immortal bitch

You breathe out in relief once you shed your borrowed clothes and unwind the bandage from your chest. Your ribs throb – a deep, stubborn ache from days of tight binding meant to hide the shape of your body.

You slip into your own shirt and a simple kirtle, the garments comfortable and familiar after weeks of wearing clothes made for someone else. For a while, you lie back on your bed, letting your muscles loosen as your thoughts drift. It hasn’t even been a month, yet life before the Red Keep already feels distant.

“Have you any plans for supper?” you ask as you step into the parlour.

“Bread and cheese, same as every other night,” Tom says with a shrug.

You sigh at his stubborn refusal to learn even the simplest cooking. “I suppose I’ll see what’s left at the market.”

You grab a basket and head out, suddenly aware of how exposed your neck feels without your long hair. Most women in King’s Landing keep theirs much longer. A few passers-by glance at your cropped hair, some curious, others merely surprised, but no one remarks on it.

The knife moves steadily beneath your hand, slicing potatoes in a steady rhythm before you scrape them into the pot. You brush a stray lock behind your ear and reach for a carrot when you hear footsteps creaking up the stairs. The familiar groan of the landing follows, then a soft knock. Tom must be back from fetching firewood, hands too full to lift the latch.

You wipe your hands on your apron, cross the little parlour, and pull open the door.

Prince Baelor stands on the narrow landing.

He looks exactly as he did when you dressed him this morning, save for the high-collared black brocade cloak now resting on his shoulders.

“Your grace…” you breathe, startled. For a heartbeat you simply stare at him, your mind struggling to reconcile the sight of a prince on your humble landing. Then you remember your manners. “Please come in.”

You step aside, and he crosses the threshold with quiet, measured steps, his boots barely making a sound against the worn floorboards. His gaze flicks over you – your short hair, your dress, the apron still tied at your waist – before he turns his attention to the room.

“I was hoping to speak with Tom,” Baelor says. “Is he here?”

“No, your grace. He’s just stepped out to fetch firewood. But I expect him back any moment. You’re welcome to wait for him here.” You gesture toward the small table by the window.

“Thank you.” He inclines his head, sweeping his cloak to the side before taking the seat.

“Can I bring you something to drink?” you ask, trying not to sound flustered. “We have wine… or ale.”

“No, thank you.” Baelor folds his hands neatly on the table. “I do not intend to stay long.”

You nod and take the seat across from him. Baelor studies you for a moment before his gaze shifts past you toward the kitchen bench.

“I apologise – I have interrupted your supper.”

“You haven’t, your grace. I can’t cook until Tom returns with the firewood. He told me he’s lived off bread and cheese the entire time I’ve been gone. I fear he’ll get scurvy if I don’t intervene.”

A faint smile touches Baelor’s mouth. “I believe scurvy takes rather longer to develop. He is in no immediate danger.”

“Even so, he ought to eat better.”

“You look out for your brother,” Baelor remarks.

“It’s the least I can do, with all he does for me.”

Your thoughts circle back to the conversation earlier that day – your confession, the way he’d regarded you as the truth came out.

You shift in your chair. “I’ve wanted to apologise, your grace… for deceiving you. You did not deserve to be tricked. And I’m sorry if knowing it was I attending you these past weeks caused you any discomfort.”

“Your actions were ill-advised,” Baelor says gently, “but your conduct in my service was never disrespectful or improper. And the circumstances that drove you to it were not born of malice.”

You drop your gaze to your hands, twisting together in your lap. “Even so, your grace… I should not have lied, nor imposed upon your trust.”

He considers you for a moment. “It was a mistake, but not an unforgivable one.”

You look up, surprised.

“What matters is the spirit in which it was made,” he continues.

You draw a small, unsteady breath, unsure how to reply.

“I have already given the matter my judgement,” Baelor says, his mismatched eyes meeting yours, steady and sincere. “And I see no need to revisit it. Let us leave it where it belongs – in the past.”

The tightness in your chest eases. “Thank you, your grace.”

You hear footsteps on the stairs, followed by the familiar creak of the landing.

“That’ll be Tom.” You rise and cross the parlour, opening the door just before he reaches it.

