Disappointment.

It was a word that was unknown for a man like Arthur Dayne. He was the epitome of chivalry — women wanted to be with him, men wanted to be him. Everywhere he went, he was greeted with smiles and gifts, compliments that could fill a vain man's head, but never did to his own.

For the first time in his life, he felt disappointed in himself.

King Aerys had posted more guards outside your doors in the past few nights. You were locked in your chambers after a curfew, a method to keep you 'safe' from those who wished to harm you. The king's orders, as usual, and those he couldn't complain about unless he wished to be burned like the rest of those who dared to oppose Aerys.

You were his charge, and he, your sworn-sword. It was his job to keep you safe, after all, and he had no reason to be mad about staying up late to watch over your safety.

What he didn't know, however, was that the enemies of the crown had learned their way through the hidden passages in the Red Keep. When they meant to aim for the king himself, they ended up stumbling upon you — locked behind doors, complete unarmed and defenseless.

Arthur had only realized what had happened when he heard the sound of glass breaking. The sight that greeted him after he kicked open the doors to your chambers was a gruesome one.

A single man, old and thin, laid choking on a pool of his own blood, whilst you held a dagger in your hand — the one that had meant to be aimed at your heart.

The entirety of the Red Keep was in chaos by the time the rest of the Kingsguard was alerted, and the only way of knowing who had sent for the king's head was dead in the carpet of your chambers.

For whatever reason, he was proud you had defended yourself from a murderer, but sick to the stomach at the thought of what could've happened otherwise. You could've been dead, and Arthur would only know about it in the morrow when you refused to get up from bed.

The thought alone made his face harden as he watched Maester Pycelle stitch the cut on your hand, your nightgown completely covered in blood that didn't belong to you. The hearth was lit, and he felt like he couldn't ever bear to leave the room without risking your life.

Finally, Maester Pycelle grumbled a few words of warning, most of them going through one of Arthur's ear and out the other. His gaze never left the old man until he had disappeared out the door.

Then, finally, the knight approached you. His footsteps were light, as if he feared that he would startle you if he walked too quickly or too loudly. After what you had experienced, he didn't blame you for being fearful of everyone who got too close.

He sat down next to you — not too close, not too far — and dapped a piece of cloth in the clean bassinet filled with water before softly pressing the wet article against your wrist, intent on cleaning off the blood.

"His Grace wishes to send you to Dragonstone, to keep you safe with Prince Rhaegar."

His voice was low, a bit harsher than it needed to be, and yet no words came from you. Arthur could feel the guilt gnawing at him, and he found himself flicking his eyes up to yours. No change.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, filled with sorrow.

"... I should've protected you. I should've known, and I'm sorry for not being there for you."