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Chapter Text

Name: Matthis Stokeworth
Age: 16
Status: Noble ward of the crown
House: Minor Crownlands house
Appearance: Dark curly hair, heterochromia (one green eye, one blue)
Personality: Quiet, observant, careful with his words
At Court: Kept close to the king by royal order

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

 

Shadows Among Stags and Lions

 

The road to King’s Landing wound like a black ribbon through the Crownlands, cutting across rolling fields and low hills under a sky bruised with early morning clouds. Matthis Stokeworth rode at the front of the small party, the reins firm in his hands, though his posture was more cautious than commanding. His father had insisted he come, though his reasons were practical and cold. Lord Stokeworth could not appear at the capital himselfthe small house’s coffers were thin, and the war drums sounded too loud for any lord to risk leaving home. So Matthis, eldest son and heir, was sent in his stead.
“Keep your eyes forward,” said Ser Alaric, the knight who had ridden with him since boyhood, adjusting the heavy pack on his saddle. His voice was low, clipped, but carried the weight of a lifetime of experience. Matthis had always thought Ser Alaric spoke as though every word were a rule of law.
“I am,” Matthis said, though his gaze drifted to the distant skyline where the Red Keep would rise like a crown above the city. He could not tell whether the sight filled him with awe or dread.
“You are,” Ser Alaric repeated, not unkindly, “but there is seeing and there is noticing. Do not mistake one for the other.”

 

Matthis let the reins slip slightly, allowing his mount to step faster over a stretch of gravelly road. The countryside smelled of damp earth and late autumn grass, and the wind carried the faint salt of the Blackwater Bay far ahead. The smell of the sea reminded him of his father’s warnings: court was not just a place of politics, it was a tide that could swallow the unprepared.
“You speak as though I am going into battle,” Matthis said, glancing at Ser Alaric.
“And in a way, you are,” Alaric replied, eyes scanning the horizon, ever watchful. “Every court is a battlefield. You will meet lords and ladies whose teeth are sharper than any sword. And remember thisfear is not weakness; hesitation is.”

 

Matthis swallowed. The words were familiar, yet their weight pressed heavier with each mile closer to the city. He had trained with Ser Alaric, learned how to ride, how to parry, how to read the subtle movements of a potential threat. But training in the fields of Stokeworth was one thing. The Red Keep promised unpredictability, a storm of whispers, expectations, and unseen knives.
As they approached a bend in the road, the spires of King’s Landing shimmered faintly through the morning mist. The city looked smaller than the stories had made it sound, but it was no less imposing. Towers and rooftops crowded together, stone and wood stacked like a giant’s chessboard, each building a piece in a game Matthis did not yet understand. The Blackwater River gleamed dark and wide beneath the first hint of sunlight, and he could almost imagine the chain that stretched across it, awaiting Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.
“Do you see it?” Ser Alaric asked, a trace of a grin at the corner of his mouth.
Matthis nodded, though his stomach had tightened. “It is… grander than I imagined.”
“Grand, yes,” Alaric said, voice softer now, almost conspiratorial. “And dangerous. Remember, boy, kings and lords rarely see the danger themselves. It is up to those who walk in the shadows to notice it for them.”
Matthis looked down at his boots, still scuffed from the road, and wondered if he would be one of those shadows or one of the pieces easily moved and easily broken. He was fifteen, not yet fully grown, though the men who would meet him at court might not see the difference. He was the heir to House Stokeworth, yes, but in the capital, that title meant little. The city would test him, whether he wanted it or not.

 

“Do you think they will notice me?” he asked quietly.
Alaric chuckled, a sound more rough than warm. “They will. Kings notice everything. Some for curiosity, some for malice, and some because they enjoy frightening those who should not be frightened. You will be noticed, Stokeworth. That is inevitable. How you respond will determine if you survive or simply exist in their court as a decoration.”
Matthis drew a deep breath. The wind stung his cheeks and tugged at the dark strands of hair that had escaped his curly hair. His eyes, one green, one blue, caught the light differently in the dawn, though he was careful not to meet anyone’s gaze too long. He had inherited the heterochromia from his mother, a trait that had drawn remarks in small gatherings and, sometimes, unwanted attention at tournaments. Here, it would be another markanother reason for someone like a king to notice him.

They passed the last rolling hill before the city gates. The city hummed faintly even from this distancesounds of merchants, bells, the clang of smiths, the distant calls of guards. Ser Alaric slowed his mount to match Matthis’s pace.
“Remember your posture,” he said, tugging lightly on Matthis’s shoulder. “Straight back, shoulders squared. Do not fidget, do not falter. Speak when spoken to, but always listen first. Watch them before they see you. This is King’s Landing, Stokeworth. You are entering a different world than ours at home.”
Matthis nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on him like the leather straps of his saddle. He had trained for courtly etiquette, for riding, for swordplay, but not for the peculiar cruelty of the Red Keep. There, power was subtle, sharp, and waiting to test any misstep.
As they approached the gate, a contingent of city guards came into view, their polished armor glinting. A courier rode forward from the city, bearing the sigil of the crown. Ser Alaric nudged Matthis forward.
“Stay close to me,” he instructed. “Remember, they will test the boy before they acknowledge the man.”
Matthis gripped his reins tighter, forcing himself to keep his mind clear. He studied the gates, the people lining the road, the shadows of the towers stretching long in the morning sun. Already, he felt the unspoken rule of court pressing down: the world outside was one of open skies and measured steps; the city was a labyrinth, and only those who could read it survived.

 

A bell tolled from the city center. Its deep clang carried across the water, echoing off the stone walls. Matthis felt the pulse in his chest synchronize with it. The Red Keep loomed ever closer, its shadow falling across the narrow road. Every soldier, every merchant, every noble waiting to catch a glimpse of newcomershe felt their eyes before they ever saw him.
Ser Alaric leaned slightly toward him as they approached the gates. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Stokeworth. Keep your head high and your wits higher. The king will notice, sooner or later. You must decide what that will mean before he speaks your name.”
Matthis swallowed hard, feeling the city tighten around him like a living thing. Ahead, the drawbridge clanged down, the gates creaked open, and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms waited to claim another boy who had been sent too young, too inexperienced, and too visible.
He tightened his grip on the reins and raised his chin. The city smelled of smoke, salt, and ambition. Somewhere beyond the walls, Stannis’s fleet stirred on the Blackwater. Somewhere else, the king waited, bored and cruel. Matthis could not yet know what Joffrey would see when he noticed him, but he knew he would be seen. And sometimes, that was more dangerous than any sword.

The road curved downward now, leaving the gentle hills behind for the flatter fields that spread toward King’s Landing. The air carried new scentsthe salt tang of the Blackwater, smoke from distant chimneys, and the sharp sweetness of fruit carts set up along the main approach. Matthis’s eyes, green and blue, drank it all in with a quiet fascination he had never allowed himself at home. He could hear the distant hum of the city: the clang of a smith at work, the shrill calls of merchants advertising wares, and the occasional bark of a dog from a village that had grown under the city’s shadow.
He slowed his horse to a gentle trot, letting himself take it in. There were farmers tending roadside stalls, their wares spread across rough-hewn tables: pears gleaming with dew, loaves of bread steaming from the oven, salted fish stacked neatly in baskets, and roasted meats turning slowly over small spits. The colors were richer than anything he had seen in Stokeworth. Apples the red of a warrior’s cloak, olives as dark as night, and the deep purple of fresh plums glistening in the morning sun.
“How much longer?” he asked, letting his voice slip more freely than he had intended. Ser Alaric’s eyes flicked down at him sharply.
“Do you want the answer, or do you want to draw attention?” Alaric said, his tone even but carrying a slight edge.

 

Matthis hesitated. “I… I suppose I want to know.”
Alaric’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Curiosity is good, boy. Foolish curiosity, less so. Keep your eyes open, your mind sharper. You are not here to admire the fruit or the smell of the sea. You are here to survive a court that will not see your naivety as anything but weakness.”
Matthis lowered his gaze, but not before he noticed a merchant leaning forward to peek at him and whispering to another. A few children on the roadside stopped their games and stared, mouths half-open. He had learned to notice attention from afar; he had practiced it all his life. Still, the effect was unexpected, almost disarming. He tugged his reins lightly, reminding himself to act indifferent.
“It’s strange,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself, “how little things can make you feel…”
“Exposed?” Alaric offered. “Yes, that is precisely how you should feel.”
Matthis smiled faintly at the precision of the observation. “Then I suppose I am ready,” he said, though he was not entirely sure what he meant by that.
A pair of travelersa woman carrying a bundle of herbs and a man pushing a cart of blackened fishboth stopped and stared, and Matthis caught the briefest reflection of his mismatched eyes in their glances. One green, one blue, each catching the morning light differently. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks and a sudden awkwardness.
“You feel it again,” Alaric said, as if reading his thoughts. “Do not look away. Let them notice, and let them remember nothing but your posture.”

 

Matthis drew a deep breath, straightened his back, and let his gaze remain steady. The flush remained, but his composure returned. He had practiced this: to meet the world with confidence, even if confidence was only a mask.
“Good,” Alaric said, a trace of approval in his voice. “That is better. People are always watching. You have learned nothing if it makes you stumble.”
Matthis’s mind wandered briefly to the Red Keep itself, still far above the city but already looming, a faint outline of towers and walls against the horizon. It seemed impossibly large and impossibly sharp, a city built as much for defense as for display. The spires gleamed with polished stone, catching what sunlight broke through the morning clouds. Even from this distance, he could imagine the courtiers inside: their polished shoes scraping across stone floors, their sharp whispers carrying from one hall to the next, every word a test of wit or patience.
The horses stumbled slightly on a stretch of rough gravel, and Matthis allowed his hand to brush along the mane of his mount, grounding himself. Ser Alaric rode a little closer, the sun glinting off the steel of his breastplate. “Keep your head steady. The closer you get, the less room there is to be naïve.”

 

Matthis nodded, though his eyes drifted again to the city. Between the spires and walls, he could see rooftops crowded together, smoke curling from chimneys, and small flags fluttering atop towers. Each detail told him more about the city than any lesson Ser Alaric could have given. Here, every shadow and every sound mattered.
“What is that smell?” Matthis asked suddenly, catching the scent of something unfamiliar.
Alaric sniffed the air and shook his head. “Bread, roasting meat, and… fish. The city smells of life and ambition, boy. It will cling to you when you enter. You will forget it when you are inside the Red Keep, but your body will remember it.”
Matthis frowned slightly. “It seems… alive.”
Alaric’s eyes flicked to him sharply. “Alive, yes. But the city has teeth. Never forget that. It will chew up the unwary and leave them for the crows.”

 

They rode in silence for a stretch, passing fields where small families tended their plots, children darting around carts, shouting greetings to passing travelers. Matthis could not help but notice their carefree movements and the way the sunlight caught dust motes in the air. The brightness made the city beyond feel even heavier, as if the shadows of the Red Keep were reaching across the fields to meet them.
He laughed quietly, more to himself than anyone else, at a group of children waving sticks like swords. “I’ve not seen such bravery in Stokeworth,” he said softly.
Alaric’s voice was immediately at his shoulder. “Do not forget why you are here.”
Matthis’s laughter faded. “I… I know. I am only”
“Only observing. Yes. That is all you should do for now,” Alaric said firmly. “Nothing more. The moment you forget this, the moment you let wonder overtake caution, the city will notice. And not all notice is kind.”
Matthis nodded, the warmth in his chest replaced with a cool, steadying tension. He had understood the lesson every time they trained with swords, every time they sparred in the yard, but the city demanded a new kind of discipline. A discipline that demanded constant vigilance.
At last, the winding road narrowed, and the Red Keep grew larger with each passing stride. The horses’ hooves clattered against cobblestone, sending up small clouds of dust. Guards in bright armor lined the road, and Matthis caught glimpses of faces peering from windows and balconies. Somewhere, a raven squawked, flapping against the chill wind that came from the bay.

 

He felt a flutter of nerves. The city had changed from a distant concept to something almost tangible, oppressive in its size and presence. Ser Alaric nudged him gently. “Focus. Your journey ends here for now. The Red Keep will test every part of you that thinks itself ready.”
Matthis gripped the reins tightly, taking a final deep breath. He could see the banners of House Baratheon, black stag on gold, fluttering against the morning light. Somewhere beyond those walls, the king waited, and though Matthis did not yet know him, he felt the weight of the crown settle across the city like a storm.
He lifted his chin and rode forward, chest tight, eyes forward, heart steady. The Red Keep was waiting, and he would be seen.

The Red Keep loomed larger now, its walls rising like stone cliffs from the bustling streets below. Matthis felt a tightening in his chest, a mixture of awe and apprehension, as Ser Alaric guided their horses down a side lane that smelled of wet stone and the faint tang of salt carried from the river. The closer they got, the more the air filled with the smells of the city: roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, smoke from chimneys, and the earthy, oily tang of riverwater mingling with refuse.
“Stop here,” Alaric said, nodding toward a small, partially sheltered stable beside one of the towers. The wooden posts leaned slightly, and the air smelled faintly of hay and horses. A boy, no more than twelve or thirteen, scurried forward, wiping his hands on a ragged cloth. His dark hair fell in uneven strands across his forehead, and his brown eyes were sharp and curious.
“You’re new,” the boy said, raising an eyebrow as he sized up Matthis and the knight.
“Yes,” Matthis said, dismounting carefully. His legs were stiff from the long ride, and his hands ached faintly from gripping the reins. He held out his hands for the reins of his horse. “Can you help us put them up?”
The boy hesitated, then smiled faintly and gestured toward the stalls. “I can manage. You’re the boy from Stokeworth, aren’t you?”
Matthis blinked. “I am. And you are?”
“Seren,” the boy said simply. “Stable boy. I put the horses up for everyone who comes in from the Crownlands.”
Matthis nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Seren. Would you like some coins when we’re done?”
Seren shook his head. “No coins. Just… treat the horses kindly, and it’s enough.”
Matthis glanced at the animals, their coats dusty from the road, their eyes wary and bright. He ran his hands along the neck of his horse, murmuring softly. “Easy now… steady.” The horse shifted slightly, snorting, and Matthis pressed a hand to its flank, soothing it.
Alaric watched quietly, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “You’ll do well, boy,” he said. “Kindness is a rare currency in this city. Keep it close.”
Matthis straightened. “It is not rare where I come from.”
“Perhaps,” Alaric said, voice low, “but here it will make you stand out in ways both good and bad. Remember that.”
As they finished securing the horses, Matthis handed Seren the reins with a careful nod. “The horses are safe now. Thank you for your help. You have a good eye and a steady hand.”

 

Seren looked surprised at the compliment, a faint redness rising in his cheeks. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, bowing slightly.
Matthis smiled gently. “Just Matthis. You don’t need to make me sound older than I am.”
The boy laughed softly, and for a moment, the tension in the air seemed to lift. But the sound of clanging boots on stone brought Matthis’s attention back to the city. Servants hurried past, carrying trays of food or bundles of clothing. Guards patrolled in small groups, their armor glinting in the sun. Street vendors sold dried fruits and roasted nuts to the passersby, shouting prices that echoed down the narrow alleys. The air carried the mingled scents of spice, smoke, and river water.
Matthis followed Alaric, the two moving through a narrow corridor that opened onto the main courtyard. He paused for a moment, letting his gaze wander. Families from across Westeros moved through the courtyard: some in heavy silks that shimmered in the light, others in muted colors, carrying themselves with the pride of wealth and power.
He noticed a man in black and gold, bearing the sigil of House Velaryon, speaking quietly with a woman whose cloak bore the twin moons of House Arryn. Children from other minor houses darted between the legs of servants, laughing or hurrying along with trays of fruit. A contingent of soldiers marched past in formation, their armor catching the sunlight, and he felt the subtle pressure of authority in every step.

 

“Do not stare,” Alaric murmured as they passed a group of nobles. “They will notice. And not all will be kind.”
Matthis lowered his gaze slightly, but curiosity tugged at him. He couldn’t help but notice the variety of people, the richness of fabric, the subtle ways each lord or lady carried themselves to mark status and importance. One girl, perhaps a servant or ward, carried a basket of bread balanced with perfect posture, while a young squire trailed behind her, carrying a sword that was almost too large for him. Each person seemed to belong to a pattern, a web of wealth, power, and duty, and Matthis felt simultaneously a part of it and apart from it.
“They all seem so… alive,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the courtyard.
Alaric’s eyes flicked to him. “They are alive, yes. But alive in ways that can crush the unprepared. Watch them, study them. Know who moves with power and who moves with fear. This is the first lesson you will need to learn here.”
Matthis nodded, taking it in. He felt the familiar tug of nervous excitement, the same that had fluttered through him when he first saw the city from the distance. The closer he got, the more vivid the details became: the color of the banners snapping in the wind, the sharp scent of horses and smoke, the gleam of polished armor, and the low murmurs of plotting voices.

 

Finally, they reached the steps that led into the main hall. The massive wooden doors, carved with intricate patterns of stags and lions, seemed impossibly high. Torch sconces lined the walls, though the morning light already spilled across the polished stone floor. Servants scurried back and forth, carrying trays and bundles. A guard stepped forward, inspecting them with a measured gaze.
Matthis adjusted his posture, keeping his shoulders squared and his chin high. His eyes scanned the hall, taking in the banners hanging from the rafters: Baratheon black on gold, Lannister crimson and gold, and a few minor houses whose sigils he recognized from his travels. Somewhere further back, he glimpsed a small group of the king’s men, likely the younger nobles and squires who had already been claimed by the Red Keep.
He drew a slow breath and followed Alaric into the hall, the echo of their boots sounding sharply against the stone. The air smelled faintly of waxed floors, wood polish, and the faint, lingering scent of roasted meats. A low murmur of voices reached him: the rustle of silk, the scrape of boots, the whispered counsel of men and women accustomed to being listened toor overheard.

 

“Stay close,” Alaric said, his hand brushing lightly against Matthis’s back. “Every step here is measured. You are a guest of the crown. Remember that the crown notices everything, and some of its subjects do not forgive mistakes.”
Matthis swallowed, feeling the weight of the hall pressing down. His mismatched eyes caught glimpses of nobles moving with confidence: a boy perhaps his age from House Tully, laughing with companions; a young girl from House Tyrell, carrying herself with the poise of someone who had never stumbled; older men with lined faces who measured him with a passing glance and moved on.
The farther they went, the more imposing the Red Keep became. The banners grew larger, the ceilings higher, and the sounds of the city outside faded into a hushed reverence. Matthis felt the pull of history, the weight of authority that clung to the walls like a second skin. The air was cooler here, the light filtered through narrow windows, and the shadows seemed to move with a life of their own.
At last, they reached the inner chamber, the doors swinging open to reveal the throne room itself. The Iron Throne sat high at the far end, jagged and imposing, its twisted steel catching the light from the torches that lined the walls. Even from this distance, Matthis felt the gravity of its presence. The room smelled faintly of iron, wax, and old stone. He could hear the distant hum of voices, the scrape of shoes across polished floors, the occasional cough from a guard stationed near the throne.

