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Chapter Text

In boyhood, Arthur Dayne had squired for a now-deceased half-brother to the Princess of Dorne. Ser Olyvar Sand had been lively but strict, if fonder of books than fighting. He’d seen that Arthur had needed no encouragement to practice with weapons and left him to train as he liked, focusing instead on more abstract lessons. 

Patience had been foremost among these. Whenever they visited the Water Gardens, one of Arthur’s duties had been to wrangle the most troublesome children. At Sunspear, Olyvar often had him assist new or incompetent servants, or to sit quietly for an hour or more while the other boys drilled. For one memorable year, he’d made Arthur give Prince Oberyn lessons in obscure Rhoynish law. Arthur had known nothing of the topic and needed to teach himself, then deliver the lessons to an eleven-year-old who grasped the concepts twice as quickly and thrice as well.

But for all that creativity, Ser Olyvar hadn’t devised an exercise in patience half as effective as having Jaime Lannister for a squire. 

“I’m hungry.”

Arthur looked up from his book and said seriously, “Hunger is merely discomfort, and it'll cause you no lasting harm. A knight must learn to endure such pains in silence.”

Jaime met his gaze and said in an equally grave manner, “But we have been here for ages.” 

Arthur’s eyes returned to the book in front of him. He’d been studying the page for five minutes, but every line looked unfamiliar. If he was being honest with himself, his attention had wandered long before Jaime had begun listing his grievances a half hour prior.

Rhaegar should’ve known better than to set me this task, he thought, but winced a moment later. He was as much to blame for his current predicament as his old friend. After Tywin spoke so favorably of Rhaegar at Duskendale, the prince had begun eyeing the Hand as a prospective ally. A dangerous one, one who’d turn on him soon as it suited his ends... but while Jaime remained Arthur's squire, that danger was drastically lessened.

Arthur had known this, so the day after he’d approached Tywin about the twins, when he’d heard Jaime was to finish squiring elsewhere—under the pretense that Tywin had decided his son should familiarize himself with the Westerlands and its lords, with the added implication Aerys’s madness was the true incentive for the change—Arthur had told him he was leaving on extended business for Rhaegar, and that Jaime could accompany him while still acting his squire. 

“He has potential, and I am reluctant to part with him,” Arthur had said. “We will be gone several months. Perhaps he’ll have grown past his… imprudent impulses by time we return.” 

Tywin had no doubt grasped the message behind the offer: Rhaegar wanted Tywin’s loyalty and, as a related matter, desired a continuation of Arthur and Jaime’s connection. Accordingly, Arthur would keep quiet about finding Jaime with his tongue in his sister’s mouth. The Hand had spent two days pretending to think it over before giving his approval. All that’d been left was for Rhaegar to devise tasks to keep Arthur occupied. 

Arthur had fantasized about a tourney circuit, perhaps a long visit to the Water Gardens. He should've known better.

Rhaegar had instead requested he memorize a list of terms to look into at the Citadel’s library, then made him learn the Prophecy by heart. He’d refused to let Arthur write down either, not wishing to chance the parchment falling into a maester's hands. Rhaegar had theories about the Citadel, believing his great-uncle had been sent to the Wall because of his blood, and fearing maesters had played a role in the dragons dying out.

From anyone else, Arthur would’ve dismissed such fears, but he trusted Rhaegar implicitly. “You are sending me to the Citadel?” Arthur had nonetheless asked.

“That is your first destination. I’d have you visit various lords and glean what they’ve heard of my father's behavior after Duskendale. Gauge how they feel about it, determine what they might want from me. Express my interest in their concerns and further our cause by... “ A fond smile. “By acting yourself, I suppose.” He’d paused, and Arthur had known he’d not like what came next. “I also thought to send you to the Wall, so you might speak with Aemon and the officers of the Night's Watch. If the Long Night is to come, they will know first.”

“You wish me to go… to the Wall.”

“Are you a raven, to repeat things so?” Rhaegar had been playing his harp, his songs uncharacteristically pleasant. The two of them in the prince’s chambers, on a balcony with a view of the Blackwater. He’d paused to add, “You will stop at Winterfell on the way. They have a library old as any in the kingdoms, and perhaps protected from the maesters by the Neck… And of course, Lord Stark would be a useful ally as well.” 

Arthur had squinted at the sun, burning bright above King’s Landing, and struggled to imagine what the world would look like past the Neck, in lands with summer snows. “You’d have me freeze to death?”

A jest, mostly, but Rhaegar’s gaze had sharpened. “You’d complain of cold winds as you ride from a dragon’s den? Do not think I fail to see how my father’s madness wears on you.” He’d frowned. “He won't like you venturing so far. I will tell him... that we quarreled about whether one of the recent executions was warranted. If I say you deemed me impertinent for questioning his choice, he'll not be angry, but may think you overstepped in offering your opinion. Thus justifying a temporary banishment."

“That is too direct a lie. My duty—”

“You also have a duty to me, and to… the Hand, and to your squire. My father would agree were he in the correct mind. He is not.” A winding trail of notes flowed from the harp strings, harsher and darker. “It is too late, anyway, for you to speak of duty. He’d burn us both if you told him a tenth of what we’ve discussed. There’s more at stake than your sense of honor.”

The memory pricked him to irritation, and Arthur shut his book. It was useless anyway, a text about the Age of Heroes that was naught but a treatise on how to separate fact from fiction in the old tales. The maester’s argument, repeated endlessly, was that they were all fiction. He claimed that relics people deemed magical, such as the Wall, were the product of engineering techniques lost to time. Rhaegar would scour the pages searching for a sign the words were intentional lies meant to dissuade imagination in future maesters, but Arthur had no head for such things. 

Wearily, Arthur took in his squire. He’d given Jaime a thin volume and provided the partial explanation that Rhaegar believed the topic important. Jaime had flipped a single page when they first began, but he now had the book shut in front of him, his elbows on the table, head supported in one hand. He looked deceptively innocent, golden hair petaling around his face and his lashes thick like a girl's, but his flashing cat’s eyes belied increasingly spiteful irritation. 

“We’re done,” Arthur said. 

Jaime sprang from his seat. “Finally.” 

“We have to put our books away,” said Arthur, but the words hit the boy’s back, glancing off it ineffectually as Jaime loped out of sight. Arthur took a deep breath to dampen a spark of annoyance, retrieved Dawn from where he'd leaned it against the table, then gathered the small stack of books. As he sought the shelf where he’d found them, a burly maester caught his eye. Remembering Rhaegar’s advice, Arthur took care to smile and said, “Well met,” in a casual way. 

“Did you find what you needed?”

“We truly don’t need anything. The prince wishes me to gather material for his songs, is all. He wrote ahead that I’d be coming.” Arthur took a step forward. “I’m sorry, but I oughtn’t let my squire get too far. He’s…” A little shit. “He tends to find trouble.”

A laugh. “Don't let me keep you, then."

To Arthur's relief, the maester looked at him only a moment longer before he went on his way, and Arthur was left to return the books in peace. On exiting the library, he found Jaime in the yard outside, arms spread and head lifted toward the setting sun as if Arthur had kept him overnight in a cage. 

“That’s torturous,” Jaime declared. He stretched in a manner suitably leonine for the heir of House Lannister, then yawned broadly. “The prince is a fool for wasting us on such a task.”

“You cannot say such things.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Why not? Will he burn me?”

Arthur ignored this and kept walking, mourning the troublesome but earnest squire who'd held him in considerable awe. If asked at the time, he would have claimed Jaime Lannister naive, a bit proud and vain, but remarkably likable.

After Arthur told Tywin what he’d seen, that boy had vanished, those good qualities shed like a snake’s ill-fitting skin. Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t have kept quiet. He suspected Tywin’s reaction had been harsh. All the same, the consequences if those two had been caught… it would’ve ruined Cersei at the least, would’ve put a stain on Jaime’s reputation. Too many people could’ve been hurt, and Rhaegar’s most powerful prospective ally dragged through the mud.

Speaking had been honorable. It’d been wise. But it’d torn Jaime’s trust to pieces, and turned Arthur’s loyal squire into a persistent brat. Would that Arthur had known about his transformation before he suggested they embark on a journey together. Gods, but there were times on the ship to Oldtown that Jaime’s mouth had nearly earned him a journey overboard. 

“Are we done at the Citadel now?” Jaime asked as they walked.

“I’ve told you—”

Jaime smiled, said in a falsely sweet voice, “Pretend I wasn’t listening.”

“Prince Rhaegar suggested we linger a week. That will give us time to examine the library with reasonable thoroughness.”

“A week?”

“Knighthood is not all tourneys and battles. At its core, it is obedience and servitude.” 

Jaime’s answering snort dripped condescension and disgust.

Near the Citadel’s gate, they passed a statue of the Young Dragon atop his horse, sword raised toward Dorne. Ser Olyvar had loved Oldtown and taken Arthur to visit four separate times, and he’d had a habit of frowning at the statue whenever they saw it.

“The Young Fool, more like,” Olyvar had liked to say. “All piss and pride. Tell me, Arthur, how many men died for his summer of conquest? How many more after reading his book and thinking to emulate his supposed heroism? A hero treats the life of every being as precious, not as coin to be spent on a whim.” Rhaegar had chuckled the first time Arthur shared this. He had most of Daeron’s writings memorized, and he’d insisted the conquest had worked out in the end. 

“Were it not for Daeron,” he’d said, “you’d not be my kingsguard. It’s unlikely we'd be friends at all. The conquest didn't last, but it did lead to alliance.”

Arthur suspected the marriages that'd brought Dorne under the Iron Throne could've occurred without so many lost lives, but he’d not said so. Rhaegar was better read, more familiar with history; his perspective was surely the more legitimate. 

Beyond the statue lie the Scribe’s Hearth, a collection of stalls where books and maps were sold and a handful of half-asleep acolytes waited to write wills or letters for the people of Oldtown. One of them looked up as Arthur passed in his white cloak, Dawn on his back. “Is that the Sword of the Morning?” he asked, but nobody answered, and Arthur and Jaime soon exited the gate that surrounded the Citadel complex, the sphinxes on either side seeing them out. 

“I wish I had a horse,” Jaime commented. “We could buy a couple. I’m sure—”

“The streets are so narrow, a horse would be a hindrance. It shan’t hurt you to walk.” 

“That man there is on a horse. And that one—”

“That’s enough,” said Arthur. 

“What a convincing argument. ‘That’s enough.’ Your eloquence astounds me, ser. When will you teach me to converse with such finesse?” Jaime watched Arthur, waiting for a reaction. When Arthur failed to provide one, he scowled mutinously but said no more, remaining silent as they trudged along Oldtown's cobbled streets. For the first eighteen months of their acquaintance, Jaime had rarely stopped talking. Gallingly, the absence of chatter seemed louder. More annoying. 

Arthur knew the layout of Oldtown well after his visits with Olyvar, three more for tourneys, and another two with the king’s court. Even so, he kept a close eye on their surroundings, aware of how easy it was to get lost in the labyrinthine streets.

It was no chore to remain observant, for the city was alive with gentle beauty. The Honeywine wound alongside their path, dark with twilight, and ahead, the black walls of the Starry Sept reflected shades of sunset. The Seven Shrines rose distantly across the water, the tops of autumn-bright trees just visible in its gardens. Still further along, the Hightower loomed from Battle Island, beacon fires ablaze for the night. 

Eventually, the sunset over the western sea drew his eye, the view not so different from that at Starfall. Whenever their mother had fallen into one of her moods, Arthur had taken Ashara atop the Palestone Sword to watch the sun set together. Now their parents were dead, Ashara grown and at Sunspear as one of Elia’s ladies. The castle in which he'd grown would be strange to him with Mathos as lord, his wife and children bringing light to its halls. Allyria, as well. He’d never met his youngest sister and sometimes forgot she existed. 

A shift in the air returned Arthur’s focus to the present. He slowed to a stop and put a hand on Jaime’s arm to halt him. A woman wove through the crowd, her eyes fixed on Arthur. “Ser,” she said when she noticed he’d paused. She ducked around two acolytes. “Ser.” 

Her face was painted, her dress worn and cut low to show her breasts. He would’ve dismissed her as one of those whores who took the white cloak as a challenge, but the coloring around her eyes was smeared, her pallor ghastly. The crowd took on a note of unease, mutters rising. Arthur’s cloak made him recognizable as a Kingsguard, and Dawn’s scabbard was creamy white leather adorned with elegant designs of purple so pale it was nearly silver. Most onlookers could guess his identity, and they'd send the woman scurrying if Arthur’s reaction suggested he wanted it.

Jaime seemed like to join them until he saw the woman properly. Soon as he took in the tear-streaked face, before Arthur could decided how to proceed, the foolish boy puffed up and adopted an expression of affected gallantry. “Has somebody hurt you? If you point them out, we will take care of it.”

Arthur swallowed a startled laugh. It was as if the boy thought himself in a story, where strangers actually approached knights over their woes. To his bewilderment, however, the woman appeared reassured at Jaime’s manner and faced him instead of Arthur. “It’s—it’s more complicated than that, m’lord. Can I talk to you in quiet?”

Jaime stood up straighter. “Whatever you need, my lady.”

He might have been an actor in a puppet show or mummer’s farce. The urge to laugh returned, prompted by fondness Arthur would’ve thought the past weeks had worn away. But a closer study of the woman’s face dashed his amusement. Grief and horror darkened eyes that were pink from crying, and she held herself as if due to collapse at any moment.

The hour was too late to be chasing trouble, but there’d be no honor in dismissing her plight. “Our inn is not far,” he said. They were at the Quill and Tankard, on a small island on the Honeywine. The bridge that led to it wasn’t a quarter mile away.  

“No,” she said. “No, no, you need to see him. Come with me.”

The request made Arthur wonder if this wasn’t a trap, friends of hers lying in wait hoping to ambush two naive highborns, but he couldn’t take the possibility seriously. He gestured for her to lead the way, and her evident surprise further convinced him of her sincerity. Without a word, she began to walk, looking back every few steps as if expecting them to sneak off. Twice, she appeared about to speak, but visibly changed her mind. 

Arthur tried to keep track of where she took them but succeeded only until they reached the old Thieves Market. After, they disappeared down several twisting wynds before cutting into an alley so narrow they had to walk single-file. Though the buildings remained stone, they grew higher and built more closely together, no gardens or trees between them, the sky harder to see. The smell of flowers that hung over Oldtown gave way to the more unpleasant scents Arthur more readily associated with King’s Landing.

The figures they passed also took on a grimmer mien. If they looked up, it was not to gaze with admiration at the Sword of the Morning, but to eye he and Jaime with bafflement or disdain—or in the case of some, with speculation. Arthur ensured he kept close to Jaime and met every gaze that lingered on them too long. Each time, the eyes skirted away. 

Jaime showed no sign of being unnerved, though his nose had wrinkled at the smell, his face hard in a way that made him look like Tywin. He’d grasped his sword hilt with loose fingers, and nothing in his manner suggested he wouldn’t use it if provoked. It was an unsettling, deadly expression from the boy who’d grabbed Arthur's arm not so long ago and pleaded, “Please, please don’t tell my father, please,” and who’d snarled, “It’s not fair,” as Arthur hauled him to Tywin’s solar with one hand, Cersei trying to soften him with tears while he towed her by the other. 

Jaime noticed Arthur watching him and curled his lip. 

Swallowing a sigh, Arthur turned his attention to the woman. “You haven’t told us your name.”

“Hanna, if it please you.” She couldn’t meet his eye. “We’re almost there, m’lords.”

The sun was all but set, and the drop in temperature had fog rolling in off the sea. It seemed to grow thicker by the step, settling grimly over the dilapidated buildings. Arthur pulled his cloak more tightly around him and longed for the Dornish sun. “I’m Arthur,” he said. “My squire is Jaime.” 

“Ser Arthur.” Hanna breathed it in a tone of agreement, one that said, ‘Of course I know,’ and which placed a world’s worth of weight on the fact. “The Sword of the Morning. I—I knew it must be you, m’lord, when I saw the cloak and the sword. I’ve heard tales.” Like he might’ve misunderstood, she glanced over. “Good ones, ser. No one says nothing of you that isn’t good.”

Jaime made a noise that Arthur suspected was a laugh turned into a cough. Don’t, he might’ve said. I made you no promises, Jaime. I’ve made no one any promises save Rhaegar and the king, and Ser Olyvar when he knighted me. But that was a lie. Silent promises had been made when he accepted Dawn. Hanna had recognized him and approached him because of the sword, because she knew what it symbolized. It was Arthur’s duty to be worthy of that reputation.

Normally, he’d have thought nothing of it, but the business with Jaime had left him sensitive to the pressures of his title. His squire had expected him to be more than a man, had assumed the Sword of the Morning could never disappoint him, and learning otherwise had crushed his spirits. Should Arthur prove unequal to helping Hanna, it'd hurt her as well. He wanted to resent that, but what right did he have? He’d shouldered his burden willingly. 

Hanna said, “Just ahead.”

She took them to a run-down whorehouse that was nestled between an equally run-down stable and smithy. From a second floor room, a man’s increasingly fervent grunts greeted their party, the thrown-open shutters making the noise loud as if they were in the room. His partner badly pretended she was enjoying herself as much as her client, but the whore’s moans mostly sounded bored. Jaime’s nose wrinkled further, but for once, he refrained from offering commentary. 

On stepping inside, Arthur nearly mimicked his squire’s expression. The front room was a dank, low-ceilinged space with haphazard furniture that looked like it’d been fished half-rotted from the Honeywine. The whores appeared to have tried presenting themselves well, with varying success; the patrons had made no such effort, and Arthur found them collectively unappealing. One man had passed out without breeches, arse-up on the moldering rushes. Save his, every eye in the room went to their group.

“What are you all lookin’ at?” Hanna snapped. She must’ve claimed some measure of respect, because no one said a word as she led Jaime and Arthur through the main room and up a creaking staircase. 

Their destination proved to be a chamber off a short hall, its door warped in the frame, the room dark save weak moonlight spilling through a small window. Arthur made out three straw pallets, two empty. The last… 

Hanna said, “Light. We need light.” She ghosted away, and Arthur was so unsettled he remained in place until she returned with a lamp. Its glow confirmed what he’d suspected on first glimpsing the figure laid out on the straw. 

Arthur kept his voice soft. “He’s dead?”

“I don’t know. Look at him.” A shiver went through her, making the lamplight waver. “My son. My Owen. Please.”

It’s too late for me to do anything, Arthur thought. But he drew nearer. His steps slowed, and he froze a yard away. From Hanna’s manner, Arthur had expected an unpleasant sight, but her son’s corpse was something else altogether. The boy was small, no older than eight. His shirt had been removed, making apparent that someone had sliced open his rib cage and taken out his heart and lungs, leaving a gaping chest cavity behind. “Jaime—”

His squire had already seen.

“Seven hells,” Jaime breathed. He tore forward before Arthur could stop him, then gave the body a long, horrified study. Wide-eyed, he blinked up at Arthur. “He hasn’t got entrails, either.”

Arthur crossed the final few feet and knelt at the corpse's side, struggling to construct a suitable response. 

That was when the eyelids twitched. 

I imagined it. But the boy’s head lolled, and a horrible, hollow gurgle emanated from its throat as parched lips parted and its bloated tongue flopped once, listlessly.

“Ser,” Jaime choked out. “Ser.”

Is this a wight? Arthur’s heart was in his throat. He did his best to steady his breathing and act like he wasn’t revolted. He wanted to run. He wanted to pretend he’d never seen this. He was a fighter. He knew how to solve problems with his sword. This… What was he supposed to do about this? 

He strove to sound calm. “How long has he been…”

Hanna crept nearer. “He went missing a fortnight ago. My niece had been looking for him the whole while, had some of her friends keeping an eye out. She found him like this and brought him over last night. I don’t know… don’t know how long…”

“I can’t help him,” Arthur said. “He’s dead.”

“But.”

He has no lungs. No heart. No innards. Arthur met her eye and gentled his face. The sight of the boy made him wish to weep, though he hadn’t known the child at all. He couldn’t imagine if it were his family, his son. He wished words existed that would offer even sparse consolation. He wished there was a way to take on a fraction of the pain that lived in Hanna’s eyes.

“I think,” Arthur said carefully, “it is best we start a fire. Do you know an open place?” It took large quantities of wood to burn a body, but once people realized who he was, they were often willing to assist him with most anything. A coin and a polite request, and that’d be taken care of, no questions asked. 

“Aye,” Hanna murmured, the word thick with tears. “There’s a yard not far off that should do.” Barely whispering, she asked, “Have you seen anything like this, m’lord?” 

“I have not,” Arthur answered honestly, though he’d spent enough time with Rhaegar that his disbelief was minimal. If anything, the boy’s state felt like a confirmation. His friend’s fears weren’t the product of too much reading and too active an imagination; magic wasn’t as dead as most thought. All the same, Arthur had no idea who could or would manage this, couldn’t imagine it was related to the prince’s theories.

Hanna didn’t appear deterred by his answer. She put a hand on his arm. “Could you—is there a way to find out what did it?” 

That isn’t my duty, he told himself. His duty was to the king and the prince, and it’d be safest not to involve himself in something of this nature, so far beyond his understanding. Arthur deliberated briefly before deciding he’d best put the matter in the hands of someone with the time and resources to do something about it.

“I’ll go to Lord Hightower,” he promised Hanna. “Jaime and I will, and perhaps he’ll know what to do. I swear to you, this… this bears looking into.”

As he finished speaking, he looked back at Jaime, expecting to have to offer comfort or perhaps convince him that going to Hightower would be prudent. But though Jaime had moved as far from the body as the small room allowed, and though his face was grim and scared, his eyes were bright, his hand back on his sword. Aemon the Dragonknight wouldn’t have looked more determined if called upon to defend his queen.

He thinks this an adventure, Arthur realized. He thinks we’re going to find who did this and bring them to justice, and fix it, somehow.

Arthur refrained from disabusing him of the notion. It wasn’t the time. Wasn’t the place. Jaime would realize how things stood once Lord Leyton put the City Watch on it. Until then, the misapprehension would make him compliant.

“It will take time to see the body burned," Arthur said. "Do you wish me to return you to the inn beforehand?”

Jaime set his jaw. “No, I’ll be fine.” 

He said it too firmly, clearly trying to convince himself, but Arthur feared he'd only add to Jaime's stress by pushing further. He nodded, then turned back to Hanna and scraped together his composure, steeling himself for the night ahead.

Chapter Text

The previous night had been long, and Arthur let his eyes drift shut as he waited for Lord Leyton in one of the Hightower’s sitting rooms. Shafts of orange light filtered through a window on the chamber’s eastern wall, warming his eyelids and tinting the darkness red. 

Jaime sat next to him, audibly fidgeting. He’d hardly spoken a word since Arthur had shaken him awake, though he acted unruffled as ever. A facade. He’d had noisy nightmares the night before. Arthur had considered asking about it come dawn, but Jaime was proud, and drawing attention to what he’d view as weakness seemed crueler than keeping distant. He doubted Jaime would’ve said anything anyway. Even a scared child wouldn’t confide in someone he didn’t trust. 

For his part, Arthur hadn’t tried to sleep, but had remained awake battling doubt and wishing for Rhaegar. The prince had perhaps encountered something like the moving corpse in his reading, and if he had not, he would know where to find information. Arthur couldn’t even decide whether burning the body had been the right choice. He’d heard of smallfolk doing so out of superstition, knew it was meant to keep cursed dead from rising. But mostly it’d seemed important to get rid of the… thing. An impulse driven by unease rather than logic.

Owen’s body, he reflected, would’ve made his task this morning far easier. He’d never met Leyton Hightower, but if similar to his uncle, the man would be too sensible to readily believe Arthur’s words. Reputation was on Arthur’s side, but that only mattered so much. If he hadn’t been present the night before, he would’ve doubted the truth of it from any but his closest acquaintances. Rhaegar would’ve thought to keep the body, at least.

The door opened. Arthur lifted his eyelids and stood, Jaime doing so as well.

Lord Leyton stepped into the room. He was perhaps a decade Arthur’s senior, and like Gerold, possessed unexpectedly elegant features for someone who dwarfed most men in height and breadth. He gazed down at Arthur briefly, then studied Jaime for far longer, in the manner of a knight debating whether to buy a particular horse. Arthur recognized the look as that of a lord considering the worth of a potential match. Leyton had been four times married and boasted a number of daughters, and Jaime would be as valuable a husband as any save Rhaegar and Viserys. 

Arthur stifled annoyance. “My lord. I apologize for calling on such short notice.”

“It’s no problem at all. I am honored that you’ve come.” Leyton glanced at him, his eyes the same pale blue as the Lord Commander’s. In short order, they again found Jaime. “Honored, as well, to meet you. How does your lord father fare?”

Jaime’s smile was cloying. “I fear he’s in unerringly flawless health.”

Jaime had refused to see Tywin before leaving the city. The Hand was perhaps the sole man in Westeros whom Jaime hated more than Arthur. Not wishing to let Leyton question him further, Arthur said, “We won’t take much of your time. If it’s not too forward, I bid you to sit, and beg that you let me speak uninterrupted.”

“You unnerve me, ser,” said Leyton, though he did sit. Arthur and Jaime followed suit.

As Arthur wondered where to begin speaking, he wished the man across from him looked less like his uncle. He’d never gotten on with the Lord Commander, Gerold finding his friendship with Rhaegar objectionable. “Servants,” the White Bull liked to say, “oughtn’t be friends with their masters. Dawn does not give you leave to disregard convention.” More ridiculously, he’d once made Arthur laugh aloud by insisting, “It isn’t called the Princeguard.” He always seemed pleased to make these remarks; House Dayne had attacked Oldtown more than once in the past, and there was no love lost between their houses.

But I mustn’t judge Lord Leyton by his uncle. They may be very different men. He drew a deep breath, and though he felt foolish, began to recount the previous evening’s events in full. Every so often, Jaime cut in with an observation of his own, mostly superfluous detail—“We could see the boy’s spine,” and similar remarks—and Arthur let him, for the artless input likely made their tale more believable.

Leyton listened in silence. After Arthur finished, he steepled his hands over his lap and pursed his lips. Finally, he called for a servant, his shout so abrupt it made Jaime jump. The door opened, and a young man in Hightower livery put his head into the room. “M’lord?” 

“Fetch Malora. Tell her it is an urgent matter.”

“Malora,” Jaime repeated, tasting the name. “What’s your daughter got to do with it?” 

Lord Hightower smiled. “My Malora will surprise you. She’ll more know what to make of this than I.” At their surprise, he said, “You expected skepticism? No, no, I imagine what you say is true. It’s nothing I’ve heard before, but what other explanation is there? That you both are mad? That Ser Arthur Dayne grew so squeamish upon finding a mutilated body, he could not think straight?”

Arthur relaxed marginally. He wouldn’t have stomached it well had he been greeted with laughter or pity. All the same, he wondered if this was not a jape he had yet to understand. What could Leyton’s daughter know? 

Jaime squinted suspiciously at Lord Hightower. Arthur touched his arm in what he meant to be a show of understanding, knowing Jaime feared this a ploy that’d turn to a matchmaking attempt. Jaime fell ice still, teeth clanking together. He moved away. Arthur let the hand drop.

Leyton cleared his throat. “What brings you to Oldtown?”

“We’re on business for the prince,” Arthur said in a polite but distant way. ‘The Sword of the Morning does not bother with idle chatter,’ said that tone. From a perspective it was rude, but he’d never possessed the skill to make interesting conversation while saying nothing at all, and not all occasions invited more substantive discourse. Better to shut down pleasantries than burden others with charmless prattle.

“But of course,” Leyton said. He smiled at Jaime. “Your sister, how is—”

“The chill has had an edge lately,” Arthur cut in. “Do you suppose winter draws near?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. 

Leyton lit up. “It’d be a terribly short autumn were that so, but one can never be sure. Oldtown could of course handle it, winter in the Reach being mild as it is. I imagine your brother needn’t worry at all. Starfall cannot be much bothered by snow. Tell me, did you visit him when you sailed west?” 

Arthur would’ve stopped at Sunspear if anywhere, but it’d felt cruel to visit his sister, considering. He glanced at the door. Tried to sound patient. “I’d not presume to do so whilst carrying out duties for the Crown.” 

“I’m sure Prince Rhaegar wouldn’t have minded. Gerold claims you two are fast friends.” 

“Ser Gerold writes of me?” Arthur said mildly, his expression placid. “I am humbled to hear it.”

Before Leyton could respond, the door swung open, and a lady roughly of age with Elia swept into the room. The skirts of her dress swished as she walked, and wild curls bright as marigolds stirred over her shoulders and back, runaway strands framing a face pale and luminous as a pearl. She should have been beautiful and instead looked only strange, thin limbs ungainly, slender fingers restless, her light eyes unblinking and so distracted it seemed she saw an entirely different space than that in which she stood.

“I was reading, Father,” Lady Malora said.  She yawned. “And it is late.”

“It is early, my dear.” Leyton showed no embarrassment at her strangeness. Arthur dared say he looked fond. “Ser Arthur and his squire have come to me with a problem, and I wondered if you had thoughts on it.”

Her eyes lit upon them, and her manner brightened. “Ser Arthur Dayne,” she said, wandering nearer. Her gait made it seem she was happening over by accident. “May I see your sword?”

Jaime smirked. Arthur didn’t bother chastising him. He was twelve. At that age, if it wasn’t smirking, it’d be laughing aloud or contributing his own lewd allusions. Prince Oberyn had possessed such an awful habit of the latter, Arthur had refused to discuss jousting or swordfighting around him until he’d—mostly—outgrown it. 

“Do you mind, Lord Leyton?” Arthur asked. 

“Not at all. Indulge her if you like.” 

Arthur had placed Dawn near him, braced against his chair. He did not like leaving it far from reach, and most lords seemed to take for granted he’d want to keep the sword close. He’d never had anyone show surprise or discomfort that he carried it indoors, though he refrained from doing so at meals. 

Upon standing, he noted Malora was taller than he was. He set the observation aside and carefully pulled Dawn from its scabbard.

Malora stepped closer.

“Be careful—”

“It’s sharp,” she agreed with breathless enthusiasm. “Forged from a falling star. Oh, but can you imagine what she’s seen? Imagine the blood her blade has shed. They say Valyrian steel is magic, but what then, is this?” Her head tilted like an owl’s, unblinking eyes fixing on his. “You are alike, you and your sword. Both cold and strange. What are you, Arthur?” 

The brief speech reminded him of Rhaegar when they were alone and he ceased acting the part of prince. But she carried herself differently, Rhaegar always reserved, drawing inward. Malora took up space. She was a foot away but might as well have covered Arthur. She smelled of parchment and dust, and her eyes radiated concern, as if the question of Arthur’s identity were cause for genuine worry. 

“What am I,” Arthur said, “or who?”

“Or whose?” she wondered. “You’re called ‘sword,’ but a weapon needs a wielder.” 

“I’ve made that observation myself.” In fact, he took comfort in it. He knew who he was, what to do, how to be, when he thought of himself as Rhaegar’s sword. The prince believed it a matter of ancient prophecy, that Azor Ahai’s sword Lightbringer wasn’t a sword at all, but referred to the Sword of the Morning. Arthur struggled to believe in such things, but it’d be nice if it was true, his path already forged for him, leaving Arthur only to walk it.

