Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"The maesters have told me my head is recovering slowly, but things still swim, and I rarely have the stomach for food but at the same time feel ravenously hungry." The battered knight admits. He gestures to his head and the bandages that wrap around it and cover one of his eyes. "Blocking the light helps, which is why we've been traveling at night despite the danger."

You pause in your work, fingers lingering over the tiny thyme leaves that you've been plucking one by one. Their woody herbal scent filling the dim kitchen as much as the smell of the storm or the four men in damp gambesons and tabards sitting at the same table with you.

"Headaches then?" You ask, all business. The Lady Rae Havarn, your mistress, bid you to help these men with whatever was needed while they rested until the storm passed. And since this one has looked one good blow away from falling face first into a grave you figure making sure he doesn't actually end up in one is well in line with her orders.

"Splinteringly bad ones, yes." He admits, somewhat ruefully as his fellow Kingsguard give him plain looks of concern.

"Have they got you drinking enough?" You press, worried. The man is fit for his age, which you'd put at probably 40 years or so. He's clearly strong and well built, though the shoulders of his tabard say the garment was made for a different man. He looks well enough, but it's clear he is having issues with his balance, and his pallor is gray under the sun kissed brown of his skin.

"I have no concept of what is enough. They tell me I must go slowly, introducing more waters to the body when my head is so fragile…"

"Well yes, that is so, but you cannot heal if you have no resources to do it with. If you can keep liquids down then they should be giving you tea and broth as often as you can take it."

He shakes his head, winces as he does and goes still. "They're concerned about the salt thickening the blood apparently."

You scoff. "The amount of salt you'd need to do such a thing!"

You're on your feet before you can even fully process where your thoughts have taken you. You stalk over to the fire to swing the kettle into the flames to boil the water in it. Then scrounge up a tea pot from the shelf nearby that all the servants use on the daily. It's made of thick earthenware and keeps its heat for a long time. You storm over to your workbench and cabinet, which is where you catch up to yourself.

Your hands hover a few moments over the herbs and carefully packaged tinctures that clutter up your workspace in the corner of the kitchen. The collection of containers and mismatched lids that you have scrounged around for the past ten or so years to put together. It's not much, and no where near what your family once had back when your family was still alive, but it's enough. Everyday you tell yourself it's enough. It's enough to have a little bit of a place to call your own. It's enough that you're alive, even if every else died. It's enough because sometimes, you get to help someone, and it feels like maybe all that suffering wasn't for nothing.

You open the cabinet doors and pull down a tea sachet, filling it with a pinch of this and a dash of that. Willowbark for the pain, then some dried ginger to help soothe the stomach, followed by some dried echinacea flowers for body and betterment, with just the tiniest pinch of chili flakes from your homeland of Dorne to help warm the blood. The injured knight has been close to shivering despite his friends all insisting he take the seat closest to the fire and it's hasn't gone unnoticed by you or them. They all hover like worried mother hens.

You twist sachet closed and drop it into the teapot, bringing it and some mugs back over to the table.

"As I was saying," you start again, "your body must have resources if it is going to heal. If you can't eat foods then you need to stay hydrated."

The kettle starts hiss and spit, and you go to fetch it from the fire, using your apron to protect your hands. You pour the boiling water into the pot. The steam rises fragrant and herbal.

"What would you recommend then?" He asks, gazing at the steaming water as you put the lid on.

"I'm no maester, but my mother, and her mother, and her mother before her looked after their families before we had maesters to administer to us. Somethings are known, even without having studied in Oldtown."

"The chili is a bit of an indulgence, I hope it won't be too much for you. Do you have any tolerance for spice? It is only a little I promise."

The smile he gives you is a odd one. His uncovered eye is a beautiful deep brown you notice, and there is something about the way he gazes at you. Like you're a pleasant surprise he wasn't expecting. It has been so long since someone looked at you like that. You've forgotten what it feels like, the way the back of your neck heats, or the irrepressible smile that threatens to steal across your face.

"I've had Dornish food before, and enjoyed it immensely." He says in the quiet, after a pause that was a touch too long.

"Oh! I imagine they have all kinds of food in King's Landing, that must be wonderful."

"It is," he agrees softly.

You pour out the first cup and dump it down the grate, just as your mother taught you. He watches closely, eyes on your wrists and fingers as you then pour again and slide it towards him. You portion out the rest into smaller cups for yourself and the other knights.

One of the knights, the one sitting on the other side of the injured man you're now tending to, reaches past his comrade to pick up the cup you'd meant for the one eyed knight. It was larger, and had a handle big enough to fit most of his hand. Something you figured would help because of the occasional tremors. But before you can say anything the knight knocks back a large sip of the tea.

The other knight nearly chokes, the hot water must be scalding him terribly. But he stubbornly swallows, his face red. He coughs once into his fist, and then hands the mug back to the injured knight who doesn't seem the least bit surprised at his friend's bizarre behavior.

"You…should usually let tea cool before drinking it." You say carefully, not at all sure what is going on between these men.

"I'll remember that for next time," the knight hoarsely whispers. Dumbfounded you pass the remaining cups out to the knights, and keep the last for yourself.

At a loss for what else to do you blow the steam from the top of your cup and take a careful sip. It's blisteringly hot and makes you wince in sympathy for the knight.

"If you can keep this down," you say hesitantly, "I could heat up some broth for you. Nothing too salty, I promise. Out of deference for the maesters."

"You have already done so much for us, there really is no cause for us to put you out further." The injured knight demurs.

Before you can say anything, insist, as you mean to since no one should go hungry especially someone injured - there's a clatter in the hallway and in through the doorway half falls Lady Marissa. She's in her night shift, with her over dress wrapped loosely around her. She's in her good boots rather than her night slippers however, and is carrying a candelabra that has gone out and lost half the candles.

"Blast!" She mutters, stumbling in still completely drunk from the feast.

"Lady Marissa, you shouldn't be down here," you say quickly, rising from the table and hurrying over to grip her by the elbow to steady her.

"You're down here, my lady, so I can be to. Just because Lady Rae is a horrid old bitch, doesn't mean one twig to me."

"Marissa!" You hiss in warning, but it's too late you can tell all the knights over heard that comment.

"Bah, you worry too damn much. I'm just down for something to drink before I actually go to bed. If I don't have something I won't be fit for anything tomorrow."

"I worry the exact right amount, but fine, I just made tea it'll suit what ails you too."

"You're a gem, you know that right? Don't listen to the old bitch."

Your lips twitch in an almost smile against your best efforts.

"I don't and you know it."

"You do sometimes. Like when she makes you work in the kitchen like a servant. You're as much a lady as me."

"Sometimes it's easier for me to let her think she's won," you acknowledge with a whisper. "Stay here, I'll get your tea, alright?"

You turn to collect another large mug for Marissa from the shelf, but when you turn back she's already leaning against the table peering curiously at the men at the table.

"Well I don't recognize any of you. Why are there strangers in the kitchen this late, my lady?" She directs at you, as though she half expects you to say there's no one there at all and she's seeing things. She's certainly drunk enough she'd probably believe you.

"Just some travelers Lady Rae asked me to look after."

Marissa looks over at you, her eyes shrewd.

"Alone." She says pointedly. "She asked you to tend to them. And left you. Alone. Unchaperoned."

You color just a bit at her implication.

"Take your tea, Lady Marissa. And head up to bed. Please."

"I rather think I should stay," she says seriously.

"We're knights, my lady," one of the men speaks up formally. His bearing is painfully stiff. "I can assure you your friend has nothing to be concerned about from any of us. Your Lady was kind enough to grant us leave to wait out the storm here in the kitchens."

"Right." Marissa says skeptically. "That is very reassuring to hear, ser." It very clearly is not.

"But your actions are truly only half of my concern." She finishes, and you can tell none of the men have any idea what she's talking about.

You storm over, pour a healthy does of the tea into the tall mug, then return to Marissa and wrap one of her hands around the handle.

"Go to bed, Marissa. I'll deal with it. You shouldn't be down here. You know what will happen if she realizes you're down here."

You know what will happen when she realizes you've ruined her plans. Is what you don't say aloud, but what Marissa hears.

Your friend, the only person in this horrid house that you can really call a friend looks at you for a long silent moment. She must see some of the steel you've got in the words because she snorts.

"Gods. That bitch." She mutters quietly. She takes the mug, jams the candelabra into the crook of an elbow and hugs you briefly.

She then looks over at the still confused knights. "Touch a single hair on her head, sers, and I swear by all the gods old and new I'll hunt you each down and kill you slowly."

"She is safe with us," the injured knight says solemnly, like he's giving his own sworn oath to protect the innocent again. There's a weight to his words that surprises you.

"Fine. We will speak in the morning, my lady." Marrisa says to you and goes tottering back out the door, pulling it shut behind her. You watch her leave, and then return to the table. You knock back some of your tea. It's hot enough still to be uncomfortable but not painful. The injured knight has clearly managed some of his as well.

"How's the stomach?"

"Not rebelling over much."

"Good. Broth then."

You sweep away to the larder before he or his friends can protest. When you come back a few moments later, with an armful of vegetable scraps from the feast, you find that one of the knights is adjusting the bandages on the injured one. The eye patch dips for a second. You set your things down on the end of the table.

The injured knight glances up at you when you do, startled by the noise. His previously covered eye is a beautiful, crystal clear blue, with a touch of soft lavender at the edges.

Your heart skips several beats, breath caught in your throat. You've heard stories about a man with eyes like that.

That man…is not a knight.

The deference from the other knights. The hovering. The care. Gods, the other knight was testing the tea for poison. Because…because…the injured knight isn't a knight at all. Or rather he isn't only a knight.

Your fingers feel like they're tingling, your ears are ringing as if bells were tolling in your head.

Crown Prince Baelor Breakspear Targaryen is sitting on a bench in your kitchen.

He looks at you staring at him, and gives you a rueful smile.

"Y-You're the prince," you stammer out, unable to comprehend anything other than this revelation and his small smile in your direction.

"And you are a noble lady." He replies, "It seems we have both left some things unsaid."

Your training from childhood reaches out from fifteen years past and grips you by the spine and knees. You drop into a curtsy, low, out of deference for not just his station above yours, but also an apology.

"Your Grace, please I beg your pardon, I had no idea." You manage to get out a somewhat coherently, even managing to use the right title, which given the circumstances you're almost proud of. You keep your eyes down, staring at the floor, and how the hem of your rough spun dress pools atop your shoes.

"That was our intention, my lady," The Prince says, his tone gentle. "You're not to blame for what we did not tell you. Purposefully." He adds with a small huff.

You risk a glance up. He hasn't moved from his spot on the bench. His comrades - his guards, haven't either. Although the one that drank the scalding hot tea is looking at you with the keen eye of a hound watching a hare.

Slowly you rise back up. You unlock the death grip both hands have on your skirts, one finger at a time, your mind whirling like the storm rages outside.

"What…what happened?" You breathe out, unable to suppress your curiosity. "Were you attacked? Where are the rest of your guards? Your entourage?"

He chuckles a little at your questions, "We were telling the truth to Lady Havarn, my lady. We got separated from our larger group, which has my brother Prince Maekar and several of his children, as well as my own son, Valarr. But we got separated in the storm. My captain here felt it would be better to seek shelter given my condition and the terrain."

The captain in question, the knight that swallowed near boiling water for his Prince, raises his chin stubbornly. "Aye, and I was right to insist. These marshes can't be trusted. Especially not in a storm like this. Didn't want to end up walking us all into quicksand, or mud, or a ditch full of mud and quicksand."

You nod in agreement with the captain. "You are right to be cautious ser, this area is treacherous in the dark."

The Prince sighs, he turns just a little so a different part of his side is pressed against the table edge. Given the shadow of bruises that you've seen edging from under his clothes, you assume he's trying to avoid pressing on some.

"I'm well aware of the dangers of the terrain, Captain," he says somewhat exasperated. "However, I wish we'd given just a little more consideration to the other dangers inherent to this landscape."

