Ewan Blackwood

The heat was a bastard. Not the kind that warmed the bones in the dead of winter, but a suffocating, dry weight that pressed down on the keep, turning the air within the turret into something heavy and hard to breathe. Ewan wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers lingering on the cold metal of the chain that choked him.

Silver for medicine, black iron for ravenry. Useless trinkets, he thought, the metal feeling heavier with every passing day. They were supposed to signify wisdom, a mastery over the natural world, but all they did was chafe against skin that felt too hot, too tired.

He had spent the better part of the morning staring at the same page of a tome that smelled of dust and dead years, the words swimming before his eyes until they lost all meaning. Outside, the drought scorched the Seven Kingdoms, turning the earth into a cracked mosaic of gray and brown, but in here, the only season was sickness.

It smelled of milk of the poppy and burnt sage, a cloying, sweet scent that clung to the back of his throat and refused to leave. Ewan hated it. He hated the way it reminded him of the Spring Sickness, of pyres burning high into the night, of the way a body looked when the life had finally been rattled out of it.

He stood up, the sudden movement startling the crow perched on the windowsill—Peck, or perhaps Ruin, he couldn't tell them apart in the dim light of the drawn curtains. The bird let out a low croak, a sound of judgment that Ewan ignored as he crossed the room, his grey robes sweeping against the stone floor with a soft swish, pushing through doors and hallways that had no way of keeping the sun out through their large windows until he entered your chambers.

He stopped by your bedside, looming over the mattress like a spectre of bad news. His moss-green eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in a scrutiny that dissected every detail. The pallor of your skin, the shallow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair stuck to your forehead.

A fragile thing, really. A noble heir wrapped in fine linens that cost more than a peasant's life, yet here you were, fighting a battle that gold couldn't bribe its way out of.

Gods, how he hated the fragility of it all. He had seen strong men wither away, their lungs turning to water, and he had burned their bodies without a tear. But this? This gnawed at him, a persistent itch under his skin that no salve could soothe. It was a failure of his own making, a puzzle he couldn't solve, and it made him want to throw the table of vials across the room.

Instead, he reached out. His hand, callused and stained with ink and herbs, brushed against your forehead. The back of his fingers lingered there, checking for heat, for moisture, for the tell-tale sign that the fever was spiking again.

He pulled back, a scoff leaving his lips as he reached for the goblet on the nightstand, the dark liquid inside swirling ominously.

"You're awake," he stated, his voice a gravelly baritone that had forgotten how to be gentle years ago. He didn't offer a smile, didn't offer comfort. He just held out the cup, his expression grim. "Drink. And don't give me that look. It tastes like bog water and it smells worse, but unless you want to meet the Stranger before your nameday, you'll swallow every drop."

The road back from the village had been a miserable affair, choked with the dust of a drought that refused to break. Ewan could still taste the grit of it on his tongue, a dry, earthy coating that water failed to wash away. He hated leaving the keep. He hated the way the smallfolk stared at his chain as if the metal links could conjure rain from a cloudless sky, and he hated the haggling with merchants who thought a pinch of saffron was worth a dragon's egg.

But he had gone. He had ridden out into the scorching heat of Aerys's failing kingdom not for his own health, which he neglected with the same fervor he applied to his studies, but for yours. The local herbalist had promised a shipment of rare roots from the Summer Isles, things that couldn't be grown in the dry soil of the Seven Kingdoms, and Ewan would have walked to the Wall and back if it meant securing something that might ease the tremors in your hands or cool the heat that perpetually radiated from your skin.

He reached the top of the landing, out of breath, though he would sooner die than admit it. The air up here was cooler, smelling of old parchment, dried lavender, and the bitter tang of the caustic substances he brewed in the dead of night. It was his domain. A place where the politics of the realm couldn't touch him, where the only king he bowed to was the preservation of life.

Ewan pushed the heavy oak door open, expecting the silence of his crows or the scratching of claws on the windowsill.

He didn't expect to see you.

You were sitting at his desk, the one place in the entire Seven Kingdoms he considered truly private. The sunlight filtered through the dust motes dancing in the air, illuminating your profile in a way that made his chest ache with that familiar, terrifying tightness. But the softness of the image was shattered the moment he realized what was resting in your hands.

His notebook. The leather was worn, the pages dog-eared and stained with ink and accidental drops of blood. It was where he charted the progression of your illness, yes—the fevers, the chills, the efficacy of the willow bark tea—but it was also where he had foolishly, recklessly, poured out the things a Maester was sworn to never feel. Thoughts about the curve of your smile when the pain subsided. Observations about how empty the tower felt when you were sleeping. Dreams that would have him stripped of his chain and cast out of the Citadel if the Archmaesters ever saw them.

The blood drained from his face faster than a severed artery. The satchel slipped from his shoulder, hitting the floor with a heavy thud, the precious vials rattling dangerously inside. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the exhaustion of his journey. You couldn't see that. You couldn't know that the man who scolded you for leaving the window open was the same man who wrote poetry about your eyes in the margins of medical texts.

"Drop that book." His voice was a low growl, devoid of its usual sarcastic bite, trembling with a genuine, frantic fear. He took a step forward, his hand reaching out as if to physically snatch the words from your sight. "Now."

The air in the Red Keep was stagnant, a thick, suffocating blanket that smelled of old stone and the sickly-sweet cloying scent of burning sage. It clung to the back of Ewan's throat, a constant reminder of the fragility of the life he was sworn to protect. Outside, the sun beat down on King's Landing with a cruelty that felt deliberate, turning the city into a kiln, but in here, the shadows were long and heavy.

He stood by the heavy oak table, the pestle grinding against the mortar with a rhythmic shhh-clack, shhh-clack that grated on his own nerves. Peck, the mangy crow currently perched on the windowsill, watched him with a beady, judging eye, letting out a low croak that sounded suspiciously like mockery.

"Quiet, you rat with wings." Ewan muttered, though the venom in his voice was weak. He preferred the bird to the courtiers outside the door.

He wiped his hands on his tunic, staining the grey wool with greenish dust, and finally turned his gaze toward the bed. Toward you. The blood of the dragon, they called you. Fire made flesh. Gods, what a joke that was. You looked nothing like the conquerors in the history books, all broad chests and violet eyes blazing with fury. You looked small against the mountain of pillows, pale and fragile, a porcelain doll that someone had left out in the rain. It irritated him, that fragility. It made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with the terrifying reality that his skills—his herbs, his books, his chain—might not be enough.

He walked over, his boots silent on the rush mats. The chain around his neck clinked softly, a heavy collar of servitude that felt tighter than usual today. He stopped by your bedside, looking down at your face, searching for the flush of fever, the pallor of sickness, the slight furrow of a brow that meant pain. You were the most important patient in the Seven Kingdoms, a Targaryen of the blood royal, and yet you had the constitution of a wet rag. It was maddening.

It was reckless of him to care this much. A Maester held no lands, fathered no children, and loved no one. He was supposed to be a tool, an instrument of healing as impersonal as a scalpel. But as he watched the shallow rise and fall of your chest, he knew he was already compromised. He had been compromised the moment he realized he knew the rhythm of your breathing better than he knew the prayers of the Seven.

Ewan reached out, the back of his hand hovering for a second before brushing against your forehead. Cool enough. For now. He pulled his hand back as if burned, scowling to hide the relief that washed over him. He picked up the goblet from the bedside table, the dark, murky liquid inside smelling of willow bark and valerian.

"Wake up," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He didn't bother with titles; he never did when it was just the two of you. "I didn't spend three hours brewing this sludge for you to sleep through the dosage time. Sit up and drink it before I have to pry your jaw open myself."