 

Alaric’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “Here you are, Stokeworth. The court waits. Keep your head high. Remember everything you have seen, and understand that being noticed is only the beginning.”
Matthis swallowed, feeling the pulse in his chest synchronize with the rhythm of the hall. Every eye would not be on him, but some would. Every whisper might be about him, or about someone else entirely. He straightened, letting his cloak fall smoothly over his shoulders, and followed Alaric’s lead into the room, stepping carefully into the world he had long imaginedand dreaded.
The banners of House Baratheon loomed overhead. The Iron Throne waited. And somewhere beyond, the king would be watching.

---

 

The hall seemed to swell as more people filed in, their footsteps echoing sharply against the polished stone. Matthis pressed close to Alaric, feeling the heat of bodies, the shuffle of silks, the faint squeak of boots on stone. The Red Keep had a presence that pressed in from all sides, and each step seemed heavier than the last.
A rustle of silk drew his attention upward. Cersei Lannister emerged from a side doorway, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire over the stone floor. Her golden hair glinted in the morning light, perfectly arranged, her green eyes sharp and calculating. Matthis instinctively straightened, feeling the subtle weight of her gaze, noting the poised way she moved through the crowd. Even without speaking, she commanded attention.
Then, suddenly, the hall seemed to pivot. Joffrey Baratheon stepped forward, and the room seemed to shrink around him. Slight, almost boyish, yet somehow magnetic in his menace, he swept a bored glance over the gathered nobles. Blond hair gleamed, eyes sharp and cold, and the murmurs of the hall died almost immediately.
Matthis kept his head down slightly, his heart hammering in his chest. The boy-king’s presence was a tide that demanded notice, whether he wanted it or not. Joffrey’s gaze drifted over the line of wards and young nobles, lingering on the taller boys first, then sweeping past, sharp as a blade, before suddenly stopping.
Matthis froze. The sharp green eyes of the king met his own mismatched onesgreen and blue catching the torchlight differentlyand a strange hush seemed to settle over him, even though hundreds of people were in the room. Whispers rose behind him, brief and curious, and he could feel the brush of gazes from other nobles, noting the unusual eyes. His stomach tightened, but he held himself upright, letting the weight of the room settle around him.
Joffrey tilted his head slightly, watching, lips quirking in the faintest smirk. He was silent for a long moment, and then, in a voice that carried across the hall with ease and command, he said:
“Boy! Step forward.”
Matthis took the first careful step, boots clicking against polished stone. Every sound felt amplified in the vast chamberthe shuffle of others’ feet, the faint rustle of silk, the whisper of servants moving between nobles. Alaric remained close, a silent presence at his side, letting him carry his own weight.
He caught snippets of conversation as he moved: the Baron of Blackwater and his sons, a small group of Velaryons discussing shipping routes, Tyrell guards ensuring no one strayed too close to the Lannisters. Children darted between their legs, carrying trays of fruit or letters, unnoticed by those with more pressing concerns. Every detail sharpened Matthis’s awareness: the curve of a noblewoman’s gown marking her house, the glint of rings on hands that might command armies, the precise way a squire held his sword to mark his family’s rank.
Joffrey’s eyes never left him. He leaned back slightly, almost languidly, one hand twisting a lock of his hair, and for the first time, Matthis realized that he was being measured, but not in a familiar way of courtesy or respect. It was boredom, curiosity, and subtle amusement all in one.
“Here,” Joffrey said finally, pointing a slender finger. “Boy, come closer.”
Matthis obeyed, taking another careful step. The whispers around him grew softer, almost reverent, though no one dared speak. Cersei’s eyes followed the exchange, sharp and critical. Tyrion’s expression was unreadable, a faint arch of one eyebrow. Sandor Clegane leaned against a column, impassive, though Matthis thought he could feel the doglike tension of the big man’s presence. Sansa Stark’s eyes widened faintly from across the hall, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
For Matthis, the world contracted to the space between him and the king. The Iron Throne loomed behind Joffrey, jagged and gleaming, a silent reminder of authority, danger, and power. Every instinct, every lesson learned on the road and from Alaric, sharpened. He could sense the pulse of the hall, the quiet calculation in every step, every glance.
Joffrey’s smirk deepened. “You… yes, you. Don’t just stand there. Speak. Tell me why you’re here.”
Matthis’s throat went dry for a moment, then he found his voice. “I… I am a ward, my lord, newly arrived to the city.” He kept it neutral, factual. Nothing more.
The king’s gaze lingered, eyes flicking briefly to the gathered nobles before returning to Matthis. He seemed to consider him carefullyor perhaps he merely enjoyed the novelty. Either way, for the first time, Matthis realized what Ser Alaric had hinted at on the road: in King’s Landing, being noticed was a test in itself.
And in that instant, Matthis knew the lesson would be far longer than any road he had ridden to reach the city.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 Seen, and Therefore Kept

The sound returned to the throne room in pieces.
It did not rush back all at once. It crept, hesitant, like an animal testing the air after a storm. A cough somewhere near the pillars. The faint scrape of a boot against stone. Then murmurs, carefully moderated, as lords and ladies resumed conversations they had never truly stopped having, only paused. The court learned young how to pretend nothing had happened.
Matthis stood where he had been left.
He had not been dismissed.
That, more than the staring, unsettled him.
The Iron Throne rose behind the king like a jagged shadow, its twisted swords catching the light in sharp, unforgiving angles. Joffrey sat forward now, no longer lounging with the bored sprawl of a boy forced into ceremony. His elbows rested on his knees. His chin tilted slightly, just enough to suggest interest. Not warmth. Not curiosity in any gentle sense. Interest the way one might look at a hound with an unusual coat, or a blade with a strange balance.
Matthis felt it like pressure between his shoulders.
Some of the court refused to look at him. Their gazes slid away the moment his eyes lifted, as though proximity alone might mark them. Others did not bother with subtlety. They stared openly, assessing, cataloguing. He caught fragments of expression: calculation, disdain, faint surprise. One woman near the back whispered something behind her sleeve and laughed too quickly, too brightly.
No one spoke for him.
No one needed to.

 

Joffrey shifted on the throne. The sound of metal beneath himswords grinding faintly against one anothercarried farther than it should have. The murmurs thinned. Not vanished. Just lowered. Like a tide pulled back by the moon.
“Gods,” Joffrey said at last, his voice carrying easily, lazily. “This is dull.”
A ripple of tension passed through the room. Matthis felt it before he understood it, a tightening, a collective breath drawn and held.
The king’s gaze slid away from him at last, drifting instead to the small cluster of other boys who had been presented earlier. Wards, pages, sons of lords hoping to be seen and remembered. Joffrey barely looked at them.
“You,” he said, lifting a finger and pointing vaguely, not bothering to distinguish one from another. “And you. Andyes, all of you. Go.”

 

There was a heartbeat of stunned stillness.
“Go,” Joffrey repeated, sharper now, irritation bleeding through. “Why are you still standing there?”
They moved at once. A scramble of obedience disguised as composure. One boy flushed red to the ears. Another bowed too deeply and nearly tripped over his own feet. They were ushered out quickly, servants and guards guiding them away as if eager to erase the moment.
Matthis remained.
He had not been addressed. Not dismissed. Not acknowledged.
The absence was deliberate.
Joffrey watched the others leave with open boredom, his mouth twisting slightly as the doors shut behind them. Then his attention slid back, unhurried, and settled again on Matthis like a hand closing around the nape of his neck.
“There,” Joffrey said, almost pleased. “That’s better.”
Matthis’s throat felt dry. He swallowed, aware of the sound it made in the quiet that followed. The court had gone very still now. Conversations had died entirely. Even the servants along the walls seemed to have paused, half-bent, as though afraid to draw breath.
The king did not ask his name.
Did not ask where he was from.
Did not ask anything at all.
He simply looked.
Up close, the scrutiny felt different. He had been stared at before, of course. His eyes had always drawn attention, no matter how much he learned to lower them, to keep his head bowed just so. One green, one bluepeople noticed. They commented. They whispered. But this was not the idle curiosity of strangers.
This was possession, testing itself.
Joffrey leaned back again, drumming his fingers against the arm of the throne. The metal rang softly beneath his touch. “He’s quiet,” he said, to no one in particular. “I like that.”
Cersei Lannister had not moved from her place beside the throne. She had been watching from the start, Matthis realized. Not himnever himbut her son. Her eyes tracked every shift in Joffrey’s posture, every flicker of expression. When Joffrey spoke now, her lips curved into something that might have passed for a smile if one did not look too closely.

 

“A quiet boy can be well-mannered,” she said smoothly. “Or poorly raised. It depends on the house.”
Joffrey made a dismissive sound. “If he were from a house worth remembering, I’d remember it.”
A few people laughed. Carefully.
Matthis felt heat creep up his neck, but he did not speak. There was no opening for it. No space where his words might land without being crushed.
Cersei’s gaze flicked to him at last, cool and appraising. She took him in the way one might assess a piece of fabriccolor, cut, usefulness. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, because she turned back to her son without comment.
“The court has seen enough for one morning,” she said lightly. “You’ve indulged them long enough.”
Joffrey waved a hand. “They can stay. Or go. I don’t care.”
But his eyes did not leave Matthis.
The meaning was clear enough.
No one moved.

 

Finally, Joffrey stood. The throne room seemed to shrink around him as he rose, as if the space itself bent toward his will. He descended the steps slowly, deliberately, boots ringing against the stone. Each step drew him closer, and with each one, Matthis became acutely aware of how small he was in comparison. Not in height alone, though the king was taller, broader. In presence. In certainty.
Joffrey stopped a few paces away.
Up close, Matthis could see the faint flush in his cheeks, the restless energy barely contained beneath silk and gold. This was not a composed man. This was a boy with too much power and no reason to doubt himself.
“You’ll stay,” Joffrey said.

 

It was not phrased as a question.
A murmur swept the hall, quickly smothered. Matthis felt it like a tremor through the floor.
“For observation,” Joffrey went on, as if explaining a minor detail. “It would be a waste to send you off so quickly. Don’t you think?”
He did not wait for an answer.
Cersei inclined her head, just slightly. A gesture so small it might have gone unnoticed, if not for how final it felt. “It’s only proper,” she said. “A ward in the Red Keep is a sign of trust.”

 

Trust.
The word rang hollow.
Joffrey smiled then, sharp and satisfied. “See? A privilege.”
No one objected.
No one asked whose permission had been sought, or whether it had been given.
A servant stepped forward, already moving toward Matthis, as if the order had been anticipated. The efficiency of it made his stomach drop. This had been decided, he realized dimly. Perhaps not long ago. Perhaps only moments before. But decided all the same.
He glanced once, instinctively, toward the edge of the halltoward the familiar presence he had relied on since leaving home. Alaric stood where he had been since the beginning, face carefully composed. His jaw tightened, just barely. He did not step forward.
He could not.
The servant’s hand rested lightly at Matthis’s elbow. Polite. Firm.
“Come,” the man said quietly.
Matthis hesitated, just long enough to feel the weight of the king’s gaze sharpen.
Then he moved.
As he was led away, the throne room seemed to exhale. Conversations resumed almost immediately, voices rising, laughter returning in careful measure. The court closed around the moment like water over a stone.
Behind him, Joffrey’s attention lingered.
Matthis did not need to look back to know it.
By the time the doors shut behind him, he understood what had happened.
Not fully. Not in all its depth.
But enough.
This had never been a question.
Only an announcement he had been too slow to recognize.

 

The doors closed with a sound that was not loud, but final.
The throne room did not echo after them. The noise of courtvoices, laughter, argumentwas swallowed whole, cut off as cleanly as if a wall had been dropped between Matthis and the world he had stood in moments before. The air beyond the doors felt cooler, thinner, as though the Red Keep itself breathed differently away from the public eye.
The servant did not release him.
“Walk with me,” the man said, voice low and pleasant, as if offering a courtesy rather than issuing an order.
Matthis did.

 

They moved down a corridor of pale stone, polished smooth by centuries of passing feet. The walls were close here, narrower than the vastness of the throne room, the ceiling arched just enough to feel intentional. Torches burned at even intervals, their flames steady, smoke drawn upward into narrow vents that vanished into shadow.
Behind them, boots sounded once.
Matthis glanced back before he could stop himself.
Alaric stood near the doors, just beyond the threshold, his cloak dark against the pale stone. He had not followed. He could not. The distance between them was not great in space, but it might as well have been measured in leagues. Their eyes met for a brief moment.
Alaric did not speak.

 

He did not reach out.
His face was carefully still, the expression of a man who understood the cost of making a scene. His jaw was set, one hand curled loosely at his side, the other resting against the pommel of his swordnot in threat, but in reminder. I am here. I see you. That was all he could give.
Matthis held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than was wise.
Then the servant guided him forward, just enough pressure at his elbow to break the moment.
They turned a corner. Alaric vanished from sight.
The corridor shifted as they went, subtly at first. The stone darkened, the mortar lines finer, the air warmer. Matthis became aware of sound in a new way: the soft whisper of fabric as servants passed, heads bowed; the faint clink of armor from guards stationed at intervals, their helms obscuring their faces. No one met his eyes. No one spoke to him.

 

Yet they all knew him.
Or rather, they knew where he was going.
That knowledge moved ahead of him, invisible but undeniable. Doors were opened before they reached them. A servant stepped aside just in time, murmuring an apology without looking up. A guard shifted his stance, spear angling minutely to clear the path.
Matthis felt himself being carried along by a current he could not see.

 

They descended a short flight of stairs, then climbed another. The Red Keep was layered, he realizednot sprawling, but folded in on itself, spaces arranged like secrets. With each turn, the world he had known narrowed further. The road, the open sky, the dust and wind of travelthey felt distant now, like something imagined.
At last, they stopped before a door set into the stone, its wood dark and smooth, banded with iron that had been polished until it gleamed.
“This will be your chamber,” the servant said.
Your. Not temporary. Not for now.
He opened the door.

 

The room beyond was warm with lamplight. A fire burned low in the hearth, its heat gentle rather than blazing. The furnishings were finer than anything Matthis had known outside a lord’s solar: a wide bed draped in heavy linens the color of cream and gold, a carved table set with a pitcher of water and a bowl of fruit, a high-backed chair positioned near the window.
The window itself was tall and narrow, letting in a generous spill of lightbut its placement was deliberate. It overlooked an inner courtyard, stone and greenery enclosed on all sides. No view of the city. No sense of distance.
Two guards stood just outside the door. They did not enter. They did not leave.
Protection, Matthis thought distantly.
Containment.

 

Servants followed them in, moving efficiently, quietly. One took his cloak without asking. Another set about arranging his belongings, which had arrived ahead of him somehow, unpacked and placed with care. A third adjusted the lamps, ensuring the light fell evenly, pleasantly.
“You may ring if you require anything,” one of them said, gesturing to a small bell near the bed. “Meals will be brought. You will be summoned when needed.”
Summoned.
Matthis nodded. He was not sure what else to do.
The servants withdrew as seamlessly as they had arrived. The door closed behind them, softer than the first, but no less final.
Silence settled.
Matthis stood in the center of the room, hands at his sides, feeling suddenly too small for the space. Everything was beautiful. Everything was clean. Everything was wrong.
He crossed to the window and looked out. The courtyard below was empty save for a single tree, its leaves dark and glossy. The sky above it was a pale strip of blue, framed by stone. He could hear voices somewheredistant, muffledbut not their words.
He turned slowly, taking the room in again.
This was not where the other wards were kept. He knew that without being told. This was closer. Nearer the heart of the Keep. Nearer the king.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
This was not hospitality.
This was placement.

 

Matthis sat on the edge of the bed, the linens cool beneath his fingers. He thought of the way Joffrey’s eyes had lingered on him, the casual certainty with which his fate had been spoken aloud. He thought of Cersei’s smile, thin and sharp as a blade’s edge. He thought of Alaric’s stillness, the restraint carved into every line of his body.
He exhaled slowly.
Being chosen had felt, for one brief, foolish moment, like safety. Like relief. Someone had seen him. Someone had decided he mattered.
Now he understood the cost of that attention.
The Red Keep did not need chains. It did not need raised voices or drawn swords. It closed around you with comfort, with politeness, with rooms that were too fine to question and guards who smiled as they watched.
Matthis lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns carved into the stone.
Comfort, he realized, did not mean freedom.
And safety had never been part of the bargain.

---

 

Matthis did not realize how hungry he was until the knock came.
It was soft. Polite. A sound that asked permission without ever intending to wait for it.
“Enter,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.
The door opened just enough for two servants to pass through, heads bowed. One carried a tray of food, the other a folded bundle of fabric cradled carefully in her arms. They moved with the same quiet efficiency as before, as if the room belonged to them as much as it did to him.
“His Grace has ordered that you be made comfortable,” the man with the tray said.
Comfortable.
The word felt strange now, stripped of warmth by repetition.
They set the tray on the table near the bed. The scent reached him almost immediatelyrich, layered, unfamiliar. Roasted fowl glazed in honey and herbs, the skin crisp and glistening. A small bowl of buttered peas flecked with mint. Fresh bread still warm to the touch, split and steaming. A wedge of pale cheese, soft and fragrant. Even the wine, poured into a shallow cup, was darker and sweeter than what he was used to.

 

At home, meals were filling, honest things. Stews thick with root vegetables, coarse bread, salted meat meant to last the winter. This was different. This was indulgence disguised as generosity.
The woman stepped past him toward the far wall. “If you would like to change,” she said, gesturing.
Matthis turned.
He had not noticed the wardrobe before. It stood recessed into the stone, doors carved with delicate patterns that caught the lamplight. When she opened it, color spilled outdeep reds, soft blues, blacks edged in gold thread. Fine wool, silk, leather worked supple and smooth. Clothing cut to fit someone his size, his shape, as though measured in advance.
None of it bore his house colors.
None of it bore any sigil at all.
These were not his clothes. They were court clothes. Neutral. Adaptable. Replaceable.
“For later,” the woman added gently, as if sensing his hesitation.
Matthis nodded.

 

The servants withdrew again, leaving him alone with the food and the quiet.
He ate slowly. Not because he was unsure, but because each bite demanded attention. The flavors were sharper than he expected, sweet and savory layered together in ways he had never tasted. He realized, distantly, that this was the point. To overwhelm. To soften the edges of fear with abundance.
When he finished, he washed his hands at the basin, drying them on linen finer than any he owned. He did not ring the bell. The tray was removed anyway, sometime later, without him noticing the door open.
Time blurred.

 

He might have slept. He might have simply lain still, listening to the Red Keep breathedistant footsteps, the muted clang of steel, the faint echo of voices carried through stone.
Then came the sumons.
It was not announced with ceremony. No trumpet. No formal knock.
The door opened, and a different servant stood there, flanked by guards.
“His Grace requests your presence,” the man said.
Requests.

 

Matthis rose at once.
There was no time to change. No chance to gather himself. He followed as he had before, guided by hands that never quite touched him, through corridors that felt narrower now, closer. The air grew warmer as they moved, scented faintly with smoke and perfume. These halls were lived in, not merely passed through.
They stopped before a door guarded by two men in crimson cloaks.
The servant did not speak again. He only stepped aside.
Matthis entered.
The room beyond was smaller than the throne room, but no less oppressive. This space belonged to Joffrey alone. The walls were hung with tapestrieshunting scenes, battles rendered in vivid thread. A table stood cluttered with half-finished cups and scattered objects: a dagger, its hilt worked with gold; a small wooden figure, crudely carved; a goblet tipped on its side.

