♡ Inhale, exhale ♡

You spent the morning barefoot along the beach, collecting shells you both pretended were pointless, arguing over whether the seagulls were secretly demonic.

“They’re too organized,” Dean had muttered, squinting at a flock.

You had looked at him, completely unimpressed.

“They’re birds, Dean.”

“Exactly. That’s their cover.”

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the smooth conch shell in your hand. Dean watched you the whole time, eyes warm, like your laughter was the only sound worth listening to in the whole damn universe.

By the afternoon, the sun was high and the water was perfect.

Dean was already waist-deep when you waded in, the sun high and the waves gentle against your skin.

“What?” you asked, catching him staring.

“Nothin’.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Just appreciating the view.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting your own grin. “Smooth, Winchester.”

“Wasn’t even trying.” He shrugged. “Alright, yeah… maybe a little.”

You moved closer until the water lapped at your waist. Dean reached for you without urgency, just need. His arms slid around you, strong and sure, pulling you in until your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms circled his neck. You tucked your face into the warm curve of his shoulder, breathing him in—salt, sunscreen, and that familiar scent that always meant safety.

He held you like that, one hand splayed across your back, the other rising to cradle the back of your head. His fingers moved slowly through your hair, gentle strokes that said everything words didn’t need to. The waves rocked you both in a slow, effortless drift.

“You comfortable?” he murmured against your temple.

You nodded, melting deeper into him. “Very.”

“Good.”

No teasing. No walls. Just Dean—solid, steady, letting the ocean carry you while he kept you anchored. Every so often he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head, almost absentminded, like he couldn’t help it. The sun warmed your skin. The water cradled you. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath your cheek.

Sleep tugged at you, heavy and sweet.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” he whispered, amusement threading through his voice.

“Maybe.”

“In the ocean?” A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“You’re holding me,” you mumbled.

That silenced him. Because you trusted him completely, and Dean knew exactly how rare and precious that was. His arms tightened just a fraction, protective even in perfect peace.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You believed him. Your eyes slipped shut, the world narrowing to the rhythm of the waves, the warmth of his skin, and the constant, soothing sweep of his hand in your hair.

When you were fully out, Dean moved with the same careful reverence he reserved for the few good things in his life. He carried you back to shore without jostling you, your body limp and trusting against him. On the warm sand under the shade of the trees, he spread the towel and lowered you down gently. You barely stirred, only curling closer to where he’d been.

Dean watched you for a long moment, something tender and almost disbelieving in his expression. “Yeah,” he whispered to himself. “That’s what I thought.”

He stretched out beside you, lacing his fingers with yours. For once, he didn’t scan the treeline. Didn’t brace for the next nightmare. He simply closed his eyes and let the breeze move over him, the ocean murmuring nearby.

No monsters today.

No missions.

No goodbyes waiting around the corner.

Just you, breathing soft and steady beside him.

Just the two of you, drifting together in a rare, golden pocket of peace.

And the quiet promise that, for as long as he could, he would always be there to hold you.

A/N: Thank you so freakin’ much for 1k! When I first started posting a year ago, I never imagined my stories would reach anyone, let alone 1k of you. Thank you for every like, comment, and reblog. Seeing you all loving my work warms my heart. 🥹

Dean would like to refute that accusation, but his indignance only deepens his frown. His gloved hands rest on his belt, his armor clinking with the movement. He stands at an appropriate distance, but also close enough to maintain a watchful eye, ever at your service. His sword is a familiar weight resting against his left hip.

Margaret, your Lady-in-Waiting, is also at your service; she lies dozing on the bench. The old maid never lasts long there, or in a comfortable chair, or even in an uncomfortable one.

You even gave her your shawl as a blanket, then went back to trimming and watering various plants that needed your attention, especially the roses. They’re white and blushing pink in the winter. In the spring, they will mature to a deeper red, glittering like rubies in the sunlight. And in the summer, they dim to reflect the warmer sunset, as if painted orange-gold.

Dean has never understood how they change their colors in each season. Your mother planted them years ago with seeds she brought from her homeland, a smaller rural country from the east that benefits from this country’s trade, as well as its protection.

You now raise the roses as your own. He watches you dote on them, gently examining the healthy bunches while avoiding thorns. Then you harvest a few stems for your chambers.

Your occasional humming turns into song, a sweet melody that laces your path between the more barren trees in the orchard.

“You do know they can’t hear you,” Dean says.

“Yule is almost here,” you say, touching the weathered trunk of an apple tree. “We have to wake the trees and lift their spirits from the cold. That way the harvest will be plentiful in the spring. Haven’t I told you this every year?”

His mouth twitches, his brows easing. “It’s possible I’ve forgotten. You say many things at once, often without stopping to breathe. It’s impressive.”

Your eyes flick dryly in his direction, but there’s no true ire in it. You rarely hold his impertinence against him. He imagines it’s difficult for you to take him seriously at times. When he first met you, Dean could barely hold a sword, let alone bear the weight of his armor. Meanwhile, you were a girl who would rather climb these trees than practice embroidery or penmanship.

“At least I am not a living statue, one who somehow always appears at my back,” you toss over your shoulder. You aim to move a ladder over to the tree so that you can pick a few apples—the last ones clinging to vestiges of autumn. Soon the cold will consume them.

Dean moves to your side and takes the ladder from you, giving you a somewhat chiding look. He maneuvers it himself where you would have it positioned.

“Here. Some help from the living statue,” he remarks, offering his hand.

A small smile plays on your lips. You graciously slip your hand into his, and he helps you up the ladder. He holds it steady when a strong, chilly wind courses through the garden. It stirs your hair and the skirts of your dress, along with what’s left of the trees.

