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It was at the Battle of the Redgrass Field that Daemon Blackfyre and his eldest sons died, and with them, or so everyone thought, died the Blackfyre Rebellion forever. 

Daemon Blackfyre cut down Wyl Waynwood and the Knight of Ninestars and would have killed Ser Gwayne Corbray of the Knightsguard too, if he had not been moved by his famed chivalry to spare him. Then Bloodraven and his company slew Blackfyre and his twin sons, and would have ended the battle right there if Bittersteel hadn't rallied the rebel forces to charge again. Bloodraven fought Bittersteel and lost his eye, and then when Princes Baelor and Maekar arrived with their forces they finally crushed the rebel army to pulp between their hammer and anvil. 

Ten thousand men died that day, and their blood stained the yellow grass so dark it was said that the stain would never come out. The sunset too was blood-red, and it was by that hellish light that those of the king's men who were still mobile dragged themselves across corpses and the bloody grass toward the sprawling war camp by the river, crying out for water and aid. Some of the villagers did come down to help them, for these were House Hayford's lands and they were still loyal to the Targaryens, even though Lord Hayford and his squire had been slain by Lord Gorman Peake during the battle. But most stayed huddled in their homes, because they did not quite believe that it was all over.

It would be a long and tiring process ahead of King Daeron II, to heal the divisions between the factions of the Red Dragon and the Black. So many had rebelled that the traitors could not all simply be put to the sword, lest it leave half the land empty. Already the princes had sent messengers on ahead to their father in King's Landing with the news of their victory and requests for instructions, and stayed huddled late into the night with their lords, discussing what fate the losers would face, what price they must pay beyond that which they had already paid in blood and tears.

And in his tent, upon a pallet, lay Ser Cedric Dondarrion, brother to Prince Baelor's wife, feeling sorry for himself.

He was only lightly wounded, for he had not been in the thick of the fight; he had not been in the fight very long at all. He had been cut across his sword arm and bashed in the skull and crumpled to the ground, and his squire had hauled him abroad his horse and taken him from the fray immediately. Though this would have been a cause of embarrassment to nearly every other knight, Cedric had been relieved. In his heart of hearts he was a coward, though he would never admit such a thing to him. 

No, to hear him tell it, he had fought honorably, had nearly died, had escaped only by the skin of his teeth. And no one would gainsay him, not even his squire, because he was the brother of Princess Jena and, perhaps more importantly today, the younger brother of the fierce Lord Dondarrion of the Stoneway, whose family had held the pass against the Dornish since the times of King Aenys and had fought in Prince Baelor’s own vanguard.

But perhaps it would have been better that someone told him otherwise this once, because in the primal terror of confronting his own death, his brains seemed to grow very soft. At least, that was how the gossip put it afterward.

The facts were simple altogether, really - just rather inexplicable. They went like this:

Cedric lay in the dark, clad only in his nightshirt and his bandages, staring up at the canvas ceiling of his tent. Outside he could hear the groaning of injured men and the wails of washerwomen and camp followers, and the noise all seemed to burrow into his own chest and make a home there. Being a selfish man, he imagined what it would be like if all that noise for him. It would have been for him, he convinced himself, if his young squire Jon Storm, a young Penrose bastard, had not recovered him from the battle. He would never cuff Jon round the head ever again, he decided, though it was the impulsive kind of vow which usually never sees the light of day.

He'd made many vows like that, he acknowledged. He was constantly promising things to please his brother, and before him his father. The thing was that he had always meant to keep those vows, at the time, only to find that it was harder than it seemed, and never did seem worth the effort. That was how he had missed his sister-in-law's funeral. That was how he had come late when  called his banners to defend Daeron the Good’s reign. That was how he'd had three different betrothals to dull but dutiful women fall through. And on this day he had nearly died, and what did he have to show for it? 

He was thirty-seven years old, and he had no wife, no sons, no real accomplishments of his own. All his friends were fairweather and crowded around him mostly because they respected House Dondarrion, or had known him for so long it would be rude to break off the acquaintance. His brother called him feckless, and his sister called him unreliable. If he had died, would it have been only young Jon Storm who truly mourned him?

Thus it was when he was engaged in feeling sorry for himself that the woman walked into the tent with her lantern.

He had seen her around camp before - a tall, slightly plump woman with curly brown hair and masses of freckles, always trailing after her mother. They were both healers, he thought, because they both carried herbalist pouches to show their station, and besides neither of them were really handsome enough to work as whores. They had come here in the retinue of some other Stormlands lord, perhaps Lord Swann. But he had never spoken to her before, and to see her appear so suddenly in his tent terrified him.

"Am I dying?" he demanded.

