Maidenpool, 296 AC
The stables by the new harbor smelled of hay, tar, and river-salt. A black destrier stamped and tossed its head within the stall, temper coiled tight as a drawn bowstring. Donnel swore the beast had the makings of a mount fit for a king's tourney, if only it did not try so often to bite its master.
Arthur Manderly had come to see whether he would keep the animal or sell it back to the horse-traders. The day's labors with Lord Mooton were done, the ledgers settled, the harbor walls inspected, the branch of the Merlin Bank opened with ceremony. Maidenpool owed him its new breath; even its brothel now bore Chataya's silken mark.
Arthur had expected stillness in the stable. Instead, there was… humming from a girl.
She brushed the destrier's midnight coat as if it were a placid mare and not a creature born of fury. Arthur stiffened.
"Step back carefully, miss," he warned. "He does not take kindly to strangers."
The girl did not flinch. Her voice came light as summer wine. "Oh, I think I'll be fine."
Arthur knew that voice. A jolt ran through him at the sound. "Marie?"
"Hello, Arthur." Marie turned, sunlight catching in her hair. She had grown even more beautiful since the last time he saw her. A long while ago, Arthur thought, he had almost forgotten when it was. Yet he hadn't forgotten how breathtaking her smile could be. And how terribly his heart started beating whenever she was near.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, surprise softening his usual composed tone.
"I came to see you," Marie said softly with a smirk, "And to help Madame Chataya."
Arthur never expected her to be here. He thought she was in King's Landing still, lost somewhere between ink and whispers. "I am glad to see you," he said, too earnest, the words slipping free before he had time to school them.
Marie grinned widely, lifting a brow. "Are you now?"
"Aye." Arthur cleared his throat as heat crept up his neck. "What are you helping Chataya with?"
Marie tilted her head, studying him with that dangerous glimmer in her eye. "You mean, what do I do for her?"
Arthur hesitated. "Aye."
"What do you think I do?" she asked, voice suddenly cool. "Spread my legs and lie on my back?"
The proud destrier snorted, stamping, though whether at the words or the tension, he could not tell. Arthur opened his mouth to answer, yet speech fled him. His tongue felt thick, his chest tight. She watched him flounder, victory and hurt warring in her gaze.
"Of course, how foolish of me," Marie said, venom wrapped in silk, "How could I forget! You are the noble, honorable Lord Manderly."
Her words struck harder than any sword blow he had taken. Arthur forced breath into his lungs. "I am not," he managed. "Not to you. Even if you did such work, you would still be my friend."
Marie laughed then, brittle, disbelieving. "Oh, how very kind of you. I am humbled by your generosity, my lord," she said with a mocking little curtsy. "I never even knew you counted me a friend."
Arthur's jaw tightened. Gods, she could turn him into a foolish boy with a single sentence. "You twist my words."
"Then you should start using better ones," she snapped back, yet there was no bitterness in them, only hurt, beneath the bite. The raw edge of someone who had been judged too often and too cruelly.
The stallion's ear flicked, head lowering. Strange how the unruly beast calmed beneath her hand.
"You handle him well," Arthur said quietly to break the storm between them.
Marie shrugged, anger easing slightly. "Men snort and stamp louder than any destrier. Women learn to rein them from the cradle, so horses come easier. And between the two, we would sooner take the latter as a mount."
Arthur softly spoke. "I never meant to insult you."
"No?" Her eyes searched his, fierce and frightened at once. "Then why did you look afraid of my answer?"
Arthur did not deny it. "Because the world is cruel to women who choose such paths," he said, voice low. "And I… would not see you hurt by it."
Marie blinked, some of the ice thawing. "Why do you care?"
Arthur's breath caught. "You are my friend.... Marie," he murmured, "I'll always care for you." More than I ought to, he thought.
Silence settled, filled only by the rustle of hay and the destrier's steady breathing. Marie's hard edges softened, just a fraction. She touched the horse's neck again, calm, sure, unafraid.
"You always did take in broken things," Marie muttered, though the sting was gone from her tone. "Cities. ships. steeds…" Her eyes flicked to him. "Girls from Flea Bottom."
Arthur swallowed. "You are not broken."
