortunately with, Valarr's wife, Kiera.

She very much kept to herself, stuck looking down at her feet, listening to the knights on their horses outside the carriage window.

You, who originally set off with her horse, and was eventually told to sit beside her good-sister, took note of the silence. You never forced the girl into conversation.

Your own personal Knight, Darren, never strayed far from the carriage.

As the royal family was announced into the Lord's grounds, you helped your good-sister out the carriage, as the helpful servants carried over your boxes of belongings into the Lords castle, into their resigned rooms.

Kiera spotted her husband and quickly walked to him. Leaving you with Aerion and the Kingsguard.

Darren's mare huffed into your hair, which was in a lazy braid down your back, the white hair hidden.

You laughed at the intrusion of the horse, petting her mane, as Darren kept a close on eye on the prince.

Darren cleared his throat.

You looked at him, awaiting a smart joke, only to see him standing perfectly straight, his helm resting heavy on his head.

You then followed his eyes. Aerion seems engaged in teasing towards a simple hedge knight. You sigh and walk over to help the awkwardly stood boy out of his misery.

"Cousin," you speak up.

Aerion looks at you, like a child that was caught stealing lemon cakes. "Ah, sweet [Y/N]!"

The tall man in front of him, looked at you. Those bright blue eyes and light freckles that dotted his face and arms.

"Pay no mind to this squire." Aerion walks closer, almost taking your hand into his.

You move, without flinching, still looking at those blue eyes. The same ones you have had dreams about. "He's far too tall to be a squire, don't you think?"

Aerion scoffs and looks back at the tall man, "All men bleed the same."

You look at your cousin, feeling your lip peel back in disgust by his sentence, which has turned into a natural reflex when speaking to Aerion.

Aerion looks you up and down, rolls his eyes and walks away.

You sigh and look up at the man, who was rubbing a hand through a horses mane. "Are you a squire?"

He looks at you, looks around and then back at you. "Me, your highness?"

You laugh and shake your head, "Well, who else is here? Unless horses are able to be of use to be squires."

He flushes a shade of pink that looks delicious to you. "Ah, no, your highness. I am a Knight.. hedge knight."

You nod and walk closer. "A Knight, nonetheless."

The man nods, looking grateful. "Yes, your highness."

"Does this Knight have a name?" You inquire.

He shrugs. "I fear it's not important knowing."

You shake your head. "Nonsense!"

"Duncan," He clears his throat. "Ser Duncan the Tall."

He gulps. "Dunk."

"Many names for one man," You smile. "Which do you prefer I'd call you?"

Duncan looks away from the ground. "I... Dunk."

"Ser Dunk," You speak. "I am [Y/N]."

Dunk nods and takes a step back, like your presence was almost threatening to him. "[Y/N] Targaryen," his gaze returning to the dirt floor. "Baelor Targaryen's daughter."

You laugh. "Ser, my own titles could be listed but I fear we may be here until the morrow."

He smiles, a light one, but it was there.

"Princess [Y/N]," you look behind you, Darren stood, hand on his sword.

"Yes, Ser?"

"Your brother, Prince Valarr wishes to see you." He bowed and walked away again.

You sigh and look back to Dunk. "Unfortunately, I cannot list my titles until the morrow. I wish we could," you smile. "I wish to see you well, Ser Dunk."

Duncan bows in your direction, as you turn and leave.

As the night grew darker, the tourney became lively and well-lit. As the crowds joined to watch the jousting.

While you enjoyed sparring in your free time and know your way regarding swords and daggers, you had no interest in jousting. Only sitting with your family, to show support for your brother and cousin.

Valarr had competed well.

The night was warm, the dress was sticking to your back. The crowed continue to swarm together.

"Like moths to a flame," Aerion whispers into your ear.

You look at your cousin. "They are interested in the sport."

Aerion smirks. "They wish it were them on these horses with those suits of armour."

"And what of it, Aerion?" You were becoming exasperated.

"All stupid dreams, someone needs to tell them it will never happen." You audibly groan at his response and look into the crowds and see the familiar hedge knight.

As Aerion continues with his rambles about dragons and being dragon-blooded, you never looked away from Ser Dunk.

All of a sudden, perhaps jousting was worth the boredom.

As the tourney continues, you walk, looking at all the houses and their pavilions and with Darren at your side.

While you had knowledge of the houses of Westeros, Darren was much more aware of all small houses, who their Lords were, of which man was participating in the tourney.

"Your knowledge is incredible." You acknowledge, looking at the taller boy, who was trying to play the part of someone older than him. He was only five and ten.

You didn't know much of the boy, only that his Lord father had gave him the option of going to the Wall in the North and becoming a brother, or joining the Kingsguard.

You and Darren had circled around the pavilions, watching as parties began and as knights began to suit up and spoke to themselves to boost their confidence.

Unfortunately, Aerion stood, watching as his prey made her rounds.

"My little princess," he walked forward, his armour on waist down, the top half covered in chainmail and a white linen shirt. "How do you fare, this evening?"

You raise a brow. "What is this new behaviour?"

Aerion shrugs and smiles at you. "Can't cousins talk about their days?"

You nod, looking at Darren, who stood with his head bowed low. "My day is going well so far."

Aerion's eyes seemed softer. "That is good."

You instinctively picked the skin by her nails as they held eye contact. "I hope you do well in the jousting."

You look at Darren, who was already looking at you, waiting for your next move. Deciding to walk on, he follows after you.

Watching as Aerion kills another knights horse has you feeling sick. Your body tensing up, shoulders tight.

Your father reached for your hand, as he noticed the skin of your fingers beginning to go red with blood.

"Sweet girl?" He speaks, quietly and you almost believes it's just you and your father in this world.

Baelor looked at his girl, who has her mother's features in face and person. The same girl didn't look away from the horse, or the pool of blood that was left as it was dragged out of the jousting field.

"[Y/N], my darling," He whispers, now much closer. "The horse is gone. The blood will soon wash away."

The girls nails dug into his hand, as you tightly held his hand back. "Blood doesn't wash away, it stains, papa."

Baelor tuts. "Yes, it may stain, but your cousin is a stupid boy, he doesn't care for consequences."

You nod, finally looking away. "I dream of blood too much, father. It sticks and stains to all, it kills, chokes."

You go to continue but the words choke at your throat. Baelor squeezes your hand and turns to Darren. "Take her back to her quarters, Ser."

"Of course, your highness." Darren takes your arm into his, as he guides you back to your room.

You ate your supper with your family and Lord Ashford and his daughter, Gwin.

As you stood to take your leave and to return back to your room, Aerion caught you at the door. "I wanted to apologise."

You allow him to walk you to a more private area in the halls.

"I was made aware my actions made you unwell. I... [Y/N], that was not my intention. My greed got the best of me." He looked at you with a kindness and sincerity in his eyes that you haven’t seen in many years.

You found yourself looking away from his gaze like a blushing maiden. "It's alright."

