Chapter Text
In late 196 AC, a score of loyal men-at-arms who had fought for the king were thence knighted by their lords. One such man was Blanch Goodwyn, who was very pleased with himself once others began to address him as 'Ser Blanch'. With his prominent mark of honour and valour, he happily and excessively treated his wife and three children to a manor house on his new lands near the town of Grassy Vale, and built a life of comfort which they had not experienced till then.
Ser Blanch liked to go to the taverns within the local town, he liked to overindulge in spiced platters and wines, and most of all he liked the thrill of a gamble. For the first couple of years, his wife endeavoured to put him off of his bad habits and instead take care of their newfound comfort, for they must think of the futures of their children. However, she could not do so for long, for she was consumptive. So, Ser Blanch mourned his wife's death for some months, then returned to his favourite path to ignore the slipping time.
His children, during these unsettled years of abundance, were better educated than what they had first expected in their earlier years before their father's rise to knighthood. However, despite how sensible all three of them might have grown up to be, none of them could persuade their father to relinquish his pursuit of the thrill, not even when they cried at him to think of the wishes of their late mother.
Ten years after the rebellion ended, the knight's excesses grew, and so did his debt, until his own system could no longer support him. His first and only son, Edwyn, barely a man of just four-and-ten years, inherited the manor but barely any gold. His two elder sisters, Merianne and Arianwen at respectively seven-and-ten and six-and-ten, suggested that they put an end to all unnecessary spending and let go of all their servants. All three of them were extremely reluctant to let go of the house, and so they tried their best to sacrifice all the other things in their lives. Edwyn even put himself up to labour to try and raise their income more immediately and to pay off their father's debt. Sooner, rather than later, they began to familiarise themselves with their new situation.
. . .
It was on a late winter afternoon that the eldest of the Goodwyns discovered, whilst preparing their supper, that they lacked their water. She called for her sister, for their brother was out working, to fetch some from the near well. Arianwen agreed without a word and pulled a cloak over her shoulders before heading off.
It was very cold out; it rarely snowed, but the land was humid enough for the chill to get trapped and make one feel as if they were in the far north. Or so Arianwen imagined, for she'd never been any further than a few leagues north of the Blueburn. She wished she'd taken the mule as she strode over the frosted path from the house. It was too late to go back, though. The sun would set, the air would get colder, and she would have wasted so much time when the required task was very simple. So, she kept on walking, feeling the wind sting her cheeks and ears, and billow her cloak and skirts.
Over the hill, she went, and the naked trees dispersed the closer she got to the well. The sun was westing, casting a darker blue-grey sky opposite the blazing crimson of the sunset itself. Merianne would have stopped to admire the vista, despite the fact that she'd probably have forgotten her gloves and would've frozen her fingers off whilst she stood stupidly to admire the view. Arianwen did not stop, and she firmly held the pail within her gloved grip. It was no light object, and she wanted to go back home as soon as she could.
The vicinal village was bereft of voices that evening, only the flap of bird wings rang in the air. Some houses lit a candle or two by their windows, whilst others remained swallowed in the dark: perhaps waiting for the last streak of light to wane so that they'd waste less candles. If only her father had been so miserly in his lifetime. She wouldn't be forced to leave the comfortable sitting room, where she could daydream and procrastinate all that she wished to do, and she could continuously spin tales in her head without having to meet her own needs—for there would always be a servant for her. This was a thought she tried to chase away multiple times. After all, what could be done? Her father had made his uncaring choices, and now his children must all carry the burden in utter silence.
With a set jaw, she pulled the rope to extract the water. By now, it was truly evening, and she probably would've been shivering senseless if she were not moving her body in some way. For once, she was grateful that her sister sent her on this errand, it kept her warm. She pulled and pulled until she safely grasped the pail's handle. The hemp was rough, even through gloves.
She stood there for a moment, sighing. There was a stillness in the air, strange and unfelt, even in winter. Usually, someone or some people would be lingering about: walking to and fro, or chattering away. But no such evidence of human life surrounded her now. There was only the faint light shining from the small windows of village homes. A shiver ran down her spine with the coming wind, causing the pail in her grip to sway; yet she did not make for the path back home. For a moment, she was stupid. Faint hoofbeats reverberated in the air, wild and unruly they were. There was no way of telling from which direction the sound came from.
She did not trust herself to make a guess and risk a potential contretemps. She remained fixed to her spot. The light of the sun faded fast and the sunset turned into a sanguine ribbon on the western horizon. The hoofbeats turned into a clear gallop. She snapt her head to the side with a new rush of wind. The cold stung her cheeks. No noise remained once the gale vanished, leaving her blinking rapidly. Her arms trembled when the gallop rang in the air once more. She felt the vibrations of the movement travel from the ground to the soles of her feet. The ringing sensation whirled its way up her frame. Her arms stilled. The hairs on the nape of her neck bristled.
Every other moment, she angled her head to peer into the darkness. Each intake of breath transformed into something more taxing. The gallop loudened. Then, an ear-splitting whine burst from the east, and a large, muscular beast rived her attention. Something on the ground prompted the creature into a fit. The thing shook and turned wildly only a few feet away from herself. It stood on its hind legs, depositing its rider onto the path to the well with a hard thud.
