Chapter 8 Perrin
PERRIN
The tent smelled of sweat when Perrin returned to it, though he quickly realised he was smelling himself; his anxiety, pushing out of his pores.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—hadn’t stopped since he’d turned away from the Nameless Knight’s canvas walls, since the image of Hal sprawled and wanting beneath another man had burned itself into his vision like a brand.
He stood just inside the entrance of their shared tent, one hand gripping the support pole because his legs threatened betrayal and tried to breathe through the thing lodged in his chest.
He’d known, hadn’t he? Some part of him had understood where Hal was going when the knight had slipped out after dark. Perrin had woken immediately, and he should have gone back to sleep. He should have given his knight whatever privacy he’d been seeking in the darkness.
Instead, he’d followed. Like a dog trailing its master. Like a fool who couldn’t leave well enough alone.
The single candle he’d left burning had melted down to a stub.
Its flame was guttering, threatening to go out entirely.
In the low light, shadows pooled in the tent’s corners, making the familiar space feel foreign.
The armour stand loomed like a silent witness to Perrin’s overreach.
The carefully maintained pieces of Hal’s gear gleamed dully in the weak light, each one a testament to Perrin’s devotion, his endless service, his absolute stupidity in thinking any of it mattered beyond function.
What had he been thinking, storming in like that?
He was a squire. A squire! But no matter how he tried to dislodge the memories, he kept seeing Hal’s broad chest, muscles flexing.
The Nameless Knight between his thighs, dark hair spilling over Hal’s hip.
The sounds—Gods, the sounds Hal had been making.
Desperate and raw and nothing like the careful control he maintained during the day.
Perrin had heard those sounds and felt something tear in his chest, felt the careful architecture of his world collapse into rubble.
Because he’d wanted to be the one making Hal sound like that.
He had serviced Hal before, but only occasionally, and often when Hal had no other choice.
Even then, Hal had only used his mouth and been quick about it, like he was desperate to be away as soon as he was finished.
He made no noise beyond a quick grunt when he came.
After what Perrin had seen tonight, whatever he’d given Hal those times couldn’t be called real pleasure.
Despite their arrangement, they had managed a careful distance; Perrin had only been providing another service as Hal’s squire.
It was mostly Perrin who’d had to pretend his hands didn’t linger when adjusting armour or that his pulse didn’t quicken when Hal emerged from the bath, water still beading on his shoulders.
He’d spent years telling himself that loyalty and devotion were sufficient, that he didn’t need more, that wanting more was a betrayal of everything their relationship was built on.
And then the Nameless Knight had arrived, and within two days Hal had been in his tent, in his bed, giving him everything Perrin had spent years not asking for.
Footsteps outside. Heavy. Uneven. Hal’s gait, but off balance.
Perrin straightened, released the tent pole, and forced his hands to stop their trembling. When Hal pushed through the entrance, Perrin immediately dropped his head in a bow, but not before he saw Ser Hal’s expression.
His jaw was set so tightly, Perrin could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin, which was Hal’s usual tell.
Some stormy emotion raged in him. His eyes—those green eyes that could go from furious to pleased in a heartbeat—were flat and cold as river stones.
He’d dressed hastily; his shirt was half-unlaced, his breeches loose at the waist, his hair still mussed from another man’s hands.
He looked betrayed, and Perrin had been the one to betray him.
“I’m sorry, Ser Halden,” Perrin said quietly. “I shouldn’t have—I should have stayed here. Should have given you privacy.”
Hal said nothing. His silence was harder to bear than anger; it pressed down on Perrin’s shoulders like a physical weight, demanding he explain, justify, apologise again for the unforgivable sin of witnessing his knight’s humiliation.
“I woke up, and you were gone,” Perrin continued, still not looking up.
“I was concerned. Thought perhaps you’d taken ill, or—” The lie died on his tongue.
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t pretend this was innocent concern rather than the jealous trailing of someone who had no right to jealousy.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, because what else could he say?