The healer raised her eyebrows at this. "I wouldn't know, my lord," she said. "But your young squire said you were not answering when he spoke, and he came right away to fetch me because he's afraid you hit your head harder than he thought."

Cedric glanced around the tent and realized for the first time that Jon was not there. He had been so preoccupied that he had not even noticed him leaving. Or was it a sign that the injury to his head had rattled his brains worse than he thought? "My head -" he started.

But the woman was there already, leaning over him. With her right hand she held the lantern high for light, and with her left she touched lightly about the bandages wrapped round his temple. "Be quiet and let me look," she commanded.

Cedric was offended to be spoken to in such a manner, but realized he was more anxious about his injury than offended and held his tongue. Indeed he held very still. His head throbbed where she touched him, and to distract himself he stared into her face.

She was one of those rare, truly plain women, with very little that was comely or ugly about her. Her face was long and narrow, and her nose was a trifle wide and turned up at the end. She had round brown eyes, and tonight there were deep purple smudges under them. Her cheeks too seemed a bit sunken, her full lips pale. She must be run ragged on been on her feet all day, tending to the injured, closing the eyes of the dead. He worried about what she might find that was wrong with him.

But when she straightened, she seemed more irritated than anything else. "That knock to your head's raised up a goodly goose egg," she said, "and you won't be fighting any more battles until your arm heals. But there's no reason at all for you to be laying here so miserable and making your poor squire cry himself sick! He's a good lad, and he worries overmuch as it is."

Cedric did not understand why she was scolding him like this. "So I'm not dying?" he asked. Then, after a moment's more thought - "How do you know what my squire's like anyway?"

She just huffed in response. "No, my lord, you are most certainly not dying. And I know your squire Jon well, since my mother has made quite a pet of him and insists that he will grow tall only if she feeds him up, no matter how he feels about her cooking. And he knows me well, which is why he came running to beg me to attend you. I imagine he's sitting at my mother's fire and crying to her now. He's a brave lad, he is, but he surely can cry up a storm."

This was true. He had seen Jon cry about every other week since the campaign began, so it stood to reason he cried even more when out of sight. But I shan't mock him for crying anymore, he told himself.

He waited for the woman to leave now that she had done her work, but still she stood there, lantern held high, swaying a little on her feet. Her eyes were going unfocused, and with sudden fear he thought she might splash the burning oil down onto him and cried out with panic.

That brought her back to herself, and she scowled and concluded, "So you must stop yourself from acting so sad and frightening the poor lad."

"How dare you talk to me so!" Cedric managed finally.

"Because I'm exhausted, and you get to lie down," she replied, rather nonsensically he thought. But before he could say so, she bent to put the lantern down on the thick piled rug, then shoved at his uninjured shoulder.

"Budge up, you great lump," she clarified, when he just stared at her in astonishment. "I expect my mother will make your Jon will sleep in my bed tonight, and I haven't sat down since before dawn."

She must be mad! All the pain and misery she had seen all day surely must have broken her mind, the poor creature. But Cedric moved over when it became clear that she was not giving up. She was only a woman, after all, and he was tall and broad like all Dondarrions and figured he could easily hurl her from the bed should she start acting especially strange.

And the way she sighed and stretched when she finally lay beside him, like a satisfied cat, was not precisely boring to him. She laid her head on his narrow pillow, quite close to his own, and shut her eyes.

He waited a few minutes, waiting for her to say something, anything. Then he decided that if she was this silent, she'd be easy enough to ignore, and went back to staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for himself.

At least, he tried. But it was damnably hard to do so when there was a strange madwoman lying only inches away from him, apparently uncaring of proprieties and sense, and he did not understand why she was there. "How long will you lie there?"

She cracked one eye open enough to see him by. "As long as I like. All the night through, if I like."

"I will permit no such thing," said Cedric.

"Won't you, my lord Dondarrion?"

Now he was doubly affronted. "My brother is Lord Dondarrion, not me. And he's Lord Dondarrion of the Stoneway, mind you - my cousin is Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven. And I am Ser Cedric, or Lord Cedric if you insist. And you, woman, haven't even introduced yourself."

"Oh yes," she carped. "Where are my manners? I am Rosie, and I am a healer out of Stonehelm in Lord Swann's service, except that he died today and so did his son, and since they both died in my care I do not know rightly if the new infant Lady Swann will permit me to remain in her service. Though why you mind so much, Lord Cedric, I do not know. I expect you are used to having strange women in your bed."

Actually, Cedric always asked for the name of the whore he was bedding beforehand. He was a polite man. Indeed it was rather a point of pride, and he was offended. And because he was offended, he was less polite now. "Are you that kind of strange woman, then? And provide additional services besides being a healer?"