“There wasn’t much left,” he says as he steps inside, then pauses, eyes slipping past you.

You follow his gaze. Baelor is standing now, one hand resting lightly against the table.

“Your grace!” Tom blurts, startled.

You take the firewood from his arms and carry it to the hearth.

“I wished to speak with you, Tom,” Baelor explains.

You set the wood down and give the prince a small, respectful nod before retreating to your room, granting them privacy.

Inside, you busy yourself with meaningless tasks – folding, refolding, tidying what hardly needs tidying. Nearly ten minutes pass before a knock sounds at your door.

“His grace is leaving,” Tom says when you open it.

You step back into the parlour. Baelor stands in the middle of the room.

“Your grace,” you say, dipping your head.

He inclines his in return. “Thank you for your hospitality this evening. I will not keep you from your supper any longer.”

“It was no trouble, your grace.”

He turns toward the exit, and you hurry across the room to reach the door first. You open it and stand aside.

“Thank you,” he murmurs as he passes, bowing his head slightly.

Once he begins his descent down the stairs, you close the door and move to the window. Pressing your forehead lightly to the cool glass, you watch him emerge onto the street, where Ser Duncan joins him. They start toward the keep, when Baelor pauses beside a beggar hunched on the side of the road.

You watch as he draws a coin purse from his belt, selects several coins, and offers them to the man before continuing on. Duncan falls back into step behind him, and the two disappear into the evening traffic.

Something warm stirs in your chest.

“What are you looking at?” Tom’s voice breaks through your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, stepping away from the window.

You return to the bench beside the hearth, where Tom is crouched, coaxing the fire to life. You pick up your knife and resume chopping vegetables.

“So, what did his grace speak with you about?” you ask.

“First he said I should have come to him in the first place.” He grimaces. “Looking back, I was incredibly stupid. I should’ve known he’d be generous – he’s that sort of man. And speaking of generosity… he said he’ll speak to our landlord, make sure we can stay here while I’m recovering.”

Your knife stills for a moment above the cutting board. “That is incredibly generous,” you say softly, the warm feeling in your chest swelling even larger.

~

“It’s not urgent for you to find work again,” Tom says. “His grace is taking care of things until I can go back.”

“But I don’t want to take advantage of his generosity,” you reply.

“Have you tried getting your old job back?”

“That was the first place I went. They’ve already replaced me.”

“I’m sure there’s some minor lady in the city looking for an attendant.”

“And what am I meant to say when she asks about my experience? That I served the heir to the throne while disguised as my brother?”

Tom scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know… Something will come along. I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

“No,” you sigh. “I made my choice.”

The week that follows is restless. The routine you’d grown used to in the Keep is gone, and slipping back into your old life feels strange. Your days feel hollow without the steady rhythm of service – fetching water for the prince’s washing, tending his clothes, organising his papers, moving through the Tower of the Hand with quiet purpose. Now you wake to no clear tasks, only long, indistinct hours. The streets seem louder than you remember, the air heavier.

And no matter what you do to occupy yourself, your thoughts drift toward Prince Baelor – toward the brief time in his service. You wonder, foolishly, if he ever thinks of you at all. The question always earns your self-reproach. Of course he doesn’t. You were nothing more than a blip in his busy life.

Yet when you lay your head on your pillow at night, waiting for sleep to come, your mind slips back to his gentle voice and the steady warmth of his gaze.

~

You’re just cleaning up after your midday meal when a firm, even knock sounds at the door.

Tom glances up from his seat at the table. “Expecting someone?”

You shake your head, wiping your hands on your apron as you cross the parlour and pull the door open.

A man stands on the landing – a short, stout fellow with wavy auburn hair and a neatly curled moustache. His fine clothing marks him as someone of rank and importance.

“Good afternoon,” he says with a polite bow. “I am Lord Dannis Vance, steward to his grace Prince Baelor.”

Your breath catches. “Oh… please, come inside, my lord.”

You step aside, and he crosses the threshold, giving the modest room a brief, assessing glance before focusing on you once more.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he begins, “but I come at his grace’s request. A position has opened within his household, and he wishes to offer you the role of cupbearer.”