At his remark, Malora finally blinked. “You’re doing your part in the conversation. How odd. My septa taught me to converse politely, but no one ever responds as they ought. You may be the first normal person I’ve met, aside from my father.” 

That surprised a grin out of him. “I am honored you’d say so, Lady Malora.” 

She stared for a long moment, then broke away with a flush and turned to a scornful-looking Jaime. On taking him in, her introductory remark was, “You’re pretty.” 

Jaime’s whole face turned red. “I am—” A glance at Leyton, and he said with dignity, “Thank you, my lady. You are too kind.” He drew out the words like Malora was a lackwit. Arthur resolved to speak with his squire about making shallow judgments.

“Oh, but it’ll be all right,” Malora added. “There’s no need to cry.”

Jaime was horrified. “I’m not crying.” He pointed at his eyes so fiercely Arthur feared he’d poke one out.

“No, no,” she scolded. “It isn’t only eyes that cry. But I am upsetting you. That’s how it usually goes, with people.” The way she stressed the word made ‘people’ sound like a species separate from herself. She smoothed her dress and glanced at her father, who didn’t seem to find any of this out of the ordinary. She gave Leyton a brief look of apology, then frowned and said, “Questions. I’m here to answer questions.”

Arthur moved to sheathe his sword.

“Please, don’t,” Malora said. “I want to look upon Dawn while we speak, before it goes away forever. It’s ever so dark in Oldtown. The Citadel shuts out the sun.”

Of all things, it was that which spurred Leyton to cut in, “Arthur, why don’t you tell her all you’ve told me?”

Arthur sat and rested Dawn across his knees, keeping the hilt toward Jaime, because the point would’ve intruded into his space otherwise, and he didn’t trust the boy not to impale himself with a sudden movement. He felt strange and exposed, even slightly flustered as Malora perched on the arm of her father’s chair and watched him expectantly. Nonetheless, he began his tale once more. 

Jaime offered less input this time, and when Arthur glanced at him mid-telling, he found the boy sitting rigidly and glaring at the floor. There was little question he’d been unsettled by Malora, which suggested her assessment might’ve hit too close to the mark. But I could’ve guessed that already. I’d have to be blind not to realize I’ve broken his heart. 

To Arthur’s surprise, Malora’s gaze sharpened soon as she heard of Owen’s groaning and moving. Immediately, she began to ask questions. All the organs were gone? Was anything else cut away? Which part of the ribs were cut off? Could the corpse talk? Walk? Was he in pain? Did it take him longer to burn than it would a normal body?

At the last, Leyton said, “Do you expect Ser Arthur to know how long a body takes to burn?”

Arthur kept his face blank. Since Duskendale, he’d gotten in the habit of keeping count during executions so he knew when it’d be safe to reground himself in the present. Wildfire was quicker, but the king didn’t always want quick. “It was,” he told Malora, “a perfectly average burning.”

When Leyton looked surprised, his daughter tutted at him in a scolding way. “Haven’t you noticed, Father? King’s Landing smells like ash. The stench carries here on the western winds.”

Leyton cocked his head in an intriguing mirror of his daughter. “I received a letter from mine uncle not so long ago, and he’s mentioned nothing amiss.”

Malora released a breathy sigh. “If a Kingsguard holds his tongue about fires, one might guess who likes to start them. The dragon makes his flames, and the lion gives him kindling so he is kept busy. And men whisper and they wonder, ‘Which shall I call king?’” She asked Jaime, “Are you a prince, little cub?” This silenced them all, and Malora frowned. “I am being dangerous.”

“They won’t say a word,” said Leyton, voice laced with a threat. “But what of the boy, little bird? Do you know what could cause such a thing?”

“It is not natural,” Malora said, “and what is not natural tends to be magical. But magic is… hard to control, it is wild, and does not evenly saw ribs, and does not pluck out organs.” Absently, she twirled a bit of hair around a pale finger. “They study bodies at the Citadel, you remember? They carve them so very neatly.”

Lord Leyton’s manner transformed immediately. Now, he looks like Ser Gerold. In fact, the look he gave Malora, searching, a touch condescending and definitely disapproving, was precisely the one Arthur most often received from the Lord Commander. “Malora, my dear, you oughtn’t speak in that way. These two might get ideas. The Citadel is a respected institution and would never countenance such things.”

Malora flinched as if struck. She isn’t used to being ignored, Arthur surmised. Leyton typically takes her opinions seriously, so why dismiss her in this? The answer came readily. Protector of the Citadel was among the Lord of Oldtown’s titles, and it appeared he took that role seriously. Arthur realized he’d erred in approaching the man. If Lord Leyton thought a maester involved, he’d be opposed to anyone taking a closer look, let alone putting the City Watch on it. This was the last place Rhaegar would want him, when he’d told Arthur both to avoid the Citadel’s notice and to make a good impression on the powerful lords of Westeros.

Arthur rushed to speak. “Perhaps Jaime and I were mistaken about the murdered child. We’d had a long day, and the room was dim. That’s the likeliest thing.”

Leyton’s relief was plain. “Of course.”

“What?” Jaime blurted.

Arthur shifted Dawn so he could reach over with his free hand and grab his squire by the shoulder, giving a warning squeeze. Still facing Leyton, he said, “I am sorry to waste your time.”

“I don’t understand,” Malora said, her confusion plain. Odd as she was, the genuine way she showed her feelings and shared her thoughts engendered respect so deep it startled Arthur. There was courage in that, though he suspected she didn’t realize it. She gazed into Arthur’s eyes. “Surely you could not mistake such a—”

“My lady,” Leyton said quietly. “That is enough.”

Malora’s eyes flickered between all of them, and finally she nodded, mouth setting in a hard line. Now she understands, and she does not like it.

Leyton went on, “You must forgive me, but though our City Watch does its best, it’s impossible to avoid all such killings. I am afraid no good will come of pursuing the matter.”

Jaime stared at them all with stricken eyes. Malora saw, and she moved from the arm of her father’s chair and went to him, a soft frown on her lips. “You are all heart, it seems. You see with it, you cry with it, now you scream with it.” She tapped his chest. “But loosen its shackles, won’t you, please? You’ll suffocate the poor thing, and then what will you be but blind and cold and silenced?”

“Stop,” Jaime said, lip curling. “Go away, and shut up.” He swatted Arthur’s hand. “And let go. You’re going to leave bruises.”

Arthur hadn’t realized he’d tightened his grip. He released his squire, but cut short Jaime’s tangent by getting to his feet. “Forgive us, Lady Malora. We slept poorly last night.” He sheathed Dawn, glanced at Lord Leyton. “We’d best leave. Noble as he is, my squire is clearly yet half a boy, and a nap would do him good. I thank you for your time and apologize for the misunderstanding.” He grabbed Jaime by the elbow, gently as he could, and pulled him toward the door.

Jaime smiled in an empty way and said over his shoulder, “Yes, that’s it. I only need a nap, and all will be well. Perhaps were I properly rested, I’d only think you’re a spineless, pox-ridden eunuch, instead of saying it—”

Arthur clapped a hand over his mouth and hauled him through the door. Soon as it’d closed behind them, Jaime bit the hand hard enough to draw blood, then tried to break free. Arthur caught him by the hair and tightened his grip until the boy stopped, though Jaime remained so angry he trembled from it. My own fault. I provoked him. He has a right to be upset, and that comment about a nap was petty. Nonetheless, Arthur kept his voice firm. “This is not the place. We will speak when we return to the inn.”

“Will we? Or will you break that promise, too?”

“You have a choice, Jaime. Keep quiet and wait until we can talk plainly, or continue to demonstrate you’re too immature to understand, so I know it’s no use to discuss the matter at all.”

Jaime glowered at him, but pointedly shut his mouth. Arthur released his hair and studied his injured hand. The little animal’s teeth had only scraped open the thin skin across the back. In battle, he’d seen the damage a good bite could do at full force. This hadn’t been close. Arthur found the fact sadly comforting. 

Before they could go, the door to the sitting room opened, and Malora came out. She didn’t seem surprised to find them still present.

“I thought to say,” she said quietly, barely whispering, “I’ve a friend at the Citadel who might be of use. If… If you decide you hadn’t imagined what you’d seen. He might know something. Could help—”

“You are brave to say as much,” Arthur said, “but I am in the city on business for the prince, and he does not wish me to court trouble.”

“Oh. I understand.” She brushed loose hair from her face. “The maesters do not like unusual things, so they do not like me. I am called mad by some, but Father tells me it’s better than if the truth got out.” What is the truth? Arthur wondered. Malora kept talking. “He fears the Citadel would send me to a septry and bar me from my books. My friend, he calls them sheep… but they are sheep with teeth.” A pause, her eyes distant once more. “But anyone who could so harm a child should be stopped, I think.”

Arthur said, “My lady…”

“I will help you as I can—”

“We need no help.”

“My friend’s name—”

“We should go,” Arthur said gently, not wishing her to say it, fearing Jaime would get it into his head to find this friend and bring trouble on them both.

Malora met his gaze, and Arthur felt small and uncertain of his choice. He thought if she cried or judged him or showed some emotion, he might’ve been less affected, but her clear, searching eyes only made him aware of his own lack. If she saw this, she did not press her advantage and said only, “If you change your mind, I shall remain willing to help.”

“We’d best not return.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “You’d best not. But I’ll keep an eye out, and I will find you if you need me.”

Arthur was bemused by this, but found he did not doubt her. “Thank you, my lady, and do be careful. Your father would not wish you to aid us.”

“He wishes it, I suspect, but feels he cannot allow it.” She smiled weakly for them, looking distracted, then curtsied clumsily before slipping away, so light-footed it nearly appeared she wasn’t touching the ground at all. 

The moment they were alone in their room at the Quill and Tankard, Jaime spun on Arthur. “You told Hanna we’d help.”

“I told her we’d go to Lord Leyton. We did.” The room had a single bed and a pallet on the floor where Jaime slept. Arthur longed to sink onto the bed, his sleepless night beginning to wear on him. He remained standing near the open window so the cool air could keep him alert. They would talk, grab a meal in the tavern below, then return to the Citadel. Rhaegar’s task for him had been constructed on a whim, but that didn’t mean Arthur felt comfortable putting it off for a nap.  

Jaime’s eyes were hard. “What if the person who did it strikes again?” 

“What if we get the prince in trouble snooping around about it?”

“He’s the prince. He’d get out of trouble. A little boy getting sawed open isn’t going to have the same opportunity, will he?”

“I am not sworn to protect every child in every city in Westeros,” said Arthur, only realizing after he’d spoken what had come out of his mouth. 

Jaime pounced on it. “Don’t knights swear to defend the weak, the innocent—”

Arthur grimaced. “My Kingsguard vows—”

“Do you care about anyone but the prince?” Jaime cut in, his voice breaking on the last word. “About the—the people the king burns, or that boy, or about—” Me, Arthur filled in. Jaime sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Mayhaps Lord Leyton did get touchy about the Citadel, but you needn’t have quailed like a craven.”

“Whatever I decide to do,” Arthur said crisply, “it was important to convince him we’d not be a problem.”

Jaime’s head flew up. 

Arthur’s mind was full, his heart heavy. “Stay here. I need to think. I’m going for a walk.”

“You said you would—”

“—I said we’d talk, yes. We will, but I need space to consider your words.” 

That silenced his squire, and Arthur left Jaime in the room. He made his way outside and found a semblance of solitude in the yard behind the inn, seating himself below a lone apple tree, its branches heavy with ripened fruit. 

“Do you care?” Jaime had asked. Arthur wondered how he could explain to a boy of twelve that feeling something, no matter how deeply, did not justify acting on the feeling. Certainly not when one was a Kingsguard knight, or the Sword of the Morning. 

Even as he considered how to impart that lesson, Arthur’s mind wandered, and he found himself recalling one of his first days as a Kingsguard. Joanna Lannister had been on a rare visit to her husband in King’s Landing, and Arthur hadn’t worn the white cloak a full week when he’d been ordered to accompany Aerys to a meeting with Tywin in the Hand’s Tower. As they’d ascended, Joanna had been coming down, and the king had blocked her path to play at conversation. 

Joanna soon gave an excuse and tried ducking past, but Aerys herded her against the wall and pressed against her, a hand snaking upward to squeeze her breast as he whispered something in her ear. Her reply, delivered too low for Arthur to hear, had finally made the king back away with a wounded look, like she’d personally wronged him.

That was when the lady had seen Arthur and shaken her head subtly but urgently. He’d realized he had grabbed his sword. Let it go as if burned. Her eyes hard, she’d hurried on her way, the king cursing her coldness as she departed. He hadn’t glanced at Arthur, hadn’t sworn him to secrecy, had offered no explanation, taking his silence and lack of judgment for granted.

It’d been Joanna’s last day in the city, and there’d been a feast that night. Perhaps the event had served as Aerys’s way of marking her departure, though Arthur didn’t think it’d officially been declared as such. To his considerable shock, the Lady Lannister had found him and asked for a dance. He’d felt obligated to accept, though he’d been simultaneously sick with guilt and flustered to bear her undivided attention. There was something about a woman who could control Lord Tywin, who sometimes laughed delightedly when in his company, that was as frightening as it was enchanting. 

The smile she’d worn as they danced had made clear his awe was not returned, her condescension soft, not unkind, but apparent enough he’d had no doubt she found him a naive boy. “You are what you seem, aren’t you?” she’d asked eventually. “One can never be sure with knights. There are so many songs and stories of your breed, I find any fool with a sword can memorize the right words and play the part to some degree.”

“I’ve no talent for acting,” Arthur had said. He recalled blushing, feeling like his tongue was slow and heavy.

Lady Joanna had laughed. “I’ve gathered that, ser. No, no, do not look guilty. I possess no desire to see you killed uselessly on my behalf.” She’d spoken lightly, but her eyes had been dark. “It won’t be the last time he does something you do not like.”

“I… it doesn’t matter. I swore an oath.”

“So you did. It may ruin you, but I don’t know there’s anyone in King’s Landing who’s unspoiled. You’ll fit in better with a bit of taint.” She’d made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sigh, strangely wistful. “I am sorry.”

She’d kissed his cheek when the song ended. Saw Aerys approaching and walked briskly back to her husband’s place at the table. Lord Tywin had been watching their dance, but only with dry amusement, as if Arthur was too young and foolish to be worth his ire. 

Arthur had returned to his room and thought on Joanna Lannister’s words, and he’d cried, the weight of his future and certain implications of his oaths too heavy to bear. There’d been shame, too, in having the matter placed on him by the woman he’d not defended, who seemed to pity him more than she did herself. Time had erased those feelings, helped along by Arthur’s growing regard for his brothers and his close friendship with Rhaegar. But thinking back on it, Arthur could admit Joanna’s predication had come to pass. It wasn’t only that he’d found a silver lining to offset the unpleasant realities of his role. He’d also grown more tolerant of the ugliness that’d initially gutted him. 

Arthur rubbed tired eyes and thought of his squire. Odd as it was, he’d never associated Jaime with the woman who’d danced with him. Joanna had died within a year of their conversation, all but a stranger. It was Tywin with whom Arthur was familiar, who’d lurked around King’s Landing throughout Arthur’s service to the king. The twins felt like his. 

Now that his mind had connected the two, Arthur had to wonder if Joanna would think her son a starry-eyed fool, or if she’d find patience for his delusions of heroism.

Delusions, he echoed to himself. Was it delusional to desire justice for a woman whose son had been murdered? To believe a lord shouldn’t ignore wrongdoing because it might reflect badly on an affluent institution? 

Was he sure Rhaegar wouldn’t wish him to investigate? Magic was involved, possibly. That might intrigue the prince.

He’d said not to draw the Citadel’s attention, Arthur reminded himself. An explicit order. But Jaime’s question echoed in his head again. “Do you care about anyone but the prince?”

Arthur climbed slowly to his feet.

He would be subtle. That was the key. If he could investigate without gaining the Citadel’s notice, nor Lord Leyton’s, it wouldn’t be disobedience. And you’d feel confident explaining that flimsy logic to Rhaegar should it all go wrong? A sound question, but the prince was far away, and his persistent squire much too close.

On returning to their room, Arthur found Jaime sprawled across the bed, apparently just about asleep from the way he jerked up at Arthur’s entry. “So?” the boy demanded, the ice in his voice undermined by the way he pawed his eyes with the back of his hands, jarringly childlike.

“We’ll go to the Citadel after our midday meal. I will resume Rhaegar’s research.” Jaime opened his mouth, but Arthur cut in, “Tomorrow, we’ll find Hanna and try to get more information.” It was a longshot, but he didn’t wish to approach Malora’s friend if he could help it. The fewer people involved, the better. Somberly, he added, “If our search is unsuccessful, I will tell Hanna to her face what Lord Leyton said of the matter. I owe her that.”

Jaime looked surprised, but soon nodded in the manner of a commander who’d given an order and was pleased it’d been acknowledged. “That is acceptable. We’ll see if you keep your word come tomorrow.”

“I haven’t broken a promise in my life,” Arthur murmured. Only the ones you imagined on my behalf. Promises to be better than any man is able, to be everything, to do everything right. I cannot live up to every boy’s dreams of who I should be, Jaime. I would drive myself mad if I tried.

“I bet you’d start, just for me,” Jaime said without missing a beat.

Arthur ignored that. “How do you fare after last night? Then… Lady Malora was disconcerting this morning.” Jaime had seemed to think so, anyway. Her impression on Arthur had been considerably more favorable. 

Jaime bristled. “Malora is mad. Why would I care a jot what she said when none of it made sense? And for Lord Leyton to let her go on like that! Gods, did you see her hair?” He ran his fingers through his own as if to ensure it hadn’t been tainted by association. The sentiment was one Arthur would’ve expected from Lady Cersei instead of Jaime, but he’d found that the less confident Jaime felt, the more like his sister he behaved. Perhaps he found comfort in mimicking the girl’s overabundance of certainty.

“Different is not bad,” Arthur settled for saying. He added, “And true knights do not speak cruelly of others behind their back.”

Jaime put up his nose and sneered with lofty disdain. “What would you know of it? I’ve never met a poorer knight.” 

A cuff to the ear would do the boy good, but Arthur turned from him and wandered to the window, fists clenching and unclenching once. He breathed in deeply and stifled a wave of irritation. He prided himself on his lack of temper, on how difficult he was to anger or ruffle or wound. And he’d managed well enough with Jaime the past weeks, well-aimed as the boy’s barbs tended to be. It helped to know that any cruelty that’d been leveled at him since King’s Landing was a clear attempt to balance the scales between them, Jaime thinking Arthur had ruined his life and trying to even that debt the only way he was able.

But sometimes it was difficult.

Arthur refrained from responding until he’d gathered his patience. Once he was reasonably certain of his ability to express himself, he said, “You insulted a lady. You behaved rudely to Lord Leyton. You are behaving rudely to me. You’ve been complaining frequently and making demands you have no authority to make. Mayhaps I am a poor knight, but you have been a poor squire. Correct yourself first, and I’ll more seriously contemplate your criticisms of me.”

Jaime went perfectly still. His voice, when he spoke, was brittle. “If I’m a bad squire, it’s your fault.”

“I do not make your choices for you, Jaime,” said Arthur wearily. “I do not choose what you say, or how you say it. I’m flattered you think I have so much power over you, but you’re more strong-willed than that.”

That rekindled his anger, and Jaime growled, “Gods, you’re so—so reasonable. Like a bloody block of wood.” He flew to his feet. “Why do I bother? Let’s eat. At least that’ll give me something to do besides look at your bland, vacant face.” He spun to leave. 

“Jaime,” Arthur said, helpless and angry. Jaime stopped and looked back at him with a child’s tired eyes, visibly ready to cry or scream or fight. To fight, it would be. It’ll always be fighting with him. They regarded one another for a long moment, a canyon of distance between them. The boy’s expression curbed Arthur’s annoyance, and he scrounged up the grace for another attempt at peacemaking. “Thank you. For holding me accountable.”

Jaime took a step back, shaking his head. His expression asked, ‘What game are you playing?’ and his wariness was plain. “If I did anything,” he finally said, “it was on accident. I’m a poor squire, after all.” 

“I am grateful nonetheless.” Arthur gestured for Jaime to resume walking. “Go on. I have nothing more to say.” 

After taking a quick lunch in the tavern, Arthur had hoped the day would settle into monotony, and he’d be able to trudge thoughtlessly though the remainder of the afternoon. Even Jaime seemed subdued, perhaps due to tiredness, and their walk to the Citadel was almost pleasant. 

Soon as they passed through the gates, however, Arthur spied an inauspicious crowd gathered near the Young Dragon’s statue. 

“Should we see what’s wrong?” Jaime said. 

“It isn’t our concern,” Arthur told him, filled with misgiving. He kept walking. Unfortunately, the argument that’d drawn so much attention was too loud to ignore entirely, and he couldn’t help but overhear as he tried to lead Jaime past. “—my woman, in mine own cell. My sheets were dirty.” 

“Gods, help me,” a softer voice pleaded, distinctly Dornish. Arthur’s steps slowed. Please, please no. The voice went on, “Could you speak more softly? I have the most terrible headache.” 

By the way the crowd sucked in a collective breath, Arthur suspected a weapon had been unsheathed. “You’d best start taking this seriously,” the first speaker said. “Go on, draw your sword. You don’t scare me.” 

Damn it all to hells. Arthur put a hand on Jaime’s arm. “Stay put. I changed my mind.” 

Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode toward instead of away from the crowd. It wasn’t so thick he couldn’t glimpse the men at its center even from a distance, and he wondered if the gods didn’t hate him. 

“‘Draw your sword,’” the second speaker echoed, all amusement. “‘You don’t scare me.’ Your lover said something similar last night, though she sang a different song once I’d brandished my naked steel. I fear she was used to a dagger, not a—”

“Be silent, you Dornish cowflop.” 

“Would you stop waving that bloody thing? I don’t fight children.” 

“I’ll show you—”

Arthur reached the edge of the circle that’d been left around the two speakers, getting his first good look at both. One was five and ten at the oldest, an acolyte wearing a single link strung on a length of twine. He bore the blood and bone colors of House Bulwer, and despite his youth, was larger than Arthur. Big enough to think he had a chance. 

Though he’d known what he would find, Arthur still had to stifle a curse upon confirming that it was, indeed, Oberyn Nymeros Martell who stood across from the thick-headed lordling, his patience evidently run out as he drew the sword at his hip. 

Chapter Text

Once, Arthur had considered Oberyn Martell a friend. That’d been years ago. When Arthur had been knighted at seven and ten and left Sunspear, the prince had been a youth of fourteen, whipcord thin with a sharp tongue and striking smile. Within two years, he’d bedded Lord Yronwood’s paramour and poisoned the man dishonorably, leading to his death after a duel that’d only been until first blood.

Elia later told Arthur that their mother had personally given him a hiding, then sent him to Oldtown in unofficial exile, where he studied for a time at the Citadel. He’d eventually sailed to Essos and spent several years traveling the Free Cities. The last time Arthur had seen Ser Olyver before he died of a pox, he’d confessed that Princess Leandra worried over news her son was furthering his knowledge of poisons and learning darker arts, and by time Arthur visited Sunspear with Rhaegar just prior to taking Jaime as a squire, the prince had left two bastard daughters in his family’s care. 

“He’d struck her mother,” Ashara had whispered to Arthur, speaking of the eldest girl, “and made her weep. Then he offered Obara a spear, and asked her if she’d sooner have that as a weapon, or tears. He took her when she chose the spear. And her mother drank herself to death. The girl told me. She brags of making the right choice.” 

Oberyn’s mother had been more preoccupied with a recent letter stating the prince intended to ride with the Second Sons and do battle in the Disputed Lands. “I do not understand him,” she’d confided in Arthur. “Would that he had half your sense, the mad fool.” That’d been the last Arthur had heard of him, just over a year and a half ago. He’d possessed no desire to see the man again, to glimpse traces of the boy he’d known in an adult who by all accounts was reckless, cruel, and dangerous.

But the boy was all he could see in those sharp features and oil black eyes. His clothing was rumpled, his eyes narrowed to a squint in an effort to keep out the sun. Around his neck hung a leather cord boasting five links. Probably gained quickly, effortlessly, and with finesse. Rhaegar was the only person Arthur had met whom he’d consider more intelligent, and only because he spent the bulk of his free time reading, his lust for knowledge strong as Oberyn’s lust for everything else. 

As Arthur took in his former friend, the Bulwer boy attempted a strike. Oberyn parried lazily and slid a step back, graceful as a cat. “I grow irritated,” he told his opponent. “Walk away, or someone will have to carry you.” 

Arthur briefly fancied unsheathing Dawn and challenging Oberyn in the lordling’s stead. He’d been putting up with Jaime for weeks. He hadn’t slept because he’d been burning a young boy who wasn’t as dead as he should’ve been. Leyton Hightower wouldn’t do anything about it, and after this encounter, Arthur would have to shove himself in a library for hours of reading. He wanted to fight someone, and the prince probably deserved it. 

But he’d never wanted to be the type of person who mistook love of swordsmanship for a justification to solve problems with a blade. He drew a deep breath and consciously, deliberately crossed his arms as he cleared his throat to cut off the boy’s attempted reply. Every eye in the crowd flew to him. 

Arthur took a step forward. “You slept with his lover in his own bed. Now you intentionally provoke him for your own amusement. Your mother would be horrified.” 

Oberyn’s eyes widened, and his face lit up with terrible glee. “My gods, look at you. All in white, so serious… and chastising me on behalf of my mother. I know not whether to be amused or impressed.” 

“Dayne,” said the lordling. Not with awe or apology, but with flat disbelief that implied he couldn’t believe his day could get worse. Like House Hightower, House Bulwer was a Reach house that’d been too close to Starfall to bear much liking for House Dayne. The Sword of the Morning, Dawn… for members of such families who clung to the past, they invited resentment instead of respect. 

Bulwer nonetheless moved when Arthur edged between him and Oberyn. “Lower your sword, boy. Live steel is deadly, and wounded pride is no excuse to court a fight.” When he still hesitated, Arthur added, “Think hard about the Red Viper’s reputation, and ask yourself if this is a good idea. Common sense is not cowardice. I would not fight him unless duty forced me to do so.” 

The young lord looked at his sword, looked at Arthur. Then he stepped back with a scowl. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and stormed away. 

Oberyn whistled. “But you’ve changed! Shy, sweet Arthur Dayne talking down a stranger? Very well, I shall be impressed. You almost sounded intimidating.” 

“Are you going to sheathe your weapon?” Arthur said, half hoping he’d refuse. 

“I do not know,” said Oberyn, eyes dancing. “I hear you have gotten a new sword since we’ve last met. Few men could say they have crossed blades with Dawn.” He sighed and jammed his blade into its scabbard. “Alas, my headache tells me that’s a poor idea, and I am hardly at my best. I was kept up most of the night.” 

“As was I,” Arthur said flatly. 

“Truly?” 

“I had something to take care of at a whorehouse.” He immediately wished he hadn’t said it, not like that, hoping to get a reaction. Don’t jape with him. You aren’t friends.

Oberyn didn’t take the bait anyway. “Let me guess. A whore needed you to find a scoundrel who’d wronged her? Or there was a loose floorboard for you to fix? A rat infestation you volunteered to personally take care of?”

People were staring. Watching them. Arthur turned away. “I have things to see to. I wouldn’t have interfered at all if I’d trusted you not to hurt the lad. In the future, try to exhibit some semblance of self-control.” 

“This is why I know you weren’t using a whorehouse for its intended purpose. I can tell it’s been years since you’ve fucked anyone. You’re far too tense.”

Arthur saw Jaime hovering and walked toward him, ignoring Oberyn’s comment. A few members of the crowd tried to get his attention, but he pretended not to notice. He touched Jaime’s arm to guide him forward. “We’d best go.” 

Jaime fell into step at his side and opened his mouth. 

“Wait,” Oberyn interrupted, trailing after them. “That’s your squire? How’d you convince Tywin to let his son squire for a knight with no land, no wealth, and no relevant family ties?”  

Tywin had not wanted Arthur at all, but had hoped for Rhaegar. Or so Jaime had told him shortly after coming to King’s Landing. He claimed he’d overheard his father speaking with Kevan about it, saying he intended to ask Aerys. Jaime had chimed in and suggested Arthur instead. This had been during the tourney at Lannisport, just after Viserys’s birth, so Jaime had seen Rhaegar and Arthur together and gathered they were close. He’d pointed this out to his father, insisting a connection with Arthur would be good as one with the prince. Arthur would also have more time for him, he’d argued, since the Crown Prince typically took on several squires at once. 

“And he knew I’d never be pleased with Rhaegar if he was forced on me,” Jaime had concluded breathlessly. He’d been breathless whenever he spoke to Arthur for the better part of a month, as if overcome by being in his presence. “Whereas he was sure I’d like you plenty.” 

“I suspect your father wouldn’t wish you to share this,” Arthur remembered saying. 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Jaime had said, laughing. “You’re the Sword of the Morning. You won’t do anything with the information.” 

The memory hurt. Arthur was too tired to find a convincing lie, but found no relief when Jaime spared him the need to answer. “Me squiring for him was a mistake. Something that never should’ve happened.”

That hurt too, more than Arthur would’ve expected. It shouldn’t have mattered. He’d had other squires, would have more in the future. Naturally they wouldn’t all like him. It would’ve been easier if it’d happened sooner. If I hadn’t had time to get to know him first.

Oberyn’s brows shot up. “Is that so?” 

Jaime shrugged. His gaze was shrewd, almost suspicious. “You’re Oberyn Martell, aren’t you? You visited the Rock once. I showed you the lions, and we went diving off the big cliffs. Your sister found out and lectured you and fussed over me like I was a baby.” 

Arthur hadn’t known this, must’ve just left Sunspear before it’d happened. He wondered what the visit had been about. 

The recollection softened Oberyn’s tone. “I hadn’t known if you would remember. You’d been quite young. Six or seven or thereabouts, pretty as a girl, with the most charming fat cheeks.” 

Jaime’s caution turned to spite. “Pretty. Pretty. Why’s it every stuffing-brained lackwit—”

“He said when you were a child,” Arthur cut in tiredly. “I’m sure he feels differently now that you’re a man grown.” 

Jaime glared at Oberyn with visible skepticism. The prince opened his mouth. “Actually—”

“Why are you back in Oldtown?” Arthur interrupted. The library loomed just ahead, and he prayed they’d separate once they were inside. 

To Arthur’s relief, Oberyn turned from Jaime to answer the question. “Once my contract with the Second Sons had been fulfilled, I decided I’d been away from Westeros long enough. Mother let me return, but I began to grow bored after a month at Sunspear. It struck me as a good time to earn another link or two.” He put a hand over the cord around his neck. “Yet my attention wanes here, as well. I might return to Essos after finishing my link in astronomy.” 

A month at Sunspear, Arthur reflected. Oberyn would’ve met Ashara. He prayed his sister’s judgment was good as he thought it was. 

