The Silent Bell Knight - Chapter Two

Baelor Targaryen x FemaleKnight! OC

Summary

In which Nyrene accompanies Dunk to seek the steward of Ashford— and unwittingly stumbles into the arriving dragons, reminiscing on a night thought to have been left far behind last she met a Targaryen in the Reach

words: 7.7k

Dawn cracked far too early for the woman as she stirred from her slumber, Endrew already up and readying their breakfast from the bundles of food stolen from the Baratheon tent. They were growing low on supplies, and barely able to keep any of the cold pastries down Nyrene declared to herself she’d walk the markets once seeking the games master.

After I am to speak to Ser Dunk that is, she remembered, taking sip of the watered wine from the flask.

She filled Endrew in of all that had happened the night prior, of experiencing the hospitality of Lyonel Baratheon and meeting that of another hedge knight and his inquiries as to whether the Bell Knight knew of his previous master or not.

“I would say I am to go to him before the steward,” she sighed reluctant, picking at her teeth with her nails. “And that is wearing a dress again, much to my dismay.”

Endrew sniggered at that, earning a tossing of food scrap in his direction.

“How fared you in the evenfall, while I was away? Did you see this Ser Dunk making camp?”

The squire signalled his reply, informing the knight of the light he spotted in the distance. Of a young boy readying the encampment for the absent knight, and Nyrene chuckled at how familiar the image conjured was. Herself and Endrew had done the very same, many nights over.

“I do remember a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, but I know not where,” she pondered aloud, motioning with her head in question at the squire who only shrugged his shoulders. “Unfortunately, I may be the bearer of bad news— but at least I have reinforcements. Come, we shall meet Ser Dunk so that our squires may be formally introduced.”

The short work to Dunk’s camp dampened their boots as the dew along the ground wet the high grass, and the large lad quickly stood at the described elm tree once he’d spotted the pair.

“Good morn to you, Nyrene.”

“Aye, it is, Ser Dunk. You met Endrew in the eve. This is your squire?”

The squire in question rounded the elm slowly. Suspiciously, and his small bald head glinted in the morning light as sure as his robes trailed along the ground far too big for his frame.

“This is Egg,” the hedge knight introduced, and the young boy nodded in their direction.

He seemed a sure fellow, not one to falter under the gaze of strangers. Nay, he seemed to take in both Nyrene and Endrew as if scrutinizing them over, willing to see whatever it was that may lay hidden in their formalities presented—and this did not go unnoticed by Endrew. He gave a fluttering of fingers, missed by the tall knight but picked up equally by the younger squire.

“He cannot speak,” Egg declared, earning an irritant nod from the mute.

“Observant of you, surely.” Nyrene smoothed over her squire’s reaction, immediately turning to Dunk. “Unfortunately, we know not of your Ser Arlan of Pennytree.”

Dunk’s face fell dejected, beginning to plead with the woman. “Please, may I speak to your—”

“—He does not speak. He is called the Silent Knight for a reason, Ser Dunk. But he knows not of your Ser Arlan, and therefore cannot help.”

“Where is it this knight, why isn’t he here?” Egg piped up, and all attention turned to him.

“Oi, I should clout your ear for challenging the lady— forgive him, Lady Nyrene.”

The woman waved her hand in dismissal, “He is sharp, your squire. Be that it may he sharp once you take to the lists.”

“If I take to the lists,” Dunk muttered quietly.

She took him over in pity, glancing eyes with Endrew in acknowledgement. “I am to see the master of the games about my own lord’s attendance. May you find good fortune with him too,”

They turned to make way in the direction of the other awakening tent sites and markets, yet the earnest plead of Ser Dunk was heard again.

“My lady, may I accompany you toward the knight camps and hopefully the steward once more? You seem to know a lot of what is required.”

She heard the younger squire groan quietly, the glare of the tall knight and taking in the desperate sight her pity drew even more.

“Very well, ser. On we go, the day has already started.”

Much of the morning was found following Ser Dunk and his squire as he recounted the story of Ser Arlan to any one lord or knight that bothered to listen—or feign listening, that is. Endrew had already been sent back to camp bored and with an armful of some of the delights of the stalls dotted around, but the lack of satisfaction in recognition of Ser Arlan from houses such as Florent and Tyrell left the accompanying knight and squire depressed as the morning wore on.

“I don’t understand, why is it that no one— all these noble lords— can’t even remember his name?” Dunk lamented, earning a quip in words from his squire.

“Was he a shit knight?”

“He was not a shit knight,”

“Well he can’t have been a good one if no one remembers him,”

Nyrene gave a scoff in mild agreement to the bald squire’s words, the creaks of the bridge heard underfoot as the two went back and forth with each other. She eventually zoned out, fingers dancing along Dunk’s stot Chestnut and leaning against the wooden railing to gaze down at the waters flowing below instead.