“Cupbearer?” You blink. “But he already has a cupbearer – Rask.”

“His grace’s former cupbearer, Rask, has accepted a post in another household.”

“I see… and you’re certain his grace meant me?” Your gaze flicks toward Tom, now rising from his seat.

“Yes,” Lord Vance replies without hesitation. “His grace was pleased with the diligence you displayed during your previous service. He instructed me to inform you that the new position is yours, should you wish to accept it. The offer comes with no obligation – you are, of course, free to decline.”

“No – no, I would be honoured to take the position.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs. You’ll be back in the Keep… back in Prince Baelor’s service.

“Excellent,” Vance replies with a pleased smile. “You may begin whenever is convenient for you. If you have matters to put in order beforehand, see to them.”

“I have no matters,” you say quickly. “I could start tomorrow.”

“Excellent – most excellent.” His moustache twitches with satisfaction. “You will have lodgings within the servants’ quarters, so bring whatever belongings you require. I shall inform his grace to expect you at breakfast. Do not be late.”

“I won’t. Thank you, my lord.”

“I wish you a good day.” He smooths his curled moustache and turns toward the door. You step ahead of him and hold it open. He takes one step onto the landing before pausing and glancing back.

“Oh – his grace wished me to tell you to come as yourself.”

Heat pricks your cheeks. “I will.”

Lord Vance nods once, and descends the stairs. You close the door behind him and turn to Tom, who looks utterly gobsmacked. You stare back, equally stunned.

“Who would’ve thought,” Tom manages. “You must have really impressed his grace. Hopefully not too much, or he won’t want me back.”

“Don’t say that.” You chuckle, though your cheeks warm.

You turn away, heart still pounding, thoughts already racing ahead to tomorrow.

Back to the keep, back to the prince. But now you have nothing to hide behind – no persona, no disguise – just yourself. And it’s frightening.

~

You dress carefully, not in borrowed boots or bindings, but in your own fine linen shirt and a plain black kirtle. You braid the front sections of your hair and tie them back. It’s a simple style, but with your hair hacked short, there’s little else you can do.

The steward meets you at the servants’ entrance and speaks you through your duties, most of which you already know from watching Rask. Then, with the breakfast tray balanced in your hands, you make your way upstairs.

You arrive at the familiar corridor of the Tower of the Hand, where Ser Duncan stands at his post outside the Hand’s chambers. He looks up as your footsteps approach, his gaze sweeping over you.

“I heard you were returning,” he says. “You look so different! I mean… your face looks the same, but…” His eyes flick down your figure again. “How did you manage to hide your…” His gaze darts to your chest.

Heat rushes into your cheeks, your grip tightening on the tray’s handles. Duncan’s eyes widen as if just realising what he was about to say.

“That was highly improper. Please forget I said anything.” His face flushes beetroot red.

You press your lips together, half scandalised and half amused, and slip into the prince’s chambers.

You set the tray on the table and arrange the plate, cutlery, and goblet at Baelor’s usual place before moving the tray aside.

The prince emerges from his bedchamber. His gaze goes first to the table, then finds you. His eyes linger for a moment, taking you in, before he approaches and sits.

“I was glad to hear you accepted the position,” he says as you pour water into his goblet. “Though I did not expect you to begin so soon.”

“In truth, your grace, I was having some difficulty finding work.”

“Your previous employer would not take you back?” he asks, lifting a piece of buttered bread.

“Someone else has already taken my place, your grace.”

“I see. Then the timing was fortunate.”

“Yes, your grace. I am very grateful for the opportunity.” He nods, taking a sip of water.

A young man emerges from the bedchamber, a shirt draped over one arm and a basin in the other.

“This is Arnol,” Baelor says. “He will be filling in for Tom until he is recovered.”

Arnol inclines his head politely, and you exchange brief greetings before he exits the chambers. Watching someone else take up the tasks you used to perform feels strange.

You step back as Baelor resumes his meal, only moving forward to refill his goblet when needed.

Once Baelor finishes his meal and turns to his letters, you gather the dishes onto the tray and slip out.

