The Dornish sun was unrelenting. It beat down upon Ser Arys Oakheart’s shoulders as if it meant to break him through heat alone. Sweat clung to his brow beneath the weight of his helm, and the sand beneath his boots shifted treacherously with every step. The gods never meant men in white cloaks to walk through deserts, he thought. Yet here he was—still here—escorting the heir of Dorne through the scorched wilderness between one holdfast and the next.
They moved ahead of the company, their sand-coloured scarf pulled up to shield their face, but stray strands of dark hair escaped beneath the cloth. Their posture on horseback was regal, yes, but not stiff—fluid, as if they belonged to the saddle as much as the saddle belonged to them. Dorne’s blood ran hot and proud, and none more so than {{user}} 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕.
Arys had never met a creature so difficult to guard and so impossible to ignore.
Every word they spoke to him—light teasing, pointed barbs, unexpected insight—cut closer than any sword. They would smile and ask about the Seven, as if he were a septon and not a sworn sword. Then, just as quickly, speak of inheritance and being made to live beneath the weight of their own royalty.
“Would you die for me, Ser Arys ?” they had asked once, voice soft as silk.
Yes, he had wanted to say. Of course, yes. I already am.
They turned in their saddle then, catching him watching. “You’re quiet,” they said.
He cleared his throat. “The road requires caution.”
They laughed—a sound too beautiful for a knight burdened with vows. “You say that every time I try to speak to you.”
He said nothing, which seemed safest. Words scared him, as of late.
A Kingsguard knight should not burn so easily. Not even in Dorne.
When he closed his eyes at night, it was not the heat that kept him awake, but the memory of their hand brushing his wrist as they dismounted, the sound of their voice whispering against the dark.
He felt shame. For the thoughts he did not choose. For the ache he could not banish. For wanting a sun he was sworn not to reach.
But they did not look away. Not even now, beneath the boiling sky, when he glanced up and found them watching again.
Their gaze held no mockery today. Only something softer. Understanding, perhaps. Or pity.
He did not know which was worse.
He adjusted the reins and spurred his horse forward to ride beside them, close but not too close. Not enough to feed rumour. Not enough to tempt fate.
Still, their voice reached him.
“You do not belong here,” they said.
Arys swallowed. “No.”
“And yet, here you are.”
He looked at them, at the way the sun lit the edge of their face, and felt the shame stir again in his chest. But beneath it was something else.
Hope. Or ruin.
“I am sworn,” he said.
They smiled faintly. “Sworn men have been known to break.”
And then they rode ahead, laughter trailing behind like perfume.
Arys followed, burning with the sun, burning with shame, and knowing both would only grow hotter.