“It’s getting cold,” he says, and you aren’t dressed for it. “We should head inside, Princess.”

“A simple chill won’t kill me,” you tease. You’re focused on the task of filling your basket with apples. Another lies on the ground with your roses.

Dean restrains a sigh.

“I swear, stubbornness must be a womanly virtue,” he mutters.

You pause, your ear perked. “What was that?”

He’s soon saved from answering. Gabriel, one of your father’s messengers, enters the garden.

“Princess,” he greets you with a nod, though he casts a sideways glance at the dozing Margaret. “We are soon to receive a lord of Hallstein. News has traveled ahead of his ship that the crown prince is now a widower, in search of a new bride.”

Dean’s mood dims. Hallstein is a neighboring country to the north—remote, but powerful.

In that moment, your countenance changes as well. Your true emotions bury themselves under a grim understanding of what’s to come.

Your heart is like this garden, with high, impenetrable hedges, embedded with hidden thorns. But with those thorns, the roses bloom. 

Dean thinks of you like that, even on gray winter days such as these. 

That afternoon, your father, King Damian, informs you of your fate over supper. You will wed Alastair, the prince of Hallstein.

The match brings the aid of their legendary ships, and the added strength of their armada, led by Alastair himself, will help secure trade routes for your country in the vast sea to the southwest, down to the warmer islands where certain spices, wine, fruits, and vegetables are more plentiful. Consequently, their richness also makes them attractive to pirates, an added obstacle to reliable trade.

You understand all of this, and yet, words have turned to ash in your mouth. You barely taste the Cornish hen sitting on your plate, or the roasted vegetables, fresh bread, aged cheeses, fruits, candied dates, and other luxuries spread across the dining table.

“Has Prince Alastair won many wars with this armada?” you ask.

Your father pauses from carving the meat on his plate to glance up at you. He quirks a brow.

“Hallstein has not needed to go to war since before King Reinard took the throne,” he says.

Reinard III, Prince Alastair’s father, you mentally note.

“Is King Reinard young or old then?” you ask.

Damian shakes his head. “Frankly, I don’t remember him well. By now I suppose his beard would be gray, a man in his sixties.”

You nod. “That likely means his son is older than I. Perhaps a great deal older. We may struggle to find common interests. Do you think it would be a suitable match, in that case?”

You sip a glass of wine and meet your father’s gaze. His lips twitch, but his expression remains wry.

“I shouldn’t need to remind you that you are now twenty years old, well over marrying age,” he says. “If not for the prince’s recent loss, this arrangement could not have been so easily made.”

You nod slowly. “How then did his wife die?”

Damian pauses with his own wine at his lips. “In childbirth.”

You frown. “And the child?”

“A tragedy for all,” the king replied, indulging in his drink.

You remain quiet then. Your mother also died young.

“The fault is mine,” Damian says, rousing you from your thoughts. He seems to be weighed by memories of his own. His dark eyes are lost to them, even when they raise to meet you again. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to make another arrangement for you.”

There comes the reminder that you had been promised once before, since you were six years old. Your first betrothed was a young prince from the south. He died on a sailing expedition eight years ago. You never met him, nor have you ever met the Prince of Hallstein.

You unconsciously glance over, finding Dean standing guard at the door with one of your father’s men. His eyes briefly meet yours.

“Well, once all the legalities are signed and the dowry agreed upon, Prince Alastair will come for you himself,” Damian says, reclaiming your attention. “Travel by sea from his country will take a month, at least. If all goes as planned, he should arrive by early spring.”

Come to claim me, you think. Your fork pushes at a cold pile of herb roasted potatoes. 

“And with a stroke of your pen, so dictates my life,” you say.

Damian shakes his head, an incredulous huff shaking his chest. 

“This is news to you, Princess?” he says wryly. “You have been tutored in every subject befitting a young woman of your station, all for one purpose—”

“To marry,” you interrupt. “To be agreeable company, and to produce an heir for a man I will not meet until I wed him. I wonder if a merchant’s wife serves so fine a purpose.”

At least she shares in her husband’s business, you muse.

Your father sighs. “Do you disdain to become a queen one day? Or I suppose you would rather become a merchant’s wife. You would rather struggle for every godforsaken meal of your life, for the very roof above your head?” 

You sigh and set down your cutlery. You understand his point, but he is also missing yours. 

“Perhaps there is nobility in struggle,” you say. “More so than in reciting poetry.”

Damian almost laughs this time, somehow both fond of you, and exasperated.

“Oh, I have indulged you too much, haven’t I? I should have listened to your tutor when she said you should only be allowed to read religious texts.”

You smile, only slightly.

He knows that look on your face, better than you realize. His amusement fades.

“I admit that I’ve been selfish,” he says. “I suppose after your mother’s death, it was…difficult to part with you.”

You understand that as well.  

Your mother had suffered from a wasting sickness that took her slowly, over the course of a year. It robbed her of energy and appetite, and turned the white of her eyes yellow and bleary. In the end, her body seemed to be merely a shallow vessel. It was a mercy that death took her in her sleep.

As a nine-year-old child, that picture had sunk deeply into your mind. It was difficult to remember her as the woman she had been before, her eyes and her voice so full of life when she told you stories from her homeland. When her hands guided yours in planting apple seeds. When she sang with you in the garden, stepping on the mossy ground with bare feet.

“You look so much like her now,” Damian remarks. He looks upon you with pride, and the love that is, at times, difficult for him to show. “You are a woman grown. So it is time to do your duty for this house.”

