Baela:
The morning sun had barely begun to warm the volcanic stone of Dragonstone when Baela decided she'd had enough.
She abandoned her breakfast halfway through, ignored the scandalized look from one of the serving women, and slipped out a side door before anyone thought to ask where she was going.
If fortune favored her, no one would notice she'd vanished for at least an hour.
If fortune was feeling generous, it might even be two.
The castle had become unbearable.
Every corridor held another lord eager to pay his respects, another knight polishing rehearsed compliments, another noble son convinced he was somehow different from the dozen who had introduced themselves before.
"Lady Baela."
"My Lady, may I have a moment?"
"It would be an honor—"
She would rather wrestle Sheepstealer.
At least the dragon was honest about wanting to bite her.
A cool sea breeze greeted her as she stepped onto the path that wound along Dragonstone's cliffs. Below, waves crashed against the shoreline, sending seaspray high into the air. Farther out, ships drifted through the harbor while fishing boats hugged the shoreline.
Dragonstone was awake.
Just far enough away that it couldn't bother her.
Baela drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with salt air and the scent of the morning's catch. Far better than the cloying perfumes that had lingered through Dragonstone's halls these past several days.
She had no destination in mind. She rarely did. Some mornings she rode Moondancer until the wind drowned every troublesome thought. Others she climbed the cliffs simply because no one else was foolish enough to follow.
Today, she walked.
The path eventually curved to the lower town, where the coming tournament had transformed every inn and stable into a hive of activity. Smiths hammered dents from battered armor. Stableboys hurried sweating horses between watering troughs. Squires staggered beneath bundles of shields nearly as large as they were.
Every villager worked their share, the promise of coin too great to ignore. For wherever the lords congregated, there would be gold to make.
The entire island buzzed with anticipation.
Baela found it exxhausting.
She had nearly turned back toward the cliffs when the sharp crack of steel echoed through the morning air.
Again.
Then a voice barked a single command.
"Again."
Curiosity won iin the end.
It usually did.
She followed the yelling until she reached a practice yard tucked behind one of the inns, little more than a patch of poorly packed earth shrouded by a low stone wall that had seen better days. Peering over it, she spied an old hedge knight drilling his young squire.
They looked as though they'd been at it since dawn.
The squire's tunic clung to his back with sweat. Fresh bruises mottled his forearms, and dust coated his boots. He was exhausted, but not sloppy. His stance lacked the polish a castle's master-at-arms would demand. His footwork was rough around the edges, his guard lower than most instructors would tolerate.
Yet there was nothing wasteful about it.
The old hedge knight wasn't teaching him how to look like a knight.
He was teaching him how to survive.
The old knight attacked without warning.
A quick cut toward the shoulder.
The squire met it effortlessly, positioning his blade just enough for the strike to glance away instead of meeting it head-on. Rather than giving ground, he slipped left and answered with a thrust that forced the older man back a step.
Baela raised an eyebrow.
The old knight offered no praise. He simply attacked again, faster this time.
A cut from the right.
A feint.
A low sweep.
The younger man read each one correctly. His blade moved on instinct now, his feet carrying him just beyond the older knight's reach before snapping back in a desperate search for an opening.
He was better than she'd expected.
Not polished.
Not graceful.
Adaptable was the key word.
The hedge knight pressed him merciilessly, every strike flowing into the next with practiced efficiency. The younger man giving ground where he had to before reclaiming it with quick, practical steps.
Steel rang as they danced a deadly waltz.
The squire caught a cut aimed at his shoulder, turned it aside, and answered with a wide slash toward his opponent's hip. A smooth stroke but nevertheless it was not enough to catch the older knight off guard.
Blocked.
He pivoted immediately and attacked from the opposite side, hopinh momentum and speed would aid him.
Blocked again.
Yet he never rushed.
Most young squires, eager to impress, chased every opening they imagined they saw.
This one waited.
Watched.
He circled instead, breathing hard, his eyes fixed not on the sword, but on the old knight's chest and shoulders.
Baela found herself nodding.
Good.
The old knight noticed too.
For the first time since she'd arrived, he did nothing.
He simply waited.
Aurion advanced cautiously this time. No reckless charge. One probing cut. Then another.
The hedge knight gave him nothing.
A third strike—
This time the old man moved.
Not back.
Forward.
Their blades met once.
Twice.
Three times in rapid succession.
The exchanges came so quickly Baela nearly lost track of them.
Aurion caught the first.
Recovered the second.
He even slipped neatly around a thrust that would have caught him square in the chest.
There.
For the briefest instant—
Baela saw it.
A genuine opening.
Aurion saw it too.
His blade darted forward.
Fast.
Accurate.
Against another squire...