Only the truth. “I guessed where you were and what was happening. I guessed, too, who he was. And you were right, I can’t be sure about it, and I didn’t know if he really was using you, and it’s not that you’re not attractive, but I didn’t want you to wake up tomorrow with regret, and I—”
“Stop.”
The word cracked like a whip. Perrin’s head came up automatically, years of obedience overriding his need to defend himself.
Hal stood with his fists clenched at his sides, his whole body rigid with suppressed violence.
But it wasn’t directed at Perrin. No, Perrin knew Hal’s rage and had weathered it often.
This was. . .internal. Or aimed at the Nameless Knight.
At the universe for putting him in a position where his squire had watched him be used and discarded like a training dummy.
“Don’t apologise,” Hal said, each word ground out through clenched teeth.
“Don’t fucking apologise to me when I’m the one who—” He cut himself off, turned away, pressed both palms against the tent’s support pole as if he, too, needed something to hold him upright.
His shoulders rose and fell with harsh breaths.
Perrin stayed quiet, letting Hal work through whatever he needed to work through. That was part of his job too: Knowing when to speak and when silence served better.
Tomorrow, Hal would face the Nameless Knight in the tournament finals. Tomorrow, he would need to be sharp, focused, capable of the precision that had carried him through so long undefeated. Tomorrow, he would need to be the best version of himself.
Tonight, he was a man coming apart at the seams.
Perrin’s mind shifted, practical instincts overriding hurt feelings.
He’d seen Hal like this before—wound so tight he couldn’t think straight, his body vibrating with unused violence and energy and lacking a place to put it.
Usually, it happened before important bouts, when the stakes were high, and the pressure mounted.
Perrin had learned how to handle it, how to offer what Hal needed without making it obvious the knight was being managed.
But this was different. This wasn’t pre-bout nerves or the weight of expectation.
This was rage and shame and self-loathing all tangled together, and beneath it—Perrin could see it in the set of Hal’s shoulders, in the way he held himself, and in the tenting of his breeches—arousal that hadn’t been fully satisfied.
The Nameless Knight had gotten him worked up and then dismissed him, leaving him hanging with nowhere to put all that energy.
Hal would never sleep tonight. Gods, Perrin knew him: He would spend the hours until dawn replaying every moment in that tent, every word the Nameless Knight had said, every touch and taste and broken gasp. He would torture himself with it until his mind was too fractured to function properly.
And then tomorrow he would lose. Ser Halden would hand the championship to the man who’d used him.
Perrin couldn’t allow that.
He moved forward, closing the distance between them with careful steps. Hal didn’t turn, but his shoulders tensed further as Perrin came to stand just behind him. This close, Perrin could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the sweat and sex that still clung to him. His stomach lurched.
“Ser Halden,” Perrin said softly. “Please look at me.”
For a moment, he thought Hal wouldn’t comply.
Then, slowly, the knight turned. His jaw was gritted, and a gleam in his eye threatened tears, though beneath, his green eyes glazed with fury.
But under that, too, was just a man. The man Perrin cared for; a raw, wanting, utterly lost young man, just like Perrin himself.
Perrin met that gaze steadily. Let Hal see whatever he needed to see. Then, deliberately, he sank to his knees.
He decided, in himself, that this wasn’t submission.
It wasn’t like those other times when Ser Halden had no other choice, and Perrin was only performing his duty.
This was something Perrin wanted to do; to give Hal pleasure and release, and in a way, to set things right.
This was an apology for witnessing his humiliation.
This was a return to the proper dynamic.
Perrin’s place was on his knees before his knight, and Ser Halden should use his squire.
Perrin did this not out of duty, but out of love.
He tilted his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. Hal’s eyes tracked the movement, something dark and hungry flickering across his features. His mouth parted, but he said nothing.
So Perrin provided.
“You’ll lose your edge in tomorrow’s tilt if you don’t release this,” Perrin said.
Boldly, he reached out and pressed his hands on either side of Hal’s groin, gently squeezing the firm quad muscle there.
His voice was steady despite the way his heart hammered against his ribs.
“You know you will. You’re wound too tight. Too far in your own head.”
Hal’s jaw worked. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Perrin—”