Arianwen, once recovered from her trance, observed the fine fabric of the rider's cloak, lined with fur. He had a sword and dagger, but anything else was beneath his heft. Perhaps he's dead, she thought. He did not stir as she took a couple of steps forward, her muscles finally benevolent. The horse slowed down, and she noted its form more clearly now—a palfrey. She turned her sight back to the fallen rider, frowning. Surely he could not be dead.
She smelt it then, as she took a few more steps, the stench of wine. Rotten and sour. It swelled as she inched her face just a little forward, and she had to snap her head away. Shakily, she placed the pail on the ground so as not to shake the water out any further than she had. She wondered how a man who could afford such a luxurious cloak reeked so abysmally. She took a step back, and his steed grew anxious, wasting no time in kicking its rider till the man let out an agonised groan. The smell was made no better by this, and so she took a few more steps back: releasing a sustained breath when another gust of wind blew the miasma away. She had more than half a mind to leave him be just for this reason. Though then Merianne would wonder why she took so long to come back, and she'd have to explain the encounter, then Merianne would be very cross with her for not helping this 'poor' man (who was most probably a lordling).
"Ser?" said she.
The man murmured something incoherent.
"Is there anyone whom I could fetch to help you?" Gods knew that she was not actually going to look for any help beyond a mile radius. She knew she should just leave him. A drunkard would always be a drunkard.
He unsteadily began to lift himself from the earth's embrace, palms against the ground as he pulled himself off and onto his feet. His tousled hair was plastered onto his face and it took a few attempts for him to successfully unveil his features. He was flushed, breathing deeply. "I—I'm not from here," said he, thickly.
She appraised him with another sweeping glance, trying not to turn away from his stench. That fine habit and cloak of his seemed rather dishevelled. However, she was unsure what she could do. He had the power to simply leap back onto the saddle and go back home, what was she to do? There weren't any reasons for her to offer useless courtesies or directions. So instead she stated, "You're here now, ser."
"And where is 'here'?"
Arianwen attempted not to frown again. Truly, how much could this man have drunk before coming here; and to think he does not even know where he ended up. It was equal parts amusing and irritating, for he was wasting her time. "You're not a mile away from Grassy Vale, ser."
The man blinked, clearing his throat. He seemed miserable; his looks went everywhere, shooting from her face to the well behind her and then to the village yonder. She saw the glassy aspect to his eyes as he searched for something, ostensibly his palfrey. He muttered something about a dream before taking a swaying step off to his left. That proved to be a mistake. She just about caught his arm as he tumbled back onto the ground, almost pulling her with him. Another whiff of wine entered her nostrils. This time she could no longer hide the disgust reaching her face, shamelessly displaying itself.
"How can I help you?" she repeated.
"My—" (here he winced), "my ankle."
It proved to be quite a challenge to be an aide. Arianwen asked him if he could mount his horse, he replied that the creature would object. After some persuasion, however, he listened to her and climbed on. It fell on her to try and calm the poor palfrey; gently trying to coax it to walk in circles, requesting the man to pull on one rein. Thus, she led man and steed to the manor, carrying the pail of water too.
Her human companion slurred many words through the journey. She wished she'd been born deaf.
. . .
"He would've been dead by the morrow had you not saved him, I imagine!" cried Merianne, rushing to pull a chair for the man leaning heavily against her sister's side.
"You listen to too many of my fairytales," replied Arianwen, glad to be rid of the drunkard's stink as she deposited him onto the chair. "He would've been helped by someone else."
By now, the subject of their conversation had fallen asleep, still mumbling about his visions. Merianne was very sympathetic to this, spewing a myriad of excuses for this poor lordling. If Arianwen were not amused by the irony of that moniker, then she surely would've said something that would wound her sister's sweet temperament. A man who could afford an expensive habit and cloak surely should not be called 'poor.' Gods be good, no one in their right minds could ever consider a fur-lined garment humble or worth any pity. A completely ridiculous notion it was.
"My dear, I am not sure if anyone would've even been out at this time. Especially in this cold. It is the best thing that you brought him here now, so that I can try my best to treat whatever malady his leg (did you say?) suffers." Her sister was a worker, she never liked being idle, and their somewhat novel state of impoverishment provided her an ample amount of chores to complete. Merianne flitted around the kitchens, placing down a few vials of old potions onto the central table. She was fixed on mixing something up for him. Arianwen was sure that his ankle was merely sprained, but did not saying anything.
She instead sighed, angling her body leaning against the work table to face the man. He was still asleep, not very silently. His complexion was still flushed, though the sallowness wasn't completely hidden either. His hair was something akin to a rat's nest, and so dampened his whole countenance as a whole—but now that she regarded him closely, she saw the youthful fullness in his cheeks. He must've been near her own age. It was strange. She'd never considered that anyone not within possession of three decades capable of being so inebriated. He was sprawled out so carelessly, too, it made the lines of distress on his forehead seem ever more painful. Such lines had longed plagued her mother in her last years of life: heralding great misery. Why would such a youth be so perturbed? Why should he be so distressed?