Your smile fades, along with your softness.

“I understand, Father.”

You manage to hold in your tears until leaving the dining room. You can’t help that Dean will see them. Knights of the royal order are bid to follow their charge; you are his. 

In times like these, you wish your mother were alive to guide you. 

“There is still daylight left,” you say, wiping at your cheeks. You don’t turn to him until you believe your face is dry. “I would like to go to the stables.”

Dean’s expression is stoic as ever, but it doesn’t seem so to you. You see warmth, the note of caring in his eyes.

“As you wish,” he says. 

That day long ago is still vivid in his memory.

Dean is fourteen years old, still apprenticing with his father for his knighthood.

His brother Sam is ten, old enough to join them for a riding lesson. He only fell off once, but Dean still had to help him out of the mud and back onto the horse, an old reliable named Rusty.

They return to the stables together, dirty and shoving each other for the closest stall to lead their horses to.

“Boys.” 

Their father’s censuring voice stops their horseplay. Dean straightens first, properly chastened. He pets his black mare’s snout when she noses at his shoulder.

“Remember that animals feed off your temperament,” John says. “If you’re excitable, they’re liable to become so as well. The stable isn’t a place to excite a horse.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys say, almost in unison. Sam stands straighter to try and match his older brother’s height, but his mess of brown hair only comes up to Dean’s shoulder.

A slight smile tugs at John’s lips. “All right. See that your horses are fed and groomed. And make sure your saddles are clean and put away.”

With another chorus of yes, sir, the boys take to their tasks. John will do the same for his own horse. He means to show his sons that no matter your age or rank, there are certain things a man should care for himself: his armor, his horse, and his family.

Maybe not in that order, he thinks.

But he’s forced to hand the reins of his horse to a stable hand when Lady Margaret approaches him with urgency.

“Good day, my lady,” John nods, though he frowns at the harried look on the woman’s face.

“Sir John, I apologize. I know today is your day of rest, but we have a problem,” she says, in a lowered voice.

“What’s the matter?”

“The princess is missing.”

John’s brows draw together in surprise. “What?”

“She escaped Sir Charles’ watch this morning—”

He huffs. “Why is that not surprising?”

The king may have a fondness for Charles’s poetry, but John thinks the man too easily distracted by his own daydreaming.  

“And no one has seen her since,” Margaret says, in thinly veiled worry.  

John accompanies her at once to speak with the Knight Commander. Before he leaves, he tells Dean to bring his brother home after they’ve finished their chores in the stables. Ever the responsible young man, Dean nods in assurance, but he still watches his father leave curiously.

“Were they talking about the princess?” Sam asks.

“They’re looking for her,” Dean says, but he goes back to brushing his horse. He doesn’t know why they’re all worked up about a girl who probably couldn’t manage to leave the castle, even if she tried. There are knights posted at every door and gate.

“I’ve never seen the princess,” Sam says. He comes around to Dean’s side of the stall and busies himself with a stick he finds on the dusty floor. “What do you think she’s like?”

Dean shrugs. He’s never seen her either, and he doesn’t really care to. In his experience, limited though it’s been, girls tend to be quiet and shy, and don’t seem to know much beyond their embroidery. They’re pretty to look at, like a dainty pastry, except you don’t find anything nice like chocolate or cream inside. Just shy giggles and strange glances.

“I heard she likes horses too,” Sam says. He points to a white mare dappled with gray over in the corner stall. “I think that one’s hers.”

“Why don’t you hop on,” Dean teases. “If you ride side-saddle, you can be princess for day.”

Sam’s lips purse, and he whacks his brother’s shin with a thin branch he finds on the dusty stable floor. Dean hisses in pain, retaliating with a shove of Sam’s shoulder and an attempt to take the offending weapon from his hand.

It all devolves into a brotherly brawl that has Dean chasing Sam out of the stable and tackling him into the dirt. Sam puts up a good fight, nearly gaining the upper hand when one of his clumsy fists manages to connect with Dean’s nose, but he’s older, bigger, and still strong enough to pin Sam down.

“Easy, little brother,” Dean laughs. “Do you yield?”

Sam struggles like a salmon in a bear’s mouth.

“Never!”   

“Okay. Just remember, you brought this on yourself,” Dean says. He lets a big wad of spit percolate in his mouth, positioning it to fall right on his little brother’s face—

Until a rock hits him right on the back of his head.

“Ow!”

Except it isn’t a rock at all, just an unripe apple that tumbles into the dirt beside them.

“What in hell?” Dean says. But his words are cut off by another fruit projectile hitting him in the cheek, making him clutch his face with a pained cry.

Sam erupts into cackles of laughter. He stops when he hears a lighter giggle echoing him.

Both he and Dean look up in bewilderment to find you, a girl, sitting on the branch of an apple tree. You can’t be much older than Sam, but you wear a fine violet gown laced with gold. Your stocking-covered feet swing beneath you. Dean notices your shoes on the ground. They match your dress, violet and gold. He’s never seen you before, but you must be the daughter of some noble lord.

“Who are you?” he asks, getting off his brother so he can protect his head again if need be. Sam joins him in standing after dusting himself off, looking up at you curiously.

“Someone who doesn’t like bullies,” you retort.

Sam smiles triumphantly at Dean, who just rolls his eyes and rubs at the back of his sore head.

“How’d you get up there, anyway?” Dean asks.

“Oh, I flew, of course! With my invisible wings,” you say. Your voice drips with sarcasm, but your giggle betrays you. You’re laughing at him again.

Dean’s face begins to warm in a blush, even with his left cheek still stinging.