Of all that Nyrene had heard about Ser Arlan, it reminded her of her Ser Roy; the only constant figure that had guided her in the harsh terrains of Westeros. Whom didn’t send her away like her mother did— barely memorable from her youth— or like the father at Kingsgrave who offered only distaste, hiding her instead in the recesses of the castle as her half brothers grew with full bellies and warm beds.

Little had they known of their bastard sister who lived in the very depths of their home, only as they grew older that the existence of their elder sibling warranted interest— or suspicion.

If it weren’t for the cold master-at-arms and castle knights who had morphed her in the courtyards under the blind illusion of a boy, she may had yet to grow any courage to trail after Ser Roy that night, savouring only the few select years grown fond of.

No. She would not reminisce on that time.

Ser Roy was her focus, and she steadily grew from pity to sympathy at Ser Dunk’s plight.

Ser Arlan had instilled in him the same qualities and virtues of her Ser Roy— a common trait of all travelling hedge knights it appeared, her eyes tracing the flowing waters lapping at the banks of the river. The less than glamorous life of a wanderer was steeped in cruel reality, and witnessing the countless same looks of ill regard towards the young knight only further solidified the idea that holding fast to a basis of good was the only positive turn away from degeneracy.

For she sure knew of such a life, even if it did lead her to a more faithful adoption of the knightly vows at a later date.

Yet how Ser Dunk was able to navigate such superiority despite his challenges came as a mystery to her, and she looked on at the green knight as a reflection of who she felt she could have been when she was of the same age— but this Ser Dunk far excelled any honest good that she thought to have ever had. Nyrene wondered if Ser Roy would have taken to the young lad, and whether he would have made the same choice to accept him as squire in what he had given her.

She leant back further along the edge, a moment’s mourn crossing face as she remembered the knight of her past, and catching glimpses in the exchange of the sometimes prickly pair of companions.

“Ser Arlan was a great knight. Someone will remember him,” came the large lad’s desperate rumination towards Egg.

At once, horns began blaring from the travelling road, startling Nyrene to push back from the bridge. She cautiously made her way over to where Dunk was attempting to figure out from the passers by exactly who it was that was being announced, the tunes far too regal for any regular lord to be ushered in under.

“—Can’t you see the banners you giant cunt—?”

Her steps began slowing as she neared Egg’s side, a sickening feeling plummeting within her stomach. Dunk still craned his neck eagerly around, and she noticed Egg had gone deathly still— as if waiting confirmation for what he too dreaded.

What a strange reaction from the boy.

Before long, hooves could be heard thundering along the ground. Horses neighing, banners rippling in the wind. Crossing the waters on a neighbouring bridge, horsemen led the pack holding the heraldry high into the air— and that of a familiar sight of a three headed dragon froze Nyrene to the very spot.

“Perhaps I should go back ser, check on the camp,” Egg’s voice came muted, dulled as the rest of the crowd watched in awe as the royals drew nearer.

Nyrene hoped—nay, prayed to whatever gods worshipped through her lineages for it to only be a courier. A messenger of sorts, a parade of representation, not the reality. Anything but the Prin—

“—Is the matter alright? The both of you taken ill?” Dunk’s voice rattled the rigid figures back into reality as Egg exchanged a curious glance in Nyrene’s direction before the hedge knight spoke again.

“Aye, I’ve an idea,”

The woman began backing away slowly, pushing past onlookers and leaving the pair in heavy footfalls. She’d come to find the steward at a later time, it was declared silently.

How did I not know they would be here?

Dunk however, eventually took up at her side guiding through the crowd as he called over his shoulder to the squire, and the pair parted from the boy walking back in the other direction.

Away from the castle— opposite to where Nyrene was blindly headed.

“Ser, I cannot visit the castle just yet. I've—”

“—The steward will be there, and I’ve a matter to bring up. Please, let me help you on your way, Nyrene much as you’ve helped me already.”

“It’s fine, Dunk.”

“It is not. At least one knight shall be granted entry to the lists today, and for that we shall make our way toward.”

Nyrene had watched from the shadows of the stables as not one or two— a whole plethora of Targaryen princes arrived within the courtyard of Lord Ashford’s castle.

Dunk had obscenely stood in the way of the arriving party, a frosty exchange had with a pale haired princeling, the unsettling of one of their steeds and she stood now listening to his address of the Kingsguard. Her thin veil was pulled up from the neck covering her face, eyes peering, body wrapped tightly in the confines of her cloak as Ser Donnel of Duskendale offered small words of wisdom to the young knight.

