The Portents Had It Wrong | Part 7
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Baelor Targaryen x f!reader fix it fic
Masterlist
Summary: You have been tasked with looking after four members of the King's Guard who have stumbled into your Lord's keep in the middle of a stormy night. One of them is the Crown Prince in disguise and he's badly injured. You have learned more than you expected, and shared more than you ought to have. The night is drawing to a close, but the connection between you draws you both closer to each other as well...
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You pull back and stand. He remains sitting, with your hand in still held in his, looking up at you with that same quiet delight from earlier in the night, like you are a wonderful surprise that he didn't even know to expect.
You hate it, but you draw your hand free and he lets you. You both linger as much as you can though, he rubs his thumb over your ring, you let the pads of your fingertips press against his as you part.
By the time Tarly swings the door open, you're already checking the boiling bandages over the fire and the Prince has retaken the shape of a simple injured knight awaiting treatment. His head and face tilted down, eyes closed.
There's one of the visiting nobles personal servants standing half in the doorway while Tarly talks cheerfully of breakfast preparation. The servants eyes skitter over you, the Captain (in the middle of chopping apples with the largest of the cook's knives), and the Prince. You are using the handle end of the ladle to pull up the strips of fabric from the kettle and raise a querying eyebrow at the servant.
"Yes, good sir? Is there something I can help you find for your Lord?"
"Uh, apologies my good woman -"
"My lady," the Prince, Tarly and the Captain all correct in the exact same tone startling you into nearly dropping the ladle.
"Oh! I'm sorry, my lady, I uh, wasn't aware.." the servant looks painfully awkward now in addition to being bewildered.
"No harm done, at all. What can I assist you with?"
"Nothing!" He yelps, going bright red. "I think I misunderstood my lords request. I'm sure there's plenty of food in the hall I'll just go there."
"As you like," you say agreeably. It's not this poor man's fault he's here under a false impression. You're willing to bet whatever story Lady Rae is spinning out amongst the insomniacs still around carrying on has passed through probably two or three people before it reached whoever this poor man's Lord is. "Let me know if there's anything else. The breakfast feast will be served at nine bells."
"As you say, my lady, thank you," he bows, practically scraping as he goes. Tarly gives the Captain a look that you can't interpret and the Captain gives some kind of communicative nod back.
You decide you're better off not asking.
Tarly closes the door again after taking his place on the other side of it. That won't last much longer you know. The baker and the cook will be up with the cock's crow and whatever privacy the Prince has is swiftly ending. Thankfully, the bandages will dry quickly being hung so close to the fire.
"Did you happen to recognize that servant's livery? What house does he serve?" The Prince asks, his tone full of false nonchalance, his eyes still closed.
You smile despite yourself and use your apron to swing the kettle out of the fire. Carefully you pour the water down the grate and set the kettle aside.
"I'm afraid not, your Grace," you say airily, not bothering to hide the fib.
"Liar," he says quietly, almost fondly, looking at you finally, assured that some poor servant isn't going to stumble back in and surprise you all.
You check the tea pot and see that there's another dose in it. You refill the Prince's mug, and hand it back to him.
"Ask me not these kinds of questions, my Prince, and I'll tell you no lies," you tease with a fond smile of your own.
"Still protecting me?"
You don't answer, because you don't want to lie about that, not even as a half truth. You are protecting him, yes. Though maybe not in the exact way he thinks, and not him alone. You don't want to think of his fate or yours, if the lords in this house discover the Crown Prince sitting at the kitchen table.
"Drink your tea, your Grace," you bid instead. And quickly flip his clothing over on the rail so the other side dries. The lighter tabbard is thankfully almost fully dry, though the gambeson might be still a bit damp by the time the Prince puts it back on. The breeches look fine, through the cuffs are now stiff from the mud which has dried on.
The Prince knocks back the rest of the tea, and seems much steadier than before.
"How's the stomach?" You ask briskly, moving the empty tea pot and kettle to the work table.
"Better, I'm still hungry but not as worried about eating. Which is a pleasant change." He says, after a moments consideration.
"Good, you're going to have some plain porridge then," you tell him, already checking the large pot the Captain put the oats in to soak. It is ready to go, so you take the pot and put it over the fire to start cooking.
"That doesn't sound…horrible actually." The prince says slowly, like he's surprised to not find the idea of food repulsive. That tells you his nausea really is doing better.
The Captain looks ridiculously pleased. "Do you want to try stretching your legs a bit, your Grace?"
"I suppose I should, if I'm to ride soon," the Prince agrees. He goes to get up, and both you and the Captain drop what your doing to rush to him.
"Slowly there, man-"
"Your Grace, please -"
The Prince looks at you both bemused, "I'm fine," he says, half laughing.
You and the Captain share a look this time, while the Prince rolls his eyes.
