You and Brynden had grown together in the shadow of whispered names and divided loyalties. Bastards, the both of you—though different in blood and temper, the two of you were bound by something fiercer than either title could define. Where others saw omens in his pale hair and red eye, saw rivalry in the way lords measured him against his half-brothers, you saw only the boy who watched too much and trusted too little. 

The boy who had never hesitated to stand between you and the world.

And you…you never hesitated to do the same.

There had been days when your half brother, Aegor, let his resentment toward Brynden spill into open violence. The yard would ring with the crack of steel and the low snarl of boys becoming men too quickly. Blood was drawn more than once. Bruises bloomed dark beneath tunics. Pride was shattered before being rebuilt harder. 

What started as childish rivalry slowly twisted into something uglier—an obsessive need in Aegor to take whatever Brynden guarded, to dominate whatever he valued, and to prove himself not merely equal but superior.

Soon, that point of contention had become your shared youngest half-sister, Shiera Seastar.

She had drifted between them like perfume and poison. She delighted in the tension she inspired. She liked to be fought over and desired. There was power in that, and she wielded it as naturally as breath.  

You, however, did not.

With the temper of both dragon and storm in your blood, you had been fiercely protective of the boy Aegor delighted in provoking. You never masked your disdain. When Aegor’s cruelty crossed from rivalry into something uglier, you answered it openly and more than once with the near promise of steel. There had been days when it seemed you and Aegor might come to blows yourselves, tempers snapping bright like sparks against dry timber.

But you were sent away before the worst of what would become of Brynden and Aegor could root itself too deeply. It was decided that distance might temper you. That time away from court and the infamous rivalry might shape you into a more suitable for the realm. A proper lady. 

You were sent first to Dragonstone. There, you resided with your half-brother, Prince Daeron, and his family. 

Dragonstone was unlike King’s Landing. Within those ancient walls, you were steeped in your Valyrian heritage. Maesters drilled the old tongue into you until it no longer felt foreign upon your lips, until High Valyrian came as naturally as breath. You learned the histories of dragonlords and conquerors, reminded that dragon blood was not merely lineage but legacy. 

And in time, you grew close to the dragon prince and your nephews, especially Baelor and Maekar. Though you were younger than they, you were keenly aware of what your birth meant. You were a noble bastard, but in the eyes of many you were considered a stain. 

But at Dragonstone, you were not treated as such.

Unlike in King’s Landing, you were not reminded of your birth at every turn. Princess Myriah treated you with warmth from the start, offering open kindness. Daeron treated you with honour. When he corrected you, it was as he would Baelor never with cruelty, always just and fair. 

Baelor was the easiest—earnest, open, guided by his own rigid sense of right and wrong. In his company, you felt only the expectation that you would rise to whatever standard you decided upon yourself.

Maekar had been different. Prickly. Suspicious. He was quick to bristle at perceived slights and quicker to guard what he believed his. With your fiery tempers, the two of you clashed often.

But time has a way of wearing down the edges of petty rivalries and slowly, grudgingly, the two of you warmed to the other.

By the end of your stay, even Maekar no longer looked at you with the disdain he once had. He looked at you as family.

From Dragonstone, you were sent to Storm’s End, where your mother and her kin welcomed you with open arms and louder laughter. It was there you met your younger cousin Lyonel, the future Lord of Storm’s End. He accepted you without judgment.

Storm’s End taught you something Dragonstone had not. It taught you to never apologize for being yourself. Pride there was worn openly, loyalty fiercely defended.

And finally, you were sent to Dorne.

At Daeron’s behest, you were dispatched south to strengthen the still fragile ties to House Martell. And there, beneath relentless sun and silken smiles, you thrived.

The Dornish courts were a den of snakes—but you learned quickly that snakes could be allies as easily as threats. You studied the art of negotiation, trained in combat and even learned the careful sciences of the deadliest poisons in the realm. 

You discovered the power of whispers and learned to listen more than you spoke. The alliances you forged were not decided through the purity of your name, but through your strength, your intelligence, your ability to stand your ground without flinching.

Being a bastard meant little there.

Worth was measured in action. Respect was earned, not inherited. And in that sun-scorched land, you learned to shed the shame others had once tried to press upon you like a brand.

And through it all, you built your connections. By the time you returned, the realm no longer whispered your name solely with shame. They spoke it of it in favour.

When you finally returned to King’s Landing, you were no longer the girl hiding away in the shadows, but a woman shaped by distance and discipline. 

War met you at the gates.

The First Blackfyre Rebellion had already begun to tear at the realm’s seams, banners rising in defiance, loyalties tested in blood.

With you, you brought the alliances you had cultivated in Storm’s End and Dorne to aid Baelor as he gathered troops to fight Daemon Blackfyre’s rebellion. Stormlords who had laughed with you at your cousin’s table now answered your call, with Lyonel leading them. Dornish captains who had once tested your resolve now marched beneath Targaryen command because you called for them to support princess Myriah and her family.

