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PART FOURTEEN
Gates
... ... ...
"You look tired."
Hastily swallowing a mouthful of cider, and half-burning his throat in the process, Arthur narrowly avoided choking upon his own laughter. "Thank you ever so," he retorted, the words dripping with sarcasm.
"You know very well that's not how I meant it," was Rhaegar's reply, though there was laughter beneath. "Besides of which, if I wanted to insult you, I know aiming for your vanity would get me nowhere."
Arthur lifted his index finger from the cup he cradled in order to stab it in Rhaegar's direction. "Now that is blatantly untrue. If anyone knows how to rake at my ego it would be you."
Chuckling into his own cup, Rhaegar drained it, then set it upon the flagstone next to him. Drawing up one knee, he stretched out a leg to rest his foot against one of the columns of the terrace rail and leaned into the wall at his back.
Though the days were growing warmer, the air was still bitter when the sun began to sink. As such, it was barely warm enough yet to sit out here, but Rhaegar had begged to anyway, plying Arthur with hot cider and some nonsense about them both needing the fresh air, which Arthur supposed he had to concede. It was true, neither of them were able to get outside much anymore. Certainly not as often as they used to. All the same, Arthur would much rather not have ventured onto the terrace when the weather still smelled of ice. But Rhaegar was one of the very few people for whom he was willing to endure the cold.
He had positioned himself adjacent to the prince, where he had a clear sightline of both the balcony edge and the door. Technically speaking he was off duty. But the truth was, he was never really relieved. Not with Rhaegar and especially not of late, however much Rhaegar might have preferred otherwise. Barristan was stationed in the outer hall of the suite, and he would hear any commotion even from all the way out here, but Arthur still felt better being able to see clearly.
The spot was secure enough, relatively unexposed. Situating Maegor's Holdfast at the highest point of the tallest hill in the city had been by explicit design for this purpose. The fact that this decision had been made during the reign of a king determined to keep his unwilling queens under his control was only one of the thousands of bleaker memories housed within the golden stone.
"I can just see it, that's all," Rhaegar said. "Is something wrong? Your family?"
Arthur shook his head, quick to reassure Rhaegar's worry and accompanying frown. "All well, so far as I know."
He bent forward, resting his elbows on the knees of his crossed legs to stretch out some of the tension in his lower back. Ser Willem – the master at arms there at the keep and one of his later teachers – had not jested when he'd claimed that reaching one's thirtieth year meant an onslaught of aches and complaints that had not existed previously. The body gave only so many years before demanding the tithe be paid. Sitting on cold stone certainly wasn't doing him any favors. Neither was the poor rest.
"It's only that sleep has been somewhat elusive lately."
Rhaegar's laugh was dry and humorless. "That's usually my complaint. What's chasing away your rest?"
It would be pointless to pretend Arthur wasn't tempted to confide in his friend. He had confided so many other things to the prince - things arguably much more delicate, that even bordered on treason. Things that crossed that line completely. And he had heard just as many in return. The trust between them went both ways, as did the affection. Yet in spite of it, this wasn't something Arthur could bring himself to share.
He knew Rhaegar better than most, and as such, he knew Rhaegar would neither judge him nor look at him with scorn should he confess to pining for a woman to the point of hindrance and sleepless nights. Yet as he knew this, he also knew that Rhaegar would worry, want to help, when there was nothing to be helped. Rhaegar bore more than enough burden, and Arthur would rather sew his own mouth closed than add to it.
And perhaps…perhaps a part of him feared that Rhaegar might think this fixation called his reliability into question. Not to Rhaegar himself, but to the objective - to the realm. Perhaps some of that fear came directly from his own inability to deny the possibility outright. There were reasons the Kingsguard were intended to forgo all attachments aside from that to their king and barring the obvious snag of Arthur's own complex and, yes, treasonous loyalties, he was distracted, and it was a problem.
If Arthur were brutally honest with himself, he might also note that the idea of telling his closest friend of nearly ten years that he was losing sleep by panting after a woman Rhaegar saw as akin to a sister was…uncomfortable. Just now, he elected to avoid that honesty.
"I suppose," Arthur finally said, swirling the dregs of cider in his cup, "there's so much going on that my mind finds it difficult to stop turning."
Not entirely the truth, but not a lie, either.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhaegar nod, white-gold hair gleaming in the light spilling through the glass panes set into the door behind him. "Understandable, though I am sorry for it."
There were notes of guilt and of bitterness in his somber voice, and Arthur half wished he had blamed his back or a recurrent headache instead of even the partial truth.
"Don't be," he insisted gently. "None of the blame is yours."
Though he nodded, the remnants of a troubled mood lingered in Rhaegar's pale face. The face which had earned the hearts of maids and matrons alike.
There was much of his mother in his gentleness and his melancholy, but the prince's features were stronger, sharper, as his father's were. A source of unending discomfort for Rhaegar, as Arthur now understood, as it helped to invite still further comparison between them. It was frequently and openly said that even in his youth Aerys had never been so loved as his son was, which certainly did nothing to dispel the king's suspicions.
Reaching for the flagon nestled between them, Rhaegar lifted it in inquiry, and Arthur held out his cup for more.
Generally, Arthur preferred wine, but even he had to admit the cider accomplished its task. The thick, tangy sweetness of fermented apples lingered upon the tongue, the warming heat of mulled spices and liquor searing a hot trail all down the throat to pool in the middle and radiate outward. On a cold night's sentry duty at the height of winter, he would have yearned for nothing more, even despite the cloying aftertaste.
"I miss the days when we used to spend hours in the yard. Things were simpler then."
"Oh?" Arthur cradled the ceramic, warmed by hot liquid, between his chilly hands. His brows rose in a skeptical arc. "You miss my repeatedly knocking you into the dirt?"
Not entirely an accurate description when considering the later years of Rhaegar's training. The prince was an uncommonly quick study when he dedicated himself to a goal, and he had picked up quickly how to stay on his feet. Still, Arthur had always managed to throw him on his back at least once every time they worked.
They had not been boys together. Arthur had been a full knight by the time they properly met outside of the occasional brief crossing of paths. It had been purely by chance that he happened to be in the outer training yard idly chatting with the arms master when the prince strode in, right up to Ser Willem, and gravely requested a sword, armor, and the instruction to use them. To his dying day Arthur would never forget the older knight's utter, dumbfounded bafflement.
