Ballad of the Archer and the Stormlord (Lyonel Baratheon x Hightower!OC) Chapter 5
— summary: Dressing as a boy is easy. Fleeing a hated marriage is doable. Not meeting the one man on the tournament grounds who sees right through you? Impossible. Lyonel Baratheon doesn't believe in coincidences. And this squire shoots too well and lies too poorly. Something about him tugs at his memory. Like an old splinter. Like a promise made long ago. He doesn't know it yet — but the gods hear promises. And now they intend to collect.
— pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x Hightower!oc
— content: M — eventual romance / slow burn — mutual pining — cross-dressing — hidden identity — memory loss trope — strangers to lovers — childhood friends (they don't know it yet) — protective!Lyonel — mentions of forced marriage — angst with a happy ending — fluff & humor — mild hurt/comfort — suggestive themes — tournament arc — age difference (19/33) — eventual smut — part 5/10 (tentative)
english is not my first language ♡
Berenece breathed in the cool night air deeply. Cassian’s words had stung. Perhaps it was all truly too foolish; perhaps she ought not to have stuck her neck out, playing the dull, ignorant boy. It would certainly have been easier. She would have drawn no attention, and that, in truth, would have been the wise course. Yet the very thought of appearing a fool – an idiot – in Lyonel Baratheon’s eyes made her sick to her stomach. Her mother had always said her pride was both her best and her worst quality. In that, she had been right.
And her father always spoke of curiosity – the trait that had killed more than one cat. A trait Berenece possessed in abundance. So when she heard the music from the pavilion grow louder, accompanied by a rhythmic stomping, she could not help herself. It seemed the dancing had begun inside. She could not resist and peered back in.
Inside, all had changed. Two musicians – one with a lute, the other with a pipe – struck up something fast and lively, and the tent buzzed as the dancing began. Lords and their ladies spun about; some gracefully, some clumsily from too much wine, but all with equal abandon. The air smelled of wine, sweat, and something strange, something absent from the stiff, tedious feasts of castles. There was a mood of celebration here, the kind that only graced those special nights when time itself seemed to lose count.
And then, in the centre, Berenece saw them.
Lyonel and that giant, Dunk. The very same who had helped her with the buckets earlier. They were not dancing like the others. They were fighting.
Lyonel charged at Dunk, stamping on his foot – not by accident, but on purpose, a challenge impossible to miss. Dunk grunted but did not fall. He sprang back, and a glint of something like excitement appeared in his eyes. Lyonel laughed, loud and drunkenly, then lunged again. A strange comparison came to mind. Once, on a hunt, Berenece had seen stags clash with their rivals, antlers locked, shoving each other aside in a fierce contest for dominance of the herd. A smile touched her lips. Lyonel Baratheon, in that moment, was the living emblem of his house.
They circled, collided, and broke apart. Lyonel was quick as a spark, Dunk solid as a cliff, but both moved to the music, and it was all like a game – dangerous, beautiful, almost wild. Lyonel would feint and retreat, taunting his opponent with his lightness, while Dunk, seemingly huge and slow, would suddenly appear where he was least expected and press his own attack. They crashed shoulders, and their laughter rang out like shattering glass.
Berenece could not move, watching greedily as something hot began to kindle inside her.
She saw the crowd part around them, saw someone clapping in time, saw everyone’s eyes fixed on this strange, furious dance. She saw Lyonel throw back his head, the lamplight falling on his face and dishevelled hair, on his laughing eyes and wild smile. Something inside her trembled, as if someone had touched a string she had never known she possessed.
Her cheeks began to burn as her gaze traced his shoulders and arms. She was mesmerized by the way he moved – free, fearless, as if the whole world belonged to him – and thoughts she should not have began to creep into her mind.
Berenece slipped back out into the cool air and walked swiftly towards her own tent. Her cheeks still blazed, her breath came unevenly. She had hoped the night air would quell that burning wave coursing through her veins. It did not. Nothing helped. The image of that dance was still seared before her eyes.
It did not fade even when she wrapped herself in her blanket on her humble cot. Not even when she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of other things.
Damn Lyonel Baratheon refused to leave her thoughts, even when she finally fell asleep. And in her dreams, he smiled at her.
By morning, as the sun began to gild the tops of the pavilions, Berenece had already watered the horses and shaken the fatigue from her hands. She was growing used to the work, and Hobber, seeing her hovering, gave her an hour to wander. She smiled at him gratefully, barely stopping herself from the foolish urge to peck the gruff but kind old stablemaster on the cheek. He reminded her of her old Lieutenant Torron.
Perhaps it was those thoughts that led her feet to the archery range she had noticed earlier.
The field, enclosed by a low wattle fence, lay apart from the nobles’ pavilions. Behind it, about a dozen men – younger lords or sons of noble houses, judging by their clothes – were practising with their bows. Targets of straw and plank were set at thirty, forty, and fifty paces.
Berenece leaned on the fence, unable to look away. How she had missed the bow. The familiar, comforting weight in her hands, the string settling against her fingertips.
“Hey, lad!” called one of them, a grey-haired man with a weathered, wrinkled face. “What are you gawking at?”
“Watching,” Berenece replied, stepping closer.
“Watching ain’t shooting,” the grey-haired man grinned. “Come on, give it a try. Or are you afraid?”