In the corridor, Ser Duncan still stands at his post. He catches your eye and steps forward.

“I apologise for before. I often speak without thinking… I can be so stupid.”

He looks so pained and embarrassed that you can’t help but take pity on him.

“No harm done, Ser Duncan.” You step a little closer and lower your voice. “And to answer your question: bandages. Wound firmly around the chest – it flattens things.”

“Oh.” His brows lift as he nods slowly. “I see.”

As noon approaches, you prepare to attend to Baelor’s midday meal. You fill a pitcher with the wine the steward told you is Baelor’s favourite, set it aside, and begin readying napkins and collecting the food. Once everything is arranged neatly on the tray, you carry it upstairs.

The Hand’s chambers are bright with afternoon sun when you enter, the air warmer than it was that morning.

You lay out Baelor’s meal and goblet as he approaches the table, then fill the cup with wine before stepping back. He gives a small nod of acknowledgement and sits, taking a mouthful of food. He lifts the goblet for a sip, but stops, eyes scrunching. Your breath catches as he tilts the goblet and lets the mouthful fall back in.

He clears his throat. “This is not the correct wine.”

“My apologies, your grace.” You step forward, cheeks warming, and lift the goblet to your nose. The scent is sharp and sour. “I was certain I chose the right cask… clearly I was mistaken. I will replace it at once.”

You gather the goblet and the pitcher and hurry out of the chambers. How could this have happened? You double-checked everything, made sure you took from the proper cask.

You return to the cellar, empty and clean the goblet and pitcher, and start again – this time making absolutely certain the pitcher is filled from the correct barrel – before climbing back to the tower.

Baelor has nearly finished his meal when you return, but you quietly set the goblet at his place and fill it. He takes a sip and nods.

“That’s better.”

“I’m sorry for before, your grace.”

“It’s alright. Mistakes happen.”

Even though his reaction to the mistake hasn’t been harsh in the slightest, you still feel a quiet shame that it happened at all.

~

The following morning, you serve the prince his breakfast. He’s dressed in the same gambeson you mended some weeks ago, clearly meaning to train after his meal.

You stand by with the water pitcher, refilling his goblet when needed, before he leaves his chambers to head toward the training yard.

After dropping the dishes downstairs, you find yourself with some time before the midday meal, so you decide to see the training for yourself. A guard points you in the right direction, and you follow the path until you reach a balcony overlooking the courtyard below.

The ground is unpaved, a mixture of packed dirt and gravel, with clumps of straw littered about – likely shed from the practice dummies scattered around the yard. Archery targets line the far walls. Weapons racks crowd the nearest side, filled with swords, axes, maces, spears, shields, and another row holding shortbows and arrows.

In the middle of the yard stand Prince Baelor, Ser Duncan, and a young bald-headed boy you’ve never seen before. They all wear simple breastplates over their gambesons – Baelor and the boy’s made of black linen, Ser Duncan’s in grey. The boy lingers beside Ser Duncan, listening intently as Baelor instructs them both.

The prince’s voice rises to the balcony, and though you cannot make out all the words, you recognise his tone as commanding, but encouraging. Ser Duncan hangs on every word, his posture eager and earnest, looking upon Baelor as if he were a beacon of wisdom.

When the lesson ends, they arm themselves from the racks and begin to spar. Duncan and the boy take up wooden swords while Baelor watches from the side, offering corrections with a calm gesture or by demonstrating the proper technique himself.

You rest your hands on the battlements, leaning just far enough forward to see clearly. Your gaze keeps returning to Baelor – how he stands, how he moves, how his presence commands without force. Sunlight glints across his breastplate, and the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead catch the light as he wipes his brow between instructions. His voice remains steady, patient, and authoritative without ever being harsh.

A faint clutch stirs in your chest. You realise you’ve never seen him like this before – not as a prince in council, nor as a quiet figure over his letters, but as a warrior and a teacher.

Down below, the boy adjusts his stance and happens to glance up. His eyes land on you. He nudges Ser Duncan and murmurs something, nodding toward your position. Ser Duncan looks up as well.

You freeze. Then, stiffly, you lift a hand in greeting.