“Wait,” Oberyn said. “Are you going to the library?” 

“We are.” 

“You do not like to read.” 

“The prince sent us,” Jaime said irreverently. “He’s interested in the Age of Heroes, so he's forcing a Kingsguard to waste time drooling over stupid old books.” 

“Is he?” Oberyn seemed to think that over. “Do you need assistance? I am familiar with the library.” 

They passed through the doors, the foyer dark after walking in the midday sun. Arthur slowed his steps as he waited for his eyes to adjust, mulling over an answer. Jaime was not nearly as cautious. “You… studied here, and... that link is valyrian steel, isn't it?”

Oberyn tapped a finger over the link in question. “So it is.” 

“That’s for magic, right?” He kept his voice low, leaned toward him. 

Arthur reached out, said, “Jaime—”

“Have you come across any books on dead bodies?” 

“Jaime, not another—”

“Dead bodies that move, I mean,” he finished in a whisper. 

Arthur let his hand fall from Jaime’s shoulder, breath withering from him in a heavy sigh. Jaime looked at him in surprise. “What? His uncle’s your sworn brother. You talk about Elia like you know her. You know their mother.” 

“He squired for another uncle of mine,” Oberyn offered. 

Jaime said, “See? You’re clearly friends.”

As Arthur considered all the reasons this logic was laughably flawed, it dawned on him that Oberyn was ruthless and highly intelligent, had a link in the higher mysteries, and had traveled to foreign places to learn dark arts. He also studied at the Citadel, as fit with Malora’s suspicions, and spent time around whorehouses. 

It’s impossible. 

Gods help him, but Arthur believed that. He was certain Oberyn would never do something Elia wouldn’t forgive. He didn’t seem to have any other code, no limit more substantial than that, but for Arthur, that single uncrossable line was good as fact. But that did not make them friends, nor did it mean telling him of Owen was wise. 

Oberyn’s eyes drank in Jaime’s face. “Why do you ask such strange things?” 

“Jaime,” Arthur warned. 

Oberyn turned to Arthur, put a hand on his arm. His face had become serious. “Dead bodies that move?” he murmured. "I suppose you think me crude and dishonorable and any number of worse things, but surely you don't believe the sound of that doesn’t worry me? The boy clearly asks for a reason.” 

“Not here,” Arthur said, shaking his head. Wanting too much to believe in Oberyn’s worry, to accept that someone who might figure out what was going on could be interested and trustworthy and wish to help. He was tired, not thinking clearly. If he could defer the discussion until he could make a wiser choice… 

“Jaime clearly does not wish to read,” Oberyn said, still so calmly. “He and I might catch up elsewhere, and leave you a few moments of peace?”

It was an awful idea, but the suggestion made Jaime light up, as if the prospect of time away from Arthur was an invaluable gift. As if you do not think the prospect of time away from Jaime would be an invaluable gift, a traitorous voice whispered in his head. 

“Fine.” He regretted it soon as he spoke. But he didn’t take it back. “Jaime, you may go if you wish.” After giving it a moment’s more thought, Arthur considered how hard it must be for Jaime to constantly be around someone he hated. Oberyn wasn’t an ideal alternative, but he was something. Arthur looked at the prince. “I won’t get the chance to work on swordplay with my squire today. I know you have a headache, but if you give him a lesson, I’ll refrain from writing Ashara about the circumstances of our meeting.” 

“Why does that matter?” Oberyn said, amused. 

“Because Ashara,” said Arthur, “would tell Elia, who’d be highly unimpressed.” 

The threat wasn’t particularly mature, but neither was the sheepish smile Oberyn gave as he inclined his head to acknowledge the point. “Fine, fine, I’ll work with the boy. Shall I deposit him back at your inn when you are finished? Where are you staying?” 

Arthur was certain it was better not to tell him.

Jaime immediately answered, “The Quill and Tankard.” 

And now he knows where we sleep. 

“Good choice. I am fond of one of their serving wenches, and they have spectacular cider.” Oberyn nodded to the door. “Shall we?” 

Relief all over his face, Jaime said, “Gods, yes.”

Arthur watched them leave, thinking of Jaime, beaming as he described how he’d argued his way into becoming Arthur’s squire. How blindly he’d trusted him. He worried about sending him with Oberyn Martell, not because he thought him a danger to Jaime, but because of the potentially awful influence. That was a bad idea. That was lazy. It was… 

It was a kindness, he suspected. Oberyn had always made friends easily when he wished to do so, and surely he’d behave himself knowing how easy it’d be for Arthur to get word back to Sunspear of any egregious wrongdoing. They’d go, talk about the body—Arthur prayed enabling that conversation wasn’t so foolish as he feared—and enjoy themselves training, without Arthur to cast a shadow over it. After the events of the previous night, Jaime deserved the break. 

Acknowledging this didn’t keep Arthur from wishing he could go with them. 

You’ve neglected your duties long enough, he reminded himself, and returned to the shelves where he’d found relevant materials the day before. He grabbed two thick volumes and retreated to an empty table before settling in to slog his way through them. He made it through two painfully slow pages when a kindly voice interrupted him. 

“Are you well, ser?” 

Arthur sat straighter and took in the maester standing across from him. Tall and thin, with gentle brown eyes. He wore a smile softened by a note of fatherly concern. “Am I.... well?” Arthur repeated, unsure why the man would think otherwise. 

“You appear ready to fall asleep where you sit,” the maester said, apologetic about pointing it out. “I’d hate to be a bother, but the Citadel’s reputation mightn’t recover if Ser Arthur Dayne were subdued by one of our dull old tomes.” 

Of course he knows me. Everyone knew him. Arthur’s smile grew more forced. “I am touched by your concern, Maester…” 

“Qyburn.” 

“Qyburn,” Arthur went on, “but I’m simply wearied by the squire in my charge. He can be difficult.”

“So it is with most youths,” Qyburn said in commiseration. “Some of our novices are rather young, and I never quite know what to do with them. Children can be terribly perplexing creatures.” 

Arthur rolled out his neck. He remembered Rhaegar’s warnings about the Citadel, and though he couldn’t imagine the genial older man could be harmful, a Kingsguard was best served by caution. He put a note of distance in his tone. “I am fine, truly.” 

“So I see.” The man bowed, wished Arthur a good day, and left so readily that Arthur felt foolish for fearing he possessed ill-intentions. He didn’t bother to dwell on it, aware of the need to make up for lost time after spending the morning at the Hightower. With a redoubling of his efforts, he forced his mind to quiet, and wrung a modicum of productiveness from the wearisome afternoon. The hours lurched by at a grueling crawl, but he managed to skim both books by time his lamp burned low. 

He stood with relief and stretched his aching neck, blinking heavy eyelids to clear his vision. On exiting the library, he stifled the urge to mimic Jaime’s dramatic show of relief from the day before, but he did pause to look at the broad expanse of sky and breathe in air untainted by the smell of old books and dust. Storm clouds gathered over the sea and shut out the setting sun, and though it was but early evening, he returned to the inn in near darkness. 

Finally, I can sleep, he thought as he stepped off the bridge and onto the soft grass surrounding the Quill and Tankard. Mist hung over the Honeywine, pale purple and so thick he could barely make out the light from the torches outside. He didn’t see Oberyn until the younger man grabbed him by the wrist, approaching from the direction of the terrace. 

“Is it necessary to hurry so? I’d hoped to catch up.” 

Arthur’s hand twitched toward the longsword at his hip. “Where’s Jaime?” 

“Sleeping,” Oberyn said with a shrug. “Our session went longer than I’d intended. Perhaps too long for a child running on so little rest. I had not expected he would be so pleasant to work with. Save for you, I haven’t seen a boy that age so skilled.”  

The comment stirred pride he had no right to feel. Arthur ignored it and kept his voice even. “You didn’t need to stay.”

Torchlight flickered across Oberyn's eyes as he backed onto the terrace, tugging Arthur with him. “We haven’t seen one another for years. Is it not natural I’d wish to talk? Sit, Arthur. You look as if you mean to leave at any instant, and it makes me tense. I got you a drink.” 

Arthur freed his arm from the other man's grip, but followed as Oberyn led him across the grassy terrace and to the tree under which Arthur had sat the day before. The prince sunk gracefully to the ground, shifting the two tankards he’d left there. He took one for his own and held the other toward Arthur. 

Arthur shrugged off Dawn, removed his longsword, and set both on the ground. “Taste it first.” 

Oberyn took a long drink. “Your mistrust wounds me.” 

Satisfied, Arthur slid down the tree and sat next to his former friend. “I don’t think you’d kill me, but your sense of humor makes me uneasy.” He accepted the tankard and drank a mouthful. It was the inn’s cider, so strong it’d made his eyes water when he first tasted it while visiting with Ser Olyvar. He took a second drink, enjoying the bite on his tongue, then asked, “Do you have any thoughts on what Jaime told you?” 

“Naturally.” Oberyn regarded Arthur with open curiosity. “He implied you’d shown no concern for the dead boy, insisted you’re a self-righteous liar who breaks confidences, and stated he was surprised you could take a shit without Prince Rhaegar to coach you through it.” Laughter laced the words. “He sounds like a scorned suitor. Had he been infatuated? Did you crush his hopes?”

Arthur gazed across the misty river. Save for the beacon light of the Hightower, a warm blur in the distance, he could see nothing save the torches around them. Something of that made the rest of the world feel far away, and for a moment it felt like they were back in Sunspear, Oberyn only a troublesome boy. He found himself parting with as much of the truth as was practical. “Jaime wanted something that wasn’t good for him, and I took it away.”

“That could mean all sorts of interesting things.” Oberyn braced elbows over his knees, legs bent in front of him. “It has blinded the boy, whatever it is. I pointed out few men would be so patient with his attitude, that Lord Qorgyle would have thrashed me bloody if I spoke to him as he did you. He says it isn’t goodness that keeps you from doing so, but indifference. He says you do not feel, that you know no love, no passion, no anger, or hurt.” 

Arthur drained the rest of his cider in one go. He set the tankard roughly aside. “When I asked for your thoughts on what Jaime told you, I meant—”

“The body. Yes.” Those dark eyes flickered back to Arthur, far too observant. Viper eyes, he’d heard them called, and the comparison was apt. “I do not have an explanation for what you saw. It’s nothing I’ve encountered, and I know more of such things than most. But I want to go with you on the morrow to investigate.” 

You should’ve known this would happen. “You’d help that woman from the goodness of your heart?” 

“I am sorry for her,” he said, as if there wasn’t hypocrisy in that, feeling poorly that one whore had lost her child when he’d stolen the daughter of another. “But mostly I think it fascinating. Perhaps we’ll even find another body.” Anger constricted Arthur’s throat and kept him from speaking. Oberyn must’ve read something in his expression. He stopped smiling. “Do not be like that. You might’ve been cursed with a fool’s heart that protests every stranger’s sorrow, but most of us were spared that misfortune. What do my reasons matter if I am still willing to help?” 

The question was fair. Arthur supposed he could turn it on himself just as easily. What did it matter that he did care when it’d taken Jaime’s interference to keep him from turning his back altogether? Now that Oberyn knows, it'd be nice to have someone to consult over how to proceed.

“Fine,” Arthur said, already regretting it. “But we’ll leave early.” 

He intended to get up, but Oberyn wasn’t done talking. “Must you scamper off so soon? I’d know what you’ve been up to these eight years. It seems you’ve heard much and more of what I’ve been doing. Muddying my good name, dishonoring myself and my family… but I hear nothing of you save unbelievable tales and vague praises. Your sister told me a little, but she was ill-inclined to part with anything of substance.” 

“Ashara is a good judge of character.” He rose. “Jaime isn’t the only one who had a long night. I am too tired to talk now.” 

Oberyn wrinkled his nose, took a closer look at Arthur, and gave it up with a sigh. “Go on. I suppose I shall find somewhere in this place to bed down, to spare myself the walk back to the Citadel.” He climbed to his feet. “Enjoy your cold and lonely bed… or rather, pallet on the floor.”

Arthur cursed under his breath, but didn’t give Oberyn the satisfaction of a livelier response, striding away without wasting his breath on parting remark. When he reached his room, it was to find Jaime spread-eagled across the mattress, taking up as much space as was physically possible. He could well imagine Oberyn casually suggesting he take the bed, that Arthur wasn’t back yet, so why shouldn’t he have that privilege? And of course, Jaime wouldn’t have argued. Gods be good, I don’t know which of them is more childish. 

Arthur closed the door behind him, then approached the bed. Though large for a twelve-year-old, Jaime was slender enough it wasn’t difficult for Arthur to get one arm beneath his knees and use the other to support his shoulders and lift him off the mattress. His limbs stuck out and made turning ungainly, but Arthur managed without knocking into anything. He knelt and nestled the boy atop his pallet, then covered him with the blanket resting beside it. Jaime’s eyes cracked open, and he slurred, “Time for training?”  

“Not yet. Go back to sleep.”

He mustn’t have woken enough to remember how things stood between them, for he said, “All right. G’night, Ser Arthur,” before clutching his blanket against his chest and letting his eyes drift shut. 

“Good night, Jaime,” Arthur said quietly. After studying his squire a moment longer, he returned to the now open bed and lowered himself on top of it, falling asleep soon as his eyes were shut.

Chapter Text

Arthur woke before the first light of dawn. One of Jaime’s duties was to help him dress, but Arthur lacked the heart to wake him. Much as it pained him to break from routine twice in a row—he’d let Jaime sleep the morning before as well—he donned the most nondescript clothing he had with him and slipped quietly from the room, Dawn slung over his shoulder. The previous night’s mist had begun to dissipate, leaving only a faint shimmer of fog.

He warmed tired muscles by walking through his guards, breath fogging in the chill air. Once he was finished, he shifted his grip so his left hand was on top instead of his right, then began it all again off-handed, with his feet reversed. The sun’s first light broke over the horizon as he neared the end of his routine, and a chorus of voices grew audible from the small temple of the priests of R’hllor. “We thank you for the sun that warms us. We thank you for the stars that watch us. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches, that keep the savage dark at bay.”

The bells of the septs drowned out anything more that might’ve been said. The Sailor’s Sept first, then the Lord’s Sept and Seven Shrines, before finally the Starry Sept joined them. Arthur paused in his training to take in the sunrise while he listened. As the last of the noise fell away, the door of the inn shut hard behind him, and he turned to find Jaime sprinting to the edge of the yard.

Arthur drew a deep breath, then replaced Dawn in its sheath before approaching his squire. Jaime’s right cheek was pink, with a crease from where it’d pressed against his arm while he slept, and it looked like he’d groomed his curls with his fingers instead of brushing them.

“You didn’t wake me,” Jaime accused, breathing hard. “How am I supposed to get better if you don’t wake me to train?” He scowled, then added in a darker voice, “You didn’t wake me to move me last night either. You were supposed to.”

I was supposed to get angry, you mean, and yell and order you to the floor. “Oberyn neglected to inform me of that obligation. As it is, you needed the rest. Men who are still growing are often better served by sleep than waking early to train.”

“Just call me a boy,” Jaime said. “That’s what you think.”

“You do not like it.”

“I don’t like looking at you either, but I bear it anyway.”

Arthur turned away to hide a smile, only barely swallowed a laugh. Oh, Jaime. “Fine. Growing boys need rest. But since you’re already awake, perhaps you could tell me what you went over with Oberyn?” Jaime yawned as Arthur spoke. “You are awake?”

Jaime’s head flew up. “No one has ever been more awake.” He scratched the back of his head. “But. Um.” He flushed. “Oberyn didn’t show me much, really. We sparred a bit, but mostly he made me walk on my hands and stand on one foot and do backflips. He insisted that’s how bravoos train, but I don’t know. It’s hard to tell if he’s lying.”

“Bravos,” Arthur corrected. “Oberyn was perhaps in earnest. I’ve seen knights do all sorts of odd things to improve balance or strength or quickness. Ser Oswell goes running in his armor. Ser Jonathor throws heavy rocks.” Arthur did those things, too. As a child, he’d been so willing to experiment with methods to improve as a swordsman that others at the Water Gardens teased him for his sillier attempts.

Oberyn never had. Oberyn had watched and copied, stealing things for his own use.

“I’ve seen Ser Oswell,” Jaime said. “I thought he was only strange.”

“He’s that, too.” Arthur drew his longsword and gave it a self-indulgent flourish. “We’ll just spar then, if that’s acceptable.” Before he finished speaking, Jaime had his sword drawn and was nodding vigorous agreement.

Arthur’s practice had left him calm, and Jaime’s remarks on Oberyn’s training reminded him of how he and the prince had used to practice tricks with one another, testing ridiculous maneuvers that made Ser Olyvar cluck his tongue and scold them. Arthur smiled to himself and flourished his sword a second time, then let it leave his hand briefly, catching easily with the other. In the same motion, he licked out with the blade, and Jaime only barely managed to block.

“You said you were awake,” said Arthur.

“I didn’t expect a bloody mummer’s show,” Jaime snapped. “Fight me properly.” He lashed out with his sword, fluid and easy, but Arthur parried, then spun off the blow. Predicting Jaime’s next strike, he blocked with his sword behind him before finishing his turn and bringing the flat of his blade down to tap Jaime’s right shoulder.

“You’ve told me not to spin,” Jaime protested.

“It’s rarely wise to turn your back on an opponent,” Arthur agreed. “Unless you’re facing someone too busy complaining to take advantage of it.”

Jaime’s eyes hardened with determination, and he began to actively seek weaknesses to exploit. Arthur made him work for it, playing with tricks Jaime hadn’t seen and which didn’t necessarily make sense—to keep him from falling into a rhythm—but he let Jaime land blows if he made a good move, and let himself be blocked or countered if the boy’s defenses were suitably sound.

But Jaime soon began to flag, and Arthur called the match to a halt. Jaime was sweaty and smiling, his eyes lively. Arthur forgot briefly about their task that morning. “If you’d like, I can teach you—”

He was interrupted by slow clapping as Oberyn stepped forward from the doorway to the inn. “Here I’d supposed rumors of your skill were exaggerated. Surely, I had thought, he couldn’t have gotten better. If that is how you play, I’d love to see how you fight.” 

“Swords are dangerous weapons. That was not play.” Arthur did fear he hadn’t taken it as seriously as he should’ve, hoping showy tricks might coax a spark of Jaime’s old admiration back to life. It’d nearly seemed to work, but Oberyn’s arrival had evidently reminded Jaime of their feud. When Arthur glanced at his squire, any trace of a smile had vanished.

Oberyn laughed. “Call it what you like, Arthur. I fail to understand your determination to strip joy from everything in life.”

Arthur sheathed his blade, then retrieved Dawn from where he’d left it and slung the scabbard across his back. “We need to get to the brothel, talk to Hanna, and—”

“Go to a brothel and talk,” Oberyn echoed. “You strengthen my previous point.”

Ignoring this, Arthur gave Jaime a quick look over. “Go back to our room. Fold your blanket, wash your face, brush your hair, and clean your teeth. Then change into your padded doublet and a plain cloak, and leave your sword behind. A dagger should suffice. We’ll wait for you in the tavern.”

Jaime’s eyes brightened. “Are we going in disguise?”

“We’re trying not to actively draw attention to ourselves.” Arthur hesitated. “You’d also best take Dawn and hide it beneath the bed.” He’d keep his longsword. An adult with a blade wouldn’t stand out as much as a boy of twelve.

Reverently, Jaime grabbed Dawn from Arthur’s hands, and Arthur tried not to worry as he watched him disappear with it. We won’t be gone long. It’ll be safe. Trying to push the matter from his mind, he asked Oberyn, “You’ve learned to fight like a bravo?”

“Somewhat,” said Oberyn, shrugging. They walked side by side toward the front of the inn. “Enough to justify spending an afternoon making Tywin Lannister’s son look silly—” He cut himself off when Arthur grabbed the front of his tunic and hauled him to a stop. After overcoming the surprise, he laughed, lifting his hands. “Do not be so prickly! It isn’t as if I sat there and laughed. I promise you, my lesson was genuine.”

Arthur let him go. “If you hurt him…”

“Why bother with a warning? I’m done training him. Our agreement was for one day.”

“He distracts me from my purpose at the Citadel.” Arthur pushed open the door to the inn and stepped inside. Over his shoulder, he added, “Just an hour or two this afternoon.”

“Do you assume I have nothing to do? I am a diligent student, and I spend my every waking moment attending lectures and studying, and—” Oberyn gave it up with a smile. “Oh, those are all lies, and Oldtown grows deadly dull. I’ll keep your cub busy, if only because he’s amusing when I ruffle his feathers.” He threw himself into one of the tavern’s empty chairs and casually straightened the neck of his tunic. “I must say, I feel neglected. No warning to brush my hair or clean my teeth, no bid to fold my blanket. Do you care at all, Arthur?”

Arthur refrained from answering. 

“I forgot how boring you are.” Oberyn yawned, then began to whistle the tune to a bawdy song, though he stopped when Arthur continued to ignore him, settling for propping his feet on the table and watching the staircase impatiently. They didn’t have long to wait. Jaime soon rushed down the stairs, taking them three at a time, now wearing a crimson padded doublet, with a leather jerkin and cloak over it. 

“Is this sufficient?” he asked Arthur. “I haven’t got anything properly nondescript.”

Arthur gave him a cursory study. The colors were subtler than was his usual—the boy was far too fond of gold—but the quality was more noticeable than Arthur would’ve liked. Also… “I do wish your hair was less distinctive—”

“You aren’t cutting it,” Jaime snapped, backing away and putting a hand on the knife at his belt. He added in a venomous tone, “Cersei likes it long.”

Arthur rubbed his forehead, then finished pointedly, “—but it’ll serve for now.”

“Oh.”

Oberyn clapped his hands together. “Shall we be off? Jaime told me the name of the establishment, and I know precisely how to find it.”

“You’ve been there?” Arthur asked dubiously. “I’d have thought it beneath a prince’s standards.”

“I’ve been to every brothel in Oldtown,” Oberyn countered with a note of boasting. “I am too wary to sample the merchandise, but I’ve indulged in a drink and pleasant company when in the area for other reasons.”

“What reasons?” said Arthur, only slightly suspicious.

Oberyn had the gall to look offended. “Gambling is better in that part of the city, and sometimes the Thieves Market has items that pique my interest. I pray you weren’t supposing I had something to do with the boy’s death.”

Arthur sighed. “No. I do know better.” The confession felt incredibly naïve. He shook his head. “Let’s go.”

The morning was fine, and as they exited the inn together, Arthur imagined a quiet walk in which he could enjoy the peaceful near-emptiness of the cobbled streets. He wasn’t surprised when Oberyn began to talk before they’d taken four full steps. “Now,” he said, “you have had a full night’s rest, and we have a long walk ahead of us. If you won’t tell me how you earned Dawn, I’ll begin to think it’s a wonderful secret and come up with my own explanations.”

“You won’t like the story,” Arthur warned.

“Ah. I bet it is sweet, and cloying like honey.” He thought about it. “Indulge me anyhow. I have a fancy it’ll be amusing.”

Arthur didn’t wish to tell him, but he lacked sufficient reason to refuse. Only his natural reserve made him reticent, and it wasn’t worth fighting over. He cast his eyes out in front of them and sought a way to impart the tale succinctly. Eventually, he began, “I wasn’t keen to return to Starfall after your uncle knighted me, so I decided to act as something like a hedge knight. There were no wars, and I was loath to do nothing but compete in tourneys. Visiting castles and offering my services seemed a fine compromise.”

He wasn’t surprised when Oberyn laughed at him. “And you judge me for being a sellsword? There is no difference.”

“There is,” Arthur said dryly. “I was discerning about which jobs I took. Too discerning. I didn’t make more than a stag the whole way out of Dorne. I had no more success in the stormlands and Reach. But after half a year of this, I got caught in a storm and troubled a crofter to let me sleep on his floor. He was old, and his wife was dead, his son sent to the Wall for poaching. He was struggling to get in a harvest with only a little help from his neighbors, and I lingered for a time to help.”

“You’re right. This story is too sweet.”

“Shall I stop?”

“No, go on. I’ll endure.”

“I decided I ought to ask the smallfolk what they needed, instead of the lords, for they were less likely to have other sources of aid. I sold a few luxuries I’d kept on my person, a fine cloak and a couple rings, and bought goods to give away—”

Oberyn rolled his eyes, and Arthur would’ve stopped there had Jaime not said, “What then?”

“Little of interest,” Arthur admitted. “I competed in two tourneys, but mostly traveled and helped the smallfolk where I could. I had written Ashara and Ser Olyvar as I was able, and something of what I was doing reached my father’s ears. He thought my actions bespoke a character worthy of Dawn.”

Oberyn scoffed. “That is silly. I have met your father, and I imagine he assumed you’d better bolster your house’s reputation as a Sword of the Morning and a rare ‘true’ knight than just another young fool.”

“A lord who bestows Dawn to someone undeserving would be cursed by the gods and considered a disgrace to our house. My father would never have given it for the sake of appearances alone.” Not that the man had ever valued traits like compassion or mercy, but he was practical-minded enough to admit possessing those qualities might make for a deserving Sword of the Morning, if a different one than most Daynes who’d held the title of old. 

“Yet I am sure he didn’t mourn how perfectly shiny it’d make you seem,” Oberyn said blithely.

“I am sure not,” Arthur agreed. They turned off the main road and branched into one of the narrower streets they’d passed down the night before. With the morning sun bright above them, the walk seemed entirely different than it had in the mist and shadow of dusk.

“Why didn’t you keep wandering?” Jaime asked eventually. “Why join the Kingsguard?”

“Duty,” said Arthur. “To my house. To the prince.” To destiny, he sometimes thought, and to the gods. His house, its words, Rhaegar’s dreams… He gazed at the distant sky and told himself the future was far off, his fear and sorrow for what might come not yet worth dwelling on. He smiled sadly at Jaime. “Few men can live out their days doing as they please. That was never meant to be my fate.”

Prince Oberyn groaned. “You are so arrogant you lay claim to a special fate?”

“When an ox is young and growing, it might wander and graze as it likes. But at some point, it will be yoked and trained to pull a cart. Is it arrogant to believe you have a purpose, and to yoke yourself to better serve it?”

“Men are not beasts of burden,”  Oberyn said. “We choose our own purpose.”

“Fine words, from one of the very few men in Westeros for whom that is true.”

Oberyn frowned and seemed to see he had no argument. Finally, he fell silent. Jaime too held his tongue, and they finished the last of their walk in peace.

When they entered the brothel, it was mostly quiet, too early for much business, though several patrons diced with a small group of whores in the common room. Hanna was among them, sitting on the lap of the man who’d been passed out with his face in the rushes when they last visited. Her shift was halfway undone, the top pooled at her waist.  

A well-dressed woman made a beeline for their group, looking at Oberyn in particular. “My prince, do you need—”

“I want to speak with Hanna,” Arthur cut in, politely as he could.

She blinked, then took him in more closely. “You were here two days ago. Is this about… about…” She had big dark eyes, and they grew larger as she fished for a word. “The boy?” she finally said. 

Arthur dipped his head, and the woman turned quickly and hurried to the table, apologizing to the man as she gestured at their group. Face red, Hanna hurried to her feet, tugging free from the reluctant patron and heading toward them, pulling up her shift with one hand, fumbling to tie her belt with her other.

“So chaste you make whores modest,” Oberyn murmured to Arthur, eyes bright with amusement. Arthur pretended not to hear.

“M’lord…” Hanna’s gaze settled on Oberyn, and her eyes grew questioning. She faced Arthur with a frown.

Of course she knows him. The man was remembered wherever he went. Arthur stifled a stab of annoyance. “Forgive me for bringing the prince,” he said apologetically. “He’s caught a pox that’s left him unstable of mind, and his mother requested I keep an eye on him.” The poor joke earned a smile, but Arthur saw Oberyn ready to protest and said more seriously, “I’ll explain the truth of it. If you have a moment to talk?”

She nodded and led them to the room where they’d spoken before. Before saying a word, she wiped her face and hands with a cloth, then bound her hair. When she’d finished, she approached warily, her mouth hard. “Lord Leyton didn’t care. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur said. He hated how little faith she had in a man who was supposed to care for her welfare, and hated more that her lack of faith was justified. “Jaime and I will look into it, and Oberyn has volunteered his assistance. I know he isn’t ideal—”

”I am standing right here,” Oberyn protested.

 “—but he is intelligent, and he has knowledge that might be helpful.”

Hanna wrung her hands. “So long as he means to help, and not stir up more trouble.” She glanced uneasily at Oberyn as she spoke, waiting until he failed to react before refocusing on Arthur. “What do you need from me, ser?”

“For now, I only have a few questions.” When she gestured for him to ask, he went through the list he’d prepared in his head. Where had her son spent most of his time? At what hours? Had anyone threatened him lately? Could he have somehow offended someone? Did he have friends who might’ve seen anything?

It was at this last inquiry that Hanna bid them wait only a moment, slipped from the room, and disappeared, leaving Arthur and Jaime alone with Oberyn. The prince eyed the door in a considering manner. Jaime made a disgusted face. “You can’t be thinking about buying a whore. I wouldn’t sit on a chair in this place, let alone… touch anything else.”

“You are quick to speak for a boy who knows naught of what he speaks.” He took in Jaime a second time. “Or do you? I was about your age—”

“No,” Jaime snapped.

Thank the gods, thought Arthur, who’d considered the possibility but certainly hadn’t been going to ask.

“Perhaps we both should sample what is on offer,” said Oberyn. “If you are squiring for Arthur, it may be the last chance you get.”

Jaime recoiled. “Why would I want to? I’m never going to. Not with any woman, not ever.”

Understanding lit Oberyn’s eyes. “I was right,” he accused Arthur. “You lied to me.”

Arthur turned and walked toward the nearest window. I’m not here. This conversation isn’t happening.

“You should not have taken his rejection so hard,” Oberyn said, turning to Jaime. “Certainly, it is nothing to fight over. You are young yet, but you shall be comely enough in a few years time, and then I would try again. By then Arthur will have been in the Kingsguard so long, he should not care you are not a woman, he’ll be so desperate—”

“Stop,” Jaime screeched, his voice breaking. “I’m not some deviant. And… and him?”

Oberyn snorted, clearly thinking this a front. “I am a so-called deviant, and why not Arthur? While I personally find the stern self-importance off-putting, he isn’t ugly.”

“Stop talking,” Jaime gritted out.

“It is still a sensitive subject,” Oberyn said with a tone of realization. “Fine, I shall silence myself, but you needn’t look so horrified. I will not judge you, and Arthur won’t hold it against you.”

Jaime’s mouth twisted. “Won’t he?”

“He discovered my deviancy—” Oberyn seemed to think the word amusing, now Jaime had provided it, “—and all he had to say was, ‘Oberyn, people use this corridor,’ in a very high-pitched voice. I told him that people were using the corridor, or trying to, if he’d cease interrupting, and he scampered off. If he disapproved, I’d have gotten a lecture.”

“That’s… that’s interesting,” Jaime choked out, voice not quite even. Arthur spun to face him, but he’d already turned away and was resolutely studying his nails.