“How long have you been up there?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know. A while, I suppose,” you say. “My legs are starting to hurt.”

You slowly get up, using the tree trunk as an anchor. But Dean hears the branch beginning to creak. He quickly draws closer to the tree.

“Be careful, I think it’s—”

You try to climb up higher to the next branch, but you gasp as your foot doesn’t quite find purchase. Your nails scrape the bark as you lose your balance and wind up falling into a shaky seat on the branch. The impact, however, is just enough to crack the wood. The fear of it has you swinging your arms to try and grab onto something, but finding nothing, you slip backward out of the tree with a shrill screech.

Dean manages to reach you before you hit the ground. He means to catch you, but what actually transpires is a tangle of limbs on the ground, and a suspect crack that has you gasping for a different reason—not for your own pain, but for Dean’s broken rib.

Not that he understands what that agony means. All he knows is that it’s almost impossible to breathe as he cringes in pain.

You fret over him with reflexive tears and gentle hands on his chest.

“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” you cry.

“Obviously he’s not!” Sam says. There’s panic in his voice too, but he soon runs for help while you stay with Dean.

All he registers beyond the pain is your hands holding his so carefully, your tearful apologies, over and over. Apparently you could lob an apple at his head, but you drew the line at maiming him. His vision blurs between the shade of your hair and what the sun looks like filtering between the tree’s spring-white blossoms.

His father comes eventually, along with a score of knights and Lady Margaret. She drags you away from him and reprimands you all the while for your behavior, so unbecoming of a lady.

Dean realizes it then. Those soft hands holding his had been those of a princess.

The next time Dean sees you is in the Halls of Healing.

Several times, he’s been told by both his mother and the healer to lie very still. There isn’t much they can do for him, but because he doesn’t seem to be bleeding internally, he should be all right after a few weeks. He can’t ride a horse, however, so he won’t be allowed to go home for a while either.

Sam has come to visit him every day. They play simple card games to pass the time. Twice, Sam has managed to sneak an apple tart from the kitchen for him.

Their father visits in the afternoon, after his watch is done. He brings supper, and they mostly sit in a companionable silence while they eat.

When his mother Mary visits, she stays with him all day, fussing over him. Dean pretends to be annoyed by it, but secretly he craves the comforting touch on his cheek, and her warm voice never fails to soothe him.

She reads to him in the evening before he goes to sleep. She indulges him with his favorite stories—of how Sir Gawain was tested in his courage by the Green Knight; of King Arthur and his quests; of Beowulf who slayed the monster, Grendel, and the king’s final battle with the dragon, who wrathfully defended his hoard of gold.

You come with Dean’s father to visit on the third day, accompanied by Lady Margaret.

“The princess would like to offer blessings to the infirm,” Margaret tells the healer. Though privately she says to you, “Do not touch, or get too close.”

Dean spots you out of the corner of his eye. You have a bottle of holy oil in your hand, and you go to each person in the hall and offer them a kind word.

While John and Margaret speak with the healer about those who should be better quarantined, you finally approach Dean’s cot. You offer him a small smile, still tinged with apology.

“Does it hurt terribly?” you ask.

He gives you a smile in return. “Not really.”

He tries to sit up higher in bed, stifling a cringe of pain when it jostles his tender ribs. He hides his pain from you the best he can.

Your gaze falls. “Even so, I’m very sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Dean says, ducking his head to find your eyes. “Really. You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

You chance looking up at him again, perhaps with some nervousness. You take some of your holy oil and paint a simple cross on the back of his hand, where it rests on his chest. You speak a blessing over him, as is tradition.

He doesn’t dare try to hold your hand, but he holds your gaze instead. 

“Thank you, Princess,” he says.

You smile at him, the kind that makes his face warm inexplicably. Then you turn to rejoin your Lady. 

Dean wonders if he imagined the brief, warm touch on his arm.

Now, ten years later, Dean watches you stare out across a field blanketed by an emerald sea. Its blades of grass are gently tossed by the wind, along with your hair. 

Your skin is numb. That wind dries your tears, but you’re still reluctant to turn back to him. It is a cruel thing that he should be the one who always sees you at your worst, you think.

“Am I selfish for not wanting to leave my home?” you ask. “It is a fate my mother survived, so why not I?”

“It may not be forever,” Dean says, after a moment. “You can come back and visit your father.”

“The distance from Hallstein is over a month away by ship,” you remind him. “I would be lucky to return once a year.”

The wind urges you forward, closer to the forest that borders your kingdom on the east side. That dense line of trees looks darker now that the day has become overcast, dimming to orange and violet shades in the evening. There’s something about the forest’s vastness that fascinates you. You’ve often wondered what it would be like to venture in, a natural maze, a wild garden tended by no one.

“Princess,” Dean calls a warning. 

Over the years, this forest has become the bane of the kingdom. Civilians, merchants, even knights have reported hearing unearthly sounds, seeing strange movement in the trees. Travelers have even disappeared on the road. They call it the Blackwood.

The longer your gaze focuses on the dappled light flickering between the trees, you think you begin to see a curling vine. A shadowed shape. There’s a whisper on the wind, growing stronger. It drowns out all other voices… 

Until Dean grabs your wrist. His touch is a firebrand, and his brows are firmly knitted when he asks, “What are you doing?” 

You blink as you turn to him, half an apology on your tongue. When you turn back to the forest ahead, whatever you thought you saw is merely shadow and wood.

Yule and Christmas both fall at the end of December, and are therefore celebrated one after the other in your kingdom. Ordinarily, this is your favorite time of year.