 

Joffrey sat near the window, one knee drawn up, staring out at nothing in particular.
He did not turn when Matthis entered.
The silence stretched.
Matthis stood where he was, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether he was meant to. His pulse thrummed loud in his ears.
Finally, Joffrey sighed.
“Come closer,” he said.
Matthis obeyed.
Up close, the king looked younger somehow, stripped of the Iron Throne’s shadow. Still dangerous. Still sharp. But restless, fidgeting, bored in a way that demanded to be satisfied.
Joffrey turned then, eyes bright with sudden interest. “You really do look strange up close,” he said, not unkindly, not kindly either. Simply stating a fact. “Do people stare at you where you’re from?”

 

“Yes,” Matthis said, before he could stop himself.
Joffrey smiled. “Good.”
He rose and began to circle him, slow and deliberate. Matthis felt the movement like a tightening coil. Each step drew closer, then farther, testing distance.
“Does it bother you?” Joffrey asked, abruptly.
“Yes,” Matthis said again, then hesitated. “Sometimes.”
The king stopped directly in front of him.
“Look at me.”
Matthis lifted his gaze.
The moment stretched. Joffrey’s expression shifted, sharpened. Satisfaction flickered there, quick and bright.
“Don’t look away,” he said softly.
Matthis did not.
Joffrey leaned in, just enough to invade his space. “You’ll stay,” he said, echoing the words from the hall, as if tasting them again. “You’ll attend court. Sit when I tell you. Stand when I tell you. You’ll be useful.”
Useful.
The word settled into him, heavy and unavoidable.
Joffrey straightened, already losing interest, his attention darting elsewhere. “I get bored easily,” he added. “Don’t be boring.”
It was not a threat.
It was worse.
“Leave,” Joffrey said, waving a hand.
Matthis turned and went, heart pounding, mind strangely light.
As he was escorted back to his chamber, fear curled tight in his chest.
And beneath it, unwelcome and undeniable, was relief.
He had been noticed.
And for now, that meant he remained.

 

Night did not fall in the Red Keep so much as it seeped.
Matthis felt it before he saw it an almost imperceptible cooling of the stone beneath his bare feet, the way the torchlight shifted from bright gold to something duller, more watchful. When the guards left him at his chamber door, their boots echoed longer than before, the sound swallowed slowly by the halls as if the Keep itself were listening.
The door closed.
Not slammed. Not locked loudly.
Just closed.
The quiet afterward was different from the silence of the countryside. At home, night was full of familiar things, the low rustle of animals settling, the wind moving through trees, the distant call of something unseen but known. This quiet was layered. Built. It hummed faintly, like a held breath.

 

Matthis stood where he was for a long moment, hand still hovering near the latch, as though he half-expected someone to call him back. When no one did, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
The linens were cool now, smooth beneath his palms. Too clean. Too perfect. He pressed his fingers into them, grounding himself in the sensation.

 

Outside the narrow window, King’s Landing lay sprawled and restless. Even at night, the city glimmeredlamps flickering along the streets, distant shouts rising and falling like waves. Somewhere below, laughter burst out sharp and sudden, then cut short. Life went on, messy and loud and entirely unconcerned with him.
The Red Keep did not share that indifference.
A guard passed outside his door. He heard the faint jingle of mail, the measured cadence of steps. Another followed some minutes later. The shifts changed with mechanical precision. Even alone, he was never unobserved.
That thought settled slowly, like dust.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
The day felt unreal now, stretched thin by exhaustion and shock. The throne room, the weight of the king’s gaze, the way Joffrey’s eyes had lingered on him as if he were something to be picked up and turned over in idle hands. It replayed itself without sound, vivid and intrusive.
You’ll stay.

 

The words had not been spoken loudly. They had not needed to be.
He turned onto his side, curling slightly, as though that might make the room smaller, more manageable. The stone walls did not move.
Stokeworth felt impossibly far away.
He tried to picture itthe low hills rolling gently under an open sky, the smell of earth after rain, the way the air tasted cleaner the farther you got from the main road. He could almost see the yard where his brothers wrestled in the dirt, loud and laughing, their knees perpetually scraped and their clothes forever mended.
Tomas, with his too-serious eyes, always trying to act older than he was.
Lyonel, quick-tempered and quicker to forgive.
And little Owen, who still trailed after him like a shadow, insisting on following even when he was told no, clutching wooden swords and dreaming of knighthood.
His chest tightened.
And Elia.
The thought of her came softer, heavier all at once. His little sister’s laughhigh and bright, impossible to ignore. The way she braided flowers into her hair and declared herself a queen, demanding bows from anyone who passed. She would have loved the colors here, the banners, the pageantry. She would have hated the stone.
He swallowed.
And then there was Mara.

 

His older sister’s face rose unbidden in his mind, clearer than the rest. The sharp line of her smile, the way she stood with her shoulders squared, as if daring the world to challenge her. She had always been the brave one. The one who spoke when others hesitated. The one who told him, quietly, the night before she left, that he was stronger than he thought.
She had not come back.
The grief pressed in now, no longer held at bay by movement or duty. It ached in his ribs, familiar and sharp. He wondered, suddenly, what she would have said about this place. About a king who watched people the way a child watched insects.
She would have told him to be careful.
She would have told him to remember who he was.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the ache down.
Alaric’s face surfaced nextstern, lined, unyielding. His voice, measured and calm, urging patience, restraint. Observe before you act. Alaric had known this court. Had warned him, without ever saying the words outright.
And yet, Alaric was not here.
The realization struck with new clarity: there was no one to ask permission of, no one to appeal to. He could not leave when he wished. He could not simply walk out the gates and turn south. Not now. Not after being seen.
Not after being chosen.

 

A faint sound drew his attentiona soft scrape, barely audible. He stilled, listening. Footsteps again, closer this time, then fading. Someone paused briefly outside his door. He imagined a shadow lingering there, listening in turn.
He did not move.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time loosened its grip.
He sat up eventually, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and moving to the window. The glass was cool beneath his fingertips. Below, the city breathed. Above, the sky was a dark, endless sprawl, stars dulled by smoke and torchlight.
He wondered if his brothers had gone to bed yet.
If his mother had noticed the empty chair at supper.
If anyone had said his name aloud tonight.
The thought left a hollow space behind it.
Being noticed had felt like survival in the moment. Like safety. Like reprieve.

 

Now he understood the cost.
In the Red Keep, attention did not fade. It did not wander. It fixed itself and waited. Joffrey’s boredom was not mercyit was a test. Interest here was not affection, not even cruelty. It was possession, casual and absolute.
He pressed his forehead to the glass.
Tomorrow would come. And the next day. And the next. Court sessions, whispered glances, orders delivered lightly but obeyed without question. He would learn the rhythms of this place, the rules unspoken but iron-clad.
He would adapt.
He would have to.

 

The torchlight outside dimmed further as the night deepened. Somewhere far below, a bell tolled the hour.
Matthis turned back toward the bed, moving slowly, deliberately. He lay down once more, staring into the dark, listening to the Keep breathe around him.
Sleep came fitfully, broken by half-formed dreamsgold and iron, laughter that turned sharp, a voice calling his name from too far away.
When he finally drifted under, one thought remained, steady and unyielding:
Being noticed was not a moment.
It was a condition.
And the king did not forget the things he kept.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Things He Cannot Do

Morning in the Red Keep announced itself without ceremony.
Matthis woke to light before sound, a pale wash seeping through the narrow window and pooling across the stone floor. It was softer than the daylight outside the Keep, filtered and restrained, as though even the sun knew better than to intrude too boldly here. For a moment, he lay still, suspended in the fragile illusion that nothing had changed.
Then the door opened.
Not a knock. Not a question. Simply the sound of iron shifting and wood giving way.
Two servants entered, followed by a guard who remained just inside the threshold. None of them looked surprised to find him awake. None of them apologized.
“Good morning,” one of the servants said, pleasantly. “You are to be dressed.”
Matthis sat up at once, heart thudding, the remnants of uneasy dreams dissolving too quickly. He nodded, unsure what else was expected of him. The blanket was taken from his shoulders. His night clothes were removed with brisk efficiency, folded and set aside as though they were already relics.
The clothing they brought was familiar now in its intent. Neutral wool in muted tones, soft enough to be comfortable, fine enough to signal status without allegiance. No sigil. No color to claim. The cut fit him perfectly.

 

Someone had measured him.
As they worked, the servants spoke quietly among themselves, murmuring about schedules and timings, about who would be waiting and where. Not once did they address him directly beyond instructing him to lift his arms, to turn, to stand still.
When he was dressed, one adjusted the collar with careful fingers and stepped back, satisfied.
“Come,” the other said.
The guard moved first. Matthis followed.

 

The corridors were brighter now, torches extinguished where daylight could reach, the stone washed clean of shadow. Morning revealed details he had missed before. Carvings worn smooth by time. Faded tapestries tucked into alcoves, their scenes half-lost to age. The Red Keep did not feel older in the morning. It felt more awake.
They did not go toward the great hall.
Instead, they descended, then turned, then climbed again, the Keep folding in on itself with quiet precision. Servants passed them, arms full, heads bowed. Guards shifted aside without comment. No one stopped them.
Breakfast was taken in a small chamber overlooking another enclosed courtyard, this one narrower, paved in pale stone. A long table stood in the center, already set. Several people sat along its length, most older than Matthis, some younger. All dressed much as he was.
No one greeted him.

 

He took the seat indicated by a servant, near the end of the table. Food was placed before him at once. Bread, cheese, fruit, a bowl of porridge sweetened with honey. Simpler than the night before. Still abundant.
Across from him, a boy about his age glanced up briefly, eyes flicking to Matthis’s mismatched gaze before dropping again to his meal. His shoulders were tense, his movements precise, as though he had learned early the value of being unobtrusive.
Conversation was minimal. Not forbidden, Matthis sensed, but unnecessary. The room hummed with quiet expectation instead, a sense that this was a pause between obligations rather than a moment meant for comfort.
They had barely finished when a man entered.
He wore the gray robes of a maester, the links of his chain catching the light as he moved. His hair was thin and white, his expression neutral to the point of severity. He surveyed the table once, then nodded to himself.
“Up,” he said.

 

Chairs scraped softly against stone. Matthis stood with the others.
“You will follow,” the maester continued. “And you will listen.”
No one asked questions.
They were led from the room and down another set of corridors, these narrower, more utilitarian. The walls here were bare. The air smelled faintly of ink and dust. When they reached their destination, Matthis felt a small, inexplicable tightening in his chest.
The chamber was lined with shelves.
Books filled them from floor to ceiling, spines worn and uneven, some repaired so many times the original bindings were barely visible. A long table dominated the center of the room, scattered with parchment, quills, inkpots. Tall windows let in a steady, unforgiving light.

 

This, he realized, was not a place of leisure.
“This is where you will spend your mornings,” the maester said, moving to the head of the table. “Reading. Writing. Accounts. Histories where required. Letters when commanded.”
He gestured to the seats.
They sat.
The maester’s gaze moved from face to face, lingering only briefly on each. When it reached Matthis, it paused for a fraction longer, sharp and assessing.
“You,” he said. “Your name.”
“Matthis,” he replied, voice steady despite the attention.
The maester nodded, making a small mark on a parchment. “You read, I assume.”
The words were spoken mildly. Casually.

 

“Yes,” Matthis said, then hesitated. “Some.”
That hesitation did not go unnoticed.
“How much is some,” the maester asked.
“I can read,” Matthis said carefully. “Slowly.”
A quill scratched against parchment.
“And write.”
“I can write my letters,” he said. “Not quickly.”
The maester did not look up. “Why.”
The question landed harder than he expected.
Matthis swallowed. “I was not taught much beyond what was needed.”
Another mark.
The maester finally lifted his gaze. “You will be taught what is required now.”
It was not reassurance. It was instruction.
Parchment was slid toward him, along with a quill already dipped in ink.
“Copy,” the maester said, indicating a passage already written in a precise, practiced hand.
Matthis took the quill.
It felt heavier than he remembered. Or perhaps his hand was simply less steady than it had been at home, where mistakes were corrected gently, where no one watched quite so closely.
He began.

 

The scratch of quills filled the room, uneven and constant. Matthis focused on forming each letter, on keeping the lines straight, the spacing even. He lost track of time entirely, absorbed in the careful labor of it.
Until the maester spoke again.
“You are behind.”
Matthis looked up, startled. He glanced at the parchment. He had copied barely half the passage.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reflexively.
The maester’s expression did not change. “This is not an apology you offer me. It is an explanation you owe the crown.”
Matthis felt heat rise in his face. “I am doing my best.”
“I do not doubt it,” the maester replied. “That is not the same as adequacy.”
A few of the others shifted in their seats. No one looked at him directly.
“You will improve,” the maester continued, already turning away. “You have time. And incentive.”
The lesson continued.

 

They moved through sums next, then basic histories. Names of kings, dates of battles. The maester spoke in an even tone, indifferent to confusion, intolerant of inattention. Questions were permitted only after instruction had concluded. No one asked any.
By the time the bell rang to dismiss them, Matthis’s fingers ached, ink smudged along the side of his hand. His head throbbed with unfamiliar facts, half-formed and heavy.
As they filed out, the maester spoke again.
“Matthis. Stay.”
The others left without pause.
The maester waited until the door closed before turning back to him. “You are not uneducated,” he said. “You are undertrained.”
Matthis did not know how to respond.
“You will be corrected,” the maester went on. “Quickly, if possible. Slowly, if necessary. His Grace prefers usefulness.”
There it was again. The word that followed him like a shadow.
“Yes, maester,” Matthis said.
He was dismissed with a nod.
The corridors felt different on the way back. Less unfamiliar. Less forgiving.
By the time he returned to his chamber, the servants were already there, laying out fresh parchment, new clothes for the afternoon, a schedule neatly written in a hand far more confident than his own.
No one asked how the lesson had gone.
No one needed to.
As Matthis sat and stared at the page before him, the truth settled with quiet finality.
He had not been invited here to learn.
He had been placed here to be shaped.
And the shaping had already begun.

He'd know that the measter would want the thing back to see progress later on

 

---

The page did not resist him.
It lay flat and patient beneath his hands, parchment pale and unmarked, as though it had no expectations at all. The quill rested beside it, trimmed cleanly, its nib sharp. Ink waited in a small ceramic pot, dark and still.
Matthis stared at the space where the first word was meant to go.
Writing had always been worse.
Reading, at least, allowed him to linger. To move slowly, to sound things out in his head, to piece meaning together at his own pace. Writing demanded something else entirely. It demanded confidence. It demanded certainty in the shape of letters, in the pressure of hand and wrist, in the unspoken knowledge that what one set down would be judged as much for how it appeared as for what it said.
He dipped the quill.
The ink clung too heavily. He hesitated, then touched nib to parchment.
The first letter bloomed wider than he intended.
He corrected his grip, adjusted the angle, tried again. The second letter leaned. The third crowded the margin. He paused, jaw tightening, then continued, forcing himself onward rather than starting over. Starting over took time. Time, he was learning, was the only thing not afforded freely here.

 

A knock sounded at the door.
Not loud. Not urgent. Simply present.
“Yes,” Matthis said, lifting his head.
A servant entered, older than most he had seen so far, her hair bound neatly beneath a linen cap. She carried a small tray with a cup of watered wine and a plate of sliced apple.
“You are expected to write until the bell,” she said, setting the tray down beside him. Her voice was calm. Courteous. Entirely uninterested in his success or failure. “I was told you may forget to eat.”
“I will remember,” Matthis said quickly.
She glanced at the page.

 

Not long. Not obviously. Just enough.
“Of course,” she replied, and turned to leave.
The door closed softly behind her.
Matthis looked back at the parchment. At the uneven lines. At the careful effort that still looked, to his eye, wrong. Childish. Obvious in its struggle.
He wondered what she would say later. To whom. In what tone.
The thought lingered longer than the knock had.
When the bell finally rang, it startled him. He flinched, ink blotting the last word he had been forming. His breath caught, sharp and frustrated, but he did not curse. There was no one to hear it. No one to care.

 

Another knock followed shortly after, firmer this time.
A different servant entered, this one younger, with a narrow face and observant eyes. He wore the livery of the Red Keep, crimson and gold muted by use.
“You are to bring your work,” he said.
Matthis gathered the parchment carefully, holding it by the edges so as not to smudge the ink further. His hands felt clumsy, too large for the task, though he knew they were not. He followed the servant into the corridor, heart thudding with a dull, persistent unease.
They did not go far.

 

A smaller solar off one of the main passages had been prepared, its windows overlooking the inner ward. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating a low table where the maester sat once more, chain glinting faintly. Another man stood nearby, dressed richly but without ostentation. A courtier, Matthis realized. One of many. He did not recognize him.
“Here,” the servant said, placing the parchment on the table.
The maester did not acknowledge Matthis at first. He read in silence, eyes moving steadily across the page. The courtier leaned in slightly, hands clasped behind his back, gaze flicking between the parchment and Matthis with polite interest.
The silence stretched.
At last, the maester set the page down.
“You struggle with writing,” he said.

 

It was not an accusation. It was an observation, delivered as plainly as if he had remarked on the weather.
“Yes, maester,” Matthis replied.
“Your hand is untrained,” the maester continued. “Your spacing inconsistent. Your letters poorly balanced.”
Each flaw was named without emphasis. Without cruelty. That, somehow, made it worse.
“You were not educated to court standard,” the maester concluded.
The courtier smiled faintly.
“That can be corrected,” he said smoothly. “Of course. Many boys arrive with deficiencies. One must adjust.”
Matthis nodded, unsure whether agreement was expected.
“We will correct that deficiency,” the courtier added, tone light. “You are young. There is time.”

 

The maester made another mark on his parchment.
“Additional instruction will be added to your afternoons,” he said. “Copywork. Dictation. Repetition.”
“Yes, maester,” Matthis said again.
The courtier tilted his head, studying him with mild curiosity. “You read better than you write.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“That is common,” the man said. “Writing requires discipline. It will come.”
He spoke as though offering comfort. As though the matter were trivial.

 

The maester slid the parchment aside. “You are dismissed.”
Matthis bowed, as he had been taught, and turned to leave.
Behind him, he heard the scratch of quill against parchment. Not his own.
The corridor outside felt narrower than before. Or perhaps he was simply more aware of it now. Of the way servants paused as he passed. Of the way guards glanced at him and then away, expressions neutral, unreadable.
A different servant intercepted him before he reached his chamber. This one carried a folded bundle of cloth.
“Your lessons will run later now,” she said, handing it to him. “You will dine after the others.”

 

“Oh,” Matthis said. The word escaped before he could stop it.
She smiled politely. “So that you are not rushed.”
Of course.
He took the bundle and continued on.
The room he returned to looked unchanged. The same narrow bed. The same window. The same table now cleared of parchment. Only the faint smell of ink lingered, sharp and unmistakable.
He set the bundle down and unfolded it.
More writing tools. Extra parchment. A slate and chalk.
Provision. Accommodation.
Preparation.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands. Ink still stained the side of one finger, a dark crescent he could not quite scrub away. He rubbed at it absently, feeling the roughness of skin.
Someone would know by now.