He knew she did no such thing, but surely the implication would be an affront to any honest woman, and maybe would even get her out of his bed.

But Rosie just sighed again and said, contemplative, "Do you think I should? If I'm sent begging from Stonehelm it could be hard to find a new place, and I bet whores make better money anyway. And of course I know how to make my own moon tea."

"You're shameless!" gaped Cedric. But he found to his surprise that he was feeling less sorry for himself and more amused right now. "Well I'm afraid I've no coin to pay you, even if I was so minded. Indeed I think you should be paying me for use of my tent, if you insist on bunking with me."

Rosie was quiet a little while, staring up at the tent ceiling herself. In the silence, Cedric wondered if she was always this forward, if she had been old Lord Swann or his son's bedmate and that was why she seemed so sad over their deaths. When he glanced over her again he noted that even if her face was plain, her hair looked pleasantly like warm walnut wood in the lantern-light, and she had a nice set of tits. 

Breasts, he corrected himself. His sister had often chided him that he could stand to be more chivalric. Breasts must be more polite than tits, surely?

Anyhow, he found himself curious about her. "Why should you desire to bunk with me, anyway?"

Again Rosie was silent, long enough that Cedric thought she was going to ignore him and felt a strange twinge of hurt. Then he heard the rustle of cloth and realized that she was rolling over onto her side so that she could look into his face. The movement made her press up close to him, her front to his arms and shoulders. It was a narrow pallet. 

"I told you I was up this morning before daybreak," she said, contemplative. "My mother and I knew there would be many injuries, so we made sure to replenish our supplies of healing herbs and made up the poultices we'd need. We were at the battle for the crossing of the Mander, and we thought we were better prepared this time.

“But the injured kept coming and coming, and when we went out on the field the blood smeared up all onto our skirts and arms and faces, and the men we came across cried for the mercy of death, not for healing. We found young men who'd scarcely grown their first beards, and greybeards so old they surely must have been half-blind and deaf, and little boys who had no business going into battle, all cut down like so much wheat."

Cedric shifted, a little uncomfortable. That was the truth of war, after all. And this battle had been a bad one; even Cedric, who'd been in the fray for so short a time, could still see the clash of steel and the spraying blood behind his eyelids when he shut them. It was no wonder that a tender-hearted woman like Rosie, even one who had been present at a rout so bad as the battle on the Mander, would have been so bothered. 

He felt sorry for her. He was also surprised to find that at some point he had started holding her, and now she trembled in his arms like a leaf, though admittedly a leaf caught in only a very light breeze.

"It was truly awful," he agreed. "But Prince Baelor and the others have smashed the Blackfyres, and there will be no more battles." Then, for some reason, he added, "Prince Baelor is my brother-in-law, you know. My sister Jena is his wife. He will be a great king, one day."

He expected her to be in awe, because everyone was in awe of the Targaryens, and loved Prince Baelor, and generally were terribly impressed to learn that they were kin.

But Rosie, to his surprise, gave a little snort. "Oh yes, and while Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar and the Bloodraven speak of the fate of the realm, here you are in your tent, my lord, with your flesh wound and me. I've come to you not for the lofty company you keep, but because your Jon sent me to look in on you, and now that I am here I thought your bed looked comfortable and laid down. And I will say that when I saw you around camp I thought you handsome, my lord, and I have always had a weakness for red hair, but I already heard you weren't so clever, so really I shouldn't be surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded. Any trace of a charitable feeling in his breast evaporated.

"I mean," said Rosie, "that instead of wasting time with me feeling sorry for myself and you feeling sorry for yourself when neither of us have any real right to, I want you to shut up and kiss me."

Cedric considered turning her out of bed, considered being annoyed, considered that he had decided to be a better man, a more honorable man, and though he could not put quite but his finger on why, this did not seem to be in line with that. Also he was annoyed that Rosie was downplaying the grave danger he had been in during the battle though, in the interests of being fair, it wasn't as though she had been there to see him.

But she was there in his arms, and her eyes gleamed dark and sad in the dim light, and that made him feel oddly protective of her. His arm and head weren't hurting him that much. So he hauled her atop him and kissed her, and she kissed him back, rather clumsily at first but then melting bonelessly into him until he stopped bothering to hold her up and let her get all tangled up with him. With his good hand he pulled at the laces of her dress, the laces of his braies.

On and on went the kiss, and in the natural course events turned into other things that were surprisingly enjoyable, startlingly sweet, and best of all, thoroughly distracting.

