Chapter Text
The woods near the Reach had become his entire world. They had strayed far from the main road, deep into a thicket where ancient trees intertwined like the fingers of giants, creating a natural barrier against the black-cloaked riders Maekar knew were trailing him. The air smelled of damp earth and resin—a scent that would have once seemed coarse to him, but now meant safety.
Maekar crouched among thorny bushes. His clothes, once fine, were frayed and coated in a patina of dust and soot. Fatigue seeped into his bones like a persistent chill, but he did not move. He had learned that in the wild, the one who hurries is the one who starves.
A few feet away, a rabbit emerged from its burrow. Maekar held his breath, feeling the thrum of his own heart in his ears. With an explosive, desperate lung, he pounced. His hands closed around the soft, frantic fur. Finally, after days of humiliating failures, he had done it. The gods, for once, were not looking down on him with scorn. As he snapped the creature's neck, Maekar felt no disgust, only a dark satisfaction: he was surviving.
He began to walk back to their temporary camp, but something stopped him. Amidst the undergrowth, a young deer lay on its side, its leg caught and mangled between sharp, rocky roots. The animal panted, its large black eyes fixed on Maekar, filled with a wordless terror. Maekar froze. He saw himself in that creature: trapped, wounded, waiting for the hunter to arrive and return him to a cage.
Compassion wrestled with his newfound hardness. He could try to free it, but the animal would never survive the winter with such a wound. With a shaky sigh, Maekar drew the dagger he had taken from the bandit.
"I’m sorry..." he whispered, cutting the deer's throat in one swift motion so it wouldn't suffer any longer. Seeing the red blood spill over the green moss, Maekar felt a piece of his innocence stay behind with the animal. He continued his trek until he finally stumbled upon an abandoned cabin. Without hesitation, he retraced his steps to return to Arlan and tell him about the shelter, marking trees along the way so as not to get lost.
The knight was standing, leaning heavily against the flank of Maekar’s horse, stroking its nose with trembling hands.
"I found a cabin," Maekar said, stepping forward to steady the old man before he could collapse. "It's abandoned, but the roof still holds. We have to go now, Arlan. The sky is turning grey and it smells of a storm. Staying under the trees with your wound open is a death sentence."
Arlan nodded, his face pale as wax. The journey was slow. Maekar carried the rabbit and guided the knight, feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. By the time they reached the cabin—a greyish wooden structure devoured by time—the rain began to fall with sudden violence, hammering against the roof like war drums.
Inside, the atmosphere was different. It lacked the biting cold of the outdoors. Maekar started a fire in the center using the wood he had gathered. The orange glow began to lick the wooden walls, creating a sanctuary of peace amidst the chaos outside. They tied the horses in a side shed, and Maekar set about cooking the rabbit while Arlan watched him from his bed of blankets.
"You hunted it all by yourself," Arlan said, a note of admiration in his voice that made Maekar straighten up. "Good work, lad. Few high-born sons would survive their first week in the mud."
Maekar felt his cheeks warm and glared at him, trying to hide his pride behind his usual mask of disdain.
"At least we won't starve today," he replied curtly.
As they ate in a comfortable silence, Arlan began to speak. His voice was low, competing with the thunder shaking the cabin. He told stories of his youth; they weren't the ballads bards sang in the Red Keep about knights winning tournaments. They were stories of loneliness, of winters spent in caves, and the sadness of watching companions die from fevers rather than glory. Maekar listened, realizing that the freedom he so craved came with a price of iron and solitude.
"Tomorrow I will explore further," Maekar said, staring into the flames. "I need to know if there are villages nearby to get medicine for your wound."
Arlan sat up with a groan, his gaze turning stern. "No. You’ve done enough. You could get lost in this thicket or run into another bandit patrol. I don't want you risking yourself any further."
Maekar felt anger sear his chest. Arlan’s overprotectiveness reminded him too much of Baelor’s, and that was the last thing he wanted to feel.
"Don't speak to me like that!" Maekar snapped, standing up. "I am a Dragon Prince! I know how to look after myself. I saved your life at that bridge; I killed those men so you could keep breathing. I am not some helpless Omega you can give orders to!"
Arlan fell silent. The confession hung in the air of the cabin, charged with electricity. A Dragon Prince? He knew the boy was noble, but for him to be a Targaryen of the main line was something that, though he suspected it, chilled his blood to hear aloud. However, Arlan did not lower his gaze.
"I don't care if you have the blood of gods, dragons, or kings," Arlan said with a familiar, almost fatherly firmness. "To me, you are Denys—the boy who saved my life, and I’m not going to let the wolves eat him just because he's a stubborn child."
Arlan let out a sigh and his tone softened, but not his resolve.
"If you go out tomorrow and haven't returned by the time the sun begins to set, I will get up myself—even if my guts spill out—and I’ll drag you back here by your ears, do you hear me? I don't care how many dragons you have on your sigil."
Maekar looked at him furiously, fists clenched. But as he looked at the old knight's tired face, his rage transformed into something softer. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Baelor gave him orders because he considered him his property; Arlan scolded him because he cared for his life. It was a subtle difference, but Maekar felt it in his soul.
"Fine," Maekar grumbled, sitting back down by the fire. "But don't talk to me like I'm a child. I'll be back before sunset."
Arlan smiled—a small, honest smile—and lay back down.
"Sleep, little prince. Tomorrow the road will be longer."
Maekar wrapped himself in his cloak, listening to the roar of the storm outside. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like a piece on a chessboard, nor like the whim of an Alpha. He felt, quite simply, part of something real.