Rhaegar had been a skinny thing at thirteen, already two years older than most boys were when they began their studies, yet there had been such temperate, placid determination in him even then. Though Arthur had possessed no intention of teaching so early in his career, something about the boy had resembled Arthur's own straightforward aim at the same age, and he supposed it was out of respect of a sort that he found himself spending extra hours with the prince after his lessons with Ser Willem - helping Rhaegar fine tune his strengths and chip away at his weaknesses.
This choice to cut down on travel might have been the reason why Arthur didn't have as many great deeds attributed to his name as he had imagined he would as a boy. But by then his perception had already begun to change, and with it his priorities. He was also very aware that had he chosen differently he would not have spent so much time under the king's direct purview and might have escaped being marked for the Kingsguard. Even so, it was not a choice he regretted.
He no longer remembered at what point he began to regard Rhaegar as a friend. As Rhaegar , rather than the son of the king and crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Before then, he would probably have imagined it strange or difficult to befriend a member of the royal family. In reality, it was as easy and unconscious as breathing.
And it had all begun that day in the yard, with Rhaegar's insistence that he be treated as every other squire would be and Arthur promptly tossing him onto his arse.
In the midst of filling his own cup, Rhaegar laughed. His was not a loud or particularly resonant laugh, but it was warm and musical, and rare enough now that to earn it felt akin to a far greater victory.
"Oddly enough, I do," he replied, as though he found his own amusement ironic.
Arthur smiled and straightened, resting his shoulders against the stone at his back. "Come down for an afternoon and I'll oblige you."
The breeze which rose to wash across them was faint, barely worth the title of breeze at all, yet gooseflesh rose upon Arthur's skin even beneath his layers, and he wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself, nestling the thick fur at the collar closer against his neck. Perhaps he should consider growing his hair out longer - enough to cover his scalp and ears, at least…
"Well," Rhaegar mused, "the king is unlikely to deem me more of a threat than he already does, so I might as well." He sent Arthur a halfhearted warning glare. "But no leg weights."
"I make no promises. You step onto my field you play by my rules."
Rhaegar rolled his eyes over the rum of his cup. "Speaking of training," he added, far too casually not to be taken with a little skepticism, "I was told that you sparred with Visaera some weeks ago."
"I take it by your general lack of surprise that you had some preexisting knowledge as to the likelihood of that occurring," Arthur accused, brow rising as if to pin his friend under an irritation he did not feel.
"I suppose it's too much to hope that she trounced you…"
"Truthfully, she nearly did," Arthur admitted, chuckling. "Pretended the blade was too heavy—which of course I fell for like an absolute novice. She nearly took a slice out of me for it."
Rhaegar proceeded to laugh so hard that his breath became a delighted wheeze, and Arthur couldn't help but join him. It had been quite funny, in hindsight. He could only imagine the face he'd made upon managing to dodge the blow in question - gaping at her like a clobbered fish.
"Why didn't you tell me she has skill with a sword?" he asked, wiping watery eyes with a swipe of his thumb. "Surely not because you thought I would be—"
"No, no," Rhaegar lifted a placating hand. "I just…I didn't feel it was my place to say."
Of course. Arthur would have felt the same. He felt the same now .
It couldn't possibly be a secret. But how many people knew? The family must…the younger Connington at the very least. Beyond that, he couldn't say. She had given heavy implication which led him to believe the knowledge extended to some others - boys she had trained with, perhaps, or guardsmen. She had also appeared to be unconcerned about revealing herself to him and to Lewyn both, knowing – surely – that they would be obligated to pass the knowledge to the other Kingsguard.
Secret or no, it wasn't something he would be sharing with anyone he was not certain she had already trusted enough to tell herself. As Rhaegar had said, it was not his place.
"She only ever told me in her letters in any case, I've never actually seen her with a sword."
"She's quite good," Arthur stated, an unexpected swell of pride filling his chest as he did. "Even if I had known in advance, I wouldn't have expected her level of proficiency. Her size works against her, but she knows it and compensates for it very well. As I told her, if I had a bit less of a height and reach advantage, she'd have truly made me work for my win."
"Truly?" Rhaegar's brows lifted, impressed. "From the way she spoke, it sounded as though she thought you were being charitable. Clearly that wasn't the case."
Arthur frowned, more than a little dismayed. When had she spoken to Rhaegar…before or after their walk in the days following?
Sharply he amended the thought, for it had not been a walk . Escorting a royal charge was not comparable to walking with a lady. He had seen her to her rooms, that was all.
"But I know you to be quite discriminating where it concerns swordsmanship," Rhaegar added after a moment's consideration, "so I wondered if that might just be a result of her er—misinterpreting."
"By which you mean: assuming me to be a bigoted shit," Arthur offered, tone dry as sand.
"Not in so many words…"
"Of course not."
Before, then, if he had to guess. It would explain some of what had spurred her to second-guess his sincerity enough to bite the way she had. He bore no ill will toward her for that. The gods only knew what manner of vile talk she had heard, how many men or boys had been amiable to her face - being Lord Connington's ward - only to spread insult and slander the instant her back was turned. More likely than not, words would have been the least of it.
Whether she still imagined his assessment to be empty kindness or not, he was fairly confident she didn't believe him to be of that mold.
"The two of you seem to be getting on a bit better now."
Utilizing a quick sip of cider, Arthur barely managed to contain the caustic bark of a laugh at what felt like an absurdly comical notion that was...not quite under- nor overstatement.
"Well enough."
The prince raised his cup to the rapidly darkening sky.
"Thank the Mother for that bit of mercy," he lamented, and while he might not have meant it to be such an open indicator of how concerned he had been, the weight of gratitude was so genuine that Arthur could see it clearly. "I admit I was a little worried that my advisors might be too occupied tearing at one another's throats to do much else."
"I resent that," Arthur protested, nudging the toe of his boot into the bend of Rhaegar's knee. "If there were to be any tearing of throats it would have been from your cousin, not from me. Swords or no, I can only live in envy of such ferocity."
