𝓢𝓪𝓰𝓮

You start setting up your stand to make and sell medicine. Since you have enough gold, you don't need to stay here much longer. However, since you're already here, you might as well make the most of your time. You can assist some locals by providing free work for those who cannot afford it.

As soon as you are done setting up your tent, an elderly lady approaches you, her face wrinkled, her smile lines showing you how good a life she had, her clothes of good fabric, her hands shaky and thin.

“What a Beautiful Lady,” She looks at you and smiles; she reminds you of your grandmother, with the same kind eyes.

“I see a much prettier lady staring at me.” You say, pointing your finger at her. She chuckled lightly. “How may I help you?”

“My back isn't what it used to be. I was wondering if you have anything for the ache?” She looks at you, still smiling but with a bit more sadness.

“I have something right here,” You grab a bottle, “It’s not like milk of the poppy, it won’t steal your mind, but you’ll feel much better.”

“Thank you, dear” She reaches for her coin purse.

“None of that now,” you gently stop her. “I won’t accept your coin” With a warm smile, you place the bottle in her hand.

She thanks you again and leaves.

Throughout the morning, till the sun was high in the sky, you had a few people come to your stall with their ails. You took coin from those who could afford it, but not from most. Hopefully, word will spread quickly.

It was almost midday when you decided you deserved to take a stroll and visit the other stalls to buy some bread, cheese, and apples to give to Sweetfoot.

—

As you walked through the markets, you felt a surge of excitement about finding something special for your mother, who always refuses to spend any coin on herself. However, your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horns announcing the arrival of a noble house. Turning around to see who it was, you caught sight of the blood-red and black colours of a three-headed dragon—the Targaryen sigil.

You observe the expressions on the faces of the people around you: disgust, fear, and a hint of admiration. Their stares weigh heavily on you as you turn away and return to your work. Targaryens are not favoured by the small folk; their history of tyranny has left deep scars. You have your own reasons for wanting to avoid them.

In the distance, you heard the faint announcement of their names, but it barely registered as you focused on the vibrant display before you.

Paying it no mind, you spoke with the stand owner, inquiring about the price of the dress in front of you that you wanted to bring home as a gift for your mother.

As you bounced slightly on your feet, your smile wide and genuine, the fabric caught the light just right, and you could already envision your mother's delighted reaction upon receiving it. After settling the payment with the stand owner, you carefully cradled the dress in your arms and headed back to your tent.

You pass by the puppet show on your way to your tent. You decide to sneak a peek and step foot inside, only to find that the show has ended, leaving you with a sense of disappointment.

A few spectators lingered, one of them was the storyteller with Dunk, a little bald boy next to him. You hadn’t seen him before.

You make your way to the three of them, you greet all of them and compliment the girl, “You are very beautiful, I watched your other performance yesterday." You walk up to her and gently place a gold coin in her hand, and smile at her.

“Thank you, I’m Tanselle.” She smiles at you, and you nod your head before introducing yourself in return.

As she finished her introduction with a warm smile, the atmosphere shifted suddenly when a cacophony of curses erupted from across the room. You turned to see a large stage prop plummeting, landing squarely on a man's foot. His cry of pain cut through the chaos, starkly contrasting with the earlier cheerful greeting.

She rushed over, muttering curses as she approached the man groaning in pain, his face pale amid the gathering crowd. You squeezed through, urgency in your voice: “Let me help; I’m a healer.” Wary glances were exchanged among the onlookers, but they parted, allowing you to reach the injured man.

You kneel beside the man and remove his boot to examine his foot for any broken bones. There is a cut on the upper part of his foot—a gash that isn't too deep but will likely leave a light scar. His foot has begun to bruise, showing faint shades of purple and red.

Thankfully, there don’t appear to be any broken bones, but he will be limping for the next few days. You refrain from asking if he is in pain, as it is clearly evident.

"The gash doesn't require stitches, but it does need to be wrapped. You will have a limp for a few days, but there are no broken bones," you reassure the man with a smile, making sure to be gentle. "I can provide something for the pain, as well as treat the wound”. You start treating the man’s wounds. You never went without carrying a small bag with necessities; you had always hated being unprepared.

After you finished wrapping the man’s foot, you asked if there was a place where you could brew tea. You gave the man a cup filled with the hot liquid, “Drink it. It'll soothe the pain instantly.” The man looks at you through his lashes with his head down, lip furrowing, and hesitant hands take the tea from yours.

Once you were done, you asked Dunk to help you help the man stand up. Tanselle came up to you and thanked you.

“How much do you want for payment?” An old man with a long beard asks.

You say your price and reach inside your bag, “Here is a balm to soothe the bruising, and it will help the scar fade as if it were never there. Here are some more leaves to make the tea for when the pain returns.” You hand him a small container and a cloth with leaves and provide instructions on how to brew it properly.

As you step out of the tent, the evening air is filled with the sounds of laughter and distant music, and Dunk follows closely behind you, the little boy trailing all the way at his side with a curious expression. You glance back, tilting your head in intrigue, and notice something unusual.

“Where is your shield, Ser Dunk?” you ask, your voice light and polite, gesturing to the empty space on his back where his shield would usually rest, a significant part of his armour and pride.

He hesitates for a moment, his large frame shifting uneasily as he looks down at you, but his gaze remains averted. “Oh, um… It is getting painted, as I… I needed a new sigil,” he replies, his voice a barely audible murmur, the words tumbling out as if they were a secret he was anxious to share.

You nod thoughtfully, your curiosity piqued. “And who are you?” you ask, turning your attention to the little boy standing next to him. Your eyes soften, and you offer a warm smile to encourage him to respond.

“Egg,” he replies quietly, his small fingers fidgeting with the hem of his tunic, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, avoiding your eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Egg,” you say as you crouch down, lowering yourself to his level to establish a connection. His shy nod and the hint of a smile beginning to form at the corners of his mouth make you feel a sense of warmth.

"Well, I have to go put these back in my tent," you announce, standing up and brushing off your dress, its fabric shimmering slightly in the fading light. "I'll see you later, Ser Dunk." You flash a bright smile and wave, ready to take your leave. Just as you turn, Dunk gently places a hand on your shoulder, a hesitant gesture. The moment his fingers make contact, he withdraws instantly, as if he has touched something scalding.

“Um, do you want to walk around the festival? I’ll… I’ll buy you a cup of ale?” His words spill forth in a rush, and you can see his cheeks flushing a deeper shade, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, glistening in the waning sunlight.

You find yourself staring at him, a light laugh bubbling up unexpectedly. You bring your hand up to your mouth, covering it with the back of your hand in a playful manner. “Sure,” you reply, smiling warmly at him, “I’ll be happy to.”

—

With that, the three of you begin to meander through the lively festival, the air thick with the sweet aroma of various treats and the sound of festive chatter.

Dunk leads the way to a food stall bursting with colourful cakes and freshly baked bread. You approach with a sense of excitement, purchasing a slice of rich honey cake and handing it to the little boy.

His eyes widen in surprise, and for the first time, a genuine smile breaks across his face as he mumbles a polite "thank you."

Feeling a sense of accomplishment at easing his discomfort, you follow Dunk as he guides you towards an open tent where the joyous sounds of eating and drinking fill the air. After a brief search, your eyes land on a vacant table, and in a burst of playful energy, you grip Dunk’s hand, pulling him eagerly along with you. Egg follows closely behind, his small footsteps quickening to keep up.

You settle into the seats, the wooden table sturdy beneath your hands, and Dunk promises to fetch drinks for both you and Egg. As you glance around the bustling area, your attention is drawn to a lively group gathering to play tug-of-war.

Before too long, Dunk returns, two cups of ale in hand. He hands you the drink, his hand shaky, almost spilling it all over you. Gently taking the drink in your hands, you flash him a smile and thanks.

Dunk sits down next to Egg, the child’s eyes drifting somewhere behind you, turning your head to see where he is looking. You spotted Lyonel, who catches your eye, his unkempt curls bouncing as he animatedly talks to a few eager participants, dressed in his vibrant yellow tunic; he doesn’t notice you.

“Do you think I’ll ever make a knight one day?” Egg asks, his voice a little depressing, the weight of his question hanging in the air like a dark cloud.

“Sure, why not? You’re a likely lad.” Dunk answered him, his mind elsewhere, you couldn’t tell.

“I think you would be a great knight if you hold on to your morals and do right by people.” You pitched in, your tone encouraging, hoping to light a spark of hope in Egg’s eyes.

“I’m a bit puny. Who would I protect if I’m this small?” Egg’s head fell, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he pouted, absentmindedly fighting with his cup.

“You’ll grow,” Dunk says, chuckling softly, laying a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, his warmth spilling over like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“And you’ll learn, skill can be more important than brute strength.” You rest your hand on his other shoulder, smiling at him warmly.

“Everyone’s always told me I was stupid,” Dunk chimes in unexpectedly, scoffing a little. You look at him, your eyebrows furrowed.

You waited for him to finish, but there was nothing but silence.

“And?” Egg probed, waiting for his wisdom. You just stare at Dunk and wait for him to answer, the moment stretching as you both anticipate his answer.

“HM?” Dunk looks between the two of you, confusion etched across his features.

They kept doing this, going back and forth on being confused, a back-and-forth that felt like a game, their expressions growing more amusing with each exchange.

You were about to burst with laughter, the urge bubbling up from deep within. Covering your mouth with your hands, your shoulders shook subtly, trying to muffle the laughter threatening to escape.

“What did you do when people said you were stupid, ser?” Egg finally asks, frustration seeping into his voice, pushing for an answer that seemed to elude them both.

“What business is that of yours? My problems are my own,” Dunk remarked, a bit snippy.

“I thought… Aren’t you trying to help me?” Egg’s expression was priceless, his eyes wide with disbelief, you were trying your best not to laugh, the absurdity of the situation too much.

“Help you what? Grow?” Dunk exclaimed.

“No, Ser Dunk… He thought—” You were cut off by a loud, booming, yet familiar voice right behind you.

“Yes! Hedge knight, you.” It was Lyonel. “What is this piss froth?” He slaps the cup from Dunk’s hand. “I need muscle.” He leans in, grabbing Dunk’s face, their noses almost touching. “Will you heed my call to war? Aha! Good. Go! Get up, come.” He pulled Dunk by the collar. Guiding him to the rope on the ground, where people were getting ready for the tug-of-war. Egg ran after the two men.

You watched as the man in yellow strutted there, glancing back at you with a smug expression. He looked back and winked at you, sticking his tongue out to the side, and biting it with his teeth as his curls fell over his face.

The crowd was loud, cheering, more yelling than cheering. If you were honest, you sat back, crossed your legs, and enjoyed the show.

“Hey! Dry those palms, you clam-handed cunt. We’re not in your sister’s chambers now.” Lyonel shouted at the men, grabbing the rope.

You watched as the men struggled. Lyonel shouted insults at both his team and the opposing team, but Dunk was clearly doing most of the work, with some credit going to Egg.

As the opposing team faltered, the crowd cheered for Lyonel's team. With a final battle cry, they claimed victory, toppling one of their opponents face-first into the mud. The sight was both amusing and hilarious. You watched as the crowd gathered around Dunk and Lyonel, cheering them on. In a moment of celebration, you saw Lyonel smack Dunk's backside, and you nearly choked on your drink from laughing.

Dunk threw Egg in the air and then proceeded to rest him on his shoulder, clearly proud and praising the little boy, something that made your heart melt while watching them.

After the cheering quieted down and the crowd scattered, you decided to head back to your tent, and you gathered your things. Lyonel was in a conversation with what seemed to be another lordling. Meanwhile, dunk

You walked over to Dunk, “Thank you, Ser Dunk.” You said, a half-smile on your face, as you reached out to grab his hand and stroke it with your thumb. Dunk’s face started going red. He tried to stutter a response, but you just stared at him, not breaking eye contact.

Lyonel watched from the side, ignoring whatever conversation was going on, utterly forgotten. He dismissed the minor lordling, waving his hand, not denying his disinterest, and he walked over to you, a smile lying upon his face.

You retracted your hand from Dunk, your smile never faltering, and you watched as the knight and his squire left. Dunk’s hand was scratching his neck and seemed to be complaining to Egg. But then your attention was stolen by the man in yellow.