Berenece meant to refuse, for caution’s sake, but her hands reached for the bow of their own accord, unable to resist the temptation. No one would know, would they? Just once. She took the offered bow. It was rough, ill-fitted, with a stiff string. She weighed it in her hand.
“Not mine,” she sighed, and the grey-haired man chuckled.
“Well, show us what you can do first, then complain.”
Berenece grinned, accepting the challenge. She set her stance, drew the string, and loosed.
The arrow struck the target just above centre, splitting the straw.
The men exchanged glances.
“Well, now,” the grey-haired man grunted. “Again.”
Berenece repeated the shot, this time accounting for the bow’s quirks, and the arrow landed square in the bullseye. She smiled with satisfaction.
“Well, I’ll be…” the grey-haired man shook his head. “Where’d you learn that?”
“I serve Lord Cassian. I’ve tried it a few times.”
“A few times?” another man snorted. “You don’t learn to shoot like that in a few tries.”
Berenece shrugged, hiding a smile. It felt good. For the first time, she was in her element, where she didn’t have to hide the thing she loved most.
“A Hightower man, then,” the grey-haired man nodded, explaining: “They have good archers in Oldtown.”
Just then, another man approached the fence, evidently having watched the display. Stocky, with a rich baldric at his belt – clearly no commoner.
“Listen, lad. If you ever tire of serving your lord, come to me. I’m always in need of good archers.”
Berenece’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“You’re not joking, my lord?”
“Why would I?” he grinned. “Talent is needed everywhere. Remember the name – Lord Oakheart. Find me in the camp if you change your mind.”
Berenece nodded, feeling a strange, intoxicating surge of pride. She had been noticed. Appreciated. It was, she discovered, exhilarating. A thought flashed through her mind: if she did have to flee, at least it wouldn’t be into the void. The semblance of a plan gave her a flicker of inner confidence. Whatever happened, she would manage.
She stepped aside, turning the new thought over in her mind, but she did not leave the range. She allowed herself to watch the men shoot, argue, laugh. There was something peaceful about it. Then a snatch of conversation broke through her thoughts, and Berenece pricked up her ears at one word. Targaryen.
“Did you hear the Targaryens have arrived?” one of the archers said. His voice was not very clear, so Berenece, feigning interest in her target, edged closer.
“And what of it?” another replied, taking aim. “They have no dragons. Only a name remains.”
“And a disputed one at that,” a third snorted. “After the Blackfyre rebellion, who can tell who’s who?”
“What’s there to say?” the first waved a hand. “Daemon Blackfyre was no mere bastard. I’ve heard he might have been the true heir. Aegon the Unworthy has only himself to blame for siring so many bastards.”
“I don’t give a damn who sits their arse on the Iron Throne, so long as there’s peace,” the grey-haired archer who had let Berenece shoot shook his head. “But many houses still haven’t recovered from that damned war.”
“Shouldn’t have hedged their bets then, running back and forth like headless chickens. Those who backed both sides are properly fucked, like the Ha…” The archer stopped mid-word as his companion suddenly tugged his sleeve, nodding towards Berenece, who was doing her best to stare fixedly at the other shooters.
“Enough chatter. Won’t change anything.”
The grey-haired man glanced at her, frowned, and moved off with the others to another target. Berenece watched them go, then walked away from the range, which had suddenly grown uncomfortable. A thought was already spinning in her head: Why did they fall silent when they saw me? She knew little of the rebellion. At home, they were silent about it, as if under a vow. Her father frowned whenever those years were mentioned and swiftly changed the subject. Cassian, too, disliked speaking of it. Berenece had always felt something lay behind that silence, but she had never asked.
Perhaps she should have. Perhaps it was time.
Berenece sighed and trudged back towards the tents. She had to return to her duties – Hobber had given her only an hour, and she didn’t want to let the old man down. And by day’s end, she was to see Cassian; he had asked her to tend to his sword, which awaited cleaning.
Evening descended upon the camp like a heavy velvet cloak as Berenece settled in Cassian’s pavilion with his sword across her knees. For the first time since the long journey began, she felt almost at home, curled up on warm furs with her legs tucked beneath her. There was no need to hurry, no need to hide or pretend. The weapon smelled of iron and road dust, and she ran the oiled cloth along the blade in a slow, almost meditative rhythm, scouring away every speck of dirt, watching the flickering candlelight play along the steel.
Cassian sat at his folding table, bent over his parchments, occasionally sipping spiced wine from his cup. Berenece had thought to ask for a sip, just out of mischief, to see his reaction. But he sighed with such world-weary exhaustion – still unable to shake the recent incident in Baratheon’s pavilion, it seemed – that she abandoned the jest. The tent was quiet and peaceful, like a ship’s hold becalmed before a storm. Somewhere deep inside, Berenece sensed the storm’s approach, as if clouds were gathering above her head. She shivered and continued polishing the blade.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Cassian remarked, not looking up.
“I think I’m beginning to appreciate peace and quiet,” Berenece replied, running the cloth along the edge.
“About time,” Cassian snorted.
From outside came the song of night birds, and Berenece paused to listen. She had never heard such sounds in Oldtown. The lords’ chambers were high in the Hightower, beyond the reach of nature’s chorus – the chirping of crickets, the fluting of nightingales, the rustle of leaves. The storms, however, more than compensated. Their sounds were far clearer from that height, especially the thunder. It sometimes crashed so loud it shook the very walls, leaving echoes in the ears for long after. And the rain hammered the windows so fiercely it seemed to try to smash every pane, bursting into that colossal structure that seemed not to belong there. Berenece loved storms. Sometimes she would throw open the windows of her chambers, letting the rain rush in, feeling her heart pound in her chest like a trapped bird at each crooked, witch-fingered flash of lightning. She doubted she would ever feel that again.