Aerion shakes his head. "Let me properly apologise. I wish to take you to a puppet show, I heard they are great performers."

You look up from your shoes, interested in his words. "I love puppets."

The boy smiles and shrugs. "I know."

You stood in front of Aerion, watching the performers use their skills and magic to create a show, with painted puppets and gorgeous costumes. You enjoyed the dramatics, with costume changes, multiple stories and characters.

As the girl changes her costume into a knights outfit, they brought out a dragon puppet which managed to breathe fire out.

You found yourself holding on Aerion’s arm with excitement as the girl begins to fight the dragon and dodge the flames.

It wasn't until the girl killed the puppet dragon that the crowds eyes fell on the Targaryens in the crowd. Aerion moves first.

Before you know it, Aerion is on the young girl, breaking fingers.

You move without thinking and begin to pull Aerion off of her, screaming his name and curses. Aerion stops what he's doing and shoves you off him.

You land on your back, which manages to wind you, as you gasp for air as the girl on the stage screams and cries for help.

You blink and there he is. The hedge knight.

Someone helps you up and holds on to lower waist, she looks down to see a bald head. It's all blurry.

Aerion is soon on his back, bleeding.

"Look at the princess, she is harmed!"

You looks at her cousin as he shouts. He points at you, blaming the hedge knight.

"Ser Duncan didn't do that." The bald head speaks.

"Aegon?" You pull the boy away and looks into those mischievous eyes.

Everything is dizzy, so much happening.

"I want to go home." You speak to no one in particular. "I want my mother." You add, in a whisper.

Your arm is grabbed by a gentle hand. Darren. "Come, [Y/N]."

adrian and chris had been at the bar for at least an hour. it was their regular bar they always met up at after work, usually with the other 11th street kids. but, even with all the hours spent drinking here, adrian had never seen you here before. trust he’d remember that face.

you honestly didn’t look like you belonged there, too pretty, too sweet looking. this dark, dingy bar didn’t deserve to have you in it. he noticed you the second you had walked in. about a half hour ago with your friend, a look on your face that read you’d rather be anywhere else, maybe it was your friends idea to come here, maybe that’s why he’s never seen you. you nursed one drink and chatted causally to your friend sitting across the table from you. adrian, ever observant, didn’t take long to notice a few cute little habits of yours (twirling the same piece of hair, messing with the lemon on the side on your drink, crossing your legs and kicking your foot almost nervously)

“dude, you’ve been staring at that chick for like 20 minutes, it’s getting creepy. when are you gonna go talk to her?” chris’ words snap him out of his daydream.

“what? i have not been staring at her!” adrian tries to defend himself.

“hey man it’s ok! she’s kinda cute. go buy her a drink!”

“first of all she’s way more than “kinda cute”, second of all—“ adrian’s eyes suddenly snap over to chris, who now has a huge grin on his face.

“i knew you were staring at her!” chris laughs, slapping adrian on the back,

“look, i’ve never seen you actually have the hots for a girl before, you need to go talk to her!”

“ew, i dont “have the hots” for her,” adrian grimaces.

“all im saying is if you don’t go talk to her soon….” chris sighs, adrian’s eyebrows pushing together.

“…i’m going to,” he rests a hand on adrian’s shoulder.

adrians eyes go wide.

“please don’t.”

“i’m gonna have to,” chris shrugs.

“no! fine. ugh! i’ll go,” adrian slowly and nervously gets off the shaky bar stool he was sitting on next to chris, reluctantly making his way in your direction.

you saw him across the bar, of course you did. he’s been staring at your friend basically the entire time you guys have been in here. you’re used to guys staring at her, she’s gorgeous.

it’s only a matter of time before he saunters over and cringingly asks to buy her a drink, it happens everywhere you guys go.

you never get hit on and honestly, you don’t really mind. the guys that usually hit on your friend are….unique looking… to put it nicely. and of…. below average intelligence with little to no emotional maturity or respect for women. again, to put it nicely.

you much prefer to be left alone, your distaste for men growing everyday anyway (especially the losers in these bars). it makes you feel bad for your friend even though she doesn’t seem to mind much. ordinarily giving the guy the time of day, for reasons unknown to you.

aaaand here he comes, right on cue!

he’s nervously wringing his hands and adjusting his big silver glasses again and again as he approaches. you stare into your drink, awkwardly stirring the straw as you wait for the usual dorky pick up lines.

“hi, uh, i’m adrian. and i just um…was just wondering if you would be ok with me buying you a drink?” he clears his throat as a beat of silence follows.

god, this guy sounds like he’s never talked to a girl in his life.

the silence drags on and finally, you look over at your friend to see why she isn’t answering him to find her staring at you. with furrowed brows you look up at the man to find him staring at you as well.

you look side to side with just your eyes.

“were you talking to me?” you ask with a monotone voice.

“well yeah,” he gives a small nervous smile and pushes up his glasses again.

you laugh dryly at his response and he presses his hands together again, his shoulders starting to slump, looking like a kicked puppy.

“sorry, this was dumb. i’ll just go.” he mumbles.

“no wait, you’re seriously asking to buy me a drink?” you raise an eyebrow.

“yeah?” his voice shakes a bit.

“why?” you cross your arms.

“why?” he repeats.

“yeah, why?” you stare at him, eyeing him up and down.

“cause…well cause, i think you’re pretty and my friend said that this is what you do when you think a girl in a bar is pretty,” he gestures behind him at his muscular friend who tips his beer bottle towards you with a smile, taking a sip.

you laugh at him again and look him over some more.

he’s actually sorta cute, in a dorky way. he looks like he’d have a comic book collection and unfortunately you’re into that.

“i guess so?” you’re still unsure but you look over at your friend who’s smiling brightly and giving you double thumbs up.

his eyes go wide and his smile stretches across his entire face, “really? sick!” he clears his throat again, “uh, i mean, what would you like? to drink, i mean,” leaning on your table. he’s really trying to be “cool” but it’s not working at all.

you give him your drink order and he shoots finger guns as he turns to make his way to the bar. hitting himself in the forehead with his palm and shaking his head on his way over there.

your friend immediately grabs your hand.

“oh my god! he’s a cutie! and so nerdy! just your type!” she giggles.

you let out a small laugh,

“he’s probably just talking to me cause he was too nervous to talk to you first. 20 bucks says he’ll ask me for your number.”

“what? why would he do that?”

“you think guys don’t ask me for your number?”

her smile falters, “but he seems into you! and he was so nervous, it was so cute!”

“girl, guys are never into me. they don’t ask me out and they definitely don’t ask to buy me a drink,” you tilt your head at her.

“well maybe because you’ve never met this guy! maybe the universe was waiting!” she grips your hand tighter.

“ok that’s a little dramatic for a guy i just met at a bar,” you roll your eyes at her.