“Hello, my lady.” Lyonel reaches for your hand. He bends down to kiss your knuckles, and kisses your knuckles, his beard lightly scratching your skin as he looks at you through his lashes, never blinking.

“Milord, you mustn’t” You tried to retract your hand, but now you were flustered as a chill ran down your spine.

He kept his hold on your hand, he straightened his back, a smug look on his face. “I will joust tonight, and I need you by my side, my healer.” his voice was sultry; he was teasing you. He coughed to clear his voice, averting your gaze for just a moment “You will be there?” His voice softens. It wasn't a command, but a request.

One you’ll fulfil.

“Yes, my lord.” You respond, nodding and tilting your head, and a light chuckle escapes your lips.

—

You returned to your tent, the dread of the impending joust buzzing in the air. Gathering your supplies, you prepared for the chaos that often accompanied the event. You packed a sturdy needle and thread for mending wounds, boiled cloth strips for wrapping injuries, honey to soothe, brewed tea for pain, and various balms and herbs for healing.

Knowing that you might face deeper wounds and broken bones, you ensured your bag was packed with everything necessary, even adding an extra set of supplies for good measure. Changing into a lighter outfit with shorter sleeves and a practical skirt allowed you the freedom needed to move swiftly when called upon.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a glow enveloped the fairgrounds. Torches illuminated the roads, flickering against the cool breeze that felt refreshing; the night was already upon you, the stars in the sky looking down at you.

As you reached the small entrance for servants, you stopped and prepared yourself, took a deep breath. Then you stepped foot past the entrance. The dust from the field was overwhelming. You asked around to see where Lyonel was, but you were scoffed at, dismissed, and ignored. You were becoming frustrated, the joust was about to start, and you couldn’t find your way.

That was till someone tapped your shoulder, you turned around, your eyebrows furrowed and frustrated, but your eyes met Lyonel's, he had the same smirk on his face as he always did, but you watched as it became softer. “Ser Lyonel!” The relief in your voice is evident, your shoulders relaxed.

“My healer.” He says, the joy in his voice unmistakable.

He stood tall in his armour; it was yellow and slightly rustic; it had seen many jousts. The torso was adorned with black-painted stag antlers, giving him a fierce appearance. His sleeves were made of polished metal, shining silver against the yellow of the rest of the armour, providing a striking contrast.

“I apologise, Ser, no one would tell me where to find you and I —” You tried to explain, your voice trembling with a mix of anxiety and fear. The weight of the situation pressed heavily on your chest, making it difficult to gather your thoughts. But you were cut off before you could finish.

“None of that, you ought not worry,” he said, his tone soothing as he stepped a foot closer. There was an intensity in his gaze, a mixture of understanding and authority that made your heart race. He raised his hand, reaching out to cup your cheek, and for a fleeting moment, you felt the warmth of his touch. Yet, just as quickly, he stopped himself, letting his hand rest on his side again, the moment hanging in the air like a gentle promise unfulfilled.

He straightened his posture, lifting his chin with a sense of resolve that commanded the space around you. Clearing his throat, he gestured for you to follow him.

As you walked together, you couldn’t help but glance at him, wanting to absorb his presence and the authority he exuded. He led you to a spacious area, illuminated by the warm glow of flickering torches. It was a place that felt both grand and intimate, a realm where he’d receive your care, a notion that sent a rush of purpose through you.

His squire and some of his men surrounded you, their expressions a mix of curiosity and scrutiny. You caught snippets of their whispered conversations but didn’t dare engage; the weight of their gaze made you acutely aware of your position, but you never faltered and kept your head straight.

The maester was standing near the squire, looking down at you, his hands crossed, and the displeasure on his face ever so blatant.

Your attention was stolen by a Lyonel’s voice, strong and commanding. “This woman is the healer I requested; you will not stop her from treating my wounds or get in her way in any shape or form,” he ordered, undeniably stern. He furrowed his eyebrows at the maester “That is, if I get wounds.” He added, confidently, his tone shifting back to the playful man you met at the tent the day before.

Lyonel commanded his squire to fetch his helmet, antlers decorated the top of the helmet, making his full form even that much more intimidating, which contrasted with the bright colour of his armour.

You watched as Lyonel headed to his horse, adorned in the colours of his house, and anxiety started to rise in your chest to the point that you felt like throwing up. But you knew this was not the time to back down or fear; you had to be ready for anything.

The other knights put on their helmets and prepared as well. The crowd was cheering, but slowly got quieter as the knights lined up, until it was silent, and in the fading distance, you heard,

“Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!”

The people erupted in laughter, suppressing the urge to laugh even more. Lyonel turned his head slightly to look at you one last time. You met his gaze through the visor, and he winked at you, and he started laughing, his voice booming through the field. It almost challenged the sound of the horns that pierced your ears, and so the joust began.

Lyonel’s horse dove forward; the knight against him was adorned in orange, a sun sigil painted on his shield; he was one of Lord Ashford’s sons. In a fleeting moment, their lances clashed. You shut your eyes, flinching at the scene, you take a deep breath and open them, neither of them was unhorsed. The crowd cheered, and you realised none had been unhorsed. Not the knights nor the challengers. That was a good omen, displaying the skills of the knights.

Lyonel steadied himself on his horse, yelling for his squire to grab him another lance. Everything happened too fast, and he charged in again, but yet again, neither man faltered; the sound of the lances breaking made you wince. This continued for a while, neither man submitting, neither losing. That was till the tenth course, where they both unhorsed each other.

You watched as Lyonel fell off his horse, and your heart tightened, sickening worry filling your chest, but this time, you stayed steady, ready to prepare your aid. Lyonel rose from the ground. He wasn’t as battered and bruised as you thought. But neither was the challenger. Lyonel picked up his mace and his shield from the ground and charged at the man.

It was sword against mace as Lyonel fought his opponent. He landed a solid strike on the man’s chest, caving in his armour. The so-called challenger, though undeniably skilled, found himself outmatched as Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, showcased his prowess with every deft movement.

Their blades danced in a deadly rhythm, but despite the challenger’s valiant attempts, Lyonel’s experience and agility rendered the strikes ineffectual. With one final blow, Lyonel secured his win. Lord Ashford’s son crumbled; he admitted his defeat. Lyonel stepped forward, removing the man’s helm, flinging it to the crowd, signifying his victory.

He counts now as a challenger; he earned the princess’s favour. He goes to sit down on one of the chairs. You and the maester race to him to check for any injuries. He removes his helm, tossing it to the squire and leaning back, a groan of pain and relief escapes his lips.

You reach him first, already reaching in your bag, but Lyonel raises his hand, “No need. I will be back on my horse soon,” he reaches for a cup of wine and takes a sip, “I will be going again against Ser Pearse Caron”

You thought about protesting but held your tongue. “Have you been injured anywhere, Ser?” You step closer to Lyonel, inspecting his armour. It wasn’t bludgeoned anywhere except for scratches on the sides, probably from falling off the horse; they would likely be bruised on his ribs and hips.

“No need, it’s probably bruising from falling off the horse; treatment is after the joust.” Drinking the rest of his wine, he gets up from his chair, mumbling groans and curses. He strides to his horse, head held high. He reaches out his hand and is handed his helmet. His back is to you, and you can't see his face.

He mounted his horse. With his shield by his side, his mace strapped to his back, and a lance in his hand, he faced Ser Pearse Caron, a renowned musician and knight, who stood opposite him, clad in green. Nightingale birds adorned his yellow shield, and although he wasn't wearing a helmet yet, you caught a glimpse of his face. He had dirty blonde hair and sharp, older features, a broad nose, and deep-set eyes. That was all you got before he covered his face.

They broke six Lances before Lyonel finally threw the man off his saddle, Ser Pearse Caron admitted his defeat and didn’t get back up. Lyonel got off his horse and walked towards the man; he reached his hand to help him get up.

Lyonel went on to fight three lesser foes, breaking into booming laughter the moment they landed a hit on him. He mounted, charged, and beat every champion he met. If any of them had a crest of any sort on their helmet, he would fling it into the crowd.

—

This was going to be his last match; he was challenging Ser Tybolt Lannister.

Ser Tybolt Lannister was a handsome, youthful man with golden blonde hair that sheltered his neck, his armour a beautiful mix of black and crimson, plated with streaks of gold; it bore the lion of Castly Rock.

With a horn blow, the second joust started. Both knights charged, fierce and strong, lances straight, holding their shields covering their torsos. In a flash, their lances crash, and the sounds of wood and metal clashing are deafening. Both men sat straight in their saddles, their squires handing them another lance.

They charged again. This time, Ser Tybolt Lannister crashed his lance into Lyonel, bending the metal against his chest and pushing him backwards. Lyonel wobbled in the saddle, visibly injured. You watched as he leaned too much to one side, almost dangling from his horse. The crowd gasped in shock and surprise, but without missing a beat, Lyonel pulled himself back into the saddle and steadied himself, refusing to be dethroned.

He called for another lance, charging forward once more, this time leaning into the ride with expertise. The blonde man faced him bravely, never flinching or backing down. Both men clashed and fell off their horses in a devastating fall.

You, the squire, and the maester rushed toward Lyonel, but by the time you were halfway there, he had gotten up. His armour was bent and scratched, and his helmet was tilted. He reached for the mace on his back and turned to face the man in crimson, only to be met with the sight of his opponent lying on the ground, passed out. The force of the fall had been too much, and you watched as the maester of House Lannister rushed to his side.

You knew you could help, but you also knew that intervening could cause problems you couldn't fix.

Lyonel’s form was battered and bruised, but he was the one standing, and when everyone was sure the knight wouldn't get up, the crowd erupted in cheers. Once again, it was Lyonel, but this time, you could see that it was not a pleasant weight on his slumped shoulder.

He raised his fist in recognition of his victory and took off his helmet. You and the maester rushed to his side as he began to limp. You helped steady him up, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulder and putting your arm against his chest to keep him steady.

“Take me to my chambers.” Lyonel groans, his face contorting in pain.

“My lord, we must remove your armour,” The maester on the other side contested.

“Just take me there, witch.” Lyonel bullied the man on his side, his tone getting more sour.

“Please, mi lord.” You gently look at him, “It’ll be more painful if we don’t remove your armour now.” You stared at him, concern written all over your face.

He does not object, simply closing his eyes and letting out a deep groan as if surrendering. Meanwhile, the maester, who was holding him on the other side, shot a sharp glare in your direction, his expression a mixture of disapproval and disbelief.

Once you were able to sit Lyonel down, you stood back and watched as his squire and maester helped him get his armour off. You noticed they were being too rough, so you took matters into your own hands and gently peeled off the armour from his bruised body.

Lyonel never took his eyes off of you, never snapped at you once; he just would wince a little under your touch, but just grinned through it all.

“You know—” But Lyonel was cut off from where you pressed on his ribs over the tunic to check for injury, “Must you do that?” He moaned, a little snippy.

“No.” You politely respond with a grin on your face.

Lyonel Laughs and winces, his hand reaching his sides.

—

Once you reached the pavilion, you walked in, and Lyonel guided you to his chamber. You sit him down on the edge of the bed and set your bag on a table. You helped him out of his tunic, blue and deep purple, covering the left side of his ribs, a couple of scratches, and gashes all over his upper body.

“Could you take a deep, long breath?” you ask him, retracting your hand and putting it under your chin as you inspect him. Lyonel straightens his back and does as told; he didn't flinch or wince. “Good. That’s good.” Your shoulders relax, and you smile. “Could you turn your waist, please?”

“Milord.” The maester coughs.

“What?” You ask, turning your head to look at the maester.

“You address him as my lord, or Ser.” The maester reprimanded you, a scowl on his face.

“Yes… Um,” You turn to face Lyonel, you head down, eyes staring at your feet. "My sincerest apologies, mi lord. Might I kindly request that you twist your waist? I need to ensure that you do not have any broken ribs.” You started picking the skin around your nails.

You couldn’t see it, your head down, Lyonel stared daggers at the maester. But the maester was right, you had gotten too comfortable. You look up, your hands positioned stiffly at your sides, giving you a rigid appearance.

Lyonel tried to turn his waist, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips tightened. You hummed in disapproval, “May I?” You reached your hand out, and your fingers lightly grazed his skin.

“Of course.” Lyonel chuckled.