He drew familiar as one of the few who had travelled to Kingsgrave, and she had faith he would not remember the spiny stable boy of the many years prior, still remaining in the shadows as he undoubtedly noticed her presence as the well trained guard he was. Still, her attention was solely focused on the main other who had arrived, the one who had caused travel upon Ser Donnel— years shading him into the heir apparent, the Hand of the King.

Prince Baelor Targaryen.

His dark hair was shorter, grown shades of silver in age; yet she still recognised the familiar profile, still felt the air in which he stood.

His back turned to her, the broad frame dismounted lightly from his horse as he’d grasped Lord Ashford’s hand with the same manner she had seen displayed all those years ago. An eagerness to meet, an honesty to learn of the ones before him.

Her scoff in contempt was poorly hidden despite the company she was currently found in.

He could have easily have made the acquaintance of the lord from the top of his horse, but instead a deliberate notion was fashioned to meet him at eye level— and her stomach lurched at the sights of him disappearing into the castle depths.

He still presents the same gravitas despite the years that have flown by, Nyrene gave a quick shake of her head.

Ser Donnel however, along with the other Kingsguard Nyrene failed to make note of were now fully aware of her existence, and all three nearby knights stood waiting for her response as she missed their address.

“Pardon, ser?”

“My lady, you are accompanying the hedge knight?”

“That I am not,” she failed to mask the bluntness in her voice as the Kingsguard turned sharp, honing in on what it was she were next to act.

Sure the scarf is thick enough to envelop me whole.

“Ser, she is here on behalf of The Silent Bell Knight,” Dunk offered quickly, and Nyrene gave a small groan as the other white cloaks attention suddenly snapped to her.

“The mystery knight?”

“Aye, true it seems, Ser Roland. Can you not see the southern garb about her face?”

“Indeed, I see it now. Was it not the very same mystery knight you faced in the melee at Maidenpool?”

Dread lurched within Nyrene’s stomach as Donnel gave a knowing shrug, and she remained silent as Roland continued.

“Why is it the knight isn’t here, and sent you instead?” he lazily gestured around him.

She swiftly cast aside the question of feigned innocence, stating in finality a wish to enter the castle. “A tournament knight he is, and a tournament he is preparing for. My business is with the steward m'lords, not yourselves— if you’ll excuse me. Ser Duncan, I will wait for you further along.”

She gave a short glare at Dunk before sidestepping out of the covered pens, quickly striding past the approaching stable boy and his horse. One last glimpse behind and she spied Ser Donnel watching after her, perplexed in the wake of her absence.

Minutes later, Dunk hurriedly joined as she waited within the alcove of the castle wall. He seemed to rake over her in concern, the close bound form within the dark of her fabrics. “Are you quite well, Nyrene? What cause have you to speak to the Kingsguard so?”

She turned incredulously up at him, doing little to mask the irritation in her voice. “Ser Dunk, are you really willing to boast the mystery knight to all who come before you? You are aware there’s a reason he’s called a mystery knight?”

“Why?”

“Why—? I—Never you mind,” she huffed, pushing her shoulders back beneath her cloak. “I’ve to seek the games steward, so if you’ll allow it I’d prefer to navigate this castle without stumbling into the presence of more Kingsguard—or even the royals.”

“Aye, I think I know the way. Follow me, m'lady.”

Nyrene later stood horrified in the shadows of the hall as following Ser Dunk along the passages did indeed lead her to the games steward. As well as Lord Ashford— as well as Prince Baelor, and his brother Prince Maekar.

“Fuck,” she groaned, earning a stunned turn from Dunk who’s reply was stifled as the younger prince called out from the room beyond.

“—You. Who are you?” Prince Maekar barked, and the lad stiffly withdrew closer to the covering wall.

“What do you mean by spying on us? Show yourself.”

The hedge knight gave one fearful glance at Nyrene who only gave a shrug before he stumbled into view, and she listened back pressed to the cool stones as he hesitantly gave forth his plead to the princes.

“What the fuck is going on?” she heard Maekar say, and she willed the castle melt her into stone before Dunk’s further disruption could unfold.

“We are the intruders, brother. Come closer, ser.”

His voice, as smooth and soft as she once remembered swelled across her body like a caress of a desert breeze, and she shivered unnaturally at the sound. The pit in her stomach began to twist in familiarity— but to her dismay it seemed to bring a level of warmth as he spoke to the knight.

As he addressed the knight; he’d caught Dunk’s title as quickly as it were hurriedly stumbled over.

Nyrene was briefly held captive by the tweak in manner, his ease at freely accepting the audience with Dunk— and it surged something wretched within her, like a hidden spark that shocked at her side whenever she’d graze too close in the way he appeared to others. She gave a sharp exhale, the turn of her head pulled as if led along an invisible line, reluctantly following its path.