Already you can smell mulled wine and spices on the air as the castle bustles with preparations that will continue late into the evening, along with the excited chatter of the maids as they discuss the decorations. Even Lady Margaret has a certain spring in her step.  

You can’t bring yourself to match their cheer, however. The spark dimmed all too quickly when you realized this would likely be the last Yuletide you would celebrate in your home. 

Dean notices as he escorts you to your chambers. There he hands off his duties to Sir Benjamin, who serves your evening watch. 

You turn to Dean and ask, “Would you mind coming a little earlier in the morning, so we can go out to ride again at dawn?”

He smiles slightly, indulging you with a nod.

“As you wish.”

“Thank you,” you say, with a small smile of your own. Yet it doesn’t reach your eyes.

You then bid both men a goodnight. After you retire to your chambers, Benjamin gives Dean a knowing look. They’ve been friends since the start of their apprenticeships, and they know each other well. 

“She has the touch of melancholy,” Ben says. 

“Wouldn’t you?” Dean replies. “Everything she knows is about to change.”

Dean later shares dinner with Sam in their shared lodgings within the castle. Knights are given rooms in the West Tower of the castle. For the brothers, it’s a home of convenience. 

Their father died just four years ago. Traditionally, that would leave the Winchester estate to Dean, as the eldest son. On paper, it’s his to inherit. However, he’s had to leave much of the day-to-day running of it to Sam and their mother, Mary.

For her, the responsibility is nothing new. John’s duty as your day guard had occupied most of his days, as it now occupies Dean’s. Sam and Ben alternate on your evening watch, which allows Sam more time to help Mary with the estate.

Dean is unable to see home as much as he would like, but he’s grateful for evenings like these shared with his brother, before Sam leaves in the morning. He will spend the rest of December at home, while Dean will remain here into the new year.

By now, Dean has bathed and stripped his armor, but he still feels its weight. Or maybe it’s a different sort of burden he feels, weighing on his chest rather than his shoulders. Sam notices, casting his brother a glance as he sips some ale.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Sam says.

“I’m fine,” Dean replies. “Just tired.”

“Tired, or coming to terms?” Sam counters.

It earns Dean’s furrowed brows. “With what?”

“With the fact that things will soon be different, for her and for you,” Sam says. His eyes are knowing, but not unkind.

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want to acknowledge everything his brother is implying, so he settles on stating the obvious.

“She has her duty, and we have ours.”

Even on Yule, a crisp twenty-first of December, Dean must serve his watch. 

The smell of smoke and spice lingers in the air from roasted meats. The women wear holly in their hair, and families and lovers alike indulge in games and feasting in the dining hall. Many of the knights who live in the castle are given leave to be with their families and friends there, trading stories and laughter, well-wishing and gifts, cinnamon apple tarts and kisses. 

Dean lost you in the fray for a few minutes, but he soon finds you after one of your maids points him in the direction of the courtyard. He grabs two mugs of wassails, as well as the fur cape you left inside. He ventures out and finds you in the garden. There you sit on the cold bench and sing a soft kind of melody, the one your mother sang when you were a child. 

“Do you mean to wake the trees with a lullaby?” he asks. 

A smile flickers at your lips. “I meant it to lift their spirits as well as my own, but I doubt I’ve succeeded.”

He brings you a cup of wassails. “This will warm you.”

His hand brushes yours, and he feels the coldness of your skin. He hesitates just slightly before he holds your hand around the cup, setting down his own. He frowns and sits beside you on the bench. 

“How long have you been here? You’re ice-cold,” he says. 

“I suppose I have sat here too long,” you acknowledge.

He would like to tease you into a smile, but your unusually dour face discourages him. 

“Here,” he says instead. He guides you to your feet and wraps your fur cape around your shoulders. “You could have at least worn this. Please be more sensible, for your own sake.”

“Excuse me?” you frown up at him, even as you take the offered coat. “I’m not a child.”

“I know that. Yet you insist on sitting alone in your melancholy,” he replies, before he could think better of it.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” you snap. “I am sorry that I cannot be cheerful and sensible at all hours of the day. I am sorry if I cannot bring myself to care if I become ill. Maybe in my absent-minded, selfish heart, that will delay the world for a while.”

You drink the wassails he brought you, all in one long gulp. The spiced alcohol goes straight to your head in a heady rush. You suck in a few breaths, and only then do you realize how immature you sound.

Dean’s brows are raised, but he doesn’t censure you again, like you expect. He gives you a nod of respect and busies his hands with retrieving his leather gloves from his pocket and putting them back on, now that yours are warm enough.

“The apology is mine,” he says. “It’s not my place to reprimand you.”

Your heart weakens further. You contemplate your empty cup, tapping a nail on the side.

“The signed letter of agreement arrived from Hallstein this morning,” you reveal. “It’s done. The prince will come for me.” 

Dean processes that with new understanding. Before, the arrangement was still an idea. Now it is confirmed.

“My ladies are brimming with excitement, already talking of the wedding preparations. A new life, they say I will have,” you say with a chuckle, despite the tears brimming in your eyes. “I don’t know why it causes me such dread. The man could be perfectly agreeable. Or, he could have a terrible wheeze when he laughs. Or have a disgusting vice, like pipe smoking or gambling.”

“He could have a terribly receding hairline,” Dean adds.

You snort in amusement. “And a furry headpiece to cover it, like Lord Marvin. I do think he had some poor animal skinned for it.”

“I’ve always wondered if it has fleas. He really should invest in a decent wig,” Dean smirks.

He makes you laugh. Laugh through the beginnings of tears.