You place your hand over the bruise and add pressure; he retracts a little, but resettles down. You remove your hand, “It doesn’t seem to be a broken rib, thank the gods.” You smile reassuringly at Lyonel.

“I felt a sharp torment in the lower region of my back when I twisted my waist,” Lyonel informed you.

You nod and go to your bag, grabbing a balm, as well as a couple of hers. “Here is a balm for the bruising, and it’ll numb the pain a little, and I need to brew these leaves so you can get a restful sleep.” You explained. “Though I need to stitch some of these wounds first.”

“I need boiled wine, and—”

“Your job is done here.” The maester cuts you off.

“Her job is done when I say it’s done. Leave at once.” Lyonel barked at the man.

“But… My lord.”

“Leave.” Lyonel does not allow the maester to get another word in.

He does as told, leaving the room with his tail between his legs.

A while later, a maid entered the room, balancing a tray with the supplies you needed. You thanked her and turned your attention to Lyonel's wounds. With careful hands, you began cleaning his injuries. You focused intently as you stitched the deeper gashes, ensuring they would heal properly. After securing the stitches, you bandaged his wounds with gentle care.

You began treating the bruises by carefully applying a generous layer of cold balm, starting with the one on his ribs. With gentle, light fingers, you made sure to avoid applying any pressure, knowing that even the slightest touch could cause him pain. As you worked, you focused intently on your task, ensuring that the balm spread evenly over the bruised skin. You could see the discomfort etched on his face.

“Thank you.” You say so softly, it’s almost a whisper, you were treating the bruises on his back now, and lightly massaging where he said he felt pain. He hummed in response, his shoulders slumped, his neck to the side, exposing how vulnerable it is; a soft smile grazed his face.

“I warned him. He didn’t listen.” Lyonel turned his head to look at you, his curls framing his face.

The silence stretched between you, the candlelight slowly flickering. You get up and start putting your things away in your bag, your movements quiet. Lyonel enjoyed the intimacy of the moment.

The silence stretched between you as the candlelight flickered softly. You get up and start putting your things away in your bag, your movements quiet and deliberate, mindful of the moment. Lyonel watched, a small smile on his lips, appreciating the intimacy of it all. He admired how you poured your attention into even the simplest tasks, the way the light illuminated you.

“I will go and brew the tea; you won’t get an ounce of sleep if I don’t.”

"I'm not entirely certain, but the ointment you have applied has relieved much of my pain.” He responded with a sultry voice, but exhaustion crept in. “I wish to go celebrate my victory.” He tried to get up, but you shut that down, pushing him back on the bed.

“No.” You denied him.

“No?” He retorts, a smug smirk on his face. A hand on his knee as he leans forward.

“Milord, you need rest.” You argued, a hand on your hips as you leaned on the table. Lyonel’s eyes stared up at you, his gaze so intense that you almost shied away. You clear your throat and go to brew the tea.

Once it was done, you grabbed a tray and a cup and prepared it, and headed back to Lyonel's chamber. You walked in and set the tray down on a table nearby. Turning around, you were startled to see Lyonel half-naked. In a panic, you mumbled an apology and quickly stumbled out of the room. As you left, you could hear Lyonel's booming laugh behind you, and heat flooded your cheeks.

After a few minutes, Lyonel called for you to come back in, this time with pants on. A big smile on his face, you just poured the tea and handed it to him.

“I have left a note for the maester on how to brew the tea.” You gather your belongings and set the balm upon the table. “Thrice daily, at the hour of dawn and again at twilight. Till the wounds heal.”

Lyonel looked deflated. “Stay.” He pleaded.

“Is there anything that ails you, mi lord?” You asked, confusion evident in your voice.

“No, you have done well.” He steps towards you, the weight of his words lingering in the air. He parted his lips but paused; he cleared his throat, as if grappling with what he truly wanted to convey.

“You may leave,” he finally says, his voice steady but underscored by something softer. He dismisses you, yet it feels like there’s more left unsaid. You tilted your head a little, sensing his hesitation. He wanted to say something, but you didn’t ask.

As you left the pavilion, the gentle breeze and faint sounds of laughter faded behind you. The path was dimly lit by the shimmering stars, with only the moonlight guiding your way. Each step brought a sense of tranquillity, as the cool night air filled your lungs. Shadows danced subtly among the trees, ready to reach your tent and reflect on the evening's events.

Tags: @xyahxo @dramioneforevertilltheend @hellscagee @qardasngan @moonmaiden1996 @rockandbird @distantmachineterminus @bog-devil

The inn wasn’t far, half an hour away really, but nightfall had already come, and the air was cold. You hurried and reached it in half the time, though the stars were already out.

Entering the inn, you saw it was empty except for one blond man in expensive silk with his head down on the table, his wine spilt. You looked away and ignored him.

Best not to say anything, you decide.

The door opened in the corner of your eye, and Jenna peeked out, her shoulders relaxing when she saw you.

“Thank the gods. She is upstairs. Her fever got much better.” The relief in her voice was unmistakable.

You nodded and headed up there; the stairs creaked under your steps. recognising the girl’s room and opening the door.

“Evening, Joann.” You heard a tiny cough. Checking her forehead, you smile, her fever has gone down.

"You should feel better by tomorrow." You move away from her, grabbing your bag. "You have been so strong. Can you be a bit more patient?"

"Mhm.” A tiny voice answering you.

You set your bag on a table nearby. Opening it, You grabbed the honey and ginger, and gave her a spoonful with water to help it go down. She winced at the taste, too sharp. You make sure to put less ginger next time.

You went downstairs to get a bucket of water and a piece of cloth. The blond man was still there. You ignored him again, heading to the kitchen to get a bucket. Jenna offered to go to the well herself.

So, you took her up on that offer, and as soon as she headed out, a man opened the door, his head bent down so he could enter. His golden-brown hair was the first thing you saw.

Propping himself straight, he looked at you, and you noticed the red in his face, assuming he was sick as well.

Greeting him, you informed him that the inn lady would be here soon.

_

Dunk walked into the inn hunched over so he wouldn’t hit his head, and he laid eyes on the woman in front of him. Dunk had seen beautiful women in his life, but none that looked as kind as the one before him.

Heat rose to his cheeks, and he stumbled over his words, but she beat him to it.

“Sit anywhere you like. The inn lady will be here in a minute.” She looked at him with a gentle smile.

Dunk nodded slightly and sat in a corner, still slouching.

_

You went back to the girls’ room and fixed her blanket as she had thrown it off of herself.

Jenna opened the door, a bucket in her hand and a piece of cloth in the other. You took the bucket and cloth from her, then knelt beside the girl’s bed. Dipping the cloth in water, wringing it out, and laying it on her forehead.

You prepared more doses for her and portioned them out. Thankfully, she has gotten better since last night; her face had a healthy flush to it, so you decided to head back home and started to prepare to leave.

Heading downstairs, you noticed the tall man was still there. You had planned to go to the tourney to find more work, since injured men would need a healer, and word of mouth would help your shop.

Though your mother would never let you on the road alone.

Making your way to the table where the tall man is sitting, you give yourself permission to sit across from him, his plates still on the table, almost clean.

“What is your name?” you inquired.

“Dunk, Ser Dunk,” he stumbled.

“So you are a knight,” you confirmed.

He nodded, mumbling a yes, looking down and not meeting your gaze. “May I ask where you are headed, ser?”

“Ashford tourney.” His voice was so hushed you didn’t hear him.

“Could you please repeat that?” you asked gently, realising he might be flustered by your presence.

He cleared his throat and straightened his back. “Ashford tourney, I’m competing.”

“Would you need a healer, then?” You inquire

“Yes, but I don’t have any coin,” he acknowledged, his shoulders slumping as he lowered his head again.

“I can be your healer. I need to head to Ashford for more work. I can provide my services for free if you escort me there.”

And so an agreement was made.

You headed back to your house and shop, grabbing what you needed for the journey, while your mother organised herbs in the drawers.

“Ma! I got someone to escort me to Ashford!” you announced, pleased with yourself.

“Why? I told you not to go!” your mother stammered, dropping some of the herbs she was sorting.

“But Ma, we need more people to come to the shop, and I need more herbs that don’t grow here”, you insisted.

Sure, you had everything you needed. But this was a small village, and not many got sick if you did your job right, which you were grateful for.

“But it might not be safe, you know that! What if something happens to you? People still look down on us!” Your mother gently tried to persuade you not to leave.

“I’ll be fine, I promise. It’s only a day’s ride from here. You’re worrying too much,” you reassured her, holding her hands.

“Are they trustworthy? Can they protect you? If something happens to you, I swear on the moth--,"

"Ma!" You cut her off

She looks at you, worry in her eyes, "I'll be fine." you reassure her

Her shoulders slumped as she sighed and finally surrendered.

Kissing her forehead, you bid her farewell, hurrying to the inn, two medicine bags with you and a tent set up.

Meeting Dunk back in the stables, you greeted him as he helped you load the bags onto a beautiful white horse.

"What's his name?" You ask

"Her, and it's Sweetfoot," he answers, smiling.

"That's an adorable name, fitting for her" You walk up to the white horse, raising your hand to pet her, asking permission from her, "Who named her?" a small smile forming on your lips.

"Ser Arlen, the man that raised me" His voice was low and mumbling; you take note of that.

"He had good taste." You glance at him, ensuring that your smile reaches your eyes. He looks at you, the corners of his mouth turned up.

With that, your journey to Ashford began.

Spending time with Ser Dunk was quite nice. He was shy but respectful and very considerate, always checking in to make sure you were comfortable.

“Are you comfortable back there, my lady?”This was the fourth time in the past two hours that he asked you this.

“I’m doing just fine Ser Dunk,” you answer him, chuckling softly. He nods at you, the tips of his ear ever so slightly turning red. You look at him, tilting your head ever so slightly.

He had been telling you some stories about his time with Ser Arlen; he was clearly fond of him. But you became curious.

"Well then, good ser, what made you become a knight?" You ask, Dunk visibly stiffens.

"Well… Ser Arlen took care of me, and I was his squire." He answers, his voice higher than before.

"Mm. You are a bad liar." You state.

"W-What?! I'm not lying!" Dunk stuttered, voice getting even higher.

You only raised a brow, giving a smile, "I only jest." Only you don’t. He really is a bad liar, but who are you to accuse him?

Dunk visibly relaxes, and you go back to sharing stories through the hours of the night.

The two of you rode through the night and arrived at the Meadow by dawn. Your thighs are aching from the long journey.

The sounds of people shuffling with excitement and joy brought a smile to your lips. You and Dunk looked for a nice spot, and he offered to help you set up the tent.

“So, where are you going to set up your tent, Ser Dunk?” you asked.

“Uhm, I don’t have a tent…” he said, a bit of embarrassment in his voice.

“Then where are you going to sleep?” you asked.

“You don’t have to worry about me; I’ll be fine, my lady,” he replied.

Not wanting to embarrass him further and knowing you couldn’t invite him into your tent without causing a scandal, you decided to let it go.

“Well, you know where to find me,” you smile at him.

So you watched as Ser Dunk turned his back and went on his way, and you got to work setting up your tools as well as organising your herbs and seeing if you might need anything. Once you were done, you were going to explore the stands and get your hands on more herbs and some food.

By the time you were done, the sun had started to go down. Walking around the shops, you managed to get your hands on a couple of rarer herbs, which you paid a pretty penny for. The sun had fully settled, and the stars were out. You walked by a tent where a puppet performance was taking place, and you decided to check it out.

“Fate has set his lonely path through corridors of chance. A boy from nothing risks it all, ignoring looks askance. Perhaps he’s only stupid…” A pretty tall girl with braided hair seemed to be the storyteller. “…holding fast his mirror shield. Great honour his ambition, must keep a truth concealed. For if his humble shape is bared, a foul and fiery demise. Should the dragon discover none but a man in great disguise?”

You look to the side and recognise Dunk,

“Ser Dunk!” You called,

“My lady!” Dunk responded in surprise,

“Have you entered the lists?” You asked, tilting your head,

“No, I need someone to vouch for me—”

“Halfman! Halfman!” A man with shaggy hair and a beard in red padded armour cuts off the conversation between you two.

“My lady”, the man acknowledged you with a nod you only nodded back.

