Archive of Our Own

The dreams would always begin in much the same way: pictures cascading unto one another, every transition more puzzling than the last. The tail of a shooting star straightens into the stinger of a pollen-powdered bumblebee before fatigue bids it tumble dead onto the grass. A stag takes a bite of a luscious apple hanging heavy from its tree’s branch before it bellows in laughter too human to consider natural. Two dragons dance amidst a sky of fire and fog; whether in brotherly or fatal competition, you can’t say for certain.

Then you step through the veil of these visions into far more vivid—dare you say, realistic—territory, and that’s when you know you’ve just entered a full-blown nightmare.

You’re a knight in Ashford Meadow. The whole world has shrunk down to the narrow slit of your helmet’s visor. (Who owns this helmet?) Though pain is, gratefully, an absent construct in your dreams, you know that you’ve just taken a couple of blows to your body. It’s the reason you’re panting quite hard and your greatsword feels heavier than it should be. (How do you know this, when you’ve never wielded such a weapon in your life?)

It’s a difficult battle, but you hold your own. There’s a sense of assurance that guides your actions—every swing, every blow, every one of your enemy’s attacks interrupted by your shield—one which boldly dictates that your survival is an inevitability.

You fight for one who has defended the innocent, and for this, the gods will reward you.

Then suddenly, there’s a shrill scream in the morning air. Like the chirp of a dying bird. A keener ear would hear that chirp formed into a single word . . . but what?

Regardless, the sound immediately precedes something ramming into the back of your skull—

And you wake up.

The hour is midnight, and the bedchamber is bathed in the amber glow of dying candlelight. It falls softly upon the gold-gilded spines of various tomes on a bookshelf, the pale bedsheets that shield your legs against evening’s chill, the crimson silk of your dress, draped on the back of an armchair, that your handmaiden will help you into come morning.

None of this reaches you, of course. As soon as you open your eyes, they meet a fuzzy blackness to which you’ve become accustomed since the incident with your brother.

It never gets any easier, to both dream in vivid puzzles and spend your waking hours without your sight. Often you feel as if you wander two completely different worlds, and every day, mutely, you navigate either one as best you can, regardless of how lonely such an existence can be. Many have described you as the softest and quietest of the royal children, and you intend to keep it that way. It won’t do for a Targaryen princess to dwell too deeply on the misfortune of her circumstances and express this in ways far from graceful.

At the very least, some people manage to soothe the ache. Alara, your handmaiden, with her caring touch and lively stories. Little Aegon, when he hugs you around the waist in the absence of your brothers’ scrutiny. Even your father, in those rare moments when his words lose their cutting edge and he recalls how much you resemble your mother.

More importantly, there’s him.

A profound warmth blankets you, bids you control your nervous breathing, when your uncle reaches across the bed to lay a hand on your arm. He waits patiently until the shaking stops, utters not a word until he’s certain you’ve calmed down. As you touch your fingers to his, he takes it as an invitation to move closer, to press his brow to the back of your head.

“You kept muttering something in your sleep,” Baelor whispers.

A lump forms in your throat. “What was I saying?” you ask softly.

“It was difficult to make out. But I’m certain you kept repeating a single word.” He hums once, in casual contemplation. “I fear this riddle shall vex me until dawn.”

Despite his well-meaning jest, you mutter, “Forgive me for waking you, Your Grace.” Surely, he can rest easier, especially after the long ride to Ashford, if you sleep in separate rooms. Surely, this can be arranged on the morrow, and you wouldn’t have to worry about keeping him up at night, when he has much to attend to throughout this tourney—

“None of that now.” Baelor idly runs his thumb along your arm. You can feel the warmth of his breath grazing your nape. And as if he has just read your mind, he adds, after a beat of silence, “These are generous quarters. And I’ll not have you bed alone in any other room. Even with a member of the Kingsguard by your door.”

You know exactly why. A certain memory makes you shudder. Strong hands encircling your wrists. Ugly remarks that mar your soul. A blow to the head that renders your world dark.

Aerion’s hands. Aerion’s cruel voice.

Your grip on your lord husband’s hand tightens. His argument is unbearably sound.

Sensing your unease, Baelor gently says behind you, “Come closer.”

You obey and welcome his arm around your waist, the way his fingers lace with yours. Only the flimsy material of your shift separates his lips from your bare shoulder.

“Daybreak is still far off,” he whispers. “You should get some more sleep.”

But you reply, with some timidness, “I’m not sure sleep will come as easily to me now.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me about your dreams.” His voice is soft with understanding; the lump in your throat returns. “Or, if that is too difficult a subject, speak of Ashford. Of tourneys. Even horses. Until you’ve tired yourself out.”

Horses? A strange subject. “Talk of horses would sooner put you to sleep than I, Uncle.”

That makes him chuckle, and the sound of it—the feeling of it against your back—makes your heart tumble clumsily upon itself. He’s not this relaxed in the presence of the other lords, not even with his own brother and nephews. Only with you.

“Then I shall take the helm, if you don’t mind,” he offers. “But be warned. There’s a lot more to be said about horses than you might expect.”

For the next half hour or so, you don’t recall most of what he says about his and Maekar’s childhood steeds or about the importance of farriers in and out of wartime. Because the mesmerizing sound of his voice, the ghosting of his fingers along your hair, and the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek easily lull you into a welcome, dreamless slumber.

The burden of picking apart your latest nightmare can wait till morning.

You’ve loved your uncle Baelor for as long as you can remember.