“omg he’s coming back! and i “conveniently” have to go to the bathroom,” she winks at you and shoots up out of her chair to leave you alone. your hand extends towards her and you open your mouth as if you’re going to yell at her not to leave you when the man sets your drinks down.

“i’m back!” he smiles brightly at you.

“i see that,” you nervously reach for your drink.

“what happened to your friend?”

there it is.

“what happened to your friend” trying to casually bring her up so he can ask if she’s single.

“i’m not giving you her number. if you want her number you should’ve just asked her, buying me a drink is not—“

“i don’t want her number?” he looks at you like you’re crazy.

“you don’t?”

“no, why would i? am i supposed to? cause i really don’t. i didn’t even notice her there until i walked up to your table, really. why would i ask to buy you a drink and then ask for your friends number, that’s crazy!” he laughs, probably louder than appropriate.

“you’d be surprised how many guys think that works.”

you grab at the stem of the cherry in your drink as he looks at you in surprise.

“is that why you were kinda mean when i asked to buy you a drink?” he asks sheepishly.

“oh, was i mean?” you ask condescendingly, pouting slightly.

“yeah you kinda scared me,” he admits while still smiling at you.

“and yet you still bought me a drink.”

“yeah cause like i said, you’re really pretty. i wanted to talk to you. well actually, to be honest, i didn’t wanna talk to you. i didn’t think you’d talk to me, but my friend kinda made me,” he winces.

“first of all you didn’t say i was “really pretty”, you just said pretty. also it’s great that you’re only talking to me cause your friend made you,” you roll your eyes at him.

“no that’s not why!” he waves a hand towards you.

you stare blankly at him.

“ok technically- if you wanna get technical, that is why. but it’s because he really wanted me to talk to you,” he defends himself, his voice getting a bit higher.

“i wouldn’t stop staring at you and he said it was creepy.”

“you were staring at me?”

“yeah, who else?” he laughs again like you’re crazy for thinking any different.

“it probably was creepy.” you deadpan but then give him a slight smile so he knows you’re joking.

“i wasn’t trying to be!” he whines, throwing his hands up.

you let out a small laugh and then pause for a moment,

“what was your name again?”

“adrian!”

“ok, adrian. what about me is so pretty to you?”

“you want me to tell you what i think is pretty about you?”

you nod, knowing he’s not going to have anything to say and you can prove that he really wants your friend.

“ok…well,” he begins, voice slightly shaky,

“the first thing i noticed was your eyes. they’re so big and pretty, i couldn’t stop looking. i like your outfit too, i don’t wanna sound like a perv but it looks really good on you. also your hair, it looks so soft and shiny. and your um, your lips, they look soft too,” he gets quiet at the end of his sentence but you still heard.

“and you smell good! which i didn’t know obviously until i was near you but still, you smell like a strawberry field!”

suddenly, you can’t look him in the eyes and you can feel your cheeks heating up. good thing you’re wearing blush otherwise he’d be able to see how pink they are right now. you’re not used to people, let alone cute guys, complimenting you.

“oh. well, thank you for the drink,” your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

“you haven’t told me your name,” he says after a moment of silence.

“well you haven’t asked, genius,” you cross your arms.

maybe you’re being a bit meaner to him that he deserves but whatever.

“shit sorry! ok, what’s your name?”

you tell him and he repeats it back with a smile.

“did you know penguins mate for life?” he asks suddenly.

“i did know that, actually.” you say, caught slightly off guard by the random animal fact.

“well did you know spiders dance to attract mates?” he leans excitedly towards you a bit.

“so what, are you gonna dance for me?” you laugh and tilt your head at him.

“do you want me to? i can.”

and then he’s out of his seat, next to your table, hands in his belt loops, moving his hips in a circle.

“oh my god stop!” you grab at him, a bit embarrassed, and make him sit back down as you laugh so hard your stomach starts to hurt.

“did it work?” he looks at you with big puppy-like eyes.

“that dance was supposed to attract me?” you’re still laughing so much you can barely get the words out.

“yeah! it’s the best one i’ve got! maybe you need to see it again.”

“please no! it worked, okay! i don’t need to see it again!” you force him to stay in his seat, covering your face a bit with your hand.

“ok i-i’ll stop as long as you don’t cover that…pr-pretty face,” he stutters through that line, trying to flirt but he’s obviously not very good at it, grabbing your hand to move it away from your face.

“ew that was so corny,” you scrunch up your nose.

he smiles wide at you in response. his smile is actually really cute, it’s so big it takes up most of his face and he’s got dimples.

damnit.

“did you know crows can remember faces?” he tells you.

“you sure know a lot of animal facts,” you smile at him because it’s weirdly appealing.

“i know so many! i could probably take a test right now and become like a zoologist or something.”

you giggle because unfortunately his big glasses and nerdy facts are charming you.

suddenly, you feel eyes on you. turning to your left, you see adrian’s strong friend still at the bar but now with three other people, 2 women and 1 super tall man, all staring at you guys.

“do you know them?”

he looks over to where you’re gesturing and sighs.

“yea sorry, those are my best friends and coworkers. we come here a lot but they’ve never seen me talk to a girl before so they’re just being nosey. you can ignore them.”

he waves his hand in their direction as if waving them off but just as he finishes his sentence an absolutely beautiful woman with dark braids starts walking over to you.

“hi! my name is adebayo! i’m really sorry to interrupt cause this is super cute,” she points between the two of you, “but i have to steal adrian.” she gives you a sad look as adrian whines.

“nooooo, seriously? why?”

“look, i wouldn’t if it wasn’t important, okay? we have to go.” she gives him a weird look that he apparently understands and he sighs as he starts to stand up.

“sorry, i actually do have to go. i really liked talking to you though,” he pouts.

“it’s okay, i liked talking to you too,” you stand awkwardly infront of him.

“you did?” he says it like he almost doesn’t believe you but you huff out a small laugh and nod your head yes.

both of you smile at each other for a moment too long before adebayo interrupts.

“but you got her number, right adrian?” she nudges him with her elbow.

“oh shit! i would’ve killed someone if i left here without your number.” he laughs and shakes his head.

weird joke but okay.

he fishes for his phone in the pocket of his jeans that look like a dad from a 90’s sitcom should be wearing. you get your phone out of your purse and you swap, typing your number in as he types his. when you trade back he notices you put a little pink heart emoji next to your name and his stomach does a small flip.

he thanks god for ads reminding him to get your number even though, had he forgot, he 100% would’ve just found you and followed you around a bit to see you again. there was no way he was letting you get away.