 

Not because he had failed spectacularly. Not because anyone had laughed or raised their voice. But because it had been noted. Catalogued. Adjusted for.
He imagined the knowledge moving through the Keep like a quiet current. Passed from maester to courtier to servant. A simple truth, shared without malice.
The boy struggles with writing.
It would shape expectations. Lower them in some places. Raise them in others. He would be given simpler tasks. More supervision. More correction.
More watching.
That evening, when he dined alone at the small table in his chamber, the servant lingered a moment longer than necessary as she poured his wine.
“You did well today,” she said, kindly.
Matthis looked up at her, surprised.
She smiled again, the same careful curve of lips. “It will come with time.”
Then she left.

 

The door closed.
Matthis sat in the quiet and ate slowly, each bite heavy in his mouth.
No one had mocked him.
No one had needed to.
The Red Keep did not bruise with blows. It pressed. It shaped. It made room for weakness only so it could be accounted for.
When he lay down that night, the window dark, the sounds of the castle muted and distant, Matthis understood something with a clarity that hurt.
Mercy would have been open cruelty.
This was something else entirely.
---

 

Morning came softly again, insinuating itself into the chamber without asking leave.
Matthis woke before the door opened this time. He lay still, eyes fixed on the pale rectangle of light creeping across the stone floor, listening to the Red Keep breathe. Somewhere far below, a gate creaked. Somewhere closer, boots crossed stone in steady rhythm. The castle never slept. It only rested its eyes.
The door opened.

 

Servants entered as they had the day before, efficient and composed, as if time had folded neatly back upon itself. There was no greeting this morning. Only motion.
“Sit,” one said gently.
Matthis obeyed.
They washed his face and hands with water scented faintly with herbs. Not the sharp medicinal smell he remembered from home, but something softer. Lavender, perhaps. Rosemary. They combed his hair, smoothing it into a style simple enough to appear effortless. He thanked them when they passed him garments, his voice quiet but sincere.
One of the younger servants blinked at that, surprised, then smiled before she could stop herself.

 

The clothes were again neutral. Gray wool layered over fine linen. Leather boots polished to a dull sheen. Everything fit. Everything belonged to him only as long as he remained here.
As they dressed him, Matthis felt the faint, familiar tightening in his chest that came before speech, before reaching outward. He did it anyway.

 

“Thank you,” he said, once more.
“You are welcome, my lord,” the older servant replied, automatically.
The title felt strange. It always did.
When they were done, they stepped aside, allowing him to rise. A guard waited outside, as expected, but this time he was not led directly away. Instead, he was escorted through a different set of corridors, brighter and broader, their walls hung with fresh banners that stirred slightly in the draft.
The sound reached him before the sight did.
Laughter.

 

Not the sharp bark of courtiers or the brittle amusement of nobles, but something warmer. Familiar.
Matthis stopped short, breath catching.
“Ser Alaric,” he said, the name leaving him before thought could intervene.
The knight turned at once.
Ser Alaric looked as he always had to Matthis. Tall and broad-shouldered, his hair already threaded with gray despite his years, his armor worn smooth at the edges from long use. His face broke into a smile so immediate and unguarded that Matthis felt his throat tighten painfully.
“Gods,” Alaric said, striding forward. “There you are.”
They did not bow. They did not hesitate.

 

Alaric pulled him into a fierce embrace, one hand pressing firmly between Matthis’s shoulder blades, the other gripping the back of his head with a familiarity that spoke of years rather than days. Matthis clutched at his surcoat without thinking, burying his face briefly against the familiar leather and steel scent of him.
“I thought they’d hidden you away in some tower,” Alaric murmured.
“They did,” Matthis replied, voice muffled. “Just not a high one.”
Alaric huffed a quiet laugh and drew back, hands still resting on Matthis’s shoulders as he studied him with a soldier’s eye.
“They feeding you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Sleeping?”

 

“Some.”
Alaric nodded, as if these answers confirmed something he had already suspected. His expression softened.
“I asked after you,” he said more quietly. “They told me you were occupied.”
Matthis looked down. “I was.”
Alaric followed his gaze to the faint ink stain still ghosting his finger. He said nothing. He did not need to.
The guard shifted nearby, clearing his throat.
“Come,” Alaric said briskly, stepping aside. “We’ll walk.”
They moved together down the corridor, their pace easy, unhurried. For the first time since his arrival, Matthis felt as though the walls had receded slightly.
“How is it?” Alaric asked, not looking at him.
Matthis considered the question carefully. “Quiet,” he said at last. “Loud in other ways.”

 

Alaric snorted. “That sounds like court.”
They rounded a corner and nearly collided with a small procession moving the opposite way. Guards in crimson cloaks parted smoothly, revealing the man at their center.
Tyrion Lannister walked with a cane in one hand, his stride confident despite his stature. He was shorter than Matthis had expected, his head barely reaching Alaric’s shoulder, but there was nothing small about him otherwise. His hair fell in pale curls around a sharp, clever face, one eye dark with intelligence, the other reflecting light oddly. His clothes were rich without being ostentatious, deep wine-colored velvet trimmed in gold thread.
He stopped, lips curving into a smile as his gaze flicked between them.

 

“Well,” Tyrion said. “This is a pleasant sight. A knight and his charge reunited. Very moving.”
Alaric bowed, stiff but proper. “My lord.”
Matthis followed suit, a beat slower.
Tyrion’s eyes lingered on him. Not rudely. Not briefly.
“Ah,” Tyrion said softly. “You must be the boy.”
Matthis felt heat rise in his cheeks. “My lord.”
Tyrion tilted his head, studying him openly now. “Those eyes are not subtle,” he observed. “No wonder my nephew noticed.”

 

Alaric stiffened beside him, but Tyrion raised a hand mildly.
“Do not look so grim, Ser,” he said. “I only mean that difference draws attention. Whether one desires it or not.”
His gaze returned to Matthis. “You will learn that quickly here. People will look. They always do.”
Matthis hesitated. “You are looked at too,” he said, then immediately wished he could take it back.
Tyrion laughed. Not offended. Amused.
“Constantly,” he agreed. “For my height. For your eyes. The world is endlessly creative in finding reasons to stare.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “The trick is deciding whether to let it bother you.”
Matthis absorbed that in silence.
Tyrion straightened. “You will do well,” he said lightly. “You are quiet. Observant. Those are valuable traits.”
He tapped his cane once against the stone. “Just remember. In this place, being noticed is rarely the same as being seen.”
With that, he inclined his head and continued on his way, guards flowing around him like water.
Alaric watched him go, then exhaled slowly.
“That one,” he muttered. “Sharp as a blade.”
Matthis nodded. “He was kind.”
Alaric glanced down at him. “That is not something one often says of Lannisters.”

 

They resumed walking.
They spoke of small things then. Of the road that had brought them here. Of Matthis’s siblings. Alaric listened as Matthis spoke of his little brothers, forever underfoot, of his sister with her quick laugh and quicker temper. Of the older sister who was gone, her absence still a hollow ache that never quite closed.
“They would like it here,” Matthis said softly. “The colors. The noise.”
Alaric said nothing. He did not need to.
When they parted again, it was with reluctance but understanding. Duties waited. Schedules pressed.
As Matthis returned to his chamber, escorted once more by silent guards, the castle seemed subtly altered. Not kinder. Not gentler.
But known.
He had been dressed. Corrected. Observed. Reunited.
Seen.
And as the door closed behind him, Matthis understood that even moments of warmth were part of the shaping.
Especially those.

---

 

They resumed walking.
The corridor widened as they went, the ceiling lifting, the stone brightening where sunlight filtered through high arched windows. The Red Keep shifted its face again, trading severity for splendor with the ease of long practice. Banners stirred lazily overhead, their colors deep and saturated in the morning light.
Alaric’s stride slowed without him seeming to notice it.
“Where are we going?” Matthis asked quietly.
“Nowhere you are not allowed to be,” Alaric replied. “That is the trick of this place.”
They turned a corner and the air changed.
It grew cooler, touched with green. Damp earth and crushed leaves softened the sharp mineral scent of stone. Ahead, iron gates stood open, worked into shapes of vines and thorns. Beyond them, sunlight spilled freely.
The gardens.

 

Matthis stopped outright.
The space opened before him like a held breath released. Terraces layered downward in careful symmetry, stone paths winding between beds of flowers in riotous color. Pale roses climbed trellises. Dark green hedges were cut into precise shapes that still felt alive rather than controlled. Fountains murmured softly, water slipping over carved lips into shallow basins where lilies floated.
Birdsong threaded through it all, light and persistent.
Matthis stared.

 

“I did not know,” he said, then fell silent again, words abandoned in favor of sight.
Alaric watched him instead of the garden.
“I should have guessed,” he said after a moment.
Matthis blinked and looked up. “Guessed what?”
“That this would stop you cold.”
He gestured vaguely at the greenery. “You always did this.”
“Did what?”
“Forgot the world existed when there were leaves to look at,” Alaric said.

 

A memory surfaced unbidden. Matthis as a child, no more than six, crouched by a stream with mud on his knees and a crown of weeds in his hair. Matthis slipping away from camp to follow the sound of birds. Matthis holding a broken-winged sparrow with hands so careful it was as though he feared breathing might harm it.

 

“I liked knowing things were growing,” Matthis said slowly. “Even when everything else stayed the same.”
Alaric nodded once. “I remember.”
They stepped into the garden.

 

The stone beneath Matthis’s boots was warm already. Sunlight brushed his face without obstruction, brighter than anything that reached his chamber. He moved instinctively toward a bed of blue and white flowers, fingers hovering just above the petals without touching.
“They let people walk here,” he said, half to himself.
“They let people be seen here,” Alaric corrected.
Matthis smiled faintly.

 

A gardener knelt nearby, sleeves rolled, hands deep in soil. He did not look up as they passed. Somewhere water splashed rhythmically. The sound felt almost unreal after days of muffled echoes.
Alaric stopped near a low wall overlooking the lower terraces.
“You used to ask why men built walls when the world already knew how to hold itself together,” he said.
Matthis huffed softly. “I was annoying.”
“You were curious,” Alaric replied. “That worried people more.”

 

Matthis turned to respond.
Heavy footsteps echoed behind them.
Not hurried. Not uncertain. Measured. The sound of authority made physical.
Alaric straightened at once, one hand moving subtly behind his back. Matthis followed his gaze.
Queen Cersei Lannister approached with her retinue flowing around her like a living mantle. Gold caught the sun in her hair, woven into a style that was both regal and severe. Her gown shimmered pale green and gold, fabric fine enough to move like water when she walked. Guards flanked her. Ladies followed. Power walked with her, unspoken and absolute.
She stopped a few paces away.
“Ser Alaric,” she said pleasantly. “You have found a quieter corner.”
“My queen,” Alaric replied, bowing deeply.
Matthis bowed as well, heart thudding harder now, his awareness sharpening painfully.

 

Cersei’s gaze slid to him.
Ah.
She smiled.
Not warmly. Not cruelly. Precisely.
“So this is him,” she said.
Matthis felt the weight of the words. Not his name. Not his station. Him.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Alaric said.
Cersei stepped closer, her skirts whispering over stone. She circled Matthis slowly, openly, as if he were a curiosity placed for inspection.
“You look younger in daylight,” she observed. “Most boys do.”
Matthis held himself still. He remembered Tyrion’s words. Difference draws attention.
Her eyes caught his.

 

The moment sharpened.
“My,” she said softly. “They are striking.”
She reached out, lifted his chin with two fingers before he could stop himself from flinching. Her touch was light. Her grip was not.
“Beautiful,” she continued, thoughtfully. “In an unsettling way.”
She released him.
“Joffrey has always had an eye for such things.”
Alaric’s jaw tightened. “The boy has shown no disrespect, Your Grace.”
“I did not suggest he had,” Cersei replied smoothly.
She turned her attention fully to Alaric now.
“My son finds novelty exhausting unless it amuses him,” she said. “You will ensure the boy does not become tiresome.”

 

Alaric inclined his head. “I will ensure he conducts himself properly.”
Cersei smiled again, thin and knowing.
“Good. It would be a shame if his… uniqueness became a liability.”
Her gaze returned to Matthis, lingering just long enough to remind him that this was not a compliment. It was a calculation.
“Enjoy the gardens,” she said lightly. “They are meant to soothe.”
Then she was past them, her presence receding without diminishing, the air feeling strangely emptier in her wake.
Matthis exhaled only after she was gone.
Alaric watched her disappear between the hedges, his expression unreadable.

 

“She frightens me,” Matthis said quietly.
“She should,” Alaric replied. “That means you are paying attention.”
They stood in silence for a moment longer, the garden’s sounds returning cautiously, as if testing whether it was safe.
“She called my eyes beautiful,” Matthis said.
Alaric snorted. “She called them useful.”
Matthis nodded slowly. “You were right.”
Alaric glanced down at him.
“About?”
“This place,” Matthis said. “Nothing is ever just what it seems.”
Alaric rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, firm and grounding.
“You are learning,” he said.
They turned back toward the Keep together, the garden closing behind them like a memory already being filed away.
As they walked, Matthis did not look back.
He already knew how easily beauty could be used against you here.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Under Gentle Watch

 

The words had not been spoken loudly. They had not needed to be.
Matthis lay on his side with the letter held close to his chest, the thin parchment creased where his fingers had tightened without his noticing. The room was quiet in the way the Red Keep preferred its occupants to be. Not empty of sound, never that, but hushed and contained. Somewhere beyond the walls, a door closed. Somewhere below, a guard’s steps passed and faded. The stone did not answer him. It never did.

 

He shifted slightly, curling in on himself as though that might make the chamber smaller, more manageable. The narrow bed pressed against his back. The cold stone met his knees. Nothing gave way.
Stokeworth felt impossibly far away.
He tried to picture it as he had each night since arriving. The low hills rolling gently beneath an open sky. Fields broken by hedgerows and thin stands of trees. The smell of earth after rain, rich and dark, clinging to boots and hems. The way the air tasted cleaner the farther one walked from the main road, less dust, less smoke. He could almost see the yard behind the house, trampled to hard-packed dirt by years of feet and play.

 

He saw his brothers there as they always were.
Tomas first, standing too straight, his brow drawn in concentration as though the world were a puzzle that would only behave if he stared at it hard enough. Too serious for his age, always watching, always listening. Tomas liked rules. He liked knowing where he stood.
Lyonel came next in Matthis’s mind, already in motion, already scowling. He was quick-tempered and quicker to forgive, his anger flaring bright and brief like summer lightning. Lyonel never stayed upset long, never held a grudge unless he thought it would be funny to pretend he did.
And Owen.
The thought of him made Matthis’s throat tighten. Little Owen, still young enough to believe the world would bend if he wanted it badly enough. Owen with his scraped knuckles and earnest eyes, forever trailing after Matthis like a shadow. He insisted on following even when told no, clutching wooden swords carved too large for his hands and declaring himself a knight whenever anyone would listen. Owen dreamed loudly. He always had.
Matthis pressed his lips together.
And Elia.

 

Her name came softer, heavier all at once. His little sister’s laugh rose unbidden in his memory, high and bright, impossible to ignore. Elia laughed with her whole body. She threw her head back and dared the world to join her. She braided flowers into her hair and crowned herself a queen, demanding bows from anyone who passed and sulking terribly when she did not get them. She would have loved the banners here, the colors and silk and pageantry. She would have hated the stone.
He swallowed.
The letter crinkled faintly as he unfolded it again, smoothing it carefully against the blanket. His eyes moved over the words with deliberate care. Reading still demanded his full attention. Each line had to be followed patiently, each word sounded out in his head before meaning settled.
The hand was his mother’s, neat and rounded, careful not to crowd the page.
My sweet boy, it began. We hope this letter finds you safe and well. Your father says the road to King’s Landing must be full of wonders, and I pray he is right. We think of you each day.
Matthis paused, blinking once.
He read on, slower still.
The boys miss you. Tomas tries not to show it, but he asks after you often. Lyonel swore he would not eat his supper the first night you were gone, though he relented by morning. Owen insists he will ride south to you one day, though we have explained the distance to him many times.
A faint, painful smile tugged at his mouth.
Elia sends her love. She made a crown of reeds yesterday and declared herself Lady of the Pond. She asked if King Robert (not knowing king robert had passed)

would bow to her when she visits.
The words blurred for a moment. Matthis breathed through it and continued.
We are proud of you, his father’s hand added in firmer strokes beneath. Whatever you are asked to do, do it with honor. Remember who you are, and where you come from. We pray the gods keep you.
Matthis finished the letter and sat very still.
He folded the parchment carefully, aligning the edges just so, and tucked it beneath his pillow. The weight of it there felt grounding. Proof that Stokeworth existed beyond memory. That his family had not been swallowed by distance simply because the Red Keep loomed larger.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat.
The door opened. A servant stepped inside, her hands folded neatly before her. She did not look at the bed. She did not look at the window.
“You are expected,” she said.
Matthis rose at once, smoothing his clothes as he went. He followed her into the corridor, the letter’s words echoing quietly in his mind as stone replaced grass and torchlight replaced sky.

 

The library lay deep within the Keep, removed from the brighter corridors of court. The air changed as they descended, cooler and drier, carrying the faint scent of dust and old ink. When the doors opened, Matthis felt the familiar tightening in his chest.
Shelves rose on all sides, heavy with books of every size and age. Some were bound in cracked leather, others in cloth faded to the color of bone. A long table occupied the center of the chamber, already laid with parchment and quills. Tall windows admitted a steady wash of pale light that left nowhere to hide.
The maester was there when Matthis entered, as always. He stood at the table, sorting papers with practiced efficiency.
“You are late by a minute,” the maester said without looking up.

 

“I’m sorry, maester,” Matthis replied.
The maester glanced at him then, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Sit.”
Matthis obeyed, taking his place among the others. The scrape of chairs against stone echoed briefly, then fell away.
“Continue where you left off,” the maester instructed.
Parchment was slid toward him. The passage was familiar now. He had copied it twice already. His hand still cramped before the end, his letters still leaned when he grew tired, but they were steadier than they had been a week ago.
He dipped the quill and began.
The room filled with the soft, uneven sound of writing. Matthis focused on the work. On forming each letter with care. On keeping his spacing even. He moved more slowly than the others, but he did not stop.
“Better,” the maester said eventually, pausing beside him. “You are improving.”

 

The words landed more heavily than praise ever had.
“Thank you, maester,” Matthis said quietly.
The maester nodded once and moved on.
They read after that. Passages from histories, from treaties, from letters written long before Matthis had been born. He read aloud when called upon, his voice steady though his pace lagged. No one laughed. No one rushed him.

 

When the lesson ended, Matthis’s fingers ached and his eyes burned faintly from the effort. He gathered his things carefully, mindful of the watchful silence that lingered even as the room emptied.
As he rose to leave, the maester spoke again.
“You may keep the book,” he said, indicating the volume Matthis had been reading. “Bring it back tomorrow.”
Matthis blinked. “Yes, maester.”

 

He carried the book against his chest as he left the library, its weight solid and real. In the corridor beyond, the castle resumed its quiet, ceaseless motion.
He did not know yet what it meant to be allowed small mercies here. He only knew that improvement was being noted, measured, and expected to continue.
And somewhere beneath his pillow, his family’s words waited, reminding him that he was still someone beyond what the Red Keep intended to make of him.

 

---

 

The summons came without warning and without explanation.
Matthis was halfway through a second reading of the borrowed book when a guard appeared at his door, helm tucked beneath his arm, expression politely blank. He did not enter. He did not bow.
“You will attend court,” he said.
The words sat oddly in the air. Attend implied participation. Presence. Choice.