When your mother passed away, a sudden hardness seized the hearts of your father and brothers, one that severely thinned their patience for you and Aegon. Outright, they never called you and your youngest sibling weak, but prior to losing your sight, you felt it in the way they regarded you: with immense furor or immense grief. The latter was usually reserved to you by Maekar. He would never tell you the true reason—that every day since her passing, he saw more and more of his late wife in your eyes—but you’ve long known it anyway.

The only other relative besides Aegon who never saw you as a blemish in this broken family was your uncle. The kindness he offered you stemmed not out of pity but out of true affection, and it manifested in various ways. Some days, they were gifts that comprised sweet oranges from Myr and silken threads imported from beyond the Jade Sea for your embroidery lessons. Others, he invited you on rides across the countryside, taught you to hunt and fish (albeit with you disguised as a boy so your father suspected nothing); your dearest memories include the smile on Baelor’s face when Aegon, with your help, caught his first trout.

The first time you witnessed your uncle’s anger was shortly after Aerion had injured you; it was directed at Maekar, and you can still swear you’ve never before heard such stunned silence from your own hot-headed father. It suddenly fell on you to choose whether to accept Baelor’s offer to take you as his wife as a quick means of protection, and it must have startled Maekar quite badly—even more than yourself—when you immediately said yes.

That day marked a profound change in your feelings for your uncle, which you still often catch yourself navigating. But where peril should have nested, there instead lies reassurance. Safety. He managed to pull you away from Aerion’s violence, and in moments when, eerily, you can sense your brother lurking in the corner, Baelor cloaks you in his embrace and banishes the shadows within and before you before they take up too much residence.

His protection goes beyond members of the Kingsguard stationed constantly by your side or well-devised efforts to keep you by his own, both in the public eye and privately. It extends to attentiveness to your needs, grace toward your missteps, even reminders—through subtle touches and whispered reassurances—that you matter. That you’re loved.

In many ways, he’s saved you, and even as his beloved niece and young wife, you can never hope to repay such a gesture in full while you still draw breath.

“What do you see when you’re blind?”

Gwin Ashford’s question takes you by surprise, and your hands still in the middle of you braiding the young girl’s hair. It isn’t a rude question but rather a curious one; the reason for your pause is that you can’t think of the right words to describe what you “see.”

“I suppose . . .” Slowly, you resume your work. “Well, I can hardly speak for those who were born without sight. Though I can tell you it isn’t too dissimilar to closing your eyes.” You reach for the vanity on your right until your fingers encounter an elastic. “Everything seems . . . quite dark to me. Every now and then, there are faint wisps of color . . . but little else. I can’t even distinguish figures who stand right in front of me.”

“Doesn’t that frighten you?” Gwin turns to face you; you can feel it in the way her braid almost slips from your gentle grip. “I can’t imagine how to go on as you have. What if one of your brothers plays tricks on you? How do you deal with that?”

Hands. Yelling. A shock of silver blonde hair. You swallow and shake your head.

Thankfully, the girl doesn’t wait around for a reply and adds, “If any of my brothers attempted such a thing, I’d tell Father to have him clean all the latrines in the meadow.”

Her remark causes your lips to twitch in amusement. You tie off the end of Gwin’s braid with the elastic. “Something tells me he would actually take you up on that request,” you jest. “Your father cares a great deal for you. I can hear it in his voice.”

Gwin shifts in her seat, presumably to face her mirror. “Not as good as my handmaiden’s work,” she tells you, “but better than I expected. Thank you, Your Highness.”

The overly formal address makes you wince, which hopefully escapes her notice.

“By the way”—you hear Gwin turn to face you again, excitement in her voice—“did you know that a hedge knight snuck into the castle to ask Father to enter the lists?”

“I do,” you answer. “My uncle told me about it.” As did my father. Many, many times.

“How he managed to get past the Kingsguard and gain an audience with the princes still confounds me. I saw him for myself. He’s rather big and stupid.”

Suddenly, you find yourself wanting to defend this hulking stranger. To catch everyone’s attention without meaning to . . . I don’t envy him in the least. “There must be some merit to this man’s character,” you suggest, “if your father relented to including him in the tourney.”

“I overheard that he doesn’t have a tent. Or a squire. But the stable boys mentioned that he might be acquainted with the Fossoways—one of them, at least. Sir Steffon’s cousin.”

The Fossoways. You’re not certain why that name sounds familiar. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a certain image slowly sharpens into focus. A hungry stag. An apple tree . . .

Someone raps their knuckles upon the chamber’s open doorway.

“Pardon me, milady.” The voice belongs to Alara. “Prince Baelor wishes to speak to you.”

With the help of Alara and the walking stick you use to daily navigate your path—an old gift from Daeron, its handle crafted to resemble a dragon’s head—you reach a chamber in the castle that feels as warm as it is spacious. Nothing impedes the sweep of your walking stick as you cross the room’s threshold with timid steps, Alara waiting by the entrance.

“Leave us,” Baelor says.

The door closes behind you, and a brief silence precedes the sound of your uncle’s footsteps as he approaches. But even with such afforded privacy, he stops before you and keeps a respectable distance. You fear he’s about to impart some unwelcome news.

“Your father is about to depart Ashford in search of your brothers. He’s taking Ser Donnel with him, and I suspect they won’t be back for at least another day or two.”

You blink and fiddle with your walking stick. “That . . . does make sense, Your Grace,” you reply with a slight frown. “He’s been worried for their safety ever since we arrived.”

Baelor pauses, and you don’t see how intently he studies your expression with a concerned softness in his own, how close he actually is, with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back. Your uncle has half a mind to tell you that Daeron and Aegon are surely fine somewhere, but he holds back, instead asking you, “How are you enjoying Ashford?”

At that, you brighten a bit. “Very much. I’m getting along well with Gwin. I doubt better kinship can be found than that between only sisters surrounded by many brothers.”

