Chapter Text
Disclaimer: Nothig is mine, I'm just a poor mad mage
Love, In Silence
Ser Arthur Dayne, at the Trident
The river gleamed molten gold beneath the late afternoon sun, the shallows whispering over the smooth stone as Arthur Dayne reined in his horse. The air smelled of water, warm earth, and summer heat lingering at evening’s edge. The banners of House Stark were visible beyond the bend in the road—white direwolf on grey—accompanied by the sigil of House Targaryen, a testament to the Queen’s will.
Arthur sat tall in the saddle, the wind tugging at his cloak, the silver thread at his temples glinting like the first frost of the year. The journey had been unremarkable thus far; his charge was familiar in concept if not in truth—Lady Sansa of Winterfell, returning to King’s Landing after three years in the North.
He had last seen her at thirteen, bright-eyed and graceful, a girl still lingering on the cusp of womanhood. He remembered the careful courtesy she had always shown him, the lingering glances full of unspoken admiration. He had thought it the usual adoration young girls held for storied knights and had indulged it with quiet fondness, never more.
But now, as her party emerged from the dust of the road, Arthur found himself unprepared.
She rode at the head of the Stark contingent, poised and unhurried, her auburn hair rich as autumn’s fire beneath the evening light. No longer a child, but a woman grown—tall and elegant, with the quiet confidence of someone who had stepped fully into herself. There was a solemn grace to her now, something measured in the way she carried herself, something far removed from the starry-eyed girl he had once known.
And Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, felt the world tilt strangely beneath him.
She had always been lovely, but beauty was not what struck him. It was the weight of her presence, the steadiness of her gaze when their eyes met across the river. There was recognition in them, yes, but none of the girlish awe he had expected.
Instead, she inclined her head, a small, pleased smile playing at her lips.
"Ser Arthur," she greeted as her party reached the riverbank. "It has been some time. I’m glad to see you are well."
Her voice was smooth, richer than he remembered, holding the effortless courtesy of a woman raised at court yet tempered by something older, something of the North.
Arthur dismounted with practiced ease, stepping forward to offer his help if need be. "Lady Sansa," he said, and to his own surprise, had to clear his throat before he continued. "The Queen awaits you in King’s Landing. I am to see you there safely."
A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed her face. She did not curtsy, nor did she bow her head like a girl still looking up to a legend. Instead, she met his gaze evenly, her hands resting lightly on the reins. Then, she nodded as if she had taken measure of him and found him to be up to the task.
"I have no doubt you will," she said.
She dismounted without his help, landing lightly on the riverbank. The hem of her riding cloak brushed the dust of the road, the Stark grey deepened by the gathering dusk. A man-at-arms moved to take her horse, but she murmured her thanks and passed him the reins herself, a quiet grace in the motion.
It was such a simple thing—unremarkable, even—but Arthur found himself watching the way her fingers lingered briefly against the horse’s muzzle, the quiet understanding in her touch. He remembered, suddenly, the girl who had once clung to her palfrey’s mane as she had struggled to ride in her younger years, cheeks flushed with determination. The girl who had looked at him with wide eyes when he had told her, gently, that fear did not lessen courage.
She was no girl now.
"You have grown," he said before he could think better of it.
She turned to him fully at that, head tilting slightly, amusement flickering across her features like the ripple of moonlight on water.
"And you have not," she returned, a touch of playfulness in her voice. "Not truly."
Arthur almost smiled. Almost.
He had been called unchanging before, an eternal fixture of the Kingsguard, the Sword of the Morning—a title passed only when its bearer could no longer wield it. And yet, standing before Sansa Stark now, he felt the weight of the years in his bones in a way he had not before.
The wind lifted a strand of her hair, catching it like copper silk against the evening sky. She did not look away from him.
Arthur inclined his head, ever the knight, ever composed. "You should rest, my lady," he said. "The road is long, and the Queen is waiting."
She gave him one last look—measured, knowing—before stepping past him to where her tent was being set up.