Rhaegar's pale head tossed back, white-gold hair spilling about his collar. "Hah!" he crowed, slapping a palm against a thigh. "So you see why I wanted her to back me!"
Oh, Arthur saw, and a great deal more than that.
Before he had the chance to formulate any answer, however, a shadow fell across Rhaegar's face, and Arthur instantly recognized the uneasy meld of fear and dread, and the eerie faraway look that he still didn't quite understand.
"I don't think father intends to have her killed."
It took Arthur a moment to be certain that he had followed the statement; that they were still referring to Visaera. The grimness of Rhaegar's voice, the heavy, somber undercurrent of what could described only as dread, clashed with the words themselves.
"Which…" Arthur prompted slowly, "is a good thing, surely?"
Rhaegar tossed him a withering look. "Of course it is. But alive doesn't mean safe."
The length of Arthur's back tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the chill.
He had begun to wonder if his misgivings toward Aerys' motives were somehow misplaced, yet found a only hollow, horrible comfort in Rhaegar echoing them now.
"Has the king implied he means to do her some other harm?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but he doesn't need to speak for me to be concerned. I worry for Viserys, too. I'm not always sure what I'm more afraid of—father corrupting him or having him murdered. Obviously, the latter is worse, but…sometimes I have the awful feeling that death would be kinder than whatever else is waiting. Does that sound mad?"
Arthur's heart twisted so sharply in his chest that he would not have been shocked to discover he was bleeding clean through his clothing.
The extent of the prince's care was in no way limited to his kin, yet within a family for which siblings and cousins were just as often raised as rivals or (ill-suited) future spouses as allies, to harbor such intense concern for his brother's safety was a mark of Rhaegar's character. It didn't matter that his father might seek to turn his brother against him, only that it might cause Viserys harm. He did not know how to protect the family he loved from the tyrant king seated at their head.
Yet it was the final question which really struck home, the faint, plaintive uncertainty of a boy seeking validation, and perhaps the reassurance that mad - such a poisonous word for his family - was not the proper term at all.
"No," Arthur said softly, "but I don't think it does you much good to dwell on it just now. Let us look after your family. You keep focused on the plans for your council. If I think there is something that warrants your concern, I will tell you."
Rhaegar's shoulders - still on the slenderer end of strength, even after all these years - slumped slightly at this. Though he said nothing, he nodded, jostling himself lightly, as though to cast away this small fraction of the burden which had been growing all the heavier with every passing month, his gaze fixed outward upon the dying light.
Arthur turned his head to join him, and shivered, neither the drink in his hands nor the faint, warm hum of the alcohol in his blood proving enough to ward off the cold now that the sun had slipped properly beyond the horizon.
The sky lacked the deep, burnt blood-orange tones of a southern sunset, but it was lovely in its own way, the butter yellow mixing with indigo to produce a rich, lustrous violet that he had never seen anywhere but in King's Landing. One could say what they liked about the city itself - foul, fetid pit that it could be, there were things of true beauty to be found there. And more than simply skies, seas, or architecture of late.
"Ah, before I forget completely…"
The bone of Rhaegar's heel prodded into Arthur's side above the hip, and why the prince had abstained shoes of any kind he had no blessed clue. The blood of the dragon was both strong and strange.
" I'm to tell you quite firmly that Rhaenys misses you and she expects you to come visit her. Sooner rather than later if the dreaded trembling lip is anything to wager by."
A rush of gentle fondness filled him at the image of the tiny princess delivering such an expectation in her sparse way, full of gesture and punctuated with the odd, emphatic word. Pout half-hidden by her mother's wild dark curls. "Your daughter does realize that I'm not her uncle, yes?"
Rhaegar shrugged; his own smile indulgent. "In the ways that matter, you are."
"I take that as express permission to spoil her rotten. So, when Elia chides me for it, know that I'll be laying the blame at your feet. Now let's get inside, it's bloody cold out here."
Having already begun to laugh, Rhaegar simply laughed harder.
"You're the desert cat," he jibed, " you go in. I'm content where I am."
With a groan and a curse - both of which he drew out in shameless exaggeration - Arthur got to his feet. "You pay me to keep your royal arse safe, now move it inside, if you please."
Craning his neck, Rhaegar fixed his friend with a look that was as much fond as disapproving, to which Arthur added:
"I could always drag you, I suppose…"
"You will not— toss off!"
Fending off Arthur's swipe for his sleeve, Rhaegar danced lightly to his own stockinged feet and proceeded him to the door.
"The realm pays you, by the by. Not me."
"Semantics."
...
In crafting her exit route over the better part of the week, Visaera was forced to acknowledge how very little she could plan for in advance.
She couldn't know the exact circumstances which might lead her to enact this plan, nor how quickly her absence might be noted. She had no way to calculate how much of a hurry she would be in, how much time she would have to adopt a disguise, whether she would be afforded the luxury of fleeing on horseback, or whether she would be forced to do so on foot.
What she did know: the instant it was confirmed she was missing the city would be locked down and guards dispatched to comb the streets for her.
It was crucial that she get clear before the gates were secured, for there was nowhere she would be able to hide were she to be trapped inside, and while she could only surmise what her fate might be were she to be found, supposition was more than enough to make her eager to avoid it. Depending on how heavily the city watch was involved, it would only take a matter of two to three hours before the city was cleared and the search parties would be dispatched to the surrounding lands to hunt her down.
Then there was the matter of where she intended on fleeing to …but she would worry about that later. No point in concerning herself with such details if the first part of the plan proved to be impossible.
Technically, slipping from the keep should be where the challenge lay, but it was what came after which made her nervous - specifically the choice of which course to take, how much distance it would require her to cover in the least time possible, and what to do once she made it clear of the walls.
Her first impulse was to exit via the river gate to the south. It would be relatively easy to disappear amidst the bustle of the docks and either sneak or bribe her way onto a boat. The problem with this plan was that it was the most obvious, and not only to her. The assumption would be that she would take the path to get out and away as swiftly as possible. Between that and having to rely on so many other people and yet more variables she could not account for, she elected to avoid it if possible.
If not the docks, the assumption would be that she had gone through the next gate which would take her south and toward safe haven that way. But if she did plan to travel south, it would not be right away and not directly. That way lay capture.
