Chapter Text
The stone walls of Ashford’s place felt even colder as the heavy oak doors groaned shut, sealing out the noise of the tourney grounds. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the sharp, metallic tang of Prince Aerion’s blood.
Prince Maekar stood by the hearth, his massive frame silhouetted against the dying embers. He looked like a mountain carved from obsidian—grim, immovable, and radiating a simmer of repressed violence. When he turned, his gaze first fell upon Aerion, who was theatrically dabbing at his split lip with a silk kerchief.
Then, his eyes shifted to the small, shivering figure standing beside (Y/N).
The silence that followed was deafening. Maekar’s brow furrowed, his eyes tracing the jagged, uneven scalp of the boy he had sent away to squire in the Reach. For a long, agonizing moment, he didn't seem to recognize his own flesh and blood.
“Egg?” Maekar’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
The boy stepped forward, his small hand slipping out of (Y/N)’s protective grasp. He looked tiny against the soaring arches of the hall, but his chin remained lifted.
“Yes, Father,” Egg whispered.
Maekar moved with a sudden, startling speed, reaching out to grip the boy’s chin. He tilted Egg’s head side to side, staring at the pale, naked scalp where the silver-gold curls of the dragon should have been.
“What is this?” Maekar hissed, his fingers tightening. “What have you done to yourself? You look like a... a stable boy. A beggar.”
“I cut it off, Father,” Egg said, his voice gaining strength even as his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I didn’t want anyone to know who I was. I didn’t want to be like Aerion.”
Maekar’s face contorted with a mixture of shame and fury. He looked at Aerion, who let out a sharp, mocking titter.
“He’s been wandering the ditches with a hedge knight, Father,” Aerion sneered, gesturing toward the doors where Dunk had been dragged. “Eating scraps and sleeping in the dirt like an animal. He’s forgotten his blood.”
“He hasn't forgotten his blood,” (Y/N) stepped forward, her voice cutting through Aerion’s venom like a northern wind. “He’s the only one in this room who seems to remember what the blood of a Prince is actually for.”
Maekar turned his thunderous gaze toward her. His eyes raked over her charcoal silk and the Stark steel at her hip. “You. My brother speaks of you as if you were a saint in armor. Is this your doing? Did you encourage this madness?”
“No!” Egg spoke too loud, more than everyone -including him- expected. “It was all my doing! And I didn't pass hunger, or cold…”
Maekar let out a low, angry growl. He couldn't speak, otherwise he would also scream.
“I found him in the mud, My Lord, protecting a girl from your elder son’s ‘justice,’” (Y/N) intervened, her golden eyes meeting him without a flicker of fear. “I saw a boy with more courage than most knights in your Seven Kingdoms. If he cut his hair to hide from the cruelty of his own kin, can you truly blame him?”
Maekar let go of Egg’s chin so abruptly the boy stumbled back. The Prince began to pace, his heavy boots thudding against the stone.
“My son... a squire to a man who strikes royalty,” Maekar muttered, more to himself than to them. “A Prince of the Blood, shorn like a sheep.”
“He is a Prince who knows how to serve,” (Y/N) added softly.
Maekar stopped his pacing and looked at her, his expression unreadable. “And you? Why are you still here, Lady (Y/N)? This is a family matter. A Targaryen shame.”
“Because the boy was afraid,” she said, glancing down at Egg, who had reached out to catch the hem of her sleeve. “And because in the North, we don’t leave our own to face the cold alone.”
The tension was broken by the sound of footsteps. Baelor walked in, his face weary, his eyes immediately finding (Y/N). He saw the way she stood between Maekar and the boy, a silent sentinel for a child who wasn't hers.
“Maekar,” Baelor said, his voice a calm anchor in the room. “Enough. The boy is safe. The knight is in the cells. We have a crisis of honor to resolve, not a haircut to mourn.”
Maekar looked at his brother, then back at (Y/N) and the bald-headed boy. He let out a long, ragged breath, the fire in his eyes dimming into a cold, hard ember.
“Get him out of my sight,” Maekar commanded, gesturing to Egg. “And the woman with him.”
As (Y/N) led Egg toward the door, she felt Baelor’s gaze on her back—heavy with a thousand things he couldn't say in front of his brother.