“Do I look like a half man to you?” Dunk snapped, offended,

“Aye. Half man, half giant.” The man replied to Dunk with a smile on his face, and he clearly found it funny.

However, he glanced between you and Dunk; neither of you was laughing. Dunk had a scowl on his face, looking like a kicked puppy, while you just stared blankly at the man.

“Look, I’m sorry. I should not have urged you to try my cousin. He’d have broken your hand or a knee if he could. He likes to batter men in the yard, you know, in case he meets them in the lists.” He seemed genuinely sorry.

“He did not break you.” Dunk remarked,

The man scoffed, “I’m his blood. Though he is the senior branch of the apple tree, which he never ceases to remind me.” The atmosphere a bit depressing now.

“Will you and your cousin ride in the tourney?” Dunk asked,

“He will. I would that I could, but I’m only a squire.” Dunk looked the man up and down in shock, examining him carefully.

“Fight well for a squire.” He stated.

“You have the look of a challenger. Whose shield do you mean to strike?”

“Makes no difference.” Dunk responded,

“That’s what you’re supposed to say!” The man in red laughed,

“Though it makes all the difference in the world.” Dunk added,

The man turned to you, “Apologies! I’m Raymun Fossoway.”

He finally introduced himself, and you replied in turn. Then, there was an awkward silence.

“You hungry?” Raymun chuckled, looking between you both,

“Always,” Dunk responded,

“Sure.” You shrugged.

“Isn’t a stag a Baratheon sigil?” you asked Reymun

“It is!” he answered,

“I’m not sure I—” before you could finish, they had already gone in.

You followed the two in and were greeted by music, drunken sword fights, and dancing people. Your gaze wandered to the man with antlers on his head.

“Lyonel Baratheon. The Laughing Storm, they call him.” Reymun introduced the man in front of you, pouring you and Dunk wine.

You heard Dunk mumble something, but you couldn’t make out what it was. You turn your head, and it’s only Dunk there.

“I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen!” Lyonel shouted,

The room quieted down. “Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that…” He cleared his throat, “…big field outside to blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. Well, I say—”

He leaned in, propping himself on the table, paused and muttered something under his breath; you almost heard a curse. “Ah. Men could not have devised such a joy. So, who was it? Huh? Who was it?” He pressed.

Silence, you pondered what the answer might be… then it hit.

“Stags.” You answered, not loud enough for people to understand, but loud enough to be noticed,

“What was that?” Lyonel asked, intrigued,

You stood up slowly “Stags. Stags invented jousting!” You repeated, louder this time, so people can actually hear you. Lyonel smirked and leaned back, obviously satisfied.

“Correct.” He confirmed it, and then his laughter echoed through the tent, booming loudly.

When he paused and looked at you, mischief in his eyes. You glanced at Dunk for a moment, and then he also pointed at him, signalling for both of you to come closer.

As you approached, he said, “A hundred gold for answering me,” and tossed you a bag filled with gold.

You caught it awkwardly, letting out a small gasp of surprise. “My lord—”

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked you, playing with the dagger in his hand, a smirk on his face.

You answered him.

“What is a pretty lady like you doing in Ashford?” he asks you

“I’m a healer, my lord.”

“A wood witch then?” he clicks his tongue,

“I am.”

Lyonel seemed pleased. “How good of a healer are you?” His smirk never leaving his face,

“Well, the village is seldom sick.” You say nervously, chuckling.

Lyonel stares at you, making you feel small. You straighten your back and keep your chin up. He lifts his chin, his smirk only getting wider.

“I'll be jousting at the tourney. If you prove your abilities, you'll come with me to the Stormlands.”

You nodded lightly, acknowledging the offer, “I'll give it thought.” You respond, more confident this time.

Lyonel turns away from you, checking out Dunk “You ever been punched in the face before?” Lyonel’s voice dripped with sarcasm, making his mocking tone unmistakable.

“I beg… I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?” Dunk was slouching.

“Big men get punched more than little men. Did you know that?”

“No, but… but I believe it.” Dunk stammered,

“That why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?” still mocking Dunk,

“I… I don’t slouch.” Dunk still stumbling over his words.

You were about to intervene to defend Dunk, but you had to think twice, as saying the wrong thing would cause issues.

“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” Lyonel was still chuckling,

“I… I meant no disrespect, ser, honest. Where I grew up, you… You learn to go unnoticed, is all.” Dunk explained,

“The seven above gave you tallness. So, be tall. Or I will name you a heretic and burn you.” Lyonel pointed his dagger at Dunk, a big smile on his face, he continued, “Drown you. Drop you off a tall pl… I don’t know. W-What do they do to heretics?” He asked, glancing at the man on his left.

“Burn them, my lord,” the man next to him answered, clearly drunk.

“Fine,” Lyonel grumbled.

“What have you brought me?”

“Um… Uh, ser, I…” Dunk clears his throat, cake in his mouth, “beggin’ your pardons. I… I didn’t realise.” Stumbling and stuttering.

“You wish to curry my favour some. Yet you come with an empty hand.”

“Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red…” Lyonel pointed the dagger at an old man in red.

“…he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this… bauble from his family’s cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You’ve come for my head, then.” Lyonel raised his eyebrows,

Dunk looked mortified, “W-What? No! No.”

“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” Lyonel asks crudely,

“S-Supper.”

“Oh fuck” you mumbled, though thankfully no one heard you.

Everyone started laughing, you were confused, and a little scared. “Alright. Actually makes sense.”

Lyonel chuckled. And you let a sigh of relief. “What is your name, man?”

“Dunk… Ser Dunk.” The knight responds,

“That’s ridiculous.” Lyonel looks at you both, rising from his chair,

“Do you like dancing?” You smile anxiously, about to politely decline, but before you speak, Dunk answers.

“Doesn't everyone?”

You were on the dance floor, laughing and having a great time. With one arm wrapped around Dunks, you turned to him, noticing that he was shyly holding his face with a hint of redness. He avoided making eye contact with you while you held your dress in your other hand to avoid tripping.

Before you knew it, Dunk and Lyonel had switched places. Lyonel stared at you, his hair messy and his beard glistening. He tried to hold eye contact, but you looked away, heat rising to your face as he regarded you like prey. You shook off the feeling.

Lyonel stares at the woman in his arms, intrigued. Her smell is intoxicating; her laugh is almost as boisterous as his own. He won't let go when you try to switch dancing partners, disturbing the rhythm.

He wraps his other hand around you, pulling you closer to him. Still spinning around, he buries his face in your hair for a second but pulls back and finally lets you go.

You separate from Lyonel and dance freely, enjoying yourself and having fun you haven't felt in ages. You feel eyes on you, but you ignore them just as you want to ignore what happened between you and Lyonel.

Dunk and Lyonel join for a dance, well, it looked more like a fight, you stopped dancing and stood to the side. Lyonel stomped on Dunk’s foot, and he yelped in response. Lyonel continued to try to stomp on his feet, and Dunk clumsily avoided him, that was until he stomped on Lyonel’s foot. Hard.

Your heart dropped hearing his scream, and you clasped your hands over your mouth. Only for Lyonel to look up at Dunk, licking his lips, pleased. Dunk pushed Lyonel, getting back to the rhythm of dancing.

You were relieved, only to get pulled into the circle to dance by Lyonel, pulling you close to him. You danced until your feet ached. The party had quieted down, with couples slow dancing and some guests passed out drunk. You were sitting at a table with Dunk and Lyonel.

You had the antler crown sloppily perched on your head and cake in your hand, stuffing your face. Lyonel was sharing stories, and you had to admit he was a great storyteller.

“The swells heaved. You could lick salt from the air. But I’d come to find what men do when they die at sea. So, I drove on into the storm.” Lyonel was sitting next to you, telling you one of his stories.

You tilted your head, “Very brave of you”, you say not mockingly but doubting, teasing even.

He glanced at you, revealing a glimpse of something unknown.

“Weren’t you afraid?” Dunk asked,

“Ahh. Within every man, there are many men. Mm. But that I had to do, Stormlanders had always done. And if they had done it, I could do it, too. Hm. You know, it’s best not to agonise.” Lyonel answered.

You could barely keep your eyes open, fighting sleep as best as you could. You yawned, realising it was time to head back to your tent.

You jumped off the table while Dunk and Lyonel talked, but you couldn’t understand what they were saying anymore. Removing the makeshift crown from your head and put it back on Lyonel. He grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him, making you lean down.

“Wait... I’ll have someone escort you back to your tent.”

“My lord, that won’t be necessary…”

“I insist.” his words are final.

“I’ll take her.” Dunk got up and offered to escort you.

Until he spotted someone, “I will in a few minutes, I’ll be back”, and he left before you could say anything. You turn to Lyonel, who was up on his feet, hand out asking you to dance.

You accepted a gentle smile on your face, and Lyonel slow danced for a while, letting the music play between you. You let yourself have this much fun because you are likely never to experience it again.

“This was nice…” You muttered softly,

“hm” Lyonel affirmed, a gentle smile on his face “Always nice dancing with a pretty lady like you”, he added, his voice raspy and low, almost purring in your ear.

You smile at him, tilting your head ever so slightly.

You hear Dunk call out to you, pulling yourself away from the curly-haired man.

“Have a good night, Lyonel.” you wish him well and head out with Dunk, walking through the dirt roads until you reach your tent.

“That was fun”, you say to no one in particular.

“It was”, Dunk responds,

“You aren’t a very good dancer.” You tease,

“No, I am not” Dunk chuckles a little, embarrassed. “You looked beautiful,” he says, not thinking, and you watch as he turns red.

“I’m sorry, my lady—”

“It’s alright, Ser Dunk,” you look at grinning “you are pretty too.” You chuckle.

“Pretty?!” He questions,

You arrive at your tent. “Have a good night, Dunk,” and you head inside your tent and leave him there.

Gods you need sleep.

___

I hope you all enjoyed this <3

Tagged: @moonmaiden1996

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The pavilion smelled of poultice and blood. Dunk stood with his hands jammed into his armpits as if doing so would help him stay together. He was much too big for the space and far too helpless in it, every shift seemed to make the ground give way.

Prince Baelor lay on a low bed with blankets folded under his shoulders to keep him from rolling, though in truth the Prince had yet to show a single sign of life other than breathing. His head was turned to the side as to not put pressure on the affliction, his hair had been shorn where the blow had struck and the clean linen protecting the area was already turning pink at the centre.

The maester had washed the blood away and tried to staunch it as much as he could by filling the space, but Dunk could still see the shape of it in his mind, an ugly cavity where a skull ought to be smooth.

"Will this help?" a voice asked, too young and trying not to sound it.

Egg stood by the bed, clutching a folded cloth as if it were a sword. His eyes were fixed on his Uncle's face with a stubborn kind of fury, as though staring hard enough might keep the man tethered to this world.

The maester's mouth tightened. "It may ease his pain, if he feels any. That is all."

Prince Valarr was on the other side of the bed. He had not sat, or leaned, he stood straight-backed in his doublet as if he were already in a sept, made of marble like the statues of dead kings. His hands betrayed him, knuckles white with his fingers curled around nothing.

"He feels," Valarr said, voice quiet and uncharacteristically weak for a prince. It wasn't a question, it was a demand that could not be met.

The maester glanced at the bandages and Dunk saw something like fear flicker across the old man's face before it disappeared behind training.

"We have done what can be done. If the gods are... merciful, he may yet return to us."

Dunk swallowed whatever he wanted to say. Can't you do anything else? The maester held Baelor's head steady while he tipped a few drops between the prince's lips, he rubbed his throat to coax a swallow that came sloe and half-wrong. A thin line of liquid dribbled down his chin which was swiped away with a piece of linen.

"You'll save him," Egg said suddenly, and it came out harsh and brave. Desperate all the same. "You have to."

The maester's gaze slid past him, past Dunk, to Valarr. For a heartbeat his face softened, as if he wanted to say something kinder for a son watching his father die. What came out was the truth, plain and simple.

"We will keep him comfortable, we will watch, we will pray. If he is to live, it would not be by my hand alone."

Valarr remained steadfast but he stared down at his father with an expression Dunk couldn't begin to name. Grief, yes. But there was something else threaded through it, something that made the air brittle. Guilt? Perhaps, it was Valarr's armour that guarded Baelor, his armour that failed and allowed the injury to occur. But Valarr had not swung the mace. That was Maekar.