—

In the morning, Cedric woke much earlier than he would have liked. He blinked against the morning light that was valiantly attempting to strain through the top of his tent, rubbed at his aching head, then rolled over to see that Rosie was sitting cross-legged on the ground dressed only in her chemise, combing out her hair with her fingers.

"Good morning, my lord," she said, when she saw him looking.

For some reason he had actually thought she would seem shy by the light of day, once she realized what they had done. Why he would have believed such a thing of a woman like her, he did not know.

"I'm sure there's a comb somewhere over in yonder chest," he offered. "If you'd like to use it instead of your fingers."

"Thank you kindly," she replied, and for the first time Cedric noticed the shallow dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled. "I think that would be best."

He propped his head up on his shoulders and watched as she stood and went over to the chest and stooped to look. As she rifled through, he noticed how long her hair was unbound, falling well past her hips, and that when she swept it out of the way over her shoulder he could see the outlines of her rear and thighs against the worn white cotton of her chemise. She really did have such a lot of hair, and she had warm callused hands and delectably soft and freckled skin which was worth licking all over, and her dark eyes had seemed to grow brighter last night as they rolled around on the bed together.

Still, Cedric was still confused about precisely how it had all happened, and why he had gone along with it.

"Your hair needs combing too," she remarked, coming back to assume her spot on the floor by his bed. "Jon said he tried to wash your head after your healer was done tending the wound, but he's left your hair all a mess."

"Why are you sitting on the ground?" Maybe she was feeling embarrassed, but it would be bad of him to force her to kneel there while he lolled about in bed.

"Do you want me shedding my hair all over your fine linens?" inquired Rosie.

He hadn’t thought of that. He shook his head.

She kept smiling at him in the same friendly fashion as she divided her hair into sections and began one by one to try and unsnarl them. “This is why I usually sleep with it braided,” she said, half-chiding him and half herself. “Serves me right, rolling around with it all loose all night.”

“But you have beautiful hair,” said Cedric.

Rosie, her hands still full of her hair, looked up and stuck her tongue out in reply. It was so unexpected a gesture that he couldn’t help but laugh, and then he wanted to haul her into his lap all over again.

“Did you really come to me by chance?” he asked impulsively. “I don’t mind if that’s not true. I saw you around camp too, you know.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “No, my lord, I did not come seeking you out. It’s only when I came here and saw that you were quite well that the fool notion even came into my head. After all, now that Daemon Blackfyre is dead, I expect that we will all go home and take up our normal lives again, if we can. I shan’t ever see you again.”

“You don’t need to sound so cheerful about that,” Cedric groused. “Stonehelm isn’t so far from the Stoneway.”

“Do you live with your brother Lord Dondarrion, then?” she asked, curious.

Cedric sat bolt upright. “As though I’d want to live with that grim old stick! No, I’ve a little keep of my own, closer to Blackhaven. It’s called Eastcott. And it’s even closer to Stonehelm than the Stoneway, now that I think of it.”

“So you can come see me if you ever bang your head again,” Rosie teased. Then she stopped short, as though taken aback by her own words. “But my lord, there is no reason to. It’s not as though you’d have any obligation to me.”

As she spoke her nimble fingers worked quickly, braiding. She finished and tied off one braid, then tilted her head the other way to start untangling the hair on that side. How old was she? He thought perhaps in her twenties, for she carried herself with too much self-assurance to be younger. Old enough that he had not expected her to be a maiden, anyhow.

It made him feel oddly shy. “I hadn’t expected - I thought you might have had more… experience. I did not suspect…” There was a little blood on the sheet, anyway. And why not? Rosie was no highborn lady to have had the chance to lose her maidenhead to a saddle.

With her free hand she just waved him off. “They say bedsport’s a natural part of being away at war - why shouldn’t I take a chance at it? It’s not as though I’ve a sweetheart at home dutifully waiting for me. If it makes you feel better, you may pretend I’ve played the sheep’s bladder trick on you.”

Cedric had not a notion of what she was talking about. “What sheep’s bladder?”

The rest of the time she fixed her hair, Rosie explained in shocking detail how a sheep’s bladder filled with blood and inserted in a certain location on a bride’s person might disguise her lack of a maidenhead. He listened, aghast, with his mouth open so wide she cautioned him against catching flies.

“What a lot you know,” he said, at the end of it.

Rosie laughed. “You’d be surprised, the kinds of things people tell their healer!”

She had a nice laugh, he thought. It was not tinkling and refined like a highborn lady’s laugh, but ended in an almost piglike snort as she would try to catch her breath. It was the kind of laugh that made him laugh too.

“You’ve been a healer for a long time?”