“Cass,” she called to him. “Did you speak with Father? About the marriage?”
Cassian slowly set down his quill and rubbed the bridge of his nose – a gesture she had known since childhood. He always did it when a difficult conversation loomed.
“Joel came to see Father. I was present.”
“Joel insists. He’s polite, proper, plays the romantic hero – claims he’s loved you since childhood. The bastard…” The words sounded laced with poison, and Cassian’s jaw muscles worked. Berenece raised an eyebrow slightly. Her brother rarely cursed in her presence. “But Father… he’s stalling. He won’t say yes or no. He says he needs to think, that marriage is a serious matter.”
“Do you think he doesn’t want this marriage?” A timid hope kindled in Berenece’s chest.
Cassian sighed again, as if searching for the right words, and Berenece felt a strange sensation she could not yet name.
“I spoke with him. He knows the rumours, what Joel is capable of. Father doesn’t want that fate for you. But there are circumstances that leave him little choice. Circumstances that compel him to act this way, and we are trying to find a solution, Reni.”
Finally, the strange sensation took shape. Cass was hiding something. For the first time in her life, he was not telling her everything, deliberately withholding. It stung like a painful splinter in her heart. She had always believed their relationship was built on absolute trust; he was the only one she could tell everything, and she had thought he felt the same.
“Cassian, you’re hiding something from me. I’m not a fool,” she said, and with the hurt came anger. This concerned her directly!
“Reni, I…” Cass looked utterly helpless, as if the very conversation pained him. Berenece thought he was about to tell her, but just then the tent flap was pushed aside and Lyonel Baratheon stepped inside.
Berenece flinched in fright, immediately returning her attention to the sword, pretending with all her might that she was not there, that she was as much a part of the furnishings as the writing desk. It was unlikely he had heard their conversation, but the thought clung stubbornly. Cassian, for his part, assumed an air of nonchalance as easily as if he practised it daily.
She could not help but steal a glance at the Baratheon from under her lashes. He was without a cloak, dressed in a simple dark tunic, looking like a great beast of prey. His movements seemed lazy, but behind that studied languor she sensed a coiled spring, ready to uncoil at any moment. He took a cup from the tray, poured himself some wine without asking permission, and sat on the bench opposite Cassian.
“I’ve been thinking about your request,” he said, taking a sip of wine and leaning back.
“And?” Cassian stared at him directly.
“I can help, but I need time. And I need to… find out a few things.”
“I’ll tell you when I know.” Lyonel smiled his particular smile, which, in Berenece’s opinion, boded nothing good. “Do you trust me?”
Cassian was silent for a moment, nervously twisting a quill between his fingers, but then he nodded.
“Then wait. In the meantime, you can write to Lord Redwyne about…”
Berenece had been listening intently, so she could not help but jump when the tent flap was thrown open once more. This time it was the son of some minor lord.
“Lord Cassian, Lord Hightower summons you!”
Cassian nodded, rose, drained his cup in one gulp, and nodded to Lyonel.
“I don’t know how long this will take…”
“I’ll finish your wine and write the instructions for the letter. I won’t wait, forgive me,” Lyonel interrupted, a shadow of a smile flickering at the corners of his lips.
Cassian snorted, shook his head, and left the tent, throwing a worried glance at Berenece before he went. The flap fell, cutting off the outside noise. The tent held only candles, wine, the steel on Berenece’s lap, and Lyonel. She could not say whether she was glad of the latter. He stirred in her a confusing mix of apprehension, interest, and something else she could not name, having never felt anything like it before. Something spicy, like the wine he drank.
Lyonel was silent for several long moments, studying her. The silence was thick, almost tangible. Berenece felt his gaze on the top of her head. Not heavy, but sharp, like a blade. Attentive. Too attentive. She continued cleaning the sword, trying not to show her agitation.
“What village are you from, sparrow?” he asked casually, sipping his wine.
She froze for a heartbeat, feeling her own skip. To think longer than a second would be suspicious, so she named the first that came to mind.
“Near the Honeywine, my lord. By the old oaks.”
“Ah, I know it,” Lyonel nodded. “There’s a mill there, isn’t there? An old one, with a collapsed roof?”
Berenece’s insides turned to ice. She had no idea if there was a mill there. She had never been there. All she could do was hope the question held no trap, was merely idle curiosity. How foolish to hope so, but she had no choice.
“Yes, my lord,” she said, willing her voice not to waver. “That very one.”
Lyonel held her with a long look, his intentions unreadable. Then he smirked and looked away.
“A pity it burned,” he said. “It was a beautiful place.”
Berenece exhaled, but too soon.
“And you, sparrow,” he continued, not looking at her, “have you ever held a sword for any purpose other than cleaning?”
For a moment, Berenece wanted to impale herself on the very blade she held, just to escape these questions that made her heart try to leap from her chest. Though perhaps she wouldn’t need to kill herself. A few more questions, and her heart might simply burst, solving all her problems.
“I have, my lord. Lord Cassian teaches me.”