Dunk had seen it happen in a flash of panic and steel, Maekar trying to reach for Aerion. Striking his brother with a blow that was meant to deter.

Egg made a thin, furious noise. "There has to be-"

"There is not," the maester resigned.

Dunk's hands suddently felt enormous and useless, his thoughts scrambled for something, anything, that could make a difference. But he only had a sword at his hip and the certainty that steel was of no use against a broken skull.

Dunk stumbled out into the cold air as if fleeing smoke. The sky was darker now. He sucked in a breath and it tasted of mud and fear. There was nothing to be done. Prince Baelor would die. And he would die for Duncan.

Just when all hope seemed lost, the horizon opened for him.

Perched on a line of Baelor's pavillion as if it belonged there was a crow, black feathers slick against the twilight. It should have been a dark omen, an animal of death appearing at Baelor's bed but this crow was special.

It did not hop away when Dunk stepped closer, it only watched with a bright knowing eye, head cocked.

This one had a pale scar along its beak like a scratch left by an old knife. He had seen that scar before, years ago. When he had been bleeding out and feverish.

The tent rustled, and he heard Egg's voice, small now, asking something - begging perhaps. Dunk could not make out the words. The crow clicked its beak once, sharp as flint.

His hands curled into fists. He saw Ser Arlan's face as it had been when he was alive, heard his voice clearer now too.

The crow's her signature. Don't bring steel into her hollow.

Dunk looked down at his sword, one he hadn't parted from in days. His fingers unclasped the belt, he set the blade down on a crate beside the pavilion like a man laying a child to bed.

Behind him, the tent flap snapped open. Egg burst out, face puffy and blotched. He stopped when he saw Duncan without his sword. "What are you doing?" His voice more a plea than a scold. "Ser Duncan, what are you-"

Dunk pointed at the crow. "You see that?" He needed to check that his mind wasn't conjuring up images to give him hope.

Egg followed his finger. "It's a crow."

"Good, it's hers." Dunk said, surprising himself with how certain he sounded.

"Hers?" And then, because he was Egg, because he was curious even at the edge of grief. "Who are you talking about?"

"A... friend." Dunk said, awkwardly because the word was too small to describe what she had done. "A woman who... who pulled me back once when I ought to have died. A witch, maybe." She was definitely a witch but he couldn't just admit that.

Egg's eyes went huge. "A witch."

The tent shifted again, and the Young Prince stepped out into the open air. He moved like a man who had decided not to fall apart until later. His gaze flicked across their faces. "What is this?" Valarr asked.

Dunk hesitated. He could lie, say nothing. Few took happiness in the mention of witchcraft.

But inside the pavilion, Baelor was dying - because of him.

"There is someone," Dunk started. "Not far, or maybe far. I don't know. I've always been able to find her, when I needed her. Or she's found me. She's in the woods."

Valarr's face tightened at the word woods and the unspoken truth behind it. Witch.

"We have maesters," It sounded like something he'd been taught to say, something that was always worked before. "We have-"

"We have nothing that's helping him," Dunk cut it before remembering his station. "I beg your pardon, my prince."

Egg stepped between them as if he could break the tension with his small body. "If she saved you, maybe she can save him. We have to try."

Valarr looked at Egg as if seeing him for the first time, a boy with too much heart and not enough sense. "I have been told all my life to steer clear of witchcraft," He said. "That it is a lie that wears a woman's face."

Dunk went to open his mouth but Valarr held up a single, shaking finger. "But I have also been told that my father will die." The crow hopped down onto a high crate like it had been waiting too long.

Valarr's eyes flicked to it. "If there is a chance," he said, and the words cost him something. "Then I will take it, take me to your friend."

Egg latched onto Dunk's sleeve at once. "I'm coming with you, Ser Duncan."

"No," Dunk began, but Egg's grip tightened and his stubbornness flared liked a flame.

"You said she is your friend," He said fiercely. "You said she saved you. I'm coming."

Dunk looked at the boy, and felt something soft and aching in his chest. "Fine," Dunk said. "But you stay close. Do as I say and you don't touch a thing. She gets cranky when people do that."

Egg nodded quickly. "Yes, ser."

Dunk turned back to the bird, as he took a step towards the dark line of trees beyond the camp the crow lifted, flapped once, and glided ahead, low over the grass like a shadow pulling them by the hand.

Dunk set his jaw and followed it into the trees, Egg hurried to keep up. Valarr's footsteps fell behind them, measured, as if a prince could walk into a witchwood without letting fear show on his face.

The woods took them the way deep water takes a stone, quietly, without hurry, like it had been waiting. Somewhere above, something skittered along bark, quick as lightning.

The crow had disappeared some time ago, every now and then Duncan could've sworn he saw it swoop through the trees in his peripherals but everytime he turned to look, it was gone.

Egg kept close at Dunk's elbow. The knight could tell he was trying to be brave in the way all boys did, too quietly, as if the silence could protect him. Even Valarr, who Dunk had never talked to outside of a few hours ago, was walking closer.

"You said she saved you," Egg whispered, like speaking too loudly would wake what slept between the trees. "Before. You said you ought... to have died."

"Aye," he said. "I was four and ten."

Egg glanced up at him, eyes wide. "How did you get hurt?"

Dunk's thoughts snagged on the old pain. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth, the way the world had blurred and faded and the last thought he had. So this is what death feels like.

"We were on the road," he said slowly. "The memories of that time are fuzzy. I can't remember the place's name. Some men thought an old knight and a young squire would be easy pickings. They were wrong about Ser Arlan being easy." His voice tightened as he continued. "But they had more knives than we had luck."

Valarr's footsteps drew closer, maybe he wanted to hear to story. To be reassured that this woman could save his father.

"One of them caught me. I got two blades, something in me ruptured. Internal bleeding, she said. I remember falling, I couldn't breathe proper and blood was coming up from my lungs. Ser Arlan tried to keep me awake and stop the blood but it kept coming."

Egg swallowed audibly. "And he took you to her."

"That he did."

"Did he know her?"

"He did. I asked how, once. He told me that some debts are best paid quietly. I think she owed him."

Valarr spoke for the first time since they'd left camp. "What did she do?" As if the act could be measured and judged.

"She told Ser Arlan to put me down," Dunk said. "Said I needed to feel the ground under me. Made him take off his mail and set it aside. She doesn't like having steel near." Valarr's gaze moved down to where Duncan's sword ought to have been.

"Did it hurt?" Egg's voice was small.

Dunk let out a small laugh. "Yes," he said. "It hurt. But I don't think it was her doing, I think that was just my injuries. Then all of a sudden it didn't. It wasn't like she had given me milk of the poppy. It was like the pain became far off. It gave me time to think and recover my senses."

He could hear Ser Arlan's voice again, low and careful. Do as she says, lad. Don't argue. Don't touch the charms.

"She told me to keep breathing, not to try. She told me to do it, like she was pulling on the reins of a horse. And I did. Something about her made me do it, maybe that was the true witchcraft."

They walked on, the trees grew closer, and branches knit overhead. After a time, Egg asked, "And you've been able to find her ever since?"

Dunk's lips pressed together. "When I needed her," he said, and it sounded like superstition the moment the words left his mouth. He hated that it did, he wished for the world to be a thing you could hit with a hammer until it made sense.

"She doesn't live like other folk," he added. "Sometimes you'll happen across her like she's always been there. Sometimes you'll turn around, and she'll be right there behind you, quiet as a shadow. You don't hear her coming."

Egg looked around at the black trunks and glistening leaves, as if Dunk's words would prompt her to appear. "That's not possible."

Dunk snorted softly. "A lot of things are impossible. And yet."

Valarr's voice came again, controlled and strained. "Why does she help you if the debt's been paid?"

Dunk thought of the first time he'd met her, of Ser Arlan's face lined with worry, of him kneeling on damp earth and speaking to a girl in a low voice that carried respect. He thought of the way she'd looked at Dunk as if she were weighing him up in her mind. Not his size, but something else. Something more valuable.

"I don't know," Dunk admitted. "Maybe she liked Ser Arlan, maybe she saw something in me worth saving." He swallowed before continuing. "I know what people say of witches. That they kill without mercy, but she's not like that. Not at all. I think she just likes helping people, she hides away because she knows what people would do if they knew what she was capable of."

Bringing people back from the brink of death. Valarr and Egg thought to themselves. A powerful skill, what else was she capable of? She must be one powerful witch. If it is true, she would be caged by some high lord. Forced to do their bidding over and over again.

Egg's pace quickened by half a step, eager despite the fear. "What is she like?"

"She's... calm." He said. "Not meek or anxious. She doesn't take insults from anyone, she'll give some remark or just stare at you like she's counting your bones. She feels deeply for people, perhaps more deeply than anyone I've met. But she hides that part. Sometimes, she laughs at things that aren't funny. That always made me feel like she knows something I don't...though, I am fairly certain she can see the future."

Egg shivered, from the cold or excitement, Dunk couldn't tell. "And she has a crow," Egg said, like that made it all more real.

"Aye, that one." Dunk looked to the sky as if the bird would appear. "Keep your coins, brooches, and chains hidden. It will steal anything shiny it can get its mouth around to give to her as a gift, as long as it's not steel. She keeps them as a collection."

"You're certain she can save him," Valarr spoke, now fully alongside them. It wasn't really a question, more of a line he was trying to hold.

Dunk wanted to say yes. To swear on his sword that his father would be safe for both Baelor's sake and Valarr's. "I don't believe her crow would come if there was nothing to be done. Besides, I'm certain the maesters can do nothing. And I'm certain she's done what shouldn't be possible before."

Valarr's breath hissed through his teeth, a sound like steel being drawn. Suddenly, a crow's call was heard ahead of them, it reverberated through the forest. Its wings could be heard beating, once, twice, as it disappeared into a deeper pocket of the dark. Dunk's heart lurched.

Egg grabbed his sleeve. "Ser Duncan-".

"There," Dunk said, though he had no reason to know yet. Something in him remembered this feeling, stumbling through the trees with blood spewing from his mouth and Ser Arlan's voice in his ear.

He pushed on, faster now. Branches snagged at Valarr's cloak as he followed behind closely. The trees thinned as if the forest was making space. The clearing was not empty.

Trinkets hung from the branches, strips of cloth, bones bleached white, little bundles of herbs, and twigs that had been arranged into symbols. They swung with the breeze that ran through the area.

Then the wind stopped as if the life had been sucked out of the clearing, and all fell silent.

As if the forest had exhaled her, she was there. Not a crunch of leaves or a snap of branches. Just there, in the alcove of a tree, watching them as if she'd been waiting for hours.

The crow was settled on her thigh, and Dunk's heart thudded painfully in his chest.

"You three are late." Your voice was as soft as moss, it hadn't changed since Dunk had last seen you.

He found his tongue at last. "Prince Baelor," He managed, the sound came out like a prayer and an apology. "He's-"

"I know," She said as she lifted herself from the ground, swiping any dirt away from her clothes.

Her eyes were on Dunk, but he had this sudden, unsettling feeling that she was looking through him, past him, all the way to the pavilion and the dying man inside.

She moved as though she belonged. Certain of herself and her abilities. Dunk had always felt clumsy compared to her, all boots and breath and loud human warmth.

Egg's gaze flicked over her abode. "You..." he began, then faltered, as if he weren't sure what to say. "You knew we were coming."

The witch's mouth curved. "Of course, I knew."

Valarr stepped forward a half pace. "How?" His voice was polite but bordering on anxious. "No one in camp sent word. No rider-"

"No," You agreed softly. Your gaze slid to him, taking him in the way you'd taken Dunk in years ago. "No rider would have reached me in time."

Egg blurted, "Then how?"

You tipped her head, considering whether the question deserved a serious answer before shrugging and saying, very simply. "The wind told me."

"The wind... doesn't talk." Egg frowned.

"It does, to us witches at least." There was a quiet finality that made the argument seem childish.

Dunk felt Valarr's stare, sharp and disbelieving yet so desperate. The prince's lips pressed into a line, as if he were reciting all the lessons he'd been taught about women in woods. Dunk could see the battle inside him, between what he'd been told and what he wanted.

No, what he needed.

Dunk looked at the trinkets laid out around her. "You've been... preparing." He nodded at the items.

