Arthur pushed himself off the cot with a grunt, the stitches in his gut pulling painfully, but he bit down on the pain and stood anyway. The matron had fussed over him that morning as she changed his bandages, telling him he needed rest, that pushing too hard would reopen everything. He had nodded along, but the moment she left, he slipped out to the small garden behind the orphanage. The walled space was clearly the most important part of the building; it was a patch of dirt where they grew carrots, cabbages, and potatoes to stretch their meager stores, the soil dark and rich from years of care, the rows of tilled earth were pretty undisturbed despite the kids running through. It kept them fed when donations ran thin and coin fried up.
He found a long stick in the corner, straight enough to serve his needs, and gripped it like a sword. Sweat beaded on his brow as he moved through the forms—basic thrusts, slashes, blocks—his body protesting every swing. Pain flared in his ribs, his shoulder, his thigh; it was painful enough to make him gasp. He activated Novacaine, the numbness washing over him like a cold wave, dulling the edges until he could breathe again. He'd been using it nonstop these past few days, and it had leveled to (54/100). The duration stretched longer now, giving him nearly five minutes before the pain crashed back, making it a real tool instead of a quick fix.
Over a little away from him Cassie knelt in the vegetable patch, her bare feet sunk into the soil, knees dirty with mud as she plucked ripe carrots from the earth, not minding the grime caking her skin. Her raven hair was tied in a braid that swung down her back, strands escaping to frame her face as she worked. She glanced up at Arthur, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. "What's this? You're swinging that stick around like you're fighting the Blackfyre himself? Did we pick up a knight in the gutters, or is it just play time?" She teased.
Arthur didn't stop, thrusting the stick forward with a powerful motion, his focus locked on the form. "Not playing," he said. "Need to get strong."
She laughed, wiping dirt from her hands on her dress. "Strong? You can barely stand straight. Matron'll have your hide if she sees you out here. Sit down before you fall over."
"I'll sit when I'm ready," Arthur replied, swinging the stick in an arc, his muscles burning but the pain numbed. He didn't mean to act so cold to Cassiex especially when she had taken care of him when he was injured, but he just didn't want to chat, he liked Cassie, but attachments meant pain when he left, and he planned to go as soon as he could swing a real sword without collapsing.
Cassie stood, brushing soil from her knees, and walked over with a basket of vegetables on her hip. "You're stubborn as an old mule. What's the rush? Flea Bottom's not going anywhere, and neither are you till those wounds heal proper."
"Got things to do," Arthur said, blocking an imaginary strike. "Can't wait around."
She rolled her eyes and bumped him with her hip as she passed, the contact light but enough to throw off his balance. He stumbled before he caught himself, nearly dropping the stick. "Oops," Cassie said over her shoulder, her voice teasing as she headed inside. "Watch your footing, Ser knight."
Arthur shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips despite himself, and went back to it, the stick whistling through the air. He moved through the sequences again, sweat dripping down his back, the garden's quiet broken only by the distant shouts of kids in the hall.
Arthur kept swinging the stick, working through the forms despite the burn in his arms, each thrust and slash pulling at his stitches but building the strength he needed. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he didn't stop, his focus locked on the imaginary foe in front of him. The garden was quiet except for the swish of the stick through the air and the distant shouts of kids inside the orphanage, but after a few minutes, he frlt eyes on his back.
He didn't turn right away. He finished the sequence, bringing the stick down in another arc, then paused, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The feeling didn't go away. He glanced over casually and spotted a figure leaning against the far wall of the garden, half-hidden by a stack of old crates, one of the older boys, his arms crossed, his scruffy brown hair tousled, face smeared with dirt from whatever chore he'd been doing. The kid watched him with wide eyes, not moving, just staring like Arthur was putting on a show.
Arthur lowered the stick slightly but kept practicing, ignoring him at first, thrusting forward again with a grunt. Jory didn't budge, his gaze following every move, leaning forward a bit as if trying to memorize the motions. Arthur felt the stare like an itch between his shoulder blades, distracting him enough that his next swing went wide. He stopped, turning fully toward the boy. "Jory right?" he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "What's going on? You need something?"
Jory pushed off the wall slowly, uncrossing his arms, his expression a mix of awe and hesitation as he took a few steps closer, kicking at a pebble in the dirt. "You fight like a real knight. Where'd you learn that?"
