Chapter Text
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive, its walls draped in rich red and black tapestries and silks. Candles lit every corner, their flames dancing up the old stone walls like dragonfire. The room was packed with servants, lords, ladies, and knights, there was barely space left at the long wooden tables that filled the hall. It was also impossibly warm. Those of old Valyrian blood appeared wholly unbothered by the heat.
The Targaryen family sat at the grand table at the head of the hall. King Baelor occupied the centre of the carved curved bench, watching the feast below him. To his right sat his son and heir, Valarr. The rest of the Targaryens were also in attendance, including Aegon 'Egg' to close friends and family. Prince Aegon had just returned from squiring for Ser Duncan the Tall on the open road.
Aegon, a boy of eleven now, did his best to remain princely like his brothers around him, though he had perhaps drunk too large a glass of wine and was now fervently telling anyone who would listen his tales from the road.
Two seats away from Egg sat Aerion, his indifference to the grand feast obvious on his face. He spoke rarely, except to make rude and demeaning comments slightly too loudly to his brother Daeron about anything that displeased him.
The feast was a grand affair, with musicians plucking favourite tunes and jesters dancing for entertainment, celebrating Aegon’s return. Wine flowed without end, and the food was opulent: honey-glazed hams, roasted swans, pies of every kind, more than could possibly be eaten. Most lords and ladies had eaten their fill and were now washing it down with spiced wine, if the increasingly loud and drunken crowd was any indication. All appeared to be celebrating suitably.
At the table below the royal household sat Elora, sipping her cup of wine and observing those around her. She was close enough to be summoned, yet far enough to be reminded of her place. She had served the Targaryens since her sixteenth nameday four years earlier and had become a steadfast, dependable member of the working household as a healer. She had grown up in the footsteps of her mother, a formidable woman who had trained her in the arts of healing, just as her mother before her had been trained, and so on through the generations. Elora, like the women before her, had a natural talent for healing that could not be taught in the Citadel nor learned from books; it was rooted in heart, experience, and an understanding of the natural world. Much to the disapproval of maesters and the judgment of other members of the court. Over the years, Elora had learned to pay no mind to the whispers and pointed stares—she had become numb to them by now.
Elora sat opposite an older man with a serious, hard face etched by years of labour. His dark hair, peppered with grey, was pulled back from his face. The other lords and knights at the table seemed to hang on his every word, seeking favour and scraps of advice.
Elora forced herself not to roll her eyes as one lord practically fell out of his seat trying to catch Lord Gaemon’s attention.
“Perhaps, Lord, if you have the time, you could watch me spar tomorrow? Provide some advice? Only if it pleases you, my lord?” the lord in question stuttered out. Elora had to force herself not to scoff in embarrassment for the man.
Her father answered smoothly, “Perhaps, Lord Craven. If time allows tomorrow, I will look in.”
Lord Craven sat back triumphantly.
Lord Gaemon Celtigar lived a modest life for a man of his reputation. His small but wealthy house traced its roots to Valyria, Elora’s mother’s ancestral blood, but as an only daughter, the management of Claw Isle had passed to her father. The island lay in the Narrow Sea off Crackclaw Point. Yet Lord Gaemon’s name carried farther than any small island: he was a knight-maker, training men into weapons – not pretty lordly dancing, but warriors to be feared. He did not train just anyone; he chose those he deemed worthy. Hence, whenever he came to the capital, men fawned over the chance to brag they had been trained by him.
Elora took little interest in these men. Her eyes flicked to the royal table to see if she was needed. No summons yet. She sighed and turned to her father, who looked in desperate need of escape from yet more questions about famous knights he had trained and battles he had fought.
“Father, how fares home? It has been too long since I’ve returned.” Truly, Elora missed it with her whole heart – the ocean always called to her. Yet every visit stretched longer, and she found herself longing for the quiet halls and the villagers she had grown up with.
Her place, and her role, was here in King’s Landing, she reminded herself. Healer to the royal household.
“Well, we’ve commissioned two more ships for the fleet,” he said, then smiled sadly. “It’s been quiet. Empty. You should visit soon.”
Elora smiled back. “I will. I just –"
He cut her off, placing his hand over hers. “I know."
As Gaemon’s only child, Elora often felt sadness and guilt that he remained alone in an empty keep.
“Besides,” he straightened, “Hilda keeps asking when you’re coming home. Please, gods, visit if only to shut her up.” Elora laughed.