Your eyes softened for a second. "I set out what I would need," you said. "How far is the prince?"

"Not too far," Dunk answered, looking back the way they came.

"He's sinking. I can feel it. And you wouldn't have come to me if he weren't."

Egg's breath caught, "Can you save him?"

The witch looked at the young boy before her. Your gaze was fond, sad and wary as the same. "He is not yours," you said gently. "Yet you are afraid for him all the same."

Egg's cheeks went red. "He's good." He said fiercely. "He- he didn't deserve this."

"No one deserves this." You murmured. "Perhaps, besides your elder brother. His soul has been consumed by the Targaryen madness."

Valarr's voice came out tight. "If you can help him. Then name your price."

"I do not bargain like a merchant over a dying man." You said, though there was no cruelty to be found in your voice. You looked at each of them individually before continuing. "Bring me to him. Now."

Your hands were stained, not with blood but with old green smears. Crushed herbs, perhaps, or something else. There were cuts along your fingers that were half-healed as though you'd been working for hours.

"You really knew?" Dunk said quietly.

You walked past him, carrying your copious amount of supplies. "I told you...the wind."

Egg hurried to keep up. "What did it say?"

"It said a good man was being taken." You replied. "It said that two young princes would follow a knight true at heart. It said grief would come hidden behind duty."

The path back was not the same path in reverse. Dunk was sure of it. The trees had shifted. The ground rose where it had been flat. He would have been lost in minutes, but the crow flew overhead, and the woman followed it without a moment of hesitation.

Valarr watched her hands, he didn't want to look too closely at her eyes no matter how welcoming they seemed. He watched her hands instead because they seemed safer.

Her hands were full.

A bowl was held carefully against her hip, a small bundle of different herbs tied with twine in the other. A pouch at her belt bumped softly with each step, heavy with whatever she'd packed, chalk, charcoal, bones, stones and perhaps even teeth. Strips of cloth were folded and tucked under her elbow, even the crow seemed to add weight, hopping from branch to branch over her.

Valarr's throat worked. He had been told, like many other followers of the Seven, that women like this were snares. That you did not speak too freely to them. That you did not accept gifts, and you did not offer help, because that would be an invitation, and that could become a binding.

But then he glanced ahead, imaging his father's tent, the way the man's chest barely rose. And teachings, for all their weight and worth, did not keep a man alive.

She stepped over a root without looking, like she knew where it would be before it was there. Her balance was too sure for someone carrying so much.

Still.

Valarr could not stand behind her like a boy being led. He had to do something with his hands, if only to stop him from thinking of what fate awaits his beloved father.

He moved closer, careful not to brush her sleeve. His voice came out steadier than he felt it. "- My lady." The words tasted strange in his mouth. He had addressed ladies of court with silks and jewels and perfumed hair. This woman smelled of damp earth, which actually might've been more appealing than the perfume, to be honest.

You did not slow or turn your head. "I'm no lady."

Valarr's ears warmed, but he kept walking alongside you, matching your pace. "Then..." He swallowed and cursed himself for fumbling like a squire. "Then-"

Your eyes flicked to him briefly, quick and assessing. "Then speak... my prince."

"You are... carrying a great deal." He gestured, awkwardly, at the bowl, the bundles, at everything. "Might I carry something?"

For a heartbeat, he thought she might laugh. Instead, she looked ahead and said nothing at all.

He held his hands out slightly, palms open, in the universal posture of 'I mean no harm'. It felt ridiculous.

"I can carry the bowl," he added quickly, before pride could choke him. "Or the cloth. Whatever you wish."

She slowed then, and her gaze slid to his hands. He got that odd feeling that he was being tested. "You're afraid of me." You stated. It was not an accusation, it was an observation.

Valarr's jaw tightened. Lying would be pointless. "Yes."

"And still you offer."

"Yes," he said again, because there was no other answer. His voice dropped without his permission. "Because my father is dying."

You made a quiet sound, almost a sign, almost a snort, and adjusted your grip. "You've been taught to fear us." Then again, though you look more amused now. "And it is not just because your father is dying."

Valarr's brows drew together. He kept his hand out anyway, stubbornly open. "Then why?" He asked, and it came out more honest than princely. "Why would I-"

She didn't look at him when she answered. Her eyes stayed on the path. "Because you're a good person," she said simply.

The words landed wrong, like a cloak thrown over him that doesn't quite fit. Valarr almost stumbled on a root he didn't see. "I-" he began, then stopped. Praise from courtiers was easy, they always wanted something. This didn't sound like that.

The witch glanced back at him then. "Don't argue. It's clear as day." She looked at the space around him, over his shoulder, as if searching.

Valarr looked down. "You don't know me."

"I can see it. Do not tell me what I can and cannot see. It's right there." You gestured around him. "You cannot escape it."

He forced himself to stay calm. "What," he said, carefully, "is there?"

You exhaled through her nose, the smallest hint of impatience. "Your aura," she said, like naming it made it easier to understand. "The shape of you."

Valarr stared at her profile, trying to decide if this was some trick meant to unsettle him. "That's not a thing."

"It's a thing," she replied. "It's just not something people are taught to notice. But some people are more sensitive to them. Have you ever gotten a bad feeling about someone you've just met? It's similar, just deeper."

He frowned. "An aura."

"Yes." She shifted the items in her arms. "Everyone has one. Some people glow like hearth fires. Some people are like smoke, cunning, and not to be trusted. Others are... cold."

Valarr's fingers flexed, hands unsure of what to do with themselves. "And mine?" He asked before he could stop himself.

"Yours is clean... warm... and light." She said slowly, like she was trying to select the truest word. "Not spotless. No one is. But clean like river water over stone. Purifying. It tells me that others are cleansed in your presence. You inspire others to do better. I imagine your father's is much the same." It shouldn't have pleased him the way it did, it did soothe his nerves though. "Your aura leans forward. Towards people. Toward the needs of others. The cruel ones don't do that, they curl inwards. They take."

Valarr swallowed. “And you can tell that just by looking.”

“I can,” she said. “It’s why fear doesn’t impress me. Half the men who fear witches are good men who were taught wrong. The other half are bad men who don’t want others to see them for what they are. Vermin.”

His hands hovered again, still offered. “Then let me carry something,” he said, stubborn. “If you can see what I am, then you can see I mean it.”

"...Very well," she said at last. She leaned forward and held out the bowl, herbs, and other bits and pieces that were hidden in the folds of her clothes.

He took them with both hands, careful, reverent despite himself.

"Don't let it touch the ground," she told him.

"I won't."

"And don't let anyone else touch it. I've only allowed you to."

"No one will," Valarr promised, and meant it with a fierceness that surprised him.

You believed him, and not just because his father's life was on the line.

Egg lifted his head like a hound catching a scent. "We're close." He whispered.

Dunk didn't answer, but he could see torchlight now between the trunks, they shone like little wavering stars that made the dark seem less endless.

The elder prince kept a half step behind the witch, items steady in his hands. Her loyal crow swooped over the camp's edge and landed on a stake, watching the tents like a sentry. A few men nearby saw it and made signs against ill-luck without thinking. They knew that the crown prince's life hung in the balance, and under normal circumstances, a crow would be the last thing you wanted to see.

"Seven save us," someone muttered. The words made your skin prickle, made it burn. When Dunk turned to look at you, knowing the effect such words could have, you looked unimpressed if a little uncomfortable. Gods and curses were small talk you'd grown bored of years ago.

A guard stepped forward with a hand raised. "Halt. Who goes-" He got as far as the princes before stopping, startled. "Prince-"

"Enough, Prince Baelor is dying." Dunk had said, voice rough.

The guard's eyes darted to Valarr as if astonished that the hedge knight was making a demand, but the prince had nothing to say. He didn't think he could speak even if the Gods demanded it of him. Not with his father so close. The guard looked to the woman beside them, silent, and he hesitated, confusion and suspicion making him stupid.

It was Egg's voice that cut through, steady with command. "Out of our way."

Rank did what fear could not. The guard stepped aside at once, and the group of men around him shifted as if the ground was burning. They watched the witch pass with a morbid fascination.

"That's a woods-woman-"

"Gods above, she's got charms-"

Egg tucked closer to Dunk, as if the words were being sent his way. Dunk wanted to scoop him up and hide him in his cloak like a pup.

The witch moved through the camp as if walking through mist. Knights, squires, and servants alive found themselves stepping away as she grew closer.

They reached Baelor's pavilion, and Dunk shoved the flap aside. The maester looked up sharply, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. "Ser Duncan, you cannot simply-" He fell upon the woman, and his voice faltered before returning twice as sharp. "What is this? Who is that?"

Egg rushed towards the bed. "He's still breathing," he whispered, relief and terror mixing as he watched his Uncle's chest barely lift.

Valarr stepped in behind them, holding the supplies as if it were Baelor's skull in his hands. The maester's eyes widened at the sight of a prince holding items for a witch like a serving boy.

You stood still for a heartbeat, taking in the area. Then your gaze went to Baelor's face, and something in you shifted, recognition. "He's slipping," you said, the words sliding off your tongue without meaning to.

The maester bristled at her words. "And you, are a-"

"A nuisance," you supplied, calmly as ever. "Yes, have you anything useful to say, or shall I get to work?"

Dunk flinched, expecting outrage, but the maester's mouth opened, shut, and opened again like a fish. He couldn't quite believe the audacity.

Valarr's voice came controlled, but there was steel to be found there as well. "She has come to help."

"To help?" The maester reiterated like the idea was unfathomable. "This is a prince of the blood. This is- this is-"

"-a man," the witch said, and the simplicity cut through his indignation. You stepped closer to the bed and stopped just shy of touching. "A man with his skull caved in."

Her eyes flicked to the maester's chain around his neck. Then to the tools of his kit, the buckles, the metal clasps.

"No steel inside the circle," You said, moving items off the floor so that you might place down a cover that you can draw on.

You drew out a large circumference before gesturing Dunk and Valarr over to the cot that held Baelor. "Prince, give me your items. You two are going to lift him, carefully, into the middle of the circle. Turn him until I say so."

She gestured forward with her head as her hands were now full again, and both men wasted no time before lifting the prince up by the wooden slats on either side. They slowly moved into the circle, as to not disturb the crown prince.

Once in the centre, they moved in opposite directions to change Baelor's orientation. "Stop," The word came suddenly from the witch's lips. "Put him down gently."

Egg stepped around the circle, not quite sure what he was allowed to do. "Why does he need to face this way?"

"His head is to the east. So that the sun might shine its light on his soul first."

It made no sense to anyone else in the room, and Valarr honestly had no idea how she could tell the cardinal directions from inside a tent just off feeling alone, but realised that if she could see auras, then this truly wasn't all that weird, all things considered.

Valarr swallowed as he looked down at his father. "Tell us what you need," he said, because that was something he could do, something that sounded like a command rather than a plea.

The witch held out the bowl to him, "Place this at the foot of the bed," she said. "Carefully."

Valarr knelt, the movement looked wrong on him, and yet he did so without hesitation. He set the bowl down as if it were a sleeping babe.

"Good," she murmured.

The witch's fingers brushed the air over Baelor's bandages, not touching, hovering as if feeling for heat. Though Dunk knew she had lost that ability long ago. Her hand trembled once, subtly.

The maester's eyes narrowed. "Whatever you plan, I will not permit-"

"You will," she said without looking at him. She drew herbs, charcoal and other items they could not name from her satchel. "Because if you don't, he will die."

Silence swallowed the tent. The maester went still at that before falling back helpless.

She moved around the circle silently, drawing insignias into the circle at seemingly random spots. They were too old and too wrong to be letters. A few times, she flicked a few drops of mysterious substance onto the chalk line, and the air seemed to thicken.

"A boundary," she spoke unprompted. "To ward of spirits that might wish to take advantage of Prince Baelor's predicament."

She finished the last mark and sat back on her heels before looking up at all of them. "Now, move nothing unless I tell you. Speak to him only if I ask. And if anyone breaks my line-" her eyes slid to the maester, "-then you will watch as the spirits tear him apart."

Valarr's breath trembled in anticipation. "I won't let anyone touch it," he said. Just as fierce as back in the forest. The witch's gaze softened with approval. Then she nodded once and turned back to Baelor as if the rest of them had become nothing more than furniture.