Arthur shrugged, leaning the stick against his shoulder. "Picked it up here and there. You been watching long?"
Jory nodded, his eyes flicking to the stick. "A bit. Looks easy when you do it. Can you teach me? Matron says I gotta be useful, but scrubbing pots is shit work. Swinging a sword's much more fun, and maybe that way I could become a sellsword."
Arthur considered it for a second, then shook his head. "Not now. I'm still healing up, I need to focus on building myself up."
Jory's face fell, but he didn't back off, stepping closer instead, his hands fidgeting at his sides. "Come on, just a little? Show me how to hold it right or something. I won't tell Matron."
Arthur turned back to the open space, picking up the stick again. "I said not now. Go do the chores you're probably avoiding."
Jory lingered, watching as Arthur resumed his swings, the stick cutting through the air. After a few more thrusts, the boy piped up again. "What's that move called? The one where you twist at the end?"
Arthur ignored him, focusing on his form, but Jory kept talking. "You make it look simple. Bet I could do it if you showed me once."
Arthur stopped mid-swing, lowering the stick with a sigh. "Jory, I'm not a teacher. Go find something else to do."
Jory crossed his arms, his chin jutting out stubbornly. "Why not? You're out here swinging anyway. What's it hurt to let me try? I won't get in your way."
Arthur felt a twinge of annoyance, his patience thin from the pain gnawing at his side. "Because I said no. Now piss off before I tell Matron you're slacking."
Jory's shoulders slumped, but he didn't move, his eyes still fixed on the stick. "Just one tip? Please? The little ones look up to me, and if I learn something cool, maybe I can impress them."
Arthur swung the stick in a quick arc. "No. Go."
Jory stood there a moment longer, then kicked the dirt. "Fine. But you're missing out, I could've been your squire or something." He turned and trudged back inside.
Arthur let out a breath and resumed his practice, the stick a poor substitute for Sunset, but enough to build his strength. It continued like that for hours; He swung the long stick harder, his muscles screaming under the strain, each thrust and slash driven by a desperate need to push forward, to break through whatever wall held his swordsmanship back. He had been at it for hours, the sun climbing high and then dipping toward afternoon, sweat soaking his new tunic, the garden's dirt churned under his bare feet. Pain flared in his ribs and shoulder with every twist, bad enough to make him gasp, but he activated Novacaine again, the numbness washing over him like a cold wave, letting him ignore the agony and keep going. But even with it, his swordsmanship refused to budge, stuck at its current level no matter how many forms he drilled.
'Why wasn't it working?' He wondered as he pivoted into a sweep, the stick whistling through the air. Falling Star Style was no basic hack-and-slash—it was advanced, something developed by the legends from House Dayne. Maybe he needed a teacher to guide him in swordplay. Or perhaps it took real fights, like the one with Karl and the guards. 'Sparring a stick in a garden isn't the same it seems.' He sighed, wiping sweat from his brow, but kept swinging, harder now, his arms burning, his breath ragged.
The sun beat down, the garden's vegetable patches wilting slightly in the heat, but Arthur didn't stop. He thrust forward, imagining Karl's smirk, then slashed high, picturing Willem's betrayal. Hours blurred, his body moving on instinct, but no notification came, no spark of progress. Frustration built, and he swung wilder, the stick cracking against a branch with a snap that echoed through the grove. At one point Novacaine timed out for what felt like the hundredth time, the pain crashing back all at oncet. He collapsed to one knee with a groan, the stick falling from his numb fingers, his vision swimming as he fought not to black out.
"Arthur!" Matron Alys's voice cut through the garden, her footsteps crunching over the dirt as she hurried out from the orphanage door. Cassie was right behind her, her hands still dusted with soil from the patches. "What in the seven hells are you doing out here? I told you to rest boy, not dance around like a mummer with a stick!"
Arthur tried to stand, but his legs buckled, and he dropped back to the ground with a grunt. Alys reached him first, her lined face creased with anger and concern as she grabbed his arm. "You fool! You'll tear those stitches and bleed out all over my garden. Cassie, help me get him up."
Cassie knelt beside him, her green eyes flashing with exasperation as she slipped her arm under his shoulder. "You're an idiot, Arthur. We warned you not to overdo it. Now look at you sweating like a pig and ready to keel over."