"Sister."
Arianwen snapt her head toward the direction of the voice. "What?"
"Your looks wander far. What has charmed you?" Merianne smiled, pouring some diluted aperitif into a cup before placing it onto the work table.
"I'm thinking."
"How profound! Don't we all? Come, speak to me."
"I don't want to."
Marianne's smile faded. She muttered a 'very well' before carrying her cup to the sitting room, requesting her sister to call her if she stumbled upon the stranger waking.
. . .
A great, sharp sting rang in his head when Daeron awoke. He knew not where he was, nor how he arrived at such a place either. His eyes were bleary and it was an agonising endeavour to take in his surroundings. There was simple wooden chair beneath him, probably the thing that caused the burgeoning ache in his bottom, and there was a long work table a few feet away from him. Shelves lined the wall opposite the windows, stocked poorly. Other than the table and his chair, only a few trestles and benches were populating the room. It was strange, just how lacking it was. Usually such an area should be filled with five servants at least.
Though not of it mattered as another wave of pain knifed him. Once. Twice. Thrice. The remnants travelled across all his tissues before they all rebounded in a whiplash. He was agony itself. Sweat beaded on his brow, reluctantly falling when he caught his breath. His shoulders began to slacken. Mouth ajar for air, he began to regain some semblance of awareness of his memories.
A faint flash of a woman presented itself, an impatient voice commanding him to mount his horse. Had she helped him? Indeed, she must've, for he recalled how she'd told him to follow her lead whilst she walked beside him and the creature. He remembered falling too. That memory was pressed onto him by the weariness of his limbs and all. And his ankle, that part hurt more than most. He winced, his eyes shutting and his whole visage contorting in tandem with the pain again.
"Ser?" It was the woman once more. She'd appeared in his dream too. Therein, she was much less commanding, much more mad, and weeping enough tears to drown the entire continent. All for a horse dragging a mangled dragon. Perhaps that was him. A stranger shouldn't weep for him, he was not afraid of death, really.
He opened his eyes, and only the sight of a boy met him: frowning. Daeron heard himself mutter something, eyes widening, though this only served to bemuse the boy before him.
"My sister informed me that you fell off your steed. Are you feeling any better?" The youth seemed to know the answer already. By the way his frown fused into a grimace as Daeron attempted to shift forward on the chair with another wince and groan, he knew.
His breathing deepened; it was hard to speak and to move. Furthermore, he knew not where he was. Albeit the fact that this stranger before him seemed harmless, he was far from being comforted. The pain blooming all over him rendered him insensible, so much so that he nearly missed the boy asking him if he needed anything that he could fetch from the vicinity.
"A cup," was all that was managed. But the boy remained fixed to his spot, frowning once more.
"Drink," said Daeron, thickly. The boy didn't move, his eyes flitting to somewhere beyond him. So, Daeron sighed unsteadily before trying again: "If you would be so kind."
He hesitantly made his way to the other side, reaching for a carafe left on the table. Whilst he poured, Daeron spotted the way his eyes kept flitting back to himself, face fixed with a permanent frown. The solution lapped into the cup with the same hesitation it was poured with. It rang the choppy sounds in the empty air around them. This sound brought no pleasure, as it rarely did, but it was still much more sour than any previous times.
Once the cup was in his hold, he drank like a man who'd wandered the desert—without a single oasis in sight—finding some water. Nothing dulled. The substance was more water than anything alcoholic. But his throat was dry, so he drank the whole anyway.
The boy's gaze was stuck to the area behind him again, so he too turned to see the item of interest. A door. The handle turned and in walked the familiar figure of the woman he remembered. She was stiff as she offered him a plain bow of her head, walking around his chair to stand beside them boy, who looked very much like herself. Her features caught the faint light, and he realised this was more of a girl than a woman.
He handed the cup back to the male youth with shaky hands, trying not to trigger all of his muscles into active rebellion against himself. She noticed this.
"I will fetch Merianne," said the girl before departing at the same beat. He was not given the time to inform her of his dream.
Her brother kept frowning, even as he withdrew, allowing his sisters to take care of his injured ankle: never leaving the room.
The sibling whom Daeron met last was Merianne; and the names of the other two were not given to him. She asked him a few questions. He believed all of which were answered somewhat coherently. Her hands were gentle as she applied some salves and other medicinal effects, though the sting never parted from him. He was informed that his ankle was sprained, and that it would be best not to move around too much. At least it was nothing more. Then he was offered a place in the house, and he believed he managed to accede.
"Let my brother help you, ser, so that you may lie down and rest," said Merianne.
The boy did not hesitate to come to his side. He looped his arm around Daeron's shoulders. The first step was painful, and added on with all the anguish coating himself, Daeron cried out. He clung to the boy like a vice and the world went dark. Beads of tears had formed, clinging to his lashes; when he opened his eyes, they rolled down in a heartbeat. The other girl was frowning even harder than her brother, it made him think of the sight of her weeping.