An amused hum from your uncle. “I’m glad to hear it. And from what Lord Ashford tells me, she enjoys your company as well.” Then he pauses, as if gauging what to say next or how to say it. “I suggested that you both take a brief turn about the grounds this afternoon, and he gave his assent. Your father would’ve been staunchly against the idea, but . . . well.”

Excitement flutters in your chest. You heard of merchants selling exotic sweets and pastries not too far from the tourney grounds—and that people have been enjoying the puppet shows of a certain theater troupe from Dorne. “Can I really, Uncle?”

“Ser Roland and the others will keep you company, of course. And we should expect you back before sundown. That’s not to be negotiated.”

You’re boundlessly grateful nonetheless. “Yes.” You nod, smiling. “I-I mean, no, of course not.” A nervous swallow. “We’ll be back long before the evening joust. I promise.”

Baelor places a hand on your shoulder, and just as you think he’ll pull away, his warm touch extends to your cheek . . . and he leans in to press a kiss upon your brow. Your heart teeters between quickness and stillness. He smells of smoked pinewood and musk.

“See that you do” is all the prince whispers before he sends you on your way.

The voices of countless strangers accompany the squawks and brays of livestock in surrounding you on all sides. The muddy path gives generously beneath your shoes, to the point where you’re certain the hem of your dress is lined with wet dirt. The smell of roasting meat mixes with those of overripe fruit and horse dung, all of which assault your senses.

You meet all these sensations with the largest smile on your face. It feels so different from staying at length in any keep, and you’re unsure when you’ll be afforded such a chance again.

In front of you, you can hear young Gwin rush from stall to stall, eager to sample their wares, to the exasperation of her lady’s maid and guards. Yours is a slightly more leisurely stroll as you clasp Ser Roland’s arm, and you can’t help but giggle whenever Gwin excitedly describes this baker’s goods or that blacksmith’s weapons to you until the poor girl is quite out of breath.

This goes on until you consider, with some growing warmth in your cheeks, whether your uncle would appreciate a gift from these stalls. Perhaps a light bolt of silk. Enough for me to fashion him a sash. I need eyes to select a fitting pattern or color.

“Gwin,” you start to ask, “do any of them sell fabric, by chance?”

She doesn’t answer you.

“Gwin?” Maybe she’s run off somewhere.

Beside you, Ser Roland is kind enough to answer, “I’m afraid the young lady is well ahead of us now, Your Highness. But I can spot a textile merchant to our right.”

You squeeze his arm in appreciation and allow him to lead the way.

Whether it’s because you’re one of Lord Ashford’s special guests or because they’ve recognized your disability, the silk merchant allows you to take your time feeling their offered wares, gauging the softness of each fabric sample with your fingertips. But with Gwin absent, you find it difficult to ask about the colors of these offerings. Would the seller make you a recommendation? What does His Grace normally wear? What if the sash’s hue is too garish?

“I’ll need more of the turquoise, please. Double the length of my last order.”

The woman next to you, who sounds closer to you in age than Gwin, speaks with such confidence that you immediately deduce her an expert of color. The clinking of coins being handed marks their swift transaction, and before the woman departs, you say—

“Um.”

She doesn’t sound like she’s walked away yet.

“Can you help me?” The words feel like cotton in your mouth. You’re not accustomed to talking to strangers, let alone initiating conversation with them. “I can’t choose a color. For . . .” You clear your throat. “My uncle, erm . . . I don’t know what he wears. Given the . . .” Vaguely, you gesture to your own eyes and, immediately after, feel a deep wish to fall face-first into the mud. Gods. It’s a wonder anyone ever understands me.

“The violet, milady.”

Despite your awkward question, her reply sounds warm and well-meaning.

“I think it would suit the prince best.” There’s a ruffling to your right as she searches for a specific fabric. “Here,” she says as she nudges it into your hands.

It’s the softest of all the samples you’ve felt, and a small smile graces your lips; you can definitely work with this material. “Thank you,” you say. “Truly.”

“Think nothing of it. I happen to be a painter, so I know my pigments and dyes well enough.”

A painter. You hope you don’t look too astonished. “And what is it you paint, if I may ask?”

There’s a thoughtful pause. Not of suspicion. More of playful intrigue.

“Puppets,” the woman finally answers.

Her name is Tanselle, and in a matter of minutes, she acquaints you with her world.

After introducing you to her puppet-maker uncle, she carefully leads you onto the stage within their tent and toward their largest puppet: a dragon of impressive size. Your fingers brush against its thin scales as an exhale of wonder escapes you. In a way, this may be the closest you can ever come to your family’s sigil in the “flesh,” and regardless of it being fashioned from mere wood and paper, you are glad for this small encounter.

“How do you make it move?” you ask.

“A mix of techniques,” Tanselle answers as she helps you off the stage. “Some parts of the dragon are suspended by rope. Others, we manipulate from within it.”

You’re guided to sit at the front row of the makeshift theater’s audience area, and you hear Tanselle sit to your left. Somewhere by the tent’s entrance, Ser Roland coughs and shifts in place, from the sound of his armor; you don’t mean to make him wait too long.

“We’d be honored if you come to our show tonight, Your Highness,” the woman offers kindly; whatever it is you’ve done—or despite your timidness—she’s taken to you quickly.

“As much as I’d love to . . .” There’s a hint of apology in your voice. “My uncle expects me to return to the keep before dusk. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Perhaps,” she affirms. “We stage performances in the day as well.”