 

Matthis closed the book carefully and set it aside.
“Yes,” he replied.
The guard waited while he straightened his clothes, while he smoothed his hair with his hands. He did not rush him, but neither did he offer reassurance. When Matthis stepped into the corridor, the guard fell in beside him and began walking at once.
They did not speak.

 

The Red Keep revealed itself differently when one was being brought to court. Corridors widened. Ceilings lifted. Light grew more deliberate, channeled through high windows and pale stone so that it fell exactly where it was meant to. Servants hurried past with lowered eyes. Lords and ladies moved in small clusters, their voices rising and falling like distant surf.

 

Matthis kept his gaze forward.
The throne room announced itself long before they reached it. Sound gathered there. Not noise, not quite, but the layered murmur of many voices speaking carefully. Laughter punctured it now and then, sharp and brief. Boots scraped. Silk whispered. Somewhere metal chimed against metal.

The doors opened.
The Iron Throne dominated the far end of the hall, a jagged silhouette of blades and shadows rising behind the king. Joffrey sat upon it like a jewel set too high, young and pale and sharp-eyed, his crown catching the light as he shifted. Cersei sat nearby, composed and watchful, her posture immaculate. The court arranged itself in careful arcs around them, each person knowing precisely where to stand.

 

Matthis hesitated just inside the threshold.
A cluster of boys stood off to one side of the hall, near a carved pillar depicting some long-dead king in triumph. They were dressed much as he was. Neutral. Unclaimed. Some stood straighter than others. Some looked down. All were quiet.
The guard guided him there and stepped away.
Matthis took his place at the edge of the group, hands clasped loosely before him. He felt too tall, then too small, then simply wrong. The stone beneath his boots seemed suddenly uneven.

 

A girl stood nearest him. She was older, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, her hair arranged neatly, her gown pale blue and plainly cut but well made. She glanced at him once, then again, her eyes lingering with polite curiosity.
“You bow when the king looks this way,” she murmured without turning her head. “Not before. Not after.”
Matthis swallowed. “Thank you.”
She nodded, satisfied, and looked away.
Sansa Stark did not smile.

 

The court continued around them as though the wards were not there at all. Lords approached the throne, spoke, withdrew. Petitions were heard and dismissed. A knight was praised. Another was rebuked. Applause rippled once, then died quickly.
Matthis watched, careful to keep his face still.
Joffrey laughed at something a man said, the sound bright and sharp. It cut through the hall and drew every eye. The king leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, chin tilted.

 

His gaze drifted.
It passed over the wards once, quickly. Then again, slower.
Matthis felt it settle on him like a hand.
He did not move.
He remembered the garden. Alaric’s voice. Be still.
Joffrey did not speak. He did not gesture. He simply watched for a long, uncomfortable moment, his head cocked slightly as though assessing something only he could see.

 

The court noticed.
Conversation faltered near the center of the hall. A lord cleared his throat too loudly. Someone laughed a fraction too late. The subtle machinery of attention adjusted itself, orienting around the king’s interest.
Cersei followed her son’s gaze.
Her eyes flicked to Matthis and lingered only briefly before she looked away again, her expression unchanged. She said nothing. That silence felt deliberate.

 

The Hound stood near the steps of the throne, arms crossed, his bulk casting a long shadow. His helm was off, his scarred face open to the room without apology. His eyes tracked movement with lazy precision. When they brushed past Matthis, they did not linger. But they did not soften either.
Matthis’s shoulders tightened despite himself.
Time stretched.

 

He did not know how long they stood there. Minutes blurred together. His feet began to ache. His hands tingled faintly where he held them clasped.
Joffrey’s attention drifted elsewhere at last, drawn back to a courtier who had stepped forward with a gift. The tension in the hall eased, subtle but unmistakable.
Matthis exhaled slowly.
He did not realize how rigid he had been until the moment passed.

 

Sansa shifted her weight slightly, careful not to draw notice.
“He does that,” she said quietly. “Looks. Waits.”
Matthis nodded. He did not trust his voice.
They remained.
A woman near the front of the hall raised her voice too sharply in protest at a ruling. The sound carried. Joffrey’s smile vanished. He leaned back against the throne, one hand tightening on the armrest.
“Enough,” he said.

 

The word cracked like a whip.
The woman fell silent at once, face pale.
Matthis flinched before he could stop himself.
The Hound’s gaze flicked to him then, brief and unreadable.
The court moved on.
As the morning wore on, Matthis began to understand the shape of it. Who spoke freely. Who chose their words with care. Who was never contradicted. He saw how laughter could be weapon or shield. How silence could condemn as surely as accusation.

 

He said nothing.
Once, instinct betrayed him.
A lord spoke dismissively of the Riverlands, his tone careless, his smile smug. Matthis thought of home. Of fields. Of people who would never stand in this hall. The injustice of it rose hot and sudden in his chest.
His mouth opened.
Sansa’s hand brushed his sleeve.
Not hard. Not urgent. Just enough.
Matthis closed his mouth.

 

The lord continued unchallenged. Joffrey looked amused. The moment passed.
His heart pounded painfully against his ribs. He stared at the stone floor until the heat in his face cooled.
He learned.
When the court finally dispersed, it happened all at once. Conversations broke apart. The hall emptied in controlled streams. The king rose and vanished through a side door, Cersei following. Guards shifted. Servants rushed forward to collect abandoned cups and scrolls.

 

The wards remained where they were until told otherwise.
When dismissal came, it was brief and impersonal.
They were escorted out through a different passage than the one they had entered. Narrower. Less grand. The contrast was jarring.
Sansa walked beside him for a few steps.
“You did well,” she said quietly.
“I did nothing,” Matthis replied.

 

She gave a small, sad smile. “That is often best.”
They parted without ceremony.
As Matthis was led back toward his chambers, the echo of the throne room lingered in his ears. The sound of Joffrey’s laughter. The hush that followed his displeasure. The way the room had shifted around a single glance.
He understood now what Alaric had meant.
Visibility was not safety. It was currency.
Others spent it for him. Measured it. Weighed it. Decided when it would be used and when it would be withheld.
He reached his door and paused.

 

For a moment, he considered the letter beneath his pillow. The warmth of remembered voices. The freedom of speaking without calculation.
Then he stepped inside.
When the door closed, Matthis stood very still.
He did not speak.
He was beginning to learn when silence was the only shield he had.

 

The knock came later that same day.
Not the careful, almost apologetic sound of a servant seeking permission, but something firmer. Measured. Certain. The sort of knock that assumed the door would open because it always did.

 

Matthis looked up from the edge of his bed, the borrowed book resting open in his lap. He had been rereading the same page for some time, his eyes moving over the words without fully taking them in. The castle had taught him that anticipation could be more exhausting than action.
He closed the book and stood.
When he opened the door, two guards waited in the corridor. Gold cloaks again. Their mail caught the torchlight in dull flashes. One of them inclined his head, not quite a bow.
“The king has sent for you,” he said.
Not summoned. Not ordered.
Sent for.
“Yes,” Matthis replied.

 

He did not ask why. He did not ask where. He followed.
The walk felt shorter this time, though he suspected it was not. Familiarity had crept in like damp through stone, subtle and unwelcome. He knew which corridors sloped gently downward, which ones funneled sound so that footsteps carried farther than they should. He knew where servants pressed themselves flatter to the walls and where they did not bother to look up at all.
They did not bring him to the throne room.
Instead, they turned away from the public halls and led him upward, past doors carved with lions and crowned stag heads, into a quieter wing of the Keep. The air was warmer here, scented faintly with smoke and polish. Windows were fewer, but larger, admitting light that felt intentional rather than incidental.

 

They stopped before a door bound in dark iron.
One guard knocked once.
“Enter,” came Joffrey’s voice, sharp and unmistakable.
The guards opened the door and stepped back.
Matthis went in alone.
The chamber was not large, but it was rich. A low fire burned in the hearth, steady and controlled. A table stood near the windows, scattered with cups and small carved figures, soldiers and animals worn smooth by handling. Heavy curtains framed the glass, though they were drawn back to reveal the city beyond. King’s Landing sprawled beneath the windows, pale roofs and narrow streets descending toward the river.

 

Joffrey stood near the table, his crown absent but his presence unchanged. He wore crimson, as he often did, the color vivid against his pale skin. He turned when Matthis entered and smiled as though pleased by the sight.
“You came quickly,” the king said.
“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

Joffrey watched him bow, his expression thoughtful. “You always do.”
Matthis straightened and waited.
Joffrey did not immediately speak again. He moved instead, circling the table, fingers brushing absently against the carved figures. His eyes never left Matthis.
“You stood very still today,” Joffrey said at last. “At court.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“You did not speak.”

 

“No, Your Grace.”
Joffrey smiled faintly. “Good.”
He stepped closer, closing the distance with lazy confidence. Matthis felt it at once, the narrowing of space, the sense of being examined not as a person but as something newly acquired.

 

“I know your name,” Joffrey said. “Matthis.”
Matthis inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“But that is all I know,” Joffrey continued. “No great house. No banners whispered about in corners. No one tells me where you are from.”
He leaned in slightly. “Tell me.”
Matthis’s chest tightened. This was not a command he could refuse, but neither was it one he could answer carelessly.

 

“I am from the crownlands,” he said slowly.
Joffrey’s brows knit in faint irritation. “That is not an answer. The crownlands are full of people.”
Matthis swallowed. “My house is small, Your Grace.”
Joffrey laughed softly. “They always are.”
He took another step closer. The warmth of the hearth pressed at Matthis’s back now, though he was not close enough to feel its heat directly.
“What is it called?” Joffrey asked.

 

“Stokeworth,” Matthis said.
The name landed between them and lay there, unimpressive and plain.
Joffrey considered it. “Stokeworth,” he repeated, testing the sound. “I have heard it. Not often.”
“No, Your Grace.”
“You did not say lord,” Joffrey observed.
“My father is sworn, not titled,” Matthis replied.
Joffrey’s smile sharpened. “Then you are even smaller than I thought.”

 

He reached out suddenly, two fingers lifting Matthis’s chin without warning. Not roughly, but without permission. Matthis froze, every instinct screaming to pull away and every lesson he had learned insisting that he must not.
Joffrey tilted his face this way and that, studying him closely.
“You have very steady eyes,” he said again. “Most boys blink.”
Matthis did not. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain the king must hear it.
“Do you know why I like that?” Joffrey asked.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Because it means you are listening,” Joffrey said. “And because it means you are careful.”

 

He leaned closer, their faces now only inches apart. Matthis could smell wine and spice, could see the faint flush high on Joffrey’s cheekbones.
“Careful boys live longer,” the king went on lightly.
He released Matthis’s chin and stepped back as though the inspection were complete.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to one of the chairs.
Matthis obeyed at once.
Joffrey remained standing.
“You have been summoned often today,” Joffrey said casually, as though commenting on the weather. “Does that tire you?”
The question caught Matthis off guard. Honesty hovered dangerously close.

 

“I am glad to be of use, Your Grace,” he said instead.
Joffrey laughed. “That was not an answer.”
Matthis lowered his eyes. “I do not mind,” he said.
Joffrey watched him for a long moment. “You mind,” he said finally. “But you do not complain. That is better.”
He reached down and picked up one of the carved figures, a little knight astride a horse. He rolled it across the table, then stopped it with one finger.
“Stand,” he said again.
Matthis rose.
“Turn your hands over.”
He did.
Joffrey examined them, the faint ink stains from his lessons, the calluses earned from work done before he had ever seen the Red Keep.
“You work,” Joffrey said. It was not a question.
“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

“You learn to read,” the king continued. “Slowly.”
Matthis felt heat rise to his face. “I am improving.”
“I know,” Joffrey said. “I am told these things.”
That knowledge settled heavily.
Joffrey stepped closer again, his voice lowering. “When I ask for you, you come. When I speak, you listen. When I look at you, you stay still.”
He smiled. “You do all of this very well.”
Matthis said nothing.
Joffrey leaned in one last time, close enough that Matthis felt the words more than heard them.
“You listen well,” the king said.
The approval sat wrong in Matthis’s chest. It was warmer than cruelty, softer, and far more dangerous.
“You may go,” Joffrey added, already turning away. “I will want you again.

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Matthis said.
He backed toward the door and left.
Only when it closed behind him did he realize his hands were trembling.
He folded them together until they stilled.
He was learning.
That, more than anything, frightened him.

 

The afternoon light found him eventually.
It crept through the narrow window of his chamber in thin bands, pale gold slipping across the floor and climbing the wall inch by inch. Matthis sat on the edge of the bed long after the door had closed behind him, his hands folded together in his lap, his breathing measured. The room felt smaller now, as though it had learned something about him and adjusted accordingly.

 

He rose when the trembling in his fingers finally eased.
The borrowed book lay where he had left it, its spine cracked open at the place he had lost earlier. He did not return to it. Instead, he crossed the chamber and washed his hands in the basin, watching the water cloud briefly before running clear. He dried them carefully and smoothed his sleeves.
When he stepped into the corridor, the guards were already there. They always were. This time, he did not flinch at the sight of them.

 

“Ser Alaric,” he said later, standing at the edge of a brighter passage where the stone gave way to painted walls and tall windows. The knight had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his helm tucked beneath one arm. He straightened at once when he saw Matthis.
“There you are,” Alaric said. “I was beginning to think they’d misplaced you.”

 

Matthis managed a small smile. “May I ask something?”
Alaric’s brows drew together slightly. “You may ask.”
“May we leave the Keep,” Matthis said. “Just for a little while.”
The knight did not answer immediately. He glanced down the corridor, then back at Matthis, his expression careful.
“King’s Landing,” Alaric said. It was not a question.
“Yes,” Matthis replied. “I have never seen it.”
Alaric exhaled through his nose. “There is a great deal in this city that a boy does not need to see.”
“I know,” Matthis said. He hesitated, then added quietly, “But I would like to.”

 

Something in his tone shifted. Alaric studied him more closely, his gaze lingering in the way of someone measuring what had changed since last they spoke.
“At least tell me you are not bored,” Alaric said at last.
Matthis shook his head. “No.”
“Good,” Alaric muttered. He pushed off the wall. “Very well. We will not go far.”

They passed through the gates an hour later, the city unfolding before them in a rush of sound and movement that made the Red Keep feel suddenly distant and unreal. King’s Landing smelled of many things all at once. Smoke and salt and refuse. Bread baking somewhere nearby. Tanned leather. The faint metallic tang of blood carried on the breeze from a butcher’s stall farther down the street.
Matthis slowed without meaning to, his eyes wide as he took it in.

 

The streets twisted and narrowed, buildings leaning close as though conspiring. Balconies overflowed with drying laundry. Shop fronts burst with color. Red apples stacked high in wooden crates. Bolts of cloth hung like banners from doorways. A man shouted prices at no one in particular. Somewhere a bell rang.
Alaric stayed close, one hand never far from his sword.
“Stay where I can see you,” he said. “And if I tell you to move, you move.”

 

“Yes,” Matthis said.
They walked slowly, Alaric guiding them through the crowds with practiced ease. People glanced at them as they passed. Some curious. Some wary. A few lingered longer than was polite.
Matthis felt it. The weight of eyes. The familiar tightening in his chest.
But it did not sharpen into panic this time.

 

A woman selling ribbons paused mid-call as he passed, her gaze catching on him with open interest. “Those eyes,” she said, not unkindly. “Like glass.”
Matthis flushed, his steps faltering for a moment.
Alaric shot her a look sharp enough to cut. “Mind your business.”
The woman laughed and turned back to her stall.
Matthis looked down, then up again. The street did not swallow him. It kept moving. He kept walking.
They passed a smithy where sparks flew bright and brief against the dark mouth of the forge. The clang of metal rang through the street, rhythmic and forceful. Farther on, a group of children ran past them, shrieking with laughter, one of them wielding a stick like a sword.

 

Owen would have fit right in, Matthis thought. He smiled before he could stop himself.
Alaric noticed. “You like it,” he said.
“Yes,” Matthis admitted. “It is loud.”

 

“That it is,” Alaric agreed. “And it will not apologize for it.”
They stopped before a small stall tucked between a baker and a seller of charms. Necklaces hung from hooks along the wooden frame, strings of beads and bits of polished stone catching the light. One piece in particular drew Matthis’s attention.
It was simple. A thin leather cord with a small pendant at its center, carved from pale stone shot through with faint blue veins. When the light struck it just so, the color deepened, like water over white sand.
Matthis reached toward it, then hesitated.
“You may look,” the seller said, smiling. He was an older man with ink-stained fingers and kind eyes. “It will not bite.”
Matthis lifted the necklace carefully. The stone was cool against his palm.
“What is it,” he asked.

 

“River stone,” the man replied. “Polished smooth by time. Brought down from the hills.”
Matthis turned it over. It felt solid. Unassuming. Enduring.
Alaric watched him. “Do you want it?”
Matthis glanced up, startled. “I do not need anything.”
“I did not ask if you needed it,” Alaric said.
The seller cleared his throat politely. “It suits him,” he offered. “Brings out the eyes.”
Matthis’s ears burned.
Alaric sighed and reached for his coin purse. “How much.”
When the necklace was his, Matthis held it as though it might vanish if he did not keep his grip firm. He did not put it on immediately. He waited until they had moved on, until the crowd had thinned slightly and the noise had softened to a steady hum.

 

Then, carefully, he tied the cord around his neck.
The stone settled against his collarbone, its weight reassuring.
As they walked, more eyes followed him. Some curious. Some appreciative. A few uncomfortably intent.
Once, a man leaned close enough to murmur, “Pretty,” before disappearing back into the crowd.
Matthis stiffened, then breathed out.
It passed.

 

He did not crumble beneath it. He did not feel the walls closing in. He adjusted the necklace and kept walking.
Alaric glanced at him sideways. “You are taking it better,” he said.
“The looking,” Matthis asked.
“Yes.”
Matthis considered. “I think,” he said slowly, “that here, it belongs to everyone. Not just one person.”
Alaric’s mouth twitched. “A sharp observation.”
They climbed a small rise where the street opened briefly to reveal a glimpse of the river, broad and brown beneath the afternoon sun. Ships bobbed along its surface, sails furled or billowing, voices carrying faintly across the water.
Matthis stopped again, his breath catching.
“It is very large,” he said.

 

“The city,” Alaric replied. “Or the world.”
Matthis smiled. “Both.”
They did not stay much longer after that. Alaric steered them back toward the hill as shadows lengthened and the streets grew rougher. Men lingered in doorways with hungry eyes. Laughter took on a sharper edge.
By the time the Red Keep rose before them again, pale against the darkening sky, Matthis felt pleasantly tired. Grounded. The weight of the necklace against his chest felt earned.
As they passed back through the gates, Matthis looked once over his shoulder at the city beyond.
Alaric followed his gaze. “You were right,” he said.
“About what,” Matthis asked.