She had heard her brother taught his squires weapons handling, so the answer should be correct. Damn it all, she had never thought she would need to know all this.
“Teaches you, does he.” He nodded, and in his voice she heard a lazy thoughtfulness that was more frightening than any shout or open suspicion. “You can shoot a bow too, I suppose?”
Berenece’s fingers, carefully guiding the cloth along the blade, trembled. Only for an instant, but it was enough. She felt the steel slip beneath her hand and just managed to stop it from cutting her. Too precise a shot in the dark. He was not merely making conversation. He was searching. Probing for a crack in her legend, a small fissure into which he could insert a claw and begin to pry.
“A little,” she said, straining to keep her voice steady. “The village boys would shoot sometimes. I watched.”
“Watched,” Lyonel repeated, and Berenece heard curiosity in his voice, as sharp as the sword she was cleaning. “And practised, no doubt. In secret. At night, when no one was looking.”
It was not a question. It was a statement.
“Occasionally, my lord,” Berenece answered, finding the strength to meet his eyes. “Village boys have nowhere and no time to learn openly.”
“That is true,” he agreed.
He fell silent, and Berenece felt him studying her. Not her face, not her clothes. Something else, hidden within. She shivered. Lyonel set down his cup and rose from the bench. For a moment she thought he would leave, and she was flooded with relief, inexplicably mixed with a sudden, sharp disappointment. But he did not leave. He came closer, crouching down before her. Then his gaze fell on her hands, and he gave a short, almost soundless chuckle.
“Let me see,” he said, reaching out his hand.
Berenece frowned slightly. Why did he want that? She began to lift the sword from her lap to hand it to him, but he silently intercepted her hand, raising it to the light. The sword, forgotten, thudded softly back onto her knees. And Berenece froze. Her hand was in his – large, warm, with long fingers more accustomed to a sword hilt than anything fragile. In that instant, she felt it. Heat. Not mere warmth, but a living, pulsing fire that raced from his palms up her arms, flooded her chest, and sank lower, coiling into a tight knot in her belly. She had never felt anything like it. Of course, she had been touched before – by her mother, by Thea, by Cassian’s embraces. But never like this. Never like that.
He turned her hands to the light, and the candles illuminated every line, every callus, every unevenness. Berenece was afraid to breathe, as if any sigh might betray the storm within. She felt her heart hammering, the blood rushing to her cheeks, and prayed it would not be noticed in the dimness.
“Village lads who’ve hauled buckets and mucked out stables since childhood have different hands,” he said softly, thoughtfully. “Rough. Short fingers. Knuckles scraped raw, calluses on the palms – where the rope burns.”
He ran his thumb across her palm, indicating where the expected calluses were missing, and Berenece felt a shiver run down her spine – not from fear, but from something else, something that refused to be contained by reason.
“But you, sparrow,” he continued, as calmly as if discussing the weather, “have long, slender fingers. And calluses on the pads. Where the bowstring rests. And on your middle finger – right here,” he touched her finger lightly, and Berenece felt the small gesture burn her, leaving a mark she suspected would never fade, “a callus from a quill. From writing. Long and diligent writing.”
He released her hands, and Berenece let them fall helplessly to her lap, feeling them tremble. The heat still pulsed within her, and her palms burned where he had touched her. She felt sure he must hear the frantic drumming of her heart, so loud it seemed to echo in the silent tent.
“That village you come from must have had its own maester, and no shortage of paper and quills.”
He picked up his cup, took a drink, and in the quiet of the tent the sound seemed deafening to Berenece. She could not tear her eyes from him, her fingers clenching the wretched cloth. Her and Cassian’s plan had suffered its first crack. But how could they have anticipated that Lyonel Baratheon would wish to examine her hands and find inconsistencies? It was ridiculously unexpected. And despite her vexation, Berenece felt a sudden prick of… respect? He was clever. Attentive. Perceptive.
“You are not afraid of me,” he said. It was not a question. A statement, uttered with a slight, almost imperceptible surprise.
Berenece considered. She probably should be, considering he had just questioned her status, her origins, her entire legend. That he suspected her, the gods only knew of what. She could only hope his suspicions touched only the fringes. But was she afraid?
“No, my lord,” Berenece answered honestly, meeting his gaze. And then, feeling the words slip out unbidden, she added: “Should I be?”
She would have liked to know. A small worm of anxiety wriggled in her chest. If he learned the truth, would he hand her over to her father? Or would he not?
“Probably not,” he said after a moment, and the anxiety receded. “But you are too bold with your words, sparrow.”
It sounded almost like advice, or a warning. Berenece paused for a heartbeat, then shrugged.
“I only speak my mind, my lord. It is not boldness; it is habit.”
“A dangerous habit,” Lyonel observed.
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But lies require memory. The truth takes only a moment.”
He raised his eyes, and something new flickered in them. Not mockery, not curiosity, but something akin to approval.
“You are no ordinary squire – that is your only lie,” he said quietly, and she felt time stop. “And I will discover why.”
Lyonel set down his cup, rose, and left the tent without a word of farewell. Berenece exhaled, feeling as though a great weight had fallen from her shoulders. She looked at her hands. They were trembling. Slightly, annoyingly, uncontrollably. But deep inside, the heat still smouldered – slow, thick, and very dangerous. She remembered his fingers on her palms, his voice – low, insinuating – and the heat coiled again in her belly. She stared and thought how alike fear and desire could be. And how impossible it was to be rid of either.