This makes you hopeful, though for but a moment. Doubtless Father would never allow it, if he returns soon. You turn your head in the general direction of the stage, where the dragon puppet rests. You daydream of sitting amidst a crowd of nobles and commoners, enchanted by Tanselle’s poetic verse and the proximate heat of fire stunts you can’t see.

“In some sense,” you confess softly, “I envy your family’s craft—and the myriad reactions it must evoke from people. It’s an extraordinary feat, to live a life purposed by the endless possibilities of what you can do . . . instead of ruled by what you can’t.”

Next to you, Tanselle remains silent for a brief beat; you don’t sense that she looks intently at your unfocused lavender eyes with a slight knot on her brow.

“Ours is a colorful livelihood, to be sure,” she tells you, “but neither is it the easiest. We can’t control whether our audience will comprise a full tent or a handful of occupied seats—barely enough to bring bread to the table. Regardless, we strive to entertain them with our stories. To gladden their days and make them forget their troubles for a moment.”

Tanselle lays a hand on yours, and you welcome its warmth.

“I’d like to think anyone is capable of this, of goodness, Your Highness, regardless of what they deem lacking about themselves.” As if to deepen her point, she pats the bundle of violet silk folded on your lap—a gift, in many ways. “As long as that holds, the realm is a better place.”

There’s a tightness in your throat that doesn’t go away as quickly as you would like. It’s borne from your gratitude for this woman’s words . . . and the immediate grief you feel from the brevity of this encounter. She speaks with an easy kinship you hardly experience with your own blood. You wonder if your mother, were she alive, would impart this same wisdom to you.

You nod, and Tanselle pats your hand before helping you to your feet.

“Thank you,” you tell her for the second time today. “I’ll, erm, take my leave now. I shan’t keep you and your uncle from preparing for tonight’s show.”

“There’s still plenty of time for that,” Tanselle replies. “Though I should finish this commission I received from a certain knight to repaint his shield.”

Curiosity strikes you anew. “Is this coat-of-arms from one of the enlisted houses?”

She answers, “Not so, interestingly enough. ’Tis is a novel sigil. He wanted an elm tree against an orange sunset. With a shooting star overhead.”

Her answer makes you pause. A shooting star. A fallen honeybee.

“Your Highness?”

You blink. “Apologies,” you mutter to Tanselle. “I was lost in thought for a moment.” You offer her a smile, partly to shield the sudden lapse in your composure. “Thank you. Again.” Is that the third time? “I trust this knight will be pleased with your finished work.”

With a smile you can’t see, Tanselle replies, “Just as His Grace will be with yours.”

Pressing the bundle of silk to your chest, you walk carefully toward the Dornish theater’s entrance with an arm outstretched, just until your fingers brush the tent’s sturdy fabric.

“Ser Roland?” you call as you step outside. “You can take me back to the castle.”

He takes your hand, though it should strike you as strange that you couldn’t hear his armor jangle during his approach. Also, his grip is bare, softer, free from any sort of gauntlet—

Whoever’s just taken your hand loops it around his forearm and keeps it there. Tightly.

“I’ve sent Ser Roland to rejoin the Kingsguard at the keep. Allow me to escort you back.”

A chill seizes you as soon as you hear that voice. You try to tug free, to no avail.

“This isn’t funny, Brother,” you mutter, careful not to betray the terror in your voice. “I remember the general route to the keep. If you take me anywhere else, I shall scream.”

Aerion scoffs. “Try not to get ahead of yourself. If I wanted to hurt you, I’d do it in private, not out here. I’m afraid we stick out among these lowborns far too well.” He’s silent for a moment; you suspect he’s gauging your expression. “What’s that for?” he asks, referring to your silk.

“None of your business,” you respond curtly. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry.

The trudge back to Lord Ashford’s keep is wrought with tension, and you’re well aware that Aerion hasn’t loosened his grip on your hand the whole way. Around you, everyone continues as normal: the merchants with their bartering, the knights with their training (and drinking). That none of them notice your unease with your brother is almost cruel.

“You’d think our uncle would know better than to let a high-born princess wander the tourney grounds in Father’s absence,” Aerion comments. “Couldn’t even get our beloved cousin to escort you on your walk. He places far too much trust in the kindness of Ashford’s ilk.”

Of course, Aerion isn’t saying this out of genuine concern for your welfare; he just loves to find any excuse to nitpick Baelor’s decisions, especially after your wedding. I feel safer in their company than in yours, you wish to say, remembering Tanselle, but you hold your tongue. Instead, you say, “People have said that his benevolence is what’ll make him a great king.”

“Benevolence?” Your brother scoffs again. “Weakness, more like. You may not want to hear this, but the day will come when Uncle will leave his guard down too long for his own good. Long enough for someone to deal a potentially fatal blow.”

A ghostly sensation overcomes you. A blow to the back of the head. You blink and steady your breathing, grateful to at last hear the nickering palfreys in the castle’s stables.

Aerion finally lets go, but before you can call for one of the Kingsguard to lead you back into the keep, he grabs a tight hold of your upper arm, causing you to wince.

“And where would you be then, dear sister?” The question is whispered insidiously, only loud enough for you to hear. “With Father distracted and Daeron constantly drunk out of his wits? Aegon wouldn’t get in my way. And even then, he’s terribly easy to dispatch of.”

With a flare of anger at him threatening Aegon’s safety, you try to pull your arm free. Aerion responds with a strong tug that delivers your ear close to his lips.

“Like I said. Only a matter of time.”

He kisses your temple and, just as suddenly, stalks off, leaving you alone by the stables.

You keep to yourself for the remainder of the day, even well into evenfall. Alara comes in now and again to deliver your supper, braid your hair, prepare your clothes for tomorrow, but she knows well enough not to pry when you’re deathly silent in your chambers, aware that something must have happened during your afternoon walk.