“Jaime,” Arthur began, unsure what he wanted to ask or say. The door opened again before he could speak, Hanna bursting through with a child in tow. Arthur thought it a boy until he saw the dirty braid half-hidden under the girl’s worn cap. He placed her at about Jaime’s age, dark-eyed and freckled, a charming gap between her front two teeth. She took in Arthur, then Jaime, then Oberyn, looking vaguely stunned.

Arthur briefly closed his eyes and let his mouth shut. He’d had an inkling of Jaime having drawn some mistaken conclusion, but now his squire’s face had closed, the threads that’d led to that impression snipped away by the interruption. He had no reason to seem upset. I only imagined it.

“This is Willow,” said Hanna, guiding the girl forward. “She’s my niece, belonged to a brother of mine. She watched out for Owen. It’s her who found him, and she’ll know more than I do.”

Willow sucked in a breath and drew over, looking between Arthur and Oberyn warily. Oberyn threw up his hands and stepped back with an aggrieved sigh. “Arthur is the frowning one, if you are of a mind to gape over him.”

The girl crept closer and peered up at Arthur, drinking him in with her eyes. “Are you truly Arthur Dayne?” Without waiting for his answer, she added, “There was a tourney near Oldtown when I was nine, and my father took me all the way outside the city and we saw you. You won the joust.” Still, she wasn’t finished, looking him up and down. “You look just like anyone else. I’d have thought you were the Warrior, all in white, on that big pretty horse.”

Arthur smiled. “When I was small, I’d go to tourneys and watch the White Bull, and think he had to have been part giant, he was so strong and fearsome. It was a surprise to meet him and realize he was only a grumpy old man. I think it’s the armor that does it.”

“Perhaps,” she said, but sounded skeptical. She eyed him like perhaps he was keeping an extra six inches or a more dashing face hidden somewhere to bring out if he needed to truly act the part of Sword of the Morning.

Jaime butted over, edging between Arthur and Willow. “I’m Jaime Lannister. His squire. I’m the one who made him help.”

Willow took him in. Not with as much awe as she had Arthur, but far more shyly. “Thank you, if it’s so.” She offered a nervous smile, then refocused on Arthur. “I… I can’t help much. I’ve been trying to work out what happened myself, and I haven’t got nowhere with it. And Garth, he’s told me to stop. Threatened me that I need to stop. It might be better I don’t show you where I found Owen. I can sneak around without anyone noticing, but you three would draw eyes.”

“Garth?” said Arthur.

Willow blew out a long gust and glanced at Hanna, who waved at her to keep talking. “I don’t know what I can say. It’d be better if I got him to talk to you. He’d know more anyhow. He knows everything.”

“He sounds suspicious,” Oberyn pointed out. Arthur agreed, assuming the man some variety of criminal going by Willow’s stinginess with details.

“Might be he is,” Willow admitted, “but he still knows everything.”

Arthur looked toward Oberyn, who gave an unhelpful shrug. His gaze went to Jaime next, then to Hanna. There was only one answer he could give at that point. “Why not? If you think it’d be helpful, we’ll speak with him.”

They left Hanna at the brothel. Willow looked nervous to be alone with them, Oberyn whistled tunelessly while twirling a dagger in one hand, and Jaime wore an expression as if they were marching off to battle. On a whim, Arthur said, “Jaime, why don’t you tell Willow of the tourney we attended at King’s Landing two months ago?”

Jaime frowned. “Ser Barristan knocked Arthur on his arse.” This was offered only grudgingly. After a breath, he added, “It was a sad showing.”

We broke seven lances for the title. I came in second.

Willow made no effort to hide her skepticism.

“I’m a better rider than Arthur is,” Jaime went on. I said once that you were a better rider than I’d been at your age. He seemed to warm to that line of conversation. “A good swordsman, too. I’m going to be a knight very soon.”

“I bet not,” Willow said.

“I’m very close,” he insisted. “Then I’ll go traveling on my own and go on proper adventures, all by myself. I’ll fight outlaws and… and bring brigands to justice—” Those are basically the same thing, Jaime. “—and I’ll save people from… rampaging bears.”

Willow smiled. “Bears?”

“You never know,” Jaime said defensively. He seemed to realize his certainty wasn’t convincing her. He turned his head and looked Willow in the eye for the time, as if just recognizing she was a person and not merely an escort to the next stop on his adventure. His mouth tugged downward at the corners. “Well, what about you? What do you… do? You don’t look like a whore.”

“Of course I’m not a whore,” she snapped, any initial reserve gone. She glanced at Arthur and Oberyn, then grabbed Jaime’s arm and dragged him out of hearing range, beginning to whisper animatedly. At first, Jaime looked vaguely disapproving at being physically tugged about, but whatever Willow was telling him soon put such interest in his eyes it made Arthur slightly nervous.

This was justified when Willow pulled back her sleeve to show off bruises along one of her arms, then made a fist and mimed punching someone. She let him look at her bruised knuckles next, and evidently not wishing to be deemed comparatively soft, Jaime scrambled to show her the callouses he’d built from swordplay.

They began to forget to whisper, and this exchange progressed into boasting of fights they’d been in and trouble they’d gotten into, before they fell to exchanging and comparing curses. Oberyn watched on with palpable amusement, while Arthur was too glad to see Jaime speaking with a girl who wasn’t his sister to intervene.

After perhaps a quarter hour, Willow stopped in front of a dead-end street and told them to stay put. “I’ll talk to him first. It won’t work to go barging in.”

Then she was gone, and the three of them were left alone. Again.

“We should remain silent to avoid attracting attention,” Arthur ordered.

Oberyn opened his mouth.

Jaime scrambled to add, “Yes. We’ll be silent. And not talk.”

“I wasn’t going to say a word of your preferences,” Oberyn said with a frown. “I only meant to mock you for insisting you’re going to be a knight soon, and then go off and fight… bears. What’s a bear ever done to you?”

“We’re not talking,” Arthur reminded them. 

“Wouldn’t want to attract attention,” Jaime emphasized. He then seemed to realize he and Arthur were arguing the same point and sent a scowl Arthur’s way, as if to reestablish that they were feuding.

“You are allowed to agree with someone with whom you are angry,” Arthur tried to tell him.

“I don’t agree after all,” Jaime said. He leaned against the wall, tipped back his head, and began to sing, “The Dornishman’s Wife” loudly.

“One more word,” Arthur warned, “and for the next fortnight, we’ll replace your sword practice with lessons in patience and discipline. Perhaps you could help novices clean bed pans at the Citadel.”

Jaime clamped his mouth shut. Oberyn looked ready to fill the silence, but the sound of footsteps cut him off. Arthur gave a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother as Willow jogged back around the corner. Unease darkened her eyes, and she was biting a chapped lip. After stopping in front of them, she took a moment to adjust her cap and braid, then said bleakly, “Garth won’t see you now. People know Oberyn, and I… had to admit Jaime’d be easy to pick out.”

“What’s that matter?” Jaime asked.

“He’d sooner not get seen talking with your sort,” Willow said apologetically. “It might start rumors, make certain folks less likely to trust him. Working with lords isn’t much better than chatting with the city watch.”

“You didn’t mention me,” Arthur pointed out.

She removed her cap and wrung it in her hands. “I told him you weren’t so noticeable as the other two. He wants you to come to the Thieves Market tonight, just after nightfall. Alone, without a sword, and dressed subtle-like. Wear this.” She dug in one of her pockets and produced a dented copper cloak clasp. Simple, but the color distinctive.

Arthur took it and turned it in his hands, thinking. He could feel Jaime’s eyes on him and wondered if he was frustrated at being excluded or simply hoping Arthur wouldn’t end their investigation early with a refusal.

“Do not be naive,” Oberyn warned Arthur. “This is stupid. Clearly this is a smuggler or swindler or thief, at best. Men know you are the prince’s close friend, and some might be foolish enough to try for a ransom. It is not—”

“Do you trust this person?” Arthur said.

Willow’s face screwed up. “Maybe, in this?”

“Good enough.” Arthur pocketed the clasp. The meeting wouldn’t interfere with his work at the Citadel, nor attract unwanted attention from the maesters or Lord Leyton. As Rhaegar had never ordered him to be wary of his personal safety, he saw no problem with taking a risk. He put a reassuring hand on Willow’s shoulder. “I will be there.”

The clouds were thick over Oldtown that night, darkness broken only by scattered starlight slipping through the few stretches of blank sky, or the infrequent flickering lamp or firelit window. Arthur shivered as a gust slid across his face and down his neck, the wind cold without sunlight to gentle it. He’d borrowed a cloak from the innkeep at the Quill and Tankard, and clothing from a friend of Oberyn’s at the Citadel, who’d stammered and rejected Arthur’s offer to give him coin for his trouble. The garments fit well, but were more poorly made than what Arthur usually wore, and not nearly so warm. 

He fought the impulse to huddle beneath his cloak as he strode past the final narrow street and into the square where the Thieves Market lay. Oberyn had told him the place earned its name because most of the goods there had been smuggled or stolen, that the City Watch knew but let it continue in the relative open, aware that such crimes would occur either way and hoping the subtle tolerance would let them better monitor the so-called trade.

Arthur had nonetheless held some childish notion that it’d still be active at night, filled with more unsavory sorts selling special goods they kept hidden during the day. Dark tonics or children or jars of wildfire. He was relieved on one level to find it nearly abandoned save two men sleeping beneath a stall that hadn’t been moved, a few more skirting its corners, but he misliked the emptiness. Too few witnesses, the night too dark, and Dawn with Jaime at the inn.

He wore two daggers, and he’d donned sparse armor beneath his clothing, but he’d prefer not to be attacked. He little cherished the thought of killing men who didn’t recognize him and knew not what a poor chance they had. Aware of eyes boring into his back, Arthur made a slow circuit of the market and waited for something to happen. Almost immediately, a young boy ran up to him, his appearance so sudden Arthur nearly drew a knife. The child gave him a closer look, then said, “You’d best come with me.”

Soon as Arthur nodded, the boy walked swiftly from the market, passing into a wynd opposite the one that’d take them to Hanna’s whorehouse. They were going west, Arthur determined by the few stars he could make out. Toward the sea. Only as his escort slowed did he realize they were close to where Willow had taken them earlier that day. They passed the corner at which she’d ordered the three of them to wait, then kept going to a tavern with wanly lit windows.

The lighting seemed even poorer from the inside, made worse by the murk and soot that darkened the walls. It was not so noisy and cheerful as the admittedly few taverns Arthur had known, though not quiet either. A group of men cursed and gambled at a large table in one corner, while a singer plucked a lute and sang of two lovers killing one another out of jealousy. A woman he suspected was a whore reached out and grabbed for Arthur’s arm, but drew back when she noticed the boy leading him along. He felt out of place and clumsy as he walked through the noise and smoke, feet rustling across dirty rushes. Oberyn should be here. Not me.

They stopped at a table tucked far into a corner, at which a man roughly of age with Arthur sat nursing a bowl of soup and a large cup of blood red wine. The boy slid away in silence, and Arthur drew closer to the table. The stranger was darker even than the Rhoynish-blooded Dornishmen, though freckled by the sun, lips chapped and face wind-burnt. An odd contrast to the velvet doublet he wore, and to the golden rings winking from his fingers. He took in Arthur, then said, “Go on. Sit.”

Arthur sat. “Your name?”

A quirk of the lips. “Garth. And you are Arthur Dayne—oh, do not look over your shoulder so. No one will hear us. I was careful about the seat I chose.” His voice carried the slightest hint of an accent, one Arthur did not know. “I’d expected someone grander, I confess. Willow said you weren’t, but this was after I told her I’d meet no one who might draw attention.”

Not wishing to linger longer than was necessary, Arthur bypassed the attempted chatter. “Willow implied you’d give me answers.”

“So I will. No, do not speak. I don’t want to bother with your questions. I will tell you a tale, it will give you any information I wish you to know, and we might part quickly and painlessly. Is this acceptable?”

Arthur inclined his head.

“Not so charming for a lord. Aren’t you trained to feign smiles and make pleasant talk?” Garth shrugged when Arthur failed to answer. He took a moment to finish his soup and set the bowl aside, then resumed speaking. “I am in a profession where knowing things is important. Children like Owen, who will do as they’re bid for a bit of coin or soup or perhaps a sweet, are good at seeing and hearing and learning. The boy’s mother, she was ever busy, and I perhaps knew him better than she did. I was fond of him in a way. He was useful.”

Arthur kept his expression even. “And?”

“I have a deal with the Citadel,” Garth continued. Arthur briefly shut his eyes, a cold pit burrowing into his stomach. He did not otherwise let his disquiet show on his face, and the other man kept talking without pause. “They pay me for dead bodies. Not to kill people, but if I happen upon any fresh corpses, they find some use for them. I began sending Owen to arrange meetings should I come into possession of this merchandise, and for half a year he did this thing. Then one day, he tells me that as he was crossing back into our part of the city, he heard somebody scream.

“He investigated, but said once he approached the sound, he could not find its source. As if it was coming from some unseen place. This is near the cesspit into which the Citadel dumps its waste. A shortcut the boy found. Somewhere most men would not typically venture too near. Even the buildings nearby are empty, abandoned after the maesters began dumping their shit there.”

Somewhere that screaming could occur often, Arthur surmised, with no one around to hear it.

“I told Owen to see if it was a one-time occurrence, or if something was happening I ought to know about. He was at it for some days, then… he disappeared.” Garth frowned. “He’d let on to Willow what he was doing, and she too began to snoop. I tried to make her stop, but she would not listen. Then someone left the body for her to find.”

“Hoping she’d go away,” Arthur murmured.

“Warning her to go away,” Garth corrected. “I have a suspicion whoever did so may not have realized the body was not fully dead, for that’s only drawn more attention to it. But I do not know. Perhaps they’d merely wished to make the threat more keen.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Arthur had to ask.

Garth gave an exaggerated shiver. “I am not a man with a weak stomach. But I went to Hanna’s and looked upon the boy, and I nearly vomited to see a sight so cursed. Owen and Willow each spent time seeking the place from which Owen heard those screams, and neither found a thing. But something saw them. I do not want the… monster to think its threat unheeded and decide it needs to make a larger statement. Keep quiet, Arthur Dayne. Stay out of this, or I shall be forced to intervene.”  

His tone gave no indication of a threat, but Arthur could imagine the type of intervention Garth had in mind. Carefully, he asked, “You would not sooner I root out the problem?”

“I do not trust your ability to do so. Whatever is responsible was no trouble until it thought itself disturbed—”

“Except for whoever it had in its clutches, screaming, when Owen first decided to look into it.”

“People in these parts go missing from time to time. It’s never bothered my business.”

Arthur did not let himself react. “What is your business, besides selling corpses and using children?”

The man across from him chuckled, but it was a dark sound. Ugly. “A bit of this and that. The look on your face makes me think it’s best we end our conversation now, before we find something to fight about.”

It could be he’s involved, Arthur tried to tell himself. He is telling me not to look so I won’t realize it. But he didn’t believe it. It couldn’t be coincidence that the Citadel played such a role in Garth’s tale. Not after Malora’s warning, not when Garth had no way of knowing Arthur had suspected them already.

“Perhaps it is best I leave. I will heed what you’ve told me.” Arthur rose, then added carefully, “Will you tell Willow and Hanna why Jaime and I will not return?”

“So they do not think you abandoned them? What concern is it of mine? I told them to leave the matter be, and they did not. Believing their plight ignored would be a useful lesson in obeying orders.”

“What right do you have to give orders to either?”

“I thought you were leaving,” Garth said with a thin smile.

I cannot fight him here, and protesting will only make him angrier.

He swallowed his rage and stalked away. The boy who’d led him to the tavern appeared as Arthur approached the door, though Arthur found him far more suspicious now he realized he was in the employ of a man who traded in fresh corpses. He nonetheless followed the lad to the Thieves Market, from where he insisted he could find his way back to the inn alone. His escort seemed to vanish, but Arthur felt eyes on his back until he’d reached the main road along the Honeywine, at which point he turned and glimpsed movement as his shadow retreated the way they’d come.

Arthur rubbed his eyes and swallowed a yawn. Years in the Kingsguard had accustomed him to sleeping a strange schedule, but he vastly preferred to be in bed shortly after sunset, and he guessed it now approaching midnight.

Despite the hour, Jaime was awake when Arthur returned to their room, sharpening his sword. He set it aside and scrambled to his feet like he might be called to action right at that moment. “What did he say? Did you get in a fight?” He drew closer. “He was a criminal, wasn’t he?”

“We did not fight. He was a criminal. But...” Arthur ran his eyes over his squire, and he was struck dumb by the image of Jaime lying across his pallet with his sternum sawed open and his entrails cut out, heart and lungs and guts empty while he blinked and gasped as if alive. Nearly as bad was the thought of being ambushed by whatever thugs Garth might send for them and turning mid-fight to find Jaime with a knife through his belly. It’s too dangerous. “Garth knew nothing worthwhile. It was a waste of time.”

Jaime’s eyes rounded, and he shook his head. “No. He had to know something.”

“I’m sorry, Jaime.”

He retreated a step. “Well. We’ll go to Malora then. She said—”

“I told you why we can’t do that.”

“Yes, because of Rhaegar. But… but, we told Willow we’d help.”

Arthur unfastened his cloak, took the borrowed bronze clasp, and threw it into the fire burning low in the corner. “Go to sleep, Jaime. We’ll find Oberyn early tomorrow morning and see if he’ll train with you again. I know you do not like sitting in the library.”

Jaime backed away further. “You should give Dawn back to your father. If you were ever worthy, you aren’t anymore.”

My father is dead, Arthur thought. He ignored his squire and removed his overcoat, then began to undo the armor he’d worn. He repeated, “Go to sleep.”

Jaime glared at him one last time before he finally lay down. Arthur peered at him for a long moment, but it only reaffirmed his conviction that he’d made the right choice. He would go to Malora, but he would do it alone, when Jaime was with Oberyn. When he was supposed to be doing research for Rhaegar.

Better to lie, he told himself, better to turn his back from his duties, than to drag Jaime into a matter more dangerous than he’d initially realized.

Chapter Text

That morning, the predawn fog never retreated from over Oldtown. Dark clouds obscured the rising sun, and the rain began soon after. It was a gentle rain, more mist than shower, but the air held a charge that suggested worse storms mightn’t be far behind. Nonetheless, Arthur and Jaime arrived early at the Citadel to wait for Oberyn near the Young Dragon’s statue.

Jaime sat on its base, between the front feet of Daeron’s horse, his mouth twisted in a scowl. He’d been cold all morning, calling Arthur ‘Dayne’ to his face at first, until Arthur gave him such a dark look he adopted ‘my lord’ instead, clearly going out of his way to avoid using ‘ser.’ He’d refused to train with Arthur as well, instead working on handstands and backflips while Arthur drilled. And he hadn’t spoken a single word since they’d left the inn. 

Arthur’s tolerance for Jaime’s disdain had waned over the past days, perhaps as his stress increased and hours of sleep lessened. Presently, he wanted to shake the boy and spit cruel truths until he apologized—for being moody, for saying hurtful things, for neglecting his duties—and the urge was strong enough to be shameful. For a moment, Arthur watched Jaime sulk beneath the statue, but he soon turned away and tried to keep calm by thinking of pleasant things. Ashara’s laughter, the sound of Rhagear’s harp, the dry turn of Oswell’s mouth as he japed about something inappropriate and made Arthur smile anyway.

The exercise only saddened him, and Oberyn’s arrival brought a welcome distraction. The prince took one look at Jaime, still pouting, anger visible in every line of his posture, and he winced. “It went that badly?”

“I learned nothing I could use,” Arthur said. “There’s nothing that can be done. It’s over.”

“Just like that?” Oberyn asked. He arched both of his brows and spoke with disbelief so strong it was condescending. Like a parent addressing a child who’d provided an absurd and impossible excuse to explain away some misdeed.

Arthur didn’t take the bait. “Just like that. Your willingness to help was welcome, but it seems it was for naught.”

“Of course,” was what Oberyn said, but in a tone that implied, “You’re full of shit.”

Arthur looked at the sulking Jaime. “I still wish to leave him—”

“In my tender care?” Oberyn finished with a sigh. “I like the boy, but I have other friends, Arthur. Other obligations. It happens I do have a lecture to attend today.” 

“I’m right here.” Jaime rose and strode over, smiling darkly. “Take me to the bloody lecture if you must. I don’t want to look at Dayne, and surely you see what a fitting pair us two deviants are.”

“Don’t use that word,” Arthur said.

Oberyn chose to be unhelpful. He took in Jaime thoughtfully. “If you better wish to explore your deviancy, I could find a brothel more to your tastes.”

“No,” Arthur said.

Jaime gave Arthur a sly, daring smile. “Why? It’s quite possible you’d tell Tywin, and wouldn’t that be delightful?”

A bluff. He wouldn’t let himself be taken to a brothel, no matter if it’d mean disobeying me and spiting his father. “No brothels. Nothing ill-advised or reckless. Jaime, haven’t you been enjoying your sword lessons?”

“Why are we acting as if I’ve agreed to take him?” Oberyn asked. At the question, Jaime’s smile gained a nasty twist, and the prince sighed. “Do not be like that, friend. If I did not protest a little, would that not make things too easy on Arthur? I will take you, and we’ll find an enjoyable way to pass the time while Ser Do-his-Duty dulls his brain in peace.”

“Then let’s stop talking and leave.” Jaime grabbed Oberyn by the arm and gave him a tug. “If you’re not opposed, I have a few ideas for what we might do next.”

Neither of them looked back or bade Arthur farewell. Unhelpful emotions tried to surge again, and again, he tamped them down and chastised himself for the lack of control. Once he’d reestablished equanimity, he drew a long breath and considered what to do next. Malora had said she’d find him if he wanted her, but he struggled to imagine he didn’t need to do something to mark his intentions. After a moment, he headed toward the Hightower, having no further plan.

He didn’t need one. Arthur had hardly stepped through the Citadel’s gates when a fair-haired man strode toward him, dressed in smoke gray with accents of orange and yellow. Despite the poor weather, he had the hood of his cloak pushed aside, head tipped back as if to better soak in the rain. 

Arthur shoved down his own hood and moved toward him. “Ser Baelor.”   

The two of them were roughly of age, and Arthur had been meeting Baelor Hightower at tourneys for a half decade. As a rule, Arthur never took ransoms from those who couldn’t afford it, but he did donate the coin given him by wealthier men to charities run by the Faith. Someone—he was sure it was Oswell—had spread word of what he’d meant to be a silent habit, and the two times Arthur had unhorsed Baelor since this became common knowledge, the knight had paid him twice what his arms and armor were worth. On both occasions, they’d conversed for nearly an hour afterward, Baelor’s manner easy enough to offset even Arthur’s reserve.

Baelor halted and took him in, then threw his head back to laugh. “By the gods. You are here. Just as she said.”

Arthur shook his head, incredulous himself. “How…”

“Hells if I know. It’s best not to ask if Malora is involved.” Baelor tousled his hair and flushed slightly. “Is it all true, then? I pray I give no offense, but—”

“But,” Arthur pressed.

“Malora insists you fancy one another, and hold a mutual desire to meet in relative privacy. She pleaded with me to take her out, and fetch you to see her.”

That is… unexpected. Arthur wondered if it was necessary he look infatuated to pull off the ruse. As Joanna Lannister had laughingly declared obvious, Arthur had no talent for acting. After too many seconds passed in strained silence, he grudgingly said, “You’ll forgive my manner. Lady Malora spoke truly, but it’s…” He shrugged helplessly. “My cloak is white.”

An awkward thing to say. He’d again foregone his whites so he didn’t draw unnecessary attention to himself. Had still dressed the part of a lord, soft brown breeches and a gambeson of rich ivory, but his cloak was crimson.

Baelor only smiled. “You’re flustered.”

“I mean nothing untoward,” Arthur got out, as if he still needed to argue his case. “I only wish to talk.”

“Of course,” said Baelor, then began walking. Easy as that. 

Arthur fell into step beside him. “I wouldn’t have expected such a response from the lady’s brother.”

The smile Baelor gave in response was unexpectedly sad. “Malora will never wed. Even were your intentions less chaste, it would matter only so much. She isn’t… She is different.” He gave Arthur a long look. “With most men, I’d assume this a scheme to toy with the Mad Maid, but I do believe you. That you like her. That you want to talk.”

“People call her the Mad Maid?” Arthur said, taken aback. After a moment’s thought, his surprise faded. “Of course they do. People can be…” None of the words he wished to say were at all chivalric. Finally, he settled on, “Wretched.” 

“So they can be.” Baelor glanced wryly at Arthur’s cloak of red. “It’s a shame your cloak is white. Perhaps you, she could’ve wed, if… But it’s no good to get into it. More quickly now. She claimed she’d be fine if I left her at the sept, but I worry sometimes.”

“The sept?”

“She insisted, and who am I to protest? If one’s sister wishes to meet with some man, there are fewer places less concerning.”

This was fair enough, though Arthur remained bemused by the choice—growing less so when he realized it was the Starry Sept they approached. She chose this for my benefit. Because of the name. An almost silly gesture, but it briefly drove away his ill mood and surprised him into smiling as he and Baelor bypassed the nearby mansions and approached the immense black building.

Numerous faithful were within when Arthur entered, milling around the altars, holding whispered conversations among themselves, a few admiring the massive windows of leaded glass. The crystal at the sept’s front refracted candlelight over it all, casting flickering shadows across gleaming marble floors. The overall effect was almost hypnotizing in conjunction with the gemstones winking from the altars and the rhythmic song of rain pattering against the roof. 

It took Arthur only a moment to spy Malora kneeling before the Stranger’s altar. Baelor retreated to one of the far walls as Arthur approached her. The Stranger’s statue watched on, a bony figure in robes that seemed to rot off its frame, face the visage of a wretched beast, flesh pulled tight to a warped skull. The textures the stonemason had wrought in the hard rock were more horrifying than impressive. God of the outcasts, Arthur thought, taking in the single candle lighting its twisted face. He had no doubt who’d placed it there. 

Malora rose at the sound of his footsteps, unfolding her long frame until she turned, her eyes level with Arthur’s. She wore a veil, the pious modesty unusual alongside her dress, which was cream-colored lace and silk, skirts voluminous from elaborate netting from which an array of rubies twinkled like a sky full of stars. 

Arthur rested his fingertips on the crook of her elbow. “There are gardens out back.” 

“I gave my cloak to a septon,” Lady Malora said, and went to retrieve it. When she returned to his side, Arthur offered his arm more properly. She took it, and he led her from the sept and back into the drizzle. A look over his shoulder told him Baelor followed, but at a distance.

Outside, they wound around the building’s front and passed through a stone gate into the walled-in gardens behind. The Seven Shrines were more known for the elaborately groomed grounds, but these too held a fine subtle beauty, a fountain gurgling in the center, ripe fruit heavy on a handful of trees, and the flowers that bordered the garden’s stone paths only just beginning to wither from the autumn chill.

The weather kept others inside, and they had the space to themselves. Arthur knew he should get his information and slip away, but he couldn’t bring himself to rush the encounter. “You’ve chosen a peculiar meeting place.” 

Malora pushed up her veil and swept it aside. She has her brother’s smile. “I thought you might like it. Do you know the sept’s history?” 

Ser Olyvar had shared it with Arthur on their visits, in pieces. He could guess at what Malora meant for him to note. “Many think the cult of Starry Wisdom worshipped here before the Andals came. Once the invaders took Oldtown, they supposedly tore down the cult’s church and rebuilt it into a sept. It’s believed the black marble might’ve symbolized the black stone they worship.”

“You are clever.” She hadn’t loosed his arm. Was still smiling. “As a girl, I read the work of one maester who said House Dayne came from the Great Empire of the Dawn. I do not suppose you know anything about the church? I’d so like to learn more, but the cult is terribly secretive.”

Arthur dipped his head to hide his smile. “If there was ever a connection, it’s been lost to time. Even should some maester have made a record after the Andals came, our records were destroyed in the First Dornish War.”

“By dragonfire.” Malora sighed. “I should have been pleased if you had ties to the cult, but I’d not supposed you would.” Before Arthur could decide how to respond to that, Lady Malora gave a startled blink and abruptly grew serious. “But I told you I had a name to give. That’s why you’ve come.”

“A name, and anything else you know that might be helpful.”

Malora released Arthur and retreated to a rose bush, running gentle fingers over one of the blossoms, mindful of thorns. She had a way of moving that made the motions seem accidental, though she never looked clumsy. “I have nothing else,” she said wistfully. “I searched and searched, but could find no more to give you. Magic is most unkind. The more you wish to know something, the harder it is to grasp. It is things you do not want which inevitably come, and distract from those pieces that might be useful.” 

Magic. Arthur had suspected, but was surprised she would speak of it so openly. “The prince…” Arthur had to figure out what he wanted to say. “Prince Rhaegar, he has dreams. Visions.”

Malora cocked her head. “I am sorry. Do you hope I might cure him?” The question so startled Arthur, he didn’t immediately respond. Malora frowned deeply. “I cannot. I do not think there is a cure to such curses. Not that I have seen. Are the dreams very bad?”

Bad? What did that mean? He wondered that he’d have no difficulty following her line of thought about cults, but it was this that’d trip him up.

She rubbed her forehead. “I am sorry, but we’d best not linger over the matter. I grow weary, and I fear I’ll wander from you if we dawdle too long. Let’s start back toward my tower. I haven’t been out in three years, and I forgot how to walk so near the ground.” 

He tried to hide his shock. “Three years. Your father, he doesn’t—” Keep you prisoner, he kept himself from saying.

Malora gathered his meaning. “Oh, no. No. I am bound in other ways.” She extended her free arm and ran graceful fingers over the petals of a deep blue flower. “I’d forgotten there were nice things outside. Isn’t it beautiful, Arthur?”

“Yes,” he managed, too stunned to say more. Three years.

“Marwyn,” Malora told Arthur abruptly. “That is my friend. He is a maester, but separate from the others. You do not need to fear him.”

“Marwyn,” Arthur repeated. He wanted to ask more questions, but Malora had begun to appear actively distracted, and worry for her kept him from pressing. He could make do with a name. In lieu of talking, he offered his arm once more, concerned by how tightly she grasped it. Not to lean on him like she feared falling, but almost the opposite, as if she thought herself in danger of floating away and sought to remain tethered.  

By time they reached the front of the gardens, Baelor had seen them and drawn over. Malora’s head jerked up at his approach, and she smiled. “Arthur thought it lovely that I brought him to this sept. He even understood why.”

Baelor gave Arthur a baffled look. “By the gods, are you actually part of a cult?”

“House Dayne has many secrets,” said Arthur seriously.

Malora giggled, then looked piteously at Baelor Brightsmile. “He is japing, brother. Why do you take everything so seriously?” She didn’t leave time for him to answer, freeing Arthur’s arm to go to her brother’s side. “But it is best we go. I am beginning to get a headache.” She added to Arthur, “I hope I shall see you again.”

Arthur smiled despite his unease with how the encounter had ended. “I hope so as well.” 

He accepted Baelor’s baffled good-bye, then watched them walk away, Malora’s steps as light as Baelor’s were certain, the pair disappearing toward the looming Hightower. Soon they were gone, his first task of the day completed so swiftly it shocked him.  