You rode at Baelor’s side as he rallied the allies you had forged in distant courts. And when the armies converged, you joined Maekar upon the field.

History would remember that day in bloodied iron.

The Hammer and the Anvil, they called your kin—Baelor Breakspear and Maekar Targaryen. One to drive the rebels forward with relentless force. One to hold the line unyielding as stone.

Then there was you the spark that rekindled the hope of victory. 

When Aegon, Daemon’s eldest, rode at the front of the Blackfyre charge, the field trembled beneath the weight of hooves. His banner snapped black behind him, his blade raised high, his men surging with him with a determined roar meaning to shatter Maekar’s position in a single devastating strike.

For the span of a single breath, the world narrowed as you saw him.

Your fingers drew the bowstring back in one smooth motion, utterly steady. The poison that tipped your arrow glistened faintly in the sun.

With an exhaling breath, you released.

The shaft flew true.

It pierced through Aegon’s armour and buried itself in his chest. He jerked sharply in the saddle, breath torn from him, before pitching backward into the churned earth just moments before his charge could crash against Maekar’s line.

It was his death that would draw on the opportunity to kill Daemon, who gathered Aegon’s dying body into his arms, heedless of the battle raging around them. For a fleeting, terrible moment, he was not rebel king nor pretender—only a father cradling what he had lost.

But grief turned swiftly to fury.

When Aegon’s life finally slipped away, Daemon rose, his gauntlets slick with his son’s blood, and his gaze found yours across the field. Blinded by rage and desperate for retribution, he charged, cutting a path through any who stood between him and his target.

And it would be Brynden’s arrow that slew Daemon, loosed the instant he saw where the rebel king’s fury was aimed—at you.

For your actions, you turned the tide of the Battle of the Redgrass Field. After, its victory you returned to court, drawing the attention of not only the courtiers but of Brynden as well. His gaze followed you taking in the fierce beauty that you’ve become.

There was a time he felt the stirrings of feelings but at the time he’d been too shy, hiding away in his youth. Yet, now time and challenge had hardened him into a lord whose name was whispered with fear throughout the realm. 

He felt as though something long dormant had woken the moment you stepped into the Red Keep. You carried yourself with the quiet assurance of someone who had learned to survive in courts not her own. Compared to them, the red keep seemed almost filled with sheep. 

He was not the only one who noticed your beauty, admirers were quick to flock you but unlike Shiera who indulged and even flaunted the attention of her admirers to his face, you remained polite to those who sought your hand.

That was until you saw him, he was sure his heart stuttered as you gave him that familiar bright grin devoid of any fear as you came up to him, enveloping him in a warm hug before he could even react.

“Brother,” you greeted warmly, and your embrace was like a summer wind from the Marches, cutting right through his cold exterior.

Brynden froze. For a man who claimed to see through a thousand eyes and one, he was momentarily blinded by the sheer, grounding reality of your presence. His arms, usually stiff and poised for the weight of a bow or the scratching of a quill, hovered uncertainly for a fraction of a second before they closed around you.

“You’ve grown taller, Brynden,” you said lightly, your voice softened by the lingering cadence of the Dornish and Valyrian accents you’d picked up in your travels. The vowels rolling warm against his ear.

You drew back just enough to look him in the red eye that so unsettled others, before shifting to the still healing socket half-hidden by pale strands of hair.

You didn't flinch or recoil in disgust like so many others did at the sight but your lips did briefly tip down. You had heard the rumours of what happened, heard that it was Aegor who had taken Brynden’s eye. 

Your fingers lifted instinctively, moving to brush the silver hair aside for a better look.

Brynden’s hand shot out before you could touch him. His fingers closed firmly around your wrist and for a heartbeat, his expression looked as if it were carved of stone.

You let out a soft huff at the sight of his stoicism and lowered your hand, easing from his hold without resistance. “And far too serious,” you teased, though your voice remained tender. “Have you forgotten how to smile? Or has the Red Keep finally turned you to stone?”

At last, his mouth twitched.

“I’ve grown taller, as one does with age,” he drawled dryly, choosing to answer your first comment instead. A faint snort escaped him. “The last you saw me was five summers past. Long enough for boys to become men.”

Your gaze couldn’t help but once again trail down his form, this time to properly take him in.

Up close, you could see the change in him more clearly. The pale hair still fell straight and stark against his red and smokey grey doublet. His ruby red eye still burned bright beneath the pale hood of his lashes—the colour unnerving to some, mesmerizing to you. But the softness of youth had been stripped away by time and trial. What remained were sharp cheekbones that lent him an almost gaunt severity.

Even as a child, he had been lean to the point of frailty, all long, gangly limbs. Now that same leanness had hardened. Muscle lay coiled beneath cloth and leather belonging to those of a seasoned warrior. 

He had grown into himself.