Peeking through the gaps in masonry dreading he’d suddenly catch her eye it trailed until eventually he was spotted. For there at an angle, all attention fixed on the tall lad stood Prince Baelor; ever regal, a calm contemplation as he stood watching and weighing the presence of the knight.

And it made her feel violently ill.

It had been many years since Nyrene had watched him work— watched him lead. Time weathered in soft lines about his face as they creased in contemplation, absorbing all that the naive knight spoke of; still retaining a certain dominion over others but without condescension nor a quiver of scorn at an ill perceived truth.

Many years since she’d witnessed the same man standing within the halls of House Varner, the banquet in full swing as the lord’s nameday was celebrated. Long since Nyrene had watched his younger self cross the floors, exiting the festivities to take quiet air on the balcony— and where she had followed him.

“Gīda dda, Your Grace,” Nyrene’s voice peeled into the air mixing the two languages in greeting, watching in trepidation as Prince Baelor’s figure froze to her words, hands gripping at the sides of the balustrade.

“I do not think the two are compatible,” the prince offered cryptically, the light of the lanterns flickering across his back in the gloom.

“I would say it foolish to assume you had forgotten what I taught,” Nyrene quickly grown rather subdued at his flat response. “You may call off your Kingsguard now that you are aware of who it is seeking you out in the dark— if you know.”

“Of course I know,” he finally turned and the lamps bathed his face in the firelight, dark stubble creasing in a smile of recognition his one blue eye with flickers of violet seen softening in the shallow rays. He motioned to the Kingsguard standing further along, and she chanced their pale cloaks turning to the swallows of noise exiting the hall.

“You’ve grown older,” he’d taken a moment’s pause to steadily eye her up and down, Nyrene shrugging back slightly feeling rather exposed in the contrast of his finery and her own choice of cheapened wear.

“As have you,” she gave a small bow of her head.

He appeared to still tower above her, but less so in the years passed as she’d grown to meet him. Yet, she felt the full weight of his presence, the very air in which his royal title cloaked him drawing in prestige— less naive, more assured.

“How long has it been?” the prince’s question broke through her quiet intake as she became momentarily lost in his imposing stature. Long since elevated from the raw astute of the young prince whom had taken to the field during—

“Since the Rebellion?” she responded rather quickly, turning away her prying eyes. “Not long enough depending on how you see it.”

“Too long,” he murmured, taking a step closer. “Shall you walk with me?”

“And seek whispers from others?”

“You are still a friend of the Crown, it matters not how others see it,”

“To you, mayhaps. Nevertheless you may state instead I am one of your long lost cousins—”

“—I’d rather not—,”

“—Then an adversary of the south. Or some foolish drunk who has stumbled into your presence.”

“The night shines too well upon your sobriety,” Baelor began pacing along the balcony slowly, offering his arm as Nyrene awkwardly took it.

Propriety for the Prince; uncharted waters for the Sand.

“What brings you to the halls of Lord Varner? I learnt of the death of Ser Roy, and for that I am sorry. The roads are tough for one to tread— particularly for a woman alone.”

Nyrene swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to keep pace with his slow careful steps. He was pushing for information, why it was she had appeared on the plains of the Reach— that was obvious, Nyrene well attuned to the noble lords making note of all who they came across— but Prince Baelor seemed to dig silently for his own means.

Piece together the odds in which their paths had crossed.

“Matters not why I am here, only that I am fortunate enough to have met an old friend despite the years stretching since. I’ve travelled alone for a long while now, Your Grace.” the low tones in her voice flickered in inflection as she pushed away at the chilling memories of the roads beyond castles and inns.

In the dark, where figures materialised out of the trees clothed in want at what she had to offer. If not for Ser Roy’s trainings, an already suffering life would have surely been cut short— but it failed to offer further protection of what lay within, what she continuously struggled to reign in its attempts at breaking forth.

Baelor’s hand suddenly ran up the side of her arm, grasping at the shoulder and prodding at the muscles. She tensed momentarily as his touch fell back down, scrunching eyes in question while he looked over at her then— as if with pride, or satisfaction.

“Lady Nyrene grows stronger by the year. Maybe Ser Roy’s influence passes well beyond the grave,” he started, leaving the woman speechless. “It seems it mattered not if my Kingsguard were near, though I do not suppose they would welcome to hear it.”

“I—I do what I must. Though you know I would never— not even after I—,” she took a swallow, pushing a smile to her face. “Well, no matter how often I used to beat you.”

Mirth thankfully graced his faintly lined features, and he gave a small chuckle at the memories, “Almost, my friend. You almost did. Now having inspected you, grown from the thin squire to an adept woman; I do not wish to put our skills to the test any time soon.”