I have time to see Marwyn yet this morning, Arthur told himself. On some impulse, he first slipped back into the sept. House Dayne was a house of the First Men and had a godswood on its grounds, but Andals had long wed into it and imparted their culture, and Arthur had grown with the Faith of the Seven. He took in the faces of each of the gods, pausing on the Warrior before his attention drifted to the lone candle settled before the Stranger. 

He went to the front of the sept and grabbed one of the candles left out for visitors to use, then walked to that final, nearly empty altar. Using the flame from Malora’s offering, Arthur lit his own, then set it gently next to hers. 

As he approached the Citadel, Arthur considered whether he should be secretive about meeting with this Marwyn. Eventually, he decided against it. The other maesters trusted the man enough to let him keep his chain, and there was no reason Arthur might not have official business for him.

The unexpected ease of his investigation continued when he encountered the kindly-eyed Qyburn shortly after passing through the Sphinx-guarded gates. Arthur moved toward him. “Maester.” 

The older man halted and smiled upon recognizing Arthur. “Ser Arthur. You appear more awake this day.”

“I don’t have a book in front of me yet.” Arthur took care to sound casual. Not too rushed. “Do you have a moment?” 

”Only a brief one, I’m afraid. I’ve just finished my lecture for the day and was off to work on another project that’s produced unexpectedly fascinating results.”

“It won’t take long. I have an audience with Maester Marwyn soon and was wondering where I might find him.”  

“Archmaester,” Qyburn corrected, reassuringly unsurprised. “And that’s no problem at all. Our areas of interest overlap considerably, and I know him quite well.” He took Arthur by the arm, still smiling, and led him to one of the students at the Scribe’s Hearth. “Alyn, would you take Ser Arthur to Archmaester Marwyn’s chambers? I’ll speak in your defense should anyone give you trouble for venturing from your post.” 

“Ser Arthur,” Alyn repeated. He was already on his feet. “Yes, maester. Of course. It’d be no trouble at all.” 

Arthur thanked Qyburn, and the other man wished him luck before making his departure, leaving Arthur in the acolyte’s hands. He was more pleased than he should’ve been that Alyn proved too shy to manage more than a handful of words, his head too full for him to wish to field chatter. Their destination proved the Isle of Ravens, settled in the middle of the slow-moving Honeywine and connected to land by an old drawbridge so faded it looked almost gray.

The Ravenry appeared to have been repurposed from an ancient stronghold, a stone building that might’ve been imposing once. Now it was overgrown with vines and moss, and ravens milled on the battlements and kept watch with small black eyes. Within the keep’s walls, Arthur was surprised to find a weirwood filling the courtyard. Most of the leaves were gone as if it was ill, but queer purple moss dripped off the tree, from the ends of its white limbs to the weeping face. Still more ravens lined the branches. 

It was a drear, unsettling sight that stole any warmth that’d lingered from his encounter with Malora. Arthur shivered and sped his steps, abruptly wishing the coming conversation over. Wishing to be far from the Ravenry, and the Citadel altogether.

Alyn took him to an old tower across the yard. Inside, more ravens cawed and rustled, and the air smelled of wet droppings. Arthur kept his breathing shallow as they climbed a narrow staircase, relieved when Alyn knocked on the wooden door at its end. “Archmaester. Arthur Dayne wishes to—”

The door swung open, and Arthur was taken aback to recognize the maester who answered. The same man who’d spoken with him his first day in the library, asking about his research. He fought a wave of misgiving, though doing so grew more difficult when the man’s eyes settled on his face with undeniable interest. 

“Leave us,” Marwyn told Alyn brusquely. “I’ve been waiting on this one.”

Arthur flexed his hands as he passed into the room. Rolled his shoulders to remind himself of Dawn’s weight on his back. Marwyn looked like he could put up a fight should he wish, half a foot shorter than Arthur but his bones heavy, and the muscles of his shoulders and chest thick as those of an aurochs. His neck was so large a normal maester’s chain wouldn’t have rounded it. This was no problem, as the man had more links than Arthur had seen on anyone save Pycelle.

“You’ve been watching me,” Arthur said.  

Marwyn shut the door with a bang, then gave Arthur a brusque smile, his teeth stained red from sour leaf. He ignored Arthur’s accusation and asked, “Where’d you put your troublesome squire?”

“Elsewhere.” Arthur drew further into the room and examined his surroundings. The space was nearly empty—save for books and scrolls, which covered every surface, whether in stacks across the floor, or blanketing tables. Even the walls were hidden by worn maps and tapestries depicting scenes from history. Rhaegar would have loved it, though his first priority would be to bring it to order. Arthur would’ve gladly helped. Not from any desire to organize the materials, but because merely standing in the mess put him on edge. 

The archmaester was at his back. “Finally given up your pretense of looking into songs?”

Arthur’s throat dried, but he maintained a blank face as he turned to meet Marwyn’s eye. “You do me a disservice by implying I have not been plain about my intentions at the Citadel. This is about something else. Malora Hightower pointed me to you. She says you’re a friend.”

Marwyn’s wasn’t a face that wore surprise comfortably. “Malora.”

“You know her?”

“I consult with her on certain matters. She reads often and engages in other activities in which I hold an interest, and… by some sorcery, or perhaps the power of her blood, she managed a trick as a girl that acolytes at the Citadel have tried for centuries with no success.” Marwyn looked troubled, but he faced Arthur. “Did you go to her for the prince?”

“It isn’t about the prince. I said that.”

“You won’t find anything you’re looking for in the library.”

“I’m looking for nothing. I speak the truth when I say this is about something else. Something more pressing.”

Marwyn finally seemed to believe him, though this only painted his face with exasperation and put impatience into his voice. “You aren’t only making excuses, are you? Go on then. What is it?”

The man’s manner discouraged Arthur from withholding details. If he was involved, coming to him at all would spell disaster enough. But Arthur felt he could trust him with what’d happened to Owen, if only because he trusted that Malora’s judgment would be sound. He thus told him all of it, beginning with Hanna approaching him in the street, and ending with his conversation with Garth the night before.

Marwyn did not interrupt, though his face grew increasingly grave as Arthur spoke. When the tale was told, he cursed, spat, then cursed again. “Oh, I know who it is. The only man here without his head far enough up his arse to count teeth. I’m all but certain of it.”

Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of this. He chose his words carefully. “Who is it?”

“Better I not say. I might be wrong, and this would ruin him.” Archmaester Marwyn brought an enormous hand to his face and rubbed his forehead, then cursed a third time for good measure. “You needn’t concern yourself further. It’ll be no matter for me to play interested in his research and find a confirmation, and then I suppose I’ll have no choice but inform the grey sheep.”

“He’s killed at least one innocent,” Arthur said, misliking that the man seemed to view bringing this maester to justice as an unwanted obligation.

“More than that I dare say,” Marwyn grumbled. “Don’t frown at me so. I said I’d do it. Shouldn’t take much time if I ask the right questions.”

“How long?”

“A week? How am I to know? If he suspects anything of me, it’ll be that much harder to get evidence. Best use a measure of caution.” He didn’t sound pleased by the idea. His eyes fixed hard on Arthur. “Don’t go telling anyone else, and keep your damn head down. Bad enough you’re here at all.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means a prince known for believing in prophecy, sending the Sword of the Morning to look into tales of magical men, has them all on edge, no matter what excuses you give.” He strode to a table and grabbed a sourleaf, then shoved it into his mouth. “Magic doesn’t exist if you ask the grey sheep. They’ll insist it’s been gone for thousands of years.”

Arthur kept his mouth shut.

“If you truly know what’s good for you,” Marwyn added, “you’ll leave. Rhaegar courts trouble if he’s willing to send you so far to find details that’ll supposedly help him achieve some vague destiny.” He spat, red phlegm landing in a puddle on the floor. “Gorghan of Old Ghis had a line about prophecy.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“A dead man, smarter than you.” Marwyn’s smile was crimson. “He said it’s like a woman who takes your member in her mouth. She’ll pleasure you a while, and all seems fine and sweet… until she clamps down with her teeth, and you begin to scream.”

“I do not know why you’re telling me this,” Arthur said in his most placid voice. “I was only looking for material for songs.”

Marwyn’s laugh came out cruel. “I suppose you don’t need a prick anyway. But I have no ill will toward your prince, and it’s my understanding you’re supposed to protect the royal family. Seems you might wish to keep him away from treacherous women with sharp teeth.”

Arthur moved toward the door. “You will take care of the killer?”

He feared Marwyn would call him out on the change of subject, but the other man only laughed. “That I’ll do. Go on, then. No reason for me to talk at a man too bull-headed to listen.”

Arthur left. He paused outside and frowned at the door once he’d closed it. Not trusting a simple conversation could be enough to end the search for Owen’s killer, and at the same time, wondering whether Marwyn had actually been trying to help with his coarsely given advice.

It was the latter thought that Arthur turned in his head as he left the Ravenry. Perhaps that was why he hesitated before going to the library. Marwyn hadn’t only criticized the task itself, but had implied Rhaegar’s ruse had failed to deflect attention. If they guessed Arthur’s purpose and didn’t want him to find information, wouldn’t the easiest solution be to remove any books that might be helpful? If any such books had been there in the first place…

You won’t find anything you’re looking for in the library, Marwyn had said. Arthur couldn’t imagine what he cared about the matter, but his words felt true. As he walked, he asked himself if it was worth it to go to the library, likely wasting the rest of the day to attempt a task that’d been assigned as part of a pretense, which he now had good reason to believe wouldn’t be constructive.

He remembered Oberyn saying he had a lecture to attend. Jaime had volunteered to go, but Arthur doubted he would wish it. Perhaps we could talk. The thought came reluctantly. He remembered Jaime’s poor mood that morning, recalled his own fraying patience. But his encounter with Malora had briefly lifted his spirits, and for all his confusion regarding his meeting with the archmaester, Marwyn had seemingly known the killer and intended to stop him. Both conversations had gone more productively than Arthur would’ve dared to hope. Perhaps his luck would continue.

Thunder rattled over the city, and the rain seemed to fall harder. That decided him. He had no desire to sit shivering in the library and trying not to drip on the books, and knowing Jaime and Oberyn, they were paying the weather no heed. The last thing he wanted was for his squire to fall ill.

Telling himself he was being reasonable, and not abandoning his duties, Arthur began to ask after Oberyn Martell’s whereabouts, unsure of how else to find him. The method proved more successful than he might’ve expected, and it wasn’t long before he located him and Jaime in a paved yard near the edge of the Citadel’s grounds, sparring around a fountain decorated with gilded dragons.

Jaime wasn’t using his golden longsword, but a thinner braavosi blade that was slightly too large for him. Oberyn used a similar sword and goaded Jaime into chasing him around, running and crossing blades like two madmen.

“Keep your feet,” Oberyn called to Jaime. “A bravo might move more often, but it is nonetheless unwise to run about heedless of your footing.” He flashed out with his sword, and Jaime tried to block. Oberyn swiftly turned and snuck his sword past him, rapping it against Jaime’s arm. He stepped back with a grin. “That isn’t how you defend a strike like that. Not with a blade like this. You must parry.”

“You riposte whenever I parry.”

“Then counter,” Oberyn retorted. He struck again, and Jaime danced away. “There, your feet were better. That was good.” 

“Of course it was.” Jaime tried to attack again, this time with more solid foot placement. And for a time there was no talk, only fighting.

It ended when Oberyn herded Jaime against the fountain. Jaime’s eyes widened in awareness of what’d come next, and Arthur stepped forward when he saw Oberyn smiling at the murky water.

“That’s filthy,” Arthur cut in. Jaime froze, but Oberyn looked heavenward as if blaming the gods for producing Arthur to stop his fun. “If you push him in, it’d ruin his clothing and perhaps make him ill.”

“A pox on you,” Oberyn said. “It would’ve been amusing.”

“I don’t need your help,” Jaime told Arthur. But he skirted out from between Oberyn and the fountain and snatched up his blade. “You are early.”

“I found what I needed.” Arthur wanted to smile, to try making his voice softer, but he was too tired of feeling a fool around Jaime to make the effort. “I thought we could return to the inn and don dry clothes, perhaps share a warm meal. Then I’d supposed we might talk.”

About what, Arthur wasn’t precisely sure. He supposed he could explain his lie the night before now he knew it would all resolve itself. They could decide where to go next, perhaps whether to leave early. Arthur also had a tentative hope to float the idea of a truce, though that felt overoptimistic.

Jaime looked away, mouth working. “Talk.”

Oberyn sidled over with a smile. “Do not look so bleak, Jaime Lannister. Arthur loathes talking, so he must be quite motivated to make the attempt.” He scooped up a bundle from near the fountain, tucked under a bench and wrapped in what Arthur belatedly recognized as Jaime’s cloak. “Do not forget your things.”

Jaime shifted his grip on his new sword to better take the bundle.

“What things?” Arthur said.

“We went to the market,” Oberyn said blithely. “I taught Jaime how to haggle. He got a leather bag, a new pair of gloves, a dirk, and a sword. Five dragons for the lot.” 

Jaime had a bag. He had gloves, and if not a dirk, a serviceable dagger. The sword certainly hadn’t been necessary. Arthur refrained from chastising the indulgence by the skin of his teeth. “I’m glad you had a productive morning.” 

Jaime clutched his bundle closer to his chest. “If you’re going to take me away, we’d best go before my things get too wet.” 

“Am I meeting you tomorrow?” Oberyn said.

“Same time and place.” Arthur wasn’t sure if he and Jaime would be staying, or what he would do with his day, but at the very least it’d be polite to meet Oberyn to give a farewell. The prince feigned exasperation, perhaps expecting he’d be asked to watch Jaime again, but Arthur noted genuine fondness in the way he clapped his squire on the back before sauntering off.

Jaime pasted on a falsely pleasant smile. “Shall we start off? I think I see lightning.”

Arthur nodded, and they began the walk back toward the inn. Several minutes passed in terse silence before Arthur tried to bridge the gap between them. “What prompted you to buy a new sword?”

“I didn’t have a bravo’s blade.” 

“And you need one?” 

“Of course.” Jaime shook wet hair from his face. “Oberyn says bravos are famous in Braavos. They walk around at night, and they can challenge anyone else who’s armed to a duel. People will keep clear of you and watch, and if you’re very good, everyone will know who you are, and you might get employed by the Sealord or some other nobleman.”

Arthur frowned. “Jaime, do you… plan to go to Braavos, by any chance?”

“I am keeping my options open.” Jaime gave him an imperious look. “Perhaps you had the right idea with being a hedge knight, but I shan’t count on being able to do that. There’s always joining a sellsword company, though that’s not very noble. A bravo seems a safe bet. Perhaps Gerion would even take me.”

“Did your father—” Arthur was careful with his words. “Lord Tywin didn’t disinherit you, did he?” He couldn’t imagine, but there was no mistaking that Jaime’s plans for his future clearly didn’t include ‘lord of Casterly Rock.’

“I’ve disinherited myself,” Jaime said with pointed indifference. “I hate my father, and I’d hate to be a lord, and I dare say I’d be a poor one anyway. I certainly don’t want to wed. If there’s nothing in it that pleases me, why bother?”

“Is this something you need to decide now?”

“Why not? If it happens I do not want to be a knight, I could leave right away, and I wouldn’t need to put up with you any longer.”

“You wanted to be a knight yesterday,” Arthur protested.

“I’ve been put off of it.”

Arthur had no idea how this had escalated so quickly. His hope for a peaceful meal and productive conversation was withering, bafflement quickly turning to agitation. Anything he might’ve said to counter Jaime’s absurdity was stuck in his throat, words tangling the way they used to when he was a boy. It wasn’t often anymore that speech refused to come, and the resurgence of that old weakness only upset him further.  

Jaime wouldn’t shut up. “I’d be a dashing bravo. Even Oberyn says so.

He’s a boy, and he is posturing, Arthur told himself, but he was horribly certain Jaime meant every word. 

“I would be,” Jaime said defensively, like Arthur had argued.

“Yes,” Arthur managed. “But—” He tried to keep his voice even. “Perhaps we should speak of something else. What did you think of the market?”

Jaime looked at him incredulously, but he eventually played along. “It was fine.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “Did you go to the one near the harbor? With the rain, I can’t imagine anyone bothered to set up stalls in the square next to the Seven Shrines.”   

Jaime didn’t immediately answer. Arthur looked over at him, wondering if he wasn’t refusing to talk again, but he wore a vaguely startled, guilty expression that he didn’t hide quite quickly enough.

Arthur’s step hitched. “The Thieves Market.” 

“You never said not to go—” Jaime caught himself giving the justification, and pride took over, that horrible desire to be contrary stamping itself all over his face. “Fine. Fine, I told Oberyn it was cruel not to let Willow know we wouldn’t be coming back—” Arthur’s heart plummeted, “—so we found her, and she looked so upset I supposed I should do something. I told her she could pick out anything she wanted at the market, and I’d get it for her. She got a new coat and taught me how to swipe little things from the stalls.”

Arthur gnashed his teeth and quickened his pace. The street wasn’t the place for a lecture. They’d return to the inn, then they’d continue this conversation where it was warm, after he’d gathered his temper.  

“What’ve you gone all cold for?” Jaime snapped, jogging to keep up with him. “I didn’t do anything you told me not to.”

Arthur realized through a haze of mounting frustration that this was true. He hadn’t specifically warned Jaime against seeing Willow again, nor against returning to that area of the city. He hadn’t assumed he’d need to, had figured Jaime’s interest in the investigation had been rooted in his desire for adventure, and that he wouldn’t feel obligated to spare the feelings of a girl he barely knew. Anger at the misjudgment mingled with fear and annoyance, and Arthur bit his tongue and didn’t dare let himself speak. 

Jaime didn’t press his point. They returned to the inn together, Arthur’s head aching as he led Jaime up the stairs and into their room. Once inside, the door closed behind them, Arthur carefully removed his wet cloak and hung it on the back of a chair. It doesn’t matter anymore, he told himself. All has been solved. Better to let him know, so there are no further misunderstandings.

“Garth warned me to stay away from Hanna or Willow,” Arthur said, “and to stop looking into what was going on. He wanted you and Oberyn to keep distant as well. He made it a threat. That’s why I was upset.”

Jaime let his new purchases fall to the ground near his pallet. “Wait. You gave up because he scared you?”

“No,” Arthur said. “I decided to keep you out of it because what he told me made me fear for your safety should you remain involved. I went to Malora this morning. She told me about her friend at the Citadel. I spoke to him, and he knew the likely culprit and promised he would see that justice was done.”

Jaime grew paler with every word Arthur spoke, his eyes round with hurt. “You lied.”

“I didn’t know it would be as easy as it was.” Arthur’s headache was building. The room felt too small, his words slow and clumsy. “If some complication had arisen—”

“Don’t act like it’s because you were worried, or like it was some honorable thing. You just got sick of me. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. Well, I got sick of you first.”

Words failed Arthur again. He stood there dripping, feeling as if the cold rain was sinking into his skin and freezing him in place.

Jaime’s whole body trembled, and again, he responded like Arthur had produced an argument. “How could I not be sick of you? You’re sad and empty, and I bet you didn’t join the Kingsguard for duty at all. I bet it was because you knew anyone you wed would hate you, you’re such a grim miserable waste of space. I hate you. I was a fool to ever not hate you, and I wish I wasn’t your squire.”

Arthur’s temper snapped. And like a dam had broken, words surged forth. “You only hate me,” he said coldly, “because I wouldn’t let you keep meeting with your sister. If you’d stop whining about it for one minute, if you acted less a self-absorbed brat, mayhaps you’d realize I’d been trying to help.”

“Help,” Jaime growled. “Like you helped when you found Oberyn and some boy rutting on each other?”

“That was different.”

“It was,” he agreed, prowling closer, fury writ plain on his face. “Cersei and I have to be together. We’re two halves of a soul. There can’t be anyone else.”

“Your other half has been infatuated with Rhaegar since she came to the Red Keep,” Arthur heard himself say. Information he’d never intended to share. But he couldn’t stop, each syllable falling as precise and efficient as a strike from Dawn. “When he and I were together, she’d approach with excuses about looking for you. Would come upon me alone to ‘ask after your progress,’ only to sneak in inquiries after Rhaegar instead. For a month, she and her septa visited the library whenever he was there, until he finally asked the woman to keep her away.”

Jaime’s eyes shone even in the unlit room. He sounded more like an animal than a boy when he snarled, “You are lying.”

“I am not a liar. The only lie I’ve ever told you was yesterday, to protect you.”

Jaime stepped away and shook his head fiercely. “Liar,” he spat. “You want me to stop loving Cersei, because you think it’s wrong. I won’t. I’ll never, not until I die. Now go away, or—” He turned and scooped his new sword off the ground, now  crying in earnest. “Or I’ll kill you. I want to kill you.”

Arthur had spent too long holding his tongue. He backed out of immediate reach of the blade, but he kept talking, low and without inflection. “I took you to Tywin only because I knew you were too stubborn to listen if I ordered you to stop, and because I had little doubt it wouldn’t have been long before you weren’t only kissing. Do you need me to tell you what might’ve happened had you been caught?”

“We wouldn’t have—”

Arthur parried the excuse and delivered his riposte with quiet judgment. “Her marriage prospects would plummet. She’d be shamed and humiliated, and scorned perhaps for her whole life. You would walk away better, though men would certainly laugh.”

Jaime lowered the tip of his sword.  

“And the king…” Arthur went on. “Did you know he was infatuated with your mother? Rhaegar tells me some around court used to claim he stole her maidenhead, that the queen later sent her away because King Aerys wouldn’t keep from her rooms. Even I wondered after I found you and Cersei together. I asked Rhaegar if it was possible. He’s certain the timing wouldn’t work out, but do you think anyone else in the Red Keep would let that keep them from gossiping? Do you think Aerys wouldn’t find it endlessly amusing to let those rumors spread?”

Jaime’s blade clattered to the floor.

“You would shame your house, your father, and the memory of your mother,” Arthur said, “endanger your sister’s chances of ever being viewed with respect, and subject you both to rumors that you are bastards born of rape. But you probably wouldn’t be caught, so… it is fine? That is not love. That is wanting something, no matter the cost, and it is selfish.”

Arthur moved past a frozen Jaime and toward the door. After he’d opened it, he turned and said over his shoulder, “Once we leave Oldtown, Casterly Rock would make as good a next stop as any. If you’d still rather not be my squire when we reach it, you need only say the word. I won’t keep you with me against your will.”

He left the room and closed the door firmly behind him. Only after he’d escaped the inn and stepped into the rain did his ire cool enough for him to recognize that he’d used a twelve-year-old’s love as a weapon against him. Shame threatened to choke him, but Arthur didn’t trust himself to go back to Jaime and restart the conversation. He jammed his eyes shut and stood in the storm, giving into the childish impulse of attempting to wish away the last half hour.

When the rain grew too cold, he retreated to the inn, but remained in the tavern to give Jaime space. A serving girl herded him to a seat near the fire and gave him mulled mead and a large bowl of stew that Arthur ate only out of courtesy. After, he lingered in that place and struggled to determine what to do next.

It was late when he finally forced himself up to the room. He’d worked out a fairly promising apology by time he entered, but on stepping within, found Jaime laying on his pallet in the corner, turned away, with his blanket pulled close around him and up over his head. The lamp had been put out, the boy’s form lost in a pool of shadow. 

“Jaime.” Arthur took a step toward his squire, but could not bring himself to venture closer than that. Couldn’t even look at him properly. He dragged a hand across his face. “I spoke harshly earlier. Might we attempt another, more civil conversation? I know I hurt you, but…” Jaime continued to ignore him.

Perhaps that was for the best. Though it was still early to retire, Arthur changed out of his wet clothes, then lay down as well, eager to put the day behind him. He shut his eyes and kept his breathing even, focusing on the sound of each inhale and exhale so he couldn’t get lost in guilty thoughts. Despite his best efforts, remorse left a distracting, hollow pit in his chest, and it was a long time before he finally managed to fall asleep. 

Chapter Text

Arthur spent much the night half-awake, thoughts of Marwyn and Malora, Rhaegar and Jaime twisting through his head. What sleep he did manage was uneasy, and it was with relief that eventually he noted the softening of the darkness around him. Going to the window, quietly so as not to wake Jaime, he opened the shutters and put his head out. Mist lay thick over the city, but it was not raining, and the first light of sunrise gathered low in the east.

He drew in a long inhale and tried not to think. It was no good. The last traces of sleep falling away, his argument with Jaime was already replaying itself in his head. It wasn’t so much what he’d said. Jaime had needed to hear some of it, perhaps, and Arthur had failed him by ignoring the matter and hoping it’d resolve itself. But if a conversation had been necessary, it should’ve been gentle, and Cersei’s infatuation with Rhaegar shouldn’t have come into it.

Jaime was yet half a boy. Surely there were no excuses to justify a man grown speaking to someone half his age in that manner. I should have walked away. I should have…

Arthur gritted his teeth and forced himself to dress, barely aware of his surroundings. Still lost in his head. It wasn’t until he’d stooped to pick up Dawn, intending to slip away and train, that he noticed something that made him pause. He listened carefully and was unsettled to find the room completely silent. Jaime wasn’t a quiet sleeper. He moved and turned and muttered to himself, sometimes snored softly if he ended up on his back.

Now, there was nothing except birdsong drifting in through the window.

Arthur turned toward Jaime’s pallet. “Jaime?”

No answer. He took one step, then another. The room was still dim, but there was light enough that the closer he drew, the less like a boy the form beneath the blankets appeared. Arthur’s heart was in his stomach by time he knelt and tugged the blanket back, and his breath stopped when he found nothing beneath save a pillow, spare clothing, and Jaime’s new leather bag. The blanket fell from his hand, and he rose at once. No. No. No.

Arthur caught himself beginning to panic, and he fell still. Let his cresting fear wash over him, past him, and forced himself to think clearly. I am a knight of the Kingsguard. I can handle this. After taking several, deep, even breaths, he tried to examine the situation logically. Jaime was gone. Had he been gone when Arthur came in the evening before? He must’ve been. Arthur slept lightly. He would’ve heard if Jaime had left in the night.

With deliberate thoroughness, Arthur searched Jaime’s things. He’d left his new sword but taken his old one, along with his dirk. That meant nothing. Jaime rarely went anywhere without his weapons. An absurd habit for a squire, but Arthur had permitted it so long as he didn’t misuse them. It was something, knowing he was armed, though it did nothing to settle Arthur’s fears.

Arthur grabbed his white gambeson on the off chance he’d get into a fight, but was in too much of a hurry to don armor. He yanked on his swordbelt, retrieved an extra dagger, then slung Dawn over his shoulder. When he entered the stables near the inn, the stableboy was loading feed bags with tired eyes.

Arthur handed him a dragon. “I need a horse. I’ll bring it back.”

The boy blinked wide-eyed at the coin.

“Whoever asks, say it was Arthur Dayne who took it. That I swear on my honor I’ll either return it, or compensate the owner.”

“D-do you want me to saddle—”

Arthur grabbed a saddle off the wall. Scanned the selection of mounts until his eyes rested on a palfrey that looked promisingly swift. “I can do so.”

“Is something amiss, m’lord?”

Too on edge to answer, Arthur prepared his horse in silence. He gave the boy a second dragon once he had done so, then mounted and rode out into the cool morning. The horse would only stroll over the wooden bridge that spanned the Honeywine, but she accepted a quicker pace once they were on solid ground.

Arthur had decided to go to the Citadel first on the chance Jaime had sought Oberyn, wishing to head off his growing fear if it turned out there was no reason to worry. He could almost convince himself that’d be the case, that it was the most logical place for Jaime to go, and Arthur would find him safe and asleep. Then he’d throttle the boy and lecture him, and once he’d made his squire understand that he couldn’t simply run off whenever he pleased, Arthur would apologize for speaking harshly the night before.

The bells of the septs began to ring just as Arthur passed through the Citadel’s gates, the mists clearing enough that he could pick out several novices and acolytes beginning to move around, a few maesters among them. Arthur tried to appear casual as he brought his borrowed mount up to anyone he passed to ask after Oberyn’s whereabouts, much as he had the day before, though with considerably more urgency.  

“He has a set of rooms in one of the larger towers,” a thin-faced acolyte finally told him. “A few wealthier lords stay there. He might be—”

“Which tower?”

The boy pointed to it with a trembling hand. “The whole third floor is his.”

Arthur barely remembered to thank him before guiding his palfrey in that direction. On reaching his destination, he found the tower’s door open and unguarded, and took the steps to the third floor several at a time. The door immediately off the staircase was locked, and he slammed his fist against it three times, hard.

A naked man answered, blinking and rubbing his eyes. He yawned as he studied Arthur. “It’s early, and Oberyn is asleep. Come back—”

Arthur brushed past him and into a small, empty sitting room. “Martell.”

Oberyn appeared a moment later. Also naked, in the doorway of another room off the first. He opened his mouth, took in Arthur’s expression, and immediately grew serious. “I do not like that face you are making. What’s happened?”

He wouldn’t need to ask if Jaime was present. Arthur hadn’t expected it’d be that easy, but the confirmation was still a blow. He didn’t waste time dwelling on it, was already turning around. “I can’t find Jaime. I’d hoped he was here.”

“Don’t leave,” Oberyn said hastily. Arthur looked over his shoulder to say he didn’t have time to speak further, but the prince spoke over him. “Let me get dressed. I can help you.”

“You have one minute,” Arthur ordered. The stranger stared at him, blinking awkwardly. Arthur ignored him and began to count down from sixty, intending to walk away if Oberyn wasn’t finished by time he hit zero. But he showed up in half that time, fumbling with his swordbelt as he hurried from his bedchamber.

“Stay or leave as you wish,” Oberyn told the man as he managed to fasten his belt. “I dearly hope I’ll not be gone long.” He whisked a cloak off the back of a chair; Arthur was already walking to the door, and Oberyn jogged to catch up with him, reaching his side as they stepped into the stairwell together. “Tell me more. What happened? Where are we going first?”

“The brothel where Hanna works,” Arthur said.

“That answers one question.”

Arthur hurried down the stairs. He was so focused on retrieving Jaime, turning different approaches and scenarios over in his head, that he struggled to back up and remember what Oberyn had wanted to know. Finally, he managed, “We fought. Jaime ran away.”

“When?”

 “Last night. I only realized this morning.”

A hand on his arm, strangely soft. “My friend, you cannot know everything. You can’t—”

“You’ll need a horse,” Arthur cut in. “Is—”

 “The tower has its own stables. One of my sand steeds is there.”

He didn’t try to say more, though Arthur fought impatience as he waited outside the stables for Oberyn to saddle his mount, aware that he would’ve been on the road already if he’d refused assistance. Oberyn might be helpful. He might be necessary. The thoughts didn’t ease his restlessness, and he did his best to shut them out and focus on his breathing. Agitation would accomplish nothing.

Oberyn reappeared on horseback, and they immediately, wordlessly set out. As they rode, and Arthur gained space enough to think more clearly, it sunk in that the other man had agreed to accompany him with almost no questions asked, and no relevant hesitation. He sighed, his guard lowering slightly. “It was my fault. I lost my temper.”