A tiny, involuntary sound escaped her, half-laugh, half-gasp. Marie looked away too quickly. "Chataya said Maidenpool will be far kinder than King's Landing," she murmured. "We shall see if she lied."
The destrier nudged her shoulder. Marie chuckled softly and stroked its muzzle. "Hush, boy. You're safe."
Arthur watched the girl humming in a stable, hands gentle on a beast that should have thrown her.
"I can see you are not interested in talking anymore," Arthur said, though heat rose in his cheeks and something sharper stirred beneath. "I hope you know that you are my friend and you will always be so, Marie."
Arthur turned on his heel, cloak snapping behind him as straw crunched beneath his boots. Fool. He sounded as though he were a sulking boy, not a man grown. Why did her words bite so deeply? Why did he care so much? Why did he love her so?
"Just so you know," Marie called, voice cool as winter rain, "I am not spreading my legs for anyone." She fed the stallion, who was chewing carrots with contentment.
"Yaya has started working this year," Marie continued, her tone softer now, "I knew one day I would need to earn my keep. Madame Chataya prepared us for that truth. But I… did not wish to be a whore." Her chin lifted, defiant. "And I will never be one."
Arthur's stomach twisted. Relief. Fear. Shame that he had ever thought, however briefly, that she might.
"I started doing something I'm good at. You taught me to read. To write. Numbers came easy enough." Her fingers brushed the horse's mane as if she were smoothing her own thoughts. "So I began working as Chataya's eyes and ears, since last year, though you never knew of it."
Arthur's breath caught. "You… Gods. Why would you not tell me?"
"Because you would try to stop me or order Chataya to," Marie replied simply, and he knew she was right.
"It is risky, Marie," Arthur murmured. "Men have lost lives for less."
"It is mine to lose, my lord." There was no bitterness in her voice this time, only resolve. "You need not fret over me. I am very good at it, and at keeping accounts. Chataya trusts me with more each moon. That is why she brought me here."
Arthur leaned against the stall door, watching her in the lantern-lit stable that was dancing with sunlight. Marie was not dressed in silk, not painted nor perfumed, but in a simple wool gown dyed blue as deep water. Hair braided back, sleeves rolled, hands steady. There was strength in her that had been forged through hardship and sorrow.
"What task brings you to Maidenpool then?" Arthur asked carefully. "Spying on the king himself?" Jesting felt wrong after what she had confessed.
Marie smirked, some of her old mirth returning. "I wish.... but no. I'm to train the girls who will work here. Teach them letters, sums, poise." A small, proud shrug. "Chataya calls me her little magister now."
The hungry stallion nudged her shoulder, and she laughed, feeding him another carrot.
"I do not understand how you are doing that," Arthur said, half-incredulous, half-awed.
"Perhaps," Marie replied with a knowing smirk, "he likes girls better."
Marie turned to go, skirts brushing straw, sunlight from the stable doors catching the strands of gold in her hair. Gods, she shone.
"I must go to market," she said. "There are things I need."
"What things?" Arthur asked before he could stop himself.
Marie glanced back, brow raised in amusement. "Shopping, my lord. Not everyone has servants fetching their ribbons and boots."
"I don't have ribbons," he replied, becoming a bit flustered.
Marie snorted lightly. "Of course you don't. A great warrior and all."
Arthur flushed, heat creeping up his neck. "And I do things on my own as well," he muttered.
"Oh, do you now?" Marie arched a brow and smirked. "Have you ever gone to a fishmonger's stall? Haggled for bread? Stood elbow-to-elbow with folk who cannot read the price chalked in front of them but know when the baker cheats his flour?"
"I have been to markets before," Arthur said stiffly.
"As a lord," Marie corrected, not unkindly but with that blade-thin honesty of hers. "It is curious, you highborn are meant to rule the commons, yet know naught of them." A truth, and truths always stung.
Arthur exhaled. "You are not wrong. I try to learn, but none would speak plain when I approach. They bow and mumble. They hide behind courtesy and fear."
"Of course they do," Marie said. "You come to them as a lord."
"And how else am I meant to go?" Arthur spread his hands helplessly. "Strip away naked, leaving my name and title at the gate?"
Marie looked him over then, gaze slow and assessing, as though fitting him for armor or for something else.