Cassian returned just as Berenece finally managed to still the tremor in her hands and master the heat. But her brother knew her too well. His sharp gaze immediately saw the confusion and worry in her eyes. He narrowed his own, staring intently.
Berenece cleared her throat, trying to restore her voice.
“Lyonel suspects I am not a squire. It seems my hands do not fit the part,” she answered, not meeting his eyes.
“That is bad. If he starts digging…”
“He has already started,” Berenece interrupted, remembering his words all too clearly.
“Then we must be more careful. You must be seen less often.”
“As if that would help. He is stubborn and curious.” She snorted. “Perhaps it would not be so bad if he found out.”
“Look at yourself. You are ready to lose your head over him.”
Cassian’s voice was unexpectedly sharp and irritated. Berenece jerked her head up as if he had struck her, staring at her brother in bewilderment.
“What do you mean by that?”
“That to him, you are merely a riddle. Interesting, amusing. But when he discovers who you are and why you are here, his curiosity will fade. And you will be left with a broken heart.”
“What makes you so certain I would have a broken heart?” Berenece asked, her voice suddenly betraying a tremor.
“I am not blind. I saw the way you looked at him in the tent, when he danced with Dunk,” Cassian said, clearly working himself up. Berenece had never seen him like this. “You stood at the entrance and stared like you’d seen a ghost. I thought you were about to faint.”
Berenece pressed her lips into a thin line, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks against her will.
“That’s not true! It was just… it was unusual.”
“Unusual,” Cassian mocked. “You blushed. I saw it.”
“Why? Does the truth hurt?”
“You know nothing,” Berenece snapped, setting the sword aside.
“I know enough of what I see. And I see you looking at him as if he were your last hope. As if you were in love with him.” Each word cut into her like a sharp blade.
She exhaled sharply, expelling all the air from her lungs, her eyes locked on Cassian.
“You have no idea what I feel.”
He laughed, and Berenece heard the mockery in it. That laugh pierced her heart like an arrow. She had never seen Cassian like this, never knew he could be so cruel.
“Do you even understand what is happening to you?” he asked, and she flinched at how hard, almost brutal, his voice had become. “You have known him but a few days, and you are ready to throw your life at his feet? Or perhaps you think he will marry you, if he learns the truth?”
Berenece recoiled, feeling something turn over inside her, leaving a bitter residue of hurt.
“What makes you say that?” she burst out, then added with venom: “Am I so unworthy, then, that even your friend would not want to marry me?”
She spoke the words and immediately knew how pathetic they sounded. The foolish, naive words hung in the air, as if she were a little girl again, believing in fairy tales and asking her brother why this particular story could not have a happy ending. Worse was the look she saw in Cassian’s eyes – not irritation, but pity. Quiet, bitter pity. She was furious with herself for uttering such nonsense. Furious with Cassian for making her feel so wrong, so unwanted, so out of place.
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for Cassian’s voice became quieter, though no softer.
“There is nothing wrong with you, Berenece, do not be foolish,” he said. “I simply know him far better than you do. Lyonel is not the marrying kind, believe me. For years he has spoken of some promise he made to a girl. Perhaps she does not even exist – empty words to put off a wedding. And even if he does decide to marry, it will be to someone who brings advantage to his house. And that is certainly not House Hightower, given our current situation.”
Berenece froze, staring at her brother with narrowed eyes. He clearly regretted the last words; he had let something slip. And if an hour ago she might have let the matter drop, trusting him, she was now too angry to let it pass.
“And what is our current situation?” Berenece asked, her voice colder than the deadliest winter beyond the Wall.
“Cassian,” her voice grew harder. “You had better tell me everything now, believe me.”
Something in her face must have convinced him she was serious. He was silent for a moment, then exhaled reluctantly.
“Father has troubles. After the Blackfyre rebellion, our house lost much. Too much. And your marriage to Lannister is not merely a whim. It is… a necessity.”
Berenece stared at him, feeling the chill spread within her. The archers’ conversation suddenly became crystal clear. Of course. A Hightower boy was not supposed to hear other lords discussing their dire straits. Seven save them, how bad was it? How many more secrets did she not know?
“You knew?” she asked quietly. “You knew and said nothing?”
“I did not want to frighten you.”
“Frighten me?” Berenece’s voice rose involuntarily. “You lie to me, Cass. You demand that I be careful, that I not reveal the truth, yet you hide the fact that our family is on the brink?”
“Not on the brink,” he protested. “But close. Father is seeking a way out. He is stalling with Lannister because…”
“Because he does not want to give me to him?” Berenece interrupted, her voice dripping venom. “Or because he hopes for a better offer?”
Cassian did not answer. That was worse than any words.
“You have no right,” Berenece said, her voice trembling with barely suppressed anger and hurt. “You have no right to demand the truth about my ‘feelings’ when you hide such things from me.”
“I only want to protect you!” Cassian burst out, trying to step closer, but Berenece raised her hands, stopping him.
“I do not want to be protected!” she almost shouted. “I want you to speak to me as an equal. To trust me. Not to hide the truth and then reproach me for doing something wrong!”
“You do,” Berenece cut him off. “I heard you, Cassian. I will be more careful. But I am not a child playing at grown-up life. And when it comes to my own fate, allow me to have some say.”
Cassian clenched his jaw, exhaling noisily. Berenece stood, feeling her knees tremble.