"I had to," Arthur muttered through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse as they hauled him to his feet, his legs shaking but holding with their support. "Need to get strong."
Alys chided him the whole way back as she guided him inside. "Strong? You'll be in a grave if you keep this up. Men like you, always thinking with your pride instead of your head. Sit still for once, or I'll tie you to that cot myself."
Cassie laughed. "He's stubborn as a mule, Matron. Thinks he's a knight already. Should've seen him swinging that stick like he was the Dragonknight himself."
Alys huffed as they maneuvered him through the door into the main hall. "Knight? More like a fool with a death wish. Jory, Thom help us get him back to bed."
The boys scrambled over, Jory's scruffy face serious as he took Arthur's other arm, Thom—a skinny kid with freckles—supporting his waist. Together, they half-carried him to the small room, the hall of running children parting like a wave. Alys eased him onto the cot, her hands quick as she checked his bandages, peeling them back to inspect the stitches. "No tears, thank the gods, but you're flushed like a fever's coming back. Lie still, boy."
Cassie lingered by the door, arms crossed, her teasing smile fading into concern. "Told you, didn't I? Now you're back in bed, and we've got to fuss over you again."
Alys waved her off. "Enough gabbing, girl. Go finish the stew, supper won't cook itself."
Cassie rolled her eyes but obeyed, slipping out with a final glance at Arthur. The boys hovered for a moment, Jory whispering to Thom about the "knight moves" he'd seen, but Alys shooed them away too. "Out, all of you. Let the man rest."
The room cleared, leaving Arthur alone with Alys. She busied herself applying fresh herbal ointments to his skin, the paste cool against the inflamed wounds. After a long silence, she looked up at him sternly. "Promise me you won't do that again, lad. Push too hard, and all this work's for naught if you die on my watch."
Arthur shook his head, wincing as he shifted. "Can't promise that. My wife's out there, taken by a man I thought a friend. It's my fault... she's in danger because of me."
Alys's hands stilled, her expression softening. "Tell me what happened lad. What events led to someone as young as yourself ending up with a sword in your guts?"
Arthur hesitated, the story bitter on his tongue, but he nodded.
Arthur pushed himself up on the cot, ignoring the tug in his side, and met Alys's gaze. His throat tightened as he began to speak, the words spilling out in a rush. "It started when Mira and I came to the city," he said, his voice hoarse but gaining strength. "We met a trader named Willem on the road. He seemed decent, gave us a ride, shared his food. We trusted him, he even gave me some work. After I finished work that night he took me to the Rusty Anchor, he spiked my ale. I woke up in a brothel, drugged out of my mind on something called Red Sleep. They... they trained me, broke me down to serve noble ladies. Two moons, Alys. I lost two moons of my life there, used like a damn doll."
Alys's hands stilled on the ointment jar, her lined face hardening as she listened, her eyes narrowing. Arthur kept going. "Willem sold me to Madame Lysa. He took Mira gods know where.. I have to find her, before he... before anything happens to her. It's my fault... we came here for a new life, and I let this happen."
He leaned forward, wincing as the movement jarred his ribs, but the words wouldn't stop. "I returned to Madame Lysa's brothel, to try and find some answers, but they were waiting. Karl who was willems man, he stabbed me, left me for dead. I don't know how I got away, after I escaped the brothel I felt remember much. Now Mira's alone with that bastard, and I can't just lie here. Please, if you know anything about Willem—"
Alys held up a hand, her expression shifting from concern to a slow-burning anger. "Willem," she said, her voice angry and venomous, like the name itself was a curse. "I've heard of that snake. Nasty piece of work, preying on the desperate. And that boy with him—Lunk."
Arthur blinked, caught off guard. "You know Lunk?"
Alys nodded, her jaw tightening as she set the jar down with a thud. "Aye, I know him. Raised him right here in this orphanage, from a babe no bigger than a loaf of bread. Gentle soul, he was—slow in the head, but kind, always helping the little ones, lifting what no one else could. Never hurt a fly. But then Willem came sniffing around, years back. Saw Lunk's strength and twisted him, filled his ears with promises of coin and easy work. Corrupted him, took advantage of his simple mind. Now Lunk's his muscle, doing gods know what for that snakes schemes. Breaks my heart every time I think on it."