"What?" Arthur asked, flustered at her gaze.
"Wait here." Marie spun on her heel and darted out the stable doors, skirts flaring, braid bouncing. Straw swirled in her wake.
Arthur stood bewildered, patting the black stallion's neck while the beast huffed as if amused by men's follies in love.
Moments later, Marie returned, arms laden with coarse wool and a frayed brown hood. "Wear these."
Arthur blinked. "Here?"
She grinned, her green eyes shined wicked as a cat's. "Where else? I shall close my eyes, my lord. Your honor shall remain intact."
"Seven hells, Marie—" His face burned hotter. Arthur turned away, snatching the bundle.
"See, I am not peeking," Marie sang, covering her eyes with dramatic flourish.
Arthur stripped off doublet and fine cloak, feeling absurdly bare in linen shirt and breeches. The wool smelled of riverwater and smoke, the scent of docks and fishwives, the honest stink of work.
Marie stayed facing the horse, fingers splayed over her eyes like a septa in prayer, though he suspected she was grinning behind them.
"Do not peek," Arthur barked again for modesty.
"I said I am not!" Marie answered. "Gods, you are a fearful boy. If a girl wished to see you naked, do you think you could stop her?"
Arthur nearly dropped the tunic. "Must you always say such things?"
"Yes," Marie replied with a short laugh. "It entertains me."
When he was dressed, she finally looked back and burst into laughter. "Oh, Arthur, look at you. You look like a baker's son fed on honeycakes and jellies."
"Thank you," Arthur muttered. "Your encouragement warms me."
Marie stepped forward, tugging his hood lower, her soft fingers brushing his cheek. The touch was warm and brief yet it lingered like a brand.
"There," she said. "Almost convincing. Only do not stand so straight. Slouch. Yes, like that. And when we are among them, let me speak."
"Very well." He swallowed. "Do I… look alright?"
Without warning, Marie leaned closer and inhaled near his collar. For a moment, Arthur forgot breathing entirely.
"You smell of soap and sea wind. Too clean by half," Marie declared. Then, before he could protest, she scooped a bit of dust from the stable floor and dabbed it along his jaw and collar. "Better," she said, satisfied.
Arthur stared. "You are enjoying this."
"Immensely." Marie replied brightly.
Arthur grumbled, though some traitorous part of him thrilled at the adventure, the disguise, her.
Marie stepped toward the door, lantern light catching her cheekbones. "Come, peasant. The market awaits. Keep your head down. And mind you whatever you do, please do not pick a fight. For their sake."
Arthur nodded, "I swear, I won't."
They slipped out of the stables into the pale afternoon light. The air smelled of salt and river-mud, gulls wheeling overhead. Arthur kept his head lowered beneath his hood, though every step felt strange, as though he wore another man's skin. Marie moved with easy grace beside him, already blending in a way he could not.
Yet a prickle stirred down Arthur's spine. Eyes. Someone shadowed them; he could feel it, like a wolf sensing movement in brush. Marie noticed too. Her fingers brushed his wrist as they turned down a narrow side-alley, slipped behind stacked crates, and waited.
Soft footsteps. A small gasp. Arthur caught a blur of brown wool and snatched the pursuer by the arm.
A little girl stared up at him, wide-eyed, shaking like a leaf in a cold wind. "Faith?" Arthur blinked. "What are you doing?"
Faith curtsied, sort of, tangles bouncing. "I-I'm sorry, m'lord, I saw you with this girl—" she pointed at Marie, earning a glare from her, "and then you changed clothes and looked like… like not you, and I thought maybe you were runnin' away or bewitched or, or—" Her words tumbled out in a frightened rush. "So I followed. I didn't mean no mischief, I swear it."
"I look like witch, do I?" Marie crouched, studying her. "How old are you, girl?"
"Seven namedays, my lady." Faith's voice quavered.
"Send her off," Marie murmured to Arthur, her eyes softened despite her tone. "No one will heed the tale of a stableman's girl."
The little one flinched, her lips quivering as though she might cry. Faith, the beloved daughter of Tim the stablehand, small, freckled, with hair the colour of sun-warmed straw, looked up at Arthur with eyes far too wide for the world she lived in.