The northern gates were the closest logistically, yet until she dismissed them too, on the grounds that heading the opposite from guaranteed safety also held the risk of assumption. The eastern gate would trap her against the bay, unless she happened upon an honorable pirate or something else just as unlikely. Which meant that for all that they required her to cross nearly the entirety of the city, her best choices were to the west and northwest.
Of the two, the more expedient would be to take the main thoroughfare directly west and out onto the Goldroad. It was probably the very last path they would expect her to take - and thus the last they would search.
West it was, then.
She left the keep by the same route she had before. This time, however, she did not assume a masculine disguise.
As she couldn't guarantee she would have the time it required to don so intricate a disguise, though it would have been her preference, she decided to treat the venture as a multi-layered experiment and assumed the guise of a tradeswoman.
Folk of all sorts came and went through the gates every day in a constant stream. Those who lived in the many villages scattered throughout the surrounding area came to buy or sell their wares or to work at their trade. Others ventured out to visit kin or take part in work elsewhere. In theory, she would appear no different than one of these. Not to the other citizens, nor to the watch - just another washerwoman bearing the day's wares homeward, hood pulled up against the morning chill.
It was only marginally less dangerous to walk as a woman alone in daylight than at night, but any trouble she was likely to meet would not be difficult to deal with. She had the dagger at her belt - concealed by the folds of her cloak and the basket held propped against her middle - another beneath her sleeve, and a wary eye to the shadows. Most of the other folk mingling about were far too busy going about their own business to bother with her, and so long as she kept her head down and blended in, she doubted anyone would.
To her satisfaction, the theory proved solid.
Eyes did not slide off her in quite the same way they did when she dressed as a man, but the careworn dress and cloak appeared to serve an adequate substitute. Rolling her shoulders forward and adding a hint of a trudge to her walk gave her the bearing of someone work-weary and possibly older than she was, helped dissuade what attention might have otherwise lingered.
She had been in the controlled chaos of a city's central hub before. There was something reassuring in the clamor of many voices, of merchants hawking their wares and haggling price, the assorted sounds of livestock in their pens, of horse hooves upon cobbles, of squalling babies on their mothers' backs. As wild and overwhelming as each piece might have seemed in a collective, it all seamlessly melded into the perfect tandem which made up the rhythm of everyday life for the majority of the realm's citizens. She allowed herself to be swept up in it - rendered anonymous amidst the masses.
King's Landing was monstrously vast, though it had not - or so she had been taught - planned that way. The city had built itself, accumulating as people congregated to the hilly, uneven piece of earth.
Conveniently for those in the upper classes, the original builders had worked around and even reshaped the natural terrain in such a way to keep the poor quite literally below them. The muck and waste of the city flowed down from on high into the lower, and subsequently far poorer, districts. Though faint, the cloying stench from the slums still reached all the way to the high street.
While the smell was strong enough to occasionally make her stomach roil, Visaera was more saddened by it than disgusted. Cities were always dirty - humans were messy creatures especially when crammed so tightly together. But Storm's End had been a large city too and had not felt like this…like a wound left to fester and rot.
At the pace she set - purposeful, but in no way hurried - it took her nearly two hours to fight her way from the passage at the base of Aegon's High Hill to the western gate. It was not ideal, especially when she would need to balance anonymity with speed. Yet she knew now, and could plan accordingly.
As the Lion Gate opened onto one of the greater roads in the kingdom, and inarguably the wealthiest, it was among the most heavily used. It was also one of the better guarded.
Theoretically, there was no reason for the guards to notice her, let alone stop her. Even during times of war, it would have been unusual to find guards tasked with watching those leaving a given space rather than entering it. And unlike the Red Guard, the city watch was not always held to the strictest of standards; having neither an iron-fisted commander nor the perks - and subsequent punishments in the face of failure - to keep them sharp to their task.
All the same, this well into mid-morning, most of the traffic going in and out through the gate had ebbed to a trickle, and Visaera was careful to maintain her bone-weary posture and plodding pace, even when the slowness caused her heartbeat to quicken with shallow nerves.
Even as instinct bid her to yank up her skirts and break into a run, she kept steady all while passing beneath portcullis and between massive ironwood doors, which remained open except during times of siege, between the great snarling lions which seemed to glare down from their sentinel perches. She maintained until well beyond the point at which even the most dedicated of guards would have lost interest. Still, only when she was sure she was well down the road and well and truly alone did she let the act drop.
It was a victory of a sort, but not one to celebrate. Getting out of the city was only the second step in a string of many.
Having complained of a headache and fatigue to her maids, she had asked not to be disturbed until the evening meal, which left her plenty of time to pursue the second piece of reconnaissance she had planned to undertake.
Unlike knights or even soldiers, she had not been trained how to see to her own survival whilst traveling in the wild. Her knowledge was limited to the minimal basics: how to start a fire, but not how to acquire materials nor how to gauge where and when to make one or to avoid being seen, how to boil water to ensure it was safe for consumption, but not how to find a source from which to collect it. She could hunt and would not go hungry, but as to finding or constructing shelter from weather, she had only theoretical ideas based in logic and hearsay, not in experience.
She did not have the luxury of lessons and repetition over years, only what she could glean from books and stale memory. Else she end up accomplishing nothing beyond altering the means of her own demise, she would need to locate places in advance where she could safely hunker down to rest and hide along the way. A task made all the more difficult when she must avoid settlements and stay off the roads as much as possible.
After hours spent poring over numerous maps, she had identified a few possibilities. The most promising of which lay a little ways beyond the first mile marker. Too close to the Landing to be a safe hiding place for long, but it might do for a rest, and even offer a means of shaking whatever tail was sent after her.
Despite the underlying purpose, she enjoyed the walk. Though not as fertile as the Reach to the southwest, the Crownlands were lush and verdant, villages and market towns clustered amidst sprawling golden farmland and gently rolling hills, dense pockets of woodland scattered throughout.
The landmark for which she was aiming had been built into the far side of a shallow knoll that was clearly visible from the road, though the branching road which had once led to it no longer existed - long ago reclaimed by the earth. The hillside was half enveloped by a small thicket which reached out as though the forest were slowly seeking to envelop both the hill and the crumbled remnants of stone into its loving, covetous arms.