Oberyn’s dark eyes flickered to Arthur’s face. “You have no temper. If Jaime pushed you to discover one, he must’ve said something impressively anger-inducing. I’m only shocked you didn’t take him to task earlier.”

“He isn’t normally like that,” Arthur said quietly. “I did something—”

“That hurt him, so you’ve said. I trust your judgment that it was necessary. It’s foolish to scourge yourself over something you needed to do.”

They weren’t words he wanted to stomach just then. Arthur moved their discussion along. “Garth suspected that whoever let Willow find Owen’s body did so as a warning. He believed the person who killed him wouldn’t like it if others continued to look into the matter, and threatened all three of us if we continued to investigate. I confessed to Jaime that I’d lied about how much I knew, and that I’d done more searching myself. If Jaime decided to tackle the problem himself to prove a point…”

“If that is the case, we will find him and help him.” Oberyn smiled. “I hadn’t thought you’d give up so easily. Now, tell me all of what this Garth said, and then speak of what you did yesterday.”

Arthur did so. This took up much of the ride to the brothel, and it felt productive enough that the last of the off-kilter feeling that’d overtaken Arthur after finding Jaime absent had dissipated. He felt calmer, the way he felt calm when tracking down outlaws or settling disputes, or the time brigands had ambushed him and Rhaegar as they traveled to Summerhall. Everything seemed sharper, the world simpler.

They tied their horses outside and jogged into the brothel. Arthur had expected quiet, that no one would be awake at all, and his stomach dropped when he realized Hanna was up and sitting at one of the tables, her hair loose and face unpainted, making her look oddly young. She regarded them both with wide eyes and sat frozen as they crossed the room.

“You’ve seen him,” Arthur said without introduction.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “He came by last night looking for W-Willow.” She couldn’t meet his eye, and her hands shook. “He was upset, but he wouldn’t say why. I think he just wanted someone to talk to, m’lord.”

A chill seized him to the bones. “But?”

“He’d told her earlier that you hadn’t found anything, that Garth wasn’t no help.” Hanna wasn’t looking at him, her eyes fixed on the tabletop. Arthur’s heart began to beat more loudly, its rhythm a dull drumbeat in his ears. “She returned thinking to go out and do more looking herself. I told her she oughtn’t do that, but she’s never listened. Not even when she was little. She hadn’t come back by time Jaime showed up. I made him wait until morning to leave. Said sometimes she got caught up or didn’t drop by. He did. But.”

“She still wasn’t here.”

Hanna nodded. “Then he hurried off. I don’t know where he went. He just said he’d find her.”

Arthur let the implications of that wash over him. Jaime was actively seeking trouble, then. And everything I did yesterday wouldn’t matter. Willow was missing. Marwyn would’ve been too slow anyway. If he’d have been honest and told Jaime the truth earlier, perhaps Willow wouldn’t have—He silenced the line of thought. He’d save his second-guessing for later.

“I’m sorry,” Hanna was saying, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to stop him. I didn’t…” Want to stop him. You want your niece safe.

“You did nothing wrong,” Arthur told her calmly as he could, but he didn’t waste time on further sympathy before heading to the door.

Oberyn apologized for Arthur’s abrupt manner and jogged to catch up with him. “You say that Jaime knew Garth had information about what was happening?”

“He wouldn’t have known where to find him,” Arthur murmured.

“Perhaps not,” Oberyn said carefully, “but he’s stubborn enough to find out.”

Arthur breathed in deeply. It was a logical first place to check. Risky for more reasons than he cared to consider, but risks no longer mattered. His head was full of the image that’d haunted him after his meeting with Garth, Jaime in Owen’s place, dead and cut open and hollowed out and making those horrible sounds.

“Right,” Arthur said. “We’ll pay him a visit.”

They attracted stares as they rode through the narrow winding streets, eyes and whispers following them. The sun was fully risen now, the air still and warm. Neither of them spoke, Oberyn’s face unusually dark, his eyes hard. It was only after they’d reached the tavern that Arthur broke the silence. “He won’t be happy to see us.”

“I hope he isn’t,” Oberyn said with a flash of white teeth. It was early enough that the tavern was closed, the door locked. Arthur kicked at it and waited, and after a moment, a boy a little older than Jaime appeared and took them both in with a grimace.

“We need to speak with Garth,” Arthur said.

“No,” he said. “No, you don’t.”

Arthur pushed at the door, and though the boy put a hand on it and tried to keep it shut, he was thin enough that it didn’t take a fraction of his strength to shove it open and let himself in, Oberyn at his back. A handful of people milled about the tavern, all men, most young, though a few more grizzled-looking figures among them. Armed, Arthur noted at a glance, picking out at least three sword belts with only a brief look.

Garth was among them, at a table with a handful of his men. He slid from his seat and stood, smiling thinly. “Ser Arthur. I thought I told you to stay away.”

“Oh,” Oberyn said lightly. “I’ve gambled with you. Bad temper, a lot of pride, and an abundance of gold.”

Garth’s mouth thinned. “Yes. I mentioned that you might keep distant as well. Why are you here? Either of you?”

“Have you seen my squire?” Arthur asked.

“The lad Willow described, you mean? Golden hair, tall, the most beautiful boy in the whole world? I am afraid not. I’d supposed you were here about the girl. It’s a shame what happened, though I did warn her.”

Arthur had spent too much time at court to accept that answer. No one besides Garth had moved, but the air held an edge that put him on guard. Oberyn had shifted to his left, their arms brushing. It was he who said, “We have reason to suppose Jaime might’ve sought you to learn where she might be. He’s Tywin Lannister’s son, you understand. If we cannot find him because you don’t cooperate—”

“Is that a threat?” Garth cut in, cocking his head. The rings on his fingers gleamed. His face was hard. “It was, I think. And already, you are here when I insisted you must stay away. I do not like being ignored. I shall be kind and let you leave now, if you wish, but keep asking questions, and…” He trailed off, the words heavy with implication.

So be it. Arthur shrugged off Dawn’s sheathe. It’d be excessive to use the sword against this crowd. Garish, almost. But he wasn’t going to take chances. He glanced at Oberyn. “Try not to kill anyone.”  

“They will not return the courtesy,” Oberyn hissed.

Garth made a gesture, and Arthur wasn’t surprised that every man in the tavern stood. Garth had gathered them. He’d been waiting for at least Arthur to show up. Arthur drew his sword with a grim smile, letting the scabbard fall aside. Every one of Garth’s men paused, just for a moment, as Dawn’s soft light caught their eye.

There must’ve been ten. Bad enough odds that it wouldn’t have been a fight if they were facing even the poorest of knights, but these men were not knights. Most didn’t appear armored, and Arthur doubted they’d been trained beyond whatever they’d taught themselves fighting in the streets. Some showed their fear plainly, but did not falter. They fear the cost of disobedience more than a quick death by Dawn.

Oberyn produced a throwing knife from his belt, and it was sticking out of one man’s eye by time Arthur had completed his swift survey.

“I said,” Arthur began, but the fall of the body prompted the others to rush forward. Toward Oberyn, almost exclusively. It confirmed Arthur’s suspicion that they were ill-trained, letting instinct overrule sense so they could go after the man they feared less, even though it meant putting their back to the greater threat.

Arthur grasped Dawn—carefully—halfway up its blade to give himself greater control, then slammed the flat of the sword against the head of a man who was facing Oberyn. When that foe fell, he found another and sliced him shallowly across the shoulders, just enough to make him stagger, before kicking the man in the small of the back and bringing him to his knees. He felt a blow approach from behind and slid away from it, the very tip of a blade snagging across his gambeson.

Arthur turned toward the attacker, bringing Dawn’s hilt around as he did, and slammed the pommel into the man’s stomach. When he staggered a step back, Arthur followed and elbowed him in the face to down him.  

A splatter of blood across his cheeks made Arthur gnash his teeth. His eyes flickered to Oberyn, who was turning away from a dying man trying to lift clumsy hands to a slice at his throat. For Stranger’s sake, why? They’re no proper foes. This isn’t honorable.

A flash of motion caught his notice, and Arthur moved aside before the attacker could stab him in the back. Teeth gritted, he darted out a hand and grabbed the wrist of the fool boy’s sword arm, then tightened his hold until bones grinded within his grip. The youth dropped his blade with a wide-eyed gasp. “Best run, lad,” Arthur said, pleased when the younger man had the good sense to do so.

Convinced Oberyn could handle the others, he looked toward Garth, who’d seemed to realize within the few seconds of fighting that ten men, no matter how fierce they seemed in back alley brawls, wouldn’t overwhelm the two of them by force of numbers. He was backing away, moving carefully as if hoping to remain unseen. Soon as he caught Arthur’s eye, he turned and ran.

Arthur needed only two long strides to close the distance between them, crossing the last of it when Garth had to stop to fumble at a back door. Holding Dawn one-handed, he grabbed the back of the man’s head with his free hand, dug his fingers into his hair, and slammed his face hard into the door he was trying to open. Without letting him recover, Arthur yanked him back and around, and threw him into the nearest wall before turning to survey the fight.

It was over, six men sprawled out around Oberyn, only one still moving. The prince’s sword was red, his teeth bared in something like a smile.

One of the men Arthur had downed crawled to his feet. Oberyn lifted his blade.

Arthur moved between them, Dawn lifted, and Oberyn’s sword gave a keen of protest as Arthur blocked his blade. “It’s over. You don’t need to—”

The man Arthur had tried to save recovered enough to try landing a downswing on Arthur’s outstretched arm. Dawn gave Arthur superior reach enough that he needed only to pivot and twist his wrists, releasing his lock with Oberyn and driving Dawn out and through the attacker’s forearms. Oberyn rolled his eyes as he took the man’s head from his shoulders.  

Two more figures slipped out the door, and then they were alone.

“You’re an honorable idiot,” Oberyn told him, blade sheathed, already walking toward Garth. The other man had risen to one knee, scowling at them with a clenched jaw and no small amount of shock. Oberyn grabbed him by one arm and yanked him to his feet. “We’re going to ask our questions again. You’re going to answer, or I’ll begin slicing off appendages, beginning with your cock.”

 “The honorable idiot wouldn’t let you.”

“Right now,” said Arthur, “I care more for duty than honor. The duty I have to my squire. To the Hand of the King to protect his son. It is my duty to find Jaime in whatever way possible. I know men sing false songs when they’re in pain, and men who think they’ll die have no reason to be honest. In light of that, duty may let me be merciful, and give you the chance to save yourself. But I am in a hurry, and if it takes you too long to cooperate, duty will bid me to let Oberyn hurry you along.”

Garth gnashed his teeth.

Arthur added, “Or perhaps I could have him wait, and give you to Lord Tywin in an effort to make up for his son’s disappearance. I’m not certain whether something could hurt worse than having your cock sliced off, but I imagine the Hand could get creative.”

“I haven’t seen the boy,” Garth gritted out.

“I don’t believe you. One more chance. You speak of my honor. Trust me that I’ll spare you if you cooperate. Trust me that the next time you lie to my face, honor will be the last thing on my mind.”

A pause, and Garth finally said, “Yes. I saw him.”

“More,” Arthur ordered.

“He’d learned Willow had gone missing,” Garth gritted out. “He thought I might know something. Was asking around about me, and one of my men brought him in. I’d intended to scare him off.” His scowl turned murderous. “Brought him to a table off to the corner, was thinking I’d be nice and let him leave with a warning. He slid into the seat next to mine, drew a knife, and threatened to kill me if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know.”

Arthur rubbed his forehead. He almost wished he could believe Garth was lying.

Oberyn grinned outright. “The twelve-year-old, you mean? The charming little lordling—”

“Quiet,” Arthur snapped. He pinned Garth with a dark look. “What did you tell him?” Another hesitation. Patience fraying, Arthur said, “Do you need Oberyn to encourage you?”

Garth released a hiss of breath. “I told him where to go,” he said finally, with a dry laugh. “Exactly where to go, and I pointed out that no killer with half a brain would take him if they thought he was a lordling, someone important, someone whose disappearance could lead to unwanted complications. He said he could work around that, thanked me, and left.”

“You did… precisely what Jaime wanted?” Oberyn asked skeptically.

Another laugh, cruel and dark. “Of course I did. I didn’t want to hurt him myself. That could be tied back to me. But if he went and got caught by the monster, if he got killed like that, no one would know I had a thing to do with it. He deserved it too, the little cunt.”

Arthur lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. “How do we get to this place?”

“Owen had said he’d heard the screams toward the south end of the cesspit I mentioned,” Garth ground out. “Near a section of crumbling buildings.”

“I know the cesspit he means,” Oberyn told Arthur. “Is that all you wish to know?”

Arthur nodded,  but caught Oberyn’s arm before he slit Garth’s throat. “He cooperated. Do not go back on my word.”

“Others bugger your mother. I think—”

“We do not have time,” Arthur snapped at him. He slammed his fist into Garth’s face for good measure, then grabbed Oberyn’s forearm and pulled him away. He didn’t mention the men he hadn’t wanted Oberyn to kill. Young men who’d been boys like Owen not so long ago, who likely hadn’t had much choice but to get involved with Garth. They’d only argue, and it wasn’t the time.

The sun was jarringly bright when they exited the tavern, the few clouds that’d been present having dissipated with the warmth of the day. Fine weather for autumn, though Arthur would’ve preferred the rain from the day before. He thought of Jaime languishing in some dark, cold cell and resented that he wasn’t forced to endure comparable discomfort.    

“I think,” Oberyn said as they untied their horses, “we should return to the Citadel.”

Arthur mounted his borrowed palfrey. “To what end? The cesspit—”

“Is a very unspecific location. You say Owen and Willow both searched the area closely and found nothing. And if someone has taken Jaime and sees us milling nearby, they will be more careful than ever to hide, or would perhaps slip away. Would perhaps kill Jaime so we could not get to him first. If it’s as you claim, and Marwyn already knows who’s responsible, would it not make more sense to go to him? To see if perhaps the perpetrator is at the Citadel, to accost him there?”

It went against every instinct Arthur possessed to ride further from Jaime when his squire was certainly in danger. But Oberyn was right.  If they did go by the area to check for Jaime, and he’d already been captured, the person responsible could catch them looking. That’d be dangerous for Jaime. For Willow, too. Better to get the information first, no matter how it galled him to do so.

“Fine,” he ground out. “But ride swiftly.”

They drew more notice than Arthur would have liked, now bloodstained on top of being inconspicuous to begin with, but it didn’t matter so much anymore. He did worry someone would contact the City Watch and they’d have to deal with their interference, but it proved not to be a problem, and they returned to the Citadel and reached the Ravenry without incident. They left their horses on the shore, near the wooden bridge, then jogged across to the old stone keep.  

Marwyn stood in the courtyard with the weirwood, throwing bloody meat to the ravens. He stopped when he saw the two of them, but didn't so much as blink at the blood on their faces and garments. Wordlessly, he threw the rest of the meat to the birds, wiped his bloody hands on his robes, and drew over to them. “Trouble?”

“We need the name of the man you think killed Owen,” Arthur said in his hardest voice, making an order of it. “Jaime ran away and decided to investigate on his own. He was pointed to the location I’d mentioned, where Owen, and now another girl, have been taken, and I have reason to believe Jaime intended to disguise himself and intentionally get captured.”

The archmaester took them both in, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his enormous hands. “How’s that little shit meant to disguise himself? I saw him. It won’t work.”

“Jaime will find a way,” Oberyn said with a sigh. “I hate to agree with Arthur, but I fear this is urgent.”

Marwyn grunted. Set his pail aside. “With me, then. He isn’t teaching today, but it might be we can find him in his apartments.”

“Who?” asked Oberyn.

“Qyburn,” said Marwyn in a low voice. “Least I’m almost sure of it.”

Arthur almost stumbled. “Him?”

Oberyn looked nearly as thrown off. “But he is… kind, and…” A frown. “Perhaps he had been rather too interested in hearing of my studies in Essos, now I think of it. Seven hells, are you serious? I can almost bear to stay awake through his lectures.”

“These others,” Marwyn said, “the sheep, it isn’t only a front that they don’t believe in magic. Least, not among those who remain with our ranks to teach and study. Couldn’t speak for the maesters who get shunted away to other keeps. Might be men who end up further away, in smaller households, asked a few too many questions. Like your king’s great-uncle.” A look at Arthur.

Rhaegar was right about that. Arthur had to watch his feet as they crossed the bridge, feeling distinctly off balance. “But Qyburn… does believe?” 

“He’s had a fascination with death long as I’ve known him. Spends most his time working on the bodies we’ve got for study. Already dead, those. I wouldn’t have thought he had the stomach for anything further, but what you described the other day is something he’d be interested in.”

Marwyn, on noting their two horses, told them Qyburn’s apartments were only a three minute walk, and it’d be briefer to lead the mounts than find him one of his own. Arthur spent the duration picturing kindly-eyed Qyburn with his easy smiles, trying to imagine him capturing and cutting up children. He could not. It wasn’t that he was so naive as to think evil men must look it, but even the maester’s manner had seemed benign.

He’d been at court long enough it shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did, and he didn’t like it. Perhaps if he’d been more observant, he could have seen something… At least I never told him anything of import. There is consolation in that.

They reached the tower in which Qyburn resided, and Marwyn took them up a flight of stairs and knocked hard on the first door they came to. No one answered. He tried to push it open and found it locked. “It seems—”

Arthur slid Dawn’s scabbard from his back. “Mayhaps there’s something useful within.”

The blade wasn’t sharp enough to cut through metal on the first go, but he needed only to slide it between the door and the frame a couple of times before it broke through the rusting iron, and the door swung open with a creak. The rooms beyond were neater than Marwyn’s, a simple sleeping cell next to a sitting room with a few books and scrolls. Arthur didn’t believe Qyburn would’ve been careless enough to leave anything incriminating in so obvious a place, and a quick search proved this to be the case.

He gave up before Oberyn, already on edge and loath to waste more time. “He won’t have left instructions to find his secret experiments lying around in his rooms. We need to go to the cesspit, and do what we can—”

“You said you were Malora’s friend,” Marwyn interrupted.

“We don’t have time,” Arthur began.

“Try her first.” The archmaester’s voice left no room for argument. “That you’re here instead of already snooping for the boy tells me you’ve worked out the problems with trampling around and possibly attracting Qyburn’s notice before you can find him. It’d be a detour, aye, but better you spend time finding information than rush in and make the man panic. I have no love of waiting, Dayne, but idiocy won’t save your boy.”

Arthur shoved his hair from his face and wondered how long it’d been since Jaime had left Garth’s with plans to get himself captured. If that plan worked, how long would he survive after? How long would he remain whole?

If you rush it, if you make a mistake, that could kill Jaime just as easily as going too slowly, he reminded himself. Better to take one thing at a time.

“Very well.” Arthur started out of the apartments. “Martell.”

“We thank you for your assistance,” Oberyn called back at Marwyn, taking long strides so Arthur didn’t leave him behind.

Once they were ahorse and riding from the Citadel, Oberyn said, “Jaime told me Lord Leyton didn’t wish you to look into the matter. You say Malora found you beforehand yesterday, but how will we handle the Hightower if we must see him?”

“Malora will find us again,” Arthur said. Surely she will. “We need only ride in that direction.”

They traveled a minute in silence, and Arthur was aware of little save the feel of the horse beneath him, the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, and the sun moving across the sky, ticking upward little by little while they rushed back and forth through the city.

“Is this guilt?” Oberyn asked abruptly.  “Your fear. The worry. What I’ve seen, Jaime has not earned your concern.”  

Arthur kept his eyes on the dark form of the Hightower rising ahead, its beacon flame put out in the bright sunlight. “He was a good squire for a long time. He even… admired me, quite a bit. Childishly so, when it isn’t in his nature—” He corrected himself. “When he’s been taught not to think much of anyone outside his own family. He did everything I asked of him. He trained often as I let him, would sit and watch the other knights practice every chance he got. He was in love with the idea of being a knight.”

Until I killed that in him, Arthur thought. Only to then ask himself, What else could I have done?

“He loves it as you do,” Oberyn said. “He broke your heart too, didn’t he? Rejecting all of that you shared, insisting you do not believe in it?”

“Let’s not speak of this now. It doesn’t matter.”

“It’ll matter when we find him,” Oberyn said, as if it was a fact they would do so. The unexpected kindness kept Arthur from arguing.

“Maybe it will,” he said quietly, and Oberyn finally fell silent.

They were within perhaps twenty yards of the bridge leading to the Hightower when Baelor Brightsmile stepped out from the shadow of a nearby building and lifted his arm. Despite everything, Arthur was impressed anew with Malora.

He took his palfrey over to Baelor. “Where—”

“She wants you in her rooms.” Baelor glanced at Oberyn and gave a resolutely polite smile. “Prince Oberyn. We’re to pay a short visit to my father. You came to speak with me about horseflesh, but remembered him so fondly from your last meeting that you want to briefly renew your acquaintance. After you clean the blood from your face, mayhaps.”

Oberyn’s smile was considerably less polite. “I'd almost be proud of Arthur, sneaking up to a lady’s rooms while we distract her father, if I thought he’d have any fun with it.” He guided his horse toward the bridge. “I hear they call you Brightsmile now.”

“Better I don’t repeat the things most men call you,” Baelor said with polished courtesy. “Do I wish to know what sort of fight you’ve gotten into?”

“No,” Arthur cut in flatly, his tone ending the exchange.

Upon entering the Hightower, they found Malora waiting just within the entrance. Guards had bracketed the door when Arthur and Jaime first visited, but weren’t in sight now. Her wild hair was braided but coming loose, her dress dark blue with trailing sleeves of Myrish lace. She took Arthur by the arm and pulled him toward a staircase. “My tower is a long way up, and I feared you’d get lost. Come with me, won’t you?”  

“That’s the Mad Maid?” Arthur heard Oberyn asked, followed by a slap and a grunt. “What? I was only—” Malora shut a door behind them and cut him off.

Arthur fixed her with a stare as they walked. “You can help.”

“I believe so, yes.”

That was the last she spoke for a time. They’d started within the square fortress at the bottom of the tower. This was the largest part of the structure in breadth, but the overall construction was stepped, four successive layers that grew narrower as they built off the first, until the final floors of the tower rose straight and narrow into the sky. It meant that no staircase  went directly to where they needed to go, and Arthur had to follow Malora through several winding, twisting corridors and up separate flights of stairs before they finally reached the uppermost part of the tower.

It wasn’t an easy, nor pleasant journey, the Hightower the largest man-made structure in the known world. Arthur was out of breath by time they began the last endless, winding set of stairs, but Malora kept pace with strange ease, moving with her odd light steps, not made clumsy at all by the skirts of her dress. He noticed at one point that she was barefoot.

Only when they reached the top of the tower did Malora indulge in a long, trembling breath and use her forearm to wipe the sweat from her brow. She shook herself, then tugged Arthur through a door of dark, dark wood. The first thing he noticed, the only thing he noticed, was the tall candle on the center of a broad table. Glistening and black and twisted, its flame burned so unnaturally bright that it hurt Arthur’s eyes. It didn’t flicker at all, and the light it cast made the room’s colors seem too vivid.

“At the Citadel,” Malora told him, and he could barely hear her, his eyes on the fire, “the maesters put acolytes, ready to complete their chains, into a room with a glass candle, and tell them to try to light it. The test is to realize it cannot be lit. That there is no magic in the world. Some things must not be known.” She reached out as if to touch the dragonglass, but let her fingers only hover over it. “This is the only one in the world that’s aflame. For now. The Hightower is special, and my family has a history of sorcery…”

For a moment, Arthur had only a vague sense of why he’d come. He remembered belatedly. “Jaime.”

Malora drew around the table and grabbed him by the arm. In the light of the candle, her hair was like spun gold, her eyes so bright they seemed to glow. “If you know someone, who they are, where they are, you can see them with this.”

He couldn’t help himself. “You couldn’t have told me of this—”

“Earlier?” she chided. “To what end? We did not know it was this Maester Qyburn, then—” She’s been watching us this morning. “—and I can only look one place at a time. I could not watch the cesspit, and you, and Jaime, Willow, and Hanna, all at once. And I must sleep.” Her frown was deep. “I tried not to rest too much.”

Arthur shook his head roughly. “Of course you need sleep. Ignore me. I don’t know how these things work. You’ve seen Jaime?”

She nodded and guided him closer to the candle. “You can see, too. Look, and focus on who you want to find. You’ll be able to see him, though no one else can see you.” 

Though skeptical he’d be able to do anything at all—he wasn’t like she or Rhaegar, wasn’t magical in the least—Arthur leaned toward the candle and fixed his eyes on the flame. The room seemed to move and shift around him, images blurred at first, then taking form behind his eyes, though he could still feel his feet on the ground, his hands braced on the candle’s table. He fought the urge to blink and fixated on the image of Jaime in his head.

Arthur’s hands pressed more firmly into the table as the fire disappeared, and he seemed to be standing both inside the Hightower, and within a dark space, the walls and floor made of packed dirt like in a dug-out cellar. At first glance, he didn’t recognize Jaime. When he did, he could only stare incredulously until he remembered that Garth had encouraged him to go in disguise.

It was a… good one, Arthur admitted after a moment. Jaime’s hair twisted and piled atop his head almost exactly like how the women in Hanna’s brothel wore theirs. Face painted similarly to Hanna’s, his lips red and his eyes dark, and he’d found a dress, and managed to stuff the bodice in a convincing way. Was otherwise slender enough that the fabric hid the muscles he’d developed through training. For an instant, Arthur could’ve laughed.

Then the shock of seeing Jaime faded, and he noted other things. That Jaime was chained to a wall, a bloody arm draped over his lap, bandaged with fabric from the skirt of his dress. His eyelids looked heavy, his eyes strangely glassy. Willow sat beside him, clinging to his side. Qyburn had shaved her head, and it made her eyes look far too big on her thin face. Next to her, a younger, almost skeletal child sat shivering, and when Arthur tried to take in its face, his heart dropped to realize the figure had no eyes, only dark and empty sockets.

Arthur turned and found he could take in the rest of the space. He located another figure not far from their small group, alive enough to breathe, but staring blankly across the room, scars and stitching visible across the young woman’s head, and her mouth lolling open. Beyond, candlelight lit the spacious, low-ceilinged room, casting shadows across glass containers and sharp metal tools, and strange jars that held eyes and organs. Two corpses lay open on cots shoved against the room’s far wall, and another body rested on a sturdy table in the center of the space. This one was… not a corpse, but a collection of separate parts. Mismatching legs. The arms alike, but the torso different, and full of carefully arranged organs suspended in pale liquid.

It took Arthur a moment to find Qyburn at a desk in a far corner, a pinched look on his face as he paged groggily through a large volume, the hand he wasn’t using set carefully on the top of the desk, swathed in bandages already beginning to stain through with blood. He had a bruised eye and a split lip, and whatever he’d managed to do to Jaime, it was clear he hadn’t subdued him easily.

Arthur fought the surge of rage that threatened to swallow him, and he scoured the rest of the space, trying to find the way out, but the further he strayed from Jaime, the fainter his surroundings grew.

He became aware of Malora grabbing his arm, of her voice in his ear. “Perhaps Jaime might tell you. Go to him, reach for him. Imagine yourself inside his head. Inside his dreams.”

Any reservations about approaching his squire had become irrelevant. He could worry about guilt or self-consciousness later. Arthur swiftly crossed the space, then fell to one knee at Jaime’s side. “Jaime,” he tried to say, but his voice sounded hollow and sparse as a distant wind. Imagine myself inside his head.

Imagination had never been one of his particular talents. Arthur nonetheless tried, moving his face closer to Jaime’s, looking him directly in the eye and desperately willing something, anything to happen. The room grew more unfocused, and Arthur ceased feeling as if he wore his own skin, could no longer feel Malora or the table, retained only the dimmest impression of the candle before him. All was dark and blurry, and he felt like he walked half-blind across shifting sand.

Then  dark stone walls grew around him, surroundings lit by candles in golden sconces. He’d visited the castle several times, and soon recognized Casterly Rock. Mist seemed to dance around his feet, and distant laughter echoed. He moved toward it, turning a corner to find Jaime and Cersei holding wooden swords, neither older than six, and identical save the fact that Cersei wore a dress, and Jaime a tunic and breeches.

“Be careful,” Jaime warned his sister. “There’s ghosts down here. Gery said so.”

“Careful?” Cersei said, laughing. “Are you scared?”

“I’m never scared.” Jaime’s voice was sharp with offense. “I’m a knight.”

“A scared knight,” Cersei said, then danced out of his reach when he tried to swing at her. “Stop that. We’re adventuring together, you said. Or did you get so scared you forgot?”

Arthur stepped in front of them, and both twins jumped. Cersei moved forward, Jaime back and behind her. Cersei’s face was dark. “Leave,” she snarled, cold and nasty. “We don’t want you here.”

Jaime grasped her, pulling her back. “Don’t. We need to run. He’ll take you—”

“Cersei isn’t here,” Arthur said softly. “Jaime, look at me. I need your help.”

“Of course I’m here,” Cersei said. “I’m wherever Jaime is. We’re the same person, and I’d never leave him. Not ever. We have the same soul.”

Arthur knelt again, like he had in front of Jaime’s body. “You’re trapped, Jaime. Remember Qyburn? Oberyn and I are trying to find you, but we don’t know how. Do you remember how you got to that place he took you?”

Jaime looked at him in confusion.

Cersei stalked forward with her sword lifted. “You don’t care. Don’t pretend to care. Better you leave, better you go far away, and never, never come back. We don’t need you.”

“Remember Willow?” Arthur tried. “She needs help too.”

“She doesn’t matter,” Cersei said. She turned away from Arthur and grabbed Jaime. “No one matters but us, remember? Don’t listen to him. He’s lying. He always lies.”

“W-Willow.” Jaime rubbed his eyes, and the Rock fell away. They were standing outside, the sun bright overhead. The Hightower piercing the sky in the distance. Cersei was gone. Jaime told Arthur, “I’m dreaming. You aren’t here.” Since Arthur feared he wouldn’t be so cooperative if he didn’t think as much, he kept quiet. Jaime added, “You wouldn’t come anyway.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Arthur said, his voice choked.

“Maybe for Willow,” Jaime allowed after a moment. They moved toward the ruins of a building, its edges blurred. Arthur committed it to memory as best he could. “Unless you thought Rhaegar would be really angry you let Tywin’s son die. I suppose you might help me then.”

“I would help you for your own sake,” Arthur said. “Because I am worried.”

“No you wouldn’t.” The inside of the ruins was more indistinct than the outside, some parts of the old building nothing but vaguely colored splotches or gaping shadows. I can only see what Jaime remembers, he realized. They kept walking until Jaime came to a solid section of floor, fumbled a while, then pried up a loose board. Beneath was a chain, and Jaime used it to yank up a square of floor. “There,” he said. “Like that.”

Arthur did his best to determine where they were in the room. Once that was done, he put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder and found his eye. “I am sorry. About what I said. About how I said it. I tried to be patient with you, to understand, and I overestimated my ability to do so.”