The Captain gives the Prince a sharp glance, that the Prince completely ignores in favor of drinking more of his tea. The Captain goes back to watching you with that keen look again.

You might be several years out of practice, and unaware of recent courtly politics in the capital, but you're not stupid. And your own situation means that you're very knowledgeable about this particular stretch of Westeros.

House Havarn is one of many smaller noble households in the northern Dornish Marches. It sits just a ways away from one of the main thoroughfares that connects the Reach to the Stormlands, and is not too terribly far from Summerhall.

Asking a man which dragon he fought for in the Rebellion, red or black, is a dangerous question to pose in this part of the world. It's a dangerous question to ask Lord Havarn. You know he did not actually called banners for Daemon Blackfyre, but you also know he definitely didn't for House Targaryen. The Lord is very tight lipped about that time period, as many people in the Dornish Marshes are. But you know your own history, and you know that Havarn was chosen to…host you…for a reason.

"Well," you say softly, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen like the crack of thunder outside. "I think, ser, we should fix those bandages right away. The light is probably uncomfortable for you. And…and the Lady of the house is well known to wander the halls before second sleep. She likes to check up on everything."

You stare at them for one beat longer, and then drop your eyes back to the supplies you had dug out of the larder.

"You're too kind, my lady," The Prince murmurs. "If there is anything we can do to repay your kindness, you have but to ask it of me."

A hysterical laugh threatens to burst from you. Reflexively you press your middle and forefingers around the ring on your left thumb, a habit of comfort you have never been able to shake. You could ask. You could. You could tell him. But what good would it do? He's in disguise, which he can't risk breaking. He is badly injured and has only three loyal men to protect him.

"You offer too much in exchange for so small a kindness, ser," you manage to say. There must be something to your tone, your delivery, that he picks up on because when you look up from the work, your hands, your father's ring, his mismatched eyes are on you again. But this time, this time it's different. This time he's not hiding behind bandages and the affable cover of a knight. This time he's looking at you with the eyes of a Prince, a King in the making and it makes you feel like a butterfly pinned to a card.

He flicks his eyes over your face, your hair, the way you hold your shoulders, the steel of your spine, down to your hands on the table, the way you press some of your weight on them. The great turn of his mind is so clear to you through his gaze. He hasn’t figured you out, not yet, he doesn’t have enough information, but he suddenly is aware there is something to be figured out.

The fire pops behind him, sending a flare of light over the room as one of the logs tumbles down into the coals. The Prince winces, and it breaks the snare of his attention on you as quick as a knife would cut you free. He presses the fingers of one hand to his eye, hiding it from the fire, then impatiently tugs the bandages back down to cover it.

“I’ll offer it again,” the Prince says, his words careful, like a man walking across uncertain land. “Perhaps next time you’ll take me up on it.”

You have no idea how to reply to that, so you offer a shaky “Perhaps, your Grace.”

"Ser," he corrects.

"Ser." You repeat firmly. He looks back down to his tea, you look back at your work.

You slowly uncurl your fingers from around your father's ring, and turn to get one of the small cauldrons down from the wall rack of kitchen tools. The carrots, celery and cabbage are easy to break or tear into chunks and toss in. The garlic bulb comes apart easy and you roughly smash a few cloves with the heel of your palm to shake them free of their papery skins. The leftover half an onion is already peeled so you just break up the layers and dump it in as well.

The work soothes you, lets you find your footing again because it is a dance you know so well. You pick up some of the thyme you'd been plucking and toss that in as well, and out of deference to the maesters, only add a little salt from the salt cellar on the table. Out of deference to the Prince, you go and nab some peppercorns and more Dornish chili flakes from your cabinet stores.

When you resurface from your task, the cauldron has replaced the kettle on the hook over the fire, and you are pouring the last of the water from the kettle into the pot. The peppercorns float merrily to the surface, their smell rising with the steam. You put the kettle down on the hearth, and consider what to do next. It feels nearly sacrilegious somehow to sit back down on the bench next to the Prince.

Baelor Breakspear has his eyes closed at the moment, his face turned away from the fire. You wish you could show him to a room, somewhere you could draw heavy curtains and let him rest properly. But aside from the fact such a thing would get you into enormous trouble, there is also the issue that the Havarn house is absolutely filled to the brim with visitors already. The feast the Lord and Lady threw earlier this evening had gone on well past midnight. The knights and the Prince had arrived in the smallest of hours, after most drunken feast go-ers had found their beds. And after you'd shooed the last exhausted scullery maid off to sleep with the promise of taking care of prep for breakfast.

Dawn will be delayed if the storm continues, but that's still a couple of candle marks away either way yet. You should really get the oats soaking for the morning's porridge, grind up some nutmeg and cinnamon perhaps. It is an indulgence you could justify with the extra guests in the house, and use a little to prepare a different kind of tisane for the Prince. Cinnamon would help with the inflammation that comes from healing, you think. Mind made up you go to get your mortar and pestle from your cabinet.

"There is a type of tea that isn't grown in Dorne anymore." The Prince speaks into the silence, and you freeze with your back to him, halfway to the wall. "A noble house grew it on the banks of The Scourge. Their sigil was a tea plant in bloom on a blue background."

You don't move. You scarcely breathe. The Prince continues to recite history with the tone of a maester giving a lecture.

"But in the early months of the Rebellion, the tea fields were torched by a house allied with the Blackfyres. All the plants burned, and so, the tea is not grown in Westeros anymore. I'm afraid I can't remember the name of the tea. I wish I could. I've had it before. I remember it tasted very dark, but still held such a sweet fragrance."

It feels like someone else's body that turns to face him. He's looking at you again. His eyes flick down to your left hand, where your father's ring sits on your thumb. It doesn't have a blue background, being made of heavy silver - but the crest stamped into its face is of a tea branch in full bloom.

"Nilgiri." You rasp.

The Prince smiles the smile of a man who's just made the winning move in a game of cyvasse. "That's right. It was called Nilgiri tea. The Martells gave a lordship to the family who grew it some hundred years ago because it was so sought after and highly prized."

"You have a good memory."

"It's better usually. I'm afraid I had to dig quite deeply to remember. Normally, I'm much quicker to recognize sigils."

"I assume you were drilled on all the noble houses when you were a pupil?" you ask, trying to stall.

"Constantly," he admits, letting you. "Aerys was the best at it, however. He, for example, would remember the name of the family, as well as who exactly was it that torched the fields."

The pause he leaves after the sentence is clearly meant to be filled by you. But you hesitate. It's not a secret, not really. But this would only be the start of his questions and you don't know if you have it in you to tell your story in full. Not knowing what you do about Lady Rae's plans for you. About her decision to have you, of all people, tend to four men in the middle of the night.

Stories are told so often about Baelor Breakspear, the noble Prince of the Targaryen line. Even here, in the marshes, the small folk speak his name with a bright hope. Everything you've seen of him this night has only assured you of the truth in those stories. A kind, intelligent and gracious Prince.

But you…in this moment, in the small hours before dawn, with the sound of rain just outside the kitchen door, you see a man. He's a good man. But he's just a man. He's hurt, and he wants to know more so he can do the right thing, whatever that may be. And maybe under different circumstances, in different weather, at a different kitchen table you'd let him. But here, now, you're the one that has to do the right thing. The realm needs this man far more than they need an eldest daughter of a dead noble house that once grew tea on the banks of the river.

You offer him a smile, you make it a sincere one even. "I don't recall either, ser. As you said, it was many years ago."

He sees through you. You know he does. You don't flinch in your lie. Lies are all you have to protect him.

He's not impressed, not in the least. But you don't cower under the heavy stare, even when you see real signs anger licking at the edges of his gaze. You've faced up under worse than this, and he doesn't scare you. He may be the Crown Prince of Westeros, but you have nothing to loose but his life, and that is an easy calculation to make.

The Prince pushes himself to his feet. He's taller than the first impression he made as an injured knight, you can see he's holding himself up properly now, spine stiff, shoulders pushed back. There is the level of command you'd expect from a monarch. It's almost a shame it isn't going to work on you.

"My lady, I can't help but wonder what your motives for keeping such a simple thing secret are."

"My past is not simple," you hiss, affronted at his presumption.

"You are of that family then, yes?"

"Yes," you reply, it is pointless to lie on that point. Your reaction to him reciting some of your past was too much of a give away. To deny that much would probably tip him from frustration into outright suspicion.

"Then how are you here? In the Dornish Marshes, working for this house? Why are you here?"

"That is none of your concern, your Grace," you reply firmly.

"Are you trapped? Held hostage? Were you stolen away from your family somehow?"

"I am where I need to be," you try, but that does not satisfy him.

"But not where you want to be," he asserts, he's still keeping himself so stiff. The gentleness, the softness has left him. You're not sure where it has gone. You wish it would come back.

"Your Grace, that is a state few people get to be in at all. And no cause for alarm."

"You are from a noble house. Serving as a lady in waiting to another noble woman, that would be an expected occupation of someone of your station. But working in the kitchen? Being all but forced to tend to men in the middle of the night, a direct risk to your reputation and comfort. The Lady Marissa said she was concerned…not just about us…but about something else." His tone drifts at little towards the end of his sentence, there's something wrong, you realize abruptly. There's something wrong with the way he's holding himself.

What you thought was a part of his royal bearing, is suddenly starting to appear like it might be something else. He's stiff. Too stiff.

"Your Grace, please, this isn't necessary."

"What is going on here, my lady? What is going on in this house?" The last of that is almost a shout and you're a half second away from shushing the Crown Prince of Westeros like an errant child when his pallor goes bone white. You see what's coming just before it over takes him.

"Catch him!" You yell at the Captain who had half risen from his seat behind the Prince when he raised his voice. You dive forward as you yell, and between the two of you, you mange to keep him from hitting the floor. Neither of you are fast enough however to catch his head, which snaps back when his fall is halted, causing him to let out an agonized shout.

You and the Captain both lower the Prince to the floor, you shifting most of his weight to the Captain, so you have a free hand to gently cup the Prince's neck. Touching his skin above the high collar of the gambeson is a shock to your system. You feel every strand of his short dark hair, the dampness of the rain still clinging to his skin and clothes. His face turns towards you, his breath brushing along your inner wrist. You feel like you're going to come out of your skin.

"What's wrong with him?" the Captain demands fiercely.

"He's dehydrated and starving," you snap back, flustered. "On top of whatever injury he's taken. His body is over taxed, and it always makes its demands felt."

The Captain finishes laying the Prince down on the floor while you keep cradling his head, quickly reaching down to unfold his legs where they'd bent at the knees.

"Forgive the presumption, please, your Grace," you mutter to the insensate man while using a free hand to scrabble gracelessly at the leather ties closing the neck of the gambeson. You wrench it open under the tabard just enough to place two fingers on the drumming pulse you find there. The beat is steady, which is encouraging, but it's way too fast, which is not.

"Your Grace," you say a bit louder, but there is not response. He's not fully unconscious, there's too much pained tension in his body for that.

"Your Grace, please, can you open your eyes for me?" you call again, unthinkingly cupping his cheek with the same hand that checked his pulse. Your other still holds his neck as carefully as you can, trying to keep him still.

The captain leans close, "Prince Baelor. Come now, man, wake up. You're worrying the lady." He coaches as well.

The Prince groans quietly, gods is there anything this man does loudly. How can someone have so much presence but so little noise?

"I'm here," he says faintly.

"Good, that's good. What's the worst of it?" you ask, already spinning through the possibilities.

"My head," he mutters, nearly incomprehensible.

"Alright, I can have a look. What else, your Grace? Dizzy? Nauseous? Are you pain anywhere else?"

"Cold…" he whispers the exhalation stealing across your skin again in a way that makes you shiver.