"You," he pointed a trembling finger. "You wept when the horse came galloping without a master. Do not…"
He was then guided to the solar and deposited onto a daybed. Sleep took him away after that.
. . .
Arianwen watched as the sun peeked from below the horizon, spraying an array of pale purple light onto the dark sky. Edwyn must've already left by now. His exhaustion had been more evident the night before. He had been worried about the stranger now sleeping in their sitting room. A clear tremor had run down his spine once she'd informed him of how she'd found the lordling, and he had wasted no time in asking if any injury had been done to herself. Then the subject in question had awoken, and Edwyn himself turned distressed at the sight of him: pale with abject terror. He surmised that the man must've been running from something.
She could not yet make a judgement. She still couldn't decide if she should feel sympathy or disgust. He was quite obviously not a man who took care of himself, if he let himself loose on his drink so liberally. But then again, she did agree that he looked much terrified as he'd began to sober up. What had he seen? What had he seen that made him spew such madness about herself? He'd never even met her, yet somehow he claimed that she'd turned into a tragedy in his mind; it was wonder and delusion commingled. How could he think that? She supposed she'd never know. The day was creeping in and she had work to do.
Dressing herself into a simple cotton gown over multiple layers against the cold, she wondered whether another novelty might present itself to her. After all, if one surprise occurred, another was not so impossible. No, that's beginning to fade into a fairytale now. She slipped on her boots, tightening the laces with familiarity. Perhaps she would do something stupid today. Did she wish to? Perhaps not, but there was a complete stranger sleeping in the sitting room right at that moment. How often did such a thing happen? Yes, indeed, this whole household had gone rather stupid from the past day.
Her feet willed her out of the bedchamber which she shared with her sister. The house rested within a hush. Walking down the halls both narrow and wide, she reached the closed door to the sitting room. Merianne had told them the stranger shouldn't be disturbed, yet she pretended she hadn't. Her hand felt the cool iron of the door handle, and then she turned into a coward. Who was she to be stupid? She bolted away.
The outdoor air brought back her senses which she'd nearly lost. Arianwen glanced up, chancing to meet a bird streaking across the grey sky; it left no trail, only the very faint echos of its song. It was such a shame that most of the birds were gone for now. Though nothing could be done about that. The only thing she had the power to control was herself—her folly. Her journey from her bedchamber to the sitting room had been so foolish, so out of herself. What would she have done if he were awake? What if he was sober and murmuring about horses and dragons and the like again? What could she have even said? It was everything ridiculous to even think that anything would've been achieved.
She shut her eyes upon reaching the stone boundary of the garden. Tranquility began to seep into her at last, she began to breathe more evenly, savouring every new intake of air. The cold was fresh, prompting a faint shiver. There was a wicker basket full of laundry waiting to be washed back in the manor, yet today her body would not agree so easily. She began to detest the stranger for swaying her thoughts so. She had so much to do, and there were so little daylight hours in the winter. But all she thought about was his dream and all he'd seen.
If only she had not been born man, but bird, she could soar past the clouds and she'd see all that was woven into stories: famous and infamous. Unfortunately, that was not the case, and with her lack of claws, her hands shook instead.
The birdsong died when she stepped back into the house.
. . .
Merianne had granted the stranger a use of their wooden basin for him to bathe himself in. So, once again it was Arianwen who had to fetch some water because their previous volume was currently being used up. With a set jaw, she ambled her way across the path whilst the sky began to turn dark and russet. This time around—although she was still very irate—she was glad that no drunkard was about to fall off his palfrey and obscure her path. It had been distressing the first time around. With the stranger spewing nonsensical, choppy non-sequiturs about dreams, and dragons, and horses, she nearly lost her own mental footing. So drunk was he that he'd even began to weep from the anguish it caused him. Her pity had lasted until now.
The rope handle of the pail was rough from the cold, uncomfortable to hold even through gloves, engendering within her a great sense to drop the damn thing and relieve her palms. Yet she didn't. It is a good thing, she told herself. He smelt so putrid that he needs the bath. But then again, his whole presence here was creating much more work for all of them. At dinner and supper, a portion must be served to him. It certainly was not their job to feed him, this lordling who could order a thousand courses to his table at his own castle. At one hour, he was very intriguing, at the next he was nothing but a great nuisance. For now, she considered him as the latter.
When she'd brought the fresh pail of water to the kitchens, Arianwen returned inside, flushed from the cold. Some of her irritation had dissipated by the time she ascended the stairs up to the solar, charging with quick steps so that she may reach the hearth fire sooner. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet, moaning harsher in the colder years, but she paid it no heed.
She hadn't properly thought in that moment. She stopped in her tracks immediately as she entered the sitting room and the stranger looked up at her entrance, eyes red-rimmed. He had been staring at his clasped hands on his lap. She frowned with a pang.
"I saw you."
"As now, ser?" She finally stepped closer to the fire she sought, ergo closer to where he sat on the daybed.
"Oceans formed from your tears," said he, attempting to still his hands that shook in tandem with his voice.