“Not now, Cass. Just give me time.”
Berenece left the tent without looking back.
She needed to be alone. Right now. She felt she would suffocate if she did not find somewhere to be by herself. After her conversation with Cassian, everything inside her seethed: hurt, anger, shame at her own words and her pathetic, naive desires. But what stung most, unexpectedly, was the way Cassian had looked at her. Her brother, who had always been on her side, no matter what, had looked at her as if she were merely a silly little girl who did not understand the mess she had gotten herself into. And the worst of it was that he was right. She truly did not understand.
The moon hung in the sky like a silver coin tossed by some god. Berenece could barely wait until the campfires had died and the squire boys were asleep. Only then could she slip away, making her way to the bend where the river formed a quiet pool. There, behind the bushes of old alder and under the shade of a willow, no one ever walked.
The Winding River. A tributary of the great and majestic Mander. A few days ago, Berenece had asked Hobber why it was called that, and he, as grumpily as ever, had explained that the locals were superstitious. The water in this river seemed alive: it shimmered every night, even when moonless, and there were legends of ancient spirits dwelling within, who dragged the unwary down into the depths.
Berenece had giggled at that, watching Hobber’s expression of lofty disdain for such foolishness.
That same evening, she heard another legend. By the campfire where the weary servants had gathered, a grey-bearded bard appeared, singing a ballad of the Winding River.
“Who bathes in it at the midnight hour,” the bard sang, striking the strings of his psaltery, “shall see upon the water not their own reflection, but another’s – the face of the one destined for them. And they shall be happy in love. If they see nothing, then the hour has not yet come.”
The bard was sipping from his flask and, in Berenece’s opinion, was far drunker than propriety allowed. She did not believe him. Not entirely. The sparks from the fire flew so beautifully into the velvet night, and the words settled so romantically in her mind, that she could not shake the desire to try. Yesterday, she had only wanted to slip away to wash and indulge in the romance of the legend; but today, it had acquired a new meaning.
The water proved warm and gentle as warm milk. Berenece undressed to a thin linen shift, which clung to her like a second skin as soon as she entered. The quiet pool, hidden from prying eyes by the bushy alder branches, offered the longed-for solitude. After the noise and clamour of the tournament camp, it was a true blessing. Berenece exhaled, feeling the water wash away her sweat, her grime, her fears and anxieties, carrying them off in the current. All but one. But that she could bear. She closed her eyes and sank completely beneath the surface.
Her hair, immediately beginning to curl in the damp, floated around her like a halo of seaweed. Berenece ran her fingers through it, surprised at how fast it had grown. At home in Oldtown, Thea would braid it, arrange it in elaborate styles, sprinkle it with oils. So many actions just to leave her room, conforming to propriety. Here, she simply washed off the dirt and already felt like a human being.
She floated on her back, drifting on the surface, gazing at the sky. The stars trembled, reflected in the water, and she seemed to be swimming among them, soaring. Berenece smiled. She thought how good it would be to linger in this moment a while longer. There was no lie here, no fear, no recriminations from Cassian, no tomorrow bringing new trials.
Startled, Berenece curled up, pulling her knees to her chest, pressing her back against a stone by the bank. Her heart began to pound somewhere in her throat. Damn it, she was not sure what irritated her more: that someone might see her, or that her first proper rest had been so rudely interrupted.
A man stepped onto the bank. The moon emerged from behind a cloud, illuminating a tall figure, and Berenece recognized Lyonel. She gasped in surprise, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth and pressing herself into the stone as if trying to meld with it. Her heart, which had just begun to calm, galloped off again. Anyone but him.
But Lyonel did not see her; the darkness hid her secluded spot well. He stood on a rock, gazing at the water, and then, slowly, pulled his shirt over his head.
Her cheeks flushed hot. She squeezed her eyes shut instinctively, but only for a moment. Then she opened them again, unable to control her curiosity. Berenece watched him, thinking she had never seen a man unclothed so close before. The moon silvered his shoulders, traced the contours of his muscles, hid in the shadows beneath his collarbones. Broad shoulders, strong arms, taut muscles shifting beneath his skin with every movement. And a scar, suddenly catching her eye. Long, pale, crossing his left side from ribs to waist. Berenece wondered how many battles he had survived. How many times he had looked death in the face to earn such a mark.
He stepped into the river, still unaware of her presence – which, she hoped, would remain so. The water closed around his thighs, and he sighed, deep and satisfied. Then he ducked beneath the surface, disappearing for a few seconds, and when he emerged, he was unexpectedly close.
“Warm,” he said quietly, and his voice carried across the water.
Berenece held her breath, unable to tear her eyes from him. Lyonel waded a little further; the water reached his waist. He stopped, gazing at the moon. His wet hair fell across his forehead, and he pushed it back with a careless, tired gesture that inexplicably made Berenece feel warm. Droplets of water ran down his neck, gathered in the hollow above his collarbone, and fell, disappearing on his chest. Berenece made every effort to force herself to look higher.
“Come out,” he said suddenly. “I know you are there.”
Berenece went cold. She did not move, hoping that if she did not answer, he would simply think he had been mistaken.
“I cannot see you,” he added, without turning around. “But I can hear you breathing. It is hard to miss.”
Berenece realized hiding was useless. She straightened, but remained in the shadows, knowing full well that if she stepped into the moonlight, Lyonel would immediately recognize her face. For the same reason, she tried to change her voice. When pretending to be a squire boy, she pitched it lower; now she tried to make it higher and softer.