"I do not need two nursemaids, Captain, my lady."
"No, you need three probably," you retort before you can catch yourself.
The Captain chokes on a laugh of his own. "Better make it four, my lady. Easier to plan the shifts."
"Oh you're right, that's a far better idea," you agree laughing.
"You're first watch then, my lady," the Captain says, gesturing to the Prince who, to his credit, is taking it slow as he levers himself up off the hearth. He finishes rising and stretches a little, then settles on his feet and rolls his shoulders back.
You offer the Prince your arm, but rather than take it for support, he takes your hand, and tucks it into the crook of his own arm, pulling you in closer as if the two of you were going for a stroll through gardens.
"Here, if you're going to hover, let's at least make it a respectable turn about the room." The Prince says and you find yourself stepping in perfect tandem with him as he sets a sedate pace.
The Captain smiles proudly like he's executed something he had planned all along and you feel just a bit hoodwinked. Still, the Prince collapsing and hitting his head would be actually catastrophic, and this keeps him close should he prove still dizzy so you subside to being on his arm as if you were at court.
"As you like, your Grace," you say, and the two of you drift in a lazy circuit around the kitchen, past the door to the hall, past the open door to the still-room, then the rooms that make up the larder, and so on. When you pass your upright cabinet filled with your supplies, you huff at the mess you've left, already chafing a little with the need to straighten it back up.
"Did you gather all this yourself?" The Prince asks, as you walk by. He's loosening up the more he walks, lengthening his stride just a little each time as if testing himself. He remains steady and his balance seems fine.
"Most of it, some I saved to buy from merchants and tinkerers. Some comes from the household stores," you answer. Lady Rae likes to benefit from your skills, but hates having to contribute to your supplies. In the end you have a bit of an understanding with the cook, since most of your healing is done on the servants. She orders in a bit extra in terms of herbs and spices that can double as remedies, and you only charge pennies of the people she brings you.
"I didn't think most of what you've used grew in this area of Westeros," the Prince says. You smile to yourself a little, and think again of this man and his layers. Prince, knight, man.
"I came to the Havarns about a year ago, your Grace. Before that I was the guest of House Ambrose, in the Reach," you answer the question the Prince is asking. "I don't have much of a green thumb myself, but I was lady in waiting to one of the Lord's daughters who has true skill with plants. She grew anything I asked of her in her garden."
"That was kind of her," the Prince comments, and tucks your hand a little more closely into the crook of his elbow.
"It was," you agree. And it is true, the young Lady Alyn was a sweet girl. She had been very young to have you as a lady in waiting, but had risen to the occasion with the grace of someone twice her age. She hadn't cried when you were…assigned elsewhere…but she had seen you off with two entire trunks of cuttings, dried herbs, and stores of some of the harder to find things. You had actually used some of what she gave you to dye the cloth for the dress you're currently wearing.
You glance down at said dress for a moment, the deep red color of it three or four shades too dark to be truly the match the Havarn's livery. You told the Lady Rae it had been an accident that the color came out so dark. It wasn't. You wonder for a brief moment what the pair of you must look like to the Captain – you in your simple dress, dyed a deep Targaryen red and the older off white under dress, the apron you made yourself with tea leaves embroidered along the hem; and the Prince, in borrowed breeches, and a loose chemise. Simpler people with simpler lives is perhaps what you look like, you think.
Prince Baelor stops once you two reach back around to the fireplace. The bandages have stopped steaming, so you gently pull your hand away from the Prince. He lets you go, but bends at the waist in a formal, court perfect bow. That same training your mother drilled into you throughout your childhood finds you again, and you sweep your humble skirt into your hands to drop into a perfect curtsy.
"I thank you for the walk, my lady."
"It was nothing, your Grace," you reply, keeping your eyes on the floor as is proper. You can't help the smile that cracks the facade however, when you realize he's still barefoot. You rise, and find he's looking at you once again, his mismatched eyes warm.
"Your kindness should not be called 'nothing', my lady."
"It is," you insist gently. "As it costs me nothing to be kind."
He glances over his shoulder at your cabinet, at the stores you emptied for him. Then he looks back at you with an eyebrow raised in perfect question.
"Doesn't it?"
You don't look away from him.
"No," you say more firmly this time. "It does not. It never costs me anything to be kind."
He doesn't appear to have an answer for that, not that you need one. It's something your father taught you, and something you have always believed to be true. Kindness can cost time, it can cost you healing herbs, or maybe sometimes even heartbreak. But kindness offered truly, costs you, your soul, your self, nothing at all. You have been made less by many things in this life, but never have you been made less by being kind.
You give him one last respectful dip of your head, as though you were passing by each other in the hall way of the keep separated by your stations as you ought to be. And then you sweep back over to the fireplace to flip the bandages around.