“What do you care?” Jaime cast his eyes down, then blurted, “My father said you were only putting up with me for the prince. That I’d shown I don’t have any honor, that I’m not right, and you would’ve washed your hands off me right away if I wasn’t useful. He said I shouldn’t make an idiot of myself thinking anything else.”

“Jaime,” Arthur said, grabbing his arms. Horrified. But of course Tywin would. It meant he could play along with Rhaegar’s gesture overtly without risking Jaime actually growing attached to Arthur. Gods, maybe he even believed it. Arthur shook his head hard. If Jaime had thought that for weeks…

Jaime looked tired. “But I’m dreaming. It doesn’t matter.”

“That isn’t true. Jaime—”

Jaime lifted his head as if he’d heard something. A voice from outside reached them, and briefly, only for a moment, Arthur was back in Qyburn’s rooms, aware of the man speaking as he approached Jaime’s cell. Then Jaime woke, and Arthur fell out of his dream and found himself standing in the Hightower once more, his knees weak as grass. Malora stood at his side, holding him upright.  

“Ser?”

Arthur’s stomach heaved as he tried to move, and his head was light. He blinked away a spell of dizziness, then drew himself straight. “I need to go.” Arthur rubbed his eyes and staggered toward the door. “I need to go now.”

Chapter Text

Malora used the glass candle to contact Baelor, and by time they reached the Hightower’s base, he and Oberyn were already waiting with two horses. Arthur chanced a look at the sky, but the sun wasn’t yet at its midday peak. It felt like it should be evening. Like he’d spent a day or days scouring the city.

“I’ll call on you before we leave Oldtown,” Arthur told Malora distractedly. “To tell you—” What happens, he’d been going to say, then realized she would likely know.

She took his hand and pressed it firmly. “Return regardless. One last time.”

Arthur nodded. If it went poorly, he didn’t know that he would. But that wasn’t a possibility he cared to entertain. He managed to give Baelor a brisk thanks—had no idea what, precisely, the other man thought was going on—then mounted his borrowed horse and looked to Oberyn, who inclined his head and guided his sand steed forward at a trot. Slower than Arthur would’ve liked, but swiftly as was reasonable within the city. 

Once they’d crossed the bridge from Battle Isle to the main road running along the Honeywine, Oberyn asked, “Could she help?” 

“She had a way for me to contact Jaime,” Arthur said. “I know what the building he’s in looks like, how to get to Qyburn’s rooms.” He succinctly described the falling-apart home and the opening beneath the floorboards.

Oberyn gawked, though he waited until Arthur was finished to say, “It was a glass candle, wasn’t it?” He didn’t give Arthur the chance to answer. “Mother dragged Elia and I here seeking suitors, but they didn’t even show me the one with a glass candle.  A shame. Can you imagine how long her legs must be?”  

Arthur gave him a thoroughly disgusted look. “You speak of a highborn lady.”

“As if you haven’t had the same thought.”

Not in the mood for bickering, Arthur neglected to respond, and Oberyn huffed and shut his mouth. Arthur tried to reclaim the focused calm he’d more or less managed the whole of the morning, but he remained weary and off-kilter after using the glass candle, and his thoughts spun restlessly back to the dream. To Jaime, Tywin’s lie, and that last glimpse of Qyburn moving toward the cell. 

Oberyn led the way to the cesspit, stopping Arthur to stable their horses on what he claimed was a nearby street. The area was as run-down as the district with Hanna’s brothel, but with both of them armed and Arthur’s face and gambeson bloody, those milling in the streets couldn’t seem to turn away fast enough.

They sprinted the final stretch. Arthur smelled the cesspit first, then they exited a narrow alley, and it lay in front of them. Cesspit being an understatement. Less a hole, more a pond, several meters across and clearly deep, over halfway filled with soupy brown sludge that tainted the air with a foul odor. The buildings in the immediate vicinity were abandoned as Garth had described. Trash and other waste had begun to pile against falling down walls and fences, as if those who cleaned the city had decided this place didn't warrant their full effort.

At the same time, the area was strangely small. Arthur had expected it to be more cut off, more expansive than it was. Even in Jaime’s dream it’d seemed larger. It took a moment to reorient himself, but he found the proper building within seconds, then dashed for it without waiting to see if Oberyn would follow.

Inside, the floors were warped and covered with dust and mold, and the smell worse than it’d been outside, as if it’d been slithering through the windows and pooling within. Arthur didn’t pause to pay it mind, scouring the floor for any section that didn’t look right. Walking carefully, listening to his steps—pausing when one produced a hollow thud.

He knelt, as Jaime had. Felt around until his prodding moved a section of board just enough to let him get his fingers beneath and pry it up. Oberyn came up behind him, his shadow falling over the boards as Arthur grasped for and found the chain. He stood and pulled, and like in Jaime’s dream, a portion of the floor came up and revealed an opening and a ladder.

A lamp had been lit somewhere, close enough to let him see the floor. Not far. Arthur lowered himself onto the ladder and only bothered with two rungs before he let go and landed in a crouch. In a single motion, he straightened, turned, and drew his longsword. He stood in a short, dark hall with a wooden door at the end, this cracked open and more light spilling from within.

Arthur crossed the space in three long steps, aware of Oberyn landing behind him. He tightened his grip on his sword and threw the door open, revealing the room he’d glimpsed with the glass candle. The air was thick with an unnatural smell as well as the metallic tang of blood. It was as he remembered. The jars, the body laid out on the cot, the array of tools placed neatly across a heavy wooden table. The cell.

He moved toward it and noted Willow inside, her head lifting just as he looked toward her. She sat slumped against the grate, fingers wrapped around it as if she’d been trying to get out. Willow’s eyes widened as they met Arthur’s, her mouth opening. When words seemed to fail her, she lifted an arm to point.

Arthur rounded the table and found two figures on the floor. Jaime slouched against the wall nearest the cell, eyes closed, his head lolling to one side. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage on the arm draped across his lap.

Qyburn had braced himself against the table itself, and he audibly struggled for breath, both hands pressed over his stomach and dark blood seeping between his fingers. Jaime’s new dirk lay beside him, gleaming with blood. The maester’s gaze initially rested on Arthur with shock and a baffled lack of understanding, but he soon found the coherence to grit out, “That girl stabbed me. She b-brought me to this place, and…” He groaned and stopped.

Arthur took a long look at Jaime to ensure he was breathing, that there weren’t any other injuries. He glanced back at Willow, who’d folded in on herself and begun to cry. Noted, too, the other children with her. The younger was a girl, he could better tell now. The one without the eyes. Seven or eight. As he watched, she crawled toward Willow. “What is that?” she rasped. “What’s happening?” The third figure did not so much as blink.  

Arthur looked at Oberyn and gestured toward the cell with his head. Get them out. Then he fell to one knee at Qyburn’s side. He kept his voice gentle. "I'll get help, but tell me first, what's wrong with him?"

Qyburn's eyelids fluttered. "Who?"

"The girl,” Arthur amended. "The one who stabbed you. Be honest. I'm an understanding man. I see you did this out of passion for knowledge. I'm not angry, but I must know."

Qyburn smiled, or tried to. “Later. You must help me now. It… it’s a serious wound."

"This will be quick. Answer my question."

He coughed, and it made his face contort with such pain that Arthur might’ve pitied him, if his crimes had been less monstrous. “T-they always fight when they see… my creations. I’ve concocted a substance, they need only breathe it in, and they grow faint. It weakens them.” He lifted a shaky hand. The bandaged one. “It works better with some than others. She nearly bit off my finger, when I first tried to lock her away…” The sentence fell away into a whimper. 

“Shh. Go on.”

“It hurts.”

“I’ll get help soon.”

“My work distracted her,” he wheezed. “I grasped one of my knives...”

“Then stabbed her arm?”

He nodded. “Later… once my hand had stopped bleeding, I thought it prudent to permanently incapacitate her. Before the substance wore off. It would have been difficult to get close enough to give her another dose, and she had been sleeping. I thought it safe—”

“Permanently incapacitate?”

“You can remove part of the brain if they are too much trouble.” He shut his eyes. Another pained cough. “She had a weapon. Beneath her dress. Stabbed me. Tried looking for keys to the cell... but could not remain conscious.”

Arthur loosed a breath. “She’ll wake?”

“In… time. Yes.” Both of his hands trembled. “Ser Arthur, please.”

“Is this the only such place you have?” Arthur asked. Qyburn looked fearful. “I do not judge you. I only want to know. I’ll get help soon, but you must tell me first.”

“Yes. The only place.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. Oberyn had managed to open the cell and had one arm around Willow, was trying to convince the girl without eyes to follow. Jaime still did not move.

"She'll wake?" he checked again.

"Yes, yes. Ser Arthur, please. It hurts."

Arthur looked back to Jaime one more time. Permanently incapacitated echoed in his head, and he stood. With deliberate slowness, he picked up the parchment he'd seen Qyburn writing on in the glass candle, and every other scrap of it he could find. Arms full, he threw them onto the dirt floor in front of the maester, retrieved a nearby lamp and let oil dribble out onto the pages. He then held one piece to the flame before dropping it atop the others.  

They caught fire and began to burn.

Qyburn stared and whimpered, curling in on himself. "You said... no, no, that was... You are cruel."

"I'm going to burn that—" Arthur pointed to the strange, jumbled together arrangement of body parts, "—soon, but I don't want you to die in the meanwhile. I wouldn’t want your death on my squire’s hands.

"Your..."

Arthur tipped his head to Jaime. “My troublesome squire. Of whom I am very fond.” Arthur picked up Jaime’s dirk, bowed his head to look the maester in the eye, then stabbed his throat and yanked the weapon swiftly out. A rush of blood followed. A noiseless gasp, and it was over. Arthur cleaned the blade on Qyburn’s robes before tucking it into his sword belt.

By time he turned, Oberyn had the blind girl in his arms. He whispered something in her ear that made her give a dark and breathless laugh. Arthur was queerly certain it had to do with Qyburn’s death. Qyburn gone, Willow found the courage to release Oberyn and run to Jaime.

“He’s fine?” she asked. “He’ll wake?”

“He should.” 

Oberyn bounced the blind girl gently over his hip, as if she was three or four years younger than she was. Oddly naturally for all that. He has daughters. One about her age. A strange thought. Uncomfortable.

More so when Arthur remembered the third girl. He looked into the cell to find her sagging, her throat slit. “What—”

“She was gone,” Oberyn said. “He took part of her brain. Do you know what that—”

“But—”

“Gone,” Oberyn repeated. “She could not hear me. Would not look at my eyes. Could not speak.”

Arthur only stared.

Oberyn kept talking. “We should go. We’ll come back and deal with the bodies later. It’ll be a task to get them up the ladder, and it can wait.”

A fair point. Arthur drew in a long breath, his eyes still on the girl. Feeling as if he should protest. Surely there’d been some better solution? The sight of the girl clinging to Oberyn, of Willow clutching Jaime’s still form, quieted the urge to argue.

“Yes,” he said. “We should go.”

They went to Hanna’s brothel. It seemed the best place. Closer than the inn, with fewer curious eyes than the Citadel, and it felt kindest to get Willow to her aunt as quickly as possible. The girl without the eyes was called Melly, and she rode in front of Oberyn on his sand steed, the prince having let her touch the horse’s nose before gently setting her on, then jumping up behind her. Willow rode with them, clutching Oberyn’s waist.

Arthur managed to prop Jaime in front of him and held him in place so he wouldn’t fall off. It wasn’t the most elegant arrangement, and Jaime would surely be mortified if he found out about it later—Jaime would be mortified by so much of this—but Arthur found comfort in watching the rise and fall of his shoulders, feeling his occasional shift, or hearing his infrequent, unintelligible murmurs.  

After they stabled their horses, Arthur carried Jaime inside, holding him slightly closer than was necessary. Checking his face every few steps to convince himself he was alive and safe. Inside the brothel, the well-dressed woman who’d addressed them two days prior took one look at their group and sent them to the private room where Hanna had lain Owen’s body. Assuming the pallet on which he’d rested had been Hanna’s, Arthur knelt to place Jaime atop it.

“Look at his arm,” he told Oberyn. None of them had spoken for some time, and  Melly jumped at the sudden noise, tightening her hold on Oberyn’s neck. He’d put her on his back after dismounting, and she seemed content to stay there, face buried against his throat.

Oberyn did as bid, crossing the room and lowering himself next to Jaime, passenger still attached. As he unwound the makeshift bandage, the door opened, and Hanna ran in. Willow cried out and flew toward her, charging so swiftly they both nearly fell over. Arthur tried not to listen in, but couldn’t help but hear Hanna repeat Willow’s name like a prayer, and Willow sobbing, “I’m all right, I’m all right,” in a manner that was far from convincing.

Melly began to shake, and on closer look, Arthur realized she was crying, moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes, running across her cheeks, some trickling back into the empty sockets.

Oberyn leaned back on his heels, bringing a hand to touch her cheek even as he faced Arthur. “The blade was thin, and I cannot see that it’s caused significant damage, though it’d be easier to determine if he was awake. I’ll clean and bandage it, and you’ll have to change those every few hours for several days.” He rose. “I’ll see if Marya has wine I might heat, perhaps an old dress I can tear up.”  

He left with Melly on his back. Arthur remained on his knees next to the pallet but moved into a sitting position, eyes not leaving his squire’s face.

Hanna’s voice startled him. “H-he’ll wake?” She and Willow had disentangled from one another enough to move closer. 

Arthur nodded. “He should.”  

“I am sorry. About letting him—”

“It isn’t your fault.” Arthur kept his voice gentle. More so than it’d been when he offered his terse reassurance earlier. “Nobody lets Jaime do anything. I should try to curb that in him.”

“Perhaps a little,” Hanna said. She found his eye. “When Jaime came here looking for Willow, he told me you’d never truly given up. That you lied, thinking to protect him.” She wrung her hands. “I might’ve thought the worst of you for a while. That wasn’t good of me.”

Arthur shook his head. “I was reluctant to get involved. Worried about things that shouldn’t have mattered. Jaime had to talk me into it.”

Oberyn returned before they could talk further, and Arthur hovered while he tended Jaime’s arm. The wound was cleaned, strips of linen tied around it neatly and swiftly. After, Oberyn wiped his hands on his breeches and caught Arthur’s eye. “We should see to the bodies now. It’ll get more unpleasant the longer we leave them.”

Melly said, “You can’t. Stay.”

Arthur was tempted to agree with her. Leaving was the last thing he wanted, but Oberyn had a point. He inclined his head. While Oberyn tried to get Melly to release him, speaking in a soft, calm voice, Arthur approached Willow.

“Will you stay by Jaime?” he asked quietly. “If he wakes, tell him what we went to do, and that we’re coming back immediately after. Tell him I killed Qyburn, as well.” The last thing Jaime needed was to cope with killing his first man on top of everything else.  

A grave nod. With her head shaved, Willow looked strangely serious. Old, almost. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Can I wash his face? And undo his hair? I don’t know he’d like lying around made up like that.” She leaned closer as if sharing a secret. “He was real embarrassed about it.”

Arthur smiled at her, though he could feel how strained it must’ve looked. “He’d appreciate it.”

She blinked rapidly, running a hand over her head. “Least they didn’t cut off his hair. It’s prettier than mine.” She blinked again. “He was going to cut my head open. L-like the other girl. Except then Jaime came, and he got distracted.”

What could he possibly say to something like that? Arthur touched her arm lightly, making the motion slow in case she wanted to move away from it. “You have a good heart, to be glad for him instead of bitter for yourself. But… it was still your hair. Don’t discount that. And don’t forget you were strong too.”

She looked away. “I don’t feel like it.”

“It isn’t so difficult to act strong when you feel strong. When you feel weak, but endure anyway, that’s its own kind of strength.”

Willow worked her throat. “I’ll… try to remember that.”

By then, Oberyn had talked Melly into lying down on another pallet and wrapped a wool blanket around her. He stopped in front of Hanna to say, “Keep an eye on the little one,” then caught Arthur’s eye. They exited the room together.

Outside, Oberyn pasted on a falsely casual grin. “Now that your Jaime is safe and patched up, do I get to comment on the dress?”

“No.”

“He pulls it off quite well.”

“Do not mock him for it.”

“Or you’ll rough me up like you did Garth? I would not protest.” Oberyn gave him a sultry smile. “I told Jaime not long ago that I failed to see the appeal of your stern self-righteousness. That was a misjudgment. I had not seen you care.” A long, mournful sigh. “I begin to understand how young Jaime feels.”

“Is it the time?” asked Arthur, pained. 

“Why not? We’ve fixed it all.” They entered the nearby stables. Oberyn added, “You’ve never looked at a man and thought ‘maybe’? Not even your prince?”

“I’m too tired for this.” Arthur rested his cheek against the borrowed horse’s nose in apology for dragging the poor beast back and forth all day. “If you must, flirt tomorrow. But you’ve been decent much of today. Can’t you manage a little longer?”

Oberyn studied his face, then nodded. “As you wish, Ser Arthur. I will leave you in peace… for today.”

Much as Arthur appreciated it, peaceful was the last thing he’d consider their ride to the cesspit. With room enough to think, the feelings he’d suppressed throughout the day began to wind through him. Tywin’s lie haunted him most. Knowing Jaime had spent weeks believing Arthur wasn’t only disgusted by him, but enduring his presence solely for political reasons, rooted an ache in his chest so fierce it throbbed like an open wound. He’d assumed Jaime hurt and angry, had thought him lashing out because of that. So he hadn’t addressed the problem, hoping it’d go away with time.

A mistake that’d let the lie fester. It seemed too clear now, how Jaime would occasionally let down his guard, then slam his walls back up moments later. How persistently cruel he’d been. Not an attack, not retaliation against Arthur for breaking his trust. Defense. Taking care never to forget that Arthur didn’t like him after all.

Arthur itched to see Tywin Lannister again. It’d be easy to get a private meeting with the Hand, and if Arthur went after him with his fists, there’d be nothing the other man could do. Recalling Jaime’s shining eyes the night before, he wondered if he could make Tywin cry. He isn’t worth the dishonor, he thought. And Rhaegar wants him as an ally. Neither point felt convincing. 

Angry as he was, Arthur also ached on his squire’s behalf. For Jaime to have been taken while struggling to cope with the lie, seeing the horrors in Qyburn’s rooms, being wounded and locked up and fearing Arthur wouldn’t come for him… Leaving him at Hanna’s grated, though perhaps it was for the best. Arthur’s emotions too much wanted to manifest in the type of gestures he’d once indulged with Ashara. Stroking her hair or singing her to sleep, holding her when she had nightmares. None of it suitable for a boy of nearly three and ten, nor a knight and his squire. 

Perhaps time to settle my mind is best, he told himself, and this proved to be the case. The mindless work of cleaning up took the worst edge off the jumbled feelings twisted up inside him. With effort, he and Oberyn hauled Qyburn’s corpse up the ladder, weighed him down with heavy stones from a nearby rubble heap, then rolled him into the cesspit, the man disappearing with a satisfying squelch.

“The Sword of the Morning just helped me hide a body,” Oberyn said aloud, sounding almost like Jaime. “This is brilliant.”

Arthur smiled, his mood briefly improved by seeing Qyburn disappear into a mess of shit. The rest of their work proved less pleasant. They burned the girl and the patchwork corpse outside. Oberyn threw the contents of the jars into the fire as well. Neither of them said a word. Then it was done, the sun finally drawing low.

“I plan to take Melly to Sunspear,” Oberyn said as they rode toward the brothel. “If I waste a day or two studying, I can get my last link soon as my instructor has the chance to test me, and I see no further reason to stay.”

“Her family—”

“She has none, she says.” He shrugged. “I am certain my mother could summon some household tasks for a blind girl, and she will be treated well. I’ll keep her in my apartments in the meanwhile.”

“Kind of you,” Arthur couldn’t help but remark. Not suspiciously, quite. But perhaps with more surprise than was warranted.

Oberyn peered out into the city. When he turned to Arthur, his smile held a note of strain. “I was curious about Qyburn’s work. Isn’t that terrible? A shiver went through me when you set those papers aflame. I am not blind to myself, Arthur. I know I am… flawed. Sometimes knowledge of that strikes me more than others, and I am possessed by the queer urge to do something decent to prove to myself I can.”

“You could do decent things all the time,” Arthur said, “and stop doing questionable things, and it wouldn’t be a matter of concern.”

Oberyn laughed. “You ask too much of me, I fear.”

They reached Hanna’s shortly thereafter. Stabled their horses, both of who looked thoroughly put out with the routine. Arthur was as well, and weariness washed over him as he and Oberyn ascended the staircase once again.

The door to the room had been left open, and Arthur paused to peer inside before he entered, courage faltering. Jaime wasn’t on the pallet; Willow had curled up atop it instead, covered by a coat that was slightly too big, and slept soundly. Hanna sat next to her, leaning against the wall and clutching her niece’s hand. Melly too appeared to have drifted off. 

Jaime stood next to the room’s single window, cheek pressed against it as he stared out. Willow had found him clothes to wear. In worn breeches and a roughspun tunic, he didn’t look a squire or a young lord, but only a child. An injured one, with his arm cradled against his stomach.  

Arthur opened the door further, and the hinges creaked. Jaime started, then looked over at him. He pasted on a careless smile. “Went to take care of bodies, I’m told? What became of Qyburn’s?”

Oberyn moved past Arthur. “We threw it in the cesspit.”

Jaime made a noise like a laugh.

Willow stirred at their arrival. Melly too. Oberyn laughed when the girl clambered over, but put an arm around her shoulder and tucked her against his side as he went to Jaime and asked questions about his arm, touching and turning it every so often, until he turned and told Arthur nothing important had been damaged, and it should heal fairly quickly.

They didn’t linger long afterward. Oberyn left with Melly, and while Jaime spoke a while longer with Willow, she kept yawning, and Hanna finally suggested they leave and return on the morrow if Jaime wished.

When Jaime saw there was only one horse, he looked like he might scream. Arthur suggested they walk, and the sun cast long shadows as they made their way back to the inn. As afternoon shifted to early evening, the day’s unseasonable warmth gave way to a slight chill, and clouds gathered over the Whispering Sound.

Arthur didn’t try to speak. The conversation they needed to have wasn’t one that could be held in the street. They would talk upon reaching the inn, however. He’d moved beyond caring that Jaime might think him a fool, or overly sentimental. It didn’t matter. Better Jaime thought him weak than cruel.

By time they reached the Quill and Tankard, the evening air seemed to have given Jaime a measure of energy he’d lacked on leaving the brothel. Arthur stopped him outside, holding his horse’s reins. “If you’re hungry, order yourself supper. I… stole a horse this morning, and I should see to it.”

Jaime looked almost confused. After an odd beat of silence, he forced a smirk and said high-handedly, “I told you we should’ve gotten horses.”

He plans to pretend nothing happened. Arthur swallowed thickly and blinked away the curious heat trying to build in his eyes. “I don’t know. There’s something to be said for unpermitted borrowing.” A nod to do the door. “Go on. I’ll be in shortly.”

The stableboy leapt up when Arthur returned with the horse, blabbering about the palfrey’s owner not believing him when he said who took it. Arthur sighed and gave the lad a gold dragon before he went inside to approach the innkeeper about the matter.

The older man all but beamed when he saw Arthur, then called across the room to a silk-clad lordling a little younger than Oberyn. The man—or boy, really—strolled over with an impressive sneer, pointed features dripping condescension. “Is this about the horse again?” he drawled. “Will Prince Rhaegar himself have ‘borrowed it,’ this time?”

Arthur cleared his throat to draw the younger man’s eye. “She is a fair enough palfrey. I’ll give my dear friend a description of you and your horse, and shall he ever encounter you while in need of a mount, he’ll know yours would serve as well as any.” Arthur shifted Dawn off his back, casually picked at a fleck of blood on his gambeson, then glanced up like he’d forgotten the man was there. “I’m terribly sorry. Our Hand’s son was in danger, and finding him was my foremost priority. If you have further complaints, perhaps I could send a raven to Lord Tywin…”

The discussion ended with the lordling giving the innkeeper coin to compensate for the trouble he’d given him, apologizing profusely to both of them, and swearing to apologize to the stableboy as well.

It might’ve put Arthur in a fair mood had he not needed to ascend to his room afterward. Inside, Jaime had already changed into his own clothing and was digging into a bowl of soup. He paused and looked warily at Arthur.

“Finish eating,” Arthur told him. “I need to wash regardless.”

Jaime hesitated a moment longer, but went back to the soup in short order. Arthur washed his face and neck with the basin of water in the corner of the room, then donned clean garments free of blood. By time he’d finished, Jaime had set his bowl aside and sat atop the bed, eyeing Arthur as a mouse would a cat.

Arthur sat carefully at his side, keeping a small distance between them. “Are you well?”

He wasn’t surprised when Jaime scoffed. “Don’t bother with any of that. Is it an apology you want? I won’t give one. If I hadn't gone looking, we wouldn’t have found Melly. A-and—” A deep breath, an effort at a smirk. “I stabbed the evil maester. He was too hurt to kill me. I would’ve woken up and gotten them out. I didn’t need you.”

Arthur gentled his voice. “You’re right.”

Jaime glared like he thought Arthur joking. “The dress worked. I didn’t want to wear one. I’m not like… like Queen Lorea.”

“I don’t know who that is, but I thought it was clever. A good disguise.”

“I threatened a man with a knife.”

“He told me as much after I threatened him with Oberyn.”

Jaime moved away. “Stop that. You said what you really thought before. Just because you feel bad I got hurt, it doesn’t change anything. You can’t take it back.”

“I’ve apologized for that—”

He scrambled off the bed. “No you haven’t.”

Arthur let him work through it in his own head.

“That isn’t possible,” Jaime added firmly. “We haven’t seen one another.”

“You know we have. How did you think we found you?”

“I don’t bloody know. But you can’t—” Jaime stopped. “That woman, Mad Malora. She did it, didn’t she? That isn’t right. That was my head, my dream. I’m leaving. I’m—”

He whirled for the door, and Arthur sprang up and grabbed the back of his tunic, gently tugging him to a stop. “Jaime, look at me.” Jaime fell still, but didn’t turn around. Arthur lowered his hand, his chest aching. “Do I get to address your father’s words? I promise you I won’t be unkind. Please, believe that much of me.”

Jaime said darkly, “Fine. Say whatever you like. It needn’t be kind. I don’t care either way.”

Arthur struggled to swallow. His tongue felt heavy and useless in his mouth, everything he wanted to say wound up in a big, jumbled knot that caught in his throat. “Rhaegar—” The word came out too constricted. He breathed in deeply and tried again. “Rhaegar is interested in having your father as an ally. I won’t lie to you about that. We’re only traveling together because Tywin insisted on sending you back to the Westerlands, and the prince and I organized this journey to give him an alternative.”

“As my father said,” Jaime snapped. “If I wasn’t useful, you would have been pleased to see me go.”

“I would have regretted it deeply,” Arthur said, “but could hardly have justified this venture if keeping you with me was its sole purpose. And I couldn’t rationalize arguing to keep you in King’s Landing. You never would’ve left Cersei alone, and how volatile the king has been…”  

Jaime turned around slowly, still scowling. “That doesn’t matter. You’re still only putting up with me because of stupid Rhaegar. You would’ve been glad to get rid of me otherwise.” 

Arthur met his eye. “You assume as much... because I found you kissing your sister?” 

“Yes,” Jaime said harshly.

“Yet you claim I’m enduring your presence despite my aversion, out of loyalty to my oldest, closest friend, whom I love deeply.”

“You said you wouldn’t be cruel.”

“I’m trying…” Arthur decided it’d be best to simply explain. “Rhaegar’s parents are siblings. He spent his childhood wondering when his mother would birth a girl for him to wed, and grew distraught when it became clear it wouldn’t happen. When I told him why Tywin wanted to send you back west, he sighed and remarked that a twin ‘would have been convenient.’” Arthur tried to make the words soft, to sound kind. “Kissing Cersei was dangerous and thoughtless, but I judged it as a boy’s mistake. It didn’t occur to me to think there was something wrong with you.”  

Jaime backed up, pressing against the door. “M-my father said—”

“Your father lied.”

“No,” Jaime protested. His voice had gotten small. He jammed his eyes shut. “I don’t believe you.”

“He might not have done it out of malice. Perhaps he assumed... I do not know.”

“That isn’t…” Jaime kept shaking his head, like something was stuck inside, and he couldn’t knock it loose. Arthur gave him space and refrained from speaking. Finally, Jaime peeled his eyes open and said to the floor, “Can I sleep? I know I d-did already, but I’m tired, and… Can I sleep?”

His voice wasn’t right, the look on his face brittle and jagged. Arthur dipped his head, trying to see his eyes, but Jaime turned away. Arthur didn’t know what was still wrong, and took a guess. “I am sorry that I snapped at you. Sorry that I said the things I did in the way that I did. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I-it’s fine,” Jaime said. “I deserved it.”

“You didn’t,” Arthur insisted. “I spoke out of anger and hurt. Not malice, or because I thought to teach you anything.”

“Hurt?” Jaime’s voice grew even smaller.

“I am fond of you. I like having you as my squire.” The words came out stilted and awkward, tongue tripping over itself as the momentum from his initial explanation ground to a halt. Speak slowly. He’s listening. “You took the idea of knighthood so seriously. You loved it so much, tried so hard. As I try to. But once you’re grown, if you’re blatant about such things, men praise your goodness to your face and call you a fool with their eyes. I’ve learned to hide how much such things matter to me. With you, I never felt that need.” 

Jaime closed his eyes again.

This isn’t coming out right. “I suppose none of that showed,” Arthur murmured. “I’m not good at such things. But it is true. And… some of the things you said… I took them too much to heart. It isn’t an excuse. I only want you to understand.”

Jaime said nothing.

Arthur’s breath rushed from him at once. He had nothing else to say. Perhaps Jaime needed time. He tried to smile. “I’ll leave you to sleep. If your arm bothers you, or if you want to talk about what happened, or if you want me to get Oberyn, so you can talk to him—” He clamped his mouth shut before he could begin rambling. That’s enough. You’re growing ridiculous. Frustration slipped into his voice when he finished, “Let me know.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime tried to say, but his voice came out choked and strained. His act up, Jaime opened tear-filled eyes, glaring at Arthur as best he could. “I said you can go. I’m fine. It’s—It’s whatever the maester used to put me to sleep. It’s made me odd.”

Arthur strove to feign calm. “Jaime, let me…”

Jaime grabbed at his hair with his good hand, trembling and trying to take deep breaths that kept catching in his throat. Stubbornly, he shook his head. “Go away.”

Arthur closed the distance between them and reached out, but left his hand hovering, uncertain whether touching him would help or make things worse.   

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Go away—” Jaime lost his last semblance of control and began to sob like a child. He is a child. Arthur did reach for him then, embracing him as he would’ve Ashara, and Jaime froze for only a moment before he went boneless and began to weep into Arthur’s tunic, clinging to the fabric with his good hand and hiding his face against Arthur’s upper arm.  

In a strange way, Arthur found it an improvement on the weeks of fighting. The acting and games and anger. With a long exhale, he tightened his hold with one arm, used his other hand to brush Jaime’s hair from his face. Jaime tried to straighten, to stop, but he’d barely managed to catch his breath before a glance at Arthur’s face set him off a second time.