Her voice rose, the anger building like a storm, her hands clenching into fists on her lap. "That Willem's a viper, preying on folk like you. I've heard tales of him snatching boys and girls off the roads, selling them to brothels or worse. And Lunk... my poor Lunk, turned into a thug for it. Damn that man to the seven hells!" She slammed her fist on the side table, the jar rattling, her face flushed red, eyes blazing with a mother's fury. "If I had half a chance, I'd gut him myself for what he's done to my boy."
Arthur watched her. "Then you know why I must leave," he said. "I need to find his manse. Please."
Alys took a deep breath, her anger simmering down as she wiped her hands on her apron, her expression softening but still edged with fire. "Calm yourself, lad. I'll help. But you need to rest and stay here a while. You're no good to her if you drop dead on the street."
He tried to protest, shifting forward. "I can't—"
She cut him off with a raised hand, her voice firm as iron. "You can and you will. I promise I'll talk to some people I know. Willem's name carries a stink... in certain circles, it's not hard to track a man as vile as him. But you stay put till you're healed."
Arthur leaned back, the fight draining from him as exhaustion tugged harder. "Why help me? You don't know me."
Alys stood, gathering her tray. "Because I've seen too many like you broken by this city. And if I can stick a thorn in Willem's side, I'll do it gladly. Now rest. Food's coming soon."
He nodded, sinking back against the cot as she left, the door clicking shut behind her. Alone again, the weight of it all pressed down on him. But Alys's promise gave him a thread to cling to. He would heal, then he would kill Willem and save Mira. For now, that was enough.
__________________________________
Mira sat in front of the vanity, her eyes red and swollen from the tears that had streamed down her face through the night. She had cried until her throat ached and her chest felt hollow, the sobs coming in waves that left her gasping for air, her body curled on the bed like a child. Willem had come to her room the evening before, his face drawn with what seemed like genuine regret, and told her there was nothing more he could do for Arthur—at least for now.
The Hand was occupied with matters of the realm, he said, and the gaolers had turned him away despite his bribes. The words had shattered her, the hope she'd clung to crumbling like dry bread in her hands. Without Arthur, she was adrift, helpless in this sprawling city, unable to storm the Red Keep or bribe the guards herself. She felt useless, a burden on Willem's kindness, her days blending into a monotonous routine of waiting and wondering if today would be the one when news came—or if it never would. Sleep had eluded her after that, her mind replaying memories of Arthur's smile, his touch.
She stared at her reflection in the polished silver mirror, her blonde hair unkempt from tossing in bed, her full lips pressed into a thin line, her violet eyes dulled by grief. The manse's luxury mocked her—the gilded frame of the vanity, the silk cushions on the chair, the embroidered canopy over the bed—all gifts from Willem that she accepted because she had no choice. She wiped her face with a trembling hand, forcing herself to compose her expression, smoothing her features into the mask of calm she wore each day. Crying wouldn't bring Arthur back. She had to endure, to believe Willem's promises, even as doubt gnawed at her.
*Knock*
*Knock*
*Knock*
A knock sounded at the door, pulling her from her thoughts. "Enter," she called.
The door opened, and a servant stepped in, a young girl named Elli if she remembered correctly, her mousy brown hair tied back. Behind her came Willem, his face lit with an enthusiasm that seemed out of place in the room. He strode in with his usual confidence, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed neatly, his velvet doublet embroidered with gold thread that caught the morning light from the tall windows. Elli curtsied and slipped out, closing the door behind her, leaving Mira alone with him.
"Mira, my dear!" Willem exclaimed, his voice booming with excitement as he crossed the room in long strides, his boots thudding on the marble floor. "What a glorious morning with glorious news! I've been invited to the Red Keep for a feast tonight, the lords from across the realm are arriving for the tournament in a few moons, and as the provider of the finest wines to the crown, they've extended the honor to me. Can you believe it? Me, rubbing elbows with the likes of Lannisters and Baratheons!"
Mira turned in her chair, managing a polite smile despite the ache in her chest. "That's wonderful, my lord. You deserve such recognition."