Not even the task of sewing His Grace’s sash is enough to keep your most sullen thoughts at bay: worry for your brothers, fear at what Aerion might plan next, frustration at not being able to decipher what your latest dreams mean. If only Daeron were here. He might help me. These feelings bleed into your actions, causing you to prick your fingertips once or twice. You give up and resolve to take a short nap—only to be assaulted with more puzzling images.

A black dragon breathing green wildfire coils itself around a Dornish woman. You hear several cracks from its tight restriction on her body, and her pained screams mingle with yours.

A red apple, slightly bruised from rot, falls from its bough and rolls toward the feet of three men clad in white armor: the regular outfit of the Kingsguard.

Your brother Daeron. Standing before a larger dragon’s corpse.

Its wings span the whole of Ashford Meadow. And its lifeless eyes hold a familiar, mismatched hue—

Several knocks on your bedchamber door rouse you awake. You wrap a shawl around your shoulders and reach blindly for your walking stick. Is it well past evenfall? Or already dawn?

As soon as you open the door, you feel a small figure hug tightly around your waist.

“Aegon?” you whisper.

The walking stick falls to your side with a loud clatter as you reciprocate his embrace. Safe and sound. Thank all the gods. Then you drop to your knees so your face is level with his.

“Father and I were deathly worried about you.” You cradle your little brother’s cheek, a bit perplexed by the lack of hair around his ears. Did he shave his head? You decide not to ask him about it; more pressing questions reign in your mind. “Daeron? Is he all right?”

“He is,” Aegon answers with a tight throat. “I . . . I think I’ve done something wrong, Sister.”

There’s more he wants to say to you, and you’re eager to listen.

“I just wanted to squire,” he confesses quietly, “for Ser Duncan.”

You reach down so you can take Aegon’s hand and squeeze it reassuringly.

“Tell me everything that happened,” you urge gently. “And tell me all about this knight.”

Baelor is the only man left standing in the reception hall when he hears the familiar tapping of your walking stick. The space is rather warm, which tells you that a bonfire is lit here. You imagine your uncle standing before it, staring at the dancing flames.

“No doubt Aegon has already informed you of everything,” he says plainly.

You nod and otherwise stand silently by the hall’s entrance.

“Six champions.” His tone is already that of mourning. “He’ll need six men to fight for his cause come dawn. If he doesn’t have them, he’ll be deemed guilty before the eyes of—”

“Ser Lyonel Baratheon.”

Baelor pauses, and you go on.

“Ser Humfrey Beesbury. And one of the Fossoways, though I can’t tell who.” You fiddle nervously with the carved handle of your walking stick. “He’ll have enough men, my lord. One way or another, the trial will push through . . . and it won’t be an easy one.”

It doesn’t take long for Baelor to realize how you know this. He can see it in your eyes.

“You’ve dreamt of this,” he mutters with some fascination.

“Parts of it,” you admit, “and Aegon helped fill in some gaps.” You cast your eyes downward. “I suspect he’ll sneak out of the castle tonight, to help Ser Duncan recruit these men.”

The long silence that stretches between you both is dotted with the bonfire’s crackling.

“Come closer,” Baelor softly requests.

Every time he asks this of you, you always give in, completely, and this time is no different from the others. You take a few steps forward, and he does the rest by taking your hands and pulling you to him. He’s leaning against the edge of a long and sturdy table. His thumbs brush your knuckles in patient strokes. It’s as if he’s bracing you—or himself—for his next words.

“Then you know what I must do,” Baelor says, “should Ser Duncan need more allies.”

Immediately, your eyes sting with fresh tears.

“You will likely die in the fight, Your Grace,” you beg, your throat constricting around the word die. You’ve always been under the impression that your uncle would live a long and prosperous life—long enough to rule the realms with fairness and grace. “I dreamt this too. And . . .” You shake your head. “I can’t live with myself if it happens. I can’t live with knowing it can happen—and failing to stop it regardless. It . . . It isn’t fair.”

A teardrop leaves a wet trail down your cheek, and Baelor wipes it dry with his thumb.

“It is the same predicament for me,” he tells you. His voice is so gentle despite his words being so damning. “I can hardly call myself a prince if I do not interfere here. What use will I eventually serve as the crown’s heir if I fail to lead by example?”

His mind is already made up, you realize with no shortage of despair. Pulling away from his touch, you feel your way toward the bonfire, suddenly desperate for its warmth. Cruelly, it does little to quell the trembling in your bones, in your frame as you try to hold back a sob.

Baelor approaches you. Touches your arm. Presses his brow to the back of your head. You feel his deep sigh upon your nape. It may be that he fears losing you just as much as you do him.

“The gods may smile on us yet,” he tries to reassure you. “I will be careful. I promise.”

There’s a moment where you’re torn between stealing away in anger and holding your husband close until everything melts away—all your worries, all your frustrations over dreams that puzzle you in their appearance as much as they do their inevitability. You never asked to be burdened with this gift; it has sat heavy in your chest the same way it has driven your brother Daeron down a hapless road of self-neglect. You wish you were more than who you are now. You wish you can do something to turn the tides of fate, however small.

To your detriment, this moment is all too fleeting.

Baelor eventually lets you go and walks out of the hall.

The absence of his warmth invites the cold back into your bones, and it no longer makes a difference, whether you tremble from the evening’s chill or your quiet sobbing.

“Up! Up! Go!”

You inhale sharply and are roused from your stupor, as though bursting through the surface of a deep, cold lake. Shortly after the trial horn sounded, everything sounded muffled. For a few long, agonizing seconds, all you could hear was the sound of your thumping heartbeat. But next to you, Aegon yells for Ser Duncan’s steed to charge, startling you. And now . . .