“well, we really gotta go! nice to meet you girl, you’re adorable!” adebayo smiles as she drags adrian, who hasn’t taken his eyes off you, away. you give him a small shy wave, wiggling your fingers and he copies you, tripping over his own feet as the woman pushes him away.

he meets back up with the team and they immediately leave the bar, harcourt explaining that she’ll go over the mission on the way there. he steals one more glance at you before he’s shoved out the door and he can’t believe that you were already looking at him, your friend back by your side, a big smile on her face, you two no doubt talking about him.

maybe he should feel too needy about texting you immediately but he can’t stop himself. his fingers hit send before he even has his seatbelt buckled in the back of economos’ van.

adrian 🧜‍♂️: did you know that if the female spider doesn’t like the male spiders mating dance, she eats him?

why the hell did he save his name with the mer-man emoji? he’s so weird, you think as you smile to yourself.

you: good thing i wasn’t hungry

adrian laughs out loud at your response, making the rest of the team look his direction.

“awwww look who’s texting his girlfriend,” chris teases, tousling adrian’s hair.

“she’s not my girlfriend,” he rolls his eyes and unsuccessfully bites back a smile.

“this is so cute,” ads smiles.

“it’s weird. but anyway you need to focus.” harcourt adds, harshly.

adrian pouts but puts his phone away, already thinking about how when this mission is over he’s going to call you and tell you every manta ray fact he knows.

“Come in Precision!” A garbled voice spoke over the comms in your busted helmet. It was Rick, as if this situation couldn't get any worse.

“Can't talk right now.” You muttered back to the comms but it pittered away, broken.

“You're awake? Oh thank goodness!” Vigilante gasped beside you. To your surprise he'd been sitting entirely still, not unconscious like you'd assumed.

Regretfully your window was gone and the knife slipped back into your heel.

“I'm awake too. This fucking sucks.” Chris stated the obvious. He stared at you, eyes glimmering with some sentiment you'd no doubt find pointless.

“But hey, if we don't get out of this and wind up dead I have to ask. Why did you up and leave me and dad like that?” His question somewhat surprised you. 

What reason wouldn't you have for leaving? It's not as if you were wanted in that house.

“I thought that was fairly obvious Chris.” You replied, only to be met with his confused, upset, annoyingly square face. 

Internally rolling your eyes at your dumbass brother you sighed. He always did need everything spoonfed to him. 

“I hated living under that roof with him. Following his orders.” You explained, focusing on the flashing lightbulb at the basement roof. “Killing for him.” 

“We didn’t kill for him! We killed for the United States of America! Government jobs, deep undercover stuff like we are doing now. It’s all in the file.” Chris snarled at you, eyes wild and desperate for the words he was spewing to be true.

“Uh-huh, yeah all of those jobs were definitely covert operations performed in the name of the world's best interests. You’re right. I’m wrong. Like always. Hope that helps you sleep at night big bro.” 

“Sorry to ruin the family reunion.” A sharp voice cut through the air, and Senator Goff was standing before the trio, a kit of fun tools at his disposal.

Chris tried bartering and intimidating their captor to no avail while Adrian reassured you that he wouldn't let anything bad happen to you. 

“Too late for that don't you think? I'm already tied up.” You sighed. 

Swinging a pair of pliers around, Goff surmised his options. “I think torturing the female might get the information quicker.” Goff supposed. 

“I don’t give a fuck about my sister! She’s a total psychopath- do your worst.” Chris huffed.

Typical.

“No, don't take me instead!" Adrian shouted desperately but was flatly ignored. 

“Very well, let’s begin.” Goff shrugged, turning back to you. 

Tearing off the Precision mask he was met with two cold dead eyes. You'd give him nothing just like in all of your training.

Your glove was drawn roughly away and a set of rusted pliers shoved underneath a fingernail. 

Twisting, the nail was wrenched, Chris and Adrian’s eyes widening in fear as it was hanging on by a thread of sinew. But you sat by, staring into Goff’s eyes, not willing to give him the satisfaction. 

“You think wrong.” You replied through gritted teeth. This was nothing compared to the torture Auggie had put you through. 

True amateur hour over here by the alien wearing a meat suit. 

“Damn that's hardcore.” Chris admitted.

“No please stop, don’t torture her, torture me instead!” Adrian begged, shaking his head wildly. “Don’t fucking hurt her!” 

Meanwhile your coward of a brother shook his head with a smirk. “Yeah get those two, I'll never break do whatever the fuck you want.” 

“Very well, let’s try the loud annoying one next then.” Goff, tired of his whining and your noncompliance, turned to Vigilante, tearing off his helmet. 

Adrian started to make stupid expressions to try and cover his identity. He truly was the dumbest man alive. 

Jumper cables were hooked up to Adrian's crotch, the sight exciting you. One or two jolts in, Adrian tried to brave it but began to wince. Then he began to have his pinkie toe sawn, an annoying wail leaving his lungs. 

“Your torture tools are dull as fuck dude!” He yelped, straining uselessly against the corded restraints. “Please not my pinkie toe that's like the most important one for balance!” 

“Will you tell me now that your friend is crying out for your help?” Goff turned to Chris who yawned.

“I won't give up any information. He can take it.” Chris stated, puffing out his chest. Adrian stared back at his so-called best friend in utter disbelief.

“How about you?” Goff tried his luck with you this time.

Honestly you enjoyed watching Adrian like this, his face patched with sweat, blood trickling down his nose. Vigilante, unmasked, dethroned, completely debased, jumper cables hooked up to his balls, put in his rightful place made to grovel like a dog…

You were glad that you were a woman and the lust you felt in this moment was hidden in the recesses of your mind. A nice risque snapshot for you to think upon later when you got out of here. 

“Oh Pris, you're speechless and staring at me, she's in total shock. It'll be okay my gorgeous girlfriend, this won't stop me!” Vigilante reassured you, wonderful tears blinking down his cheeks now. 

If you got your way you'd lick them off and make him beg for forgiveness. Just as he started to form the words you'd shock him again, shove a rag on his mouth to get some amazing, unfettered silence. Holy shit you had to calm down right now or your chair would become a slip n slide.

“Right, yes, shock. That's the word for it.” You replied flatly, crossing your thighs best you could in the confines of rope. 

Chris stared at you squirming in your seat questioningly but thankfully an explosion made a fine distraction. Murn and the rest of the team had broken through and it gave ample opportunity for you to break free with the hidden knife. 

There was a moment you contemplated the odds, stab Chris in the neck, Adrian in the chest, leave Goff to the others and book it.  But that seemed unwise. They were A.R.G.U.S. operatives who would come after you know, this had to be done the smart way.

With a sigh you undid your own and Chris' ropes, stabbed Goff in the back, reeling back when there was a guttural screech from the man. To the amazement of you three, a blue butterfly ripped out of the man's mouth and floated in the air. 

But that was short lived as the explosion set off a chain reaction, Chris shoving you out of the way. You fell into Adrian's arms, still bound to the ceiling that untethered upon colliding with you and the ground.

“Chris?!” You shouted amongst the rubble and dust. Why had he done that? Risked himself like that for you of all people? 

“Guys, I think we used way too much of that explosive stuff…” Adebayo shouted from the top of the stairs and another rumble of the foundations agreed. 

“He's okay!” Adrian told you, helping you stand up and pulling you away from the wreckage.