Now that Rosie was done with her hair, she came and sat beside Cedric on the cot. Without asking, she bent his head down toward her and began to gently comb out his own hair. He didn’t really see why she was bothering with it, but since he was now looking straight at her breasts pressing against her chemise he did not really mind. He kept his neck pliant so she could turn his head this way and that as she worked.

“My mother has always been a healer,” she said, “and as soon as she judged me old enough to be sensible, she had me help her. Yes, it has been a long time. I don’t mind it. People will always need a healer - really, even if I am sent away from Stonehelm, I’ll find work elsewhere easily enough. I could seek employment with some other lord here and go home with him instead. Only it would be a shame to have to leave my mother.”

Cedric did not really like the way she talked of this. She’d probably treated other lords’ men during the campaign and they would see her skill plainly, but what did she know about what kind of men they might be? What if they tried to take advantage of her as a newcomer to their household?

He ignored the fact that Rosie did not seem the naive kind.

“It’s strange to think of going home,” he said instead. “I suppose I’ve only been gone some eight months, but it feels much longer.”

“So I’ve been with the campaign longer than you,” said Rosie. The rebellion had broken out just about a year ago, and Lord Swann had been one of the first to respond to the king’s call, so Cedric supposed this was true, if galling.

“I had to get my affairs in order before I could round up my men and come,” he began, but then took a deep breath and shook his head. If he was going to truly be a better, more honorable man, then he could start by being honest now.

“I dawdled about rounding up my men,” he admitted. He could already feel his face flaming in shame. “I made excuses to my brother about needing weapons, needing to finish the harvest. In the end even my men got restive, waiting to march to war. But I hoped that the rebellion would be put down quickly, so that there would be no need for us to fight. And when I finally came, my brother spat at my feet, he was so ashamed.”

He could feel the hurt of it clutching at his chest even now. That Cedric knew that he deserved it only made it worse.

But Rosie didn’t call him a coward. She put aside the comb and took him in her arms and pulled him against her. With her warm, strong hand she stroked his back.

“It’s only natural to be afraid,” she soothed. “The gods know I’ve been frightened half to death nearly all the time this last year. What if their forces managed to break through our line? What if they killed one of the princes? And even yesterday, they say it was so close that the victory slipped from the Black Dragon’s hand only because he wasted time sending Ser Gwayne to safety after their duel. What would they have done with all of us who opposed them, if they won?”

Had it been that close? Surely Rosie was better informed than him, having treated so many wounded men and heard their stories, and the mere thought of it turned his stomach.

“Even if everyone else was afraid too,” he said, “I am the one who acted on my cowardice, and not them. And yesterday I lived only because my poor squire thought me a kind enough master to risk his life for. I mean to prove myself worthy of his service.”

Abruptly Cedric felt embarrassed and drew back. What was he doing, spilling all of this out to some lowborn healer he’d never spoken to before last night? But he saw that Rosie was not looking at him with any pity, only understanding.

“Well,” she said, “if anyone’s worth becoming better for, it’s that lovely little lad. And should you start straying from your promise, I’m certain my mother will come all the way to Eastcott Keep and take you to task for him. Is he your son?”

He shook his head, gloom giving way to pride instead. “No, he is Lord Penrose’s natural son. So Jon is a cousin of the Targaryens, for Lord Penrose’s mother is Princess Elaena Targaryen. T’was Prince Baelor himself who arranged that he be my squire. I’ve no children, myself. I’ve never been wed either, though that is something I mean to change.”

He supposed he would need to ask his brother to find him a match, though whether he would bother to make the effort after all those failed betrothals was another matter altogether. He tried to imagine what it would be like to actually be wed and share his home with a woman, but the image he drew up in his mind remained stubbornly faceless, and he wasn’t sure what they would even talk about.

“My mother and I, keeping company with a boy with dragon’s blood!” marveled Rosie. “And him waiting on the likes of you!”

Cedric wrinkled up his face in mock indignation and demanded, “What’s that meant to mean?” But she had successfully shaken him out of his maudlin mood, which had probably been her aim all along.

She tossed her braids and said, “Well, I suppose you are Princess Jena’s brother. Perhaps I should be marveling at keeping company with the likes of you instead! When I am old and bald and toothless, I shall tell my scandalized grandchildren all about how I lay three times in one night with the valiant Lord Cedric Dondarrion -”

“Only three times?” asked Cedric. “It’ll be a better story if we make it four.” And with that he toppled her down onto her back and climbed atop her.

“Thrice in a night,” she gasped out, “once the next morning - doesn’t have quite the same ring -”

But she was laughing, and pressing kisses to his chin and throat, and he wound his hands in her braids and guided her lips to his instead. Then she stopped laughing, and her eyes went big and round and then squeezed shut tight. She sighed against his mouth. Her own hand quested between their tangled legs to start hitching up his nightshirt, and Cedric had the jumbled thought that she really was quite lovely.