"I do not think I could cry because of a jittery horse, ser. It was merely a dream—you were fevered by drink."
"Do you think that I lie?"
"I don't know you," she explained, staring into the hot embers blazing within the hearth. "I could very well believe you dreamt of me, but what else is there to say? What point must you prove?"
"My dreams are not like your own—"
"So I've figured."
His agitation was high. He laced and unlaced his fingers thrice, toying with a ring on his middle digit. She heard more than she saw this. The metal kept clinking against its neighbouring ring; and if her aforementioned vexation had not died down, she was sure she'd do something extravagantly stupid indeed—enough to put even the most witless man to shame. So she was resolved to ignore his fidgeting. Whether it served a purpose in calming her, she held the most negative opinion, yet what could she do?
"My dreams come true," said the stranger after a long pause.
"And so, I suppose, that is why you're here. Your dreams led you astray, inebriated you."
He sighed, about to deny her before she cut in:
"—but surely they must have, since they can do so much."
Silence was her only answer. Arianwen turned to him, taking in his countenance: glassy eyes, a slight grimace, and furrowed brows. She'd either offended or surprised him, or done both. If the first, then she herself wasn't shocked; if the second, she was amused; if the third, she was elated. He fitted into a great tragedy. She imagined him sitting stupidly, confronted by his nightmares. Perhaps he was mad, touched by an unearthly disease that made him believe the most deranged hallucinations. Or mayhap he was afraid of animals, to the point where he believed that their innate wildness rendered him to his current state of stupidity. Whatever was the case, she couldn't help but be intrigued: there was a story of the mind, its functions and malfunctions. She hoped he'd open his mouth again.
Though the stranger did not seem so keen. His breathing volume increased, like the winter wind fraying against the bare trees outside. For a moment, she saw one of his hands stray forward, then stop. He was grasping for something, yet denied himself, curling his fingers inwardly towards his palm.
Arianwen sat down. She straightened her back, her own palms smothering the cotton of her skirts on her lap. The silence embraced every corner of the room, licking up the walls and windows and every piece of furniture. Sitting across from one another, they became two invading spectres haunting the space. She turned her head a couple of times, left and right, to make sure that no other spirits accompanied them. It was strange, really, how rapidly amusement could distort into discomfort. Her face ached from her frown. She was not very fond of this mood, though she liked idleness and solace, she did not like whatever this was—and more so because it was a complete stranger causing this conflict within herself. Her fingers curled around the fabric of her gown, tightening with every breath she took in and let out.
With a small movement from him, she abruptly abandoned her seat to look out of the window instead. It was raining. Each droplet endeavoured to obscure the view, but it was not the view that she had her mind focused on.
"Tell me, ser, what brings you here?" she asked.
"Vice, most like."
"Why do you indulge?"
He did not answer immediately, instead letting the silence stretch with every clink of his ring against its neighbour. She worked her jaw, determined not to move nor say anything against that.
"The truth of life is terrifying."
"We see truth everyday. It is not a hidden jewel. And though grief and loss is a heavy constraint around oneself, it is nothing that one cannot manage. All your peers know how to deal with the fact that with life comes death." Why can't you?
"But if that fact is a constant vivid picture? No sensible mind can handle that for long."
"True; and there is no better way to deal with that nightmare?"
"Mine is the most dulling," said he, almost as if it pained him to speak. So, she bit back her own retort.
She turned to him instead, jaw set and arms still. He did not meet her eyes, but gazed at the fire, his breathing calming slowly, as ice melts in winter weather.
"You still have not answered my question. Why are you here, ser?"
"I wanted to escape my familiar conditions. However, I hadn't planned to fall before you in such a way. I know I inconvenience you. For that I am sorry."
Arianwen's shoulders slackened somewhat, and she felt that pang of pity once again, observing his slumped posture and downcast eyes. But nothing could've snapt her out of the opinion that he was indeed an intruder. She couldn't help but agree with him with a nod of her head, despite the fact that he couldn't even see her doing so.
Outside, the rain increased. With a roll of thunder, she saw how a shiver ran across his frame.
"Do not you have a family whom you would wish to return to; your steed has had its rest and my sister has tended to your cloak and habit—only your ankle worries her," said she, returning to sit beside the hearth.
"Taking a few steps on the staircase aggrieves me, I'm sorry to say. As for my family, my behaviour is not wholly a shock to them."
She felt her brows furrow at this. It was said so easily, in a way that revealed a part of his thinking which definitely came from his privileged upbringing. Unlike his previous words, there was an attempt at naturalness, as if this behaviour was acceptable and should be tolerated by all others because... because of what? Because he was wealthy where others were not.
"Stepping over a stranger's threshold is a hobby, then? It is common truth that many of your kind are rather officious and careless, but I never imagined it to be up to this extent. Tell me, do you ever invite your other lordling fellows to join you once in a while?" She scoffed, shaking her head, her temper high again.
He snapt his head up to meet her gaze, swallowing hard, eyes slightly wider. "How trite," said he with an echo of an upward pull on the edges of his mouth. It was gone in a moment.