"You!" You point to one of the other knights, both of whom have darted around the table to help, though they stand uncertain of what to do just behind the captain. "The laundry is at the end of that hallway. Go pull some clothes off the line, whatever is clean, dry and will fit him. And bring back any toweling or blankets you can find. All clean, do you understand?"

"Yes, my lady!" And he goes hurrying off as directed.

To the other you point to the kettle still sitting on the hearth. "I need more water, the well is in the courtyard, out that door there. Let the draw run for at least four or five pumps of the well first, you hear? Clear the pipes before you fill the kettle."

"Understood!" He grabs the kettle and bangs out the door. You flinch at the noise but there's no helping it now.

"Let's get him closer to the fire," you say to the Captain who nods tightly and crouches to better heft the Prince back up. You rise to help as well, steadying the Prince's head with careful fingers along his jaw, and your other hand still holding his nape. The three of you shuffle like some strange awkward creature the scant couple of feet to the hearth and then lower him down upon it. He sits slouched like a puppet with his strings cut but you stay on your knees next to him to hold him up, while the Captain braces him from the front.

"I'm going to unwrap the bandages alright? Your Grace?"

The Captain looks pained, when the Prince doesn't answer beyond a strange murmur. "They were supposed to be changed hours ago," the Captain explains. "The maesters have him on so many potions and tinctures but all of that is with the maesters and the luggage."

"Gods be good," you mutter. You pull away the bandages and get a glimpse of the damage waiting underneath, still mostly covered by an additional pad of cloth that has stuck to the back of the Prince's head. Your heart feels like it may burst from your chest.

"Fucking -" you cut off the rest of the curse, trying desperately to find your center again. You try prayer instead, at a loss for anything else in the face of an injury this bad.

"Blessed be the Mother of the Waters," you begin, muttering quietly to steady your hands as you oh so carefully touch the edges of the pad of gauze, checking for any bit that might be loose. "Blessed be the waters of life and all growing things, blessed be the run of the rivers here and far, blessed be the banks and the borders between this and that which comes after. And may the -"

"Mother of Rivers guide me when it is my time to cross." The Prince finishes the prayer in a hoarse whisper that has returned to warmth and softness. You squeeze your eyes tight for a second against the urge to cry, it has been so long since you had someone to speak these words with. You are caught off guard how it feels to not be alone.

But now is not the time for such things, you brush your hands through the dark and flecked with silver short cropped hair, almost as an apology in advance, and lift one of the edges of the gauze just a bit. The Prince hisses and tenses in your arms.

It's bad. It's so much worse than you were expecting. You're amazed he lived. You're amazed he was able to speak with you. The gauze is held in place by dried blood and poultice and there's no way, not even with all the strength and wisdom of the rivers would you dare remove it.

Fine. Alright, you think. Mitigation it is. Comfort, resources, rest and quiet. You need to redo the outer bandages that were protecting this much more important layer. That is something you can and should do given the state of the loose lengths in your hands. They need to be boiled and dried and redone. Maybe some some of the birch sap to keep them in place better.

"You've stopped praying," the Prince whispers, "is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Good thing," you answer firmly, not letting your voice waver. "I only pray when I don't know what to do. Or if I must say goodbye."

The prince hums, and to you he sounds as if he were drunk. "Hmm, those are good moments for prayer."

"How about you," you ask. Keep him talking you think. You can gauge much from how this man speaks. "When do you pray, your grace?"

"To the Seven? When I need to ask for patience mostly. Guidance sometimes. Mercy, always."

"And to the rivers?" You press, gesturing wordlessly to the knight that comes back in with the kettle of water. You point empathically at the fire and the hook over it. The knight, bless him, needs nothing further and comes over dripping rain water everywhere. It's incredible what difference a candlemark can make you think hysterically. An hour ago you were worried about having to clean the mud off the floor before the cook woke up. You'll still need to do that, so long as the heir to the realm doesn't die in your arms first.

"I don't speak to the rivers much these days," he admits, his tone is still swimming, an sort of slurring meander.

"That's a shame," you say, "did you used to?"

The other knight barrels in his arms full of linens.

"Hmm, when I was younger. My mother taught me about the Mother River. And the Old Man. About the waters that connect us all in this life."

"That's right, your grace. Water connects us all, the rivers carry us all in our times to come and go, they are always there."

"Will I be crossing the river tonight, my lady?"

"No, your grace. Not tonight."

You turn to the Captain, "Can you get him out of the wet clothes? You have to move slowly and for the love of all the gods old and new, do not dislodge the bandage. Don't even touch it, if you can avoid it."

The Captain nods tightly, "We've got him. Tarly, get the Prince's boots off. Godwin take the lady's place."

Tarly sets the linens down and Godwin comes up behind you. The prince has ended up leaning his back more or less against your chest, his head hanging forward while you examined the bandage. Godwin presses in close, but he's tense, hesitant and uncertain of how to be in your space so close to you.

"By the rivers, ser," you snap, "He's made of glass not me. Get in here."

"M'not" the prince mutters.

"Not what, your grace?" you ask, keeping him focused.

"Made of glass."

"Right now you are." You insist as you painstakingly slide out from behind the prince, using your hands to brace him at his back. Godwin puts one hand there too, to take the weight, and then offers you the other so you can press yourself onto your feet and you shimmy out from between them. You have to pull your skirts free from where they've twisted up half around the Prince and half around your own legs, but you're free.

You spare not one second before you're off again. The loose bandages go on the table to wait for the water to boil. You keep your back to the fire while the knights carefully navigate the prince from his damp clothes into something dry. It involves lots of cursing, the sound of cloth ripping and at least one snapped "Godwin!" from the Captain.

You don't look. Instead you're grasping through your stores almost by feel and memory alone. More willow bark and dried ginger, four or five cardamom pods, the remainder of the Lady Rae's precious green tea, and the tiny paper packet of turmeric you were holding on to for an emergency. This is definitely that emergency.

Reaching into the back of the cabinet, you pull out your tea pot, the one you never use and only ever cart around from noble house to noble house because you can't seem to let it go. It's too Dornish to use openly, but you don't care about that right now, you just need it because you know it's clean and the right size. All the ingredients go in, and you take the whole thing with you back to the hearth.

The Prince looks different in borrowed clothes. They've got him in a pair of breeches too big for him, and a long chemise, half ripped at the neck making it very wide and easy to slip on without disturbing the bandages. His feet are bare. The cuffs of the chemise cover the backs of his hands.

Laid out so close to the fire atop a length of rough spun linen you think normally serves as a table cloth, you can see his face fully and properly illuminated for the first time from where it is turned towards the light. The gray in his beard, the fine lines around his eyes, the slant of his nose. Sweat gathers faintly at his hairline, and his breathing is a touch too rapid.

"Here's what we are going to do," you state, all business and the knights look to you for instruction, loyal and steady as hounds waiting for the whistle.

"I'll clean around the bandage some, because the last thing we need is that area staying dirty. Broth after that, if he will take it, then something for the pain and swelling. I can't do anything for the bandage the maesters gave him. That is far beyond my abilities, but we are going to clean and boil the outer bandages and hang them to dry so they can be redone to protect it. I didn't see any signs of infection, so the fever is likely from the pain he's in."

You move as you talk, setting your tea pot down near the fire, and then kicking your heavy woolen skirts out of the way so you can sit cross legged next to the Prince's head. Tarly is there, without having to ask him, helping you gently lift and turn the Prince's head and shoulders, rolling him slowly onto his side towards you, so he rests in your lap. With the back of his head now towards the fire, you have a clearer view and can see more clearly the places where the blood and poultice have run from the rain and dried in sticky trails in his hair and on his skin.

"Godwin," you call, and he straightens, "The roasting spit rail is propped up in that corner over there, bring it over would you? Attach it to the fireplace, and swing it over the hearth, we can drape his clothing over it so it'll dry. Just leave me a gap so I can see what I'm doing."

You rearrange your skirts a little, the extra fabric is warm after all, and the Prince could use every bit of that right now. It's not much, but you can spread some of it over his hands and arms where they lay limp in front of you.

"Captain, if you would be so kind as to hand me a bowl from that shelf over there? Tarly, grab that bit of toweling there, no the clean one. Thank you. Godwin, don't burn your hands alright? But pour some of the water from the kettle into that bowl for me, yes perfect."

You direct the men around you in a clear voice, with as much confidence as you can muster. And they thankfully continue executing it all with brisk efficiency. While they ready your supplies, you pull the torn chemise's neck wide as it will go, so as not to get it wet while you clean. The Prince sighs as you do, the touch of your cooler hands against his heated skin probably feels good, and some of the tension drains out of him. Something other than thought has you resting a palm again on the back of his neck, your thumb absently brushing so gently through the fine hair at his nape.

Godwin hands you the bowl filled with water, which you take automatically and then set down in easy reach. Tarly is there with the cloth, and the Captain brings over your mug from the table, which he's poured the rest of the tea into.

"Anything else, my lady?" the Captain asks.

"Not at this moment, ser, but we'll see where the night takes us, hm?" you say jokingly, with only the faintest touches of hysteria. The Captain nods, and sits back down on the bench closest to the fire, keeping his back to the table so he can keep an eye on you and what you're doing. Tarly perches next to him, still at the ready for more orders, while Godwin starts draping the Prince's wet clothes over the rail.

You pause a moment just to breathe, to let your hands steady, and find your center one more time. A breath is all you get however. Because in that second, the main kitchen door swings open with a bang and the Lady Rae sweeps into the room already yelling.

"What in the names of the gods is going on down here?" she demands.

Her eyes find you, sitting with a man half in your lap in a state of undress while three other men look on. She doesn't disappoint, her face lights up with what you can only describe as unholy glee. The Captain and Godwin leap to their feet, but it's far too late.

"Oh my, my dear girl. What have we here?" she asks, with victory dripping from every syllable.

The Lady's eyes are fever bright with drink from the feast and the success of not just this plan, but from several others, culminating in this party. You don't move, not that springing to your feet would help at all. The Prince rests against you, and any more sudden jolts are absolutely not what he needs right now.

"Lady Havarn," you croak, briefly at a completely loss of what to even do.

"My lady," the Captain thankfully fills in the gap. "Please do not be alarmed, your lady in waiting is tending to my comrade, he's taken ill."

Lady Rae raises one eyebrow in artificial disbelief.

"Oh, of course, ser, he's taken ill. That's why my lady in waiting is on the floor, with his hands up her skirt."

You look down as if you'd forgotten about using said skirts to try and keep the Prince warm just moments before. It was bad enough that you've got the Prince down to a single layer of ripped clothing, even taking into the account he looks quite sick and injured, you've got to admit the picture you two make is actually kind of damning.

"He's ill," the Captain insists firmly, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. You desperately wish he was close enough that you could extend a leg to kick his ankle. "The lady has been kind enough to offer sustenance, tending and dry clothing. I would hate to think of anyone slandering her because of such kindness."

Alright, that response was actually pretty good.

"My lady," you interject though, because you need Lady Rae's attention on you, and not thinking too hard about these four men, and wanting details. Like their names. You purposefully haven't asked the Captain for his name or even why he's called 'Captain', because you have a horrible suspicion his name or story would be instantly recognizable. Men who rise in the ranks of the Kingsguard almost always are.

Thankfully, she turns her bright eyes back to you.

"My lady, he took over with dizziness, and when I examined him I could see that his wounds needed tending. I am only trying to honor your house and see to your guests." You explain.

"Yes. You are indeed seeing to them," she laughs meanly. You grit your teeth against snapping at her. The Prince stirs fitfully against you. Looking down you can see his eyes flutter open, and before you can second guess yourself, you press your hand against the place where his shoulder and neck meet. He freezes.

"Be still, please, ser. I haven't finished cleaning your wound yet," you try to put as much pleading in that sentence as possible. If Lady Rae gets a glimpse of both his eyes, you're all ruined. The Prince must hear enough of your caution because he stays where he is. But he doesn't close his eyes, and you feel a conscious tenseness spread through him under your hand.