The Prince takes himself on another circuit of the room, a little faster this time, testing his stride even further. You and the Captain watch him with eagle eyed intensity. The Captain is stirring the porridge pot, while you pick up the toweling left on the hearth and heap it into a pile for the laundry later.
"I feel like the rabbit must, when it senses itself being watched," The Prince says mildly as he draws back around to the fireplace.
"I'd like to think our intentions are a bit better than whatever watches rabbits, your Grace." The Captain says, while ladling a small serving of oats into a clean bowl with a spoon. "Here, try this."
The Prince takes the bowl and sits down on the bench by the table once more. You go over to your cabinet and start putting things away as you wanted to earlier. You also grate some fresh nutmeg and cinnamon into a little dish, and grab your small pot of birch sap from the way back of the cabinet. Coming over to the table you offer the little dish to the Prince, and set your other pot down.
"A little something to make it not quite so plain?" You ask.
He looks over at the offering, "I haven't had cinnamon in a long time," he admits, taking it from you.
"Is it hard to get in Kings Landing?" you ask, surprised. It's a somewhat common spice in Dorne. Your stash came from the house you were at before House Ambrose, and is probably too old to be very strong.
"Bad harvest last year," he replies. "It's expensive, and there are other things to spend the crown's funds on."
"Well, this is will be underwhelming I'm sure, it's a little old."
"It's lovely, thank you, my lady."
You return to your cabinet and check your stores for how many little sachets you have left. You're only able to find three, which will have to do. You press into each a quick mixture of the most anti-inflammation things you can, mixed with more willow bark for pain relief. Each you tie each shut with a twist of string. It won't be much, but you hope it will help at least some on his journey.
Next you check the bandages and find that they are dry thanks to the intense heat from the fireplace and how light they are. Carefully, you drape the bandages over the skin of your wrist, remembering which side faces down so you know to use the other against the wound.
When you return to the table, the Prince seems to be contemplating the last couple bites in the bowl.
"Don't force it," you advise quietly. "If you aren't hungry anymore just leave it. After the shock your body has had, you need to take everything you can more slowly."
Prince Baelor sighs, and sets his spoon down. "It becomes tedious, running into these new limits constantly. It feels as though my world has been shrunk down by leagues."
"In a way it has," you agree. "But it is temporary. You have done the hardest part, you survived the hit itself."
He smiles faintly, "That doesn't feel like the hardest part, not when so much of me feels diminished."
"I'll admit that what our bodies take as the hardest, and what our minds take as the hardest can sometimes feel like two different things."
"Very true. I just," he laughs a little. "It sounds outrageous when I say it, but I hate to see the food wasted. I know many Houses have to keep careful accounts of what food they have, and I do not wish to cause our hosts any trouble feeding their people."
You don't think that's outrageous. You think that is startlingly clear sighted of him. It is also, you think, another sign of his empathy, caring about a family that likely would do his harm if they thought they could get away with it.
You pick up the spoon with your hand not occupied with the bandages, scrape the last of the porridge together into a large bite and eat it yourself. You've not had anything in hours, and frankly you could use a little something.
"There, not wasted." You say, after you drop the spoon into the empty bowl. You then nod your head at the little pot of birch sap you grabbed and left on the table earlier.
"Open that please, your Grace." You bid, and he obliges, and has a look inside as he does it.
"Sap?"
"Hmm, for holding your bandages in place better. Not sure what the maester's used but the rain must have washed it away."
"Spider silk, I believe."
You pause for a moment, considering that. Not a bad use of the stuff, but you have no idea how they collect or store it that without it picking up every speck of dirt and dust. Birch sap at least you just need a clean vessel with a lid and time.
Standing in front of him, you plot what to do with the bandages. They were already half a mess by the time you saw them closely earlier in the night, so you're not sure how the maesters originally laid the wrapping. You've got three lengths that are more or less equal in size, but you need to cover the Prince's blue eye with at least two passes to cover it completely and still make sure that the gauze pad is properly shielded from the elements.
"May I ask what struck you?" you query. You've been dead curious this whole time, but haven't felt like you could ask before. Now, well…things feel a bit more open. You've cried on this man, after all. If he doesn't want to tell you, you're fairly certain he'll just say so, rather than be offended by the question.
"A mace. With quite a bit of force," he answers easily.
"Were you wounded at the tourney?"
"In a way, yes I suppose I was," the Prince says as he watches you draw in closer to him, til you're nearly standing between his knees.
"I suppose the details will likely be common knowledge soon." The Prince sighs. You pick up the first bandage by one end, and carefully start to wrap the clean side over the gauze pad.
"A trial of seven was called, and I'm afraid I volunteered to fight."
You pause in your work, completely surprised. You then take half a step back, so you can look down at him and meet his eyes.
"A trial of seven? Truly?" you gape at him. He nods, rueful. "By all the rivers, you're blessed to be alive, your Grace."