It might have ended the bout.
Instead, the old knight stepped inside the attack. One hand seized Aurion's sword arm while his practice blade tapped the younger man's wrist.
The sword fell.
Before it struck the ground, the old knight hooked Aurion's heel with his boot.
The world vanished beneath him.
He landed flat on his back with a grunt that echoed around the little yard.
His sword bounced once beside him.
The old knight looked down.
"Dead."
Aurion stared up at the cloudless sky.
"...I disagree."
Ser Gregor regarded him with the same unamused expression he'd worn all morning.
"I believe the matter open to debate," Aurion ventured.
"There isn't one."
"I could've survived that."
"How?"
Aurion considered the question with all the solemnity of a maester contemplating philosophy.
"...Stubbornness?"
Gregor grunted.
"No."
Aurion sighed.
"...Worth a try."
A laugh escaped Baela before she could stop it. Both men looked up.
The younger one turned first.
He was older than she'd first thought, perhaps by a year or two. Sweat plastered strands of pale silver-blond hair to his forehead, and a fresh bruise was already beginning to darken beneath one eye. Dust clung stubbornly to his boots and tunic, making him look as though he'd been rolled through half of Dragonstone.
His eyes found hers immediately.
A clear violet.
Baela blinked.
Not uncommon on Dragonstone, certainly. The island had more than its share of old blood and dragonseeds.
Still...
It wasn't what she'd expected from the battered squire of a hedge knight.
He held her gaze for a heartbeat before glancing around the otherwise empty yard.
"...Well."
He spread a hand toward himself.
"I was under the impression this was a private humiliation."
Baela folded her arms, unable to suppress a grin. "It was."
"It feels considerably less private now."
"You made it difficult not to watch."
"I've been told I have that effect on women."
The old hedge knight snorted aloud, sounding like something between a laugh and a cough.
Aurion looked genuinely hurt, or about as hurt as a hungry murmur could. "You know, one encouraging lie every now and then wouldn't kill you."
"It might."
"I suppose we'll never know."
Ser Gregor stood to gather the practice swords, testing one with a practiced eye before sliding it into the bundle beneath his arm.
"Enough."
Aurion let out a breath, relaxing ever so slightlky.
"...That is, without question, my favorite word you've said all morning."
"Clean the armor."
The smile faded.
"Ah."
"Sharpen both swords."
"There it is."
Gregor fixed him with a level stare.
"The tournament begins tomorrow."
Aurion accepted the bundle of practice blades with an exaggerated sigh.
"I was foolish enough to think surviving training earned me a reward."
"Preparation is the reward."
"...That's an upsetting philosophy."
Gregor ignored the remark as he adjusted the strap across his shoulder.
"Don't leave rust on my mail."
"I like living, Ser."
"Then prove it."
Without another word, the old hedge knight turned and disappeared toward the inn, leaving Aurion standing in the middle of the yard with an armful of weapons and an expression of long-suffering resignation.
He watched Gregor go before muttering to himself,
"...One day I'm going to convince him that armor cleans itself."
"I wouldn't count on it."
The squire looked up.
Baela remained perched on the wall, looking entirely too happy with herself.
Aurion sighed.
"...You're still here."
Baela wasn't entirely sure whether to take offense at the sigh.
"I was under the impression this was a public courtyard."
"I was hoping my audience had gone home." He shifted the practice swords to his other arm.
"I wasn't aware there had been one."
"There was at least one."
He nodded toward her.
"An unfortunately attentive one."
A smile tugged at Baela's lips.
"You survived."
"Barely. Ser Gregor insists that means I learned something."
"And did you?"
Aurion gave the question serious consideration.
"...I've learned dirt tastes different depending on where you fall."
A bark of unladylike laughter escaped her.
"You know..." She folded her arms. "...I think I know why he keeps knocking you over."
His expression settled somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.
"That sounds suspecious."
"It wasn't meant to."
"It never is."
A challenge crept into her smile.
"I could show you what you're doing wrong."
He blinked.
"You could?"
"If you're willing to lose to a girl."
He looked her over—not dismissively, but with the thoughtful expression of someone trying to solve a puzzle.
"It feels slightly irresponsible. I don't even know your name."
"Why?"
"If I'm going to be lectured by a stranger, I'd at least like to know whom to complain about afterward."
Despite herself, Baela chuckled.
"Fair enough. Baela."
"Just Baela?"
"Is that a problem?" she shot back.
"And you?"
She waited, arms crossed, one boot tapping impatiently against the stone.
Aurion let the silence linger before releasing an exaggerated sigh.
"I was hoping to cultivate a little mystery like the dashing hero of a story."
"You don't strike me as the mysterious sort. Or even the dashing kind."