"I see you've shared plenty from our stores with them," the Lady Rae remarks, drifting somewhat unsteadily into the kitchen a little more, looking at the teapot on the table, and the clean linens scattered about that the knights used to dry the Prince off.

"Of course, my lady, I knew you would not want me to be discourteous." you say demurely, lowering your eyes, but still keeping her in sight through your lashes. She gives you a poisonous look, but doesn't contradict you.

"Your household has been so very welcoming, my lady," the Captain adds helpfully, almost cheerfully sincere.

"Naturally, ser, House Havarn stands at the ready for the realm, be that its Kingsguard, its noble houses, or sad, bedraggled strays." She simpers back at the Captain. He blinks, surprised at her tone.

The Prince draws in a tight, slow breath.

"You must forgive us, however, for leaving your injured man to be tended by my untrained and unlearned lady in waiting. Should we summon a maester for you? We have none here usually, but one of our guests is Lord of Leafy Lake and brought one of his maesters with him. We could wake them if you'd like."

"That's not necessary," you say quickly, unable to keep your hand from pressing protectively on the Prince, as though you could shield him somehow. "He only needs it to be re-bandaged, we shouldn't wake the maester for something to trivial."

The Captain shoots you a questioning glance, but you can't look back at him. Lady Rae may be inebriated, but she's not blind, and despite what her current state might demonstrate, she plays the games of stolen glances and half whispers better than most you've come across in this job. You just have to hope he will go along with it.

Lady Rae just smiles at you, and the smile is all teeth. "Of course, my lady," she mocks, "something as simple as redressing a wound is well within your…formidable talents."

The Prince shifts like he's trying to find a way to push himself up, you dig your fingernails into his skin for lack of any other wordless option. A warm hand finds your calf under your skirts, his broad palm presses back in response to your hands on him, one of his fingers hooking under your garter like a demanding question. You press harder with your nails in what you hope desperately he can translate as a very firm and clear: Don't.

"Thank you, my lady," you manage to say without choking on it. "I only need a bit more time to have him back on his feet."

"Don't forget to check over his comrades with the same dedication, dear," she chortles. The other knights, even poor Godwin, actually look insulted on your behalf.

"That's…not needed ma'am," the Captain says disbelieving at how vile she's being. "We're all fine. As the lady says, we only need a little more time and we'll be out of your hair. We appreciate the shelter, but you're clearly busy with your guests, we will try to leave by dawn."

"That's such a shame," the Lady Rae replies with false sincerity, "Most of my guests were already abed when you arrived, sers, I was hoping to introduce you over the breakfast feast."

You stare at her, astounded at her audacity. Has she actually lost her mind?

"We would hate to take away from the festivities, my lady." The Captain says, clearly uncertain as to what is going on.

"Nonsense! It isn't every day we out here in the marshes get to entertain members of the Kingsguard! I imagine you all on your way to Ashford Meadows then? We heard the Targaryen House would be attending a tourney there."

"Well remembered, my lady," the Captain replies and you want to congratulate him on such a neutral, non-committal, but still perfectly true statement.

Lady Rae taps the side of her temple, "Mind like an iron trap, mine. Good to know, I do hope the tourney went well and all, I should send the Ashfords a note or something. A task for the daylight hours!"

She turns back to you, "My dear, do remind me later to write the Ashfords, once you've had some sleep of course. I'm sure you'll be tired after all of this…stimulating work. Have a lie in, you needn't come to the breakfast feast, find me after the noon bell."

"Thank you, my lady," you force yourself to say. You'll have to do it too, she's gotten what she wanted from this hastily hatched plan of hers and she's going to see it come to fruition no matter what. If you can't stop her, then you are going to use the free hours she's just handed you to the best of your abilities.

"Hm, and if he's gotten blood on any of those linens that is coming out of your pay."

"We are happy to cover the cost of anything we damage, my lady," the Captain interrupts.

"So gallant, ser, that is very kind of you to offer-"

"I insist. I would be appalled if we caused an undue burden to anyone in your household."

"Oh, very well." she mutters, clearly annoyed at having one of her barbs for you being deflected. She turns to you once more.

"You'll still need to get the morning chores done, no waking up any of the servants to pick up your slack, you hear?"

"I understand, my lady." The two of you lock eyes across the room.

Her, sloppily dressed in her feast finery, cheeks flushed with drink and a smug grin on her face. You, with your plain woolen dress that you had to dye yourself with Lady Marissa's help because this woman wouldn't give you an allowance for clothing, and a half conscious Prince in your lap. Yet again, you find yourself having to suppress a burst of hysterical laughter at the hand you have been dealt this night.

She sneers at you, and you know your time at this keep is absolutely over. She's won, and she's going to make sure you're out as soon as possible. You can only hope to somehow manage a new position elsewhere, because there is no way you're going to give yourself over to her plan completely. You'll find a way to turn this to your advantage, you promise yourself silently. The battle may be lost, but the war goes ever on.

"See that you do not leave a mess," is her last instruction, before she sweeps back out of the room, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

The Captain, looks over at you, his confusion and shock plain on his face.

"My lady, what in all the realms -"

With your free hand you make a frantic cutting motion against your own throat, before nodding your head at the open door way. Tarly, bless him, seems to catch on instantly, because he strides over to the door, checks the hallway and then shuts it tight.

"She's at the end of the hall, still walking away." Tarly reports softly, staying near the door.

You let out an explosive breath of relief and lean forward just a little, letting the release of all the stress curl your spine. Looking down, you find the Prince looking up at you, his mismatched eyes serious.

"There's a maester here?" the Prince asks flatly, his voice is still a little muddled, but he was obviously able to follow the Lady's Rae's words.

"The Lord of Leafy Lake is a cadet branch of the House Osgrey." You answer the question he's really asking, knowing you won't be able to dodge around the issue now.

The Captain curses softly looking up at the ceiling for a brief moment as if praying for strength, meanwhile the Prince lets out a miserable groan of frustration.

"Of course they are," he mutters into your skirts, his tone defeated.

"I don't think that the maester would do anything to actively harm you, your Grace, but he is his Lord's man, and from what I understand, only recently gained his chain. He's quite young." You explain choosing your words carefully, like stepping between dry branches in a forest.

"So you don't think he'd be of much help and might actually start rumors about my condition to harm my house?" the Prince asks.

"Just so," you reply. You do not add that you're also more than a bit afraid what the Lord of Leafy Lake himself might do. Or try to do. The house is full of men drunk on wine and their own egos. Not a good atmosphere for most things, and certainly not for a badly injured Crown Prince who fought in the Battle of Redgrass Field, where famously three sons of the Osgrey House died fighting on the opposite side of said Prince.

"Let me up, please, my lady." Prince Baelor requests. You startle, realizing belatedly that you still have your palm pressed against his bare skin. Looking down you're somewhat horrified to find you've left marks on him: tiny crescent moon divots from your nails biting into his flesh. You snatch you hand away as thought it was touching fire.

"Rivers take me, you Grace I am so sorry, I wasn't…I mean I didn't intend - "

"At ease, my lady," the Prince says simply, and this time when he pushes up, you do nothing to stop him. He, astoundingly keeps his hand on you though, pushing himself up with his other one. He goes slowly, clearly still a little unsteady, but most of the dizziness must have passed.

The chemise gapes at his front as he moves, your eyes flick over his collarbones, the dip between them, and the open line of his chest without your permission. Your skirts slide off him, pooling between you and at long last he lets your calf go, his fingers sliding out from under your garter with not even a whisper. Your throat clicks when you swallow, your mouth is dry.

"I understand a little better now, why you've been hesitant to speak about this house. I imagine the guest list does not include a great many supporters of my family."

You let your shoulders drop, looking down at your lap, twisting your fingers together.

"It does not, your Grace. I don't think you'd come to harm, but…well. You turned up in disguise yourself, so I think you were at least somewhat aware of the dangers too."

"I had concerns, yes. They were mostly ignored." the Prince acknowledges, while the Captain you notice from the corner of your eye looks sheepish.

"But given the state I was in…am in," the Prince grimaces, "I can't say the decision to come here was wrong. Just that we will have to continue being careful."

You sigh, and look over at the bowl of clean water, the tea pot waiting on the hearth and the clothing draped over the rail by the fire, faintly steaming.

"We may need to post someone on the door outside," you say. "I can't guarantee someone else won't wander in. The servants left food out in the great hall for anyone who wants it, and typically the guests wouldn't come down to the kitchen for anything, but well…Lady Rae is likely to gossip about what she did see down here to anyone still awake. Someone with the wrong impression might get, um, curious."

Prince Baelor looks at you, appalled. "Curious?" he asks, stressing the word like he's questioning your use of it.

"Not every nobleman is a knight, ser." Is all you can think to say in reply.

"She would be so callous with your safety? Your reputation? Your future?"

You laugh a little at that.

"What future, you Grace? I'm sure you've put it together at this point, but she was hoping for exactly this kind of situation that she can use to slander me. She wants me out of her House and sworn to the Silent Sisters. This was her golden opportunity."

"But why?" he asks, his eyes searching your face. In this light, his right eye looks more lavender than blue, the fire reflecting in it makes you think of the stories about dragons and their breaths of flame.

"I'm politically inconvenient," you say simply. "The last vestige of a dead house, a reminder of a bloody war. They can't marry me off to anyone, who would pay my dowry? What connections would I bring a noble house? Taking me on in the first place was supposed to gain them favor with the house I was last the guest of, but that didn't go well after the Lady Rae was caught sleeping with that Lord's brother."

The Captain lets out a noise like a mouse being trod upon, clearly shocked, and turns it into a manly cough. The Prince just looks at you, stunned.

"And she implies you're the woman of loose morals?" Prince Baelor asks forgetting for a moment all tact. You laugh again.

"Of course she does. The weapons used on her she can only turn on others. That's how she works."

"Ser Tarly," the Prince orders, his tone even and firm for the first time since he fainted. Tarly snaps to attention in an instant. "Please step outside the kitchen and guard the door from the hall. You do not need to bar anyone access, but please be loud in your greetings so we are alerted."

"Of course, your Grace." And Tarly takes himself out the kitchen as directed. Before he closes the door, you see him plant himself like a tree in front of it.

"Ser Godwin," the Prince directs next, who also falls into formation like a lock clicking closed. "The other door, if you please, to the courtyard." And off Godwin goes to stand guard in the rain, the poor man.

"That will give us some warning if there's to be any other disturbances," the Prince says, he presses the fingers of one hand against his right eye again. You watch his knuckles turn white from the pressure. Before you can stop yourself, or even second guess the desire, you reach up and take his wrist and pull his hand away from his face.

"Stop," you whisper gently. He blinks at you, too surprised to respond. "Your head is still hurting?"

"Yes," he breathes, "It hasn't stopped."

"Alright," you say, reassembling your previous plan in your mind. "I'll redress your wound while you eat something. Then more pain remedy after that. We're going to stay right here where it's warm. Captain, could you fetch me another bowl down? Spoons are over there, grab a ladle too if you please." you point to a cabinet near the cook's station.

"Your Grace, if you would turn just slightly away from me? I need to see your back." He slowly does, as though reluctant. You wonder if he's still feeling dizzy.

The Captain, rivers bless him, comes over with the bowl, ladle and a spoon, and before you can direct him further, goes ahead and ladles some of the broth bubbling away in the cauldron into said bowl and hands it down to the Prince.

"Go slow, your Grace," the Captain requests, and the Prince nods his assent. You look over the back of the Prince's head again, mapping out where to start with your cloth and clean water to hopefully make this painless.

"My lady, with your permission, might I clean up a few things? Make your job later easier?" the Captain asks.

"Oh," you say, startled. The Captain looks down at you, his face open and earnest. "That would…that would be very helpful Captain, thank you. But surely a man of your station -"

"Wasn't always a knight, my lady. Was plenty of things before it, including a helper to my mother who had her own kitchen to run."