She was only a scrap of a thing, all bones and courage, clutching the hem of her skirt as though it were armour. Faith had been the one of the few souls unafraid of Midnight. Tim had said the horse calmed when she sang to him, soft little songs about knights, dragons, and fair maidens.
Maidenpool had been her home all her life, muddy streets, salt in the air, and the bells of the sept ringing down from the hill. Now she was to leave it all behind when Arthur returned north as Tim had sworn himself and his child to House Manderly's service.
Faith had a tongue made for stories and a heart too large for her small frame. She spoke of dragons in the caverns by the cliffs, of selkies who sang in the tide pools, and once even claimed to have seen a lion walking on two feet near the docks. The men in Arthur's service laughed at her fancies at first, calling her 'little parrot', yet in time, all grew fond of her.
Even the hardest of his guards, men who had seen war and blood, would stop to listen when Faith began one of her tales. She told them with such earnest eyes and wild gestures that no one had the heart to correct her. Donnel once said she could charm the Stranger himself into staying for supper.
In her laughter, the world felt warmer, and the weary men smiled more easily. In truth, Faith had become as much a part of White Harbor's household as any knight or retainer, a small light in a place too often shadowed by duty and grim.
Arthur exhaled with a sigh. "No. Let her come. Better that than she wanders frightened and alone," He said softly, a smile tugging at his face. "I promised her father she'd be safe. And… I shall buy her sweets if she'll keep this a secret."
Faith's face lit as though the sun had risen twice. "Sweets?! Truly?!"
"Aye, keep your trap shut now," Arthur said laughing.
Marie's protest died before it formed. She sighed in defeat and whispered, "Gods save me from soft-hearted boys."
They made for the market, Faith skipping between them like a sparrow released. Maidenpool's square teemed with life, fishwives crying prices, sailors dicing, the clang of smith's hammer ringing far off.
Marie slipped through it like a girl born to the cobbles. She haggled fiercely over cheap trinkets, silver-bright laughter mixing with sharp insults and sharper smiles. Arthur tried not to look too lordly as he purchased honey-cakes and sugared almonds for Faith, who stuffed them in her cheeks like a squirrel preparing for winter.
Soon, Faith tugged at their sleeves eagerly. "There's a hill nearby," she said. "Right up the river where the water shines like stars. I go there when Da's busy. He says fairies live there."
Curiosity tugged them along winding fields and up a grassy rise. The world opened atop it, waters glimmering, willow leaves dancing in the river breeze. Marie spread a cloth in the shade of an old elm, laying out bread, soft cheese, strawberries, and the sweets Arthur had bought. A skin of cheap market wine rested between them.
They sat. For a time, they did nothing but breathe and listen. Wind murmured through branches. Ducks quacked further down the river. And Faith, covered with crumbs on her chin, kept chattering away merrily.
"One time Da brought home cheese made from dragon's milk, he said. It was all blue and smelled like feet. Da said it were like that because it had the dragons' smell itself."
Arthur bit back a laugh. "I should like to see the dragon that let itself be milked."
Faith nodded earnestly. "Aye, Da said the milker lost two fingers and a foot but lived happy, after the lord gave him coins." Marie snorted into her wine.
Faith leaned close again, whispering as though sharing grave secrets. "Once I saw a lion, truly. Big teeth, fur, and it walked on two legs."
Marie raised a brow. "And did this lion speak?"
"Aye! Do you know him too?" Faith declared. "Did he ask for ale? The lion said he loved ale."
Arthur and Marie exchanged a look, and both burst laughing, helplessly, freely, like children stealing a moment from the world. Faith beamed, delighted.
When laughter faded, quiet rushed in soft as silk. Arthur watched the river bend, sunlight dancing gold on current. Marie lay back on the blanket, silvery hair spread like milk, face turned to sky. For a moment, there was no lordship, no duty, no weight pressing his shoulders flat. Only warm grass, sweet pastries, and a girl whose laughter could mend tired hearts.
Faith plucked a dandelion and blew seeds to the wind. "This is like a story," she whispered.
It is, Arthur thought. But only for awhile.
Yet he let the moment linger, selfish in his heart. For once, he allowed himself to simply be.