 

“This place,” Alaric replied. “It is shaping you.”
Matthis touched the stone at his throat. “I think,” he said quietly, “that it is teaching me where I can breathe.”
Alaric nodded once.
When Matthis returned to his chamber that evening, the castle did not feel smaller.
He set the necklace beside the book, the letter still tucked safely beneath his pillow. He sat on the bed and listened to the Red Keep breathe around him, the distant city alive beyond its walls.
The stares would come again. The summons would not stop.
But for the first time, Matthis understood that not every gaze had to claim him.
Some could simply pass.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five
The Shape of Favor

 

The punishment was meant to be small.
That was how it was explained later, in murmurs traded between servants and guards, in the careful phrasing of those who had learned that words themselves could bruise. It was not a beating. It was not a sentence to the black cells. It was merely standing. An hour, perhaps two. In the outer yard where the stone held the cold and the wind worried at cloaks and hems. A reminder. A correction.
Matthis did not know any of this when the summons came.
He stood with the other wards in the pale morning light, hands folded, eyes forward, the necklace hidden beneath his tunic. The air smelled of damp stone and iron. Somewhere nearby, ravens cried. The Red Keep was waking in layers, servants moving below, bells beginning to mark the hours.

 

The mistake had been simple.
One of the younger boys had spoken out of turn during lessons. A question asked too loudly. Too insistently. The maester’s patience had thinned. A report had been made. It traveled upward, as all things did, until it reached a place where patience was not required at all.
They were brought to the yard together.
Matthis stood near the back of the line, as he always did now. He had learned where to place himself so that he could be seen without being foremost. Present without pressing. He had learned that stillness was not absence. It was a posture.

 

Joffrey arrived without ceremony.
He wore black that morning, edged with gold. The wind lifted his hair and set the silk of his sleeves stirring. He looked rested. Amused. As though the day had already offered him something pleasing.
The Hound stood behind him, vast and silent, his presence like a wall at the king’s back. A few guards flanked them, spears upright, eyes ahead.
The boy who had spoken shifted on his feet.
Joffrey smiled.

 

“I am told you were disruptive,” he said.
The boy swallowed. “I only meant to ask, Your Grace.”
Joffrey tilted his head. “Did you.”
There was a pause. It stretched. No one moved.
“Stand them,” Joffrey said lightly.
The order was obeyed at once. The wards were guided to the marked place along the yard wall where the stone held the night’s cold longest. Cloaks were taken. The wind cut sharper without them.

 

Matthis felt it immediately, the chill seeping through wool and linen, settling into his bones. He did not react. He kept his gaze forward, his breathing steady.
Time passed strangely after that.
The sun climbed. The yard brightened. Shadows shortened, then began to stretch again. Feet shifted. Someone coughed and was silenced with a look. The boy who had spoken trembled visibly before the first hour was out.
Matthis focused on small things. The texture of the stone beneath his boots. The weight of the necklace against his skin. The sound of banners snapping overhead.
He did not know when Joffrey returned. He only knew when the air changed.

 

The king walked slowly along the line, his boots scraping faintly against the stone. He stopped before the boy who had erred, studied him with open interest.
“Are you cold,” Joffrey asked.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the boy said through chattering teeth.
Joffrey nodded. “Good.”
He moved on.
When he reached Matthis, he stopped again.
“You,” he said.
Matthis did not startle. He did not bow. He lifted his eyes and waited.
Joffrey looked him over, from his still hands to his calm expression. His gaze lingered on Matthis’s face, on his eyes, attentive as ever.
“You are not shaking,” Joffrey observed.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Why.”

 

Matthis considered. Honesty hovered, dangerous and tempting. He chose carefully.
“I am used to the cold,” he said.
Joffrey smiled. It was not a wide smile. It did not bare teeth. It was pleased.
“Step out of the line,” he said.
The words fell softly. The effect was immediate.
Every head turned.
Matthis hesitated for a fraction of a breath, then obeyed. He stepped forward, the wind suddenly less cruel, the space around him conspicuously open.
Joffrey regarded the remaining wards. “The rest of you will remain,” he said. “Until I am satisfied.”
He turned away, already losing interest.
Matthis stood alone, heart pounding too hard now to ignore.

 

A guard approached, cloak in hand. He draped it over Matthis’s shoulders without comment. The wool was thick. Warm.
Relief washed through him so sharply it made his knees feel weak.
Guilt followed close behind.
He did not look back at the line as he was led away.
For the rest of the day, things were easier.
His lessons were shorter. The maester dismissed him early with a look that held calculation rather than kindness. His meal arrived with bread still warm and a slice of apple tart dusted with sugar. A servant lingered long enough to ensure he ate.

 

No explanation was given.
The other wards noticed.
They did not speak to him, not directly. But he felt it in the way conversations hushed when he entered a room. In the glances exchanged. In the careful distance that grew around him like frost.
That evening, as he walked the corridor toward his chamber, one of the boys brushed past him deliberately, shoulder striking shoulder. Hard enough to sting. Not hard enough to draw a rebuke.
Matthis did not react.
He adjusted his grip on the book he carried and continued on.

 

That night, lying awake beneath thin blankets, he replayed the moment in the yard again and again. The sound of Joffrey’s voice. The sudden warmth of the cloak. The ache of standing dissolving into relief so potent it frightened him.
He had done nothing to earn it.
Except stand still.
The next summons came the following morning.
Not to court. Not to lessons.
To the king’s solar.

 

Joffrey sat at the table when Matthis entered, picking at a plate of honeyed figs. He looked up and grinned as though greeting a favored pet.
“There you are,” he said. “Sit.”
Matthis obeyed.
“I was thinking about yesterday,” Joffrey went on. “You did very well.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“You did not beg,” Joffrey said. “You did not cry. You did not make noise.”
He leaned back in his chair. “That is all most people are. Noise.”

 

Matthis said nothing.
Joffrey watched him with obvious interest. “Do you know why I let you go.”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Because I wanted to,” Joffrey said. He smiled again. “And because it pleased me to see you apart from the others.”
The words settled heavily.
“I do not like it when people make me look foolish,” Joffrey continued. “But I like it when people make me look merciful.”

 

He gestured vaguely. “You did that.”
Matthis’s chest tightened.
“You will sit with me today,” Joffrey said. “At dinner.”
Matthis blinked. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The meal that followed was quieter than court, but no less instructive. Joffrey spoke at length, circling topics the way a cat worried at string. He asked questions and did not always wait for answers. When Matthis spoke, it was only when addressed. When he hesitated, Joffrey watched with that same assessing calm.
At one point, Joffrey flicked a grape at him.
“Catch,” he said.

 

Matthis did, more by reflex than intent.
Joffrey laughed. “Good.”
The word struck deeper than the grape.
Later, as Matthis was escorted back through the corridors, he saw Alaric standing at a distance, speaking with another knight. Their eyes met briefly. Alaric’s brow furrowed, concern flashing plain and unguarded.
Before Matthis could move toward him, a guard stepped smoothly into his path.

 

“This way,” he said.
The corridor bent away.
That night, Matthis lay awake again, the day replaying itself in fragments. The warmth of the cloak. The sweetness of the figs. The way Joffrey’s attention had settled on him like sunlight through glass, magnifying and distorting all at once.
He felt afraid.
He felt relieved.
He hated himself a little for how tightly he clung to that relief.

 

The days that followed did not announce their change with bells or proclamations.
They shifted quietly, like a draft through a door left ajar.
At first it was subtle. A chair left empty beside him in the lesson chamber. A conversation that stopped when he approached, then resumed in softer tones once he passed. The wards had always formed their own small constellations, clusters shaped by age and origin and shared boredom. Matthis had orbited the edges of them for as long as he could remember, close enough to listen, rarely close enough to belong.

 

Now even that distance widened.
He felt it most keenly in the afternoons, when lessons ended and the keep exhaled. The corridors filled with movement. Pages ran messages. Servants argued in undertones. The wards were allowed an hour to themselves before supper, a thin mercy that often turned sharp.

 

Matthis lingered near the window alcoves overlooking the yard, book closed in his hands. Below, squires practiced with blunted blades, their laughter rising and falling with the clash of steel. He watched for a time, then turned as voices drifted from the far end of the gallery.
Four boys stood together near the tapestry of the Conquest, heads bent close. He recognized them. One from the Reach. One from the Westerlands. The others unremarkable in name, familiar only by proximity. They were laughing at something, shoulders brushing, easy and unguarded.
Matthis hesitated.

 

His instinct was to turn away. It always was. Stillness, after all, was safer than motion. But the hollow space inside him, the ache left by distance and silence, pressed harder than usual. He thought of the warmth of the cloak. The sweetness of figs. How easily favor had found him.
Perhaps this, too, could be taken.
He crossed the gallery.

 

The laughter faltered as he drew near. One of the boys glanced up, then another. Their expressions shifted, curiosity giving way to something tighter.
“May I,” Matthis said quietly, gesturing to the space beside them.

 

There was a pause.
The boy from the Reach nodded once. “If you like.”
Matthis stepped into the circle. He stood carefully, aware of every movement, every breath.
“What were you talking about,” he asked.
“The melee,” said the Westerlands boy. “Ser Loras is supposed to ride next week.”

 

“That’s what my cousin said,” another added. “He swore he saw his colors in the armory.”
Matthis listened. He nodded when it seemed right. He offered a small comment about tourneys at Stokeworth, about the way the crowds gathered even when there was little to see. It was not much. But it was something.
For a moment, it worked.

 

They spoke of horses and armor, of who might win favor and who might fall. Matthis felt the faint, unfamiliar lift of belonging, fragile as spun glass. His shoulders eased. His grip on the book loosened.
Then a shadow passed over the tapestry.
The boys stiffened almost as one.
A guard walked by at the far end of the gallery, not slowing, not looking their way. He was unremarkable. One of many.
Still, the air changed.

 

The Westerlands boy took a half step back. Another boy cleared his throat. The Reach boy’s gaze flicked toward Matthis, then away.
“Well,” he said. “We should go.”
“Lessons tomorrow,” one of them added quickly.
They dispersed with awkward haste, leaving the space beside Matthis conspicuously empty.
All but one.
A smaller boy lingered, dark-haired, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. He did not look at Matthis at first.
“They say,” he began, then stopped. Swallowed. “They say the king likes you.”

 

Matthis considered the words. “He speaks to me,” he said at last.
The boy nodded. “That’s worse.”
He offered a brief, apologetic smile. “Be careful.”
Then he turned and went, leaving Matthis alone with the tapestry and the echo of laughter that had already faded.
That evening, the small cruelty came.

 

It was nothing that would ever be named as such.
Matthis was crossing the inner yard when someone stepped into his path. It was the boy from the Reach, flanked now by two others. Their faces were tight, eyes bright with something that looked like relief.
“You think you’re better than us,” the boy said.
Matthis shook his head. “No.”

 

“Don’t lie,” another said. “You sit with him.”
“I am told to,” Matthis replied.
That earned him a shove. Not hard. Just enough to stagger him back a step. His heel caught on uneven stone. He went down on one knee, the book slipping from his grasp and skidding across the yard.
They laughed.
A guard stood nearby. He watched without comment.
Matthis rose slowly. He retrieved the book. He did not look at them as he passed.

 

No one was punished.
Word traveled quickly after that.
By the time he reached the sept the next day, eyes followed him openly. Not with curiosity now, but with wariness. As though favor were a contagion, and he the carrier.
He found Sansa Stark near the fountain in the godswood that afternoon, seated beneath the heart tree’s pale boughs. She looked up as he approached, her expression polite and distant.

 

“Lady Sansa,” he said, bowing his head.
“Matthis,” she replied. “You have been busy.”
He did not know how to answer that.
She gestured to the bench across from her. He sat, careful to leave space.

 

“It is very beautiful here,” she said, touching one of the fallen leaves. “But even gardens have thorns.”
Matthis frowned slightly. “I beg your pardon.”
She smiled faintly. “My father used to say that attention is a kind of weather. It can nourish, or it can drown.”
Her eyes met his, blue and earnest. “You must be very careful when the king notices you.”
“I try,” Matthis said.
“I know,” she replied softly.
She rose then, smoothing her skirts. “Be kind,” she added. “But not too kind.”

 

She left him with that, the words lingering like a warning bell rung far away.
Tyrion Lannister watched it all from a distance.
He leaned against a pillar in the gallery one evening, cup in hand, his mismatched eyes following Matthis as he crossed the floor. He said nothing until Alaric joined him, armor creaking softly.
“That one,” Tyrion said, nodding subtly. “The quiet boy.”
Alaric stiffened. “Yes.”
“This ends badly,” Tyrion went on, conversational. “It always does.”
Alaric’s jaw tightened. “He is a child.”
Tyrion snorted. “So is the king.”

 

Silence stretched between them.
“I tried to have him sent away,” Alaric said at last. “To Stokeworth. Or even to the Vale. Just for a time.”
“And,” Tyrion prompted.
“And the request was denied,” Alaric finished.
Tyrion drained his cup. “Of course it was.”
Across the hall, Matthis stood very straight, eyes lowered, hands folded. Stillness first. Breath even.
The Red Keep watched him closely now.
And it was very pleased with what it was making of him.
The next morning, when the maester corrected another boy harshly, Matthis found himself adjusting his posture without thinking. Stillness first. Eyes lowered. Breath even.
He did not speak.
He was learning what pleased the king.
And the Red Keep, attentive and patient, was shaping him accordingly.

 

Later that night, the corridors grew quieter than usual.
The Red Keep did not truly sleep, but it did retreat. Voices softened. Footsteps spaced themselves farther apart. Torches were trimmed lower, their light settling into amber pools along the walls. Somewhere deep in the castle, a door closed with deliberate care.
Matthis sat at the narrow desk in his chamber, shoulders hunched slightly, a single candle burning low at his elbow. The borrowed book lay pushed aside, forgotten for once. In its place rested a sheet of parchment, already half filled with careful, uneven lines.
He wrote slowly.

 

The words did not come easily, though he knew what he meant to say. Each sentence was weighed, tested, adjusted before he committed it to ink. His letters leaned a little, crowding together as though seeking reassurance from one another.
Mother. Father.
He paused there longer than he meant to, quill hovering. The image of home rose unbidden. The yard at Stokeworth. The low hills beyond. Elia’s laughter. Owen’s wooden sword clutched in earnest hands. Tomas pretending not to look back when Matthis left. Lyonel’s scowl that had cracked the moment no one was watching.
He swallowed and continued.

 

I hope this letter finds you well. The Keep is as grand as they say, and my lessons are going well.
The lie was small, neat, and practiced already.
The maester says I am improving. I am given much to read, and I have time to do so.
That part, at least, was true.
The king has noticed me, but only in passing. There is nothing to fear.
His hand stilled.
The ink bled slightly where the quill lingered too long.
He read the sentence again. Adjusted it.
I am safe.

 

He told himself that was true as well.
There was a knock at the door.
Not sharp. Not commanding. A single, solid rap, followed by a pause.
Matthis stiffened instinctively. His gaze flicked to the door, then to the parchment, then back again. For a heartbeat he considered folding the letter away, hiding it beneath the mattress. The thought passed as quickly as it came.
“Yes,” he said.
The door opened to reveal Alaric.

 

He was out of armor, wearing a simple tunic, his sword belted but unbuckled. The lines around his eyes looked deeper in the candlelight. He took in the scene at a glance. The desk. The parchment. The ink-stained fingers.
“May I,” he asked, already stepping inside.
“Of course,” Matthis replied.
Alaric closed the door behind him, quiet as habit demanded. He did not speak at once. His gaze settled on the letter, then returned to Matthis’s face.
“You are writing home,” he said.
“Yes.”

 

Alaric nodded. “May I read it.”
It was not phrased as a question.
Matthis hesitated, then slid the parchment across the desk.
Alaric picked it up carefully, as though the paper might tear. He read slowly, lips pressed thin. He did not interrupt. When he reached the end, he did not comment right away. He folded the letter once, then again, and set it down.
“Everything is well,” Alaric said. Not accusing. Simply observant.

 

Matthis’s eyes dropped. “I did not say that.”
“You said enough of it,” Alaric replied.
Silence settled between them, thick and uneasy.
“I do not want them to worry,” Matthis said at last. The words came out quieter than he intended. “There is nothing they can do from Stokeworth. I would rather they think me safe than… than thinking.”

 

Alaric studied him. “Thinking of what.”
Matthis’s fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. “Of me standing alone in the yard,” he said. “Of guards watching and doing nothing. Of boys who will not speak to me anymore.”
Alaric’s jaw flexed.
“They shoved you,” he said.
Matthis nodded. “Only once.”
“That is once too many.”
“They laughed,” Matthis added. “And no one stopped them.”
Alaric looked away then, toward the shuttered window. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I spoke to the captain.”

 

“And,” Matthis prompted softly.
“And he said there was no report,” Alaric finished. “No complaint. No cause for action.”
Matthis absorbed that without visible reaction. He had expected it.
“They do not like me,” he said. Not bitter. Simply factual. “The other wards. They think I am dangerous.”
“You are,” Alaric said. “To them.”
Matthis frowned. “I do not mean to be.”
“I know.”

 

Alaric turned back to him. “This favor,” he said carefully. “It isolates. It marks. You have done nothing wrong, but that will not matter to boys who fear being seen.”
Matthis traced the edge of the parchment with one finger. “If I pretend it is nothing, perhaps it will become so.”
Alaric shook his head. “That is not how this place works.”
They stood there, the candle sputtering softly between them.
“I tried again today,” Alaric said. “To secure leave. Even a day beyond the walls. The answer was the same.”
Matthis did not ask who had given it.
“I am sorry,” Alaric added.

 

Matthis looked up at him then. “You should not be.”
“You are my charge,” Alaric replied. “And I am failing you.”
“No,” Matthis said quickly. “You are the only one who looks at me as though I am still myself.”
Alaric’s expression tightened. “You must hold on to that.”
“I am trying.”

 

Alaric reached out and straightened the parchment. “You will finish the letter,” he said. “But you will change this part.”
He tapped the line about the king noticing him only in passing.
“You will not lie to them entirely,” Alaric continued. “You will say you are watched. That you are learning caution. That will be enough truth to steady them.”
Matthis nodded. “Yes.”

 

“And,” Alaric added, hesitating. “If anything else happens. Anything at all. You will tell me.”
Matthis met his gaze. “I will.”
Alaric lingered a moment longer, then turned for the door. He paused with his hand on the latch.
“You are not wrong to want peace,” he said. “Just remember that silence is not the same as safety.”
The door closed behind him.

 

Matthis sat for a long while after that, the candle burning lower, the room growing cooler. He rewrote the letter carefully, changing a word here, a phrase there. He kept the shape of reassurance while allowing a hairline crack of truth through.
When he finished, he folded the parchment and set it aside.
The next day passed without incident.

 

Which, in the Red Keep, was its own kind of omen.
By afternoon, the tension had settled into him like a second spine. He moved with deliberate care, anticipating glances, adjusting posture before correction could be given. When a servant dropped a tray nearby, Matthis did not flinch. When a ward muttered something under his breath, Matthis did not react.
He passed the inner yard again that evening, the stone still bearing the memory of cold. He did not slow. He did not look to either side.
A guard watched him go.

 

Nothing was said.
That night, as he lay awake beneath the thin blankets, Matthis replayed the day as he always did now. He noted each moment he had been seen. Each moment he had not. Each silence that had spared him and each that had not.
He thought of the boys in the gallery. Of the one who had warned him, voice low and afraid. Of the shove, the laughter, the guard’s indifference.
He thought of Joffrey’s smile. The warmth of approval. The way relief still lingered in his chest despite everything.
He did not like what that said about him.
But the Red Keep did not care what he liked.
It cared what he learned.
And Matthis, attentive and careful, was learning very well.