You smile at him, somewhat charmed. "In that case, I leave it in your experienced hands, ser. Thank you."

The Captain bows, like you are a real noble woman, someone important, rather than the remnants of a house no one remembers the name of. And then he's off, collecting the wet linens from the floor, corralling the mugs from earlier, poking about for a broom to sweep the floors.

"My goodness, is he always like that?" you ask Prince Baelor without thinking.

"Generally speaking, yes," he answers before blowing on a spoonful of broth.

"He's so…sincere?"

"Hmm, not an ounce of artifice that one."

"I'm doubly impressed with how he handled Lady Rae now."

"He's sincere, and smart enough to use that sincerity to his advantage when called for."

"I can see then, why you chose him for the Kingsguard."

"Yes, he rather was a good pick. Hasn't disappointed me."

"Huh," you pause for a moment, thoughtful, "Well, your Grace, if you had to be lost in the Dornish Marshes with someone, I suppose you could have done much worse." You pick up the clean cloth and dip it into the bowl of water, then wring it out.

"Yes," Prince Baelor says faintly as you lay one hand on his shoulder again in warning before very gently starting to wipe some of the dried blood and poultice from the skin of his neck. "I could have done much, much worse."

The Captain putters about, the used linens returned to the laundry, dishes put away. He asks a few questions of you, what the plans are for breakfast, what you would normally be taking care of. You list a couple of easy things, soaking the oats for porridge, staring to chop up the apples and other fruits, feeding the starter for more bread.

Meanwhile, you hands know their work, and you keep your eyes on what you're doing. You don't want to risk causing the Prince pain, when he's already in so much of it. The first few passes of the wet cloth come away a muddy dark red, and you find your worry deepening. You rinse and wring out the cloth loosely this time, then use the extra moisture to dampen the mess in his hair so it loosens the mess without pulling or tugging on his skin.

"Your mother taught you herb craft, you said?" the Prince asks, and you pause for a moment, but the go back to your careful task. The water will need to be changed soon. The Prince has moved a little, easing closer when you tugged him back so you could more easily reach. He now sits nearly between your knees, yet another position that if Lady Rae barged back in would be a tally against you. But well, that horse has already left the stables, why bother worrying about it further? He needs to be close so you can reach. He needs to be warm so you are both on the hearth.

"She did," you answer, not seeing the harm in it. "Her mother, my grandmother taught me the most however. She lived with us for most of my childhood. My mother's pregnancies were difficult and dangerous. My grandmother showed me many things because of that. So I could help in case something happened to her."

"You must have been a great comfort to your mother then," he says.

"I hope I was." You try not to think about those perilous moments when your younger siblings came screaming into the world. They're all gone now, is the thing. And it hurts. Most nights you're able to work though it, be grateful for the part of their lives you did get to see, that you did get to take part in, that they did get to live.

But on other nights, nights like this one, when you've been awake for too long, and the weather matches your bleak mood – it's harder. It so hard not to want to hate the world just a little bit for the wastefulness of their loss. For the waste of their lives, of your mother's suffering to bring them into the world in the first place. All gone, nothing but ash and burnt stone now.

"If you ministered to her as you have me, then I know you were," Prince Baelor assures you. It catches in your throat, and makes your eyes sting. There's no false pretense to him, no superficial platitudes. He means what he says. Your hand shakes you use the rag to carefully brush along the edges of the gauze. The cloth has stopped coming away dark with old blood thankfully, but when you look down at the muddy water in the bowl you wonder how bad the injury must have been when it happened.

"Thank you, your Grace." You say, rinsing and wringing the rag out one more time before setting it down.

"Tell me about them?"

"My siblings?"

"Yes, tell me about them. If you'd like." His voice is an open invitation, one tempered with grief. This is a man who knows loss too.

The kettle bubbles behind you. To cover your pause, you get up, dump the old water from the bowl down the grate by the hearth and pour more clean water in from the kettle. The Prince has finished his bowl of broth, and so you ladle him in another without asking, including some of the softened vegetables as well this time. He needs more sustenance, as you suspect his dizziness may only partially be due to the head wound. And if he's tolerated one bowl with no signs of hesitation or upset, then you want him to have at least one more. You might even see if he could be tempted with some of the porridge later, with a little honey perhaps.

You pour some of the hot water into the teapot still waiting next to him, and then go over to the table to grab the old bandages and another clean cloth. When you turn back, he's got his bowl in one hand, steam rising in pleasant curls, the spoon hovering just over it. He's looking at you again, one eye blue, one eye brown, both solemn in their regard.

"You don't have to," he says, "It wasn't an order, merely a request."

A request from a Prince, you think to yourself, keeping the thought from your face with the ease of long practice. He's still searching for information, you know. That's why he's dangerous, the layers. The care and sympathy of the man, the sincerity of the knight, the intelligent line of questioning from the Prince. It's devastating really, you wonder how anyone manages to lie to him, or if you're just weak to that particular combination.

"I had three siblings," you say to him, your words carefully and purposefully chosen. He misses nothing, something sad crossing his face at the confirmation. He suspected, and now he knows. Last vestige of a dead house, indeed.

"Two brothers, and a sister," you continue, and pick your way back over to the hearth. The old bandages go into the kettle directly to be boiled for a while. The clean cloth gets dropped into the steaming bowl of hot water. You pick up the mug of tea that the Captain had previously handed to you and gulp down the last cold dregs. You have a feeling that you'll be needing its bitter medicine after all, even if you know earthly remedies do nothing for the pain of the heart, or for painful memories.

"Younger?" he asks, his tone just as careful. A man, trying not to startle a doe in the morning mists.

"Yes, all younger." You say, testing your fingers in the hot water. It stings, but you draw up the cloth and let the water run back down into the bowl, shaking it in the air to cool just a touch.

"Hmm, I know about that," he remarks wryly between one swallow of broth and the next. "Being the eldest is always a fraught position. Were your brothers mischievous? I felt like I must have spent years chasing after Rheagal and Maekar."

You settle back down behind him, this time on your knees so you have the height advantage. The cloth you wring out, watching the skin of your hands turn bright red. You slowly unfold the cloth and then drape it over the back of the Prince's neck and shoulders. He tips his head forward with a sigh of relief while you press you hands down on his shoulders, trying to give him a chance to drop and ease the tension in his back from the pain.

It's strange to you for a moment to think about the Princes as brothers, just like your brothers. But the Prince's tone, fond, affectionate, protective and just a little bit annoyed, that is exactly the feeling you remember.

"Absolutely, my sister too," you say, smiling down at him, even though he can't see your face. It's easier actually, to smile at him when he's not looking. It feels less dangerous. "We had these canals, dug in from the marshes for irrigation of the fields. They always wanted to go swimming in them, since they were forbidden from swimming in The Scourge. Never mind that the canals could be dangerous due to the currents, or their use – we had sluice gates everywhere. Never mind that they had lessons, or that our mother fretted."

"But you still took them swimming," the Prince says on another sigh, tone knowing and conspiratorial.

"But I still took them swimming," you agree. "And you, your Grace? What did you have to chase your siblings from?" you prompt, hoping to turn some of the attention from yourself.

"Oh many things," he says, his voice drifting a little bit. You glance down, checking on him, but he's steady. He's staring at the table, well you don't actually know what he's staring at, other than the past.

"I've had to fetch Aerys from the library or his studies more times than I can count. Maekar could always be found in the practice ring. Rheagal was harder, he liked to wander. But when I think back on it, I find myself remembering those times with fondness, rather than the frustration I felt in the moment."

"I miss it," you find yourself saying in agreement, as you look back down at your hands and their places on him. "I miss them."

When was the last time you talked about your family to someone? When was the last time someone asked?

Years, you think sadly. It's been so many years.

"What happened to them, my lady?" he whispers. "What happened to you?"

The exquisite gentleness of him is what undoes you. You're so unused to it now. Tenderness and care was once all you knew, and to find it again here, at the hands of him is what unlocks some dark vault in your soul. The tragedy of your family is a barely remembered footnote in this history of the Blackfyre Rebellion. Just a small moment in a long year of dark moments, something kicked around by people like Lord Havarn over solar tables during whispered meetings. A little skirmish they won, in a larger battle that they all know they lost.

He waits. You think about something he said earlier, about prayer. That he prays to the Seven for patience at times. A man is only this patient with extensive practice, you think. How many years did it take Prince Baelor to be this good at it? The quiet he leaves between you has no tinge of frustration, no hint of rush. Only the endless unspooling draw of time, and a man who trusts that the answers will eventually find him.

You pull off the cloth, and use it pass over through his hair gently one more time, before dropping it back into the bowl. You pick up the teapot and your empty mug and sit down next to him, unfolding your legs to stretch out before you matching how he sits. You set the tea pot down next to you, and the mug to wait for it to finish steeping. You take in a deep breath, fill your lungs all the way to the very bottom and then let it go.

You're tired of people like House Havarn being the only ones that know this story like you do. He looks at you, face fully turned towards you. You keep your eyes on the bench in front of you both, concentrate of the warmth of the fire at your back.

"They took me first," you begin, and he coils like a bow string pulled taunt. "I was captured as a hostage, in the first month of the rebellion."

"How old were you?" he asks.

"Seventeen." You answer. He draws in a sharp breath but stays otherwise silent. "It was for ransom of course, money was the whole point. My family had a great deal of gold reserves from the business, and this was unfortunately well known. I think the amount grew with every rumor that was passed on. My captors treated me decent. I wasn't touched, or defiled. Some tiny vassal house of the Yronwoods did it, under orders of course. They needed the money for the Rebellion, for hiring sell swords."

"Ah, the Myrish crossbowmen they hired before Redgrass. We did wonder where they got the gold for that," the Prince says tightly. You know this is more than just history for him too. It is his life as much as it is yours. Another reason you suppose for why you are telling him. It is, in some small way, already partly his story too.

"It didn't come from my family, actually," you go on.

"Your family didn't pay the ransom?" the Prince asks, his voice incredulous. It's unbearably sweet of him.

"They were going to," you assure him. "They just…well."

Prince Baelor sets the empty bowl aside, and with his other hand he reaches out slowly, ever so slowly – to touch your wrist. The press of his warm, broad palm feels like the only point of contact between you and the present. Like he's the only thing keeping you here in this kitchen, and not miles and years away in the past.

"They were going to," the Prince fills in the silence you've left because you're for the moment at a loss for how to continue. "But they couldn't."

"They made different choices," you try, but that doesn't fit quite right either. Those aren't the words you want. Because you don't blame them for what they chose. You understand, painfully, viscerally the calculations that your father must have made. That your mother made.

"I know the fields burned," the Prince says. "I know the tea isn't grown in Dorne anymore, but I don't know what happened to the noble house that grew it. Are you truly the only one left?"

"Yes," you whisper.

He pulls on your wrist with the lightest of pressures. You let him move you how he wills. Prince Baelor turns your hand, so your palm faces up where it rests on your thigh. He lets go, and then with just his thumb and forefinger turns your father's ring on your thumb so the seal faces up. You both stare at it for a quiet moment.

The ring came to you from the hands of your captors, after everything had happened. They'd taken it from your father's body. Baelor’s hand then covers yours, pressing your family's sigil against his own skin. You're shaking a little, you realize. He holds your hand through it.

"Tell me," he orders, and amazingly, this helps.

"My family was going to pay the ransom," you explain, the words coming faster now. "There was a narrow causeway that led through the swampy marshes around our keep from the main road. My father and some of his guards loaded up a cart with the chest of gold and brought it out halfway to do the exchange. But it was a trap. They had no intention of going through with it. They were going to take the gold from him and then siege our keep for the rest of it."

"Honorless brigands," the Prince swears quietly. You snort.

"War," you point out slowly, "Has a bad habit of stripping things from us all."

"Some more than others," he replies tightly. You nod to concede the point. The men who killed your family lost their honor, but your family lost their lives.