“You could not have heard me.”
“I could,” he grinned, turning around. The moon lit his face – sharp cheekbones, a firm jawline, eyes that seemed almost black in this light. “I am a hunter.”
He seemed more threatening than when he spoke to her as the squire Ren. Berenece swallowed, her saliva suddenly thick, feeling a touch of fear.
“Do not come closer,” she blurted.
“What if I do not obey?” he asked, but he did not move. Lyonel tilted his head slightly, and the moonlight fell on his face differently. Berenece saw his eyebrow twitch almost imperceptibly, small wrinkles gathering at the corners of his eyes. He was smirking, but there was something more than mere curiosity in that smirk. Patience. And suddenly, the fear receded.
“Then I shall have to drown you,” she answered, feeling an unexpected surge of boldness. “And I would rather not dirty my hands.”
“A sharp tongue,” he observed. “I like it.”
Irritation flooded her. Surely he said such things to every girl he met. But somehow, she wanted to believe otherwise. That desire irritated her even more. Berenece felt like a powder keg, and all of it was happening only in the presence of Lyonel Baratheon, damn him.
“I am not here to be liked.”
“To wash. And to be alone,” she deliberately emphasized the last word, hoping he would take the hint.
He understood. His chuckle left no doubt. And his next remark made Berenece roll her eyes.
“The place is public,” he shrugged. “The river belongs to no one.”
Lyonel paused, studying her silhouette with too much frankness. Berenece noticed his gaze slide over her shoulders, over her wet shift, clinging to her body and rendered almost transparent by the water. She instinctively retreated deeper into the shadows and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at Lyonel reproachfully. He did not even blink. She could have sworn nothing and no one could make him uncomfortable.
“Are you from the camp?” he broke the silence.
“My own,” she answered, too irritably for it to go unnoticed.
He raised an eyebrow. Not maliciously, but rather mockingly.
“It is all you will get, my lord.”
She saw him shake his head. Whether with annoyance or approval, she could not tell. It seemed to her that her reticence irritated him as much as his interference irritated her. It was almost amusing. Lyonel was surely used to getting answers and everything he desired, and she was giving him nothing. A pleased smile escaped her against her will. Cassian would be pleased, a treacherous thought flickered.
“Very well,” he said. “If you do not wish to speak, do not. I will wait.”
“Until you speak of your own accord.”
Berenece smiled ironically, almost defiantly, for the first time regretting that he could not see her face.
“Then you will need much patience. I am not one to open up at the first demand.”
“And I am not one to retreat,” he answered. “Well, my lady, it seems we have a long game ahead.”
They fell silent. The water lapped gently against the stones. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called, breaking the echoing silence. Sheltered by the darkness, Berenece allowed herself to look at him without fear. He seemed calm, patient, and dangerous all at once. She realized she enjoyed talking with him. Even now. Even here, where her mask must remain firmly in place. Berenece noticed he was watching her too. Intently, as if trying to discern the features of her face. She saw his jaw tighten, as if he were restraining himself.
“Do you always stare so intently?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
“Only at those who hide their faces.”
“What if I do not wish mine to be seen?”
“Then it only arouses greater curiosity, my lady.”
He spoke as if he had the right to any answer he desired. As if the whole world should reveal itself to him at the snap of his fingers. Berenece suddenly felt a desperate urge to crawl inside his soul. A small, pathetic desire to know more than her brother did, to disprove his words in her own heart.
“What is that scar from?” she asked, nodding towards his side.
Lyonel paused for a moment, then ran his hand over the old wound, as if sinking into unpleasant memories. A small, hard line appeared on the bridge of his nose, and in that moment, he suddenly seemed older to Berenece.
She was almost certain he would evade the question, leaving it unanswered. But he did not.
“It was a long time ago. In one battle. I thought I would die.”
He smiled. Ruefully, bitterly. But in that bitterness, surprisingly, there was no shame – only a calm, weary acceptance of what had happened long ago.
“No. I lost. That fight was not for life, but for honour, and I… I made a mistake. I believed too much in my own strength.”
Berenece looked at him in surprise. Every story she had heard of him was of the victor Lyonel Baratheon, the knight who never knew defeat, the indomitable. It had never occurred to her that he might not always have been that way. It was foolish, but it did nothing to quell her astonishment.
“I thought you never lost.”
Lyonel laughed softly, a gentle, slightly sad line appearing at the corner of his lips.
“I have lost. More than once. Every time I entered a duel knowing my opponent was stronger. Every time I went somewhere I should not have.”
“How did you survive defeat?”
“Like everyone. I rose, dusted myself off, and moved on. Defeats teach, sometimes more than victories. When you win, you believe everything is as it should be. But when you lose… you understand where you went wrong, where your weakness lies. And you overcome it. You try not to repeat the mistake.”
Berenece was silent, pondering his words. For knights, any defeat could be fatal; the risk followed them all their lives. Yet he spoke of it so simply. It was curious. She thought of how her father never admitted his mistakes. Cassian recalled his with shame, trying to change the subject. Abelar considered any loss a humiliation.
“You speak as if death were just another opponent.”
“Isn’t it?” he smiled. “We will all lose someday. The only question is when.”
Berenece smiled. A thought came to her: beside him, so alive and real, any character from a romantic ballad faded into the background.