Naturally, this was the moment that the tent flap lifted and Jon Storm’s piping little voice said, “Good morn, my lord -”

And then he saw Cedric and Rosie laying on the cot, and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

The shriek seemed to split Cedric’s skull, so for a moment he did not understand what was going on; he could not hear his thoughts over the noise. But Rosie reacted faster, bolting upright, and throwing him off the bed in the process. Luckily he retained enough wits to keep his head from banging against the ground.

By the time he righted himself again, he saw that Jon’s face was going red with anger and tears. Currently he was sputtering, but he would find his words soon enough. When he twisted to look back at Rosie, he saw that she’d sprung to her feet and yanking furiously to free one of the sheets from the bed. It was a smart thought; her chemise was rather revealing.

“What - what were you doing to her?” Jon finally managed. “You and Rosie - She’s a nice lady -”

“Now, Jon lad,” Rosie began.

And then, to complete the farcical scene, Baelor Breakspear, Prince of Dragonstone, followed Jon through the open tent flap, his sword already half-drawn from the scabbard. To Cedric’s relief, though, after a quick glance around the room he resheathed it.

Rosie’s face went milk-white. She curtsied so quick and low that Cedric half expected her forehead to slam to the carpet, but she just shot him a sidelong glance at the nadir of the movement and hissed, “Get up, man!”

Yes, he probably should, he realized. It was embarrassing to bow to royalty in nothing but his nightshirt, but he did it anyway.

And Jon went on babbling. “I know Rosie said she’d come to check on you, but why’s she in your bed? She’s a honest girl, her mother says so! Rosie’s my friend! I sent her to you! How could you, Ser Cedric, how could you?”

Jon was a bastard, and so had that peculiarly strong sense of honor that some bastards had. Also, Jon was eleven years old and had spent most of his life divided between quiet Parchments and even quieter Eastcott, so even though he’d seen more of the world this past year, he was still touchingly innocent. Ordinarily Cedric found this quality of his quite sweet, but now he was panicking.

It did not help that Prince Baelor was standing there at Jon’s elbow with a rather disapproving look on his face. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder as though to brace him.

Though Cedric liked to boast of the connection, the truth of the manner was that he was terrified of Prince Baelor, almost more because he was the kind of man everyone admired than for his dragon’s blood. How Jena had summoned the courage to bed him and make two children with him, Cedric did not know.

“Good morn, Ser Cedric,” he said, when it became apparent no one was going to say anything. “I was sorry to hear you had been injured in the battle. Jon was telling me that he was worried for your health.”

His eyes seemed to express the notion that clearly there had been no need for Jon’s worry, considering what Cedric had been doing all night. Or at least, that is what he thought Prince Baelor’s eyes were saying, anyway.

He heard shuffling beside him, and then saw to his amazement that Rosie was coming forward. One hand was fisted in the sheet she’d wrapped around herself, hoisting it out from under her bare feet, but with the other she took Cedric’s arm, holding on as casually as though they were about to go for a pleasant morning stroll.

“You are so kind to come see Lord Cedric, Your Grace,” she said. Her chin was raised and her voice was steady, but she was pressed close enough to Cedric that he could feel her whole body quaking, and the effort with which she held herself under control.

“I am sure that the both of you have much to discuss,” she continued. “If you shall excuse us, I think it would be best if Jon Storm and I went to fetch you both a nice breakfast. Has my mother made us something good today, Jon? We shall talk together, you and I, and you may bring some food back here afterward. Shall we do that, Jon? I promise you really have misunderstood, and your master did not - Well, it was really all my fault, and none of his at all.”

Rosie’s voice had gone low and coaxing, as though she hadn’t just admitted in front of a prince of the realm that she was a loose woman.

Jon said nothing, but his pale blue eyes were huge and his mouth was set in a hard firm line. Prince Baelor looked between Rosie and him, and Cedric saw the strangest expression cross his face - sympathy. “Jon,” he started. “I think Mistress - Rosie? - I think that is a good notion of hers. And I must speak to Ser Cedric alone anyway, about my wife.”

“Is something wrong with Jena?” asked Cedric immediately. Then he realized it was another excuse, and that Prince Baelor was trying to be kind.

There really was no reason for Cedric to be so ashamed. Many men's blood ran high before and after a battle; war was always good business for camp followers, and indeed the campaign had gone on long enough for more romantic connections to develop too. Cedric was unencumbered and Rosie had been consenting. His squire was upset, but that was because he was young and didn't know any better. In time he would get over it.

