Chapter 4
Faye took a deep breath after closing the door to her chamber behind her. This was the only place in the Red Keep where she felt she could truly breathe. No judgmental eyes watching her every move, no whispering mouths spreading gossip, no relentless pressure crushing her shoulders.
No sardonic looks from her betrothed, no sharp-edged comments about her appearance, her clothes, her manners, or lack of gracefulness. She wasn't pretty enough for the high and mighty Crown Prince. Too short, too clumsy, too plain. Not good enough for him. As if she had ever wanted to marry a spoiled, selfish brat.
She hated it here, and all she wanted was to go home. If only she still had a home to return to. Her father was gone. Her uncle was gone. There was no one left. No one to defend her, no one to take her in.
"My lady?" came the soft voice of her handmaiden, Alise.
Faye turned and managed a tired smile. "Survived another meal," she said dryly.
Alise's brow furrowed with concern. "Was the Prince there?"
"He was, but he was strangely quiet this morning." Faye paused, then huffed out a humorless laugh. "Probably still tired from his… celebration last night."
Alise lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry, my lady…"
"Don't be," Faye said firmly, her voice steady. "I won't shed any more tears because of him. I may be forced to wed him, but I won't let him break me."
"Well said, my lady." Alise hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty before she continued. "I don't know if this offers you any solace, but I've heard the Prince is quite fond of his little niece, Princess Rhaenys' daughter. Perhaps… after you have your first child, things will get better."
Faye couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down her spine. Just the thought of that man touching her made her stomach churn. She doubted he would be kind, or even discreet, on their wedding night.
"I am well aware of my duties as his wife," she murmured tensely.
Alise gave her a compassionate look. "A son will give you safety, my lady."
"I know," Faye sighed, her voice weary. "I just hope I wouldn't have to have that son with Aegon Targaryen. If only…"
She trailed off, staring at the window.
"What, my lady?" Alise asked gently.
Faye shook her head. "Never mind."
But her thoughts lingered on Eddard Stark. He had always been kind to her. There had been whispers, once, about her marrying his son, Robb. She had met Robb a few times, he had been kind, confident, and honorable. She would have gladly married him over the spoiled Crown Prince.
But she was the last Arryn, and that made her valuable, a pawn in a game played by men far more powerful and far less merciful than her.
She was alone in this world, and she had no choice but to protect herself as best she could. Her dreams of becoming part of a family that would accept her, cherish her, were long gone, scattered like ashes in the wind.
"I would like to swim in the sea today," she said quietly after a moment of silence.
Alise hesitated, her discomfort evident. "My lady, you know we need the King's permission to leave the Red Keep. And… after what happened the last time… His Grace doesn't want you swimming by yourself."
Faye frowned. "What happened? You mean when I had a cramp in my leg?"
"Yes, that," Alise murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor.
Faye let out a tired sigh. "You know, if I had truly wanted to drown myself, I would have succeeded."
Alise's face flushed crimson. "My lady, those were just vicious rumors. I never believed them. I don't think the King did either. I'm sure he only wants to keep you safe."
"By treating me like a prisoner," Faye said bitterly, her voice sharp with restrained anger.
"I'm sorry, my lady," Alise murmured softly. "Perhaps you'd like a relaxing bath? I could ask if you might use the grand bathing chamber in the royal quarters. I caught a glimpse of it once, it has a swimming bath so large it looks like a small lake, and…"
"Thank you, Alise, but I think it's best I stay far away from the royal quarters," Faye said dryly, cutting her handmaiden off with a faint roll of her eyes. "I'd rather not even imagine what the prince would say if he found me there."
Alise gave a small nod, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Of course, my lady. Perhaps we could spend some time in the gardens instead? The weather is fair today, and it might lift your spirits."
Faye let out a slow breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. "The gardens…" she murmured. "Yes, I suppose they're less suffocating than these stone walls."
Alise brightened just a little. "Shall I fetch your shawl and arrange for some refreshments to be brought there?"
"Yes, thank you, Alise. That would be lovely." Faye walked over to the window, gazing out at the vast expanse of King's Landing below. The Red Keep loomed over the city like a dragon guarding its hoard, unforgiving, unyielding.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. A cage is still a cage, no matter how gilded.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Alise hurried to answer. A young servant entered, bowing low before holding out a small velvet box on a tray.
"For Lady Faye, with the Crown Prince's compliments," the boy said, keeping his eyes downcast.
Faye stared at the box for a long moment before slowly reaching for it. The velvet felt soft under her fingers as she lifted the lid. Inside lay a delicate necklace, a silver chain with a sapphire pendant.
"It's… beautiful," Alise whispered, leaning closer.