"Oh, believe me, I'm aware, my lady. I was lucky, there were men on the field who were not."
"Gods," you mutter, and step back in close to continue wrapping the bandages around him. "Who called for such a thing?"
"My nephew, Prince Aerion."
You wince, grateful he can't see your face just then.
"And his cause?" you ask.
The Prince is quiet for a long moment. You finish the first bandage, and hold it gently in place with one hand, while you reach down and get just a touch of the sap on your pinky finger. You dab the sap onto one of the bandage ends, and then press it gently but firmly to itself, smoothing the sap flat and wider to cover more area and hopefully stay put for longer.
"I don't believe it was just." The Prince says finally. "He challenged a hedge knight who had struck him. But the hedge knight was only protecting a young woman, as a knight should."
You start on the second bandage, using this one to cover any gaps left by the first.
"Then why did you fight?" you ask, curious.
"I fought on the side of the hedge knight."
Your hands shake just a little as they pass around the Prince's head. Targaryen against Targaryen yet again, you think to yourself bitterly.
"Did your hedge knight win?"
"He did. Ser Duncan the Tall, I believe is what they are calling him now. I'll admit to being a little addled as we left, but that is what my son told me at least."
"And your nephew?"
"He yielded."
You finish wrapping the second bandage and take a little more sap to seal that one in place as well.
"I'll admit, your Grace. I'm starting to wonder if you wandered off from your procession on purpose. Because that must have been an incredibly awkward trip to be making with your family."
That startles a true laugh out of the Prince, and for a brief moment you feel him press his forehead against your stomach. Your hand finds the nape of his neck again, like it knows no other place to be anymore. But only for a moment. You wrench your hand away, gather up the last bandage and he leans back.
"As right as you are," the Prince murmurs, still chuckling a bit. "I've put my brother Maekar through enough on this trip. I promise me 'wandering off' was not on purpose. He's probably tearing apart the countryside as we speak."
"I feel for the countryside then. We'd best get you back to him, so he can rest easier."
You sit down on the bench straddling it a little awkwardly, but you don't want to risk messing this last layer up or having it be crooked. You wordlessly gesture for him to turn towards you. He does as he's bid, carefully swinging one leg over the bench to straddle it like you. You slide closer, knowing you'll need to be able to reach all the way around him to do up this last bandage properly.
Prince Baelor spreads his knees wider, the loose breeches he's wearing making it easy for him to do so, and you push into his space even more, your skirts and apron bunching up between you. Like with the others, you start by pressing the clean side of the bandage over the gauze, but this time at a sharp angle, so you can wrap the longer edge over the top curve of his cheek and then carefully over his eye. He keeps his eyes open as you do, not even closing them when the bandage comes down. He is as still as statue as you work, though you see one of his hands, resting on one knee, inch over just a little so he can touch the fabric of your apron, the callouses on his fingertips catching just a little on the embroidery.
You wrap the bandage around again, offsetting this line just a little so it covers more of his eye. You reach over without looking and pick up more sap on your finger. This time you place the sap in a couple of places, this bandage while not as important as the others protecting the injury site, is vital to his disguise. It's also the top layer and the most likely to come unraveled first.
He breathes slowly, his brown eye looking at your face like he's trying to memorize it. You don't want to admit to doing the same, but you are. You are so close you share the air between you, and it's like something in each of you has drawn you both tightly together. You know you should lean away, pull back, but there is no slack in the tether. It's taunt, like a drawn bow string.
"Are the bandages too tight?" you whisper, the closeness quieting your voice, checking with careful fingers along the edge of the bandage. He shakes his head, completely silent. You pull your hands back, no longer needed, and then lower them to rest on you bunched up skirts between you.
He takes a breath, like he's bracing himself for something, you are afraid to put name to what, but that tether, that taunt line between you pulls.
The cry of a rooster snaps it.
Air rushes out of you in a gasp, you didn't even realize you'd held your breath. The Prince too seems to shudder an exhale. Unthinkingly you put a hand on top of his, the one at the edge of your dress and squeeze his fingers. You don't know what else to do with the strange energy that now shakes through your limbs. So you hang on for just a moment, just long enough for him to squeeze your hand back. It feels like things unsaid, but still part of a conversation somehow, a call and a response.
Once again, you let him go. He holds on for one second longer before releasing you.
Looking around to the rest of the kitchen, you find the Captain opening the door to the courtyard. A rush of cool, wet air tumbles in, sending the fire flickering high, and chilling you. Looking past the Captain, you can see first, poor Godwin, cold and soaked through, but still at the post the Prince set him just outside the door. And beyond him, a sliver of the sky, turned the color of a purple bruise, fading to a light lavender at the horizon near the roof line. The night draws to a close.
Dawn is almost here.
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Part 6 < | > Part 8