The muscles of her jaw tightened, and she pressed her lips together so as to swallow whatever intrusive thought laid on her tongue, lest she stoop to stupidity and utter instability. "What fault do you find with the observation? You cannot deny it."
"I meant I'm still freshly wounded, and I must inconvenience you a little longer. I'm sorry." This was said much more gravely. He glanced down again, swallowing hard.
She shook her head, though whether it was because she did not accept his response or because she was trying to push him back into silence, she knew not. All she knew was that the conversation had soured, and now his voice rang between them like the chimes of an old sept's bell, calling for morning prayer—a sound that had awoken her the morning of her father's death, when they'd all inherited the great abundance of his debt. It was now a hindrance for her to think of something to say. It would be better for her to abandon him there, for him to drown in his dreams of many a creature. She turned her head to the side to watch fast droplets of rain batter against the windows, working her jaw. Yes, she'd leave him. She couldn't stand in that room overlong.
The moment she heard the grating sound of his rings clicking, she exited the room, making her way down to the kitchens to eat before she'd retire to bed.
Merianne spotted her just as she reached the doors. "Do you mind if you could take this up to the invalid upstairs? I must go and tend to some rotting herbs in the pantry, and we shall dine together once I'm back—and so, too, is Edwyn."
Arianwen nodded without thought, taking the tray into her hands. For this, her sister pressed a soft kiss onto her cheek before running off. The regret her concurrence prompted smote her, reddening her ears and face. She did not want to see the stranger again, certainly not when it would be in service to him. He just sat there, wallowing in his visions: like a vegetable. Besides, she did not want to look as if she desired to be in his presence again. His company was as tormentful as it was partially fascinating. But then again, if she hesitated so much in front of him, she'd be the stupid one, the one who stooped; and she never was one to stoop, not even for a lordling.
So she turned toward the stairwell, pausing just for a single moment before making her way back up. With every step, her agitation bloomed. She remembered the way the corners of his mouth had twitched, like the snappy movements of a pest. That high-born haughtiness had shone through the mask of his misery and peculiarity. It left behind something disconcerting. It was odd, a feeling which she'd not yet experienced to this degree, knowing that she'd offended someone, for she'd not cared a whit about it before now; but before she'd never talked to anyone so eccentric, someone so delirious, and mad, and absolutely irritating to be around. His presence engendered her to think more than she ought on what to say. There were many other things she could spend her time on rather than arranging words in her head to suit him: so that he would reply with something that entertained her rather than annoyed her.
Well, she had nothing else but to do and deliver.
The floorboards creaked beneath her steps, echoing her footfalls, and she held the tray so tightly in her grasp, as if afraid that it should slip with each moan of wood. She transferred the item to one hand, grasp twice as tight now. On the other hand, her newly freed fingers wrapped around the handle of the door which led to the sitting room. A sudden mind to leave the tray on the floor outside rushed to her. She could tell him that it was there, then she could slip away and he'd never see her again until she reached equanimity—bored enough to seek him out again.
No, she should just go in.
He snapt his eyes up at her once she entered and his fingers intertwined. With great effort, she brought herself before him, inching the tray towards him. His gaze dropped to the contents on the tray—grazing over the aperitif in the cup and the bowl of pottage beside the thin slice of rye bread—then he glanced up at her once more, clearing his throat.
"I have no appetite," he muttered, though his hand went straight to the cup. "A drink will soothe me until dinner on the morrow."
Arianwen pursed her lips, feeling the high heat travelling through her senses. Her already rigid grasp on the tray grew ever tighter, and she fixed herself not to say anything other than: "Take it."
When he did not, she swept the tray away to place it on the small table before the window. Without another glance, she turned on her heels, and made her way out of the room, her steps ringing harshly against the wood.
. . .
Merianne and Edwyn were placing their own family supper onto the table when Arianwen entered the hall, pale with agitation. Wordlessly, she made her way to her brother's left and took a seat. Her sister sat on their brother's right, and Edwyn himself sat at the head.
He clasped his hands together on the table, waiting for his sisters to do the same. Merianne followed suit with speed, but her younger sister lagged behind: stiff fingers intertwining with great effort. No comment was made by Edwyn who witnessed this, noted the strangeness of this behaviour, soon realised that his sister must have been in one of her moods, and left her be before speaking their thanks to the gods for their bounty. They were grateful for being able to keep themselves fed despite the biting weather. They were grateful for the roof over their heads, and mostly they were grateful for not having to part ways from their family unit. Thus, they began to eat their pottage of oats and beans and the like.
A few minutes in, Edwyn paused, frowning in contemplation. "On my way from the village, I heard something rather queer. I wondered about the legitimacy of it, and thought I should tell you two."
Merianne begged her brother to explain. Arianwen simply placed her spoon down.
"One of the princelings has gotten lost. A village nearing east of Blueburn has had some residents claiming he has ridden past and that he was thrown into the river by his horse." He frowned at his own words, straightening his spine. "They do not know which prince it is."