The witch dipped two fingers into the bowl at the foot of the bed that she'd poured another unknown liquid into (it was grey-tinted but that was about all they could make out. She drew a wet line down Baelor's wrist, then another along the inside of his forearm.

She murmured under her breath, nothing in the common tongue. An ancient language only she seemed to know. Valarr couldn't make any sense of them, but his skin prickled at their sound nonetheless.

She pressed her palm, very lightly, against Baelor's breastbone. "Breathe," she told him. It was a command, but a light one, like she was coaxing him into it. Like she'd commanded Dunk, years ago, with blood in his mouth and death close enough to taste.

Baelor's breath hitched.

Egg's eyes went wide, and he looked to Dunk, who didn't seem all that surprised. Just hopeful. Valarr leaned forward on his feet and stopped himself from approaching his father with visible effort.

She closed her eyes. Her brow knit in concentration. Her hand moved to the side of his father's neck where the pulse lived. The flame of the lantern dipped.

"It's time to return." She whispered, meant only for Baelor. "It doesn't have to be all the way. Just enough." She paused again before continuing, quieter now. "Your son is waiting."

Her fingers of her right hand slid to the bandage at the back of his skull while her left hand picked herbs from her satchel. She slid the greens into the Prince's mouth with little fuss, and he swallowed them down on his own.

The maester wasn't looking at the witch but at his prince's face, desperate and helpless. "Father above," he whispered so that only those closest to him could hear. Dunk and Egg. "Mother, have mercy. Warrior, lend him strength..."

She could not hear the prayer, and it wasn't meant as a weapon, but Dunk watched as the witch's fingers tightened into a fist. A faint hiss escaped her teeth.

It wasn't in pain per se, but rather irritation, like how one might act when a mosquito flies too close and draws blood. The skin above the veins in her hands flushed red as if her blood began to boil.

Egg didn't notice, but Valarr certainly did. "What-?" His breath caught.

The witch looked over her shoulder, searching for the cause of her irritation. She looked past them, trying to keep her attention tethered to Baelor and not the sour sting crawling under her skin. "Pray in your mind... or better yet, go outside," she said, words clipped.

The maester faltered mid-prayer, startled more by her tone than anything else. "I am praying for the prince," he stammered, defensive and ashamed all at once. "Not against you."

Dunk swallowed, he had seen this before when he'd run into the witch sometime ago. Intent mattered. He'd watched her burn worse when men and women alike prayed at her, not for someone. When the faith was a blade, and she was the target.

Despite the fear being for Baelor and not of her, it still scraped because, despite what people liked to hope, their gods were not merciful. And they had no love for her.

The witch flexed her hand once, shaking off the nettle sting. "I'm aware. But your gods don't like me, and they'll take any chance to strike me even if you don't mean to. If you must pray, please specify that they do not harm me. That would be much appreciated."

The maester's lips pressed together at her words. He looked torn between indignation and desperation. "Why?" He demanded, and truthfully, Valarr wished to know as well. "If you do good, with your... abilities. If you truly mean to save him, why would the Seven-?"

"Because I'm not one of theirs, and if you wish for the truth?" She said, looking at them fully now. "Fate has decided that Baelor should die today. They don't like that I've made a habit of disagreeing, or actively fighting back." The red on her skin had faded now, and she seemed more comfortable.

They had nothing to say to that. Fate has decided...

The maester continued to pray quietly, but must have heeded her words because she didn't respond like before.

Her fingers hovered at the back of Baelor's head again. She did not touch, but she held her palm there. Baelor's chest rose.

Then rose again, smoother than the last.

You shifted your stance, bracing yourself, and then you began the real work. Murmuring those old words again, tracing invisible lines over Baelor's throat and brow, forcefully anchoring his breath.

"Now," you murmured, "Stay." The words landed heavily in the same space. Egg swallowed hard, and Valarr's nails dug into his palms.

Baelor's chest rose steadier yet, like he'd settled into sleep instead of death. Your hands slowed, and your lips moved one last time. Then you lifted your fingers up through the air as though you were closing an unseen door.

She sat back on her heels inside the chalk circle, and nothing happened. There was no sudden gasp, or opening of eyes, and certainly no sudden miracles.

Egg let out a thin breath that sounded like it might've been trapped in him for hours. "Is... is it done?" He whispered.

You didn't answer straight away. You were staring down at your hands as if they belonged to someone else. You flexed your hands, once, slow and then placed the palm against the earth, grounding yourself like you'd told Dunk to do long ago.

"It's done, "she said at last, voice flat with fatigue. "Now we wait."

The maester's hand hovered uselessly over his kit. "If the swelling-"

"Will settle," she cut in "If you stop jostling him like a sack of grain. Keep him dim. Keep him quiet. Let him sleep. You'll know within a few hours if the thread holds."

"Hours." Egg repeated, maybe he could bargain with time by saying the word.

You reached into your pouch and drew out a bundle wrapped in cloth. You loosened it and spilled its contents onto the ground. Bones, all kinds of bones, and a set of worn cards with edges softened by use, their faces marked with inked figures.

"I can look," you offered, as if you were speaking of checking the weather. "Bones and cards. But it won't change what's been decided. It will tell us which way the wind is blowing."

Valarr stepped forward as you gestured for him. As Baelor's son, he should be the one present. He stared at the bone as if they might bite. "You can... see the future."

"I can talk to the wind, I can see auras, I can read the cards and the bones to see what is possible. The paths. Visions of the future come more rarely, even if I do know the gist of what is to happen."

She lifted one of the cards, pinched it between two fingers, and for a moment Dunk saw her blink, once, twice, like a woman trying to fight sleep. Her face tightened with confusion.

She held the card closer to the lanternlight.

Egg leaned in, curiosity fighting fear. "What does it say?"

The witch stared at the card as if the ink had shifted without looking. "It says..." she paused before she brought the lantern closer, and realisation settled on her features. "Ah, it says what it has always said."

The men looked between each other, somewhat confused. She looked from the card before lifting the herbs next to her to the light, fingers brushing over the more colourful flowers attached to them. Then, she looked up towards, the tapestry hung on the wall. The intricate weaves. The colours. She hummed, nodding to herself as if taking stock of her surroundings like they were brand new.

"There's no need to worry yet. It's my own affliction that is confusing me, not the prince's."

Dunk's stomach tightened, because he'd recognised that look. He'd seen it once before, when you'd saved him and gingerly reached for the campfire like it was a stray dog that might bite. Back then he'd thought you were only tired, now he thinks he knows better.

"Come closer, Prince," you said, and Valarr obeyed at once, sitting in front of you as you gestured his down.

You turned to your bones first, forsaking the cards. They gathered in your palm, warming with your breath as you whispered into them. You cast them onto the cloth.

They clicked as they fell, the sound too loud in a tent too quiet.

You leaned in and studied the way they'd landed. Valarr watched your face with intent as you hummed, turning back to your cards once more.

You spread them out in a neat arch, you held your hand out over them in demonstration. "You are his closest blood, so it will be more accurate if you do this part." Valarr's spine straightened with your words. "Hold out your hand like so." He hovered his hand over the cards, and you placed yours over his. Your touch was ice cold despite the heat in the tent. "Now, you will move your hand over the cards. The relevant cards will move on their own."

Gingerly, he did as he was told. Palm flat over the cards, he moved it slowly and watched with awe as cards nudged towards you from the neat arch you had laid them.

You lifted your hand away at last and gestured towards the bones. "Three of them are strong. One is weak." Your gaze flicked up to Valarr's eyes. "That's good odds for living."

Then you turned the first card, the second and the third.

A figure inked in black stood upright, arms raised as if holding up a roof. The second card showed water, dark and contained. The third was a wheel. You stared for a long moment, then nodded, a short decisive motion that made Egg's shoulders sag with sudden, shaky relief.

"He wakes."

Valarr's whole body went taught, as if someone yanked a string through his limbs. "When?" He demanded, too quickly, too hungry.

You didn't snap at him for it like Dunk thought you would've. You looked back to Baelor and spoke with the same blunt certainty you'd used when you'd told him to breath. "Not tonight. Tomorrow perhaps. The bones say it will be sooner rather than later." You fiddled with a few of the pieces. "Long before the sun reaches its peak in the sky, soon after the it rises in the east."

"He'll be...him?" Egg asked, they knew what magic could do to one's soul if used incorrectly.

"He'll be him," you confirmed. You drew another card from the arch and observed its contents. "He'll have headaches. Bad ones, some days. And if he is too stressed or angry, his body may seize." Your gaze cut to the maester. "Turn him on his side. Clear his mouth. Don't put a spoon between his teeth like fools. Let it pass. They will not kill him."

The maester blinked, and despite his previous disdain he absorbed the knowledge readily. "Treatable," he said, like he was tasting the concept.

Valarr swallowed. "No graver affliction?" He asked, voice small like a young boy's.

You shook your head. "I have seen blindness after my work, Paralysis. But the cards preempted those issues then. If they do not speak of it now, it will not become a problem."

Dunk's knees threatened to give, relief hitting him like a blow. He braced a hand on the bedpost to stay upright. For a moment, no one spoke but then Valarr looked up at you, and duty returned to his face like armour sliding into place.

"What do you want?" he asked. "For payment. If he wakes up, we will give you anything. Truly."

The maester's head jerked up, and Egg went still. Dunk knew they had nothing to worry about, you had never asked for payment before. Ypu didn't even glance at them. You looked at Baelor, then your face twisted in something like weary amusement.

Men and their payments.

"I want you to keep him alive," you said. "This man will be king and he will be a great one. He will be respected but he will also be loved. He will do many great things."

Valarr blinked. "That's-" he faltered, searching for the proper words. "That's not payment."

"It is to me," you replied, simply.

"But-" He swallowed again. "Gold. Land. Protection. A vow. Anything. Name it."

You leaned back on your hands. "I will stay," you said simply. "To ensure his care...After that, you owe me nothing." You added a shrug on the end as if the deal had already been made.

Valarr's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion of you, but in suspicion of the world. Magic of this kind did not come without cost. Of all the things he'd been taught, that was a certainty like a statue.

"Nothing?" he repeated. "That's not-" Possible, he stopped. His gaze slid over you, the way you held yourself too still, the faint tremor you hid. His eyes dropped to your cards, then the fire which you'd kept glancing at when you thought no one was looking.

"You..." Valarr began, voice rough. Dunk felt it, the moment the thought finally found Valarr and settled behind his eyes. If the debt was paid, and no one else had paid it... then-

"You paid it."

You hummed quietly, and your fingers gathered the bones and the cards around you.

His throat bobbed. "What did it cost?"

You didn't answer immediately. Not because you couldn't, but because saying it out loud always made it real in a way you preferred to avoid. Your fingers paused over the bones and then resumed your careful gathering.

"Enough," you said, voice tired.

Valarr's jaw tightened. "That isn't an answer."

You looked up them, and the lanternlight caught your eyes. Dunk saw it clearly now, how your gaze didn't settle on the bright things in the pavilion the way others might. Earlier, you were taking in the shapes and edges. The card you'd held when you got confused held intricate colours, in the dim lighting even Dunk could see that from his distance. It was one of the few reasons he was able to discern what it depicted.

It was strange that you couldn't, you'd had to bring the lantern to it to figure out which card it was.

"What colour is the tapestry?" His voice came unbidden, you'd looked at earlier in your confusion. You'd analysed it carefully.

You blinked once, slow. "I can see it. I can't see what colour it is."

Dunk swallowed. "You could," he said. "You could see colours earlier."

"A few hours ago, yes." You agreed. Your mouth twitched with what might be humour.

Valarr's hands curled at his sides. "So that's what it cost. You paid with-"

"With a piece," you finished for him. "A sliver of my soul. Pieces can be given to hold the door open for those who have lost their way."

Egg hugged himself. "Why would you do that?"

You looked at them again. "Because fate takes," you said. "It takes the good in the world and leaves the rest as a lesson. I've never been fond of such lessons. Besides, what is the importance of colour? Compared to the magnificence of a future King?"

Valarr stared at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "And when there is nothing left?" He asked.

You shrugged casually. "Then I die," you said. "I will have given myself away one threat at a time."

