Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Hedge Knight
(298 AC)
Lucerys staggered through the towering gates of Harrenhal, the ancient ironwork looming above her. Aemond was dead weight, his unconscious form dragging her closer to the ground with every agonizing step. His blood seeped through her fingers, staining the fabric of her dress and smearing across her arms in grotesque patterns. Exhaustion gripped her like a vice, her muscles screaming in protest, yet she forced herself forward. Every inch of her body ached, and her vision blurred at the edges, but she couldn’t falter now. Not when his life balanced so precariously on the edge of oblivion.
As they crossed the threshold, Lady Whent's servants surged forward, their faces tight with alarm. Lucerys wasted no time. "You, help me carry him to a room. And you—bring clean water, bandages, and thread. Someone fetch my medicinal bag from my chambers—quickly!"
The command spurred them into action. Two guards rushed forward, their broad shoulders straining as they lifted Aemond’s limp body from her arms. He sagged between them, blood dripping onto the floor as they moved. Lucerys set the pace, cutting a swift path through the castle’s winding corridors. Her footsteps echoed sharply in the silence, broken only by Aemond’s faint groans and the distant crackle of torches.
Finally, they reached a modest chamber, the room unadorned save for a simple bed, a sturdy chair, and a small table pushed against the wall. The air hung thick and stale, carrying the faint scent of old wood and stone. The warmth from the hearth crept sluggishly across the space, unable to fully banish the lingering dampness that clung to the walls.
The guards lowered Aemond onto the bed with care, his body sinking into the mattress as blood seeped through the sheets. Lucerys didn’t falter. Her voice rang out sharp and commanding, directing the servants as they hurried inside, their arms piled with supplies—bowls of steaming water, linen strips, and vials of tinctures. She moved swiftly, every action purposeful, the weight of the situation propelling her forward without pause.
With steady hands, Lucerys began cleaning the wound on Aemond's head, her movements deliberate and precise. She dipped a cloth into the warm water and wrung it out, the clear liquid turning crimson as it absorbed the blood. Her fingers worked methodically, dabbing away the grime and clotted debris that clung stubbornly to his pale skin.
She retrieved a thick needle from her kit, threading it with a fine strand of silk in a single smooth motion. Her brow knit tightly in concentration as she leaned closer, her breath shallow and measured. The needle glinted faintly in the dim light as she guided it through the torn flesh, the curved metal weaving a line of careful sutures. Soft, almost inaudible murmurs escaped her lips as she worked—a mix of reassurances and an unconscious rhythm to steady her nerves.
As Lucerys finished stitching the wound on Aemond's head, she noticed a servant hovering nervously nearby, his eyes wide. "My lady," he stammered, "there's a cut on his throat as well."
Lucerys waved her hand dismissively, her focus unwavering. "It's superficial. We have more pressing matters to attend to," she said curtly, her gaze shifting to the large gash in Aemond’s side, the true source of the relentless blood that had soaked through his clothing and saturated the bed.
She carefully began cutting away the sodden bandages she had hurriedly wrapped around him earlier on the shore. The linen peeled back reluctantly, sticking to the wound in places where the blood had clotted. When she finally freed it, the full extent of the injury was revealed. The gash was deep and cleanly cut, running across his side with alarming precision. Though its edges were sharp and smooth, the depth and the exposed muscle beneath made the injury no less severe.
Lucerys inhaled sharply, steadying herself. Blood oozed sluggishly from the wound, pooling in the grooves of his skin before spilling onto the already ruined sheets. She reached for a fresh cloth and dipped it into the basin of warm water a servant had brought earlier. The water, once clear, was already tinged red from her earlier efforts, but she had no choice but to use it.
"You there," she called to another maid, a young woman with a kind face. "Come here and help me hold the skin together while I stitch it closed."
The woman nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she stepped forward, the faint scent of rose oil on her skin mingling with the metallic tang of Aemond’s blood. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then placed her fingers on the torn flesh, working alongside Lucerys to pinch the edges of the wound together. Their hands moved in tandem, slick with blood and sweat, as Lucerys threaded the needle with practiced precision. The firelight glinted off the curved metal as she guided it through flesh, her movements steady despite the exhaustion pulling at her limbs.
When the final stitch was tied off, Lucerys leaned back, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her effort. The neat, taut line of stitches stood out starkly against the inflamed redness of the wound, the angry hue a sharp contrast to his unnervingly ashen complexion.
"Thank you," she said to the maid beside her, her voice hoarse with emotion. "You did well."
The woman bowed her head, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "It was an honor to assist you, my lady."
Lucerys dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "Go now and inform Lady Whent of what has transpired here."
The servants bowed low; their muted murmurs of acknowledgment barely audible before they exited the chamber. The door groaned on its hinges, closing with a firm, final thud. Lucerys stood frozen for a moment, her gaze locked on his motionless form. His skin had taken on a ghastly pallor, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced in the flickering light. She forced herself to move, her fingers clumsily untying the straps of her leather satchel, the creak of worn leather a small disruption in the suffocating quiet.