"They didn't even try to hide it from my father, when he came with the cart to do the exchange. I wasn't even there. I - I was still being held at the Yronwoods' keep at that point. I heard all of this from…well from the men that did it, later. They told me they bragged about what they planned to do, and then my father, rather than hand over the gold, cut the horses free and pushed the cart into the marshes."

You can almost see it in your mind's eye. The dusty white of the causeway road under the glaring sun. The way the small, heavy chest would have sunk fast in the muck, leaving no trace and no way to recover it easily. The way they cut down your father mere moments later.

"They killed him of course," you continue, choking the words out. "And then they burned the keep to the ground, deciding it was easier to dig the rest of the gold out of the ashes than try negotiating with my mother. They torched the fields. And everything I knew went up in flames."

Your tears are hot on your cheeks, you know trying to stop them is a futile effort. Grief is the most demanding of all emotions, it is not going to be denied. Baelor places his other hand atop yours as well. You bend with the weight of the loss of your family until you are almost resting your wet cheek atop the back of his hand. You breath in through your nose and out through your mouth, trying to hold on to at least some remnant of your composure so you don't break down into gasping sobs.

"I'm so sorry, my lady," he whispers, his breath whispers against your hair. "I am so sorry they are gone."

"I'm all alone," you rasp, shaking with the truth of it. "All I have is the knowledge they left me, and the memory of their love."

"A worthy inheritance," he says softly. "Love is perhaps the best of the things we can leave behind."

"I wish they were still here, I miss them so much. I don't care about what came after. I don't care about being traded around these houses like an unlucky penny that they hope to spend at some point in the future when it benefits them. I don't care about the insults, or the mistreatment, or the long days, or that I always have to be watching. I'd take it all, I'd live it all for the rest of my days if it meant they were still out there. If they were still alive."

But they aren't, and there is no greater pain than that.

Prince Baelor slides his hand from under the other and then reaches out to wrap his arm around you. He pulls you in close, so your head rests against his chest and lets you turn your face into his chemise and cry.

When were you last held? When were you last pressed close, gentle and tender and invited to set your burdens down? When were you last allowed to feel their loss and grieve openly? You listen to the rush of his breath against your ear, and think of the rush of the river you grew up next too. You feel the way he smooths down the sleeve of your gown on your arm, soothing you as best he can, while he holds on to your hand like he means to never let go. You feel it all and think with a different kind of ache: oh…

Of all the houses this man could have walked into. Of all the people in the world and this time he could have been. Of all the things that could have happened, here, now, on this night. Of all the places you could have found solace…why did it have to be with him?

In the end, it is the sense of propriety that reasserts your control, that and the fact that you know he's still grievously injured and needs care, not to spend his time caring for you. You pull back, and he lets you, the arm around you falling away. You don't look up at him, half afraid he'll be able to read your regard with nothing but a glance, and half afraid that if you see his eyes you'll collapse in on yourself again with tears.

Instead you lean back, withdrawing your hands and pulling your walls up as swiftly as you can mend them. You're not sure they will ever be as high as they were around him again. You don't know how you feel about that fact yet. You don't turn away from him though, that, you do not have the strength for.

You hastily wipe your face with the corner of your apron, and busy yourself with pouring the tisane you made for pain into the mug. You make a show of taking a sip of it yourself first, scalding your mouth just like the Captain did.

"My lady, that is not -" the Crown Prince says, reaching for the mug to take it from you, but you stubbornly finish your taste of it noting that it could absolutely use some more ginger if you had any.

Once you force the swallow down, you cough once into your arm, eyes watering again, this time from physical pain alone and hand the mug over.

"Just so you can be sure," you say, wincing with the rough burn along the roof of your mouth and back of your throat. It wasn't nearly as hot as the tea the Captain willingly drank but gods that does smart something fierce. You'll be suffering when eating anything remotely warm for the next couple of days that's for sure. You let the pain center you, and try not to feel embarrassed at your previous outburst. The grief is unavoidable, you know this. And he wanted the truth. Uncovering that wound on your heart was the only way you could tell that story.

"That wasn't necessary, I trust you." The Prince says.

"Your Grace, you've known me for an hour," you point out in disbelief.

"It has been at least two. And in that time you've done much to shield me, heal me, and have put up with my questioning your painful past. I trust you."

"Thank you, you Grace," you say, because what else could you say? "I will try to be worthy of it."

"I find that I am the one not worthy, my lady. My house has failed you and yours deeply and I mean to rectify it."

"That isn't -, your Grace, I was one errant noble, lost in the shuffle of a hundred such cases. My family was marked down as extinct, I know they were because my captors told me as much. I don't blame you or your house for not knowing I was still alive. I know the aftermath of the rebellion was chaotic."

The Prince snorts, and absently rubs his finger against his forehead while staring down into the mug like it offers all the answers, or maybe even a way to change the past. He cradles the mug in one broad hand, and taps the ceramic with base of the ring on his finger. It clicks against the glaze in an almost thinking sort of noise.

"Chaotic is…painfully accurate. Aside from rounding up all the rebels, and then deciding punishments…gods it felt like it wouldn't end. Every time we turned around there was another house, another noble line to rake over the coals." He recalls.

"The Yronwoods did consider taking me to the capital with them when they were summoned." You add, leaning forward while drawing your knees up towards your chest. "You'd captured the Lord and heir at Redgrass of course, but the Lady Yronwood went to King's Landing for the trial. She almost took me along, hoping she could leverage me for a softer sentence for her son."

"But she did not?"

"No. Since my family was all gone there would be no one to leverage me against. So they left me at the keep. I know the Lady was furious about her son having to stay as a hostage. I heard all about it when the Lord returned. She wanted to take me to King's Landing then, to try and negotiate a swap but I was told King Daeron would never trade a first born son of a rebellious and living house for the first born daughter of a loyal, but dead house."

Baelor looks pained for a moment, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Before you can ask what's wrong he lets out a somewhat frustrated sigh.

"I wish I could say Lord Yronwood was wrong, but the fact is, he was correct in his reasoning. My father was…harsher than expected to so many families, but to allow such an exchange would have sent the hardliners into a froth. Gods, my Uncle Brynden would have probably thrown something at my head for supporting it."

"Your uncle?" You ask carefully.

"He's better known as Lord Bloodraven these days." The Prince goes on to explain, a certain wryness to his voice. It is no where as fond as it was for his siblings, but there is still an element of something familial there. "He and I argued viciously at the time about the fates of the traitors."

"And he often throws things at your head, your Grace?" You ask, trying to suppress a somewhat incredulous smile from creeping up at the thought. Prince Baelor, having to duck some on coming item thrown by a frustrated relative – what a sight that must be.

"Only when in a temper." He jests back with a quiet chuckle. "No, I exaggerate. He's actually quite even keeled. But there were a lot of discussions during that time where he was pushing for things my father did not want to do, not even to his enemies."

He pauses and takes a long, slow sip of the tea. You watch him drink, the way he tilts his head back just a little, the corner of his mouth, the bob of his throat as he swallows. He sets the mug down on the hearth.

"Still," he continues, "I would have pushed for it, had you been brought to the capital, my lady. We are many things, my family, but I'd like to think we are loyal to those that are loyal to us."

You rest your chin on one of your knees for a brief moment, feeling like that young woman again, seventeen years old, lost, alone, and so very frightened of what would happen to you next. She did not have a Prince to offer her reassurances and comfort, but the part of you that still carries her – feels lighter hearing him speak those words.

"Thank you, your Grace. It is a comfort to hear that. I admit…I wonder sometimes what would have happened if they had taken me to King's Landing, what my life might look like now."

He nods, but doesn't look at you. Instead, he looks down at his hands, where he is slowly turning one of his rings around and around on one finger. The rings are polished to a high shine, and you wonder if that is from the care of servants, or from him, doing exactly this, over and over.

"When I came up from Dorne with the spearmen, we had to fight our way to the Boneway." He says, still turning the ring around and around. "The Yronwoods had their vassals harassing us all the way through, but it was the fastest route over land. I remember looking up at the keep on the cliff face in the far distance and wishing I had time to take it."

You turn that over in your mind for half a moment and then ask, "So you could control the passage for later? Had the rebellion gone on longer?"

"Yes, thankfully it wasn't needed in the long run, but I was thinking that makes two times that we just missed each other."

"Your Grace?" you ask, confused as to what he means exactly.

"The first was at the Boneway, going by the Yronwood keep. If I'd had time to take it, we would have found you then. The second was if you'd been brought to King's Landing, I would have argued for your release."

"Neither of those are a guarantee we would have met your Grace," you point out. Because perhaps yes, in those versions of the world you would have crossed paths, but what would you be to the Crown Prince, a warrior bound to the battle field or the King's council from those times? The only reason you have his attention here and now is that he's badly injured and reliant upon your discretion.

"Perhaps, forgive me the indulgence," he finally looks back at you, a small quirk of a smile on his lips, something a little sad and self deprecating.

"Nothing to forgive." You assure him, "I'll admit I think a lot about what ifs too. Especially at this time of night."

"Which one plagues you the most?"

You sit up straight from where you've been somewhat slouched over your knees, letting your arms relax from the hold you've had on your legs. It's a good question. There are many that you've turned over in your head like stones, worrying at their edges until they're smooth.

What if you hadn't been captured that day? What if your father had decided march out with his spearmen earlier than planned? What if the rumors of your family's gold had never spread around Dorne? What if you had never been hired to – no, no. None of that now, you think to yourself, shutting the lid of that box in your mind.

"I suppose the one I think about most often is the simplest and the most impossible: what if there had never been a rebellion?" You say, because it's certainly true. That is the biggest what-if that keeps you up at night.

The Prince nods, his smile curling up into something more rueful.

"Yes, that is one of mine too," he agrees.

"One of?" you prompt.

"Oh yes, I have many, as well. Sometimes it feels like they are on a sort of patrol rotation. Never one more than the others, just a constant turning of a wheel. What spoke will be on top at any given moment? I can't say."

"I imagine there are a great many of us who think about the rebellion in that way, makes perfect sense given the consequences of it. What's another of yours?" you ask.

He picks the mug up again and takes another long swallow.

"What if I wasn't the eldest?" he says to start. "What if my grandfather hadn't legitimized his bastards? What if the dragons hadn't all died out? What if Daemon had won that last tilt at my aunt's wedding?" He takes a breath, "What if I hadn't made it to Redgrass Field?"

You inhale sharply. That was a possibility you didn't want to imagine. It is commonly agreed that had Redgrass gone different the whole rebellion would have gone different.

"That sounds more like a nightmare," you tell him. And it is, you think for a moment what your life would be like in that world, and while it probably would find you in much the same place, you'd have even less than you do now. Less hope, less fire, less purpose.

He nods and turns to look at you again, his blue eye shines with almost a magic light from the fire on that side. The lavender seems nearly lit from within.

"We pushed so hard to make it," he whispers to you like it is a secret, rather than a well known and widely sung about fact, "We lost men on the way because of the pace I set. We had to pass by besieged keeps and couldn't offer aid to other skirmishes." That part you realize, didn't make it into the songs.

You can't imagine what it must have been like for those men and women, rushing across the Dornish desert, then up through the swampy, empty marshes trying desperately to make it to a bloody and horrible meeting of forces. How the Prince must have known he was exhausting them, that so many would die on the way and as a result of that exhaustion on the battle field.

What must it have been like too, to walk by so many places that you could have helped, could have been the tide turning variable that saved lives?

"I saw your march from the keep, if you can believe it." You say instead, because platitudes are not what he needs right now. His mismatched eyes widen just slightly, betraying his faint surprise.

"Truly?"

"Signs of it, I should say," you correct yourself. "The distance was too great to ever see your forces, but we saw the dust you kicked up. It rose above the ridges in these great plumes. I sat by the window and watched the whole day it took you all to go through the pass."

"Did you think we were coming to the keep?" He asks, like he's expecting castigation for his choices in a rebellion almost fifteen years past. Choices that saved the realm.