She had thought the ruin would be what was left of the castle of some lesser, now extinct house, but once she was near enough to press a hand to the stone, it was evident that this wasn't the case. Not even a modest keep would have been so small, and a modest home would not have been so large, nor made of such heavy blocks of limestone.
Much of the skeletal foundation and ground floor were still intact, but the rest had been reduced to so much rubble, all of it overgrown with moss. Creeping plants clung to the old stone and formed a delicate curtain in the place where a door had once stood - the wood long since moldered away.
Brushing aside the veil of leafy vines, Visaera peered inside, taking stock of the empty room beyond the doorway. Though the end nearest her was enveloped in shadow, daylight spilled in from the massive, gaping tear in the far wall. She fancied that it had the look of a wound left by a battering ram, or some other instrument of war. Perhaps even a dragon.
Initially she dismissed the noise upon hearing it. After all, the heavy, blowing sigh of a contented horse was nothing new or strange to her. It wasn't until a split second after doing so that she remembered she had not brought a mount.
If there was a horse, then there was a rider nearby.
The muscles along her back coiled tight as she tossed a glance over her shoulder, skimming the dense fringe of trees, finding no movement but for the gentle sway of the pale grass along the sloping ground. She checked her hood, ensuring it was still pulled up and well forward to conceal her face and, more importantly, her hair.
She should have bloody dyed it... but that would have been difficult to brush off were she to be caught. And besides, it was too late for should-haves now.
She had known this was a possibility; any number of folk, reputable or not, might find shelter in such a place. Yet even prepared for it, she still managed to find herself startled and owl-eyed, clutching at the handle of her basket as though it could serve her as a shield.
Immediately she made to retreat - to promptly leave the same way she had come, only to pause when yet another sound reached her. The faint, barely-there whistle of steel slicing through air. The scuff of boot soles on dry dirt followed, along with a heavy breath of effort. A very specific and distinct combination of sounds with which she was intimately, and occasionally painfully, familiar.
Sounds that belonged in the training yard.
Who on earth was practicing , of all things, out here among the half-buried bones of a decrepit building in the middle of nowhere?
Curiosity could be a deadly thing, as she well knew. All the same, she felt the tug of it beckoning her forward, even while the far more sensible voices of caution and reason did their best to drown it out with all the reasons it would be better to leave well enough alone.
She hadn't been seen, her presence was still unnoticed, and it needed to stay that way. She couldn't be sure there was only one rider and getting into a scrap was not among her plans today - nor was she best equipped for one. She should go about her way, strike this spot from her list of possibilities, and move on. If she were careful and expedient, she should be able to slip away with no one the wiser. Yet, as many could attest, Visaera had not always excelled at doing what she ought.
Ducking beneath the greenery, she stepped through the open doorway and into the dark.
She crept cautiously forward, picking her way around chunks of crumbled stone and other debris to approach the remnants of what had once been a stairwell - the sheer sturdiness of which appeared to be the sole reason the destroyed wall retained any structural integrity.
Cloistered within the shadow there, she edged closer to the spill of light and the source of the sounds. Ready to either run or draw the knife at her hip, she shifted her weight forward, with an agonizing care not to make any inadvertent sound, to peer around the crumbling lip of stone.
There was a clearing amidst the rubble, ringed by broken stones in the manner of some ancient place of worship and, backed by the looming, indomitable oak and fir trees. In the middle of that flat, even stretch of dirt and patchy grass was a man. Tall and broad and black of hair, wielding a sword in each of his hands.
Of course.
If anyone would be out in an abandoned ruined building at the edge of a wood running through practice drills, it would be Arthur fucking Dayne.
Momentarily shocked as she was to find him there, the bewilderment didn't last, all too quickly dispersing into fascination. They were drills, for certain - she could tell by the rhythm and repetition, but they were like no drills she had ever seen before.
He was working at a student's speed, slowing his movements down significantly in order to focus on them, emphasizing the motion of his hands, the smooth turn of his wrists and elbows. The sweeping arcs of the blades moved in perfect unity, yet the rhythm in the twist and shift of his body was not the strict, clean beat she had been taught with, but something flowing, which rose and fell not unlike the eb of the tide. And as he continued to pivot, gradually increasing his speed, the more fluid he seemed - as if performing a dance of singing steel rather than an exercise.
As she watched, the lines between man and metal disappeared. While it had been drilled into her head over and over again that a weapon was only so good as the wielder, she had only ever believed it to a point - imagining it was more something that was said than any statement of fact. Seeing this…she understood as she had not before, because it was evident that the weapon here was Arthur himself, not the swords he bore.
The base of her palm grazed a deep crack in the rock as she slunk just a bit nearer, the sharp edge a whisper across her skin. She wasn't cut, but it was a near thing. Not that she would have noticed anyhow.
She could have spent the entire day simply watching him and been thoroughly enthralled.
What were the odds that she would find herself in this place at the exact time he happened to be there? She didn't really put much faith in deities - not the old gods nor the seven-faced god of her forefathers, or any other - but it was beginning to feel as though some great force in the cosmos was determined to drag her toward him, for all that she had been trying to stay away…though perhaps not trying hard enough.
She really ought to go. Cease infringing on what she could only assume must have been a deliberate pursuit of privacy.
Before she could put thought to action however, he had pivoted once again, turning smoothly toward her hiding place and stilling mid-stoke, his eyes flicking immediately up to fix sharply upon her. Whereupon the heart in her chest stuttered and very nearly stopped altogether.
Dratted buggering… hell.
Her hood was still up - she had made sure of that - yet she could tell just by the look that he knew her. She had no idea how he did with hair concealed, face shadowed, form altered by the ill-fitting dress. Yet he, ever infuriatingly observant, managed it anyhow.
Stepping fully into the light, she reached to pull back the hood, a thick pang of contrition and uncertainty writhing like a serpent caught in her belly.
"I'm sorry," she told him as he straightened, slowly lowering the blades to his sides. "I didn't—it wasn't my intention to intrude."
"You haven't," he said quietly.
The words seemed true, the goal apparently to reassure her, yet there was something in them that she couldn't decode.
Angling his head to one side, then the other, he scanned the ruined structure around them, as though searching for something which eluded him.
"Where is your horse?"