Her hand plunged into the bag, rifling past brittle herbs and glass vials that clinked faintly against one another. At last, she found it—a small clay pot, its surface cool and smooth beneath her fingers. She drew it out carefully, unscrewing the lid with slow precision.
The rich, earthy aroma of sage and lavender spilled into the air, mingling with the tang of blood that clung stubbornly to the room. It was a scent she knew well, both a comfort and a reminder of the countless hours she had spent perfecting the mixture. The salve inside glowed faintly golden in the firelight, its thick, smooth texture promising hope—or at least the pretense of it.
Lucerys dipped her fingers into the mixture, the salve clinging to her skin. She hesitated, her breath hitching as her gaze flicked toward Aemond. His chest rose and fell faintly, a shallow rhythm that seemed painfully fragile. Swallowing hard, she pressed her thumb against her teeth and bit down sharply.
The metallic tang of her own blood met her tongue, and a bead of crimson welled at her thumb. Holding her hand over the pot, she let the droplet fall into the mixture. For an instant, nothing happened. Then the salve quivered, ripples spreading across its surface as if it had drawn in a breath of its own.
She stared down at the pot, her jaw tightening. This was a dangerous gamble, one she couldn’t explain and wouldn’t justify. Desperation left no room for explanations.
Lucerys carefully smeared the warm, fragrant salve over Aemond's stitched wounds, her movements unsteady because of the exhaustion weighing on her limbs. The soothing scent swirled in the air, but it was the tingling sensation spreading through her fingertips that caught her attention. It was faint at first, then stronger, as if the salve were drawing from her own reserves of strength to fuel its restorative properties.
She worked methodically, spreading the golden mixture over the inflamed edges of the wound. Its oils seeped into the torn flesh, softening the angry red lines and soothing the battered skin. Lucerys dared a glance at Aemond’s face, her breath catching as she noticed a subtle change—his pallor had faded ever so slightly, his complexion gaining the faintest hint of color.
Satisfied with her work, Lucerys reached for the clean linen strips laid out beside her. With practiced care, she wrapped them snugly around Aemond’s torso, securing the salve in place. Her hands moved deftly, the rhythm of her work soothing in its familiarity. She tugged the last bandage into place, tying it off with a firm knot before exhaling slowly.
Her focus shifted to the gash on his head. Kneeling closer, she dipped her fingers back into the salve, the mixture still warm against her skin. She worked quickly, but her movements grew slower as her fingers brushed against his hair, its once-silver strands matted and dulled by dried blood. The crimson hue clung stubbornly to his locks, masking the distinctive shine of his heritage.
For a moment, she allowed herself a sliver of gratitude for the disguise, grim though it was.
A sudden knock at the door jolted Lucerys from her thoughts, the sound intrusive. She turned quickly, her heart skipping as the door creaked open to reveal Lady Whent. The older woman’s grey hair was slightly disheveled, her face lined with the weariness of interrupted sleep.
The Lady of Harrenhal moved forward, the muted rustle of her skirts filled the silence as she approached the bed, her keen eyes scanning Aemond’s face. She studied him intently, her brow furrowing as though trying to piece together a puzzle. “What happened here, Lady Blackfyre?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with a firmness that brooked no evasion. “Who is this man you’ve brought into my castle, and how did you come to be in such a state?”
Lucerys inhaled deeply, steadying herself as her mind raced. The truth was too dangerous to reveal, and so she chose her words carefully, crafting a tale she hoped would satisfy Lady Whent’s suspicions without inviting further inquiry.
“I went for a walk,” she began, her voice steady despite the faint tremor in her hands. “After we retired from the evening’s drinks, I found myself restless. The walls of the castle were stifling, so I ventured into the woods to clear my head and enjoy the quiet.”
She paused, glancing toward Aemond’s still form as if drawing strength from her fabricated story. “But as I wandered deeper, I was set upon by brigands—five or six of them, at least. Their faces were hidden by hoods, their intentions clear.” Her tone tightened, as though reliving the fabricated memory. “I tried to fight them off, but I was outnumbered.”
Lady Whent’s brows knitted together in concern, but she remained silent, allowing Lucerys to continue.
“I thought it was the end,” Lucerys choked, her gaze dropping to the edge of the bed. “But then, he appeared.” She gestured toward Aemond, her voice rising slightly as she infused it with gratitude. “A hedge knight. He fought them off with a courage I’ve never seen, though he was gravely wounded in the process.”
She turned back to Lady Whent, her eyes earnest. “I managed to drag him here, but I fear for his life. I’ve done what I can to tend to his injuries, but he needs rest. Care. Time.”
Lady Whent regarded Lucerys for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then her gaze softened, her voice taking on a gentle warmth. “You were fortunate he was there,” she said. “Such bravery is rare. He is lucky you brought him here, Lady Blackfyre. It seems the gods have tested you both greatly.”
Lucerys offered a faint smile, dipping her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you for your understanding, my lady. I wouldn’t have survived without him.”