Now everything comes terribly into focus.

“Up! Up! Go!”

What follows is a cacophony of loud and grating sounds—lances breaking and splintering, metal crashing onto metal, the pained screams of knights already injured from the first charge, the hoof beats and cries of felled horses, the awed and horrified moans of the audience—and for once, you’re glad not to see the sights that accompany them. With all that said, you do your best to track, from hearing alone, who is feuding with who.

To your left, your father, being thrown off his own horse. To your right, Ser Raymun Fossoway, newly knighted, fending off his cousin’s attacks with his shield.

Right in front of you, Aerion, bringing down a prone Ser Duncan with his flail.

A black dragon breathing wildfire. A shooting star, arcing into evenfall.

You bring a hand to your throbbing head, the images flashing out of your control.

“Are you well, milady?” Alara asks from behind you, touching your shoulder in concern.

You nod, albeit with a wince. “I’m fine, Alara. Perhaps it’s the noise—”

You hear your brother scream in pain.

“Aerion!”

Close by, your father deals an erratic blow to the side of someone’s helmet before throwing them to the muddy ground. The man lets out a grunt—and you recognize that voice.

Uncle.

You shift forward in your seat.

“My boy! My boy!” Maekar yells as he is held back by the Kingsguard.

Your focus isn’t on him, rather on Baelor as he shambles to his feet. Though it still sounds like he has some fight to him, he is panting, exhausted. Something about his stance, about how he breathes and attacks and fends off others’ assaults, feels . . . oddly familiar to you.

Then it hits you.

A blow to the back of the head.

What was it Ser Lyonel said, before the horn was sounded?

“No man fights so fierce as one neglected by his mother.”

Immediately, you get on your feet.

“I ask you again, Ser Duncan the Tall—how good a knight are you?”

“I yield . . . I yield.”

It’s a difficult battle, but you hold your own. There’s a sense of assurance that guides your actions—every swing, every blow, every one of your enemy’s attacks interrupted by your shield—one which boldly dictates that your survival is an inevitability.

You fight for one who has defended the innocent, and for this, the gods will reward you.

Then suddenly, there’s a shrill scream in the morning air. Like the chirp of a dying bird. A keener ear would hear that chirp formed into a single word—

“Turn!”

Hearing his young wife’s voice, Baelor turns where he stands and stares, rather aghast, at what he sees: Maekar with mace in hand, narrowly missing with what might have been a fatal blow to the back of his helm. He prepares himself for another swing, shield raised . . .

Then the horn is blown. The Trial of Seven is over.

“Agh . . .” Maekar sags and teeters forward, sapped of all energy and will.

His older brother lays a hand on his dented breastplate in support.

“Aerion lives,” Baelor says. “He yields, but he lives. Go tend to your son.”

Without another word—all words will come later, much later—Maekar offers Baelor a semblance of a nod and shuffles away, dropping his mace in the process.

“Milady, slow down! You’ll surely trip, and your hems are thoroughly muddied!”

Ignoring Alara’s pleas behind you, you feel your way toward the stairs, beneath the spectator benches, where they take the most battered knights during the tourney. You swing your walking stick in panicked arcs with one hand, stick close to the fog-damp walls with the other. All the while, you keep thinking of the sickening sound your father’s mace made when it collided with the side of His Grace’s helm. Let him live. Let him be all right.

Then you start to hear voices.

“We’ll pour, uh, boiling oil on it. That’s how the maesters do it.”

“Wine, not oil.” That voice. So calm. A familiar balm on restless nights. “Oil will kill him.”

Despite your urgency, you come to a complete stop by the back entrance.

“I’ll send Maester Yormwell to have a look at him, when he’s done tending to my brother.”

He speaks so clearly despite such a grueling fight. Recklessly, hope claws its way up your throat.

To your left, someone large, by the sound of it, struggles to get on one knee.

“Your Grace . . .” the hedge knight gasps. “I am your man. Please. Your man.”

“I need good men, Ser Duncan,” Baelor answers. “The realm—”

“Milady!”

With your boots digging so deeply into the mud, you trip and fall to your elbows and knees not three steps in, but this barely impedes you. As soon as you get back on your feet, you toss aside the walking stick and rush blindly toward the sound of his voice . . .

He meets you halfway and holds you close, just before you trip again.

Baelor’s face is damp with some blood and sweat, but your fingers roam toward the back of his head . . . and find it whole. Undamaged. What you feared would happen . . . didn’t.

“Gods strike me down now,” you sob, “for thinking they would take you from me today.”

On any other day, the Prince of Dragonstone would have much to say to comfort you. He would soothe your anxieties with words equal in both confidence and tenderness, as he has done over the years. Your father will come around. Your brothers will be fine. You have nothing to fear with me. I am well. I will be careful. I will protect you.

Now, overcome with exhaustion and relief, he simply rests his brow on your shoulder, embraces you with one arm—muddied gown and all—and doesn’t say another word.

Continuing his role as gracious host, Lord Ashford permits the royal family to remain in the castle for at least a week more following the trial’s conclusion. This is largely to allow your uncle, father, and brothers time to fully recover from their injuries. Aerion received the brunt of them and thus continues to be bedridden, which allows you and Aegon room to breathe. Your father reportedly keeps constant vigil at his side and has barely spoken since the trial.

The tourney games continue, and unsurprisingly, the five reigning champions elect to keep Gwin as their queen of love and beauty. She enjoys being lavished by such attention, which amuses you to no end. For your part, you prefer to remain in your chambers and finish sewing your husband’s sash. Every now and then, a dark cloud rests on your brow when you recall what Aegon recently told you: that the Dornish theater troupe fled on the night of Ser Duncan’s incarceration. You say a quick prayer for Tanselle’s safekeeping, along with that of her uncle.