The pair walked in silence together, Nyrene relishing the moments while they entered the small garden of the castle. Forgetting all that had come before, all that had led them astray and taking his company in ease. Lanterns dotted around the pathways, the music dulling in volume as they began trading histories with one another.

The Prince spoke of the tribulations in court, the presence of his family within the realm in the wake of the Rebellion. Of his more private paranoia at feeling isolated against the people and seen as a foreign figurehead unlike the one who opposed his father despite his family’s victories.

Nyrene on the other hand, doted upon her time with the late hedge knight, even going into great detail at his awkwardness as she aged with each turn of the moon. How he taught her skills of the land, trained her in the ways of his master— and how she had struggled with his death, finding herself travelling the lands alone and succeeding in making her way forth.

She chose to let herself fall into the happier descriptions of her life, if not to prolong their time together.

Before long, the reserve initially held between the two dissipated as they lapped the gardens, nearing one of the stone benches.

“I shouldn’t need worry of how you fare on the roads then, with how remarkably you seem able to defend yourself.” The Prince sighed as they took seat, the pair sitting back against the low wall. “You are a survivor, I remember proven as much. Yet, I should wonder how you were able to slip between the crowds unnoticed to greet me in the eve,”

“Your Grace has so little faith in his Kingsguard where I’m concerned?”

“That was not what I meant,”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“How are your sons?” Nyrene parried, watching Baelor lean against his knees.

He turned up at her in a softening of his differing eyes. “Ah, my sons. I provide what I can, and am thankful in bearing witness to the young men they are growing into. I do mourn their connection lost without the presence of their mother.”

She drew in a breath as she felt him wait for her to begin. “I'm— I’m sorry. For what happened,” she offered timidly, toying with her fingers for the reaction at her daring to tread into dangerous territory.

While last they spoke of his marriage to Lady Dondarrion, it had come at a hidden price for Nyrene; a painful one at that. But now that she had left the world and her young sons with the Crown Prince, Nyrene was unsure if the subject would be met with the same elation as what he had previously given his late wife.

“When I heard, well. I had no means to send a raven— and none would any pass on towards the Keep.” she faltered, the plead in gaze one of earnest.

“I—,” he opened his mouth to speak, ceasing as lips pressed thin were lost within the dark of his stubble beginning to grey at the edges. “I welcome your sentiments, however faded the sombre memories may be.”

He began fiddling with the ring to his left hand, catching her attention before she looked upon his face as it turned expressionless in thought. He bowed his head slightly, regaining composure and turning back up at her.

“Enough of the melancholic exchanges, Nyrene.” he uttered her name soft in the summer air, locked in melody while his differing eyes trailed over her.

Her own hands clenched at the fabric of her dress, nails digging creases as the same ringed fingers spotted earlier reached over to catch at her own.

“After all these years you still do that,”

“I learnt it from someone,” she replied accusingly.

“I believe it was I who picked it up from you,”

His touch burned hot in splaying fingers across in measure. “You’re still darker than me,” he remarked, a small chuckle falling from his lips.

“You do not visit Dorne enough, Your Grace. Sunnier lands would do you well,”

“Maybe do us both,” he frowned, turning downwards in thought Nyrene’s fingers remaining clasped within his own. “You did not have this, the last I saw you.”

“The last you saw me I was covered in the blood of your foes.” she replied rather coolly, though foolishly she remarked to herself, daring wind back to darker moments had between them.

Baelor rotated Nyrene’s wrist paying no heed to the straight acknowledgement of their last battle together.

“You never did mention whether you were to go back,” he eyed the tattooed markings in recognition as they weaved from the back of her hand and up.

“There wasn’t a lot to go back for, not after you left. And when I eventually did,”

He hummed low in understanding, the warm metal of his ring pressing against the stained skin wrapping around and following the patterns.

“If only we were to go back to more simpler times,” Nyrene whispered, raking eyes over the dipped head of the prince as he leant to peer closer at her wrist, the dark hair grown longer since they last met blowing softly in the evening breeze.

His fingers traced light, drawing higher up her forearm; delicately pushing the sleeves back, touch sparking tingles through her limbs as they graced the partially numb scars hidden beneath the lines.

“At least I’ve a token of the past tonight. A prettier sight at that.” Baelor said equally as quiet, slowly looking up to meet Nyrene’s eyes, the silence of the deserted gardens ushering the old friends together.

“It seems the pair of us have coursed vastly different lives without the other.”

“Aye, Your Grace. The Red Mountains a long distant memory,”

“One I do revisit as often as I can,”

The air grew heightened between them, titles and statuses giving way to the deeper understanding held of the old companions. They’d easily fallen into the rhythms of tender folk whom had shared the most pleasant of memories, who’d little care for the world as they bathed in their own. Sunnier skies, heated winds— and for a moment they’d slipped from their marred paths into the naivety of their youth. Nyrene felt the change in comfort, leaned into it as she felt the Crown Prince do the same.