He returns it as you step back from the edge, trying to look as though you were simply passing by, and not lingering there for several minutes watching the prince train.

Having no other duties to attend to at the moment, you decide to be useful – or at least helpful – and make your way to the kitchens. There, you gather a pitcher of water, another of cider, and three cups. Balancing them carefully on a tray, you head back toward the training yard.

You linger on the balcony just out of sight until they begin packing up. Once Baelor dismisses the exercise, you descend the stairs and cross the courtyard, setting the tray on a wooden bench. Baelor notices you as you turn.

“I brought something to drink for the three of you, your grace.”

Duncan and the boy look over when they hear you speak, quickly putting their weapons away before approaching.

“I brought water and cider,” you explain. “I thought it might be more refreshing than wine.”

“His ought to be watered down,” Duncan says, nodding toward the boy.

“This is my nephew, Aegon,” Baelor adds.

“Pleased to meet you, your grace,” you say with a curtsy.

“Pleased to meet you too!” he replies brightly, giving a small bow. “Though you can call me Egg – everyone does.”

You begin pouring the drinks – cider for Baelor and Duncan, half a cup of cider for the boy before topping it with water. They each take cups from you gratefully, drinking long and eager draughts.

“Are you my uncle’s new cupbearer?” Egg asks. “The one who used to dress as a man?”

“Egg.” Baelor’s tone is warning.

“That’s me,” you admit, managing a wry smile. “But such deception is wrong, and I strongly advise against it.”

“You look nothing like a man now. Don’t you agree, Ser Duncan?” Egg turns to his towering companion. “She looks very much like a pretty lady.” He raises his brows expectantly.

“Yes, she does,” Duncan says automatically. “I mean no – I mean – she’s… properly dressed.” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I ought to give you a clout in the ear,” he mutters at the boy.

You glance toward Baelor just in time to catch the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth before he hides it behind another sip. Egg looks between Duncan and Baelor with a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying himself.

“Thank you,” Baelor says, returning his now-empty cup to the tray. “That was thoughtful of you.”

Duncan murmurs his thanks next, followed by an enthusiastic one from Egg as they hand back their cups.

“You’re welcome,” you reply. “The day is warm, and you were training hard.”

You return the dishes to the kitchens, your thoughts drifting back to how Baelor suffered headaches after training when you served him before. With that in mind, you hurry to your room to fetch your small pouch of willow bark, then prepare for his midday meal. You add a pot of hot water to the tray, just in case.

When you return, Baelor is at his desk, now changed into his regular attire. You set out the meal and goblet on the table, placing the steaming pot of water to the side.

Baelor rises and comes over, settling into his seat with a weary exhale. You pour his wine and step back. He begins eating, though his gaze soon drifts toward the pot.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“I brought hot water to make tea, in case you had a headache, your grace.”

A faint curl touches the corner of his mouth. “How did you know?”

“I remembered training seemed to trigger them, your grace.”

“You are extremely diligent in your duties,” he says. “I would even go so far as to say you go beyond them.”

Your stomach drops – you’ve overstepped. “My apologies, your grace. I meant no offence.”

“I meant it as a compliment.” He meets your eyes and leans back slightly. “You have a keen sense for the needs of others,” he says softly. “Even before they are spoken.”

You blink, warmth and nerves tugging at your insides in equal measure. “Thank you, your grace. I try to be attentive.”

His smile deepens almost imperceptibly. “And you are correct – I am in need of some willow bark tea.”

You allow yourself a small smile of your own as you draw the pouch from your pocket and add a pinch of bark to the hot water.

~

After serving at the council meeting the following day, you head downstairs to prepare Baelor’s midday meal, then carry the tray back up the seemingly endless tower stairs. Your calves burn by the time you reach his door, and you pause a moment to catch your breath before entering.

Inside, you set out the meal and fill his goblet as he approaches – by now a familiar rhythm between you. He nods his thanks and lifts the cup to his lips. After the first sip, an odd look flickers across his face, and he turns to you.

“Did you add water to the wine?”

“No, your grace.” You step forward slightly. “Is something wrong with it?”

“It tastes weak,” he says.