Willem waved a hand dismissively, though his chest puffed with pride. "Deserve? I've clawed my way from the gutters of Flea Bottom to this, trading scraps for coppers, then coppers for stags, building caravans that span the Narrow Sea. And now, the Red Keep! The king's own table, Mira! Lords and ladies who command armies and hold castles, all sipping my wine. It's a dream made real, a sign from the gods that my labors bear fruit."
He paced the room, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke, his eyes alight with fervor. "Think of it, the Great Hall, the musicians, the platters of roast boar and venison pies. I'll be there, not as a servant, but as a guest! Me, who once begged for crusts, now toasting with the highborn. It's proof that any man can rise if he's clever and bold. The Pentoshi deal sealed it, Essosi cheeses for the crown, and now this invitation. The gods favor me, Mira. They truly do."
Mira nodded along, her fingers twisting in her lap, the necklace he had given her feeling heavy against her collarbone. She wanted to share his joy, to distract from her own sorrow, but the words felt empty. "It sounds magnificent," she said softly. "I'm happy for you."
Willem stopped pacing, his gaze settling on her with a sudden intensity, as if remembering she was there. "Ah, but that's not why I've come bursting in like a fool. Mira, I'd like you to join me tonight as my escort."
She blinked, surprise cutting through the fog of her grief. "My lord, I... I'm married. It wouldn't be proper."
For a split second, anger flashed in his eyes, a dark shadow crossing his face, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle jumped. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a warm, reassuring smile. "Not romantic my dear not at all. Merely a companion for the evening. A woman of your beauty would draw the right attention, help me make the impressions that could secure even greater deals. Think of it as helping Arthur, more coin means more chance of his release."
Mira hesitated, her mind racing. The idea unsettled her, the way his eyes lingered on her curves, the subtle pressure in his voice. But he had been her lifeline these past months, providing shelter, food, and hope. Refusing felt ungrateful, dangerous even. She glanced at the window, the city sprawl mocking her isolation. "I... suppose I could," she said finally.
Willem's smile widened, genuine delight lighting his features. "Magnificent! You'll be the envy of the hall." He clicked his fingers sharply, and Elli reentered, carrying a folded gown draped over her arms. Willem took it and unfurled it with a flourish; it was a dress of deep sapphire silk, the bodice embroidered with golden threads in swirling patterns, the skirt full and flowing, cut to accentuate a woman's figure. "For you," he said, holding it up. "Fit for a lady of the court. And this—"
He produced a necklace from his pocket, a chain of gold links set with sapphires that caught the light like drops of blood. "To complete the look."
Mira's breath caught at the beauty of it, the dress shimmering as if woven from the sea. Pressure built in her chest, how could she refuse now, with such gifts laid before her? "My lord, this is too much," she said, but her hands reached out to touch the fabric, soft as water against her fingers.
"Nonsense," Willem replied. "You'll honor me by wearing it. Elli, prepare her bath, hair, everything. Make her shine."
Elli curtsied, her eyes wide as she took the dress. "Yes, my lord."
Willem turned back to Mira, his enthusiasm undimmed. "It will be a marvelous night, my dear. The lords will talk of us for weeks." He bowed slightly and left, the door closing with a click that echoed in her ears.
Mira stood frozen as Elli bustled around her, drawing a bath in the adjoining chamber, the steam rising with the scent of lavender oil. The servant girl chattered nervously, helping Mira undress and step into the tub, scrubbing her skin until it glowed. "You'll look like a princess," Elli said, her voice awed as she worked Mira's hair into elegant curls, pinning it with the sapphire necklace draped around her neck.
Mira stared at her reflection in the vanity as Elli laced the gown, the sapphire silk hugging her massive breasts and flaring at her wide hips, the sapphires sparkling against her pale skin. She looked beautiful, a vision fit for the Red Keep, but the woman in the mirror felt like a stranger, her eyes hollow with how she truly felt. Willem's gifts were chains disguised as jewels, and the feast loomed like a trap. But for Arthur's sake, she would play the part, smile through the night, and pray for his freedom.
(AN: So Arthur is going to take it easy and rest despite not wanting to and Mira is going to the Red keep where she will meet some canonical characters finally. I wonder who will show up? Maybe a future harem member? Also apologises if there isn't much gamer moments in this I just kinda prefer more story and gamer lite? Idk)
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