But this lean brushed scars of old, despite the clarity in which the prince’s intentions were laid bare.

“Don’t Baelor,” came her small plead, despairingly a lack of conviction evident in her voice. He reached up to brush at the locks of hair tangling in the wind, while she attempted to turn away.

“Why not?” he breathed back, his face nearing closer as his fingers softly turned her jaw. “We’ve both been brought here. Now.”

The years grown into his features were better seen through the dim of the gardens enveloping them both, the light of the lanterns glowing clearer at the edges of his form. Head inching closer—

“—Pardon, Your Grace. Before I leave, I do have another who may require the same aid if you would be so kind.”

“What!?” Nyrene hissed as Dunk’s voice threw her back into the present— and from the uncomfortable memories of Prince Baelor. Now, wanting to make her way as far from the Crown Prince as possible, here was the stupid man exposing her for all to see.

“Another fucking audience, has the whole of Ashford come to greet us?” Maekar spat in the direction of the pair while Nyrene fought to keep herself hidden.

“They may enter,” she heard Prince Baelor’s voice summon, and Dunk gave her a reassuring nod before whispering into her ear as he passed.

“I’ll wait for you, m'lady. Go on now.”

Gods grant us strength, she wished to herself standing stricken in the welcoming shadows. Hesitant in stepping into the light, wanting nothing more than to shy away from his wishes.

But the quiet summon gripped her tight in the chest, commanded her to reposition her gait, to push the shoulders back in shield. Shrugging one sleeve lower covering the rest of her tattooed hand with the other, Nyrene strode out into the burning view of the awaiting royals in a slight clearing of her throat.

Prince Maekar, once slouched in his chair straightened out of curiosity as the woman took the first few steps into the room. In fact, all but one man changed demeanour; the steward spied further away with hands clasped behind his back loosened them as if he meant to utter protest. Lord Ashford’s stare morphed to that of suspicion while he took in the furnishings in her wear, the patterns of the scarf thankfully still wrapped around her face.

Prince Baelor held more reserve at the sight of her, seated in his chair rings glinting in the light of the window as he leant forward to pick at the fruit bowl laid before him.

“Well? What is it you require, my lady?” Maekor grated out, Nyrene easily glimpsing his interest behind the irritation. “A fine custom it is to address those masked as such.”

“Less unbecoming, brother” Baelor slowly turned his head to the side in address, before his eyes drifted back over in the direction of the woman. “What services do you seek?”

He still was as handsome as Nyrene remembered, still held the same assuredness about him though rather stoic now in form. As if he’d learnt a great deal in the time since that night in the castle garden, the early hours in the morning—

“I’ve a submission for the master of the games,” Nyrene inclined her head in the steward’s direction, dropping voice an octave lower and adopting the accent of her mother’s native lands. “Apologies, Ser Dunk may have mistaken whom it was I am to seek. I pardon the interruption, Your Grace.”

Prince Baelor nodded in acceptance at her request, and she made her way like a passing of shade across the floor, closer to the steward who still eyed her in curiosity.

“You are nought a squire nor a knight; have you come to enter your master’s name for the lists?”

“My master?” she drawled, internally chiding herself at the swift bitterness leaving her tongue.

“Indeed m'lord,” Nyrene quickly added, being ushered further away from the now conversing princes, whom she was still able to pick up on the younger lamenting one of his sons and his absence.

“—Daeron belongs on the tourney field no more than Aerys or Rhaegal,”

“By which you mean he’d sooner ride a whore than a horse.” Maekar answered his brother bitterly.

“That is not what I said.”

“It is my youngest that is missing too, may I remind you. What qualms those bloody children of mine bring.”

A father was missing a child— two in fact, that was as much as what Nyrene could surmise. What a pity for the abrasive prince, though despite the shortcomings Prince Baelor seemed to cast some ease at his brother’s distress.

“I do not need to be reminded of my son’s failings,” Maekar groaned further, “Daeron can change— he will change, gods be damned. Or I’ll swear I’ll see him dead—”

“—What is your master’s name?” the steward asked impatiently, and she turned the veiled face back towards him.

“He is the Silent Bell Knight.”

The room instantly stilled, the whirls in conversations ceasing at hearing Nyrene utter the title. Prince Maekar once again straightened up in his chair as she looked around, locking eyes with the Prince Baelor.

“Did you just utter the name of that mystery knight who’s found himself placing in tourneys further north?” Lord Ashford was first to break the silence, and even the servants weaving around in their tasks hesitated to listen.