Hilda had been part of the serving household since before her mother was born – bold, fierce, deceptively strong. No one knew her exact age or origins; she had simply always been there, like the keep’s walls or the ocean itself: unyielding. Elora adored her just as much as she feared her. Hilda had helped raise her and taught her what it meant to stand firm before those higher than you and never yield.
Perhaps not the best trait for a woman now serving the highest in the realm.
“I will visit, if only to stop her scratching your eyes out.” Gaemon chuckled, though he would be caught dead before admitting it, he truly did fear her.
A cool, light breeze swept through the great hall, flickering the candles and cutting through the heat. Elora’s neck prickled with relief. Music continued, but a slight hush fell. Lord Craven whispered to the man beside him.
“That’s the hedge knight, Ser Duncan the Tall, the one from Ashford, the one with the prince now.”
The other lord looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. “By the gods, man, I could have guessed that. Look at the size of him.”
Elora laughed lightly but turned her head. A tall, broad figure walked sheepishly up the aisle toward the royal table. She snapped her gaze forward.
Egg sat beaming at the high table. “Up here, Ser Duncan!” he called. Maekar tried to quiet him, but Egg ignored his father’s hissing, batting away his hands.
Ser Duncan approached, bowing awkwardly to King Baelor and the royal family before joining Egg. Baelor smiled kindly and waved him forward. Even from here, Elora could hear Egg excitedly detailing plans for his nameday, namely the tourney.
Egg and Duncan had returned to King’s Landing the day before after three years on the road. Their bond was clear: Egg chattering away, Duncan smiling and nodding in the right places. Duncan looked uncomfortable, unused to grand feasts and the attention of standing at the head of the room. After a few minutes, Maekar whispered to Egg; the boy’s face fell. He smiled sheepishly at Duncan, spoke quietly, and gestured toward the table where Elora and her father sat. Duncan looked over, nodded, and made his way there.
Elora glanced at Aerion. His face was hard, impassive. But his tongue ran over his teeth beneath his lips, as if remembering what Duncan had done to him at the Trial of Seven - beating him like a peasant, forcing him to yield.
Aerion had left Ashford changed: physically broken, then banished to Lys for a year. He returned different, less hot-headed, more cold, distant, dark. Maekar never spoke of the change in Aerion; no one dared to. But corridors emptied when Aerion walked them, and lively rooms died when he entered. His rage simmered unspoken, ever-present and ever-waiting. Elora knew that sometimes it boiled over at times, she had dealt with it.
His eyes flicked to her, as if hearing her thoughts. Violet met brown. Elora favoured her father; her mother had been pure Valyrian beauty, white hair, pale skin, bright violet eyes, but Elora took after her father’s Dornish heritage: dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, skin that never paled fully even in winter.
Unmoving, Aerion stared. Ever the lady, Elora smiled politely, bowed her head, and turned away. It changed nothing; he continued staring blankly at her, uninterested. Elora knew he wished to make her uncomfortable it had been one of his delightful traits over the years, trying to make her life as miserable as he could without being directly reprimanded by the king. Aerion very rarely listened to his father Maekar, and certainly took no notice of his threats. But he did back down when his uncle stepped in.
Maekar watched his son silently, then dropped his head into his hand, exhausted. His sons continued to test him. He prayed to the Seven for strength and patience, and gestured for a refill of his cup. If the gods would not answer, perhaps enough wine would let him sleep without another tale of trouble.
Duncan reached the table. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and gestured to the space beside Gaemon.
“I’m sorry, my lord, do you mind? Eg - I mean Prince Aegon asked me to sit here.” He stumbled over the words, ears turning faintly pink.
Elora’s father practically shoved the line of lords on the bench aside to make room. Somewhere at the end of the bench came a thump and a squire’s curse. Ser Duncan took up nearly two spots, yet still looked uncomfortable.
Gaemon had that gleam in his eye, he loved collecting strays, especially those he wanted to train. Elora sighed, knowing what came next.
“Gods, man, I saw you at Ashford, but up close-”
Elora cut in sharply. “Please, Father, remember your manners. Let the man get a drink and food before you start pestering him.”
Gaemon blinked at her but waved over a servant, who filled Duncan’s cup with Dornish red. The cup looked comically tiny in his hands, Elora thought. A large plate of meat and vegetables appeared before him; Ser Duncan’s face lit up.
“There, daughter, he’s fed and watered. Now, Ser Duncan, tomorrow you will train, and I will watch.”