 

Sleep came slowly.
Matthis lay on his back, hands folded over his chest, eyes fixed on the darkened ceiling. The Red Keep breathed around him, a living thing settling into its bones. Somewhere water trickled through old pipes. Somewhere a guard laughed quietly, then stopped. The candle had burned itself out, leaving the room washed in shadow and the faint silver of moonlight slipping through the shutters.
He counted his breaths, as Alaric had once taught him. Slow in. Slower out.
Just as the tension in his shoulders began to ease, the knock came.

 

This one was sharp.
Commanding.
There was no pause after it. The latch lifted at once.
Two guards stepped into the room, their armor whispering softly as they moved. Gold cloaks again. Helmets on. Faces unreadable.

 

“You will come with us,” one said.
Matthis sat up immediately, heart hammering. “Now.”
“Yes.”
He swung his legs from the bed and stood, smoothing his tunic with hands that shook despite his efforts. He did not ask why. He did not ask where. He had learned better than that.

 

They did not allow him to fetch his cloak.
The corridors were colder at night. The torchlight harsher, throwing shadows that clung to the walls like listening things. Their footsteps echoed more loudly than they should have, each sound magnified by the hour.
Matthis knew where they were going long before he saw it.
The air changed first. Grew vast. Hollow.

 

The doors to the throne room opened.
Even empty, the space was immense. The torches along the walls burned low, casting long, jagged shadows that reached toward the center of the hall. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, its blades catching the light in dull gleams, a mass of twisted steel and ancient conquest.
Joffrey sat upon it.

 

He was dressed for the night, dark velvet instead of silk, his crown absent but his authority undiminished. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the throne, fingers laced together. The Hound stood nearby, as ever, a silent sentinel with his arms crossed and his scarred face half in shadow.

 

Three boys knelt on the stone before the throne.
Matthis recognized them at once.
The boy from the Reach. And the two who had stood with him.
Their cloaks were gone. Their faces pale. One of them was crying quietly, shoulders shaking with each breath.
Matthis stopped just inside the doors.

 

“Bring him forward,” Joffrey said.
The guards guided Matthis toward the center of the hall. His boots sounded too loud on the stone. He felt every step as though it were measured and counted.
He bowed when he reached the proper distance. Deep. Careful.
“Your Grace.”

 

Joffrey smiled.
“There you are,” he said. “I was wondering when you would arrive.”
Matthis straightened, hands folding together of their own accord. Stillness first. Breath even.
“You were shoved,” Joffrey said, conversational, as though remarking on the weather. “In the yard.”
Matthis’s chest tightened. He did not look at the kneeling boys. “Yes, Your Grace.”

 

The Reach boy flinched at the sound of his voice.
“And knocked to the ground,” Joffrey continued.
“Yes.”
“Did it hurt.”
Matthis hesitated. The truth felt suddenly dangerous in both directions. “Only briefly,” he said.
Joffrey’s eyes narrowed, amused rather than displeased. “You are very careful with your answers.”
He leaned back against the throne. “Tell me what happened.”

 

Matthis spoke simply. He did not embellish. He did not accuse. He described the moment as it had been. The words were plain. Unadorned. He did not name the laughter. He did not mention the guard who watched.
When he finished, silence fell.
Joffrey looked down at the kneeling boys as though seeing them for the first time.

 

“You,” he said, pointing lazily at the Reach boy. “Did you push him.”
The boy shook his head wildly. “Your Grace, I only meant—”
“Did you push him.”
“Yes,” the boy whispered. “But I did not mean harm.”
Joffrey smiled, slow and delighted. “That is rarely the point.”

 

He rose from the throne.
The sound of it rang through the hall. Steel scraping faintly. Boots striking stone. He descended the steps one at a time, his gaze never leaving the boys.
“Do you know why this angers me,” Joffrey asked, pacing before them.

 

No one answered.
“I allow what I choose,” he continued. “I punish what I choose. I grant favor when it pleases me.”
He stopped in front of the Reach boy and crouched slightly so they were eye to eye. “You do not choose.”
The boy sobbed openly now.

 

Joffrey straightened and turned back toward Matthis.
“They touched what is mine,” he said lightly. “Without permission.”
The word echoed.
Matthis felt his stomach twist. “Your Grace—”
Joffrey lifted a hand. “You will be quiet.”
He turned to the guards. “The one who pushed him will stand in the yard tomorrow. From dawn until dusk. Without cloak.”

 

The Reach boy let out a broken sound.
“And the other two,” Joffrey continued, “will join him. Because they watched.”
He smiled faintly. “Watching is participation.”
The guards moved at once.
One of the boys cried out for mercy. Another vomited on the stone in his panic.
Joffrey watched it all with bright interest.
When it was done, when the boys had been dragged away, the hall felt emptier for their absence.
Joffrey turned back to Matthis.

 

“Did you want that,” he asked.
Matthis’s heart pounded painfully. “No, Your Grace.”
Joffrey tilted his head. “You did not ask for it.”
“No.”
“But you stood still,” Joffrey said. “You told the truth. You did not beg for them. Or for yourself.”
He stepped closer, stopping just short of Matthis’s space. “That pleases me.”
Matthis lowered his eyes. Relief surged through him, sharp and sickening.

 

“You see,” Joffrey went on softly, “what happens when people forget their place.”
He reached out and adjusted Matthis’s collar, a small, intimate gesture. “You will remember this.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Joffrey smiled, satisfied. “You may go.”
Matthis bowed again and turned, his legs unsteady beneath him. The doors closed behind him with a final, echoing sound.

 

The walk back to his chamber felt unreal. The corridors blurred. The torches swam in his vision. He could still hear the Reach boy’s sobs, the scrape of boots on stone, the softness of Joffrey’s voice when he said mine.
When he reached his room, Matthis closed the door and leaned his forehead against it.
He did not cry.

 

He slid down until he was seated on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, breathing shallow and quick.
He had been avenged.
He had been protected.
He had been claimed.
The Red Keep did not care that these things were the same.
It had taught him something new tonight.
And Matthis, shaking and silent, learned it all too well.

 

Morning did not announce itself gently.

Light crept into Matthis’s chamber in thin, cautious bands, slipping through the shutters and laying pale lines across the stone floor. For a moment, he did not know where he was. His body remembered before his mind did. The cold of the throne room. The echo of boots. The sound of steel scraping steel. The word mine spoken softly enough to feel like breath against skin.

He sat up too quickly, heart racing, sheets tangled around his legs.

The room was unchanged. Narrow bed. Small desk. The letter folded and waiting where he had left it. No guards. No torches. Only the distant murmur of the Keep waking to itself.

He drew a steadying breath.

A knock came soon after. Not sharp. Not cruel. Almost polite.

When the door opened, it was not guards who entered, but servants. Three of them. A woman with gray threaded through her hair and two younger men carrying folded cloth over their arms.

“You are to dress,” the woman said, already moving toward him. “His Grace has requested your presence at the morning meal.”

Matthis blinked. “The morning meal.”

“Yes.”

“With him,” one of the younger servants added, unable to keep the note of awe from his voice.

Matthis swung his legs from the bed, the stone cold beneath his feet grounding him. “I was not told.”

“You were told now,” the woman replied briskly. “Sit.”

They did not wait for permission.

The garments they laid out were finer than anything he had worn since arriving. Dark wool, well cut. A doublet in deep blue, edged simply but with care. Soft leather boots polished to a dull sheen. No sigil. No colors that claimed too much. But nothing plain, either.

As they dressed him, Matthis felt oddly detached, as though he were watching from a distance. Fingers smoothed fabric over his shoulders. Laces were tightened. Sleeves adjusted.

The woman paused, then stepped back, considering him.

“Eyes like that should not be hidden,” she murmured, and selected a lighter undertunic to wear beneath the blue.

When he caught his reflection in the small, dull mirror by the washstand, he barely recognized himself. The color brought out the pale gray of his eyes, made them seem brighter. Sharper. His black curls were combed carefully, coaxed into order without fully taming them. He looked older. More deliberate.

More visible.

His stomach tightened.

They led him through the corridors he now knew too well, past servants and guards who glanced at him with new interest. Whispers followed. He kept his gaze forward, posture straight, hands folded.

The royal dining chamber was warm with firelight and the scent of bread and honey. The table was laid not grandly, but richly. Silver dishes. Fresh fruit. Steam rising from porridge and eggs.

Joffrey sat at the head, already eating, posture relaxed. Cersei Lannister sat to his right, golden hair gleaming even in the softer morning light. Tommen sat beside her, swinging his feet slightly beneath the table, more interested in his bread than in ceremony.

Joffrey looked up as Matthis entered.

“There he is,” he said brightly. “Come closer.”

Matthis bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Sit,” Joffrey said, pointing to the seat across from him.

Matthis obeyed.

Cersei’s gaze swept over him, assessing. Calculating. Her smile was thin.

“This is the boy,” she said. “The one who caused such a stir.”

Matthis kept his eyes lowered. “I did not mean to cause trouble, Your Grace.”

Joffrey laughed softly. “You did not. Others did that for you.”

Cersei took a sip of wine. “You are very quiet for someone who draws so much attention.”

Matthis hesitated, then answered carefully. “I have found it wiser to listen.”

Her lips curved slightly. “Wise for a child who does not know his place.”

Joffrey’s fork paused midair. “He knows it well enough.”

Cersei glanced at her son, one brow lifting. “Does he.”

Matthis felt the words rise unbidden, sharp and indignant. He swallowed them down. He lowered his gaze further.

Tommen looked between them, confused. “Mother, may I have more honey.”

“Yes, yes,” Cersei said absently, waving to a servant.

Joffrey leaned forward, smiling at Matthis. “Eat,” he said. “You look as though you expect the food to bite you.”

Matthis did as he was told. The bread was warm. The eggs rich. He realized only then how hungry he was. Each bite steadied him a little, even as the weight of their attention pressed close.

Cersei watched him eat. “He holds himself well,” she said. “For someone without a name worth remembering.”

Joffrey’s smile sharpened. “Not everyone needs a banner to be interesting.”

Cersei’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Matthis. “Careful, boy. Favor is a blade. It cuts both ways.”

Matthis nodded once. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Joffrey pushed back his chair abruptly. “Come,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

The yard was bitter with cold.

The sky was pale and clear, the sun still low. Frost clung to the stone, making the ground slick beneath their feet. Guards lined the edges, silent and watchful.

In the center of the yard stood three figures.

The boys from the night before.

They were bareheaded, cloaks gone, hands bound in front of them. Their breath steamed in white clouds as they shivered, faces red and blotched from the cold. The Reach boy’s lips were blue.

Joffrey stopped beside Matthis, close enough that his sleeve brushed his arm.

“Look,” he said.

Matthis did.

He felt the relief first. A quiet, shameful warmth in his chest. The knowledge that he was not the one standing there.

Then the guilt followed, heavy and sour.

“They will stand until dusk,” Joffrey said. “If they faint, they will be propped up again.”

One of the boys looked up then and saw Matthis. His eyes widened. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, teeth chattering too hard for speech.

Matthis’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Joffrey watched his face closely. “Do you feel better.”

Matthis hesitated. “I feel… seen.”

Joffrey laughed. “Good.”

He leaned in, voice lowering. “This is what happens when people forget who matters.”

Matthis swallowed. “Your Grace.”

“Yes.”

“I did not ask for this.”

“I know,” Joffrey said lightly. “That is what makes it interesting.”

They stood there a moment longer. The cold seeped through Matthis’s boots, up into his bones. He wondered how long the boys had already been there. How much longer they would last.

Joffrey turned away first. “Come. You will walk with me.”

As they left the yard, Matthis glanced back once. The Reach boy had lowered his head again, shoulders shaking.

The gates closed behind them.

The Red Keep resumed its endless motion. Servants hurried. Lords whispered. Life went on.

Matthis walked beside the king, heart unsteady, mind racing.

He had been spared.

He had been chosen.

And somewhere deep within, beneath fear and revulsion and gratitude all tangled together, a terrible understanding took root.

Attention was not safety.

But it was power.

And the Red Keep rewarded those who learned the difference.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 Anticipation

 

The Red Keep wore its history unevenly.
Some of it gleamed, polished smooth by generations of hands eager to forget. Other parts lingered in corners, in dust and shadow, in rooms no one entered unless they were brought there. Joffrey preferred those places.
They were already walking.
Matthis had fallen into step beside him without being told, matching the king’s pace by instinct now. Joffrey moved as though the Keep belonged not only to him by right, but by familiarity, his boots striking stone with careless confidence. He wore crimson and gold, bright even in the half-lit corridors, his presence bending the space around him.

 

Servants vanished as they passed. A pair of guards straightened, then looked away. The castle adjusted itself.
Joffrey turned down a narrower passage without warning, the kind most people missed entirely. The stair beyond sloped downward, steep and tight, its steps worn uneven by centuries of feet.
Matthis followed.
The air cooled as they descended. Torchlight replaced the pale glow of morning, flames guttering softly in iron brackets. The stone here was older, darker, marked by soot and time rather than polish. The walls pressed closer, carrying sound differently. Every footstep echoed, then lingered.

 

“Do you know where we are,” Joffrey asked, glancing sideways.
“No, Your Grace,” Matthis replied.
Joffrey smiled, pleased. “Good.”
They continued down. The stair ended at a corridor that smelled faintly of dust and oil. The ceiling lowered. The Keep’s grandeur receded, replaced by something heavier, more honest.
“This is the part of the castle people forget,” Joffrey said. “Or pretend does not matter anymore.”

 

He stopped before an iron-bound door. It stood ajar.
Inside, the room was long and narrow, lit by a row of torches that cast uneven light across the walls. What hung there was not decoration, not quite. Shields, cracked and dulled with age. Swords mounted in rusted brackets. Fragments of banners whose colors had bled into one another over time.

And beneath them, bones.
Not whole skeletons. Pieces. A skull mounted in iron bands. A ribcage encased in glass clouded by age. Fragments arranged deliberately, reverently, as though this were a place of memory rather than warning.
Matthis slowed without meaning to.
Joffrey watched his reaction closely.
“Those are Targaryens,” he said, almost conversational. “Or what is left of them.”

Matthis swallowed. He had heard the stories. Everyone had. The mad king. The fall of dragons. Fire and screams and betrayal wrapped into something neat enough to be taught.

He had never imagined this.
“They were burned,” Joffrey continued. “Some of them. Others were smashed against walls or cut down while fleeing. Children, too. Babies.”

He stepped closer to one of the cases, resting his hand against the glass. “My grandfather kept their skulls displayed like this for years. To remind people.”
“Of what,” Matthis asked, before he could stop himself.
Joffrey turned, eyes bright. “Of what happens when kings are weak.”

They moved deeper into the room. Joffrey spoke as they walked, his voice steady, almost eager.
“Rhaegar died on the Trident,” he said. “Caved in by Robert’s hammer. They say rubies spilled into the river like drops of blood.” He smiled faintly. “I like that image.”
Matthis said nothing.

“Elia of Dorne,” Joffrey went on, gesturing to a smaller case. “Crushed beneath a man’s weight. Her children murdered in front of her. A pity. She was beautiful, they say.”

 

The words landed cold.
Matthis felt something twist low in his chest, not fear exactly. Something quieter. A recognition of how easily death became story in the wrong mouth.
“You look uncomfortable,” Joffrey observed.
“I am listening,” Matthis replied carefully.
“That is better,” Joffrey said. “Listening is useful.”

 

They stopped before the last display. This one was emptier than the others. A single shattered helm lay on a pedestal, its dragon crest split clean down the middle.
“Aegon,” Joffrey said. “Or what remained after Gregor Clegane finished with him.”
Matthis’s gaze flicked involuntarily toward the door, where the shadows seemed thicker.
Joffrey laughed softly. “He is not here. Relax.”
He leaned closer to Matthis then, voice lowering. “Do you see what they all have in common.”
“They lost,” Matthis said.

 

Joffrey’s smile sharpened. “They were forgotten.”
He straightened and turned away. “Come. There is more.”
They left the chamber behind, the door closing with a heavy finality. As they climbed back toward the upper levels, the air warmed again, the torchlight giving way to daylight filtered through high windows.
Joffrey seemed lighter now, satisfied.

 

“People think power is loud,” he said. “Swords. Shouting. Executions in the square.” He waved a hand dismissively. “That is crude.”
He glanced at Matthis. “Real power is memory. It teaches people where they belong.”

 

Matthis nodded, because it was expected.
They emerged into a gallery overlooking the city, sunlight spilling across the stone. For a moment, the Red Keep looked almost beautiful again.
Joffrey rested his hands on the balustrade. “You are good at being where you are told,” he said. “You do not look away when you should not. You do not ask for mercy you have not earned.”

 

Matthis felt the familiar pull in his chest, that dangerous warmth. “I try to be useful.”
Joffrey laughed. “You already are.”
Below them, the city moved on, unaware of bones and banners and lessons taught in shadow.
Matthis stood beside the king, silent, attentive, learning the shape of history as it was handed to him.
And learning, too, what kind of story Joffrey intended to write next.

 

They walked on in silence for a time.
The gallery curved gently, its windows tall and narrow, framing slices of the city below. Bells rang faintly in the distance. The wind carried the smell of smoke and salt and something sweet from the kitchens far beneath them. The Red Keep resumed its practiced face, bright stone and banners stirring lazily, as though nothing heavy had ever lived beneath it.

 

Joffrey slowed at last.
With a flick of his fingers, servants appeared as if summoned by the gesture alone. A small table was brought out, round and polished, set near the balustrade where the light was strongest. A cloth followed, pale linen edged in gold. Bread, still warm, was laid out. Sliced fruit. A dish of honeyed nuts. Two cups of watered wine.

 

Matthis stood uncertainly until Joffrey dropped into his chair without ceremony.
“Well,” Joffrey said, tearing a piece of bread apart. “Sit.”
Matthis obeyed.

 

The chair felt too fine beneath him. Too close to the king. He placed his hands neatly in his lap, back straight, gaze lowered until Joffrey spoke again.
“You have been quieter than usual,” Joffrey observed. “That room unsettled you.”

 

“I am thinking,” Matthis said.
“About bones,” Joffrey replied lightly. “Most people do. They imagine themselves among them.”
He dipped a fig into honey and bit down, watching Matthis over the rim of his cup. “Do you.”

 

Matthis chose his words with care. “I imagine how easily people become stories.”
Joffrey’s smile widened, pleased. “Good. Stories last longer than people.”

 

They ate for a moment in companionable quiet. Joffrey with appetite, careless crumbs dotting the cloth. Matthis slowly, aware of every movement. The city noise rose and fell below them like distant surf.
Then Joffrey’s gaze sharpened.
“What is that.”

 

Matthis froze, fingers tightening reflexively at his collar.
Joffrey leaned forward slightly. “The necklace.”
Instinct made Matthis’s hand rise. The stone rested warm against his skin now, dark and smooth, its cord barely visible against his tunic.
“It was a gift,” Matthis said.

 

Joffrey’s brows lifted. “From whom.”
Matthis hesitated. “From Ser Alaric.”
The name landed poorly.
Joffrey sat back, studying him with new interest. “He gives you jewelry now.”

 

“It is only a river stone,” Matthis said quickly. “Nothing of value.”
Joffrey laughed, sharp and brief. “Everything has value.”
He reached across the table without asking and closed his fingers around the stone. His grip was firm, possessive. He turned it over once, then again.

