THIS IS A SMALLER CHAPTER
POV Maester Alex
Maester Alex had not slept.
Not truly.
He had lain in his bed for hours, eyes closed, body still, but his mind refused him rest. His head throbbed like a drumbeat, dull and relentless, as if someone were striking iron inside his skull.
By the Seven, it felt like the hells itself.
He had risen in the dead of night, muttering curses under his breath, and made himself a cup of herbal tea, bitter, sharp, meant to calm the mind. It had done little. The pain dulled, but sleep never came.
Now, pale light crept through the narrow window of his chamber.
Morning.
He let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "Seven save me," he murmured. "I have been awake the whole night…"
Knock. Knock.
The sound was sharp. Urgent.
Alex frowned.
"At this hour?" he muttered, already rising.
"What is it?" he called, voice tired but edged with authority.
"My Maester," came the reply, quick and tense. "Ser Lyonel Dondarrion has returned, with an injured man… and a dead one."
Alex froze.
For a heartbeat, he said nothing.
Ser Lyonel?
"He only left yesterday…" Alex whispered.
Then the meaning of the rest struck him.
Injured.
Dead.
His eyes widened.
He crossed the room quickly and pulled the door open. A guard stood there, slightly out of breath.
"Where are they?" Alex demanded.
"In the courtyard, Maester."
Alex did not wait.
He moved at once, robes swaying as he strode through the corridors of Harvest Hall. His headache throbbed with every step, but he ignored it. There was no time for weakness.
Down the stairs.
Through the halls.
Past startled servants who pressed themselves against the walls as he passed.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it.
The air itself seemed heavier.
When he reached the courtyard doors, he pushed them open and stepped out into the morning light.
And stopped.
A crowd had gathered below.
Guards. Servants. Stable boys. All clustered tightly around something in the center.
Whispers filled the air.
Fearful.
Uneasy.
Alex's stomach tightened.
He moved down the steps quickly, his pace turning almost into a run. "Out of the way," he snapped as he approached. "Move."
They parted for him.
Reluctantly.
Silently.
And then he saw.
His breath caught.
There, standing in the center of the courtyard, was a young knight, armoured, worn, blood-streaked. The sigil on his tabard was unmistakable.
House Dondarrion.
Ser Lyonel.
In his arms, he carried a man, limp, unmoving, his body slack.
And beside them—
Another.
On the ground.
Still.
Too still.
Alex stepped closer.
And then—
Seven above.
The man's eyes were gone.
Not closed.
Not covered.
Gone.
Empty sockets stared up at nothing, dark and hollow. Blood had dried along his face, streaking down from where his eyes should have been. His skull—
Cracked.
Broken enough that Alex could see—
He recoiled, a hand flying to his mouth.
"No…"
For a moment, he could not breathe.
Then training took over.
"EVERYONE LEAVE! NOW!" Alex shouted, his voice cutting through the courtyard like a blade.
The crowd scattered at once.
No one argued.
No one lingered.
Within moments, the courtyard was nearly empty.
Only Alex and the Dondarrion remained.
Alex forced himself forward, swallowing hard as he turned his attention away from the corpse and toward the man in Lyonel's arms.
"Is he alive?" he asked quickly.
Lyonel nodded, his face pale, eyes haunted. "He still has a pulse."
Relief flickered through Alex.
Barely.
"Good," he said. "Then we can still save him."
He gestured urgently. "Come. We must go to my chambers, now."
Lyonel nodded and adjusted his grip on the unconscious man, lifting him more securely.
Alex turned to move—
Then paused.
"What about the corpse?" he asked, almost against his will.
Lyonel hesitated.
Closed his eyes briefly.
Then spoke, his voice quieter.
"Can I bring him as well?"
Alex stared at him.
For a moment, the answer rose to his lips immediately, no.
No, he did not want a corpse in his chambers. There were other places for the dead. Proper places.
But he looked again.
At the man's face.
At the empty eyes.
At the brother still breathing in Lyonel's arms.
And he understood.
This was not just a corpse.
This was someone who mattered.
Someone who needed more than to be left behind.
Alex exhaled slowly.
"…Fine," he said at last. "But we do not waste time."
Lyonel gave a short nod.
He bent, lifting the dead man with care—far more care than most would give the dead.
Alex turned and began walking, faster now.
"Follow me."
They moved through the castle together.
Back through the corridors.
Up the stairs.
The silence between them was heavy.
Only their footsteps echoed.
Only the faint, uneven breathing of the wounded man broke it.
Alex's mind was already racing.
Head trauma.
Possible blood loss.
He would need bandages. Herbs. Needles. Wine. Fire.
Everything.
They reached his chambers.
Alex pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Lay him here," he ordered, clearing space on the bed.
Lyonel obeyed immediately, setting the injured man down carefully.
Alex moved at once, his hands steady now despite the pounding in his head.
The work had begun.
Behind him—
The dead remained.
Silent.
Watching.
And for the first time since leaving his room—
Maester Alex forgot his own pain.