Faye pressed her lips together, her fingers tightening around the velvet box. She was certain this was some kind of cruel joke. Why else would the prince send her anything?
"Please thank the prince for his thoughtful gift," she finally managed to say.
"Yes, my lady," the boy said, bowing respectfully before retreating from the room.
Faye continued to stare at the necklace long after the door had closed. The sapphire caught the light, glinting coldly in her palm.
"Why did he send me this?" she murmured.
"Perhaps he's trying to make amends, my lady," Alise said hesitantly.
"Amends?" Faye repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "No, Alise. Men like Aegon Targaryen don't make amends. There has to be some other meaning behind this, some new way to mock me."
She snapped the lid shut with a sharp motion, her expression hardening. "But it doesn't matter. I won't let him ruin our walk in the gardens. It's enough that I'll have to discuss the wedding arrangements with him and the Queen later today."
Alise dipped her head respectfully. "I understand, my lady. Shall we go, then?"
Jon felt his heart pounding in his chest as the aide, whose name he still didn't know, walked with him toward the training field. The fitting had, thankfully, been brief, and the servants had quickly helped him change into clothes more suitable for sparring. Not that these clothes could be called modest.
"The necklace was delivered to Lady Faye's chambers," the aide said. "She expressed her gratitude for your thoughtful gift, Your Grace."
Jon swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
"Did she… say anything else?" Jon asked hesitantly, trying to sound casual.
The aide shook his head. "Only that she thanked Your Grace for the gift."
"Right," Jon muttered. "Good."
They stepped out into the open air of the training grounds. The space was wide, lined with racks of swords, spears, and shields. A dozen knights and squires sparred in the yard, their armor gleaming under the harsh morning sun. A few paused mid-strike to bow at Jon's arrival, their movements stiff and rehearsed.
Jon shifted uncomfortably under their gazes. Ghost padded silently beside him, his red eyes scanning the field like a predator surveying prey.
"Ser Arthur is awaiting you on the far side, Your Grace," the aide said, gesturing toward a tall knight clad in polished plate armor, a green and white surcoat draped over his broad shoulders.
Jon's chest tightened. Arthur Dayne. He was about to meet Ser Arthur Dayne.
The knight turned as they approached, bowing deeply. "Your Grace."
Jon gave an awkward nod in return. "Ser Arthur."
The man's pale blue eyes studied Jon for a moment longer than Jon liked before he straightened. "It's been some time since we've crossed swords, Your Grace. Shall we see if you've been keeping up with your training?"
Jon forced a small smile, though his stomach was tight with unease. "I'd like that."
The knight glanced at the aide and greeted him with a brief nod. "Rylen. Your uncle is well, I trust?"
"He is, Ser Arthur. Busy as always."
Ser Arthur nodded. "Ser Barristan rarely rests. I'm looking forward to having a talk with him later."
Ser Barristan? Jon assumed they had to mean Ser Barristan Selmy. That meant his aide was Ser Barristan's nephew.
Jon's chest felt tight. This world was twisted, its threads tangled beyond his comprehension.
"Shall we, Your Grace?" Ser Arthur asked, drawing his longsword with fluid grace. Its blade gleamed like dawn breaking over the horizon, Dawn, the legendary greatsword of House Dayne.
Jon swallowed hard. "Aye, let's."
He walked over to the weapon rack, trying to steady his breathing.
"Your Grace?" a square said. "Shall I bring you your sword?"
"No, thank you, one of these will do fine."
Jon selected a longsword, simple and unadorned, its weight familiar in his hands. Ghost settled himself on the edge of the yard, his crimson eyes locked on Jon.
The gathered knights and squires began to hush, their attention turning toward the two figures in the center of the training grounds. Even the clang of steel from other duels started to fade as the crowd stilled, anticipation crackling in the air.
Ser Arthur raised his blade in salute, his movements precise, his posture effortless. Jon mirrored the gesture, though he couldn't stop his hand from trembling slightly.
"Remember your stance, Your Grace," Ser Arthur said calmly. "Firm footing, steady breath."
Jon nodded, adjusting his grip and planting his feet. For all the lives he'd taken, all the battles he'd fought this duel felt heavier somehow, as though the weight of history itself pressed down on his shoulders.
"Begin!" came a distant voice, though Jon wasn't sure who had spoken.
Ser Arthur moved first, gliding forward with the grace of a dancer. His blade cut through the air in a controlled arc, and Jon barely parried in time. The impact reverberated up his arm, and he staggered back a step.
"Good reflexes," Ser Arthur remarked, his voice even, almost encouraging. "But your grip is too tight. Loosen your fingers, let the sword breathe in your hand."