"If he were dead, I'm sure the news would be more dispersed," said Arianwen.
"True."
Merianne's face was more sympathetic than any of them at that moment. "The family must be very worried; I should be if he were one of mine."
"These people are prone to excess, sister, inebriation is their natural state—added on with all their alliances with the Dornish, their wine cellars are swelling beyond what common man can imagine," said Arianwen, gravely.
Edwyn's gaze flitted between his sisters. He leaned forward in his seat and said, "That is all right, but do you think it is true?"
"The possibility is high," replied Arianwen. She was no longer keen to say anything more, neither had she been since the beginning. Her spoon was once again betwixt her fingers, and soon she was eating.
Merianne agreed, though she wouldn't voice it. So, they fell into silence which irritated their brother, who soon gave up on trying to get them to converse again.
Afterwards, the rain outside had calmed, leaving a soft sprinkling sound in the darkness. The three siblings rose from the table, carrying the bowls, cups, and trays away to the kitchens together. When they were back inside, there was a great feeling of relief that the rain had not transformed into a storm, otherwise they would have had to retire all damp and dirty. The few candles they had lit in the hall were extinguished before they ascended the stairs toward the solar. Edwyn kissed both of his sisters on their cheeks, then retired to his bedchamber. Merianne pressed her sister's hand with her own, nodding briefly before parting from her into the darkness of their bedchamber.
Once undressed, Arianwen lay beneath her woollen covers, eyes open. Her agitation hadn't passed, and she still remembered the look of ostentatious incredulousness the stranger had given her when he witnessed the contents of his supper. Who was he to expect something so grandiose from those whom he had imposed himself upon? It was insufferably ridiculous.
She breathed in and out slowly, hoping it would lull her to sleep. But the night was not calm in and of itself, a very faint creak travelled from outside the closed door. It was probably the wind, possibly vermin. If the first, nothing would come out of it; if the second, there would be much more work for the entire household come the morrow. For her own like of idle hours, she prayed it was the first. She wondered if she should see what the noise was about. After all, what harm would come of it? No, she admonished herself. Then Edwyn and Merianne would be awoken too, and they need their rest—as do I.
When she turned in the direction of her sister's bed, she observed her shut eyes and the soft rise and fall of her chest in the slight light of the moon.
"Merianne," she whispered. "Merry."
Nothing. No reply, not even a single muscle twitching.
With a sigh, Arianwen turned to lie on her back, determined to sleep.
. . .
Without strong drink, sleep was pure agony. There were thousands of steps for his legs to climb, each growing steeper than the last. He laboured through, even employing his hands to make his way up. A light awaited at the top. His feet and fingers moved with alacrity at the first sign of an end. Sweat and tears fused together on his face, travelling down his cheeks, over his mouth, down his chin, then falling to the abyss below. Every new step snapt and tore at his tissues. The rounding stairwell was much too small for him; the walls closed in, but at least there was light!
It opened a door for him, so he crawled out. His head was too heavy for his shoulders, his shoulders which had long ripped beneath his skin. With a thud, he dropped to the ground. Packed earth and fire entered his mouth. His whole body cried at him to put an end to this suffering; each bone and tendon and ligament pulsed with a heartbeat of their own: uneven and sharp. He had a duty which was nothing but to do and die. He muttered the fragmented sections of prayers he had long stopped paying attention to, begging for an end to his own suffering. Yet he still blinked. His abilities to live did not abandon him, did not wish to part from him. He pressed his forehead to the ground, yet none of the friction bore any fruit for his endeavours.
Far away, the roar of a dragon reverberated. He was anguish himself, he couldn't move. However, the beast persisted until the sheer force of its cries turned his gaze to itself. Haughtily, it soared. It flew over him, spreading its large wings so wide that for a moment, day became night. It spun, it spewed bright, hot flames, and it made its presence known. It was a shame only he watched.
The dragon sought something new, something exciting. It disappeared far off, and he was free to lay limp once again. His fingers dug into the earth, feeling the soft moistness of the soil and the way it crept beneath his fingernails. The heart which fought against the constraints of his ribcage calmed. For a moment, he believed the Stranger was come. His hand stilled; his body relaxed, letting go of its bitter fight against death. He believed that for once, when he was sober, he could rest. Shutting his eyes, his head laid comfortably against the ground.
All was quiet until the huge beast returned. It crashed down onto the earth, spine snapt. One part rived from the other, and all that could be seen was a mangled cadaver beginning to rot. Its spirit, its pride, its vigour was lost.
Over the corpse, a blood bay galloped forward wildly. He felt the vibrations crawl down his own back. So he was alone again, until he was not. A woman—the girl, his quaint companion from the evening—screamed at the sight. Never ending tears flowed from her eyes, and the rivers they formed stung his skin once he began to sink. The sting transformed to a hot feeling of pain before the anguish drowned him.