Dean can’t help treat you gently, his gloved hand reaching up to hold your cheek. Your eyes flick up to him in surprise. He collects your tears with a swipe of his thumb, leather against soft skin. You hold his hand afterward, allowing it to fall gently entwined between you.

“Do you know, I think you may be my only true friend in the world,” you say.

Dean finds that hard to believe. “You are beloved, Princess—by everyone in this place, and in this country.”

“But do they know me?” you counter. You shake your head at the thought. “If I am beloved, it’s only the idea of me. I am beginning to wonder what a royal is in this world, if but a symbol. And what does that symbol truly represent?”

“Hope,” Dean says, after a moment. “And security. Your family makes the people feel safe.”

“Well,” you say, your lips forming a small, but more genuine smile. Your eyes hold a familiar teasing spark. “Then I suppose you are my prince.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. His brows furrow and his mouth falls open in surprise, along with his hand away from yours. 

You hold your laughter behind your hand at that look on his face. You get up to leave him behind in the cold, and in the wake of you. 

“Please forgive my teasing. It’s just that your expressions do amuse me, Sir Dean,” you say, still with a certain smile on your face. “Come, let’s venture inside before you become a block of ice there. I doubt your brother will want to thaw you when he returns.”

Dean huffs, shaking his head in annoyance. 

You really are a vexing woman.

The day you meet your betrothed goes better than you expected. 

The Prince of Hallstein is handsome, you suppose. His frame is tall and lithe, his features angular and distinct, his hair a dark brown, his eyes a lighter blue. There are already marks of distinguished gray in his well-kept beard. 

His eyes follow you while you give him a formal greeting, a curtsy that used to strain your neck and back when you were young. Now it feels second nature. 

“It’s my honor to meet you, Princess,” Alastair says. “I’ve traveled far to meet you, and the anticipation has only built each day.”

“Then I do hope it’s not a disappointment,” you say.

He bows and kisses the back of your hand, lingering there as he stares up into your eyes.

“On the contrary. You are a rare beauty to behold,” he says. His smile seems genuine, making you smile in return.

Dean stands behind and to the left of you, as always. His face remains stoic, hiding the deeper shadows underneath.

When King Damian volunteers you to host a tour of the castle, Alastair is polite and interested to accompany you. He allows you to explain each room you show him, as well as each bit of history and point of interest in the tapestries and artwork on the walls. He occasionally interjects with a question or two, which allows you to continue explaining what makes this place your home.

“That way is the kitchen,” you point down to the halls that already smell lovely and sweet. “Oh, they must be making pies for this evening. That smells like strawberry and rhubarb, one of Sir Dean’s favorites.”

You give him a smile over your shoulder. Dean keeps his more reserved, noticing how Alastair watches your exchange.  

“What is your favorite cuisine, Princess?” Alastair asks.

“Hmm, I’m partial to roast chicken, but I have a weakness for apple tarts. The apples produced in the orchard are lovely.”

“You have orchards here, in the castle?”

“Oh, yes. My mother and I planted them together when I was a child,” you reply. “Now the garden is almost overrun.”

“Then I should like to see it,” Alastair says.

You blink in surprise. “Really?”

“Indeed, I would.”

You never thought the prince would be interested in your garden.

“Well, all right then,” you reply.

You lead the way, with the prince keeping hold of your arm in his. 

Dean follows behind.

You and Alastair take a moment to sit beneath your favorite tree, eating a pair of apples with afternoon tea. When he compliments the garden and asks who tends to it, you admit that you help the gardeners almost every day.

“They are a marvel to me. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to grow fruits such as these in Hallstein,” Alastair says. “It snows for most of the year.” 

Your attitude deflates. “Oh, really? Does very much grow there?”

“Trees, yes. Potatoes and other necessities, I suppose, but not much else of delight, I’m afraid. The rest we acquire through trade,” he says. “You may not have need to tend a garden, but you will be comfortable in my home. I will see that you have warmer clothes made.”

You fall quiet. You set down your tea, half-finished.

As if sensing your change of mood, Alastair turns to you with a smile.

“Is there anything else I should see of your country?” he asks. “Perhaps another favorite place of yours?”

You’re grateful for the fresh air as the carriage ventures out of the castle bounds and into town. You were beginning to feel stifled.

For once, you’re also grateful to be alone with Margaret. You don’t need to hold yourself so rigidly. 

You glance out the window, and there you find Dean and his men on horseback, riding on either side of your carriage. You can’t help but admire your guard. His armor gleams in the sunlight, and there’s a casual, controlled power in the way he rides. In the steady line of his broad shoulders.

It’s the same when he stands or moves; he’s at ease, but he is also ready—to draw his sword, to act. He was well-trained by his father, but you also believe that Dean was born to become what he is. A natural warrior.

He glances your way and gives you a nod, with a slight upward tug of the lips. You smile, holding his gaze for a moment. Then you sit back in your seat. Margaret glances at you curiously.

“What is so amusing as to warrant that expression?” she asks. 

“I just love coming to the city,” you reply.

“Why? For cheap trinkets, the crowded streets, or the influx of criminals?”

You laugh. How she exaggerates. “I admire it for what it is, the reality of life.” 

“Your life is just as real as theirs,” she points out. “Pain is pain. Joy is joy. The only difference is how you perceive them.”

Your mirth fades. Perhaps there’s some truth in that.

Suddenly the carriage feels stifling as well. You open the small hatch that separates you from the coachman, and you ask him to stop.

“What are you doing?” Margaret asks.

“I need some fresh air,” you reply.

“The air is no fresher out there than it is in here.”