“Aye, indeed the very same, my Lord Ashford.”

“The one prancing around with bells on his mount?” Maekar leered, resuming his snacking on the refreshments while Prince Baelor’s expression shifted from mild indifference to a sudden glimmer of interest.

“I have heard of this mystery knight,” he started, rising from his seat to wander closer to the burning hearth. “He has proven himself successful over the course of more recent years. It’ll be a delight to witness him compete.”

“How many insignificant fucking knights do you know of?” Maekar scoffed in his brother’s direction, grumbling darkly to himself. “First the old hedge knight now— well he’s still a hedge knight, is he not?” he turned accusatory at Nyrene, receiving a nod in confirmation.

“I know well enough of the mystery knight to warrant interest, particularly some of his exploits.” Baelor responded to the flames, as if articulating their hidden message.

“Well he’s no mystery knight then, is he?”

The constant churn in Nyrene’s stomach surged to that of heated irritation.

“He’s mystery enough to warrant your hesitation,” she gritted through teeth, instantly regretting the throwing of spite as Maekar’s steel gaze struck deep into her being.

“He sends a woman to do his bidding, and one without proper manners to deal in it. The hedge knight proved a better interaction. What a poor representation for your mystery master.” his voiced had grown low, warning dancing across its edges.

“Twll tin,”

Arsehole

She hissed the foreign insult under breath, drawing louder in challenge.

“He is not my "master”. He's—"

“—I think it is time we ease back into a more cordial conversation,” Baelor cut through the tension, steadying at Nyrene’s heart drumming hard at the exchange as Maekar too, seemed to rise to greet her.

“The loyalty to your knight is clear my lady, despite certain— terms used. Pay no heed to my brother, he is currently dealing with issues of a more personal nature. Hence his displeasure.”

He casually took her over as she hurried her apologies, ignoring another scoff from the bitter prince while she willed Baelor fail to recognise her insult— foolishly remembering too late she had once taught him such.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn,”

Maekar thankfully only rolled his eyes— and much to Nyrene’s dismay, the heir apparent began pacing around his brother at the other end of the table, treading ever closer to the woman and starting again.

“You must understand the caution in which is presented toward the attendance of the Silent Bell Knight at Ashford, however. While we’ve heard of his exploits, a hidden figure with an equally hidden entourage.” his choice in term was met with a careful nod from the woman, and Nyrene nearly caught herself falling into the prince’s weave of charge— but she quickly shunted away all feelings towards absolve.

“—They are steps we must tread carefully, until much further is determined.”

Attention was turned to the steward at the commencement of the prince’s last few words, who awkwardly cleared his throat in response.

“The Silent Bell Knight. It appears he is one of more recent renown,” he fumbled with the lodge book procured, thumbing through the list of names in the region Nyrene joining him in peering over the pages. “Indeed, he is here, though lesser in ranking than the lords currently entered— he will have to challenge on the second day.”

The woman nodded in understanding, receiving his next question.

“And the heraldry is the same?”

“If it is of a blackened background, a tarnished silver bell with top edges in the shape of a crown littered in green stones— then yes your records are accurate, m'lord.”

She glanced over her shoulder hearing a familiar set of steps falter, and catching a glimpse of Prince Baelor listening intently to their conversation. His head had dipped lower— as if the quiet facade had cracked in the few words spoken, revealing more apparent feelings of interest.

“You will need a token for your knight. If you please wait here a moment.” snapping the book shut, the steward bowed his way out of the room, and Nyrene was left stark against the now concentrated gaze of the leading prince.

“I remember more clearly your mystery knight, my lady.” to her further discomfort he spoke to her again, soft voice tender as if finding joy at the ability to recollect. “He first appeared at a tourney held in the south east of the Westerlands— at House Foote, I take it?”

“You are correct, Your Grace,” her eyes scrunched in focus, and she panicked at what she spied was the briefest looks in recognition from the prince, his face flashing back to the usual calm he mustered.

The man had developed further in his role as Hand, honed his skills in decency towards his subjects since Nyrene had last saw him. Easing others to freely give answer to each question he nudged along— but despite her own recognition in how he appeared generous to others, she only felt herself sinking instead to his scrutiny.

Still; measurement in his words was what appealed to most, the time it took for one in stature to truly identify— and no wonder Ser Dunk had become flustered in his presence, openly displaying true elation once the Crown Prince proved knowledgeable in who his old master was.

He saw deep into his subjects, and Nyrene feared he’d look deeper past her disguise.

“Your knight placed well from what I have learned.” He continued pensively, breaking through her thoughts. “Fought in the melees, suffering less than other knights of green.