Arthur guided them to the bed and sat on the edge, pulling Jaime down beside him. They remained like that for a long while, though Jaime’s sobbing soon quieted into wrenching, silent tears that seemed endless. Even once he’d stopped, Jaime kept his face turned into Arthur’s now wet and snotty tunic and trembled horribly. 

Finally, his breath slowed, and Jaime pulled away with a sniffle. He’d gone pale and blotchy, his face wet and eyes pink.

“‘M sorry,” he managed, leaning away. He wiped at his tears with his sleeve, harsh and angry. His voice grew angry as well. “M-maybe I should put the dress back on. I’d probably be a better girl than I am a squire.”

Arthur could only shake his head. Close to crying himself, he went to the table with the basin and retrieved the towel he’d used after washing his face. After dipping it in the water, he gestured Jaime closer. “Come here. You’ll hurt your eyes if you keep rubbing them like that.”

Jaime shuffled over and tried to take the towel, but Arthur moved his hand aside and cleaned his cheeks and eyes, then turned it to the dry part and used it to wipe off the excess water. Jaime shut his eyes, mouth quivering as if that was nearly enough to make him weep again. This time, he refrained.

Arthur set the towel aside and took him in. Said finally, “There’s no shame in crying, particularly when life gives you such good reason. And we have established that you saved a girl’s life, have we not? How many squires in King’s Landing could say the same?”

Jaime stared at him with watery eyes, then wrapped his good arm around himself. “Oberyn said…” He stopped, then forced himself to continue. “He said when he squired for Lord Qorgyle, he would’ve been beaten every day if he treated him l-like I treated you. If… if my father lied, and I was wrong, I—” He shrunk away, his breathing coming hard again. Looking like he was going to be ill. “You must hate me. Stop being nice. You can beat me if you want.”

I’m going to kill Tywin. Arthur rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t hate you, and it’d be monstrous to beat you. You had no reason to disbelieve your father, and if he’d been correct, you would’ve been within your rights to speak to me as you did—”

“You only just found out that was why. Before—”

“Before, I knew I broke your trust. I knew you were hurting. I’d hoped you only needed time.”

“I didn’t mean any of it.”  

Yes, you did, Arthur thought, but he knew what Jaime meant. While he dithered over a response, Jaime started crying again and buried his face in the towel, though he looked up long enough to say miserably, “You should get a new squire.”

“I’m fond of the one I have.” Arthur casually went to his luggage and retrieved another tunic to change into. “Do you mind if I get a pitcher of the inn’s strong cider for us to share?” Ser Olyvar had gotten Arthur properly drunk the first time he killed someone. Jaime might not have killed Qyburn, but the situations weren’t dissimilar. Not that he planned to get Jaime drunk. A few glasses would suffice.

Jaime rubbed the towel across his face. “I-if you want?”

“I could bring more food too.”

Jaime bit his lip, then nodded. “I haven’t eaten in ages. More food would be good.” He made a noise when Arthur headed for the door. Arthur paused, and his squire asked, “You were so worried you stole a horse?”

Arthur discovered a smile, then a tired laugh. “I’m afraid it was worse than that. I’ll share the whole tale when I return, if you’d like?”

The smile Jaime gave him was almost shy. “Yes. I think I would.”

Chapter Text

Arthur slept on the pallet that night. Jaime had dozed off while Arthur recounted the day’s events, and while Arthur had initially lain down beside him after concluding the bed was large enough to share, a half hour of Jaime’s sprawling, kicking, and grappling for the blankets had driven him to the floor.

He slept only fitfully afterward, stirring often to check on Jaime to see that he was truly present, then scanning his face for evidence of nightmares. Despite this, Arthur woke feeling at ease, if not rested, and had little trouble coaxing himself to his feet shortly after sunrise. He’d intended to let Jaime sleep late, but when he looked over after washing his face, he found the boy sitting up in bed with an expression so wary Arthur wondered if Jaime didn’t fear he’d changed his mind about punishing his impertinence.

“Help me dress,” Arthur told him, “and we could train a little. Just so long as you don’t jostle your left arm.”

“Are we leaving today?” Jaime asked.

“Tomorrow, I think. I promised Malora I’d see her a final time, and I’d supposed you would want to check on Willow before we go.”

Jaime nodded. “What then? Where do we go next?”

Arthur thought about it. “Do you want to visit Casterly Rock? It’s the next major stop along the coast. We could take a ship there, then get horses and travel inland after.”

The offer made Jaime bite his lip, and he hesitated before answering. “If… you’re sure. I don’t need to visit.” But he wanted to. Arthur could tell by the longing on his face, how carefully he avoided Arthur’s eye as he insisted it wasn’t necessary.

“There’s no reason not to,” Arthur told him firmly.

“Right.” Jaime blinked. “That’d be good.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then stopped to stare at the empty pallet before facing Arthur. “You didn’t sleep on the floor!”

Arthur shifted his weight uncomfortably, more taken aback by the caution and now horror in Jaime’s voice than by the sharpness he’d displayed over the past weeks. He’d initially hoped everything would simply snap back to normal, the way it’d been before the incident with Cersei. But of course it wouldn’t. A lot had happened since then. The encounter with Qyburn alone was enough to leave anyone subdued, no matter how strong Jaime liked to act.

“It’s nothing,” Arthur told him, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ser Benedict recommended any knight of fortunate circumstance forgo small privileges on occasion, so he does not become dependent on them. A bed surely qualifies.”

“Who’s Ser Benedict?”

“A dead knight. Rhaegar read writing of his when he first developed an interest in martial matters, and he had a fondness for sharing parts he supposed I’d find interesting.” Arthur didn’t miss how Jaime paled at Rhaegar’s name, and he delicately said, “You never said whether you wanted to train.”

“Yes.” Jaime scrambled to his feet, still staring at Arthur. “Yes, of course I want to train.”

Arthur thought getting a sword in hand might help Jaime relax, but it did not. He rarely spoke if Arthur didn’t ask him a direct question, and when he did speak, he paused and considered his words first, as if he was trekking a frozen pond and didn’t dare chance a thoughtless step.

Arthur’s first instinct was to keep quiet and let him have his silence, but he couldn’t forget howJaime had mistaken his reserve for indifference, and he strove to fill gaps in conversations as they arose. It was easy while they trained, mostly remarks on what Jaime was doing well, gentle correction, inquiries after his injured arm. But as they walked to the Hightower, he struggled to find any safe, obvious topics and ended up making sporadic observations about his visits to Oldtown with Ser Olyvar.

Jaime’s occasional prodding questions or encouraging noises seemed to be prompted more by courtesy than interest, but it was the best Arthur could do. He took care to keep his relief from his face when reaching Battle Isle gave him an excuse to stop the sad attempt at chatter. They crossed the bridge to the tower in silence, then came to a guard at its end who didn’t appear the least surprised by their arrival.

“Ser Arthur, Jaime Lannister,” he said, giving a polite bow. “Lord Leyton was expecting you.”

Arthur briefly considered turning around and leaving the way they’d come. Jaime shifted closer to him, face pale.

“Of course he is,” said Arthur momentarily. I’ll only prove my guilt if I try to run. “If someone might escort us to him…”

Inside, they met a servant who’d been bid to do so. When the man had outpaced them by several steps, Jaime took Arthur’s arm and whispered, “We murdered a maester. What if he knows?”

“He can’t prove it,” Arthur whispered back, “and he can’t do anything to either of us without proof.”

Jaime nodded seriously. “Right. That makes sense.”

“That isn’t a philosophy applicable to any situation,” Arthur rushed on, still keeping his voice low. “The logic only applies this one time. Your ability to get away with an action undetected has nothing to do with whether that action is wise.”

“I don’t know if that’s necessarily true,” Jaime said, forgetting his hesitance for the moment.

Arthur couldn’t help but snort. Jaime heard and managed a partial smile. For an instant, things between them felt almost normal.  

The servant took them to the same room in which they’d met with Lord Leyton before. Arthur had hoped to find Malora with him, but only the Hightower waited for them, seated in the high-backed chair he’d claimed on their first visit. He stood to greet them both, his face difficult to read, regarding them in turn with pale eyes.

“My daughter told me you’d be coming,” Leyton said once they’d dispensed with the courtesies. “She is waiting to speak with you, in her rooms on the top floor.”

 “Can we go to her after we’ve finished here?” Arthur asked carefully. It wasn’t quite knightly to ask a lord to speak with his grown daughter alone, but he didn’t imagine Leyton would’ve mentioned it only to bait them.

“She’d be most unhappy if you didn’t.” Leyton reclaimed his seat and gestured for them to sit as well. After they’d done so, he went on, “I’m told she left the Hightower for the first time in years only three days ago. I also rather doubt my Baelor had chosen to host Oberyn Martell of all men without outside motivation. He is not fond of him.”

Arthur sat up straighter and put on his noblest expression. Jaime picked at his sleeve, harmless as a kitten.

“Those two things are indeed odd,” said Arthur.

 “A maester of the Citadel was reported missing this morning,” said Leyton.

“I am disturbed to hear it. Do you want us to look into the matter?”

Leyton rolled his eyes. “Was it curiosity that prompted you to go through all this trouble? Or did you care so much for the wellbeing of a whore?”

Arthur didn’t dare answer. Jaime folded his hands in his lap and asked nervously, “What are you referring to, my lord?”

A sigh. “Of course. I am sure the maester’s disappearance was merely an unfortunate accident.” He stroked his beard. “It is the queerest thing, Ser Arthur, but I begin to suspect you’re precisely what you appear to be. I’m almost charmed. A final question, and you may go to my daughter.”

Arthur inclined his head stiffly.

“Malora spoke of tensions in King’s Landing when you were last here. Ash, I believe she mentioned, and… confusion about who rules the realm.” Leyton’s eyes were piercing, but the set of his mouth was cautious. “What did she mean by that?”

Arthur glanced at Jaime, then down at his hands, fighting surprise. In its way, this line of inquiry was more dangerous than the remarks that’d preceded it. But had Rhaegar not wished him to delve into such matters with men like Lord Leyton?

Perhaps not so blatantly. The prince had implied Arthur was to gain a feel for the mood of certain lords, rather than approach them in any direct way. Leyton could easily be asking with the intention of reporting to the king, or using the information in some other way. He was Ser Gerold’s uncle, and that carried risks. If the Lord Commander caught a whisper of disloyalty from Arthur, he’d have him before Aerys the moment he set foot back in King’s Landing.

 “If I were to hazard a guess,” Arthur said carefully, “Lady Malora referred to His Grace’s… difficulty in overcoming the treasonous and horrific crimes carried out against him at Duskendale.” Arthur drew in a strained breath. “That incident has made King Aerys sensitive to the possibility of other traitors scheming to usurp him, and he is determined to punish them appropriately. With fire.”

Leyton cocked his head. “These traitors…”

“It is better for a king to punish the innocent, unintentionally,” Arthur said, “than to let a threat slip through his grasp. Or perhaps we are all guilty of some crime in His Grace’s eyes. His whims at times seem arbitrary. Keeping in mind I am his humble servant, and do not understand his wisdom.”

“That is illuminating. Say that I worry for His Grace’s health…”

“Your concern would be noted and valued, though I do not know he’s in a condition to appreciate it. Would you have me pass well wishes to the prince?”

Leyton’s eyes grew unsettlingly like Malora’s, as if he saw beyond Arthur’s face and to some deeper part of him. “Not just yet. But I think I have grasped the sort of man you are, and I do not expect you’d come to me with these concerns if they were not justified. I am willing to listen when there is more to hear.”

Arthur’s breath was still in his throat, but he nodded. “You are unexpectedly kind.”

“And you, unexpectedly refreshing. Now, as a staunch supporter of the Citadel, I must ask that you keep an eye out for anyone who might’ve brought this Maester Qyburn to harm. It’s a grave offense, and I would have to punish them severely.” Leyton paused. “Do you intend to remain in Oldtown much longer?”

“We’ll leave on the morrow.”

“That would be for the best.” The smile Leyton gave them was almost kind. “I think we’re done here, though I wish you luck on your travels.”

After they’d left him, Jaime let out his breath all at once. He looked at Arthur and ventured, “Ser, when you were talking about the king being… ill, it almost sounded like—”

Arthur put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “It sounded like what it sounded like,” he admitted. A risk to tell him, but if they were to continue traveling together, it’d be one less thing to hide. “Remember our talk of alliances the night before?” He barely dared whisper it. “The king’s… ill health is one reason Rhaegar would like your father’s support.”

Though Arthur could see that Jaime had commentary he wanted to offer, questions to ask, he only nodded. A relief. It wasn’t the place or time for that talk, and the less Jaime knew, the safer it’d be for him. If any of this should get back to the king, Arthur wanted to be able to say as honestly as possible that Jaime hadn’t had anything to do with any of it.

They ascended the endless flights of stairs in silence. The day before, the climb had been mildly irritating, but Arthur had been so focused on getting to Jaime, he hadn’t particularly noticed. Today it was an outright nuisance. He kept thinking they’d reached the top, only to find they’d only come to another of the tower’s tiered levels, and they then needed to locate another staircase and another flight of stairs, and another, until he wondered who in their right mind had decided building a tower to that absurd height was in any way reasonable.

Jaime, who’d grown up in the only castle in the Seven Kingdoms more ridiculous,  didn’t seem the least bit put out.

When they finally reached the top, they found Malora in the room with the glass candle, sitting in a cushioned chair near one window and looking outside, a book in her lap. With her pale hair and fine features, she could’ve been Rhaegar’s sister at first glance. Then she heard the door close behind them and turned her head to face them, mouth stretching into a grin, and the resemblance faded. She set the book aside and drew to her feet, thick braid swinging as she moved lightly around the table in the room’s center.

“I am glad to see you well,” she told Jaime, crossing to him first and taking him in. “Well but… sad?”

“Please don’t,” Jaime told her.

Malora’s mouth twisted. “You should not be sorrowful. You have a face better suited for smiling.”

Jaime seemingly resolved to ignore this, for he said, “I am grateful that you helped Ser Arthur find me. And assisted us with Qyburn.”

 “No, no. Maester Qyburn disappeared mysteriously, remember? It’s a tragedy.”

Jaime scoffed, but his face softened marginally. Then his gaze drifted to the glass candle, and it lingered there. He blinked. “That’s the… the magic thing? The one Ser Arthur used to talk to me?” He wandered closer, his head tilting as he studied it. “It’s…” He trailed off, at a loss for words.

“Do be careful,” Malora told him, putting a hand on his arm. “It can be difficult to look away once it pulls you in. Magic can be unkind.”

The remark stirred Arthur to remember his half-forgotten conversation with Marwyn some days previous, along with his own prior exchange with Malora—and her odd apology about Rhaegar having visions, that assumption Arthur would want to help the prince get rid of them.

He frowned deeply, though struggled to organize his musings with the candle so close, wishing to claim his attention. It was a relief when Malora pulled Jaime further into the room, toward the window she’d been sitting near before, and Arthur had the excuse to turn away and follow.

Belatedly, he recalled his courtesies. “I haven’t thanked you properly, my lady. Your assistance these past days has been—”

“A pleasure to give,” Malora interrupted, freeing Jaime’s arm to turn to Arthur and grasp his wrist. She looked him in the eye. “I do not know many people. Or like many people. Or… understand anyone. But you are not so strange, and I am glad we met. Knowing you exist helps me feel less alone.”

Had he ever heard something so strange or so sad? Arthur found himself taking her unoccupied hand with his free one, so he was grasping her in the same manner as she was him. “You could come to court. Or even… The prince, he would find you remarkable. Your house, your birth, they’re high enough the king might be persuaded to—”

“Make me a princess?” asked Malora with an arched brow, then a sad, chiming laugh.

“He might,” Arthur insisted, finding it’d begun to feel important. It was the heart of half the stories about knighthood he’d ever loved. Ladies locked away in towers were meant to be freed. Certainly, they weren’t meant to be… left, disregarded, turned away from. He too well knew how rarely stories matched with reality, but that did not make her seeming imprisonment any easier to swallow.

“It would be ill luck for me if he did,” Malora told him, a note of chiding in her voice.

“My lady?”

Malora turned to the window and peered through the grate, sunlight slipping between the gaps and washing across her pale skin. She wore a dress of deep, muted gold today, with ivory lace patterned delicately across the skirt and embroidered flowers snaking up the torso. He’d seen few ladies so finely dressed, and the habit seemed almost striking when he realized she rarely saw anyone else. It wasn’t likely she wore such gowns to impress; more probably, she simply found them beautiful.

“I could not leave the tower,” Malora said after a pause. She spun to cast her eyes around the room, taking in the books across the walls, then the candle on the table. “I was drawn here often when I was young. I loved the books, and I understood them well. My father encouraged my studies. Our house has a history of sorcery, but it’d been growing increasingly distant. Both of us were interested in… finding magical things again.”

She smiled, wispy and distant. “When it happened I could manage certain spells, when I could touch that old magic, I grew enamored with it. Then I figured out the candle, and I would spend days and days looking into its flame, watching all there is to see, all across the known world. But.” She shrugged. “Spend too much time away from yourself, outside your self, and it can be difficult to come back.”

“But you are here,” Arthur said.

“Somewhat,” she said. “But I am distracted. It is… it is ever so much worse when I venture out. All the people, the noise, the colors, it pokes and prods and pushes at me, and I can hardly see straight. Then I go away into my own head. It happened when I still tried to attend dances, and Father would find me curled into a ball and making noises. He’d grow horribly afraid. It’s a shame. I liked dancing.”

Arthur stared at her, then carefully met her eyes. “If you stopped looking into the candle, would it help?”

“It isn’t only the candle. I have dreams, sometimes, and glimpse things. Sometimes I… see things that others cannot. Or have feelings. It is like… I have sliced myself open, and take in a bit more of the world than anyone else. That will not go away.” She frowned. “The candle is probably most to blame. Lighting it took dark magic. Fire and blood.” Her nose wrinkled. “I was twelve. I suppose I did not know better.”

“Wait,” Jaime said, ashen. His eyes were wide. “You’re actually a witch, or a proper sorceress, or—”

Malora’s face lightened. “Perhaps a little, though it isn’t so exciting as you might think. No one can control magic. I certainly cannot. It is more a matter of waking it a little, asking the magic if it can’t do this thing, and hoping it listens. Sometimes it will do another thing, or not do anything, or sometimes it will do as you ask, but in a way you have not predicted. It’s all quite random.”

Arthur shook his head, though found he struggled to articulate what he wanted to say. “Surely there’s… some way to fix… this. You’re—”

She touched his arm. “There is no fixing it. I am not unhappy, and it is not so bad. I have good days.” Her eyes brightened. “I did go out, to find you.”

An excursion that couldn’t have taken more than an hour, on a day when rain would’ve kept most people from the streets. And he remembered now how even then, she’d clutched Baelor’s arm as they left, as if she needed to use him as a tether.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said.

Malora cocked her head. “Don’t be sorry for me. So many things better deserve your sorrow, and I would sooner you not be upset at all.”

Arthur rubbed his hands down his face, then let out his breath at once. He wasn’t sure how to respond, and found himself insisting, “I am sorry.”  

“You’ve said that.” She spoke with a smile in her voice, but Arthur fancied he caught a note of warning as well, like she might become cross if he didn’t stop dwelling on it.

Arthur took a deep breath and managed to gather his thoughts and emotions enough to more or less center with himself. Once more, he recalled her strange reaction to his mention of Rhaegar’s visions, and better understanding where that response came from, he couldn’t leave it unaddressed.

“Jaime,” he said, “can you wait outside for a moment?”

Jaime appeared grateful for the excuse to leave. Arthur watched him go, not quite able to look at Malora. The door closed too soon behind him, and there was nothing for it but to face her. Her eyes had grown curious, but  she still looked serene. As if what she’d confessed did not bother her. Perhaps it didn’t. She would’ve had time to get used to the idea, and it wasn’t an exchange without its benefits.

Arthur could imagine Rhaegar preferring her life to the one he was forced to lead as a prince. Able to spend his days reading in solitude, peering into a candle that let him see anything he wished, shielded from responsibilities he’d never wanted to bear.

“Ser?” asked Malora.

It took him a moment to order his words. “I only wished to ask… whether the prince’s visions might somehow harm him. When I mentioned them last time, you seemed worried, and Marwin spoke harshly of prophecy as well.”

Malora sunk into her chair, a frown touching her lips. “That is not an easy thing to answer.”

“Try.”

“Magic is not evil,” Malora told him. “Do not be afraid of it. I made mistakes because I was very young, and I saw it as something I could control. That is not how it works.”

“The visions are magic?”

“What else would they be?” Malora steepled her long fingers over her lap. “Visions and prophecy are… It seems wisest to see them as nuisances. They don’t benefit you. They can be quite misleading. They do not truly give you anything of worth, but they tempt you into thinking they might. And some are quite unpleasant.”

“Daenys the Dreamer saved her house with her visions.”

“It might be said in saving her house, she brought suffering to Westeros. All the fighting, the wars that followed. She saved her family, but how many families died out in the Targaryen Conquest?”

Arthur had little patience to tackle such questions. He found himself giving her the plain truth. “Rhaegar thinks the Long Night is coming. He thinks he might play an important role in ending it.”

Malora blinked at him owlishly. “Because he’s had visions?”

“There’s a prophecy, too.”

She wrinkled her nose. “If the prophecy is true, it will come true no matter what anyone does. If not, it isn’t a real prophecy. If his visions are true, they will come true. If they are not, they will not. Neither are matters to dwell on. As I say, nuisances. Such things do nothing but distract you from what is, by pulling you into what might be.”

Arthur turned this in his head for a time, trying to contextualize it. Malora didn’t necessarily know these things as facts. She and Rhaegar were roughly of age. They’d probably grown up similarly, surrounded by books they read compulsively. Believing in things that most men would say no longer existed, if they ever had at all. There was little solid reason to believe a woman he’d just met knew better than a friend he’d known since he was a child.

Isn’t there? he thought, his attention snapping to the candle so readily it was as if it’d been waiting to do so since he’d last torn free of its pull. Rhaegar had always been more interested in studying the abstract. Far as Arthur knew, he’d had no interest in practical magic with the exception of the occasional show of curiosity about hatching dragon eggs.

Malora rather outdid him in that regard. But if she was correct, and Rhaegar was amiss in paying mind to such things, what did that mean?

That it shouldn’t be our priority, thought Arthur, answering his own question. That we should be more worried about the king who likes to burn people, than an uncertain threat.

That didn’t feel right, either. If the Long Night was a genuine concern, wouldn’t ignoring it be the worse evil?

“Perhaps,” Malora offered, “try to use his warnings as a signal to keep alert, and not a guidebook to be followed precisely?”

Arthur took a minute to digest this. Finally, he said, “If I were to write a letter, would your maester be so kind as to send it for me?”

“If you want to speak with the prince, you might simply do so.” Malora regarded the candle. “It won’t hurt you.”

Arthur didn’t particularly want to contact Rhaegar with the glass candle. It’d require too many explanations, and he couldn’t forget that he’d spent very little of his stay in Oldtown doing what he’d been meant to do. He was also tired. Almost astonishingly so, he realized at once. Fielding questions appealed to him not at all.

Malora said, “I might do it after you leave?”

“You don’t need to—”

“It’s nothing for me,” she told him gently.

Arthur pressed his lips together. “Tell him that I want to speak with him in person. I’m going to Casterly Rock next. If he’s able to arrange something, he can send a letter there, with the particulars.”

Malora nodded. “I will let him know.”

Arthur felt like he should say more, or apologize again for her circumstances, little good as that would do. But she’d begun to look distracted, and Jaime was waiting in the hall. “I pray we’ll meet again.”

“As do I.” She paused for a moment, then reached back to her winding braid and swung it over her shoulder before undoing the ribbon at its base with deft, slender fingers. She held it out to him with a smile. “A favor, to give you luck on your travels.”  

Arthur had been uncertain he’d all but outgrown his shyness, but the unexpected offer took him so thoroughly off guard he could do naught but take the ribbon in blinking silence, aware of heat coming into his face. “I—Thank you, my lady.” He noted it was white… like the tower on her house’s sigil, or the star on his… or like his Kingsguard cloak. He smiled sadly. “I will keep it close.”

When he left, he found Jaime sitting on the floor in the corridor outside, chin on his knees. He rose at Arthur’s exit. “Are you all right, ser?”

“I think so,” Arthur said.

Jaime’s eyes lit upon the ribbon. “You got a favor. Did she kiss you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, his nose scrunching. “I’ve never heard any songs or stories about knights getting favors from ladies such as that.”

Arthur surreptitiously tucked the ribbon into a pocket of his breeches. “Ashara has said she’s never met a lady half so boring as those in most songs. I do not think they are a good measure.” He lightened his voice. “Now, did I not say we might visit the lady you so gallantly rescued?”

“I didn’t actually,” Jaime muttered. “And she’s no lady.”

“A knight should treat all women as if they’re ladies,” Arthur told him, already making his way down the hall. But he looked back before they began their long descent, and found himself doing so several more times as they took their leave of the Hightower.

Willow found them before they reached the brothel, sitting outside on a nearby street and wearing her oversized coat, along with a woolen hat to cover her head. She jolted to her feet upon glimpsing them and hurried over, one hand lifted to keep her hat in place. “I wasn’t sure you’d come by before you left.”

“We’re not going until tomorrow,” said Jaime. “We thought to say good-bye first.”

Willow grinned, though it turned shy when she chanced on catching his eye. “Your arm is fine, then?”

“Hardly hurts at all.”

Willow shrugged up her shoulders close to her ears and gave him an unhappy look. “I wish you could stay. You only just got here. I don’t suppose you’ll ever come back?”

“I might,” Jaime said, though he sounded doubtful. “Ser Arthur and I are journeying now, but once he makes me a knight, I’d be able to go wherever I like.”

A smile ghosted to her lips. “You’re going to be a knight again? You weren’t saying that the other day.”

He turned pink to his ears. “Well. I don’t know. I’ll see.”

“You’d make a good knight. A-and.” Now she turned red. “You’d look real nice in armor, I bet.”

“Of course I would,” Jaime said, taking the compliment as if it was an expected, completely natural remark.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

For a moment, both Jaime and Willow were silent. Willow still looked sad, and the resignation in the set of her mouth led Arthur to suspect she didn’t believe Jaime actually would come back, or perhaps that she imagined he wouldn’t remember her at all.

Finally, Jaime said, “Don’t go poking around for murderers anymore.”

She swatted his good arm. “I didn’t do it for fun, lordling.” Then she set her face, like she was steeling herself for something. Her face turned redder. “Jaime,” she said, so he’d look at her. Soon as he did, she grabbed the collar of his tunic and kissed him on the lips.

Arthur’s stomach dropped, and he waited for Jaime to shove her away or yell or snap, but Willow moved back after only a moment, and Jaime stood frozen, staring at her with incomprehension.

Willow gave a wavering smile. “I better go.” Her eyes slid to Arthur. “Thank you again, ser. It was good meeting you.” Then she backed a couple steps away, drinking in Jaime’s face a few moments longer before she turned and dashed off down a side street.

Jaime looked like Willow had punched him instead of kissed him.

Arthur let his hand fall awkwardly to Jaime’s shoulder. “Are you…”

“What’d she do that for?” he asked quietly. He seemed to realize that was a foolish question. He touched his mouth. “I wasn’t ever going to kiss anyone but Cersei.”

“I’m sorry?” Arthur ventured.

Jaime lowered his eyes, then looked around like he was lost. “It didn’t feel wrong. It should’ve been awful.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No,” he said, blinking. “It wasn’t awful at all.”

Arthur hesitated, wondering if it was safe to tease him about this. He decided to chance it. “I’ve never heard any stories or songs about squires getting kisses from ladies like that.”

Jaime straightened and gave him a scathing look. “You’re not funny.” Yet despite his words, he surprised Arthur by smiling as he turned away.

When they returned to the Quill and Tankard, it was to discover Oberyn on the terrace, sprawled beneath the apple tree with Melly in the grass at his side. Jaime had reclaimed his thoughtful silence, but he brightened when he saw the prince. He called out a greeting. Recognizing his voice, Melly sat up to smile in his direction.

Oberyn had found her a light blue dress that fit well, along with new shoes and a wool cloak of deep gray. She looked better for the subtle changes, in a less desperate state, though her face was too thin, her hair shaved off like Willow’s, and the empty eye sockets still disconcerting.

“Prince Oberyn is going to get me new eyes,” Melly told Jaime as they approached. “Made of glass. They won’t be good for seeing, but he says they’ll look normal.”

Jaime plopped to the grass next to her, mindful of his arm. “Huh,” he said. “That’s—It sounds like fun? You could get them painted bright red and scare everybody.”

Melly wrinkled her nose at him. “That’s something a stupid boy would do.”

“It certainly is,” Oberyn agreed, his feet extended out in front of him. He quirked a brow at Jaime. “Did a day in a pretty dress not make you more sensitive to such things?”

“Maybe I should shove you into a pool of shit,” Jaime said darkly.

Stifling a sigh, Arthur sat down. “Martell, we talked about this.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Oberyn’s smile broadened, and he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Friend. It’s a new day.”

“Did you not say you meant to spend all your time studying,” Arthur said, “so you might get your last link, and leave as soon as possible?”

“Once you’d left,” Oberyn clarified. “You’re still here, and I little wished you to leave without offering a proper farewell. I must give Jaime advice on how to keep up his water dancing, or our lessons will have been a waste. I also wished to see what became of your feud, and—” He gave Arthur a pointed look up and down. “I would’ve been remiss in missing the opportunity to try my luck.”

“Wait,” Jaime said, “are you flirting with him?”

“My father always said Dornishmen were—” Melly stopped, and finished carefully, “Interesting.”

“You just said he was boring,” Jaime protested. “Two days ago, you said—”

“Are you jealous?” Oberyn interrupted, smiling.

Jaime gave an indignant scowl. “No. Must you make everything perverse? Either way, I know Arthur isn’t interested in you. He’s got too good of judgment, and he likes Lady Malora besides. Far more than he likes you. I’ll allow he tried to get her to marry the stupid prince, which was odd, but—”

“Oh,” Oberyn cut in with delight. “Did you intend to share her, Arthur? Wait, do you and the prince—”

Despite having just sat, Arthur got to his feet. “I’m going to get drinks.” 

The bickering had restored Jaime’s spirits enough that he looked at Arthur with some of his old liveliness. “I liked that cider last night.”

“You can have watered wine,” Arthur said firmly.

“I’m starving,” Oberyn called up to him. “Won’t you have Emma bring out some stew, perhaps a bit of bread? Melly, what do you want? Pick anything you’d like.”

“Do they have pie?”

“I’d like pie,” Jaime said.

It was probably best to give them that small victory. Arthur found a smile. “I’ll ask about pie.”

As he walked to the inn, Oberyn and Jaime immediately resuming their banter behind him, he found his heart was light despite worries for the future and the weariness lingering from a long week. What use would it be to dwell on those things now? For this one meal, for the rest of this day, he could put those fears aside and take a moment to celebrate the battle that was already won.