Arthur turned to follow, but in his mind, for the first time in years, he felt profoundly aware of the passage of time. The banners rustled in the evening breeze, the horses shifting as the retinue settled from their journey. And the knight swallowed, still watching her.
Sansa Stark, in the Red Keep
King’s Landing had not changed.
The Red Keep still loomed over the city, all red stone and sharp angles, standing watch over the churning waters of Blackwater Bay. The air smelled of salt and sun-warmed brick, of the faintest trace of myrrh and lavender clinging to the halls where noblewomen passed in whispering silks. The court was still a place of movement, of curtsies and sharp smiles, of words meant as gifts or weapons, depending on the speaker’s intent.
But she had changed.
Sansa walked through the corridors of the keep with measured grace, no longer wide-eyed, no longer seeking the court’s approval. She had been welcomed back with open arms—the Queen’s favorite niece, the daughter of the North, returned at last. Her uncle, King Rhaegar, had greeted her with quiet kindness, his ever-present melancholy resting in his violet eyes. The crown prince, Jon, had been warm as well, though their moments alone had been brief, their duties pulling them in different directions.
It had been three years since she had last stood in these halls, three years spent in Winterfell, where the air was crisp and honest, and love was spoken in deeds rather than words. She had not been idle in that time—she had learned her people, her father’s rule, the patience required to lead rather than merely live in luxury. And though she had returned to court, though she now stood among the ladies-in-waiting of her aunt, she carried the North with her still.
Perhaps that was why she saw things differently now.
Ser Arthur Dayne had always been a legend.
As a child, she had admired him with the breathless awe of one who had only heard of heroes in songs. He had been a figure of quiet nobility, the Sword of the Morning, draped in white and duty, a man made for stories.
But she was no longer a child, and he was no longer just a legend.
He was a man.
A man of flesh and blood, of silver-threaded hair and sharp violet eyes. A man who moved through the halls of the keep like something carved of stone and wind, as steady as the blade he carried. A man whose gaze found hers more often than it should.
It was never improper, never anything more than a passing glance, a moment where his eyes lingered before looking away. But she knew that look. She had seen it before—too often, in fact—among the men of court who admired her beauty and thought to win her with empty flattery. But Ser Arthur Dayne was not like them.
There was no arrogance in his gaze, no boldness. Only quiet regard, only something thoughtful, something restrained.
And the strangest thing of all was how she understood it.
She had once believed admiration was meant to be grand and loud, to be sung in verses and whispered in secret corners. But admiration could be quiet, too. It could settle in glances, in the way one moved a fraction closer in a crowded hall, in the way a knight’s hand rested near his sword when she passed, though there was no threat.
She had seen the way men at court looked at her—the hunger, the calculation, the way their smiles curled at the edges with meaning. But Arthur Dayne did not look at her like that.
His gaze held reverence.
And perhaps that was why, when she could not help herself, she returned it.
She was careful, always careful, never lingering too long. But there were moments—when she stood beside her aunt’s chair, when she moved through the gardens in the late afternoon sun, when she passed him in the hall and felt his presence before she even saw him—where she met his eyes, and let him see that she understood.
That she saw him, not as a legend, but as a man.
And sometimes, she thought she saw something shift in him, the barest hesitation, the faintest flicker of breath before he turned away.
It was not a game. It was not flirtation, not courtly nonsense full of honeyed words.
It was something softer, something weightless.
Something real, and she found herself often breathless just thinking of him.
Sansa Stark, at Court
Sansa was content.
She had found her place in the Red Keep, weaving herself into its rhythm as effortlessly as a singer slipping into the harmony of a well-known song. She was not a queen, nor a councilor, nor the head of some great house, yet she wielded a quiet power all her own.
People came to her—ladies seeking her advice, lords speaking a touch more carefully in her presence, understanding that a word from her, well-placed, could soften hearts or harden them. She was listened to, and more importantly, she listened. She eased tensions before they could take root, offered counsel where it was needed, and carried herself with the patience of one who knew her worth.