"I've been told I'm disappointingly transparent."
The corner of her mouth twitched.
At last he shifted the practice swords beneath one arm and offered a mock bow.
"Aurion. Professionally, I answer to 'training dummy' and 'squire.'"
"I imagine your knight has his reasons."
"Oh, undoubtedly."
He glanced down at the bruises decorating his forearms.
"I'm beginning to suspect they're numerous."
Baela nodded toward the bundle of practice swords.
"Well then, Aurion."
She reached for one of the blunted blades.
"Let's see if he's right."
He looked at the sword.
Then at her.
Then back at the sword.
"...That's a trap."
"It is an invitation."
"Those are occasionally the same thing."
"Afraid?" she asked, arching an eyebrow a challenging smirk on her face.
"No."
She tossed him the practice sword anyway.
He caught it without thinking.
For the briefest moment, Baela thought she'd won.
Instead, Aurion examined the blade before calmly sliding it back into the bundle.
"I'd love to."
"But?"
"But Ser Gregor left me enough work to keep me busy until sunset."
He lifted the swords slightly.
"If I return with these still covered in dirt, he'll spend tomorrow making a point."
"And if you don't?"
"He'll spend tomorrow making two."
Baela frowned.
"You're choosing chores over a duel?"
"I'm choosing survival."
His answer came with a defeated resignation.
"I'd rather lose to you tomorrow than disappoint him today."
The words caught her off guard.
She'd expected another jest.
Instead, he'd answered with such quiet certainty that, for a heartbeat, she almost forgot he possessed a sense of humor.
Almost.
"So..." Aurion continued, his grin returning. "If you're determined to bruise my pride..."
He hitched the bundle of practice swords higher beneath his arm.
"...could you wait until tomorrow?"
Baela folded her arms.
"You assume I'll still be interested."
He shrugged.
"I can only hope."
She regarded him for a long moment.
"Very well."
Wariness immediately crept across his face.
"...That kind of smile has never ends well."
"We'll make it a wager."
She pointed a finger at him.
"If I win..."
"...you become my fool."
Aurion stared.
"Your what?"
"My personal fool."
He blinked twice.
"I feel I've just suffered a rather dramatic demotion."
"It suits you."
He released another theatrical sigh.
"I've known you scarcely five minutes."
"And already you're complaining."
"I've been complaining since before we met."
She snorted despite herself.
He adjusted the swords beneath one arm.
"So, if you win, I spend my mornings being beaten senseless by Ser Gregor..." He pointed at her. "...and my afternoons singing and dance for your amusement."
"You catch on quickly."
Aurion considered the offer for a moment before a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face.
"Very well."
He extended his hand.
"If I win..."
Baela eyed it warily.
"...you grant me one wish."
She made no move to take it.
"That's dangerously vague."
"It is."
"What sort of wish?"
"If I told you, it would spoil the fun."
"It might also keep me from agreeing."
"Then I suppose you'll have to decide whether you're confident enough to risk it."
Baela studied him.
Most men at court announced their intentions before they ever opened their mouths.
Aurion, infuriatingly, seemed perfectly content to let her imagination do the work.
"And if your wish is unreasonable?"
He answered with nothing more than a careless shrug.
She narrowed her eyes at his outstretched hand.
"One wish?"
"One wish."
"You're asking a dangerous thing of a girl."
"Only if I win."
The challenge hung between them for the space of a heartbeat.
Then a familiar grin spread across Baela's face, a grin many had compared it to her father's. Between herself and Rhaena, she had always been the one most like their father—quick to leap before looking, convinced fortune favored the bold.
If the wager was reckless...
...all the better.
She clasped his forearm with a confident smile.
"Done."
Aurion's brows rose.
"You didn't even ask what I'd wish for."
"If I lose," Baela replied without hesitation, "I'll deserve whatever you've thought up."
His grin widened.
"Confident."
She gave his arm a firm shake.
"No."
A spark lit her violet eyes.
"Certain." Aurion released her forearm and stepped back, the familiar grin returning. "Until tomorrow, then."
"Until tomorrow."
He gathered the bundle of practice swords beneath one arm and started toward the inn. After a few paces, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Oh."
Baela looked up.
"If you happen to find another hedge knight willing to throw me into the dirt before then..."
"I'll send him your way."
"...Much appreciated."
She smirked. "You'll want to practice."
"So I've been told."
With a lazy wave, he turned and disappeared around the corner of the inn. Baela watched him go. The yard felt strangely duller without him.
She remained atop the stone wall for another moment, absently swinging one boot against the weathered rock.
An odd fellow.