The prince edged forward, hands fisting and unfisting at his side. "Tell me how to repay you," he said, voice strained. "Tell me what to give so you don't have to keep-"

You shook your head once. "There is nothing to replace what has been lost. It cannot be made right. But perhaps there is one small thing you can do." Valarr looked up at you as you extended the olive branch. "I will stay to tend to Prince Baelor. I would appreciate if you men refrained from calling me a monster and trying to make your gods strike me harder than they already have."

Valarr's jaw tightened. "No one will touch you," he promised with steel. He knew his father would agree, he would be grateful that you saved his life magic or not because you'd done it selflessly and Baelor had always appreciated acts of selflessness.

You nodded, as if considering the way you'd considered his aura. "Good."

"Now," you said briskly, as if you hadn’t just confessed your own slow death, "sit with him. Quietly. If he stirs, don’t crowd him. If he seizes, don’t panic. If the maester starts bleeding him because he doesn’t know what else to do, stop him."

The maester bristled faintly, but you only chuckled at his ire. Valarr's voice cracked despite him. "And you?" He asked. "Are you- are you alright?"

Other than giving away part of your soul, predicament.

You paused, before your expression softened into a grateful smile, something kind and gentle. "I will be."

Morning came slowly.

The pavilion was dim by design, the flap kept mostly shut so the sun could not stab its spears of light inside. Still, it crept in around the seams, pale in the early hour, turning everything into soft shapes. The camp was waking as well, muffled bootsteps, a horse snorting nearby, distant voices trying to speak quietly and failing.

Valarr had not slept. Not properly. He'd sat with his back to a tent pole until the ache in his back became familiar, his thoughts became sludge several times throughout the night before he forced them to sharpen. He counted his father's breaths like a prayer.

Now it was just the three of them in the Pavilion. You and Valarr. The maester had been sent away at dawn, 'to fetch fresh water,' Valarr had said, and the man had gone with a stiff nod. Dunk had been ordered to get something to eat, and Egg had been peeled away only after he fell asleep sitting upright, head lolling against a bedpost like a little doll with its strings cut.

Valarr remained, as did you.

You were turning something over in your fingers, a little charm made of twine and bone. You rolled it as if doing so helped keep you tethered.

"You can listen to the wind, you can see auras. What else can you do?" Valarr asked quietly.

You didn't look up. "Plenty."

"That's not an answer," he muttered, and even exhausted, he couldn't quite keep the princely edge from his voice.

Valarr shifted, wincing as pins and needles bit his legs. “You said you can see auras,” he said. “You can talk to the wind. You can read bones and cards.”

You watched Baelor's chest rise and fall before you answered. "Sometimes," you said, "things people have carried for a long time tend to carry them back."

Valarr frowned, "That's a riddle."

"It's true," you corrected, and your eyes slid over him in that quiet, measuring way. "Give me something of yours. Something you've had for a while."

His brows drew together. "Why?"

"You asked what else I could do?" She parried with a mischievous smile. "And because you'll understand the so-called riddle."

Valarr hesitated, then reached down toward his belt. He moved carefully, and his fingers found a small buckle hidden beneath his doublet, old and worn at the edges. Not steel.

He held it in his palm for a moment before offering it to you.

"It was on my first belt," he said. "When I was little. My mother had it made." His voice softened.

Your fingers closed around the buckle, and the change was small but unmistakable. Your thumb traced the carved vine, guiding you somewhere.

"Sunlight," You finally spoke. "Through light curtains." Your voice was quiet, as though you didn't want to disturb what you were seeing. "A chamber that smells of beeswax and... oranges. Someone is humming." You paused, brow creasing with faint surprise.

"You're laughing. You're-" Your eyes flicked under your lids like tracking a moving thing. "You've got the belt on wrong. Twice around your waist. You speak of being ready to be a knight already. You're about two feet tall."

Valarr's lips parted, and let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh. "I did," he said, voice warm with recognition. He'd forgotten about that. "Gods, I did that."

You nodded, still half in the memory. "She kneels before you," he said, and for a heartbeat, your tone gentled. "Because you're small, proud, and won't ask for help." Your thumb stilled on the buckle. "Her hands are quick, though her nails are bitten. She smells like rosewater." A wide smile came to your face at the feeling of maternal care, it was bright. Like you were experiencing warmth for the first time. Your own mother had never cared for you in such away, especially not after discovering what you were capable of.

You continued, voice low. "She says-" You paused. "You'll be tall one day. But you'll always be my boy."

Valarr's breath left him slowly. He stared at the buckle in your fingers like it had just given him his mother back for a moment. Not just her life. Her voice, her smile. Alive and ordinary.

You blinked again, and your gaze returned fully to the tent, to Valarr's face. You held the buckle a moment longer, then extended it back to him

"Thank you," you said simply.

Valarr took it carefully, reverent without meaning to be. "For what?" he asked.

"For sharing her with me," you replied. "Even if you didn't mean to." Your mouth curved again, small and sincere. "Memories are sacred. People guard them. They lose them. You let me hold one."

Valarr swallowed, the buckle warm in his palm from your touch. "I had lost it. It felt like remembering properly."

"Yes," you murmured. Then, after a beat, you added, almost gently, "Your mother was beautiful."

Valarr's eyes stung. He didn't look away this time.

"She was," he said, voice rough with gratitude. "She really was."

You nodded, and it settled something inside you.

And then Baelor made a small wet sound in his throat. Valarr's head snapped toward the bed. Baelor's fingers twitched beneath the blanket, and you both sharpened to attention.

Every muscle in Valarr's body was braced. Baelor's lips parted and a breath dragged in deeper than either of you had heard from him all night.

Valarr swallowed loudly. "Father?" he whispered.

Baelor twitched stronger this time. The hand nearest the edge of the blanket flexed as if searching for something to hold. His brow pinched in the faintest grimace.

Pain, Valarr realised. But pain arrived with waking. You were already rummaging around your bag for some pain relief for the prince when his lashes fluttered.

He hovered in place, trembling like a man caught at the edge of a cliff. You lifted one hand, palm outward, a quiet signal for patience.

Baelor's eyes opened. They were half-lidded and unfocused, like he was surfacing from deep water, but his gaze was searching across the tent.

His mouth moved, and no sound came at first. He swallowed and tied again.

"W-" he rasped, voice rough. "Where..."

Valarr's chest tightened so hard it hurt. "You're safe," he said quickly, too quickly. "You're safe, Father. It's me. I'm here."

Baelor searched until his eyes snagged on his son's face. Recognition didn't bloom all at once. It struggled through the fog and then, like a door finally finding its latch, it caught.

"Valarr," Baelor breathed.

Valarr's eyes burned again. He nodded hard. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes. I'm here."

The crown prince tried to lift his head and immediately winced. Instinctively, his hand rose towards the back of his skull, searching for the damage.

You moved just enough to intercept. Catching his wrist with the gentlest pressure and guiding the hand back down to the blanket.

"No, my prince," you spoke, close and steady. "Leave it and breathe."

Baelor's gaze moved to the sound of your voice. He stared at you, trying to piece together the wreckage that was your mind. His brow furrowed.

"Who...?" He managed, and the word broke apart around the edges.

"A friend," Valarr said, voice thick. He swallowed and tried again, softer. "She saved you."

Baelor's eyes lingered on you, then his gaze drifted to the crow that was now perched above him. It clicked its beak and cawed loudly.

His lips twitched, a small smile. "A... crow." he rasped like it was the strangest thing in the world.

Valarr almost laughed and cried at one. "Yes. Yes, a crow."

"Sorry. He can get excited." You added looking up at the bird.

The elder prince suddenly looked exhausted. Waking must have taken everything he had. His voice came again, fainter now. "My head..."

"It must hurt. I can remedy that." You said matter-of-factly. "You were struck hard but you're going to be okay."

"Maekar. He must be worried." He whispered.

Of all things Baelor could have reached for in the fog, he reached for his brother. Even now.

"He is," Valarr said quietly. He glanced at you and then back to his father. "He's... he's beside himself."

Baelor's brow furrowed in confusion. "I remember him hitting me. He was trying to get to Aerion."

Valarr nodded once, and despite his anger at his Uncle, he spoke honestly. "He didn't intend-"

"I know," Baelor breathed, and the certainty in it was astounding. "He didn't mean for this."

Forgiveness offered before anyone had even asked for it. Baelor truly was unchanged.

You stepped forward with a small vial. "This will help," you said softly, holding it to Baelor's mouth. "For the pain. It won't steal your mind the way poppy does."

Baelor's eyes flicked to you, still dazed, but he drank when you pushed your hand forward.

Valarr watched the way his father's breathing remained even.

Alive. Alive.

Baelor exhaled, long and slow. "Thank you," and the gratitude in it wasn't courtly, but honest and true.

You inclined your head. "Rest," you replied, like it was the only thanks you would accept.

Baelor’s eyes closed, not in collapse this time, but in surrender to healing. His breathing stayed steady, no wet hitch, no faltering thread, just sleep taking him gently.

Silence settled in the pavilion.

Valarr sat very still, listening to his father’s breaths until he could trust them. Only then did he turn his head toward you.

You were gathering your things again, cards stacked, bones wrapped, the little twine charm rolled between your fingers as if it anchored you. The way you moved was careful, economical, like someone who had learned not to waste anything... not even motion.

Valarr stared at you for a long moment. Then he stood, slowly, as if he was afraid to disturb the air.

"I don’t know how to say it properly," he said, voice low. "I’ve been taught manners and gratitude and a hundred pretty phrases that mean nothing when you've-" He faltered, then forced the words through. "When you gave up part of yourself for him."

You didn’t look up. “Don’t make it into worship, prince.”

“I’m not,” Valarr said quickly. His voice roughened. “I’m-” He swallowed. “I’m thanking you.”

You paused, just a fraction. Your fingers stilled on the cloth bundle. Valarr exhaled shakily. “He spoke Maekar’s name first,” he said, almost to himself. Wonder and heartbreak tangled together. “Even after… even after what happened.”

“That’s who he is,” you murmured.

Valarr nodded. “That’s why it mattered.” He took another breath, steadier now. “Maekar thinks he’s killed him.”

You hummed, quiet. "Then you should go and end that misery before it festers."

Valarr’s jaw tightened. "I will." His gaze flicked to his father’s sleeping form, then back to you. "But-" He hesitated, and his cheeks warmed. "When he’s more awake... when he understands what happened... he’ll want to thank you himself."

You snorted softly, humourless. "Kings and princes always want to thank with gold and promises."

"He’ll want more than that," Valarr said, and there was certainty in it now, born of knowing his father. "He’ll want to keep you close." He looked away briefly, embarrassed by how it sounded. "Not as a... not as a prisoner. As protection. As honour. As-"

You seemed to understand. For a moment you almost look caught out, like someone who's spent a lifetime slipping through the cracks and had forgotten what it felt like to be offered a door.

"That's dangerous," you said.

Valarr met your gaze. "So is letting you vanish back into the woods after what you've done," he replied, voice firm. "Many saw you come enter the camp with us, they know why you've come. Once they discover that Baelor has survived such an injury, they might come hunting.

Valarr's fingers curled around the old buckle in his palm. "I won't force you, and I won't allow anyone else to either," he said. "But... if he asks, will you at least hear him?"

"I’ll stay until I’m sure he’s steady," you said at last. "That was my word."

Valarr’s throat bobbed. "And after?"

You looked back at him, eyes that saw the world in shape and shadow now, but still saw people with unnerving clarity. "After," you said, "we’ll see what the wind says."

Valarr nodded, accepting that as the closest thing to a promise you would give. He stepped carefully around the chalk line, stopping at its edge like a man respecting a border. Then he bowed sincerely.

"Thank you," he said again, and this time the words didn’t shake. "Truly."

Your mouth curved, faint and tired. "Go," you told him. "Before your uncle makes himself sick with guilt."

Valarr turned toward the pavilion flap, hand already reaching for it, then paused and glanced back once.

Baelor slept on. Alive.

And you sat beside him in the dim, a witch in a prince’s tent, having given him a piece of her soul to ensure his survival.

Valarr swallowed, steadying himself with that sight, and slipped out into the waking camp to go find Maekar, and end one brother’s torment with a simple, impossible truth.

He lives.

Boy oh boy, I am churning these out. The creative juices are flowing. My boy Valarr, I love him with all my heart, and obviously I had to write Baelor surviving cause we all know he would've been the best Targaryen king.