She was beloved in the court. The queen adored her, the king respected her, and the prince—her cousin, her dearest friend—loved her in a way no one else could claim. One day, he would be king, and while she had no ambitions for a throne, she understood what it meant to be someone he trusted, someone whose voice would always be heard.
It was a life she had built carefully, deliberately. And she was happy.
But she was happiest on the days when Ser Arthur Dayne was on duty.
She did not plan it so. It was mere happenstance, a matter of scheduling that she had no part in. And yet, on those days, she woke with a touch more lightness in her step, dressed with a little more care, her hand lingering at her throat as she fastened a delicate chain or smoothed the embroidery at her sleeves.
She never spoke to him, not truly.
There was no need.
He was a presence more than anything—a still point in the ever-moving court. When she attended the Queen, when she moved through the halls, he was there. Silent, watchful. A white shadow standing at his post, his hand ever near his sword, his eyes seemingly never straying from his duty.
But they did stray.
Not often. Not obviously. But she had learned to recognize it. The flicker of levander glancing her way, the subtle way his breath seemed to still when she passed close enough to brush the edge of his cloak.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
The court was full of admiration for her beauty, but none of it felt quite like his. There was no expectation in it, no arrogance, no sly, whispered compliments. It was simply there, unspoken but known, like the knowledge that the sun would rise or the tide would turn.
And she returned it, though never too openly. Only in the smallest ways. A glance beneath her lashes, a slight tilt of her head when their eyes met, a moment’s pause before she turned away.
It was a quiet thing, a careful thing.
Until, one day, it wasn’t.
She had risen from her seat in the Queen’s solar, smoothing her skirts as she moved toward the door. The conversation had ended, the other ladies were departing, and she was lost in thought, already considering the matters that would come before the court the next day.
And then—
"Lady Sansa."
She stilled. Turned.
Ser Arthur stood at his post, tall and still as ever, but his gaze was on her. Not a passing glance. Not a moment stolen when he thought she would not notice. No, he was looking at her fully, openly, with a weight that she felt settle somewhere deep in her bones.
He had only spoken her name. Nothing more. And yet, when she had turned, his eyes had held hers—longer than they should have, longer than was safe.
She had not been prepared for the way her breath had caught, for the way her own reply had felt unsteady on her tongue.
"Ser Arthur," she had said, soft as a sigh.
A farewell, nothing more. Yet when she had stepped away, she had felt the moment stretch behind her like a thread of silk, fragile and fine, binding them in something neither had yet spoken aloud. They had never spoken, and the weight of his gaze lingered long after she had left the Queen’s solar.
Sansa moved through the Red Keep with practiced grace, her expression composed, her step steady. Yet inside, something thrummed like a plucked string, humming in her ribs, in the hollow of her throat.
Sansa Stark, in Moonlight
She did not expect to see him again so soon.
His shift ended at noon. She knew this only because she had long since learned the rhythm of the Kingsguard, not out of interest in them as men, but because it was knowledge worth having. Those who served her aunt, those who stood at her uncle’s back—Sansa made it her business to know who moved within her world and when.
Arthur Dayne should have been elsewhere, should have been at ease, his duty fulfilled for the day.
But when she stepped onto the quiet path leading from the Godswood, wrapped in the hush of the evening, she found him there.
Not in white.
Dressed in the deep blue and silver of his house, he looked almost like another man entirely. Without the pale armor, without the ever-present weight of the Kingsguard’s vows draped upon his shoulders, he was… different. And yet, the way he carried himself—the unwavering steadyness, the quiet command—was the same.
Sansa hesitated, just for a breath, but there was no turning away now.
“Ser Arthur,” she said, and the sound of his name in the hush of the evening felt softer than it should have.
He inclined his head. “My lady.”
There was nothing unusual in their meeting. The paths of the Keep wove through the gardens, and this was the route she took every seventh day, walking back from the Godswood after offering prayers in the Northern way.
Yet she had never seen him here before.