Speaking of Ser Duncan, it took a great deal of convincing from Baelor to get the hedge knight to stay in the keep. His injuries are just as grave as Aerion’s, and when you heard that the man has little else but an elm to shield his person and belongings from the elements, you couldn’t help but feel an ache of concern for his circumstances. Aegon spends most of his time in Ser Duncan’s quarters—to your father’s chagrin—and talks his ear off about fishing, the Nine Kingdoms (“There are nine of them, ser, not seven . . .”), and Summerhall. It’s the most enthusiastic you’ve ever heard your little brother, and you always smile as you pass that part of the keep. Doubtless Ser Duncan has a bright future ahead of him, after swearing fealty to His Grace.

Before he can take on the heaviest mantle of Kingsguard, however, he’s to undergo formal combat training of his own in Summerhall, according to your father. While your family’s master-at-arms helps to finish what Ser Arlan of Pennytree started, Ser Duncan will keep young Aegon as his squire (in no small part because your brother refuses to serve any other knight). Ultimately, the final decision falls to the hedge knight, though you secretly wish he will accept such an offer so that Aegon continues to learn from his new master—and friend.

On the evening before your departure from Ashford, you’re summoned to the reception hall by your uncle. It feels somewhat similar to the night prior to the Trial of Seven, albeit with far less tension and far more warmth permeating the air. You carry the finished sash in one hand, your walking stick in the other, waiting for His Grace to speak.

“I trust Alara has seen to all your belongings being packed for tomorrow,” he says; you estimate his position to be in front of the fireplace, same as before.

You nod and answer, “She has. They’ll be ready for Ser Donnel first thing in the morning.”

There’s that thoughtful pause from him again. With your mind’s eye, you can see him regarding you with some contemplative silence, standing with hands clasped behind his back.

“What have you brought with you?” he asks tenderly, a slight smile in his voice.

Right. This. “I, um . . .” You raise the sash slightly without even knowing if he can see it in the dimly lit hall. “I bought silk from a traveling merchant and wanted to sew you a new sash.” For some reason, saying it out loud makes you think of all the imperfections this project of yours might already have. You add with pinkened cheeks and a nervously fluttering heart, “I-I had no help from Alara, so I can’t attest to it being perfect . . . or even fitting you, my lord. In which case you’re more than welcome to leave it behind—”

“Violet.”

The word is so softly uttered that you’re not sure you’ve heard it correctly at first. Behind its utterance, you can’t see that Baelor regards you with no small amount of awe.

“It—Yes.” Does he sound confused? Displeased? You can’t really tell. “A woman by the merchant’s stall . . . She helped me pick the color. I simply did the rest.”

“A thoughtful gesture indeed,” Baelor says, and at first, you don’t know if he means Tanselle’s suggestion or your closely guarded project. “Thank you. If I had known you were working on this throughout our stay here, I would have surprised you with a gift of my own.”

Briefly, your mind goes back to the sweet taste of oranges, and you shake your head slightly. “There wouldn’t have been a need, Your Grace,” you rush to reply. “It was a pleasure to work on this gift.” It isn’t an understatement either; the chore kept you company on lonely afternoons in your chambers, helped to quiet many an unnerving thought.

“You’re far too kind.” Then he surprises you by saying, “I should like to wear it now.”

Oh. You blink and, a little puzzled, raise the sash again for him to take. Your uncle’s response is an easy chuckle that makes something blush and tingle deep inside you.

“If it isn’t too much of an inconvenience on your part,” Baelor explains further, “I should like for you to put it on me. Forgive the confusion, my dear. Come closer.”

Oh! “O-Of course, Your Grace,” you manage to say, more flustered than ever. Seven take me.

With a few small taps, you step forward until the tapered end of your walking stick collides with the tip of his boot . . . and you flush anew. He’s much closer now, standing right in front of you, so near that you need only reach out to touch his chest. You’re about to crouch down to lay the walking stick by your feet when Baelor gently takes your wrist, requests for it, and places it on the wide table, freeing both your hands to drape the sash onto his shoulder.

It isn’t the most spectacular article you’ve sewn, by any means. Closer observation would reveal several places where the silk bunches up ungracefully and where the fine thread veers farther than is pleasing to the eye. But as you smooth out the sash’s creases on your uncle’s chest, he admires how the material’s subtle patterns gleam against the firelight, patiently traces where your fingers must have formed these pleats or those stitches.

All the while, he takes in these tiny details with a soft grin . . . until he looks at your eyes—as violet as the sash he now wears—and he doesn’t look away. And he remembers.

Baelor is no stranger to the hardships of battle. His body bears countless scars from countless skirmishes. There have been times when certain injuries would require far more than a maester’s poultices and a day of bedrest to fully heal, but they have healed regardless. He has never swooned in a fight or even after it. He wears the title of “Breakspear” with utmost care.

But he remembers the warning sound of your voice when he avoided his brother’s mace. He remembers your broken expression when you embraced him by the listing grounds. He remembers being overtaken by thoughts of what you must have dreamt about, what could have happened, what could have been lost—to him, to his family, and to you—all before he pressed his face to the side of your neck and let out a trembling sigh.

Perhaps the day will soon come when he tells you, without embellishment, that your dragon dreams practically saved his life. Perhaps that day will never come, and he will take this revelation with him to his grave. Right now, he just knows he is grateful for . . . you.

Simply you. Sashes or otherwise. Dreams and all.