“I’m sorry, your grace. I’m not sure what happened. I took the wine from the same cask as always.”

“I will ask Lord Vance to visit the kitchens and determine if anything is amiss. Perhaps there has been a mix-up with the casks.”

“Would you like me to fetch something else for you to drink, your grace?”

“That won’t be necessary.” He takes another sip, his expression shifting into something almost amused. “Watered wine… it takes me back to when I was a boy,” he says, voice softening with a faintly wistful note.

You find your gaze lingering on his eyes – unusually gentle, softened by whatever memory the taste has stirred.

~

“Lord Vance checked with the kitchens,” Baelor says at suppertime as you pour his wine. “He reports everything was as it should be.”

“I must have made a mistake,” you say, the words heavy with dejection.

“Do not be so quick to blame yourself.” He meets your gaze. “Do you think someone downstairs might be causing mischief?” He takes a sip. Thankfully the wine is correct this time.

His question catches you off guard. “I… I don’t know, your grace.”

“I will get to the bottom of this,” he says firmly. “For now, taste the wine before bringing it up, just to be sure.”

“Begging your pardon, your grace, but I wouldn’t know how to tell which wine is correct. We don’t have fine drink at home.”

“Then taste this.” He nudges his goblet toward you.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a spare goblet, your grace.”

“That is no matter,” he says with a small nod toward the cup.

You know the offer is made out of simple practicality – to spare a trip downstairs – but your chest still flutters at the thought of placing your lips on the same rim that his have just touched.

You take the goblet carefully, bringing it to your lips with a tentative breath. Rich, smooth wine spreads over your tongue, warm and spiced, entirely unlike anything you’ve ever tasted. You swallow, then wipe the rim with a cloth before setting the goblet back in its place.

“What do you think?” Baelor asks, a slight smile softening his features.

“It’s very different from what I’m used to, your grace.” Your mouth curls into a shy smile. “It’s… nice.”

~

“Would you like me to bring you some wine, your grace?” you ask as you gather the breakfast things later that week.

“That would be welcome, thank you,” Baelor replies from his desk, already working through the stack of letters his attendant has just brought.

You take the tray downstairs, leaving the dishes to be washed before heading to the cellar to fill a pitcher with wine.

You step out of the cellar, turning toward the corridor, only to stumble to a halt as someone steps directly into your path.

“There she is,” Rask sneers, lip curling. “The whore who’s taken my place.”

You freeze, fingers tightening around the handle of the pitcher, before attempting to sidestep him. He moves with you, blocking your way.

“I’ve been wondering,” he says, voice low and vicious, “how some bitch who tricked the heir to the throne not only escaped punishment, but was welcomed back into his service.” His eyes rake over you with contempt. “Tell me, little whore – what exactly did you do to tempt the honourable Prince Baelor?”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” you say, keeping your voice low so as not to draw attention. “I am his grace’s cupbearer and nothing more.”

“I was his cupbearer.” His jaw clenches, eyes burning. “Now I’m serving some fucking lord nobody.”

“Perhaps if you were more pleasant, his grace would have kept you on.”

“Insolent cunt.” The word rips from him as he seizes you by the collar.

You gasp, stumbling as wine sloshes over the rim of the pitcher. His grip tightens, and for a heartbeat you fear he’ll strike you, until the sharp echo of footsteps rings down the corridor.

Rask releases you at once, stepping back. His voice drops to a venomous murmur.

“This isn’t over.”

He turns on his heel and strides away.

You draw a shaky breath, force your trembling fingers to steady on the pitcher, and walk in the opposite direction, heart hammering against your ribs.

The journey back to the Tower of the Hand feels impossibly long, the stone walls seeming to press in around you as your heart beats hard and uneven. Rask’s voice – his words, his breath, the scrape of his fingers on your collar – echo in your mind, sharp and cruel. You press your lips together, forcing the tremor from your hands as you clutch the pitcher, the wine sloshing with each hurried step.

At last, the familiar door of Baelor’s chambers comes into view. You take a steadying breath, push it open, and step inside.

Baelor sits in his solar, bent over another letter. You cross to his desk, set the goblet down with care, and pour his wine. He mutters his thanks and takes a long draught before exhaling, leaning back in his chair.