His presence was a disturbance, but not an unwelcome one. It was as if the world had shifted a fraction of an inch, and now the course of things had changed, just slightly, just enough that she could feel it beneath her skin.
They had not spoken in years. Not since she was a child, not since he had been nothing more than a legend in her eyes.
And yet, as they fell into step together—because what else was there to do?—it did not feel strange. It did not feel forced.
“I did not expect to find you here,” she admitted after a moment.
“I would expect to find myself here either,” he replied with a small smile, though something in his tone told her that he had expected to meet her, as he fell into step with Sansa.
The realization sent a shiver through her, though the air was warm.
They walked in silence for a time, the sound of their steps soft against the stone path. The gardens were empty but for the whispering wind through the leaves, the warm breath of summer still lingering in the air.
It was not until they reached the fountain at the heart of the garden that he spoke again.
“You favor The Lay of Lann the Clever,” he said.
She turned to him, brow arching slightly. “I do.”
He glanced down, his gaze settling on the small leather-bound book she carried in one hand.
“I have seen you reading it often,” he said, as if in explanation. “There is a passage I recall.”
Then, in a voice low and smooth as the evening tide, he recited:
"He danced in shadow, light in hand,
A silver tongue, a steady stand,
The walls he climbed were built of stone,
Yet tumbled for his heart alone."
Sansa stopped walking.
The words settled between them, sinking into the hush of the garden like stones dropped into still water.
She had read that passage many times before, had murmured it under her breath in the quiet of her chambers, had traced the words with her fingers along the worn edges of the page.
But hearing him speak them?
Her breath caught in her throat.
Arthur watched her, and there was something in his gaze—something unspoken, something she could not name, or rather, something she would not name, because to do so would be to acknowledge that this was not nothing.
That this had never been nothing.
“You know my favorite passage,” she said at last, her voice quieter than she had meant it to be.
“I have seen you read it often,” he repeated. “I can see why the strength of one’s heart would appeal to you over the might of stone.”
It was such a simple answer.
And yet, it was no surprise. That he had seen. That he noticed.
Her.
Not Lady Sansa. Not the Queen’s niece. Not the Stark girl who was called the most beautiful woman at court.
Her.
They stood at the fountain’s edge, the silence between them thick with emotions that should not have existed at all.
But they did. Gods help her, she could feel it pulsing through her veins with every beat of her heart. Couldn’t remember a time when Ser Arthur wasn’t occupying her mind, wasn’t a part of her life. Even as a little girl, she had held the thought of him dear.
Arthur exhaled, slow and measured, and she wondered if he, too, had trouble breathing when he stood this close to her—without eyes watching and ears listening.
“I should escort you to your chambers,” he said at last.
She nodded. “Yes.”
Yet neither of them moved. Not right away, at least—and when they did, they took the long path back.
Not by plan, not by spoken decision—only by the quiet agreement that passed between them as their feet carried them forward, step by step, beneath the darkening sky.
Sansa had walked this way before, knew every turn of the path, every archway that led deeper into the gardens, every shadow cast by the lanterns that would soon be lit. And yet, tonight, it felt different.
Perhaps because the night air was richer, holding the scent of late-summer jasmine.
Perhaps because the hush of the evening was softer, deeper, wrapping around them like the trailing edge of a dream.
Perhaps because Ser Arthur Dayne walked beside her, his presence measured, unhurried, his hands resting lightly at his sides, ungloved and bare.
The Kingsguard did not wear gloves. She had known this, had seen his hands before, long-fingered and steady, wrapped around the hilt of Dawn or resting against his belt in quiet vigilance. But without the weight of white steel upon him, without the ceremonial armor, they looked different.
More like a man’s hands than a knight’s.
It was a foolish thought, but it lodged itself in her mind, unwelcome and insistent.
"Did you enjoy your time in the Godswood?" His voice broke the quiet, low and smooth, effortless in its courtesy.
"I always do," she answered. "It is the only place in the city that feels like home."
A pause. "I have never seen a heart tree."
She glanced at him, surprised. "You have never entered the Godswood?"