Lady Whent’s expression shifted to one of compassion as she leaned forward, her delicate hands clasped in front of her. “You must be exhausted after such an ordeal,” she said kindly. “Allow me to have a room prepared for you. I will personally oversee the care of your brave knight.”
Lucerys hesitated, her gaze drifting back to Aemond. She could feel the weight of her exhaustion pressing down on her, but leaving him alone was unthinkable. “Your offer is generous, Lady Whent,” she said carefully, “but if it pleases you, I would prefer to remain here. His condition is still precarious, and I fear leaving his side, even for a moment. Perhaps a cot could be brought in so I may rest in this chamber?”
Lady Whent studied her intently, her sharp eyes taking in Lucerys’ disheveled appearance, the weariness etched into her features, and the determination set in her jaw. Finally, she nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I shall have a maester’s cot brought for you. It is a simple thing, but it will suffice.”
She turned to one of the guards standing nearby, a young man with red hair and freckles. “Fetch a maester’s cot from the storeroom,” she instructed, her tone brisk. “And bring fresh linens and a warm blanket. Lady Blackfyre will be staying here to tend to her guest.”
“Yes, m’lady,” the guard replied with a bow before hurrying from the room.
Lucerys watched him go, the tension in her shoulders loosening slightly. But as the adrenaline that had carried her this far began to fade, a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Her knees wavered, and she reached out, steadying herself against the edge of the bed.
Lady Whent noticed immediately, stepping closer to place a firm but gentle hand on Lucerys’ shoulder. “You are utterly spent, my dear,” she said, her voice filled with concern. “When was the last time you ate or slept?”
Lucerys frowned, her brow furrowing as she tried to recall. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice hoarse with fatigue. “It’s been a long night. There was so much to do…”
Lady Whent tsked softly, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “That won’t do at all,” she said firmly. “You’ll be of no use to your knight if you collapse from hunger and exhaustion. I’ll have the kitchens send up a tray with some broth and bread—something to fortify you before you rest.”
A rush of gratitude welled up in Lucerys, and she managed a tired smile. “Thank you, Lady Whent,” she said, her voice sincere. “I’m in your debt.”
Lady Whent waved away the thanks with a graceful gesture. “Think nothing of it, my dear,” she said. “It is the least I can do for someone in such need. Now, I shall leave you to your charge and ensure the meal is prepared without delay.”
With one final, motherly pat on Lucerys’ shoulder, Lady Whent swept from the room. The door closed behind her with a muted thud, leaving Lucerys alone in the dim glow of the chamber, the crackling fire casting restless shadows across the walls.
Lucerys sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs trembling beneath her. She reached out hesitantly, brushing a bloodied lock of hair from Aemond’s forehead. Her fingers lingered for a moment, hovering over the heat radiating from his feverish skin. Despite his stillness, a faint strength seemed to linger in his form, his chest rising and falling in shallow but steady breaths.
A soft knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. Her head snapped up, and she exhaled when the red-haired guard stepped in, a folded maester’s cot tucked under one arm and a bundle of linens and blankets under the other. Without a word, he moved to the hearth, setting the cot down with care. The wooden frame creaked softly as he unfolded it, his movements swift but quiet, the kind of efficiency born of habit.
“Here you are, m’lady,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue. “I brought extra blankets, too. Nights in Harrenhal can turn bitter, even with a fire.”
Lucerys nodded her thanks, her voice failing her for a moment. She watched as the guard worked, smoothing the linen sheets over the cot and placing a simple but plump pillow at its head. When he finished, he straightened and gave a slight bow.
“If there’s anything more you need, m’lady, just call. I’ll be posted right outside the door.”
“Thank you,” Lucerys managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
The guard nodded again, his expression solemn as he slipped from the room, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of his departure left the chamber feeling larger, emptier, the weight of the night pressing down on her shoulders.
With a deep sigh, Lucerys forced herself to her feet, her body protesting each movement. She shuffled across the room toward the cot, her steps sluggish, her limbs leaden with exhaustion. The cot, plain and unadorned, stood in stark contrast to the opulent surroundings, but in that moment, it seemed the most inviting place in the world.
She eased herself onto the cot, the rough sheets cool against her overheated skin. She let out a low groan of relief as her body sank into the thin mattress, the supportive embrace of the wooden frame grounding her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. The night’s events rushed back in fragments—the blood, the frantic stitching, the lingering tension—and her mind raced to process it all, even as her body began to surrender.
Her eyes drifted to Aemond’s still form. She tried to suppress the pang of worry in her chest, but it lingered like a dull ache, persistent and unyielding. He looked fragile now, far from the imposing figure he had always been.
The room grew quieter as her breathing slowed, her thoughts turning muddled. Each blink stretched longer, the lure of sleep becoming harder to resist. Finally, Lucerys let her head rest fully against the pillow, her eyelids drooping shut. The exhaustion that had clawed at her all night claimed her at last, and she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