Your actions still when you feel your husband’s fingers drifting toward the side of your neck, knuckles nudging your chin ever so slightly upward. There’s almost a solemnness to the way he kisses your brow, close to your temple, enough that your eyes close of their own accord. From a pleasing stillness, your heart starts to jump erratically when his lips move down to your cheek, for you know where they’ll head next. He’s always been so kind in his affections toward you. Never shocking or scaring. Always ushering you safely toward what you both crave.

So when he softly drapes his mouth over yours, in every possible sense, you let him in.

Then he whispers something in your ear: an invitation in High Valyrian to take you to bed.

“Yes” is your breathy reply.

In your bedchamber, Baelor strips himself of his princely accessories with utmost care: your gifted sash draped neatly onto the back of the armchair, his Hand of the King pins placed carefully on a nearby dresser table, belts and sheathed blades joining them in clean rows.

You don’t see all this happening, but you hear the soft thuds and clanks of these objects being put away. It takes a moment for you to snap back to your senses and realize that you should do the same, unburden yourself of some clothing so he doesn’t have to put in all that work—

Baelor takes your hand . . . and you freeze. Not tensely but in wait.

“Let me,” he mutters. 

It’s a reassurance as much as it is a request, and with your uncle standing so close to you, so thoughtful in the way he holds your waist in both hands, his brow almost touching yours . . . how could you have any other recourse but to nod?

When he fully unhooks your stays, you take the deepest breath as the garment drops around your feet. You’re about to reach up and help him out of something, anything, but he surprises you with a full embrace that almost robs you of the breath you’ve just taken.

It occurs to you that Baelor hasn’t held you like this since the trial, and the days following after it had you wandering about him with constant caution, for fear you might only aggravate his injuries with your wifely fussing. Now, with no dented armor or listing grounds mud to impede either of you—only his halfway-unbuttoned finery and your smallclothes—you wrap your arms around his waist and press your face to his shoulder. 

A small part of you regrets not holding him like this the night before the battle. Would that have changed anything? Would he have fought with more or less abandon, possibly died in his own son’s armor? The thought of it twists your face with light anguish.

Baelor must sense this because he lowers his face to yours and reclaims your lips with his own.

When his tongue grazes yours, something dragonflame-hot licks deep within your loins.

“Slower?” he asks by your ear.

You barely register what he says and utter something just as incoherent in reply. It can’t be helped. Your body is abuzz with several different wonderful sensations, all of which have you arching toward his touch . . . and oh how he touches you. How he’s rendered you like this.

As Baelor strokes you patiently between your legs, you press a hand to his bare chest—more to brace yourself than anything—and wonder if his heart races as frantically as yours does now. It feels so pleasingly hot where he holds you and achingly cold where he doesn’t, like the side of your neck or your nipples sucked plump and pink through the thin fabric of your shift. Desperate as you are for him tasting your skin again, that isn’t his focus at the moment.

He stares intently at your face, studies every small change in your expression while his fingertips wander up and down, in wide, wet circles, which slowly tighten around . . .

“Ah.” You shut your eyes. “There. Please.”

Baelor rewards your response with a kiss to your lips and gets to work. It begins with his mouth continuing where his fingers left off, and he’ll keep it there for as long as he pleases.

You’ve loved your uncle Baelor for as long as you can remember.

And with everything that’s happened in your life, you don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him reciprocating that love in many ways. So many countless ways.

His love is made manifest in his hands grasping your wrists as he ploughs you from behind, as if he were gripping the reins of an errant steed. It shows when those same hands, calloused from years of swordfighting, stroke the expanse of your back as you ride him to the brink of another burst of ecstasy. You feel his love profoundly when he whispers haggard praises in your ear, when he kisses you until his taste is imprinted upon your tongue—more than honey, more than Myrish oranges—even when he allows you the privilege of tasting him.

His pillar is hot and heavy in your mouth, and you would be more than sated to pleasure him this way for the rest of the night. But in this regard, the prince doesn’t share your patience.

Baelor takes your chin and guides you up to kiss him. You sense that he sits up, arranges the pillows in such a way that would comfortably nestle your exhausted body.

“It’s surely dawn, Your Grace,” you try to scold halfheartedly with a blithe grin, though your legs part willingly when he hovers over you, ready to sheathe himself into you once more.

He doesn’t seem interested in confirming or denying your statement, merely muttering against your lips, “Then let it be dawn,” just as you feel that familiar, blissful stretch.

Your body arches in reply. “Ngh.” Your thoughts are feathered around the edges, but you try not to give in. “I fear we might wake too late for the caravan back to King’s Landing.”

“Then we’ll be late.” A deep thrust from him; a moan from you. “Let all of them be dressed, packed, and mounted in the morn while we lie in bed still.”

Anyone would be shocked to hear such words from the king’s eldest son. The giggle in your throat morphs into another whimper as he moves his hips a little faster.

“And the Kingsguard?” Your voice is so faint. “My father?”

“They can wait for an hour more. Perhaps two.” Faster now. “Until noon. Or the next eve.”

“Baelor—”

Again, that tight embrace around your frame. Again, his ragged breathing by your ear.

“My wife,” he calls you, just before he climaxes. “My love.”

You both crest the hill, clinging tightly to each other, and it isn’t until he kisses them away that you realize your cheeks are damp with tears. Why such an outpour, when the trial is long over?

Later, when sleep threatens to overtake you, you’ll suddenly know why. You’ll press closer to him and ask him if this is all a dream, another cruel, twisted nightmare in which he lives and breathes now but is nowhere to be found on the other side of the veil.

He’ll pull you near and tell you that it’s all real. All of it.

And you’ll rest a little easier, knowing you need not keep these dreams from him again.