“What?” You asked, the whole world was going numb, there was too much noise to make anything out. You were having a complete sensory overload.

“Chris is okay! He's right behind us.” Adrian shouted louder this time and you realised he was getting you to safety.

You'd frozen entirely and without him might've been crushed by the collapsing building. “He's okay.” You repeated, looking over your shoulder there Chris was hobbling behind.

“I'm okay.” Chris gave you a goofy smile, covered in grime, blood and dusted concrete.

“Okay.” You replied coldly and sat in the van, staring out the window trying to figure out what had happened back there.

Losing your edge would get you killed. What the fuck were you even doing? 

“I'm never going to be able to walk normally ever again!” Adrian bemoaned, resting his head up against your shoulder for sympathy. 

“Then don't.” You pushed him away. 

“Some bedside manner you've got there.” Chris scoffed, eyeing you curiously. He could tell there was something off about you, but he didn't know what exactly.

John pulled the van up to drop everyone out at the HQ for some well needed recuperation. 

“Why did you do that?” You asked quietly to Chris before getting out of the van.

“Do what?” He raised a quizzical brow.

“Try to save me. That was pointless and nearly got you killed. I would have been fine!” You snapped at him venomously, the others overhearing likely from outside but you didn't care.

“Because you're still my sister.” Chris replied, his gaze troubling you.

“Exactly, that's going to get you killed someday.” You murmured, expecting him to recoil but instead he smiled.

Like something was on your face.

“I get why your nickname is Strawberry now!” Adrian cooed, poking his head back into the van. “Your face is so cute and red when you can't hide that you're angry.” 

“Isn't it?” Chris chuckled, then fell silent. 

Wordlessly you exited the van and stormed off, and neither of them were game to try and follow you from the livid expression you gave. 

That night you tried to relax, take your mind off things by playing some calming video games. Bloodborne was a favorite of yours, but the stupid chiming of your phone going off from Rick interrupted the zen flow you were trying to achieve.

“What?” You answered curtly.

“I'm the one who asks that. What the fuck happened in there?” Rick snapped. 

“Aliens are invading.” You replied, phone tucked under your neck as you wrestled won't the controller. “Ever seen invasion of the body snatchers?” 

“When aren't they? I don't give a shit. I want Peacemaker dead. Now, do you have an in or not?” Rick demanded.

“I have an in and I'll do you one better. He tried to save my life tonight.” You clicked your tongue in frustration as the boss fight was not going well.

“Glad to hear it. The longer this drags on, the more tabs I need to put on you. By the way, red is a real good colour on you there.” Rick laughed when the line went silent.

You exhaled sharply, staring around the room until you spotted the bug. “Pot plant.” 

“One of many.” Rick couldn't hide the impressed tone to save his life.

Continuing to look around your apartment you kept calling out to him. “Bookshelf. Microwave. Back window. Closet. Diploma. Counter. Medicine cabinet.” Finally you strolled into your bedroom and laid down on the mattress. “Finally, bed post. Kinky.” 

There was a pause on the other end and some muffled swearing as Rick told off his incompetent crew. 

“Sweet dreams, Precision.” Rick sang to you with a grating chuckle. He still had the upper hand. 

You answered him by hanging up and smashing the obvious placed bug at your bed frame. 

The next morning you woke up with a nice spring in your step. Bandaging the wound at your torn nail bed, the disinfectant stung pleasantly, a reminder you were truly alive. 

It was a good day. Your father was in jail after all. And you were going to pay him a visit. While originally it had been Rick's idea to mess with you, perhaps you could make the most of the experience.

Taunting him while trapped like a rat in a cage? You could think of worse past times. Dressing up in your best visiting Daddy in prison outfit, the plan was simple. 

Tell Auggie the number he should make for his one call. Rick's cell. Then make fun of the old geezer before sauntering out of there. Rick was a sick puppy wanting further information on Chris from their father to use as blackmail. But whatever.

However when you got to the visitor phone booth, the one with the shit eating grin wasn't you but Auggie. 

“So you've got a boyfriend?” Auggie greeted you, making your blood freeze over.

“Where did you hear that?” You rolled your eyes, he hadn't seen you in years and those was his first words to you? 

“Yeah, he's in isolation here. Adrian.” Auggie laughed when he saw your eyes widen in recognition.

“Stupid fucker tried to get me to fight him. Have to say that dorky cunt can give a spin kick. Got a few of my guys good.” He had that malicious look you recalled numerous times from your childhood. 

Auggie was going to kill Adrian if he stayed in here. On the off chance that you did actually care about Adrian. To teach you a lesson for betraying him. 

You recited Rick's phone number, finger tapping at your thigh to try and keep collected.

“What's that?” Auggie scoffed.

“A phone number, call it or don't.” You replied, slamming the phone. 

Meanwhile Adrian was sitting in an individual cell, which was nice because he really needed to pee and couldn't do it with the gang banger who kept staring at him. 

Sighing partly in relief and in sadness, pants around his ankles, Adrian lamented his morning.

An hour or so previously, he had tried to kill that Nazi asshole for you and Chris once and for all but had failed.

It had been going so well too, he got their attention instantly, sitting at the table of Neo-Nazis trying to bond with them. 

"Speaking of sister fucking, I also fucked someone's sister. But it wasn't from my own family tree!” Adrian announced, grinning around the table but no takers yet. 

“No, it was Christopher Smith, Peacemaker's sister! I heard that her father Auggie is here and I wanted to make a formal introduction." He continued to yell and finally met his mark.

“Who the fuck are you?” Auggie stood up from his chair, eyeing Adrian up and down, a cold assessment calculating in his mind.

"Hey there, great to meet you pops. I'm Adrian, your soon to be son in law." Adrian grinned, hand outstretched.

"I don't fucking think so pal." Auggie chuckled darkly at him. 

"Your daughter seems to think so, she loves choking on my above average sized penis! Blowjobs are like her favorite thing to do for me..." Adrian crudely motioned down to his crotch. 

While he hated speaking of you that way as a staunch feminist, he had to rile up your father.

Auggie's eye twitched but he gave no other indication of irritation. 

Setting the pitch for his own voice a couple  registers deeper and your voice several higher, Adrian continued, "I'm always like woah babygirl can we do something other than fellatio for a change and she's like noooo wayyyy daddyyy I loveee deep throating youuuu!" 

He went to simulate some fellatio choking charades but suddenly a firm tattooed hand was gripping his shoulder. 

That was when the spin kick came into play and Adrian dispatched the goons. But Auggie wouldn't fight him and the guards dragged Adrian away to isolation.

“Chase, Adrian. You have a visitor.” The prison guard shouted through his cell bars.

“Okay, I'm nearly done tinkling!” Adrian called back with a wave.

Assuming it was one of his buddies to come pick him up, Adrian was floored when he saw you sitting on the other side of the protective glass. 

Dashing to grasp the phone, he couldn't wait to hear your dulcet tone.