"By the rivers, no." you swear, and you're sincere in it. "I had heard at that point about the gathering of the Blackfyre supporters near Kings Landing. Lady Yronwood was very…well. She liked to brag, you understand? I wasn't the only hostage in the keep by that point. Just the only useless one. She would host us in her solar and explain the latest news from her husband."

"She wanted you all hopeless?"

You shrug your shoulders, noticing again that you're still so close to him that the movement drags the wool of your gown against the linen of his chemise. You don't move away.

"I think she just liked being someone who knew things. And we were the only captive audience that she had. I honestly don't think she thought about us or our internal lives, wants or loyalties."

"Then I'm glad you weren't disappointed, at least. When you saw the dust."

"Not at all. In fact, I remember being pleased. I poured three cups out for you and your men that night, your Grace, almost the whole pot. I wanted you to make it, I prayed that you'd make it. And I'm so glad that you did. I'm sorry that one of the what-ifs that returns to you so often is one where you didn't."

"I suppose you and I would be having a very different conversation, if I had failed."

You summon a smile, trying not to think about how much darker your fate probably would have been in that version of the world.

"I don't know, you in disguise, me working for at the very least vaguely traitorous sympathizers who hate me? Sung a certain way, we might have found ourselves in this moment even in that version of the world."

"And in that version, would you still be tending to me thus?"

"With more anxiety, but yes, I would."

He shakes his head, disbelief plain on his face.

"You fell through the cracks, your family's sacrifice has gone unacknowledged, you have been left with people who actively work against your happiness. How can you be so…?"

He trails off, seemingly a little frustrated by his lack of words to finish that thought.

"How can I be so naive?"

"Loyal," he corrects firmly, "To a house that doesn't deserve it. Not from you."

He takes in a deep breath, and turns to face you more fully, "I said it once before, but please, allow me to say it again. I apologize, for my house and how they have treated you and yours in the long years since the rebellion. Your mistreatment must be laid at the feet of my family, legitimate and not, and I…cannot apologize enough for how you have been harmed."

You are again overwhelmed for a moment by the magnitude of care this man has in him. It's not just you, and your story you realize. There is more to this…grief, this shame, than just you. More than the spokes of the wheel of what-ifs he spoke about, the wheel itself weighs on him. The weight of the past, deeds done by him but also the deeds that came before he was even born.

"You cannot spend your days martyring yourself on the altar of the Targaryen sins, my Prince." You say before you can think twice about your words.

"If not I, then who?" He asks in return, with a wry but still serious tilt of a smile.

You don't have an easy answer to that. You suppose there really isn't one to be had. He will be king one day, the heir to the Targaryen dynasty and all that entails. It is a dynasty made by conquest. And in its making, thousands of tragedies were made of the conquered.

"Cruelty is often a trait my family members have." He continues when you say nothing. "They say whenever a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin to see if this one will be great or mad. And there are times, when I look at the people I love, and I see that coin hanging in the air, spinning."

His eyes pin you in place, you cannot look away. You do not want to.

"And I wonder," he breathes, "…on which side it will land for them? I wonder which side it will land for me."

"Neither," you say firmly, suddenly glad to have a question you do know the answer to. He continues to stare at you, raising an eyebrow in bemusement at the certainty in your voice.

"Oh?"

"Yes," you say clearly. "The gods don't play games of chance your grace, first of all. And secondly, you will be neither great nor cruel."

"What will I be, then?"

"A good man," you answer simply, because this is that simple. The wheel turns, kings rise and fall. But for a time, for Baelor's time, you know that the realm will have a good man for a king.

"Your faith in me also feels misplaced," he says finally looking away from you.

"Why?"

"Because I have failed you twice already. Twice, we nearly crossed paths, and twice I missed the chance to help you."

He looks at you again, resolute. "I will not miss a third."

Loud voices shatter the quiet bubble you found yourself in before you can answer and try to dissuade that line of thinking. Tarly is speaking boisterously to someone about food in the main hall. You rise and check the candles seeing that time has indeed continued on while you've spoken. The bandages still need to be dried you realize, they've boiled for long enough. But before you can reset on your tasks, the Prince finds your hand with his own.

You look down to see him press a kiss to the back of it, and it feels like a brand. Every concentrated feeling of your body centers on that point under his lips. Your breath stops in your throat, gooseflesh rises on your arm, your face flushes in an instant.

"My family will not fail you again. I will not fail you again."

A thousand things are at war within you at once. The whisper of his voice, the slide of his lips against your skin, the tremble in his hands, and yours, the night, the storm, your exhaustion and his, his injury, your past, his future, the current circumstances you both are in. The things you know that he still doesn't.

You almost regret not moving away earlier. You're not sure if that would have preserved the height of the walls to protect your heart from his care, but maybe putting space would have helped (it wouldn't, you know this will not be a what-if for you, you know the answer). The kitchen feels like it's own little pocket world, separate from the realities of his office, and your duties to it. He's not for you, you tell yourself firmly. Not like that. He's yours to shield. Yours to heal. Yours even to comfort. But not yours to keep.

Still, he holds your hand with shaking fingers - gently, and with the care of a knight, the care of a good man. And he pulls at the very core of you, in ways no one ever has before.

Slowly, with all the grace your mother trained you to have, all the elegance of a noble woman, you touch his cheek with your free hand to turn his face up towards you.

The Dornish ways have always been more familiar than the rest of the kingdoms, and they are the norms of your people and his. And so, with all the warmth of your homeland that you can put into your smile you bend down and press a kiss to his forehead in witness, in recognition of the promise he just made. And also in forgiveness and apology, because you are not going to let him keep it.

He startles just a little under the press of your mouth. And you wonder briefly when was the last time someone touched him with this kind of tenderness.

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 tabard 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 you're 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 better.

"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 him 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 around the pockets; 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 wrap 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. 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.

The second cry of that rooster has you shooting to your feet. As much as you want it, and as much as it feels like this room is a little pocket of space away and safe from the real world, that rooster's cry has just reminded you that it absolutely is not. The Prince and his men are not safe here, and the danger, which was growing steadily through the small hours, is now growing much, much faster.

When you glance down, the Prince is looking over towards the now open door, his uncovered eye taking in the weather.

"Has the rain fully stopped, Captain?" he asks, his voice admirably even.

"It has, ser," the Captain replies, seamlessly dropping back to using the other title, now that the door stands open. "I think we'd best be on our way why the respite lasts."

"I agree," you say in a rush, and quickly climb free of the bench, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste. You feel hands catch you about your waist, and feel yourself flush when you realize the Prince, even in his injured state, has managed to react quickly enough to steady you before you fell.

"Careful," he intones gently, lingering while you yank your skirts straight.

"Thank you, ser," you manage, breathless.

"It was nothing, my lady," he replies, pulling back slowly. You swallow thickly, and take one shaking step back, not looking away from him just yet. He watches you with the same shivering intensity. That tether, the one you thought had snapped, it hasn't. It's still there. Thrumming between you, loose, for the time being, but still with the threat, the promise, of drawing tight again.

You don't have time for this. There is too much to do, and not enough time to do it. If you're going to take full advantage of the chance Lady Rae's machinations have afforded you, you have to get them moving.

"You get dressed, ser," you direct, "I'll start putting together some supplies."

"A sound plan," the Prince agrees, rising from the table. He goes over to the fireplace himself to start pulling his clothes together while you hurry over to the larder, grabbing one of the cook's pails from beside her station. She'll demand to know what happened to it later, but that is something you'll deal with then. You bounce around the shelves, shoving things into the bottom of the pail: several potatoes, some small scraggly onions that won't be missed, and the remainder of a fennel bulb you think the cook has probably forgotten about. You toss over that a layer of burlap from the scrap pile, to protect the vegetables.

In goes a piece of salt fish wrapped in wax paper, that you will have to pay for later; and then a flagon of dark beer that can be watered down while on the road, who's disappearance you will absolutely blame on a guest. Lastly, you put in two small loafs of the hard and hearty brown bread meant for servants and made to last, which won't be missed at all. Done with the larder, you leave it and go striding across the room back to your cabinet, snatching up your Dornish teapot as you go by. You glance over at the fireplace, and have just enough time to grasp the impression of the Prince's bare back before he shrugs on the gambeson with the Captain's help to make sure it doesn't disturb the bandages.

You don't have time for this, you tell yourself firmly.

The teapot gets nestled down in the pail on top of the burlap, and you pack the bread, fish and flagon around it to protect it. They'll need a vessel to cook in if they aren't able to meet up with the rest of the traveling party, or don't find shelter somewhere else. It's a wrench to let it go, but it's for a good cause, and it's the only one that you can give away without getting into trouble.

You then you take off your apron, tuck the sachets you made earlier into the pockets and use it to wrap the top of the pail and the ties to tie it closed, keeping the contents out of sight and safe hopefully.

When you look up from your work, the men are finishing in their tasks as well. The prince is once more in his Kingsguard disguise, and adjusting his tabard to hide how badly it fits him. You look at him, and wonder for half a heartbeat how so much can change in just a couple of candlemarks. It feels like there should be more evidence of the difference – but there isn't. The Prince curves his shoulders down a little, shifts his weight into something else, and the Prince is gone. The injured knight is back once more.

You pick up the pail and hook its handle over your arm. The Captain bends down to help the Prince put on the riding boots, and you sweep past them to the door that leads to the rest of the house. Wrenching it open, you startle Tarly, who half turns to look at you.

His face is drawn and he looks a little pale around the edges. You look past him quickly, bending forward just a bit to get a full look down the hallway. There's more people around than you expected, mostly servants right now both of House Havarn and of their guests. Tarly's presence seems to be going mostly unnoticed or at least unremarked on, however that won't last if he's spotted by a one of the noble guests. You grab Tarly by the tabard and yank him into the kitchen, shutting the door behind you both.

"My lady, did you know who is -" Tarly starts off, and you know why he's looking so unsure.

"I know," you cut him off shortly. "And this is why you four need to be on your way."

Tarly swallows the rest of his question as he takes in the serious look on your face.

"How much are you risking, my lady?" Tarly asks instead, very quietly. You don't smile at him, you can't.

"Much, ser." You hand him the pail and thankfully he takes it from you without further comment. "You take Godwin and go get the horses saddled. Take that," you gesture at the pail. "It's supplies for later. There's more medicine in the pockets, alright?"

Tarly nods, and straightens up, every inch a knight. "Thank you, my lady," he says solemnly, with more sincerity than you can even fully comprehend. By the rivers, these men. They're going to be the death of you.

"I am always happy to serve the crown, Ser Tarly," you reply. You don't know if you can communicate the same level of sincerity as the knights, but you give it your best. "The stable boys should only be stirring, but if you need help, rouse them. You and Godwin get those horses ready."

He nods, crisp, like you are a commander in your own right, turns on heel and heads for the stables, pausing only to collect Godwin from the other doorway.

You snatch down someone's cloak from the hooks by the door. You shake it out so you can swing it over your shoulders, but someone takes it from you before you can. Prince Baelor lifts it free of your grasp, and with every courtesy, drapes the humble thing over your shoulders, smoothing down the fabric over your arms. You drag in a ragged breath at the feel of him against your back.

"You must come with us. We can wait while you pack a small bag, my lady. Daylight will hold off for a little longer." The Prince murmurs to you.

The Captain stands close, watching as Godwin and Tarly disappear into the stables on the other side of the inner yard.

"Captain," you bid, and the man looks over at you.

"Harvest Hall is not far. Once you rejoin the main road from the keep, follow it southwest. I suspect it will mean back tracking a little, but the Selmys have two maesters, experienced ones, and they will help him without breathing a word of it. It's also probably where the rest of your party would have gone if they didn't press on for Summerhall. All the other holdfasts in this area are too small to host a large caravan. If you don't stop much, you'll make it by dark."

The Prince stiffens behind you with each piece of information you pass on to the Captain.