And at the same time all these thoughts swirled together in his head in a dizzying blend: Rosie home alone at Stonehelm brewing her moon tea, Jena's little sons who looked so like her, his brother's bitter disappointment in him. Jon's face the day before, tear-swollen as he leaned over Cedric and tried to wash the blood from his face, promising that the healer would come soon. The emptiness of Eastcott. That when he died, he would leave nothing left after him. And Rosie possessed much more bravery than he ever would.

So when she went to move toward Jon, Cedric grabbed a hold of her arm and announced brightly, "Yes, it's a big misunderstanding. You see, Rosie and I are getting married today!"

Prince Baelor blinked long and slow, like he really was a damn dragon. Rosie sputtered in Cedric's ear. But Jon's face was suddenly, incandescently transfused with joy.

"You are?" he asked. "When? I didn't know you already knew each other! Why didn't you tell me, Rosie? Does your mother know?" Then, turning to Prince Baelor, he added, "Will you come too? Do you know where there's a sept? I don't think Ser Cedric has been."

Prince Baelor swung his gaze from Jon from to Rosie's panicked face, and then to Cedric's, and what he might be thinking Cedric did not know. To make things clearer, he hazarded a pleading expression.

After all, even if Prince Baelor was perfection made flesh, he had for his brothers a man who allegedly was so obsessed with his books he often forgot to eat or bathe, another who was said to go dancing naked through the halls of the Red Keep, and Prince Maekor, who to be fair Cedric had never heard anything very odd about, but was still so startlingly ill-tempered that he had to be more annoying than the other two combined. Surely he had heard his share of bad lies and foolhardy schemes in his time.

"Yes, you should come to the wedding, Your Grace," he further enunciated, when Prince Baelor remained silent.

And then his expression slackened, and he nodded as though understanding something now. "Yes, for certain I shall. Jena would be furious if I didn't! She'll be furious enough, I'm sure, that she isn't able to be here herself." 

Cedric nodded too. He realized belatedly that of course Prince Baelor thought that he had been lying about wedding Rosie, and that was why he had looked so disappointed. But surely having royalty witness one's wedding would make it a binding vow! 

"Jon, you'd better go fetch Rosie's mother, and my brother and whatever - I mean, any other lords he wishes to invite. Tell them we shall meet at the sept in three hours to wed - and have someone find us a septon!"

"I can deal with the septon," offered Prince Baelor. "I expect you can use the sept at Hayford Hall, and I know the septon there. I shall tell him we will all be there in three hours." Then, looking apologetic, he addressed Rosie. "I expect you will have to use one of Ser Cedric's banner's for the bride's cloak, if there isn't one already. Mistress Rosie, have you a house sigil?"

Stiffly she shook her head. "No, Your Grace, I am a commoner. I suppose the cloak I usually wear shall suffice." 

Prince Baelor waited a moment longer, clearly expecting more, but Rosie stayed stubbornly silent. So he bowed to her - a very shallow bow, but still a bow from a prince!

Then he and Jon left, Jon already chattering about how surprised and pleased Rosie's mother would be, because she had apparently despaired of finding her a husband. Cedric was glad that Prince Baelor would be the one explaining everything to his brother, because he did not want to think about what he would say when he learned that he planned to wed a lowborn healer.

When he turned to face Rosie, though, she did not seem particularly cognizant of the honor. She should have struck a ridiculous figure, barefoot, all wrapped in a wrinkled sheet with her long loose braids flung over her shoulders, but right now she just made him anxious. She had her hands clenched in fists, her mouth set in a mulish grimace. For a second, Cedric thought she might punch him in the face.

But she did not. In a low voice, she gritted out, "Would you care to explain what all of that was about, my lord?"

Cedric's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" Everything seemed perfectly clear, as far as he could tell.

"You told your squire that you are marrying me," Rosie said, very slow like she was talking to an imbecile. "You told the heir to the Seven Kingdoms that you are marrying me. But I, my lord, did not know that I was marrying you, nor why I should want to. You simply declared it. You did not ask me."

Cedric ran the last few minutes back through his mind's eye and realized, to his surprise, that indeed he had not. "I'm sorry, but there wasn't time! Jon was so upset -"

"And you lied to him!" she burst. "And you told them all those foolish lies - what do you mean to do next? Use those three hours to start fleeing home? And what am I to tell them, when they return and find you gone?" She bent her head a little, clearly thinking furiously. 

He almost wanted to know what kind of story she might come up with, but there was really no need, and he didn't like seeing her in distress. "We'll both need to be well-dressed, that's all," he promised. "I shall have one of my servants go borrow a dress from one of the ladies up at Hayford Hall for you, if you haven't anything fine enough. And I shall lend you a placid horse, though if you don't know how to ride you might need to brought up in a cart, and I don't that you'd like that."