“Adrian. What in the fuck are you doing  here?” You hissed at him through the phone.

“Oh my gosh! My beautiful girlfriend is here, is this my conjugal visit?” Adrian asked hopefully, pressing his hand up against the glass. 

Pinching your brow in frustration, you snapped back at him. “No. I was here to speak to my father. He told me you introduced yourself as his future son in law?!” 

“Yeah, so I threw a bin at a window. But that was all just a clever ploy to get in here and kill your father.” Adrian explained without really explaning anything at all. It was a real talent of his. 

“You were trying to kill him?” Your eyes widened at that.

“Yeah he's not a good guy! Total racist and now that he thinks Chris did this he's gonna want revenge. Also your dad is a sexist pig, I mean that tiny room of yours was so depressing…I'm sorry are you mad at me?” 

“Shut up. Stop talking.” You snapped at him. “What's your bail set to?” 

It was a measly sum of money to you, forking it over to the bonds office, Adrian was released in a manner of minutes.

“Get in the car.” You told him gruffly when he wandered outside, already starting up the engine.

“Where are we going?” Adrian asked, admiring the fancy leather seats of your Lexus.

“My place.” You replied tensely gripping the steering wheel.

“What for?” He cocked his head to the side.

The entire drive was in silence. 

“You're mad with me aren't you?” Adrian pestered you on the way up the elevator to tell him what was wrong. You were staring at him, eyes murderously cold.

“Sit down.” You ordered him sternly, pointing to the couch. 

“Please don't break up with me.” He whimpered, and you told him to shut up. 

Then to Adrian's utter shock you unbuckled his belt and sank right between his thighs.

“Ohhh fuck…I can't believe you're uhh doing this for me!” Adrian moaned, watching you on your knees, bobbing your head up and down. 

The flat of your tongue lapped at his shaft with such a fervent ministration it was making Adrian's head spin.

Giving him a blow job was your idea, hearing that Adrian wanted to kill your father was insanely hot. Also this would help you manipulate him even further. 

Besides you still had the comms set up so likely Rick was listening in. Perfect revenge for making you talk to that piece of shit, two birds with one stone.

“Trust me I can't either. Don't ruin the moment. Or I'll bite it off.” You warned him.

“You're so good at this…” Adrian whined, a shaky hand going out to reach for your head.

“Hands behind your back.” You ordered him and he snapped them away immediately. 

“O-of course…ahhh oh thank you! You're the best girlfriend ever…” He sang your praises when you took him deeper down your throat. 

Adrian couldn't help himself but babble the further you went. “It's ohh wow like I willed this into the universe…when I lied and told your dad and all those neo-nazis that you loved to suck my dick!” He shouted, trying to not buck his hips forward.

Upon hearing that, you spat out his cock with a wet popping sound. 

“You what?” Any lust you had for him had instantly dried up like the Sahara Desert.

“I was playing a role! You know acting, trying to get him riled up so I could beat his ass and kill him. But your dad didn't take the bait.” He explained with a dumass laugh.

“Adrian.” You glared daggers at him, wanting to will them into existence and stick him like a pin cushion. 

“Yes, my prettiest girlfriend in the whole entire world?” He grinned back at you.

“Zip your pants up before I make you wish that your balls had been completely fried from that car battery.” With that you stood up and went to wash your mouth out in the kitchen.

“Sure! Thanks for the dick sucking. I liked it way better when you did it, less slimy and your lips felt so good…” Adrian whistled away unbothered, checking out your living room. Then he came across something that gave him pause.

“Woah you have a shit ton of consoles!” 

“Yeah I do.” Nodding, you were internally screaming at yourself.

Why the fuck had you let him into your place? Now he knew where you lived! Such a pathetic impulse you'd acted upon dragging him back here and for what? 

Now this goofy motherfucker was trying to set up your game cube and play Donkey Kong. Digging through your assortment of games, he went into another cabinet.

“Woah what's this thingy? Is it a microphone for karaoke?” Adrian asked, twirling the stick around in his hands.

“It's a vibrator.” You rolled your eyes at his naivety.

“Oh for your back muscles? I could use it on you.” He grinned, innocently flicking the switch. 

When it violently shook and fell out his hands Adrian was flummoxed. “That doesn't feel very soothing.” 

You laughed at that, picking the toy up, “Oh it can be. I'll show you?” 

“Sure!” Adrian was none the wiser.

The tiny flashing green light of a surveillance bug behind your pot plant cemented the idea. At least you could make Rick and whoever else was watching you right now incredibly uncomfortable.

“Ohhh! F-fuck it's really ahhh! Umm…is this normal?” Adrian panted, hands gripping the couch cushions. 

“Yeah it's normal. I actually have it on a super low setting.” You lied. “Why are you feeling it?” 

You actually had the vibration scaled nearly all the way up, resting it just at his tip, leaving the rest of him untouched. 

“Y-yeah I am…it's so much I don't know…” Adrian wriggled in place but didn't dare leave your grasp, green eyes pleading with yours. “Oh fuck I don't know if…” 

“You don't like it? Fine, we'll stop.” You threatened and Adrian shook his head profusely. 

His hands clung to your thighs. “No! Please…I do I just think I might cum soon and Pris uhh I want to well–”  

“Great, once you're done you can leave.” You said with a half-yawn. This was all for the bugged cameras to make Rick and his stooges cringe. 

“W-what about you?” He asked with a deep whine. 

“What about me?” You glared at him again but he wasn't deterred.

“I want to make my girlfriend cum too…” His eyes were tearing up as the vibrations were clearly too much.

“Oh and how would you do that?” You sternly asked him and turned off the toy, setting it down.

“H-huh?” Adrian panted, trying to catch his breath again. 

“Last time wasn't very good.” You said flatly, watching his face fall. 

“It wasn't?” He whimpered.

“No, it sucked.” You weren't going to sugar coat it for him. 

“I can do better! I'll look up some more research videos and…” He began but you cut him off.

“No videos. Either you fuck me hard and good right now like I know you can or leave my place and don't ever come back.” 

You saw his green eyes still at that, the same way they did behind the red visor. 

Like you unlocked a side to Adrian hidden behind the constant masking. Or the often strange attempts to. 

“I'll do it, I'll fuck you so so hard! Hey, can we play Donkey Kong Jungle Beat after?” Adrian assured you, unbuckling his belt, then he glanced over at your consoles.

“Depends how well you do.” You shrugged, lifting up your skirt.

“Killer.” Adrian's hands gripped your waist nice and rough, a good start. Then he brought you onto his lap. 

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“I want to see you on top, bouncing on it. My dick that is.” Adrian explained cheerfully, before dropping you down. 

“Don't worry I'll still do most of the work though!” With that reassurance, you shifted your panties to the side.

“Oh yeah that's so good…” He grunted, watching where you were both connected. 

“Stop.” You knew this wasn't giving the shock factor you wanted, while fine it felt satisfying, the angle was all wrong.