"You're coming with us," the Prince states. His hands are still on your arms, but he doesn't tighten his hold by even a hair. He doesn't grasp, he doesn't pull, or bruise. His touch remains just as gentle and kind as it ever has been.

"No, my Prince," you whisper, "I am not."

The Captain looks between the two of you and once again demonstrates not only his own honor, but also an unparalleled sense of discretion. He steps though the open door way, and then takes one large step to the side. Still close enough to serve his purpose of guarding the heir to the Iron Throne, but out of sight so as to provide the illusion of privacy.

You turn under your Prince's hands to face him. He looks over your face, taking in the stubbornness there with a confused frown.

"Listen to me," you say urgently. "You were right earlier. There is something going on in this house, and you and your men must get out of here before everyone wakes up and it becomes common knowledge that there are agents of the king under this roof."

"That doesn't mean you cannot come with us." He points out, not even pausing over the strangeness of your statement. "If there is danger, I will not leave you in it."

"I'm not in any danger. I'm supposed to be here, you are not," you try to explain. "But that isn't the only problem. Your bandage should have been changed hours ago, your Grace. You need to see your maesters again, soon. Every hour that passes without you receiving proper care you're inching closer to blood poisoning."

"So we will move quickly."

"I will only slow you down."

"My lady," he starts.

"No," you say firmly. You ignore how the tether tightens in your chest, pulling at you once again. "I am staying here, ser. You are taking your men and you are leaving and you are going to find help, and you are going to heal. You are going to live, and become a good king someday and -"

"My house has failed you twice already," he interrupts, "I won't let it happen again. You can come with us, I will take you back to Kings Landing. We will tell my father about your family, explain where you have been, he can restore your house to you. After that, anything you want, you could stay in Kings Landing, or replant your tea fields, the crown will pay restitution, your dowry -"

"Marriage?" You scoff at the very idea, "I'm too old, and what benefits would I bring to a match, hm?"

"The favor of the crown, you are the last scion of a loyal house, one that sacrificed everything, we will raise you up as -"

"A painful reminder," you insist, because that is all you've been since you were seventeen.

"A cherished friend of my family," he corrects insistently. Stepping into your space, as you back up trying to keep distance between you. Your back hits the wall next to the doorway, pressed against the other cloaks, oilcloths and aprons hanging on the pegs over your head.

"Come with us," he bids again, pressing you deeper into the various fabrics, a strange soft sort of cushion that almost embraces you both and curls around you like a shelter.

"I can't," you whisper back. You put your hand on his chest. He hasn't had time to lace up the gambeson, so your fingers brush his uncovered throat above the collar of the tabard.

"You keep touching me," his voice rumbles through you, he is so close. The tether tightens, the tension hums.

You try to snatch your hand back an apology already on your lips but he presses his hand over your own. Pressing your fingers against his throat digging your nails in himself.

"That wasn't a complaint. Never stop," he says. "Never stop touching me, it feels…you feel…"

You know what he's going to do the second he does too, you can read his intent in his face and you welcome him. The kiss when it comes for you is no soft courtly thing, no half whisper. Baelor commits to it fully, and you meet him with equal fervor. The tether doesn't snap, it fires, loosed and the energy from it floods you both. His mouth moves over yours, once, twice and then he abruptly pulls back.

"Gods, I'm sorry," he mutters. "I've taken liberties, I'm so sorry, my lady-"

You slide the hand he's holding against him up and around his neck, and pull him back down to you.

"You've taken nothing. I give," you whisper against his lips. "I give, I give, I give, I will give again," you say desperately and his crashes against you. The wall holds you both up, one of his hands rises to cup your cheek guiding you in deepening the kiss. You have never been kissed like this, never made to feel desired, cherished, hungered for like this.

His other hand slides down your body: shoulder, elbow, waist, hip, thigh, he dips down just a little and grasps your knee. You let him guide it up, opening the cradle of your hips into something he can fit himself into. You pant in the kiss, unable to catch your breath. Your other arm wraps around his shoulders and you hang on as best you can, with only one foot still on the ground, and your knees so weak.

He kisses you like a man on fire. Like a man made for it and nothing else. All that focus and dedication, turned into flame that eats you both whole.

"Come with me," he says, sliding his lips over the edge of your jaw. You tilt your head back.

"I can't. I have to stay here,"

"There's nothing left for you here."

"I can't go with you. I'll slow you down. I can't travel unaccompanied with four men even if one is the Crown Prince. I have to stay here."

"I'll come back for you."

"You'll do no such thing," you hiss, trying to sound stern but by the gods he's making it hard as he speaks kisses and promises into your skin. "You have to heal, my prince. You have to heal. I will not compromise your safety, you have three men to protect you and only three horses between you all. You cannot be caught here."

"I'll send for you," he tries. "You just need to be where I can find you. Promise me you'll still be here."

"I can't promise that," you say while tears well up in your eyes.

"Promise me,"

"No," you refuse. "You're hurt, you're exhausted and starving. You're riding the desperate edge of oblivion, your grace. You don't mean half of what you are saying."

"You have shielded me, healed me, touched me-"

He takes your mouth again and gods you want nothing else for the rest of your life but this man's devotion. How dare he give you a taste of it like this? How dare he be something you can't keep.

He bites your bottom lip, and the whine you can't help but make in reply is a sound you didn't realize you were even capable of. Your nails dig once more into his shoulders. You suddenly want to leave those little crescent moon divots on purpose this time. You may not get to keep him, but by the rivers, you desperately want him to carry your marks, just for little while. You, after all, will carry his until your dying day.

"Your Grace-" you gasp, he kisses you again.

"My prince-" you try and he kisses you again.

"Baelor-" you dare and he shudders against you as though you're torturing him. Maybe you are. Maybe you're ruining each other. You don't know if you want that. You don't know if you can help it.

"You have to go," you say. The morning birds are singing. The night, and your time together, is at its end.

"I cannot leave you," he says.

"You can and you will."

"Be here when I send for you. Please."

"I'm sorry my prince, I can't promise that."

"Find a way to get word to me, and I'll come find you, I promise."

"You must go."

"I promise I'll find you."

It takes every ounce of strength you have, every scrap of it, every moment of your adult life that has forged you into what you are now, to place your hands on his chest and push him back. He goes, rivers bless him. As he has all night, he goes where you push him, yields, bends, bows, but never breaks.

"Do you believe me?" He asks, his eyes locked on yours.

"Yes," you say, because in this stolen heartbeat moment you do. You know you won't once he rides out of the gates, back to his life as the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and no longer just an injured man you could help, who also happened to be a Prince. But here, now, the purple gray sky lightening outside, the soft embrace of his arms, his gasping breath against your mouth, his passionate heart under your hands – you believe him. He will find you.

"This isn't goodbye."

"As you say, your Grace," is the best you can give him.

He stares at you like he's trying to memorize you. You look at him doing the same.

The Captain coughs politely from the doorway.

"We have to go, your Grace. The are horses ready, we need to be well away from here before the sun is out."

As he has the whole night, Baelor slowly but unerringly, lets you go.

He takes one slightly uncertain step back, like he isn't quite sure he'll manage it. You take in a deep shaking breath, and find your own balance again, resting one hand on the wall.

You straighten your spine, and grasp for your center. You look at the Prince first, who appears to be doing the same. The Captain is the picture of patience for you both. You shake your cloak around you, hiding most of your Targaryen red dress under the plain brown wool fabric.

"Let me walk you to the gates, sers."

Outside in the inner yard, Tarly and Godwin wait with the horses. You look the steeds over quickly, noting that even though the poor things only got a couple of hours rest they are looking well and ready to go. Tarly has already fastened the pail you gave him to one of the saddles. The man himself is looking quite pale again, which means he must have taken note of all the different liveries from the various noble guests visiting that would have been easily recognizable off the saddles, tack and two wheelhouses currently stored in the stables.

Good, you think. That's one last minute plan that worked out perfectly. Tarly is a fairly important house in the Reach, he was going to be the best one for both noticing and recognizing the sigils and colors in that stable.

The inner most gate isn't manned, so you all pass through it easily. The Prince walks next to you, close, almost too much so, but you do not have it in you to move away. The second gate is manned, but only by Old Man Riles, who has been a guard for House Havarn for fifty years, is deaf as a post, and nearly blind. You call out a loud morning greeting and he just offers you a grouchy flick of his fingers towards his brow, the closest to a bow you (or anyone for that matter) has ever gotten out of him.

The last gate stands open, only a couple of sleepy guards watching the horizon more than anything else, waiting for their shift relief.

"Mount up, gentlemen," the Captain mutters to Godwin and Tarly. They do so, though Godwin gives you a little wave of farewell before he does. You return it with a wane smile. Tarly, once mounted, gives you another respectful nod of thanks. You give him one back, eyes serious.

The Prince doesn't reach for you, but you feel his gaze on you like he had.

"Come with us," he asks one more time.

"I'm sorry, ser." You reply, and mean it more than he will ever know.

"If you call for me," he whispers. "If you can get word to me, I will come for you. No matter where you are."

It is not yet day, and he still stands before you.

"I believe you," you say. He nods, and then bows deeply to you.

"Thank you, my lady, for your care and hospitality. You are a credit to your house, your family, and your name."

"Thank you, ser. You all have been so very kind this night. I wish you safe travels," you reply just as formally, curtsying low.

The Captain wordlessly comes over, and helps the Prince up into the saddle behind Godwin, who's the smallest of the four of them. Once the Prince is settled, the Captain swings up into the saddle of the last horse closest to you.

"Keep him safe," you whisper, unable to help speaking one last request. The Captain nods down at you.

"Look after yourself, my lady."

You give him a little half smile.

"Don't worry about me, ser. I'll be just fine."

He looks at you, that keen eyed look, the one from earlier in the night back when you were a possible threat, and believes you.

A noise behind you all breaks the tension and you look behind to see the guards due for the dawn shift change ambling through the second gate, talking loudly, already tipsy on whatever drink they managed to squirrel away from the food and drink in the main hall.

"Go." You order, not bothering to soften it. The Captain spurs his horse instantly. Godwin follows and Tarly brings up the rear. They clatter over the cobble stones laid at the foot of the gate, and the guards wave them through without even a curious glance. They're tired, and they already checked those men over when they came in just a couple hours earlier after all. Something in your gut that has been squeezed tight with anxiety all night, ever since you first glimpsed his mismatched eyes sighs in relief.

They're safe. He's safe.

They pass through the gate. The Prince turns around, looking back at you from the corner of his eye. A glimpse of his profile, and you standing there framed by the open gate, that's all you get as your last sight of each other.

The three horses are swallowed up by the mists that swirl over the road from the marshes, and before you can let out a full breath, they are gone. You stand just to the side of the path, the last vestiges of the soft lavender night clinging to the shadows of the walls on either side of you.

He's gone.

"Blessed be the Mother of the Waters," you begin, placing two faintly shaking fingers gently on your lips where you can still feel the memory of his touch. "Blessed be the waters of life, and all growing things…"

You stand there, even after you finish your prayer of goodbye. You stand there, watching the mists and fog lighten slowly as the sun climbs over the horizon at last and begins to burn it away.

The bell tolls the hour. Several of the servants who live outside the walls pass you on their way up to the main house. They eye you curiously but don't ask. You hear shutters being thrown open behind you somewhere. The blacksmith has started his morning work at the anvil. The keep is waking up.

You're not expected until the noon bell. You have several hours where you will absolutely be spoken about but not expected to be seen. In fact, most everyone will think you're hiding in your tiny room above where the other ladies in waiting sleep.

The circumstances aren't ideal, but rivers willing, this might just be a blessing in disguise. You finally tear your eyes away from the gate, and turn back towards the keep. Lady Rae's many plans have come to fruition. But then again, so have yours. You have parted with much to be here, in this place, on this morning. The fact that that tally now includes the devotion of a good man cannot slow you.

Battles may be lost or won, but the war goes on.

You have work to do.