Chapter 7: Mocking Defeat
Dawn on Dragonstone was a blunt, grey thing. The sun struggled over the black cliffs, casting long, thin shadows that made the training yard look carved from ash. Roslin stood at the edge of the packed earth, her breath fogging in the salt-tinged air. The bandage on her finger was a stark white reminder. She’d chosen sensible boots and a riding skirt, her hair braided tightly back. No poetry today.
Jace was already there, moving through a series of forms with Ser Arryk. It wasn’t sparring. It was a dialogue in violence. Steel rang against steel in a steady, punishing rhythm. Jace’s movements were economical, devoid of flourish. A parry, a shift of weight, a counter-strike that stopped a hair’s breadth from Arryk’s ribs. Repeat. He was a study in contained force, his expression one of vacant concentration, as if his mind were elsewhere entirely.
Arryk, taller and broader, matched him step for step, his own style more traditionally defensive. His eyes, however, kept flicking to Roslin. Assessing. Wary.
The bout ended with a final, resonant clang. Jace lowered his practice sword, his chest rising and falling evenly. He nodded once to Arryk, then turned those violet eyes on her. “You’re late.”
“The sun’s barely up,” she said, walking forward. The ground was dewy, leaving dark impressions where her boots landed.
“It’s up. That’s the point.” He tossed his practice sword to Arryk, who caught it without a word. “Defense starts with your feet. If you’re rooted, you can’t be moved. If you can’t be moved, you’re harder to kill.”
“A delightful morning lesson,” Roslin said, pulling her dagger from her belt.
“Leave it. Your hands are for balance today.” He pointed to a clear patch of ground, a section where the earth was particularly uneven, studded with half-buried, treacherous stones. “Here.”
She obeyed, positioning herself where he indicated. He stood facing her, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint scar cutting into his eyebrow. “Watch my feet. Mirror them.”
He began a lateral slide, his boots scraping against the grit. She mimicked him, feeling awkward. He shifted forward, then back, then diagonal. His transitions were seamless, a glide that spoke of muscle memory carved in mud and blood. Hers were stilted, thought-out. She’d step, pause, then correct.
“Stop thinking. Your feet know how to walk. This is just walking with purpose.” His voice was all patience, the kind used on a green squire. It grated.
She tried again, focusing on the movement of his legs, the subtle sink of his knees. For a few passes, it almost worked. She felt a grim satisfaction as she matched his rhythm, her body beginning to understand the geometry of it.
“Good,” he said, and the single word of praise, so flatly delivered, warmed her more than it should have. “Now, add a push. If I step into your space, you don’t just move. You move and displace.” He demonstrated, sliding forward aggressively. “Use your forearm against mine, redirect the momentum. Don’t meet force with force. Redirect it.”
He moved toward her again, slower this time. She brought her forearm up, meeting his, and pushed sideways as she stepped back. His momentum carried him past her, just slightly. It worked.
“Again. Faster.”
He came again. She did it.
“Again.”
This time, his push was harder, more realistic. She compensated, shoving back, her boots scrambling for purchase on the uneven ground. She held.
A thin, almost imperceptible notch of approval in his jaw. “Now you.”
She stepped in, mirroring his aggression. He let her make contact, his arm like iron beneath her push. He redirected her effortlessly, a river turning a twig. She stumbled but kept her feet.
“You’re leaning in too far. Your center is over your toes. If your footing fails, you’re already falling.” He reset. “Again.”
Frustration simmered. She wanted to do it right. For herself, maybe a little for that faded notch of approval. She stepped in, focused on keeping her weight centered, and pushed.
Her left boot, coming down on a loose, slanting stone, skidded out from under her.
The world tilted. Her planned push became a frantic grab. Her hand clutched at his jerkin for balance as her legs went out. He moved instinctively to stabilize her, his own footing compromised by her sudden, dead weight. They went down together in a tangle of limbs, hitting the hard-packed earth with a twin expulsion of breath.
The impact was solid, knocking the air from her lungs. Dirt gritted against her cheek. When the dizziness cleared, she realized several things at once.
She was sprawled atop him. Her knees were on either side of his hips, her palms flat on his chest where she’d gripped him. His hands, which had flown to her ribs to catch her, now burned through the fabric of her tunic. They were both perfectly, utterly still.
His breath was warm against her face. His eyes, wide for a fractured second, were the color of a storm twilight. She could feel the rapid hammer of his heart under her hands, a frantic rhythm at odds with his frozen expression.
A cough. Hacked, deliberate. Ser Arryk stood a few feet away, his weathered face a mask of strained neutrality.
The sound broke the spell. Roslin, her own pulse roaring in her ears, looked down at Jace. Dirt smudged his jaw. A strand of silver hair clung to his forehead. The clinical teacher was gone, replaced by a man caught in a raw, unscripted moment. Something wild and reckless bubbled up in her, a defense against the sheer, overwhelming intimacy of their position.
She leaned down, just a fraction, and brushed a fleck of dirt from the leather over his chest with exaggerated care. Her voice, when she found it, was low, a breathy murmur meant only for him.
“My prince,” she said, the title a soft, mocking formality. “I do believe this constitutes a surrender.”
He didn’t move. But his eyes darkened, the violet deepening almost to black. His fingers tightened, just barely, on her ribs. A sharp, soundless intake of breath hissed through his teeth.
Before he could speak, before he could even move, Arryk was there. The knight’s hands closed around Roslin’s waist with impersonal efficiency and lifted her off Jace as if she weighed no more than a practice dummy. He set her on her feet a pace away, his grip lingering just long enough to ensure she was steady.
“Mind your footing, my lady,” Arryk said, his voice gravel. He turned and offered a hand to Jace.
Jace ignored it. He pushed himself up in one fluid, coiled motion, his eyes never leaving Roslin. He brushed the dirt from his clothes with quick, angry slaps. The air between them crackled, charged with everything unsaid—the fall, her words, the way he hadn’t shoved her off immediately.
“The lesson is over,” Jace said, the words bitten off. He sounded like himself again, cold and definitive. But his knuckles were white where he gripped the hilt of his real sword, still sheathed at his side.
“But—” Roslin began, her confidence evaporating under his glare.
“You’re distracted. You’ll get yourself killed.” He shot a look at Arryk, a silent command. “Ser Arryk will see you to your chambers.”
He turned and walked away, his stride stiff, not toward the keep but toward the cliffs, where the wind whipped off the sea. Alone.
Arryk gestured toward the archway. “My lady.”
Roslin followed, her mind churning. She glanced back once. Jace was a solitary silhouette against the bruise-colored sea, staring out as if he could see something monstrous on the horizon. He hadn’t moved.
As they walked into the shadowy corridor, Arryk spoke, his voice low. “He doesn’t like surprises.”
“It was an accident,” she said, her own voice small.
Arryk’s gaze was ahead, his profile stern. “To you.” He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man laying a trap. “The prince is a man of control. The yard, the realm, his own… conduct. You represent a variable. Variables in his world are traditionally met with fire and blood.” He finally looked at her, his eyes old and tired. “Be careful which lines you stumble over, Lady Roslin. Some aren’t meant to be crossed.”
He left her at her door without another word. Roslin entered her rooms, the ghost of Jace’s grip still burning on her ribs, the taste of dirt and his stunned silence thick in her mouth. She hadn’t won anything. But she had, for one fleeting second, made the Prince of Dragonstone forget his control. And the look in his eyes before he remembered it hadn’t been anger.
It had been fear.