 

“This will not bite,” he murmured, mockingly echoing words he had never heard spoken. “How touching.”
Matthis’s heart thudded. “It was bought in the city,” he added, unsure why he felt the need to explain. “A man said it suited me.”

 

Joffrey’s eyes flicked back to his face. “Did he.”
“Yes.”
Joffrey released the necklace abruptly. The stone fell back against Matthis’s chest, its weight suddenly more noticeable.
“I do not like it,” Joffrey said.
The words were mild. Their meaning was not.
Matthis swallowed. “Shall I remove it.”

 

Joffrey tilted his head, considering. For a moment, something like calculation crossed his face. Then he waved a hand.
“No,” he said. “Keep it.”
Relief rushed through Matthis, followed immediately by confusion.
“I will remember who gave it to you,” Joffrey continued. “And why.”

 

He picked up a grape and crushed it between his fingers, juice spilling onto the cloth. “People should be careful what they place on what is mine.”
Matthis’s breath caught at the word again. Mine.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said softly.
Joffrey’s attention drifted back to the city, satisfaction returning as easily as it had vanished. “You know,” he went on, “my mother says people are drawn to you because you look harmless.”.

 

Matthis said nothing.
“She is wrong,” Joffrey continued. “Harmless things are ignored. You are watched.”
He glanced sideways. “Does that frighten you.”
Matthis considered the question honestly. “Sometimes.”
Joffrey smiled. “Good.”

 

They finished the meal. The table was cleared as swiftly as it had appeared, servants retreating without a word. Joffrey rose, stretching like a bored cat.
“Come,” he said. “I am not done with you.”
They moved again through the Keep, this time upward, sunlight brightening as they climbed. The yard opened before them, wide and exposed. Morning had not yet warmed the stone.

 

Three figures stood at its center.
The boys from the night before.
They shivered openly now, cloaks gone, tunics thin against the cold. Their faces were gray with exhaustion. One swayed slightly, knees threatening to buckle.
Joffrey stopped at the edge of the yard.
Matthis halted beside him.
“Look,” Joffrey said.
Matthis looked.

 

The Reach boy met his eyes and broke at once, sobbing, dropping to his knees on the stone. The sound echoed sharply.
Joffrey sighed, irritated. “I told him not to do that.”
He turned to Matthis. “Do you see how quickly people learn.”
Matthis nodded, though his stomach churned.
“They will remember you now,” Joffrey went on. “They will remember what happens when they forget themselves.”
The cold wind cut through the yard. One of the boys coughed, harsh and wet.

 

Joffrey watched them a moment longer, then lost interest. “That is enough,” he said. “They can be taken in at dusk.”
The guards moved.
As they walked away, Joffrey spoke again, quieter this time. “You did not ask me to stop.”
Matthis’s throat tightened. “I did not know if I was allowed.”
Joffrey laughed, delighted. “You are learning faster every day.”

 

They returned inside, the warmth swallowing them whole. As the doors closed behind them, Matthis felt the weight of the stone at his throat, the memory of bones in shadow, the echo of shivering breaths in the yard.
Favor had a shape now.
And he was standing very carefully inside it.

 

Joffrey walked ahead, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His expression had settled into something thoughtful now, the sharp satisfaction dulled into calculation. He did not speak at first, and Matthis had learned that silence from the king was never empty.
They passed a pair of servants carrying folded linens. Joffrey slowed only slightly.
“Wait,” he said.

 

They froze at once, heads bowed.
Joffrey leaned toward one of them, his voice dropping just enough to be lost beneath the echo of footsteps farther down the hall.
“Find Ser Alaric,” he said quietly. “Ask him what the boy prefers. Do not tell him why. Bring the answer to my mother first.”

 

The servant nodded without lifting his eyes.
Joffrey straightened and resumed walking, the moment already dismissed.
Matthis followed, unaware anything had been said at all.
They climbed a stairwell washed in pale light from high windows. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air. Joffrey’s pace slowed, his attention turning inward, his thoughts plainly elsewhere.

 

“You know,” he said at last, glancing back, “people reveal themselves in small ways.”
Matthis inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“They think secrets are kept in words,” Joffrey continued. “But most people betray themselves by what they reach for when no one is watching.”
Matthis thought of the stone at his throat and felt his stomach tighten.

 

Joffrey did not look at it this time. He did not need to.
They turned into a quieter wing of the castle. The noise faded. Fewer servants passed here. Guards stood farther apart, their presence heavier, more deliberate.
“My mother dislikes clutter,” Joffrey said casually. “She prefers things close at hand.”
He stopped before a door Matthis did not recognize.
“This room,” Joffrey said, gesturing beside it, “will be yours now.”

 

Matthis blinked. “Mine.”
“Yes,” Joffrey replied, faintly amused. “Closer suits you.”
The guard opened the door.
The chamber beyond was modest but refined. Clean stone. A narrow bed dressed in heavy linens. A desk set beneath the window with parchment already stacked neatly beside a fresh inkwell. Shelves lined one wall, half-filled with books Matthis recognized and others he did not.
Light filtered in softly through pale curtains, warming the space.

 

Matthis stepped inside slowly, as though the room might object to his presence.
“I did not request this,” he said.
Joffrey followed him in and shut the door himself. The sound landed heavier than it should have.
“You do not request what is decided,” Joffrey said. “You accept it.”
He crossed the room, trailing his fingers along the shelf until he reached a book and nudged it straighter. He examined the desk, then the bed, then finally turned back to Matthis.

 

“This is better,” he said. “You were too far away before.”
Matthis nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Joffrey stepped closer.
Up close, his attention pressed in sharply, like standing too near a flame. He lifted a hand and adjusted Matthis’s collar, his fingers brushing briefly against his throat. The contact was light, precise, entirely uninvited.
“You will be more mindful of what you wear,” Joffrey said quietly. “People notice things they are not meant to touch.”
“Yes.”

 

“And you will not remove that necklace,” Joffrey added, glancing at the stone at last. “Not unless I tell you to.”
Relief and unease tangled painfully in Matthis’s chest. “As you wish.”

 

Joffrey smiled, satisfied. He stepped back and studied him with open interest.
“It suits you,” he said. “I would not have chosen it myself.”
Matthis hesitated. “You would not.”
“No,” Joffrey said. “I would have chosen something rarer.”
He turned for the door, then paused, hand resting on the latch.

 

“You will dine with me tonight,” he said. “Do not be late.”
The door opened. Sound and movement returned in a rush.
When it closed again, Matthis stood alone in the room.
He took a slow breath and let it out.
The chamber felt different immediately. Quieter. Watched.
He moved to the window and looked out at the river below, the city sprawling and indifferent. He touched the stone at his throat, grounding himself in its familiar weight.
Somewhere else in the Keep, a question was being asked about him.

 

And soon, Joffrey would return with answers Matthis had never given.
That was the point.
The illusion would be complete.

Matthis did not sit.
He paced instead, slow and deliberate, crossing the chamber from window to door and back again, counting his steps without meaning to. The room was too new to him, too carefully arranged, as though it had been waiting. The bedspread lay smooth and untouched. The books sat in their places, spines aligned, their presence less comfort than instruction.
Closer suits you.

He paused by the desk and rested his palms against its edge, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. Alaric’s lessons returned to him unbidden, small anchors taught in quieter days. He followed them carefully. Stillness first. Breath even.
It did not stop his heart from racing.
The knock came sooner than he expected.
This one was gentle. Measured.
“Yes,” Matthis said.

 

The door opened to admit two servants, both women, one older with silver threaded through her dark hair, the other scarcely older than Matthis himself. They entered with heads bowed, movements efficient and practiced.
“His Grace has ordered you prepared for supper,” the elder said.

 

Matthis inclined his head. “Of course.”
They set about their work without delay. A bundle of clothing was laid out upon the bed, finer than anything Matthis owned but not ostentatious. Deep blue wool, soft to the touch. A doublet trimmed simply in silver thread. Clean linen beneath, pressed and crisp.

 

As they worked, the younger servant glanced at him more than once, her brow knitting faintly.
“You may sit,” the elder said kindly. “There is time.”
Matthis obeyed, perching on the edge of the bed, hands folded tightly together. Only then did he realize his breathing had gone shallow again.

 

The younger servant stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Slowly,” she said. “In through the nose.”
Matthis looked up, startled.
She demonstrated quietly, drawing in a breath and releasing it with care. The elder shot her a look but did not object.
Matthis followed, grateful beyond words. His shoulders eased by degrees.
“Thank you,” he said.
The elder softened then.

“You need not thank us,” she replied. “But you are welcome to.”
They dressed him carefully, adjusting each fastening with practiced hands. When the doublet was settled, the elder stepped back and nodded in approval.
“It brings out your eyes,” she said, echoing words Matthis wished he could forget.
His ears warmed. He said nothing.
They turned their attention to his hair next. The younger servant fetched a comb and began to work through his curls patiently, untangling them strand by strand. Her touch was light, respectful.

 

“You have lovely hair,” she said before she could stop herself, then flushed. “I mean. Forgive me.”
“It is all right,” Matthis said quietly.
When they finished, she gathered his curls back just enough to tame them without flattening their shape. He scarcely recognized the boy reflected in the small looking glass she held up. He looked older. Sharper somehow. Less like someone meant to disappear.

 

The elder servant adjusted the necklace last, centering the stone deliberately against his collarbone.
“Do not touch it now,” she advised. “It sits as it should.”
“Yes,” Matthis said.
They stepped away together.
“You are ready,” the elder said. “They are assembling below.”
Matthis stood, smoothing his sleeves once more, then stopped himself. He bowed his head to them both. “Thank you.”

 

This time, they smiled.
The walk down felt different from before.
The corridors were alive now, voices rising and overlapping, footsteps echoing in greater number. Courtiers passed in silks and velvets, laughter trailing behind them. Knights in polished mail moved with purpose. The air carried the rich scent of roasted meat and spiced wine.
Matthis kept to the edges as he had always done, though he felt eyes linger longer than before. Some curious. Some wary. Some calculating.

 

The hall opened wide before him, long tables already filling, servants weaving between them with practiced grace. Candles burned in abundance, their light reflected in polished wood and metal. The noise swelled, then softened, then swelled again.

 

He paused just inside the threshold.
Joffrey was not immediately visible.
Matthis scanned the room carefully, as unobtrusively as he could manage. He recognized faces now. Lords from the Reach. Knights from the Crownlands. Ladies whose laughter carried sharply over the din.
He waited.

The hall shifted as Joffrey entered.
It was not dramatic. It never needed to be. The sound changed first. Laughter softened, then rearranged itself. Chairs scraped more carefully. Heads turned not all at once, but in practiced sequence.
Matthis felt it before he saw him.

 

Joffrey walked with his mother at his side, Cersei Lannister radiant in crimson silk, her expression already carved into disapproval for some unseen offense. Tommen followed a pace behind, earnest and slightly overwhelmed, clutching at the sleeve of a knight who murmured quietly to him.
Joffrey’s gaze swept the hall and found Matthis without hesitation.

 

The look he gave him was not surprise.
It was confirmation.
“There you are,” Joffrey said, voice carrying easily. “I wondered how long you would linger.”

 

Matthis stepped forward at once and bowed. “Your Grace.”
Joffrey smiled, pleased, and gestured toward the high table. “Come. You are late only because I allowed it.”
The walk across the hall felt longer than before. Matthis was acutely aware of the eyes that tracked him now, not merely curious but assessing. Whispers flickered and died as he passed. He climbed the steps with measured care and took the seat indicated, one removed from Joffrey’s own.
Cersei looked at him then.

 

She did not study him as she had the first time they met. There was no overt appraisal, no weighing of worth. Her gaze slid over him with cool familiarity, as one looks at a piece already accounted for.
“So,” she said, lifting her cup, “the king’s scholar arrives.”
Matthis inclined his head. “My lady.”
Her eyes sharpened slightly. “You stand straighter than last time.”

 

“I have had good instruction,” Matthis replied.
“From whom,” Cersei asked lightly, already knowing the answer.
Joffrey answered for him. “From necessity.”
That pleased her more than flattery might have. She smiled faintly into her wine.

 

“Yes,” she said. “That tends to teach faster than kindness.”
She turned away then, conversation closed, her interest satisfied by the knowledge that the boy was exactly where he was meant to be.
The meal was set before them.

 

Platters arrived heavy with steam and scent. Roasted meats glazed with honey. Trencher bread soaked in rich sauces. Bowls of figs and apples gleaming under candlelight. Wine flowed freely, red and dark and plentiful.
Joffrey ate with appetite, speaking idly of this and that, his voice bright with confidence. He mocked a lord from the Reach for overdressing and laughed openly when the man flushed. He leaned toward Tommen to explain a joke, then dismissed him just as quickly when the boy asked a question too earnest for the table.
Matthis ate sparingly.

 

He was conscious of his hands, of his posture, of the pace at which he chewed. He did not rush. He did not linger. He remembered every lesson Alaric had ever given him about appearing neither hungry nor ungrateful.
At one point, Cersei glanced toward him again.
“You read for him now, do you not,” she asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And write as well.”

 

“When asked.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “He asks often.”
Joffrey did not deny it. He leaned back in his chair and watched Matthis openly.
“He listens better than the others,” Joffrey said. “He does not fidget.”

 

“That can be trained,” Cersei replied. “Or broken.”
Matthis kept his eyes lowered.
Joffrey leaned closer to him then, his voice dropping so only Matthis could hear.
“You look different,” he said. “Did you enjoy the room.”
“It is generous,” Matthis replied carefully.
Joffrey laughed softly. “You will learn not to praise gifts. You thank the giver instead.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

Satisfied, Joffrey turned his attention back to the table, but not before his eyes flicked once more to the stone at Matthis’s throat.

 

Later, when the hall had grown louder and wine had loosened tongues, Joffrey stood abruptly.
“I am bored,” he announced. “Come.”
The hall exhaled as Joffrey pushed back from the table.
It was not relief. It was recalibration. The noise adjusted itself around his absence, voices lifting cautiously, servants moving a fraction faster. Cersei did not look up as he left. She never needed to. Tommen watched him go with open curiosity, then returned to his plate when no one explained.
Matthis rose at once.

 

He did not need to be told twice.
They left through a side passage near the high table, one of the quieter exits that led away from the main corridors. The music softened behind them, swallowed by stone and distance. Joffrey walked ahead, hands loose at his sides now, his earlier restlessness sharpened into purpose.
The Red Keep unfolded upward.

 

They climbed narrow steps worn smooth by centuries of courtiers and kings. Here the walls were pale and unadorned, broken only by tall windows that let in slanted light. The air shifted with height. Cooler. Cleaner. The smell of food faded, replaced by stone and wind and faint iron from the sea below.

 

Joffrey stopped before an open archway.
Beyond it lay a terrace.
The view struck at once, broad and unashamed. King’s Landing spilled outward in a tangle of rooftops and streets, the Blackwater cutting through it like a dark ribbon. The harbor glittered with movement. Ships drifted in lazy clusters. Smoke curled from a hundred unseen hearths. The city breathed, vast and indifferent.
Matthis stepped closer without realizing he had done so.
Joffrey watched him take it in.

 

“People forget how small they are,” he said. “Up here, it is harder.”
“It is beautiful,” Matthis replied.
Joffrey scoffed. “It is useful.”
He moved to the low stone balustrade and rested his palms against it, leaning forward. The wind tugged lightly at his sleeves. His hair caught the light, pale as polished gold.
“This city obeys because it must,” he went on. “It hates that fact. All cities do.” He glanced sideways. “Do you know how many kings have stood here.”
Matthis shook his head.

 

“Enough to believe it means something,” Joffrey said. “Enough to be wrong.”
He straightened and turned fully toward him.
The terrace was empty. Guards stood farther back, deliberately placed beyond hearing. The space felt chosen.
“You did well tonight,” Joffrey said.
Matthis inclined his head. “I followed your lead.”
Joffrey smiled faintly. “You always do.”
He stepped closer.

 

The distance narrowed not abruptly but deliberately, one measured step at a time. Joffrey’s presence pressed forward, familiar now in its intensity. He did not touch. Not yet.
“You know what people say about me,” Joffrey continued. “They think I do not notice small things.”
Matthis said nothing.
“I notice everything,” Joffrey said. “What you eat. How quickly. Who watches you when you enter a room. Who looks away.”

 

His gaze dropped briefly to the stone at Matthis’s throat, then rose again.
“And who gives you gifts.”
Matthis felt his pulse quicken, but his voice remained steady. “I did not hide it.”

 

“No,” Joffrey agreed. “That is why I allowed it.”
The wind shifted. Somewhere below, a bell rang.
Joffrey lifted a hand then, slowly, and brushed his thumb against the cord of the necklace. The touch was light, almost absentminded, but it stilled Matthis completely.
“You wear it like it matters,” Joffrey said quietly.
“It does,” Matthis replied before he could stop himself.
Joffrey’s eyes sharpened. Not anger. Interest.
“Why.”

 

Matthis hesitated only a moment. “Because it was chosen.”
Joffrey’s hand stilled.
“For you,” Matthis added carefully. “Not for what I represent.”
Silence stretched.
Then Joffrey laughed, soft and low. “You think that makes it different.”

 

“It does,” Matthis said. “To me.”
Joffrey studied his face with new focus, as though reassessing a familiar object under different light. He withdrew his hand slowly.
“You are very honest,” he said. “That is either courage or stupidity.”

 

Matthis met his gaze. “You have not punished me yet.”
Joffrey’s smile curved. “Do not rush me.”
He moved again, close enough now that Matthis could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of wine and spice. Joffrey’s voice dropped.
“You belong near me,” he said. “You understand that.”
Matthis nodded. “Yes.”
“And you understand what that costs.”
“Yes.”

 

Joffrey lifted his chin slightly, studying the line of Matthis’s mouth, the tension held carefully there. His fingers rose, hovering near his jaw, not touching.
“You look as though you expect something,” Joffrey observed.

 

Matthis swallowed. “I expect you to decide.”
Joffrey’s breath ghosted close.
“That is the correct answer,” he said.
For a moment, it seemed he might close the remaining distance. His gaze lingered, intent and assessing, as though weighing not desire but effect. Then, at the last instant, he turned away.
The withdrawal was deliberate.
He stepped back to the balustrade, reclaiming space, control restored.

 

“Not tonight,” Joffrey said lightly. “Anticipation is far more instructive.”
Matthis exhaled slowly, the tension settling into something steadier, heavier.
Joffrey looked back at him, satisfied.
“You will walk with me more often,” he continued. “You will sit where I can see you. You will not accept gifts without my knowledge.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

“And when I give you something,” Joffrey added, voice cool and certain, “you will understand why it is better.”
Matthis inclined his head. “I will.”
Joffrey smiled then, pleased in a way that was unmistakably dangerous.

 

They stood together on the terrace as the city spread beneath them, lights beginning to flicker on one by one. From above, King’s Landing looked almost orderly, almost obedient.
Joffrey watched it as a king should.
Matthis watched Joffrey.
And understood, with a clarity that settled deep and permanent, that whatever gift was coming would not be meant to adorn him.

 

It would be meant to bind.
When Joffrey finally turned away, it was with the confidence of someone who knew he would be followed.
And Matthis did follow.
Carefully.
Willingly.
Because favor, once extended, did not loosen its grip.
It only tightened.