“And you?” he asked suddenly. “Have you ever lost?”
Berenece thought of Joel, of his hands on her neck, of that day in childhood when he broke her bow, of how all her attempts to fight back proved futile. Of the fear she felt every time she was near him.
“Yes. I have lost,” she answered, and then added with a grin, echoing him: “More than once.”
He did not ask when or where. He simply nodded, as if he understood without words. There was no pity in his face, only understanding.
“You cannot run from that. You can only learn not to be afraid.”
“No,” he smiled. “But I am trying.”
They fell silent again. This silence was not fragile or awkward; it felt like kindling for the growing tension. The kind that gathers as heat in the body. That heat frightened Berenece to the Seven Hells. Lyonel suddenly stepped forward, and Berenece felt the air between them thicken. His expression shifted subtly. The lazy relaxation vanished, replaced by a tense, almost predatory alertness.
“Do not come closer,” she said, but her voice wavered.
“Why?” he asked, stopping. “Are you afraid I will recognize you?”
Berenece was silent. She looked at Lyonel helplessly and wistfully, thinking that this was true. But not the whole truth.
“I am afraid you will not recognize me,” the words slipped out with quiet sadness.
He froze. His eyes darkened – or was that just the shadow?
“What does that mean?” His gaze became sharp, probing.
“Nothing,” she breathed, knowing she had said too much. “Just… do not come closer. Do not ask. Please.”
Pleading notes crept into her voice, though she truly, utterly hated to beg. And he stood, watching her just as intently, studying her, as if weighing her fate in his hands. Berenece felt her heart pound and the blood rush in her ears. Surely he would leave now, forgetting the strange secrets of an unknown girl.
“Very well,” he said at last, as if giving a silent promise. “I will not.”
He did not leave. He remained, watching her with the same unspoken question in his eyes. His face was calm again, but Berenece noticed his fingers trembling slightly, though they lay still on the water’s surface.
“But I want you to know,” he said. “I am not your enemy.”
He stepped closer, despite his promise. Slowly, giving her room to retreat. Berenece did not move. She looked at him and thought how mad this was. That she should push him away, leave, hide, do something. But she did not move. She simply could not.
“Why do you hide?” he asked, taking another step. “From whom? Or from what?”
Berenece was silent for a long time. She looked at the moon, at the water, at his hands still resting on the surface. Thoughts tumbled one over another, like pebbles in a kaleidoscope. She was hiding from so much it was easier to say what she was not running from.
“From myself, now,” she said at last. “Sometimes it is easier to be someone else. Someone who does not have to run and hide.”
“I know the feeling,” he answered. “Sometimes I wish I were someone else too.”
“Nothing. I know I cannot run from myself.”
“What if you do not wish to return?”
“Then you must find something – or someone – to help you love what you are fleeing from.”
He reached out his hand, and Berenece, not knowing why, stepped forward towards him. His fingers touched her cheek – weightlessly, carefully, as if giving her time to grow accustomed, to decide if she wanted this. His palms were rough, like the bark of an old oak. She froze. She looked at him and thought this gesture was the most intimate she had ever known. And that she could not force herself to refuse the chance to feel it, at least for a moment.
“Your hair is wet,” he said, touching a curly, fair strand near her face.
“I am in a river,” she smiled, tilting her head slightly. As if trying to be closer to his hand.
Lyonel ran his thumb along her cheekbone, and Berenece felt fire race through her body. She looked at him with wide eyes and thought how she wanted him not to stop – and that this was the most frightening thing of all.
“You are trembling,” he noticed. His voice had dropped, almost to a whisper.
“The water is cold,” she lied, looking him in the eye.
“The water is warm. You tremble because I am near.”
“You think too highly of yourself, my lord.”
“And you speak too little of yourself, my lady.”
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks again. Her body’s reaction to him, how every cell responded to any caress or touch. It angered her. And fascinated her at the same time.
“I am always needed elsewhere, but now I do not wish to leave.”
“And I do not wish you to stay.”
He leaned closer, and Berenece felt his breath touch her lips. Warm, as uneven as her own. Her heart pounded so hard she felt sure he must hear its frantic beat in her chest. There, in her chest, a burning, pulling, yearning anticipation spread. She did not know what she wanted. A kiss? Or for him to step back?
His eyes were dark, attentive, and before them Berenece felt like a doe that had walked out to meet the hunter. Though usually, she was the hunter. Lyonel was tense too. She could see it in his jaw, in how he clenched his teeth, how his fingers trembled on her cheek. His gaze swept over her face, lingering on her lips. He wanted her. And he was holding himself back.
“For years he has spoken of some promise he made to a girl.”
Cassian’s words cut into her consciousness like a dagger. Anger flared in her chest – not at him, but at herself. At her own foolish trust. At how easily she had forgotten everything, the moment he reached out his hand.
She recoiled, feeling a cold, hard resolve rise within her.
“No,” she breathed, turning her face away. “Do not.”
“Nothing,” she said, feeling like a fool. “Just… do not. Please.”
She could not look at him. She could not. Because if she did, she would not be able to stop.
“I… I must go,” she said, backing towards the shore.
“No,” she repeated. “Just… leave me alone.”
She climbed out of the water without looking back and ran into the darkness, feeling anger blaze within her – anger that was her anchor now. That would not let her fall apart, even as her heart tore itself to pieces.