"Never," he said. "I did not think it was my place."
The idea of Arthur Dayne—a man sworn to a king who traced his line to old Valyria, a knight bound by oaths as rigid as iron—standing humbled before the ancient face of a weirwood was an image she had never considered.
"Perhaps you should," she mused. "The Old Gods do not speak, but they see and—listen."
Arthur made a thoughtful sound but did not answer.
They walked in silence for a time, their steps slow, leisurely. The castle was not far from the Godswood—ten minutes’ walk, at best—but neither of them quickened their pace, and Ser Arthur wordlessly steered them toward the path that led around the outer battlements. She did not want to reach her destination quickly, and it seemed he didn’t either.
She could hear the faint murmur of the sea, the rustling of the wind through the hedges. Above them, the stars were hiding behind heavy cloud cover, but here and now, moonlight shone through.
And she could feel him beside her, his presence steady and silent save for his quiet breathing.
At last, she spoke. "You knew my favorite passage."
Arthur did not look at her immediately, but she saw the way his jaw shifted, the faintest movement, as if considering his words before giving them shape. He adjusted the pommel of Dawn with some thought.
"I have spent years watching the court," he said at last. "Noticing is part of my duty."
It was a careful answer. But not a denial. He had been watching her, and she had been watching him.
Sansa let the acknowledgment settle between them like a thread pulled taut, delicate but strong. It tugged and tugged at her. She knew she should leave it well alone… but she could not.
"You have spent years watching many things," she said, her voice soft. "But you did not have to remember a passage from a book of songs."
She did not know what made her say it.
Perhaps it was the warmth of the night, the feeling of his presence beside her, the knowledge that they were walking alone through the quietest part of the gardens. Perhaps it was the fact that for years, they had only spoken in glances, in silence, in the knowing weight of a look that lasted too long.
Arthur exhaled, slow and measured, and she felt like they stood on an edge of a precipice. Just one step from ruin.
"I did," he admitted. “How could I not find joy in something beautiful?”
Sansa felt her pulse in her throat. The words were nothing—innocent, easily brushed aside. No one could hear he had ever spoken them. But they settled in her bones, beneath her skin, because she knew what he meant even if he would never say it aloud.
She stopped walking and turned to face him fully, and he stopped and raised his gaze to her. The garden was quiet, the hush of the evening wrapping around them like silk, soft and weightless. Moonlight spilled through the clouds above, silvering the paths, catching on the edges of his tunic, tracing the sharp lines of his face in pale light and shadow.
And his eyes—
She had always thought of them as levander, but now, under the glow of the moon, they looked endless, pale at the edges where the light touched them, darker purple at the center, holding something vast.
Arthur was watching her.
The weight of his gaze settled over her like the brush of fingers against skin—warm, deliberate, and so very careful. He did not move, did not reach for her, but she felt him all the same, the space between them humming with something neither of them dared name.
And yet, the truth of it was there, written in the quiet longing in his face, in the way his throat worked as he swallowed, in the flicker of hesitation before his lips parted as if he might say something more.
Sansa had always thought of him as unchanging, the knight eternal, the man who had watched over the court for as long as she had known it. But now, with the moonlight catching in the silver threaded through his dark hair, in the fine lines that had settled at the corners of his eyes, she saw the years.
The weight of them.
The cost.
The life he had given to his vows.
And now, after all this time, here they stood, beneath the moon, beneath the shifting light, standing at the edge of something unknown, something fragile, something that had always been just out of reach.
Sansa’s breath was shallow, her pulse thrumming against her throat.
She did not know if she should step closer. If she could take that leap.
She did not know if she dared.
For a moment, they simply stood, the distance between them marked only by the distant silvery glow, the calm of the world around them. A secret between them, and the gods.
"I should return," she said at last, her voice quieter than before.
Arthur nodded. "I will see you there."
And so they walked again, the long path ending too soon.
But after that night, it was no longer so unusual that they spoke.
They had been speaking for far longer than they knew.