Duncan stared at Gaemon as if he’d spoken in a completely foreign tongue.
“Muña baelagon nyke,” Elora whispered.
Mother help me.
Gaemon snapped his head to her. “Now don’t be using that on me you know I don’t understand all of it.”
Ignoring him, Elora turned to Duncan. He stared at her. She faltered, wondering if something was wrong with her; she suddenly felt very self-conscious and resisted the urge to touch her face.
“I apologise for my father, Ser Duncan. He rarely sees company and forgets himself.” Her eyes flicked to Gaemon, who shrugged into his cup.
“My father is Lord Gaemon Celtigar -"
“The knight trainer,” Duncan finished, eyes lighting up as he looked at Gaemon, then back to Elora. “I beg your pardon, my lady, for interrupting. His reputation, it’s famous among lowly knights like me. It would be an honour to train under him.”
If Gaemon could have puffed his chest further, he might have pulled a muscle.
“Not just the lowly ones, son,” Gaemon replied.
A servant approached Elora and whispered, “The king requests your presence.”
She nodded, set down her half-drunk cup, and rose. Ser Duncan nearly flipped the table standing for her; a few men around the table laughed but soon stilled when she sent them a scathing look.
“Please, Ser Duncan, no need to rise. I will return shortly.”
He sat.
She slipped from the table and walked behind the royal dais in the shadows, out of public view, a path she had taken a thousand times and no doubt would a thousand more.
Unbeknownst to her, Duncan’s eyes followed, a small, clumsy smile on his face. Gaemon stared at the side of his head and clipped him round the ear.
“Keep those eyes forward, son.”
Duncan snapped back to his meal, apologising sheepishly
Elora, now at the back of the table, came up to the large ornate chair and knelt to King Baelor’s right. He faced forward but acknowledged her with a slight turn of his head and small smile.
“Your Grace, is it your head?” He smiled and nodded; she noted his tense jaw, and his hand gripping the armrest tightly. “One moment,” she murmured.
Elora slipped back into the shadows. At her hip, she always carried her small satchel of supplies, including a vial of powdered willow bark, turmeric, and a touch of poppy. She summoned a servant who stood waiting at the back of the room. Elora tipped the powder into a fresh cup of wine, and had it returned to Baelor. She then rejoined him, this was a practiced routine she had perfected.
“Perhaps you should retire, Your Grace. The loud room will only worsen it.”
Baelor sighed as he drank. “Once the lords are drunk enough not to miss me, I will leave.” He paused and looked at her. “Thank you, this will help.”
Elora glanced over the hall. “I don’t think you’ll need to wait long.” At that moment, two lords, drunk enough to recall some old squabble began trying to beat each other senseless while guards restrained them.
Baelor smiled and agreed.
As she rose to leave, she caught Aerion summoning her from the corner of her eye. Baelor noticed and murmured a silent prayer. Elora looked to him for release; he nodded.
Elora walked around the back of the table and approached Aerion, keeping a step farther than she did with the king. She held no trust for the man.
“My prince, how may I be of assistance?” she asked as politely as she could. She knew nothing good would come of this interaction.
Aerion stared, unblinking, looking her up and down as if deciding whether she was worth his time. Over the years, she had dealt with him more than she cared to remember. He would summon her from the infirmary to his chambers for some fabricated ache or injury, then critique every remedy, claim maesters would do better, and dismiss her often hurling her potions at the wall. He pushed, testing for something he could use against her.
“My hand ails me,” he drawled out, bored and uninterested.
Elora looked down at his hands: one held a cup, the other toyed with a small knife. Both, she noted, moved just fine.
“What would you have me do, my prince?”
“You’re the healer. Heal it.” He snapped.
She sucked her bottom lip. Patient, she was patient, she reminded herself.
“At once, my prince.”
She drew a vial of lavender and mint oil for minor aches. She offered it.
“This, rubbed on the area as needed-"
“No,” he replied.
“No?” She asked. Aerion raised an eyebrow. “No, my prince,” she ground out.
“I can’t be expected to heal it myself.” He dropped the knife lazily and extended his hand. “Fix it.”
Elora kept her gaze steady, smile polite, and bowed her head. “At once, my prince.” For a moment, she imagined picking up that knife and driving it through his hand. But, sadly, she did not. She was calm, a good healer, a good person, despite the humiliation he sought.