“Let's take our clothes off.” You ordered him and pointed to the carpet. “And fuck me on the floor.” 

“Skin on skin? I do love shag carpet though…you sure?” Adrian whined, clearly enjoying the way things were going as is.

“Yes, we are boyfriend and girlfriend and totally at that stage now!” You flashed him a brilliant fake smile and watched his face flush bright red.

“Ohh awesome! Yes you're so right, we’re really a proper couple now oh holy fuck this is amazing…” He immediately started fumbling with pulling his jumper over his head.

“Let's roleplay to get you focused.” You decided, unbuttoning your blouse.

“Roleplay…okay sure! Who am I?” Adrian mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Not important!” You snapped, stripping off entirely.

“Yes it is, how else can I get into character? In DND I play this artificer whose name is…” Adrian started to ramble and lose his erection, about to go into full geek mode.

You couldn't have that happen. “Ugh, you're Adrian. And I'm me. It's easier to remember. But the scenario is what we're role playing.” He slowly nodded at that.

“Yeah how about this, pretend there's a video camera, right here!” You dragged him over, directing you both in the eyeline of the obvious plant A.R.G.U.S was watching from. 

“Um sure, so we're filming us doing it in this scenario?” His breath quickened, already starting to get hard again.

At least he was simple to please. 

“No someone is watching us, some shady old man from the government.” You said directly into the camera plant pot, seeing a tell tale blinking red light faintly. 

Adrian nodded, eagerly pinning you down onto your back, "I can work with that!" Then he entered you nice and slow, the stretch felt amazing. 

At first. But he didn't change up anything, chasing after his own tail like a stupid dog. 

“Ohh baby you're incredible! So fucking damn tight around me…” Adrian groaned as he started to move again this time in a basic missionary position.

You were not going to have a repeat of last time on the racing car bed.

“Not like that, fuck me like you mean it.” You instructed him, still not satisfied with how he was doing. 

“Fuck…okay!” Adrian panted, pulling out to reposition himself.

Meanwhile in the A.R.G.U.S. surveillance offices Langston Fleury was sadly shaking his head in solidarity. “Damn, poor dude. Crazy is hard to dick down. But he keeps trying. That's the human spirit right there.” He pointed to the screen at Adrian's determined sweat ridden face.

“Shut the hell up Fleury.” Rick snapped, ordering that the video be taken off the big screen. 

“Harder!” You urged him, digging your heels into his back, jolting Adrian off balance.

“Hey, oh shit my glasses!” Adrian reached out for them but you knocked them further away. 

His face really did look way different without them, it was almost as if someone else was having sex with you. That was super appealing, like when he had the visor on. For whatever reason Adrian got under your skin unlike nobody else.

“Keep them off.” You swatted his arm.

“But I can't see you properly…” He grumbled, but his hips were still diligently snapping away. 

“Aw, guess you'll have to make me moan so you can at least hear me then?” You cruelly whispered against his neck, feeling the shudder he gave off.

“Y-yeah…” Adrian agreed, his eyes were unfocused and wild as he gripped down to your waist, fingers bruising. 

“Guess I'll have to.” He pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach. That position he'd told you about as Vigilante, pinning again. 

It took some effort finding where to reenter you, he was seriously blind but after a few jabs his cockhead found the right spot. 

“That's nice Adrian…” You encouraged him, staring right up into the camera. “Fill me up baby, that's it.” 

“Fuck, you're calling me baby now uhh oh god I can't…it's too much!” Adrian whined.

“Are you seriously going to finish?” You couldn't believe this guy.

“No I mean I'm trying not to…but it's more I don't think I can hold back and you know not like…hurt you and stuff.” He bit his lip, with a worried unfocused frown.

“I'm not a delicate flower, are you serious right now?” You rolled your eyes back at him. “I said I want it, now hurry up!” 

“Okay, okay, fuck oh fuck…” Finally he pumped away properly, gripping deathly tight at your hips. 

“That's it, like that Adrian, don't stop.” You ordered him, shoulders arching as he took what he wanted. 

And more importantly gave you what you wanted.

Release.

That sensation of a total loss of control, body relinquishing its constant state of fight mode.

Hot, heavy, like a bullet your orgasm shot out from you, ripping his name along with it in a pleasured cry that Adrian would think about for nights on end afterwards.

You could feel that he'd finished too when the feeling began to return to your legs.

“It wasn't inside, I came outside on your thighs…” He quickly said, wiping them down with a nearby box of tissues.

“Can I kiss you?” Adrian asked, lips trembling towards yours. 

“No.” You deftly held up a hand and turned his cheek away.

“Why not?” He asked curiously.

“Not yet, I don't feel like it.” There was something about that act you didn't want, it made the whole thing too real somehow.

This ultimately was fake, whatever this fucked up thing between you and Adrian was. It was going to end. As soon as you killed Chris, likely you'd have to kill him right after. 

“Alrighty then. That was good though?” He double checked.

“Uh-huh.” You nodded for the camera, but had to admit he was quite good this time around. 

“Yessss!” Adrian pumped the air up and down idiotically with his fists. “Donkey Kong Jungle Beat good?” 

“Sure, I guess you Donkey'd my Kong until it Jungle Beat.” You said without thinking, watching Adrian start to cackle like a hyena. 

Rolling your eyes, despite everything you found yourself laughing along with Adrian.

“Still I prefer sex with the suits on.” You said idly, controller in hand. 

“Same here.” Adrian instantly agreed. 

“Less sweaty.” You both said at the same time. It was strange but having him in your apartment  wasn’t as terrible as you had expected. 

In fact the rest of the evening was spent having fun playing video games, eating dinner and chatting away. But this fake relationship wasn’t allowed to run off course. 

“Can I stay over?” Adrian asked when it was getting late.

That gave you pause. “No, I prefer to sleep alone.” A step too far, besides you really didn't think it would be a good idea. 

Rick might call you or a lucrative job might open up to go kill someone and you’d rather not have to deal with killing Adrian or kicking him out in the middle of the night. 

“No worries, I'll see you tomorrow?” Adrian asked hopefully, that big dumb smile of his never leaving for a second.

“Sure.” You frowned back as he waved you goodnight.

There was a very good reason you didn't want Adrian in your bed. Not only was it your personal space, you also got night terrors. 

Strange dreams that caused you to wake in the middle of the night and lash out. 

The few times you'd let a one night stand sleep over, you had accidentally strangled one unsuspecting gym bro to near death.

Some nights you dreamt you were Annie Oakley on a theatre stage. Dressed head to toe in bright royal blue wild west attire, fringed skirt, ten gallon hat, thigh high boots with spurs.

Dolly Parton's I Will Always Love You was the song you danced to, prop gun poised up and ready like a puppet. 

If I should stay Well I would only be in your way And so I'll go, and yet I know I'll think of you each step of the way...

The kind of puppet that danced on a string like a marionette with red curtains the colour of blood behind you. 