“Come on,” you encourage as the footman opens the door. “After riding so long it’ll be good to stretch our legs.”

“My legs have no need for stretching,” she quips, and is quite content to stay in the carriage where she won’t have to endure the dust and grime of the common road, as well as common people.

Dean dismounts his horse and offers you his hand after the footman helps you out, even as he frowns.  

“I wouldn’t recommend stepping out here, Princess. We could soon be overrun,” he whispers to you. 

The prince’s carriage behind yours also stops. Alastair wears a look of wary confusion as he steps out to meet you. 

“Are we meant to stop here?” he asks. He takes in the storefronts and vendors peddling their wares.

“Yes!” you say. “I would like to show you the city, and this is the largest road where most commerce takes place.” 

The prince grimaces in distaste when a nearby fishmonger shouts his way after chopping the head of a tuna. “Fresh fish!”

It doesn’t smell particularly fresh.

“I see,” Alastair remarks.

“Stay close, Princess. Let’s keep moving,” Dean warns. They are drawing spectators, curious eyes recognizing the green and gold banners of the royal carriages. They begin to recognize you as well, excited chatter and spectators stopping in the streets to catch a glimpse of you.

Dean’s left hand rests on the hilt of his sword as he steps in front you, his right hand on his belt. Against his advice, you linger to greet the crowd. It’s not just your attempt to be kind; if this is one of the last times you will get to visit these streets, you want to connect with your people. You want to know them, and you want to be more than a living symbol.

Dean shares warning looks with his men. It’s not often that you’re close enough for the people to touch, and that can inspire undue boldness.

When an excited woman reaches for your arm, Dean steps in between with a censuring word. He and his men try to form a kind of perimeter around you and the prince, but the people begin to crowd them, pushing and shoving to try and speak to you, wishing you well, asking for blessings, or gold, or more salacious things.

In the confusion, you shuffle too close to the horses. Dean hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you toward him when one of the stallions spooks, nearly trampling you. 

“Stay close,” he says firmly. “Back to the carriage.”

For once, you concede his point without argument. You nod and try to follow his guiding hand, but he soon becomes distracted when a man tries to break past him and grab the gold chain right off your wrist. 

His jaw clenching, Dean rears back his armor-plated elbow into the man’s face.

You lose Dean’s steady grip on your shoulder, as well as your path as you try to find some breathing room from the crowd closing in. The road beneath your feet is dusty and uneven cobblestone. Your heel finds a narrow crack, and a gasp escapes you when you lose your balance.  

A man dressed in a dingy brown robe helps you after you stumble, nearly falling in the dirt. You look up and meet a gruff face.

“Get back!” Dean shouts. He and his men continue to push against the teeming crowd.

By the time Dean turns back to find you and make sure you’re all right, he realizes you’re no longer at his side. His eyes widen. 

“Princess?”

He calls out to you several times, but he doesn’t find you in the mobbing street or in the carriage with Margaret. The woman rails with worry, but Dean calms her down, promising that he’ll find you. 

He mounts his horse again, and his next orders are sharp and exacting for his men.

He commands Jack, a young knight newly entered into the royal order, to blow the horn of warning. The sound carries loudly in the streets. Dean draws his sword and spurs his horse onward through the dispersing crowd.

“Where is the princess?” he shouts. “Speak! The longer it takes, the more severe the punishment will be. That’s a promise.”

Dean’s horse stamps as impatiently, and almost as agitated, as his rider. Her black coat shines in the afternoon light.

Alastair watches the knight from the open window of his carriage, considering and calculating. 

Dean oversees his men checking every house, shop, and vendor cart along the busy road, but no one can give a straight answer as to the whereabouts of the princess. 

The sun begins to bow toward the horizon, marking Dean’s frustration and growing worry underneath. His chest is tight with failure. How the hell could he have lost you? You were at his side. He had you in his hands…

A young member of the clergy dressed in a humble gray robe steps forward to approach Dean’s horse.  

“Apologies, Sir Knight,” he greets, but he beckons Dean to bend closer and receive a quiet message. 

“The princess is safe,” he whispers. “She awaits you at the church. Will you follow me?”

Dean’s firm expression lessens slightly in relief. He nods and urges his horse onward.

He finds you, of all things, having tea and shortbread with the friar of the local church. Dean strides in through the large double doors. His boots fall heavy on the tile floor while shards of color—cobalt, red, and gold—hit his back through the stretch of stained-glass windows.

The sanctuary is quiet, with rows of empty wooden pews and wax candles lit along the wall. The smell of incense and smoke linger in the air. 

All Dean cares about is the way you sit there peacefully in the first row, sipping from a simple cup. The picture you form is an instant relief, abating the tightness in his chest. But it’s also a little maddening.

You smile at the sight of him. 

“Dean! Oh, there you are. You look tired. Here, would you like some tea? Or some cookies. I know you like shortbread—”

“No,” Dean snaps. “I told you to stay by my side.”

You blink up at him in surprise, your smile fading. “I know, I’m sorry. I was struggling in the crowd, but Father Robert found me and helped me.”

After a moment, Dean relents, turning to the other man with a grateful nod. 

“Thank you,” Dean says.

Father Robert nods in respect, absently stroking his beard. “It’s no trouble.”

Dean arches a brow though, noticing the other man’s simple brown robes that are still dusty from the road.

“You’re a priest? You’re dressed like a friar.”

Father Robert glances down at his humble clothes and shrugs.

“It’s more comfortable. Easier to get around too.” 

Dean tilts his head at that, not really knowing what to make of it. Any priest he’s ever met has been all too happy to remind others of how much closer to God he is, judging by the fine fabric of his robes.