"Oh, no horse. I walked," she declared, adjusting the basket so that it hung more comfortably from the crook of her elbow.
He appeared to accept this easily enough, yet she recognized the slight crease which formed between his brows when he cast a glance over her shoulder into the shadowed stairwell behind her.
Visaera knew precisely what it was he sought now. Doubtless he had been informed of the exchange between herself and Lord Commander Hightower and, as such, the agreement she had allowed Ser Gerold to believe she had made.
In truth, she wasn't entirely certain what his reaction would be when he realized that the Red Guard he expected to find accompanying her was not there. That she - from his position - had lied to his Commander's face. She had never seen him angry, yet she had the awful, sinking feeling that this might be the thing to change that, and she was neither too proud nor too stubborn to admit to herself that the thought of angering him - truly angering him - disturbed her. Not because she was frightened, exactly. She was not concerned for any lash of temper, either verbal or physical. What she feared was not punishment, but…loss.
Loss of the regard he had for her, the respect due not to her blood or name but to her character. Loss of what she might tentatively have called friendship.
While she did not regret the choices which had led her here, necessary as they had been, she did very much regret that they might result in his thinking less of her.
"And…" His frown deepened, and she had the distinct impression he was bracing himself for an answer he already knew he wasn't going to like. "Your guard?"
"I don't imagine many of the redcloaks would be all that enthusiastic about traveling this far on foot. Do you?"
Eyes fluttering closed, he gave a deep, steadying sigh. She stiffened reflexively, ready for the flare of outrage which did not come. There was only mild frustration and a gentle reproach.
"Lady Targaryen—"
"Please, don't scold," she begged hastily, startled by how profoundly upsetting it was to hear the descent into a far more formal address than he had used in some time. Though not nearly so much as the prospect of him chastising her as though she were a silly, irresponsible child…
Though Arthur's face was grave, the set of his mouth stern, there was a softness to the look he shot her - a note of almost amused exasperation. It seemed to say that while he knew full well she required no lecture from him as to how dangerous her actions were, the risks she had taken, he was tempted to give it to her anyway, simply on principle. Yet he held his tongue, shifting his weight to his back foot as he regarded her, steady and expectant.
By right of birth, she was not required to explain herself to him, but that was not the way she wanted things between them to be. She could not divulge everything, however much she might wish to confide in him - as the lonely, cornered creature inside her so dearly wanted - not when it might put him at odds with his obligations to the other Kingsguard. Or with those to the crown. But he had ceased to be merely a guardsman to her. He was an ally, an equal, and she respected him as such, which meant that she owed him more than silence.
"I know it is a great deal to ask—perhaps too much. But I would ask you to trust that I have my reasons, and that they are a risk to no one but myself."
His gaze trailed along the length of her, taking in the details of her appearance, lingering briefly on the basket, her mud encrusted shoes, her braid - woven tightly and tucked down the neck of her cloak so no stray strands could slip free and identify her. She could almost see his mind working to read her, to fit together the pieces of what he could observe with what little she had said. And everything that she hadn't.
Did he suspect this had something to do with the state in which he'd found her in the stables the other day? She wouldn't have put it past him to link the two things together, or to have an inkling of what her purpose in slipping out here might be. He had deciphered other things about her with much less by way of clues.
"Are you…is everything all right?" he asked quietly, and with no more than the simple question and the note of genuine concern in his voice, what she had interpreted as sober disapproval was cast in a very different light.
Even as she'd asked for trust she had not expected him to give it easily - if he gave it at all. She had expected him to question her, or else to insist that she explain the why of it at the very least, all of it under a thick layer of judgment, which she would not have blamed him for, even while it stung. Yet whether or not she entirely deserved it, he had taken her at her word, demanded nothing of her but the reassurance that she was in no immediate danger…and she had no name for what this made her feel.
Struggling to find her voice for the emotion knotted tight in her chest and throat, she answered by way of a nod.
The lines of tension in his face and shoulders eased then, as if he were actively choosing to shed it. Perhaps even forcibly expelling it through the difficulty he found in doing so.
"Very well, then. But I will have to speak to the Red Guard about their negligence."
"No, don't—" she blurted, with a cold burst of dismay.
Even if by some means he was able to deliver such a reprimand while avoiding specifics, it would surely result in tighter security, increased surveillance - potentially even reinforcement to the walls. The redcloaks would not remain inactive when faced with admonishment from one of the Kingsguard, and that was assuming they hadn't already been given direct orders in regard to her. The very last thing she needed was for anyone to keep closer tabs on her.
"It's hardly their fault I slipped them. I'm quite accomplished at it now—and I am rather unrecognizable."
With the flick of a hand, she gestured to herself, indicating the deliberate pains she had taken to make herself plain and unassuming, so that eyes might slide from the character she had crafted to blend into the city backdrop. His eyes remained resolutely where they were, one brow rising in a bemused arch as he held her gaze.
"Accomplished at it now ," he echoed, with another hint of that half-exasperated humor. "You were an unholy terror as a child, weren't you?"
There was an unmistakable fondness within his voice when he said it and, rendered inexplicably shy, she lifted one shoulder in the smallest of shrugs. As she watched, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward, the shape of it accentuated by the shadow of at least two days' worth of new beard.
Mother save her, but she did like it when he neglected to shave. From all the way across the clearing she had the ridiculous itch to stroke the back of her hand along his cheek to feel the texture against her skin. To run a fingertip along the line of his jaw to see if it was as sharp as it appeared.
He turned, presenting her with his profile as he crossed to the crumbling remains of what might once have been the perimeter wall to a courtyard - little higher now than a garden fence - where a saddle and bags had been draped across the old stone. She saw no hint of his horse when she looked, though surmised it must be somewhere nearby.
"You understand that I cannot approve of this in any official capacity, yes?"
He shot her a pointed glance as he walked, adjusting his grip to hold both swords in his left hand and freeing the right to reach for one of the bags, folding back the cover to extract a waterskin.
She dipped her chin in a sign of respectful agreement.
"Your objection is duly noted."
Arthur gave a short nod. "Then we need speak no more of it."