"Many attempted to piece exactly where he’d come from. He fought as if trained in the northern Reach and the Riverlands, yet some of his attire decorated as if south of the Red Mountains— he rather fights in an unconventional nature. He submitted service to House Varner, shortly before that did he not?”

Nyrene caught the bait in his words, her heart quickening again as the prince circled the history of the mystery knight, taking steps closer towards her— as if hunting for her response. She lay her reply thick as she could, marred in accent swallowing harshly behind her scarf.

“I cannot say for certain, Your Grace, of his servitude. I fear it may have been after their service to Lord Varner that I was required to nurse him back to health. I have been with him ever since.”

“The odds in favour to you both, if two members of Dorne are granted a meeting,” Lord Ashford whittled into the conversation. “I do not believe the castle has seen quite as much blood from the south as it has this coming tourney.”

Maekor gave a grunt in distaste, his only addition to the interaction between Nyrene and his brother— though she suspected he’d listened to the exchange as subtly as he could, if feigning disinterest in the pair. His reaction to the mystery knight at least proved it, Nyrene had mused.

Prince Baelor nodded in the lord’s direction, scanning back around to the woman. He slowly tilted his head in a recognised pose that nearly sent Nyrene reeling at how often she’d seen it morph over the years; once laced in youth to now that of blackened silver. The violet of his eye shone bright with intent through the full blown light of the window Nyrene almost felt herself being pressed hard upon. Shoved against, examined by the very man she had left behind in the recesses of the lands he had spoken of.

Her breathing became shallower; less consistent, the scarf pulsing erratically, and the wringing in hands failed to go unnoticed by the prince as his gaze flickered down and up.

Nyrene hurriedly tugged at her sleeve, gripping the fabric tight in protection.

The opposing door suddenly opened distracting attention from the Prince’s silent interrogation, the returning steward bustling through bowing to the royals and hoisting the newly acquired sack of tokens upon the table.

“Pardon, my lords. Your Grace,” he fumbled with the strings to the bag, the contents spilling forth in a heap.

“Come now Plummer, gods be good.” Lord Ashford’s voice called from the other side of the room as he was attended to by his servants. “Clumsy fool,”

“My lady, if you please.” Plummer urged warily, motioning for the woman in question to come closer. Nyrene gave a slight nod to the heir as she eased past to meet the steward hastily sorting through the items.

“Inform your master he is to present this when entering the grounds— only on the second day.”

“It is well noted, m'lord.”

“Here,” the steward went to drop the found token in Nyrene’s outstretched hand before it slipped through his own fingers, clattering across the table to the floor. Plummer only gave an apologetic shrug, wiping his hand against his side expecting the woman to fetch it herself.

In a huff, she took hold of the table edge with one hand lowering herself below, spotting the wooden token easily. A ghastly sight, in the presence of the lords— Nyrene acutely aware of how she was presenting herself.

At least she had finally come for what she sought, to finally leave the uncomfortable presence of him.

Yet the Prince in question had remained close by as she spied the finery in the deep red and black robes coming stood before her. Knees pushing harder into stone she took a few moments of her own in a pulse of disgruntled courage, before reluctance sent her slowly leaning back like a beggar casting a plead to a septon for repent— and meeting the once more piercing gaze of Prince Baelor high above her as he gave a steady exhale in toying with what was laid before him.

Nyrene’s eyes flicked to the outstretched hand still gripping hard against the table edge, the stained skin warping across the wood in full view of the surprised prince as he too, followed the movements.

Baelor’s face softened in recognition, slowly trailing back to lock eye with Nyrene while all she could do was quickly rise upwards as her quiet reality was unveiled, and allowing not a moment in utterance.

She gave a stiff inclination, holding tight the token in grasp and tugging her sleeve back down again.

“Thank you, m'lord steward. And to you all. My knight will be quite pleased I’ve achieved such a mission.” she darted another wary glance at the prince, catching a sliver of regret through the violet-blue before nodding her head once again.

“Your Grace, I may take my leave,”

“You are dismissed my lady, now will you hurry along. Tell your master all dragon’s eye will be upon him now that his presence is less enigmatic.” Prince Maekar chided in the background, the silent brother watching as Nyrene bowed her way out.

“My lady,” her steps faltered as Baelor’s voice sent a shard of command at her back, and she turned to receive the last of his wishes.

“I hope to hear his bells sing over the coming days,” his demeanour was replaced by that of the familiar knowing reserve he bestowed upon all, and Nyrene hurried out of the room as quick as what her feet could disguise.

“Glad that’s fucking over, what a day. Have you quite your fill of mystery?” she heard Maekar’s bitter voice echo into the hall.

“Not quite yet, brother.” came the loaded haunt of his intention.

Nyrene stifled the overwhelm behind her scarf and joined the waiting Dunk as he too, had expressions of shock plastered across his face.