Daeron, seated beside Aerion, groaned and dropped his head back into the wooden chair with a thud, rolling it to look at his brother. “Stop being a dick, brother. There’s nothing wrong with your fucking hand.”
Aerion ignored him. Elora bit her tongue, uncapped the vial, poured oil onto his palm, his skin was hot, almost burning, and rubbed it in. She felt his gaze searing the top of her head. His hands were large, fingers long and thin, palms slightly calloused from weapon work. She finished and withdrew.
“Anything else, Your Grace?”
“No.” She refused to meet his eyes; shame burned at her cheeks.
To others, Aerion’s face remained impassive. To those who knew him, a small, sadistic smirk flickered for a second.
Elora stood, smoothing her navy wool dress and wiping the oil on it. Before Aerion could speak again, Daeron seized the chance to draw her away from his brother’s cruelty.
“Oh, Healer Elora, my head hurts,” he declared dramatically.
Elora, grateful, let an honest smile break through.
“Perhaps, my prince, your headaches lie at the bottom of your wine cups. I’d recommend skipping a few, that should sort it.”
Daeron laughed, eyes glassy, she knew he had likely been drinking since midday. “I hate that answer. I won’t take it. Perhaps I’m hungover; the cure is more drink.” He grinned while waving for another top-up.
Elora and Daeron had always gotten along. He treated her with kindness, joked often, offering a light reprieve in a dark, serious life.
She bowed, still smiling. “My prince knows best.”
She slipped back into the shadows from where she came before more humiliation could come.
Duncan had, despite Gaemon’s clip, snuck glances and watched the exchange with Aerion.
“He pestering her again?” Gaemon asked low, for Duncan’s ears only.
“Aye. Making her tend his hand.”
Gaemon sucked his teeth. “His hand’s fucking fine. I don’t like it - he looks at her like…” He trailed off, taking a large sip of his drink.
Duncan said nothing. What could he say? Aerion did. As Elora returned, Aerion turned his gaze on Duncan, displeasure clear. Duncan recalled Ashford; the lance scar in his side throbbed faintly. He stared back a moment, then turned away. No use starting trouble again.
Elora had not resumed her seat, feeling the stares of lords and ladies, silent but judging. Duncan started to stand; she held up a hand to stop him.
She looked at Gaemon, his mouth opening -
“Don’t,” she clipped.
“I didn’t say a word,” her father replied curtly.
“You were going to.” Gaemon nodded in response. “You’ve said it all before. Leave it.”
She finished her wine and looked away. Gaemon watched her, worry plain, but before he could speak, Duncan cut in.
“Your Lady Elora…” He stuttered, somewhat dumbfounded.
Elora laughed lightly. “I am.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn’t realise. It was you at Ashford who saved King Baelor,” he continued.
“Ah, yes - that was me.” She met his eyes. “Quite a day. You made quite a name for yourself.”
Duncan looked down, as if trying to shrink into himself. At that moment, King Baelor stood. The hall fell silent, then rose as he took his leave. Once the king had left, the music, laughter, talking, and drunkenness resumed around them.
Elora breathed out slowly. The king had retired, which meant she could too. At that moment, Lyonel Baratheon bounded over, two large tankards of ale in hand. He shoved one into Duncan’s chest.
“Here you are,” he exclaimed. “Thank the gods. I’ve been bored out of my mind, man.” He took a large swig. “Drink up. It’s better than that piss they call wine.”
Elora took that as her cue to leave. She enjoyed a drink as much as anyone, but court service meant early mornings, late nights, and always watching eyes. She stood, leaned across the table, and kissed her father’s cheek.
“Don’t drink too much. You’ve got men falling over themselves for you tomorrow. I don’t think you’ll want a sore head for that.” She smiled.
“Ah, but that’s why the gods gave me a healer daughter,” Gaemon shot back, laughing. “To let me drink more.”
Elora bid goodnight to those around her and took her leave, glancing momentarily at the royal table to check for summons.
None came only Aerion’s calculating eyes on her. She turned gracefully, weaving through the drunken lords.
“Too bloody sensible for her own good,” Gaemon remarked to no one in particular. He looked at Duncan, who was watching her go, and clipped him round the back of the head again.
“Gods, man, at least try to hide it,” Gaemon exclaimed.
Lyonel barked a laugh at Duncan’s expense.
He raised his glass. “To Prince Aegon and the royal fucking brewery!” Those around him cheered and drank, marking the start of a very long night