It was her turn to infer from what he did not say, though she imagined she followed the paths left in the wake of his silence much more easily than he had hers. He could not support her openly, and were she to be discovered he could not defend her. But if she were to be discovered, it would not be by his doing. He might not be all too pleased by her actions, regardless of whether he accepted her unspoken reasons as requisite rather than a reckless gamble with her own safety, in this he would respect her wishes.
As he had with the dagger, rather than acting as training or protocol would have him do, he had waited, and deferred to her choices. She wasn't sure she had ever respected a man more in her life.
She could not, however, be certain that he would be so accepting a second time. Perhaps it would be best not to test him there…
Angling his body toward her, he proffered the skin in wordless question. Having plenty of water packed within the basket, she was neither thirsty nor suffering the fatigue of dehydration, and so she declined with a shake of her head.
Lifting the skin to his mouth, he removed the stopper with his teeth and set it to his lips, drinking deeply, throat working as he swallowed.
Surreptitiously she watched him, a conflicted knot of uncertainty forming in the back of her mind.
In spite of his having shrugged off her apology, she had encroached upon his privacy; time he had taken for himself to escape the pressures and demands of his life - demands which she was inescapably intertwined with. He had said and done nothing to indicate he meant to order her back to the Red Keep, and if he hadn't by now, she doubted he would. She could only guess as to his reasons, though she was certain at least one of them would be that he didn't believe it his place to issue such a command to her - to any grown woman entitled to making her own decisions and her own mistakes. Yet she wondered if there was a part of him that was even a little pleased by her presence there.
In truth, she hadn't intended to linger out here any longer than it took to assess the area, yet that had been before. Much as she had in the stable, she found herself averse to walking away from him, to relinquishing the sense of freedom over to the rigid confinement which reduced them to guardsman and lady , rather than two people who simply enjoyed one another's company.
She did not, however, wish to presume that he wanted her company just now.
"May I stay?"
He blinked at her as he lowered the water, appearing almost baffled, either by the question or by the hint of hesitance in her voice.
"Of course," he replied, gesturing to the area around them at large with the hilts of the swords still cradled in his left hand as if to state that she should make herself at home.
A gracious indication of welcome. Born from the noble's courtesy, she wondered, or from that of the man?
Best not to think on that, she supposed.
As he took another deep drink, Visaera rounded the base of the broken stairwell to perch upon the low, smooth lip of stone she found there. Lowering the basket to the scraggly grass at her feet, she observed as he replaced the stopper to seal the waterskin anew - once again with his teeth - and waited until he finished to speak again.
"What was that technique?" she asked, emboldened by the invitation to linger and by the curiosity that had been gnawing at her mind for the better part of weeks. "You used it with Ser Lewyn, I think? But I don't recognize it."
He commended the observation with a nod, a trace of what might have been approval in his expression, though she only had a clear view of the side of his face and couldn't be certain.
"I did, yes. One of my teachers was Braavosi. The technique is a variation on what he called a water dance —adapted for the broadsword. And for my own preferences now that I have a rough idea of what I'm doing."
A small noise of amusement left her, completely unbidden.
If that was a rough idea, then she was a squirrel. She was tempted to accuse him of arrogance simply to poke fun at his evident reflex toward humility but elected to lean into the far greater urge to continue her analysis.
Thinking the movements reminiscent of a dance had not been merely fanciful, it seemed. It was flashy, in a sense, but so much of that was due to her mind's processing the newness of it. And the second sword. Overall, swordplay was much more subtle than most students realized when learning - many never shook the assumption, and paid for it, more often than not. Yet this was even subtler, far more focused on small, whip-quick movements to slip through the gaps in the opponent's guard to slice open a vein or nick a tendon and slip away again before the injury was even noticed.
Recollecting the unusually smooth weave of his footwork, the wider stance, the way he had maneuvered around Lewyn's masterful handling of the spear, she remembered having noted something odd in the way he had watched the other man - something in the direction of his focus.
"It's…reactive," she noted suddenly. "Um—rather than predictive."
A dark brow lifted.
"What makes you say that?" he inquired, returning the waterskin to its place. "Your instructors would have taught you that those who wish to be more than merely competent strive to anticipate the motives and movements of the opponent in order to adequately counter them."
"Yes," she gave an impatient toss of a hand. "Hastwell teaches that the source of all movement is centered in the chest. As does Terand. And though less conservative disciplines might argue the specificity—L'rygante's emphasis on watching the feet, and such—almost all agree that simply reacting is the wrong tack, but that's exactly what you were doing in the training yard."
"L'rygante also emphasizes the element of unpredictability," he countered thoughtfully, moving back out into the clearing and toward her.
His expression was composed, sedate, but she noticed the light in his eyes - interest, engagement. He wasn't testing her or measuring her knowledge, nor was he goading her into argument as many soldiers had before. It was simply a theoretical discussion of tactics. One he was evidently enjoying. She hadn't even realized her hackles were rising until she felt the tension in her shoulders ease with this realization and felt promptly ridiculous for letting her temper get the better of her when he'd yet to give her real reason for it.
It was rare that men aside from her teachers actively wanted to talk theory with her. Even Jon, who took her more seriously than most, had no patience for it when he could be out doing rather than endlessly carrying on about long-dead masters gone for centuries. This was perhaps why she had jumped to a bad faith assumption, but it was also the thing which brought her the thrill of delight.
She had no inclination to suppress her smile.
"I'm fairly certain that was in reference to tactics like switching sword hands or using the environment."
With a dip of his chin, he yielded to her point. "True. But I wonder if utilizing an unfamiliar style wouldn't suit his method in spirit?"
"I suppose it would," she offered in concession, feigning a begrudging note as she did. Casting a glance toward the blades in his hand, she mused: "You know, many would say using a second sword is more a hindrance than a help."
He met this casual barb with a slow smile of his own that stoked a melting warmth in the pit of her belly, and this time she was certain. He was pleased.
"For some, perhaps. But it can allow for more control over the direction of a fight and can come in handy when dealing with multiple opponents."
"If the wielder is very good, you mean."
"Indeed."
"Ah, so this is a compliment you'll accept?" she teased and reached for the cord at the neck of her cloak to tug it loose.
His eyes lowered, his chin dipping slightly in that smile that was uniquely his and so absurdly appealing. "I suppose I must, mustn't I?"
"Yes," she said flatly. "Or else I'll be forced to kick you very hard somewhere intensely painful."