“Are you alright, your grace?” you ask softly.

“Just another headache,” he replies. “Perhaps some air would do me good.”

He scrapes his chair back and rises, but wavers almost immediately, one hand shooting out to brace against the desk.

“Your grace?” You step forward, setting the pitcher down quickly.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “I get a little dizzy sometimes – another lingering effect. I will be fine in a moment.”

A few seconds pass. Then he slowly lifts his hand from the desk and tries a step forward. His body tilts, his foot slips – and before you can think, he’s falling.

You lunge to catch him, wrapping an arm around his waist, but his weight carries you both down. Pain shoots through your knee as you hit the floor, Baelor collapsing against you, his back pressed to your chest.

“Your grace?” Your voice is high with panic as you try to shift beneath him, your arm wrapping behind his shoulders to keep him upright.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, turning his head slightly as if trying to look at you. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, your grace.” You lie. Your knee throbs from the fall, but his wellbeing matters far more.

“The room… is spinning,” he breathes heavily.

“Ser Duncan!” you call, eyes darting toward the door.

Heavy footfalls thunder a moment later, and the knight bursts into the room, frown deepening when he sees the two of you on the floor.

“Your grace!” He crosses the room and drops to his knees beside Baelor.

“He’s having a dizzy spell,” you explain quickly. “Please – will you help me move him to the bed?”

Duncan nods, sliding one arm beneath Baelor’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees. He lifts him with effortless strength. You hurry ahead to push the bedchamber door open, stepping aside as Duncan carries him through and carefully lowers him onto the mattress.

It feels strange – almost unbelievable – to see the prince so weak and vulnerable, dependent on another’s strength. A surge of protectiveness rises in your chest, mingled with an unfamiliar ache at seeing him like this, and you realise just how much you care for his wellbeing, far beyond the duties of a cupbearer.

“It will pass in a moment,” Baelor says quietly.

“It hasn’t been this bad since just after he was injured.” Duncan glances toward you, concern furrowing his brow.

“I’ll fetch a maester,” you say immediately.

“That is… not necessary,” Baelor insists.

“Begging your pardon, your grace,” Ser Duncan replies gently but firmly, “but this time it is.” He gives you a nod to go.

You guide the Grand Maester through the corridors at a swift pace, your legs trembling from tension and the rush of fear still coursing through you.

The door to the bedchamber is already open. Ser Duncan stands sentinel just inside, stepping aside at once to let the maester approach. Baelor is propped against the pillows, eyelids heavy, his complexion pale with exhaustion.

“Be still, your grace,” the Grand Maester murmurs, voice calm but authoritative. He lays the back of his wrinkled hand against Baelor’s forehead. “No fever,” he notes. Then he takes Baelor’s wrist, pressing two fingers to the inner pulse. “Steady, but weak. You must rest. Do not rise too quickly, and, for the time being, do not rise at all without someone present to steady you. Are you in any pain?”

“My head is splitting,” Baelor mumbles.

“I will give you some milk of the poppy.” The Grand Maester reaches for his satchel, rummaging for the vial.

The room feels crowded around the prince’s bed, so you step back quietly; Duncan follows suit, joining you in the solar.

“It’s a good thing you were there to catch him,” he says, voice low. “If he’d fallen properly… Seven know how badly he might have been hurt.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He hides it well, but the trial took more out of him than he ever speaks of.” His brows knit. “If it weren’t for me…”

“From how my brother tells it, you acted as any true knight should,” you say gently. “His grace understood that, and he chose your side.”

“Aye.” He exhales, shoulders sinking. “Doesn’t make it easier to see him suffer.”

The Grand Maester emerges from the bedchamber, approaching the two of you.

“The milk of the poppy will take effect shortly,” he says. “I’d rather he not be left alone in case he take a turn. He should remain under observation.”

“I will stay with him,” you reply at once.

The maester gives an approving nod. “If he develops a fever, fetch me immediately. Keep him hydrated – water mostly, though a little wine will do him no harm. He should eat as usual, though his meals will need to be taken in bed, at least for today.”