Dean turns to you and more gently offers his hand. You accept, allowing him to help you stand. 

You give the clergyman a polite bow of your head.

“Thank you again for your help. You’ve been a gracious host.”

“Think nothing of it, Princess.”

You grace a sincere smile on him. “On the contrary. I shall think quite a lot of it.”

You allow Dean to lead you out of the church. You linger close to his side and wrap your hand around his arm. He holds your hand there, even as he opens the door for you.

Father Robert watches you and the knight with a slight smile crossing his lips.

Once you return to the castle, safely behind its walls and arrived at your chamber door, Dean stiffly bids you goodnight. You hesitate at the door, your fingers poised on the brass knob.

“I’m sorry for not heeding your warnings in the city,” you say softly, “and for not following your directions well enough. I know your duty is to protect me, and I made it more difficult for you to do so.” 

His eyes linger on your contrite face, the downturn of your lips. He sighs, letting some of the tension fade from his shoulders. His lingering anger isn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he says. “It was…ungentlemanly at best. Impertinent at worst.” 

He earns your gaze, where he meets you directly. 

“Forgive me,” he says.

Only he could say it in a way that demands without demanding. You smile in amusement, but with a warmer note underneath. 

“If we were to tally your impertinences, I dare say it would become a novel,” you remark.

He smirks. “At least it would be a novel worth reading.”

You laugh, shaking your head. 

With that, he hands off his watch to Ben, who approaches in the hall. Dean is on his way to his lodging in the West Tower when he’s stopped by Prince Alastair. 

“Do you have a moment, Sir?” he asks.

Dean is exhausted, starving, covered in dust and grime from the road. The last thing he needs is to be derailed by the prince, who didn’t lift so much as a finger to help his men find you. Dean supposes that sort of chivalry would be too much for a powdered lord.  

“How can I be of service?” he says.

Alastair gathers his hands behind his back as he joins Dean more fully in the hall. 

“May I ask how long you’ve served as the princess’s guard?” 

“Four years,” Dean admits. 

Alastair nods. “And your brother shares her night’s watch rotation with Sir Benjamin, doesn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Dean says. Though his brows draw together. “Are you curious about my family, Prince Alastair?”

“I simply want to know the men who protect my future wife,” says the prince. There’s a thoughtful gleam in his eye. “Your father was also a knight, was he not?”

“Yes. He served the princess before me,” Dean replies. Four years ago, his father suffered an attack on his heart. The healers presumed stress to be the cause, as well as the toll of running the family estate while committing to his duty to the Crown.

A man can only serve on two fronts for so long, as one of them said. Dean had nearly served him a blow for it, if not for Sam holding him back.

“For how long?” Alastair asks, disrupting Dean from his thoughts.

“Since she was born,” he replies curtly.

“Ah, so it is a generational profession.”

Dean considers that for a moment. “I suppose it is.”

Alastair briefly smiles. “I’m sure you’re quite fond of her then. You watch over her well.”

Dean hesitates. In those seconds, the prince reads more than words. He reads exactly what he’s suspected throughout the day, and it displeases him. Not that he shows it.

“It’s my duty, Your Highness,” Dean replies.

“Of course.” Alastair nods. And he calculates.

“In that case,” he says, “I do hope you will be joining us in in Hallstein. Your conduct was most impressive this afternoon.”

Dean’s brows furrow slightly. He wouldn’t say that what happened today was a glowing testament to his skills. You slipped out of his grasp much too easily. If it weren’t for the clergymen, you might’ve been trampled by the crowd, or worse. He has to wonder what the prince is getting at.

“It will be as my king commands,” Dean says.

“I understand,” says Alastair. He steps in closer, and his voice lowers a touch. 

“On our wedding day, I should like you to stand watch in the evening as well. It would ease my mind a great deal knowing you are just outside the door, should anything transpire,” he says. A slight smile tugs at his thin lips. “Well, anything outside of her marital duties. Do not take all sounds for distress.”

The only reaction that escapes is a tick of Dean’s jaw.

“It will be as my king commands,” he repeats. This time, there lies an undercurrent of steel.

“Yes. Perhaps I will speak with your king,” Alastair says.

Dean finds a way to hold his tongue, and gives the prince a brief nod instead. Alastair’s smile has a touch of winding, like a serpent. He then retires to his guest chambers.

Dean remains in the hall.

Finally, when all is silent, he forces his feet to move. As he goes, his leather gloves cinch tightly into fists.

AN: 😬 cue the Law and Order bell lol. What do we think about Sir Dean and his friendship with the princess? Needless to say, both of them are going to have a very important choice to make, even if their futures seem to be laid out before them here.

Next Time:

The king becomes thoughtful, an idea growing in his mind. “Let us say your brother remains here and continues to serve me. If you were to accompany my daughter to the north, know that I would see to it that your estate is well cared for, including your mother.”

Dean’s brows raise marginally. “How so?”

“With generous funding, of course,” Damian says with a smile. “I imagine the Winchester coffers are far from empty, but if you were to indulge me in this, they will soon be overflowing. I will ensure it is so for generations.”

Dean’s mind spins with fractals of indecision. The choice laid out before him is heavy, pressing on him from what feels like all angles. Damian notices his difficulty, though Dean wonders how much he truly sees.

“That’s too generous, Your Majesty,” Dean says at last.

“It would come at no great cost to me. On the contrary, it would allow me to honor your father once more,” says the king. But he has a shrewd eye, and he sees that Dean still struggles. “Think on it well. I will give you until the day of the wedding to decide.”

᯽ Keep Reading: Part 2

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