Jon adjusted, trying to follow the advice. He circled to his left, testing Ser Arthur's guard with a probing strike. The older knight parried with ease, turning Jon's blade aside as though swatting away a fly.
"Better," Arthur said with a slight nod. "But you hesitate. A king cannot hesitate in the face of steel, Your Grace."
Jon gritted his teeth and pressed forward with a flurry of strikes. He wasn't as elegant or precise as Ser Arthur, but he fought with determination, each blow aimed with intent. The clanging of their swords echoed across the yard as the crowd around them grew utterly silent.
And then Ser Arthur pivoted sharply, disarming Jon with a flick of his wrist. Jon's sword clattered to the ground, and in one fluid motion, Arthur's blade came to rest lightly against Jon's neck.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Ser Arthur tilted his head slightly, his pale blue eyes studying Jon. And then, slowly, he withdrew the blade and stepped back.
"You fight well, Your Grace," he said with quiet sincerity. "And I can see you have trained while I was away. You have improved. Shall we try again?"
Jon's chest heaved as he bent to retrieve his sword, his gloved fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt. He couldn't shake the sting of defeat, or the weight of Ser Arthur's words. You hesitate.
He straightened, meeting Arthur's calm gaze. There was no mockery in the knight's expression, no smugness at having disarmed him so easily. Only patience, and something that felt uncomfortably close to expectation.
"Yes," Jon said hoarsely. "Again."
Ser Arthur smiled faintly, raising Dawn into position. "Good."
This time, Jon took a moment to center himself. He remembered what Ser Arthur had said about his grip, let the sword breathe. He adjusted his hold, loosened his shoulders, and steadied his breathing.
"Begin!"
Ser Arthur advanced again, but this time, Jon was ready. He didn't wait for the older knight to dictate the pace, instead, he stepped forward to meet him head-on. Their swords collided in a flurry of ringing steel, sparks flying as Jon pressed the attack.
Arthur parried cleanly, but Jon could feel a difference this time. He wasn't purely reacting, he was thinking, watching Arthur's movements, trying to anticipate rather than simply defend.
"Better," Arthur said, his voice carrying over the clash of swords. "Now, don't overextend!"
Jon caught himself just before he lunged too far forward, pulling his strike back and resetting his stance. Arthur's approving nod was brief but noticeable.
They exchanged blow after blow, and though Jon was still outmatched, he was holding his ground longer this time. His muscles burned, his lungs ached, but he refused to falter.
Arthur finally stepped back, lowering his sword slightly. "Enough."
Jon staggered a step back, chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. His arms felt like lead, and sweat dripped down his brow.
"You are improving, Your Grace," Arthur said with a small nod. "But your focus wavers. You let your mind drift, even if only for a second, and in a real battle, that's all it takes to lose your life."
Jon clenched his jaw, nodding tightly. "Understood."
Arthur regarded him for a moment before his lips curved into a faint smile. "But your heart is strong, and you do not shy away from the fight. That is more than can be said for many men who wear crowns."
The praise felt heavier than the critique somehow, and Jon wasn't sure how to respond. He sheathed his sword with a sharp motion, looking away briefly as Ghost padded up to his side.
"Come, Your Grace," Arthur said, gesturing for Jon to follow him away from the center of the yard. "Let us speak where ears are fewer, and swords are still."
Jon hesitated, his gaze flickering to the watching knights and squires before he followed Ser Arthur toward a shaded corner of the training grounds. Ghost trailed behind them, silent as a shadow.
When they stopped, Arthur turned to face him, his expression unreadable.
"There is something troubling you, Your Grace," he said softly. "You carry it in your stance, in your eyes, even in your swordplay. What weighs so heavily on your shoulders?"
Jon stared at him for a long moment, torn between the urge to speak the truth and the knowledge that this man, this legend, would likely never believe him.
"I…" Jon started, but his voice faltered.
Arthur waited patiently, his piercing blue eyes locked on Jon's face.
Jon took a deep breath, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword.
"I'm trying to figure out who I am," he said finally, his voice low and raw. "And what kind of man I need to be."
Arthur studied him for a long, silent moment before nodding slowly.
"That is not an easy question to answer, Your Grace," he said softly. "But the fact that you ask it speaks well of you."
Jon swallowed, his throat tight.
"Come," Arthur said after a moment, turning his gaze back toward the yard. "We will train again tomorrow. And perhaps… we will talk again as well."
Jon nodded, his shoulders still heavy, but something in his chest felt slightly less constricted.
As Ser Arthur walked away, Jon remained rooted to the spot, Ghost at his side. The direwolf nuzzled Jon's hand, and Jon absently scratched behind his ears.
Whoever this Aegon Targaryen was supposed to be… Jon knew he wasn't him. But if he had to play the part, he would at least try to do it with honor.