"I am here to serve, milady," I said, offering her a pleasant smile tempered with a respectful bow. "Ask away."
"Talen…" Her voice cracked, brittle as autumn leaves underfoot. She pulled her leaning frame straighter against the cold battlement wall, fingers splaying white-knuckled against the stone as though it alone kept her upright. "W-what did he… what were his last words to you?"
I stepped closer, positioning myself beside her so we both faced the distant torchlit sprawl of the town below Old Oak. The night wind carried the faint scent of apple blossoms and woodsmoke.
"The manse at Pentos was no place for the poor," I began, letting a deliberate calm settle over my words like a cloak against the chill, "but we had earned our keep from a perfume merchant, guarding his ships from the pirates that slither along the Sea of Myrth. Lord Talen and I crossed the Disputed Lands together, through Tyrosh and Lys. He was brave, the bravest man I have known. Fine enough with a sword, aye, but his true gift was his charm."
Lady Arwyn gave a small, watery chuckle, shaking her head as though the memory had tugged at some hidden string inside her.
"He knew his way with men-at-arms and tavern maidens far better than with the stiff courtiers of the great halls," She continued. "Such a voice he had, warm, easy, the kind that could coax laughter from a stone."
I drew a slow breath, letting the cold wind scour my lungs.
"But he fell for her in a single heartbeat, of that I have no doubt. Ulaina was the daughter of a Myrish magister, dark eyes, skin like polished ivory, hair that caught the lamplight like spun silk, every day they spent together, it felt as though a siren's song had wrapped itself around him. He spoke less of sellsword contracts and more of quiet villas overlooking the sea."
I turned to look at her then. In the torchlight her face was pale, hands pressed hard against her chest as though to hold her heart in place. Pinpricks of tears gleamed at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill.
"The last words he spoke," I said quietly, lifting my gaze to the indifferent stars, "I still hear them clear as yesterday."
I let my voice roughen, allowed my hand to rise and wipe at my eyes, making certain she saw the gesture.
"He pressed the sealed letter into my palm and said, 'Henri, I want this taken to my mother. I have decided to return home. It is only right that Ulaina sees the stone roofs I was born under, and the woman who raised me. I will follow you by a moon. My mother is a gracious host; she will take care of you until then. If she asks why I did not come at once, tell her I have a gift for her.'"
Lady Arwyn's breath hitched. The tears finally broke free, tracing silent paths down her cheeks and darkening the silk of her gown.
The torches snapped and hissed in the wind, throwing restless shadows across us both.
"What did he mean by it?" she whispered.
I hesitated, choosing my words with care. "I cannot say for certain, milady. But I believe… he was to be a father."
The mask of stern composure she had worn since the trial shattered then. She turned away from the torchlight, stepping into the shadowed corner of the battlement where the starlight barely reached. Her shoulders shook; soft, broken sobs escaped her despite her efforts to stifle them.
I did not follow. I stood where I was, listening to her grieve anew, for the son lost, and now for the grandchild she would never hold.
It took her a long while, longer than I expected.
The old maid eventually climbed the spiral stair again, rushlight in hand, and found her lady crumpled against the stone, with gentle murmurs and steady arms she helped her rise, smoothing her hair, wiping her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve.
When she faced me once more, her eyes were red-rimmed but steady.
"I thank you for what you have said," she managed, nodding as much to herself as to me. "You have done a great service to my son and to me. I will cherish his words until my last breath."
"I too, milady."
She tried to smile; it came out broken, a fragile thing beneath layers of old pain.
"My son spoke of me with such grandeur," she said softly, "yet I have failed him."
I arched a brow, uncertain.
"I was not a gracious host, Ser." She stepped forward; her slender hands reached for mine, cool and trembling. "I had you thrown into the dungeons, dragged before me in chains. I need to right this wrong."
I shook my head and slowly unbuckled my sword belt. I drew the battered blade free and held it out for her to see, the multiple crosses etched into the fuller from desperate parries, the nicks and gouges along the edge, the creeping rust near the pommel where sweat and blood had eaten at the steel over years.
"You have made no wrong, milady," I said quietly. "Any lord or lady would have done the same if a nameless knight wandered into their keep claiming a parchment from a child lost to storm and sea."
The old maid's seamed face softened at my words, the deep lines around her mouth easing.
"Even still," She pressed, "I wish to reconcile. I have spoken with Lord Arlyn, though he harbors his disagreements, even he believes you are a fine sword and would be a great addition to the men of Oakheart. I can raise you a landed knight, you would serve where Talen would have wished you to serve."
It was a generous offer, more than generous.
A landed knight's life meant steady pay, respect, a hearth of my own, no more sleeping under hedges or gambling for supper.
"He would have wished it, milady," I agreed, inclining my head.
"It is decided then-."
"But he is not here," I finished gently. "If he were, I would not hesitate a second time, but he is gone, and I do not wish to live in a place that would haunt my nights, a constant reminder that I was not there to protect him when he needed me most."
She searched my face. For a long moment she said nothing; the wind filled the silence between us.
"But if you wish to reward me," I added, "may I ask something?"
"Speak your mind, Ser."
I set the ruined sword against the battlement wall and met her eyes.
"A good sword—one that will hold an edge. A strong steed. And armor that fits me properly. I will be on the road at first light."
"You shall have it," she said without hesitation.
The battered longsword rested against the stone like a tired old friend, rusted, scarred, but still mine until dawn.
—--
Later, in the small chamber, candlelight flickering low:
"And what about this one?" Daria asked softly, her fingertips tracing the long, puckered scar that ran from collarbone nearly to navel.
"An arakh," I answered. "A Dothraki thought I was trying to woo his favorite whore."
"Were you?" Her voice held a teasing lilt, but her touch lingered.
"I do not speak of other women while in the company of one, my dear." I caught her wrist gently, brought her hand to my lips, then closed the distance.
My mouth found hers, soft at first, then deeper, tasting salt and sweetness and the faint trace of wine from the feast.
She sighed against me as my hands slid to her waist, then higher, cupping the soft swell of her breast through the thin linen of her shift.
"You are too much, Ser," she gasped when I moved to her nape, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
I pulled back just enough to meet her pale grey eyes, wide now, pupils dark in the dim light.
A strand of blonde hair had fallen across her cheek; I tucked it carefully behind her ear.
"Are you leaving soon?" she asked, her voice small.
"I am." I brushed my thumb along her jaw. "But do not think I will forget you."
"I wish you would." She looked away for a heartbeat, then back. "I have seen knights promise the world to a lass in the town and vanish with the dawn. I do not wish to live waiting for a man who never returns."
"This is all I have of you, then?" I asked quietly.
She smiled, small and brave. "You better have all of it, Ser."
I kissed her again, slower this time, letting my hands roam with deliberate care, mapping every curve, every shiver as though committing her to memory against the long road ahead.