It was out of her mouth before she could think better of it, and he was laughing before she had the time to fret that the playful threat had crossed any lines. Half a second later she was near to bursting with giddy pleasure at the warm, rich sound of his laughter, the way his head tossed back in unhindered elation.
She adored it when he laughed. The men she had grown up around had been boisterous and loud and their laughter had echoed that. Arthur was so collected and soft-spoken that when he did laugh like this - free and open and, yes, loudly - it felt a little like glimpsing a part of him that he did not often show, as though he had let down his own mask just a little bit more.
Still chuckling, he lowered his eyes to where she sat, regarding her steadily…almost as though in expectation. Expectation which she had no idea how to meet.
"Surely you don't intend just to watch me," he said after a moment, voice still thick with amusement.
She wasn't sure how to answer that. She hadn't really intended to do anything specifically, other than stay. Yet she couldn't say that the prospect of watching him train was an unpleasant one.
When she did little more than blink at him, he gave a tiny flicker of a smile and a jerk of his chin.
"Up," he ordered, beckoning her to stand with a flick of a sword.
There was a hint of something commanding in his tone, and for the first time she heard the lord's son, the man that had commanded a campaign to track down a band of outlaws. and it was...unexpectedly delicious.
"I could use a partner."
At this, Visaera's entire body seemed to flush with pleasure, even as her mind was sluggish to process the words.
He hadn't said it to humor her - to extend some courtesy he felt he must. When she had asked to cross blades with him before, it likely had been, but not now. If he found her good enough to commend her to his superior, then evidently he deemed her good enough to practice with. Good enough, perhaps, that he deemed her worth expending the energy to work with her – to hone her like a blade. To teach her the way she had childishly daydreamed about.
Rising eagerly, she shrugged from the heavy cloak she no longer needed and stepped forward from the rubble out onto the open earth.
NOTES:
So...the reason why it took so goddamn long to get this chapter up is because technically this is only maybe half of what was originally planned for the chapter, and I wasn't actually sure where I would have to cut it due to length. The good news is the next one is over halfway written and will be a LONG one. I'm only able to post this now because I'm at home laid up with Covid (after almost three years without so much as a goddamn cold...I'm so annoyed), and am far along enough in recovery to focus. I blame all errors on the recurrent fever.
I really wanted to look at Rhaegar and Arthur's relationship in this chapter. In book canon, they were at most a year apart in age with Rhaegar likely being a bit older, which means they probably met and forged a friendship while undergoing knight training as boys. Since I've tweaked the timeline and made Arthur so much older, this wouldn't have happened. In fact, it's unlikely they crossed paths much, if at all, up until the point Rhaegar decided to learn to fight. The most realistic way I can see them meeting and becoming friends is by Arthur helping to train him. By my timeline, Arthur would be about 21 and Rhaegar 13ish then, which is quite a difference, but a lot of what we know implies that Rhaegar was something of an old soul and quite mature for his age (how much of that was due to actual personality and how much because he had to be because of his parental situation is up for debate). I like the idea of them becoming close even in spite of not growing up together because it mirrors many real friendships.
I'm not positive on the canon, but the implication with true Targaryen "dragons" being impervious to fire and heat is also that they do better with warm climates. Valyria is southern and was likely hotter, and Dany is shown more comfortable in the more deserted parts of Essos. However, I feel like this is relative depending on the person. People adapt as needed. By this point there have been Targaryens in Kings Landing for generations, I think even those among them that are "true dragons" are accustomed to the cooler climate, even if they don't necessarily love it. I've never taken it to literally mean they are lizard-like in preferences, though maybe that is what it's meant to mean.
I looked at probably eight different maps for what amounted to a probably pretty boring chunk of this chapter – all of them different fan-interpretations of the Red Keep and King's Landing. SO MANY MAPS. According to GRRM, King's Landing is a BIG motherfucking city – I did some rough calculation to attempt figuring out what that actually might look like in terms of mileage and the time it would take to walk it, but I ended up scaling things down a bit for sheer practicality. What is depicted here is not accurate. Forgive me.
One of the most iconic parts (within a movie that is pretty much SOLID iconic parts) of Princess Bride is the fencing scene with Inigo and the Man in Black. One of the things that makes it iconic is their banter - talking about different styles and techniques. It lends a subtle but immersive hint of realism to a world that feels fantastical. There are some records of medieval fighting style and technique that still exist. I wanted to include some discussion emulative of Inigo and Westley not only for world-immersion, but for bonding purposes.
My Arthur wanted to be a swordsman and a knight above all else as a child, so I imagine him being not only more flexible insofar as mixing styles is concerned, but also a bit of a nerd about the history and the art form. Visaera wanted to learn to fight to counter feelings of vulnerability and helplessness that overwhelmed her even from childhood - which were absolutely bolstered by her mother's giving her weapons and teaching her to be wary almost from the cradle. I imagine her growing to love it for its own sake as she learns, but also that she was made to feel that she had to work and study twice as hard as the boys in order to be considered anywhere near as adequate, so she studied history and theory and such for more practical reasons rather than fun.
While they definitely admire one another's skills - Visaera is definitely a fangirl now that she's seen Arthur work and Arthur's interest is clearly increased by her fighting earnestly let alone well - I feel like it's important to note that it's not merely a physical thing. True love of a sport (or anything, really) is rarely based only in talent or action. So, I really wanted them to have a bit of an intellectual bond there too. I'd imagine Arthur doesn't get to talk about it much anymore since people just put his skill down to raw talent rather than effort and dedication, and Visaera is used to people just not being interested. It's a TINY bit of an exchange right here, but I'm proud of it.
With that, here is where I share some unpleasant news. As of this chapter, I will no longer be dual-posting this story on . I apologize for the inconvenience, I know that people prefer their fic sites for their own reasons, and this is not me trying to punish or...I don't know, be whiny about lack of reviews. But frankly, with the way 's algorithms work, I do not get enough engagement here to justify the amount of work that goes into re-formatting and re-posting for a second site when a third of the reason I post fic at all is for interaction with fellow fans. If you are still interested in the story, you'll be able to find it on Ao3 under the same title and author names. Once again, I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience.
Take care and be well, and hope to see you elsewhere.