Rosie rolled her eyes. "I think I can manage to stick on the back of a horse, my lord." Then she drew away a little, placed her hands on her hips, and looked him up and down rather clinically. "Is there a history of madness in House Dondarrion?" she inquired.

“No!” he barked, astonished. “Why would there be?”

She held up her hands, placating, which had the effect of letting the sheet sag distractingly down one hip. “I am only trying to understand. Are you trying to tell me that you wish to wed me for true? Me?”

It was becoming clear to Cedric that whether through shock at his announcement or her awe at being spoken to by Baelor Breakspear himself, she could not have properly absorbed what he was saying, or why. “Come here,” he said, and led her back to his cot and sat her down there.

Rosie waited, her hands folded demurely in her lap, though her fingers constantly tensed and relaxed like she was working hard to keep from fidgeting. He solved the problem by sitting down beside her and taking her hands in his. He never thought he would make a proposal of marriage clad in just his nightshirt, but after the last twenty-four hours it made as much sense as anything.

“I told you that I plan to be a better man from now on,” Cedric said. “I want to be a good lord to Eastcott. And I want to have a family.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And so you will ask your brother to match you a match, my lord, to a highborn lady.”

“No,” he corrected, patient. “I am going to marry you.”

It made perfect sense to him. He thought she was beautiful, and he liked talking to her. She was smart and compassionate and brave. And since he had taken her maidenhead, it would be honorable of him - or at least he would insist so to his brother, if he tried to be difficult about it.

Rosie did try to dissuade him for a little while. He had only met her the night before. He knew nothing about her! And while she could read and write a little, she didn’t know the first thing about running a household like Eastcott. People would laugh up their sleeves at him for having a common-born wife, and if his sister ever called them to court then Rosie would surely be a disappointment. Also the women in her family tended to get fat as they got older.

“So do all the Dondarrions,” said Cedric. “So when we’re old and fat, our children can roll us both round like barrels.”

She sighed heavily, and slumped forward. Since that meant she was now slumped against him, Cedric decided to take it as an encouraging sign.

“I don’t know why I’m trying to talk you out of it,” she mumbled. “Surely I’ll never be made such an offer ever again. By all rights I should be demanding to be draped in jewels and furs already. I should be plotting how to bankrupt you. Seems like you’ve made up your mind already, and won’t have it any other way.”

“No,” Cedric agreed. “I won’t. I have decided that you are going to be my wife.”

Rosie looked into his face for a long time. Whatever she saw there, it seemed, was more convincing than everything he had said. But being the person she was, she was not content to let him get away with it that easily. "My mother is going to come live with us," she stated - not asked.

"So may all your family," he replied.

"That's just my mother," she clarified, sharp. "And I don't know how highborn ladies are, but I will not abide you keeping mistresses or consorting with whores. You are never going to lie with another person ever again."

To Cedric, this was a given - he really was not that kind of man - but he nodded anyway. "Do you really want furs and jewels? I will buy you whatever you desire - and fine clothes and perfumes too, and whatever you can think of. Horses, tapestries, sweetmeats -"

"Don't go frittering away your coin away like that," Rosie said, sounding bemused. And then, with another sigh, she flopped backward on the bed, limp as a rag doll. After a moment, Cedric joined her.

They lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Even though he couldn't see her expression, he knew she was thinking hard; he could almost hear the sound of the gears grinding in her mind, like a Braavosi automaton. He was content to let her think. He had long ago learned that most people came to a decision much slower than he did, and it would be a shame to rush her now only to have it flung back in his face during some marital spat in the future.

"Fat as a barrel,” she warned again, sometime later.

"I will go into this marriage with my eyes wide open, do not fear," replied Cedric. "No one can say you've tricked me. Whether they can say the same about me, I'm not sure."

Then Rosie was laughing that adorable laugh which ended in snorts, laughing so hard she clutched at her side and rolled over, burying her face in his shoulder, and her laughter rattled through his body too. A bolt of satisfaction rammed through him. I can make her happy, he thought. And then, more firmly, I shall make her happy.

He knew that they should get up and get dressed, that Jon would be back soon with Rosie's mother, that his brother would soon be storming in to try and glare at him, though chivalry would constrain him from yelling at Cedric in front of the others. Instead he nosed against her cheek, her temple, her hair, and she went still.

"You don't even know my name - my proper name, I mean," she remarked.

"And what's that?"

"Rosalyn Cottrell," she said. She sounded almost shy.

"Lady Rosalyn Dondarrion, soon," replied Cedric. "I think it has a nice ring to it."