Daeron crashed to the ground. Hot tears were running down his eyes, the only warmth he held against the coolness of the floorboards, against the darkness of the night swathed around him. He dared not move, merely shutting his eyes against the rounds of shivers crawling down his spine. For how long these dreams, old and new, occurred, one would've believed that he should've gotten used to them by now, but the pangs never faded, and they were ever sharper each night when his mind was aware and active. And in his sobriety now, he lacked his companion: stiff, peevish, yet alert. His mind had not switched off, his knowledge not been brushed away, but an odd feeling had settled in his chest anyhow. It was not as if the sound of his voice travelled through the air only to end up bouncing back at him without anyone having paid any of their attention to him. He'd spoken and was listened to.
In this very same room, with its walls without tapestries or design, its furniture without ornamentation, its hearth rather puny, he'd been affronted by her approach—but none of the oddness of the interaction felt strange. He'd found that some of his dread had been dulled when she'd approached with converse which would've affronted his society. Now that was gone, sleeping. It was only he himself haunting every slip and crack of this room. Here, in the dark and the cold, the shifting light of the moon was a mercy. Through the window, the silvery gleams danced wherever they could disperse, but none of it pulled his attention as that exchange had; she'd sat across from him, absorbing and giving as she pleased, to please herself, like the sun illuminating the sky, giving its light and absorbing the attention of the mortals on land.
He knew he shouldn't have let himself get carried away, he should've pressed his warnings more relentlessly. But the moment was passed, and she'd left him so coldly.
He felt the groaning wood against his frame. The feeling was distributed unevenly, and a single movement made the thing groan. Entirely alone, he pressed one side of his face to the floor and felt the tears spread in all directions. The sensation was familiar to that of a rustic table in some inn or tavern or the like, and yet here, there was no one to watch nor to judge him.
Nothing could be done now but to evade sleep.
His ankle was burning in a nightmarish heat, he tried to shift his weight, but only managed to make some noise rather than do anything helpful for himself. Daeron had so much space in his head to think, to take in everything which he saw that others did not. This activity never led to anything fruitful for any accomplishments his father desired him to cultivate; all he thought about in his soberness was the horrors which he and his own would face some day or another with great violence. As a child, he hadn't been able to articulate these feelings to his parents, who listened to him raptly, for being concerned over their firstborn's well-being. This caused his father an ample amount of frustration which soon transferred into indifference. With each vision, he'd wake the entire household, and when asked what it was that rendered him into such a state of anguish, he wouldn't be able to answer—not even in the stern face of his father, which filled him with a dread such that only young children can feel.
The relief which he found in his drink only served to disappoint his father, who began to place his expectations onto Aerion. Though his efforts never fully died with Daeron.
He wondered what he would think of him once he'd returned. Through his tears, he felt further heat coat his face and ears at the memory of how he even came to be here. His father would be beyond disappointed upon learning of his situation, and his mother—oh, she'd be the face of all poignancy! It would be just like those years ago, when he'd sat before his parents, desperately trying to explain how he'd seen so many dragons' deaths, and how much that frightened him. But his father's face merely contorted into that between concern and disenchantment. And just like that, his nurse had carried him away back to bed.
Over the course of years, the household servants and his family alike had learnt indifference towards his eccentricity, yet being ignored was just as awful as being scrutinised. He dealt with it as best as he could, adopting the same method as the others: ignoring himself.
He pressed his face further onto the floor, letting the odd patterns of the wood mould his skin. Everything was very damp and discomforting. However, he didn't move. He opened his eyes, trying to take in deep breaths for his suffering lungs, but the agony was still present. The process filled his ears, turned him deaf to the moaning floor, to the volume of his weeping. Overlong, he lay there insensible to his surroundings. So much so that he missed the door opening.
"Ser?"
Daeron looked up, breathless once more. It was his companion. She stood as stiffly as ever, her pale face ever severe in contrast to her—now loose—black hair, even in the faint moonlight.
"How can I help you?" she asked.
He knew not if he said anything at all, but his mouth moved and he inched his hand slightly forward. At the twitch of his fingers, she worked her jaw, hesitantly stooping to her knees to grab a hold of his hand in her own. She pulled at him to get up, but he couldn't, so she gave up on that pursuit. She remained silent, taut and frowning, her grasp around his hand very firm. Though he found it didn't matter somehow.
Her gaze travelled to the table before the window, brows lifting at the sight of the empty bowl on the tray. She turned her head back to him, eyes relentlessly upon his own. Then the edges of her mouth imperceptibly pulled upwards into an incredulous curve. His cheeks flushed further, travelling down his neck, and he felt his breathing grow rapid once more. The moment passed just as quickly, however. Her jaw set once more and she looked away to a blackened corner of the room.
Once he found the strength to pull himself up, she let go of his hand, but watched him long enough to see him settle himself back onto the daybed. He should've said something sooner, to convey his guilt and thanks, but all that fell out of his mouth was:
"Thank you."
She regarded him long, her eyes sweeping his entire form. The appraisal prompted him to look away, sighing. He grew agitated under the scrutiny, his fingers toying with the rings on the opposite hand, but he couldn't look away for long—he met her dark eyes and observed her entire expression.
There was a twitch in her furrowed brows before she glanced down at his hand, narrowed her eyes, and saw the glinting signet.