Most men she'd met spent every conversation trying to impress her. They boasted of victories they had not earned, praised themselves with exhausting enthusiasm, or stared as though she'd descended from the heavens. Whether for her status as a daughter of House Targaryen or Jacaery's betrothed.
Aurion had done none of those things.
He'd argued.
Joked.
Refused her challenge.
Then wagered with her as though they were equals.
She found herself smiling despite herself. Tomorrow would be interesting.
"My Lady!"
Baela's smile vanished. She didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
Heavy boots clattered over the cobblestones.
Several pairs.
Far too many for her liking.
She looked toward the path she'd come from just as four men-at-arms rounded the corner, Targaryen colored cloaks billowing in their wake. Their captain slowed to a walk the moment he spotted her, relief washing over his face.
There went her good mood.
-
Rhaena found Baela sprawled across one of the cushioned benches overlooking Blackwater Bay, one boot hanging over the armrest and an apple in her hand. Her riding cloak disregarded and a practice blade resting harmlessly against her seat.
"There you are."
"Here I am Rhaena."
"I've been sent to make sure you're alive."
Baela took another bite of the apple.
"And?"
"I'm still deciding."
Baela smirked.
"How reassuring."
Rhaena sat beside her, smoothing her skirts.
"So..."
Baela groaned.
"I know that 'so.'"
"You've worn that expression all the way from the lower yard."
"What expression?"
"The one where you're pretending not to think about something."
"I don't have one of those."
"You absolutely do."
Baela took another bite of the apple rather than answer.
Rhaena waited.
She'd learned years ago that silence was often the quickest way to make her sister talk.
"...I met someone."
Rhaena's brows climbed high eyes widening in mild surprise.
"You?"
"I knew you'd make that face."
"I wasn't expecting those words."
"It wasn't like that."
"It never is."
Baela nudged her shoulder.
"Oh, hush."
"So?" Rhaena asked.
"He was a squire."
"A squire?"
Baela nodded.
"You spent all morning fleeing lordlings only to find yourself a squire to torment."
"I did no such thing."
"Oh?"
"I stumbled across him."
"By complete accident."
"Exactly."
Rhaena hummed.
"And you stayed?"
"...Perhaps."
"For how long?"
Baela hesitated.
"I don't know."
Rhaena's smile widened.
"You don't know."
"I wasn't keeping time."
"No. You were apparently keeping company."
Baela rolled her eyes.
"We talked."
"You talked."
"Yes."
"For long enough that you lost track of time."
Baela pointed a finger at her.
"I don't care for that tone."
"I haven't used one."
"You absolutely have."
Rhaena laughed before a sly smile formed across her lips.
"So... was he handsome?"
Baela barked out a laugh.
"Gods, Rhaena."
"What?"
"I wasn't studying his face."
"No?"
"I was watching him train."
Rhaena hummed.
"I see."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you've spent the last week calling every lordling on Dragonstone vain, pompous, or insufferable."
"They earned it."
"And yet this one has escaped all three."
Baela shrugged and Rhaena's smile softened.
"He didn't know who I was."
"...He didn't?"
"I told him my name."
Rhaena narrowed her eyes.
"Baela."
Baela smiled innocently as she tossed the apple core for the gulls.
"I may have omitted a title or two."
Rhaena laughed.
"You are terrible."
"It was nice."
"I imagine it was."
Baela leaned back against the bench.
"We made a wager."
Rhaena's grin widened.
"Oh, this should be good."
"If I win, he becomes my fool."
Rhaena snorted.
"The poor boy."
"And if he wins..."
Baela hesitated.
"...I owe him one wish."
The amusement slipped from Rhaena's face.
"You agreed to that?"
Baela shrugged.
"He has to beat me first."
"That's not what I asked."
"He won't."
"Baela."
"What?"
Rhaena turned toward her.
"I'm not worried about whether you win."
Baela frowned.
"Then what?"
"I'm worried about what happens if someone sees you."
Baela waved a dismissive hand.
"We're only sparring."
"You know that."
"So does he."
"But no one else will."
Baela's smile faltered.
Rhaena continued gently.
"You're Princess Baela Targaryen."
"I know."
"And you're betrothed to Jacaerys."
Baela looked out toward the sea.
"I know."
"If a servant sees you slipping away to meet the same squire again..." Rhaena said quietly, "...by supper they'll swear you've been carrying on a secret courtship."
Baela groaned.
"They always make everything sound scandalous."
"They do."
"And by the time the story reaches the hall, it won't be about a friendly wager."
Baela sighed.
"It'll be about Jace."
Rhaena nodded.
"They'll say you've been dishonored by a baseborn squire."
"I would never."
"I know you wouldn't."
Rhaena reached over and nudged Baela's shoulder.
"But gossip has never cared about the truth."