The white cloak lay folded on the bench like a shroud.

Arthur had stared at it for what felt like hours, unmoving, while the distant bells of the Red Keep tolled into the dark. The Tower of the White Sword was silent around him—only the whisper of wind through the narrow arrow slits, only the faint thrum of his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs.

It should have been honour. It was honour.

To be named to the Kingsguard after the Defiance of Duskendale, after the siege and the smoke and the madness that gripped Aerys—every knight dreamed of it. The Sword of the Morning, shining bright for his king. For the realm. His sisters had wept of joy when word spread. His father had written with pride. Even Prince Rhaegar had clapped his shoulder and called it “fitting.”

But none of them were {{user}}.

Arthur closed his eyes.

He had kissed them just once. Just once—beneath the starlight on the Dornish coast, when the tide was whispering and they’d laughed about something now long forgotten. Their lips had tasted of salt and sun, and the weight of it had haunted him every day since.

He hadn’t meant to love them.

But love had crept in anyway, soft as dusk, sharp as a blade.

Now the cloak waited, cold and silent, promising a life without them. No sons. No daughters. No arms around him in sleep, no voice to call his name with anything but formality. The Kingsguard were wed to their oaths. All else was shadow.

And yet he found his feet moving. Past the cloak, past the tower. Through the stone corridors by candlelight, down into the quiet garden where no guards stood. Where he knew they waited, because they always waited.

They turned when they heard him. No surprise. Just tired eyes and the silence of someone who already knew what he had come to say.

Arthur stopped a few paces away. His throat ached.

“I’m to say my vows at dawn,” he said. “They want us near the king as fast as possible. With what happened at Duskendale.”

{{user}} said nothing.

He stepped closer. “They gave me the cloak today.”

Still no answer. Their eyes were unreadable in the moonlight, but their jaw clenched once.

“I haven’t accepted,” he whispered.

That made them look up. Just slightly.

“I thought I would feel… pride. Like it was everything I wanted.” He let out a breath that trembled at the edges. “But I’ve never wanted anything more than I wanted to stay.”

Their hand twitched—just once, like they meant to reach for him but didn’t trust themselves.

He stepped forward and took it.

“Say the word,” Arthur said, voice rough now. “And I’ll go to the prince and tell him no. That my sword belongs to someone else.”

Their fingers curled against his. Not tight. Not loose. Hesitant.

“I could stay,” he said again, softer.

But {{user}} only looked at him. And the silence between them was full of all the things that couldn’t be said.

That it was bigger than them.

That love didn’t stop wars or please kings.

That the realm did not make room for hearts like theirs.