Your gun caps fired in a brilliant smoke and the other actors dropped to the ground, red scarves spurting from their chests and necks in a dazzling circle. 

And I will always love you I will always love you...

This time unlike the all of the others, you had a partner, the dashing sharpshooter Frank Butler was played by Vigilante. 

Bitter-sweet memories That's all I'm taking with me Good-bye, please don't cry 'Cause we both know that I'm not What you need...

Without hesitation you took him down too, a bullet to the cranium, that jettisoned into a scarlet swathe of confetti.

But I will always love you I will always love you...

The song continued on, your movements were so graceful, pirouettes in sync to the resounding thunderous clap of applause from the stage. 

In the front row was your father, dressed as White Dragon and your brother, dressed as Peacemaker. Keith was there too, a teenager as you remembered him. 

"Focus!" Peacemaker yelled.

"Precision!" White Dragon jeered. 

"Control!" Keith shouted.

A red closing curtain draped you in a sheet of blood across the stage.

Then their faces morphed into a more friendly familial one.

"Amazing work girl!" Auggie smiled.

"Great job lil sis!" Chris cheered.

"You make us so proud, Strawberry!" Keith called out.

Those evenings you woke up in strange places, unsure of how you got there. The only familiar thing tying you to these locations was blood.

None of it was ever yours. But no bodies were ever to be seen.

You had long since stopped trying to figure it out, most likely this was sleep walking and your homicidal tendencies went on a rampage in your unconsciousness. 

Thankfully you always cleaned up after yourself though.

Tonight was one of those nights. 

"Where the fuck am I this time?" Standing up you saw that it was a pitcher's mound.

The baseball field's green lawn was riddled  with patches of fresh blood. Swathes of crimson painted your Precision combat suit, near warm to the touch. 

It had been a long time since one of these spells took ahold of you like this, disorientating and lethargic you stumbled out of the bright lights of the field and into the comforting darkness. 

Sprinting towards the nearest exit, you needed to get out of here before you got caught with whatever killing spree crime you'd just committed.

"Wow, like a killer Stepford wife." Rick laughed, watching you flee from the top of the stands. Checking his stopwatch he added, "incredible. M16 should take a page out of your book Mr. Smith." 

"Auggie." Was the only gruff reply he got.

"Well Auggie this has been very valuable information that will serve your country well. The money will be wired to the account within the hour." 

"Alright." Auggie grunted in reply and unceremoniously hung up.

"Must run in the family." Rick rolled his eyes and snapped the burner flip phone shut. Next to him was a PA system hooked up to a record player with the vinyl for Dolly Parton's 1974 hit I Will Always Love You. 

The two of you exchange bashful smiles, glances laden with something more meaningful. “You wanna go first?” Jaafar proposes, gesturing toward you.

“Sure.” You pass him a shy smile before formulating your answer. You truly don’t know. Working with Jaafar… memories flash through your mind like a symphony on repeat. The midnight talks in front of your trailers, the quick snack breaks between the scenes and the many inside jokes you’ve shared over the past couple of months.

“Working with Jaafar,” you begin, his name slipping out a bit dreamier than you intend to. “Was truly one of the best experiences I’ve had in my life. He’s so open, so sweet like—” you gesture to him while giggling, “look at that face!”

The interviewer laughs with you as Jaafar rubs over his forehead in nervousness, trying to hide his face. “You flatter me.” He responds, voice slightly muffled.

You pick up where you left off. “No, but seriously, he took really good care of me. And I’m so grateful I got to know him. Who he is as a person. He’s really good at what he does—whatever it is: singing, dancing, acting—and I laud him for that. I’ve gotten to know a beautiful person, inside and out.”

When you look over at Jaafar, he’s already looking at you. He grabs your hand that’s resting on the arm rest with gentleness. “Thank you, baby.” he tells you quietly, eyes glued onto your face.

The interviewer speaks up again. “And Jaafar, how was working with her for you?”

He keeps his hand clasped around yours. “I… I really enjoyed it. I enjoyed her, her presence. Her optimism. How she was able to bring happiness to every room she walked into. It’s… kind of admirable, you know?” The interviewer nods in agreement. “Even after the hardest days, she was able to make my day better by just… being there. It’s something you can’t… just ignore. I’m really glad I’ve found a friend for life with this project.”

You feel your insides warm up at his sweet words, heat wavering over your cheeks. How easy it is for him to voice his admiration for you, even though you’re new to the scene.

But you try to make the interview lighthearted again. “Stop, I can’t cry. My mascara’s perfect today.” You fake-sob, waving your hands in front of your face to “dry your tears”.

The three of you share laughs and giggles again, before the interviewer asks her final question. “Fans really loved the slow dancing scene. Did you— did you guys know that?”

You nod lightly, a knowing glint in your eyes. “I’ve seen a TikTok or two about it.”

“So, what was the scene like? What were rehearsals like?”

You and Jaafar share a lingering look, telepathically deciding you’re going to give your answer first.

“We— uh, well, of course we all know Jaafar’s an amazing dancer. We’ve all seen him as Michael Jackson, come on now. Boy’s got moves,” you mutter the last part in a “duh”-tone, nudging his side with your elbow. “And I’m not the best dancer ever. So, I’m glad I had someone with me who had… let’s say, better developed motoric abilities.”

Jaafar’s warm touch on your waist shoots through your mind. The exhausting rehearsal days, both of you in loose clothing, faces bare, just like yourselves, while he guided you through the entire choreography patiently, step by step. The endless twirls and interlaces of fingers, his hands on your back, him telling you when you needed to step back.

The memories seem too intimate to share all of a sudden, and you know Jaafar would feel that way too, so you just settle on your basic answer. You try to catch his eyes, and when he looks at you, you quickly look away. You’re too shy.

“He just really guided me through that process. He taught me the entire routine really, and he’s a damn good teacher. He was amazing, sorry — I’m saying that a lot aren’t I? Anyway, it all turned out beautifully in the end, especially with Jaafar’s love confession as we did the dancing.” You end, voice laced with warmth and comfort, reminiscing the beautiful memory.

Then, your team signals that it’s time to wrap up the interview. You do, both of you shaking the interviewer’s hand with polite smiles and quick “thank you”’s.

When snippets of the interview get released on TikTok, the fans can’t help but freak out.

user105679: HES SOOOOO GENTLE WITH HERRR the “thank you baby” omgggg

mjlover2002: look at how they look at each other, aint no way they arent dating lol

ririthediva: i know damn well there’s more to that rehearsal story.

juliassupersecretspam: AM I SEEING MATCHING BRACELETS??????? tell me i’m not crazy #delusional

hopelessromanticxo: my parentssssssss forreal

a/n: the joy of finding out that your favourite song by brandy and one of your favourite michael jackson songs are produced by the same person 😪 top of the world and you rock my world lovers riseeeeee! the beats sound so similar idk how i've never noticed it before