His voice snapped you out of your perusal, "They told me you were a 'proper lady' now," Brynden said, his lip curling into the ghost of a wry, jagged smile. He reached out, his pale fingers ghosting over the golden chains of your Dornish dress. "But I see the sun of the South didn't completely burn the dragon out of you. It only tempered the blade."

He glanced over your shoulder at the flock of courtiers who had been hovering nearby, their faces a mask of poorly hidden envy and sudden caution. With a single, icy look from Bloodraven, they scattered like ash in a gale.

You hummed softly, unfazed. “Yes. My time away taught me much.”

“So it did,” he murmured, his gaze returning to you. There was curiosity there now. “Tell me—was it Dorne that taught you your skill with the bow?”

A slow smirk curved your lips.

“Why?” you asked lightly, leaning forward just enough to shorten the space between you. “Are you worried I may take your place as Westeros’s most skilled archer?”

He could not help but mirror the movement, leaning in as well, the red eye glinting with quiet amusement. The corner of his mouth lifted into a rare, genuine grin. 

“I do not—”

“Well,” a new voice drawled, cutting clean through the moment, dripping with mockery and unwanted heat, “the lost doe returns to the dragon’s den. And I heard she’s grown quite a set of horns in the Stormlands.”

You didn't have to turn to know it was Aegor. A single glance at Brynden was enough. It seemed the old rivalry you remembered between them had not died in your absence—only festered. The air around Brynden seemed to still, the warmth leaching from it as if winter had come. 

His jaw tightened; the faint amusement you had received from him, vanished without a trace.

Slowly, you turned.

He looked like an older version of the childish brute you remembered—harder, heavier in muscle, a beard shadowing his jaw. The same restless aggression simmered beneath his skin, though now it wore the arrogance of a man riding the high of his new legitimized status.

His gaze dragged over you with open appraisal.

You forced a smile.

“Aegor,” you greeted evenly. “I see your tongue is still as blunt as your sword. Has no one taught you how to greet a lady in my absence, or do I need to show you how they handle such rudeness in the Stormlands?”

A faint murmur rippled through the nearby courtiers, that had been brave enough to stay. 

Aegor’s lips twitched into something you couldn’t even call a smile. “Stormlanders correct rudeness with fists, if I recall.”

“Oh, good,” you replied sweetly. “There is something within that head of yours. I worried for a moment it might be hollow.”

He scowled. 

“I see not even exile could teach you to become a proper lady,” he said, voice tightening. “Your mouth is still as crass as ever.”

"Crass?" You let the word hang in the air, tilting your head as if weighing its value. "In the South, they call it candor. But I suppose to a man who only understands the language of a grunt and a grumble, any sentence with more than three syllables sounds like an insult."

Aegor’s face flushed a dull, angry purple, his hand twitching toward the heavy signet ring on his finger. "You always did have too much of our father’s arrogance and none of his sense. You think those Dornish trinkets and Stormland boasts make you untouchable? You’re still a bastard just like the rest of us sister, sister. Just one with better fabric and a sharper tongue."

"And a better aim," Brynden cut in, his voice like a sheet of ice cracking. He hadn't moved, but the air around him felt charged, dangerous. His single red eye was fixed on Aegor with a lethal focus. "Or have you forgotten whose arrow spared Prince Maekar’s line from being overrun. It wasn't a lady's embroidery needle that pierced Aegon’s plate, Bittersteel."

The mention of the Redgrass Field and his fallen nephew turned Aegor’s irritation into a raw, bleeding snarl. He stepped into your space, Looming over you, the scent of leather and old sweat rolling off him.

"Careful, Brynden," Aegor hissed, though his eyes remained locked on yours. "The war is over, but the grudges are long. Your little 'doe' might have found some horns, but I’ve broken stags before."

“Try it,” you whispered, not retreating a single inch. Your hand came to rest openly on the hilt of the slender Valyrian steel dagger at your thigh—a gift from Prince Daeron himself. “And I’ll show you why the Dornish say it’s the smallest vipers that carry the most certain death.”

Aegor’s gaze dropped to the hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger, his pupils narrowing. He recognized the ripples in the dark metal. The sight of it, held by a woman who had already tasted the blood of what was once his cause, seemed to stoke the fire behind his eyes until it threatened to boil over.

“A gift from the Scholar-King?” Aegor sneered, though he did not step closer. “He gives you toys of ancient steel while he gives nothing to the men doing the real fighting, like Maekar. You haven’t change, hiding behind titles and trinkets.”

“And you,” you replied softly, your voice dipping into something far more dangerous than anger, “are still the same brat who screams at the sun because it refuses to stop shining.”

Anyone in proximity had gone silent.

“You speak of real fighting,” you continued, honeyed and lethal. “Yet I recall quite clearly the sight of your back as you fled the Redgrass Field. Tell me—did Blackfyre teach you that particular stride, or did it come naturally?”

The insult struck home like a hammer.

Aegor surged forward, fury finally breaking through restraint. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, leather creaking beneath the force of his grip.

Steel sang half an inch from its sheath—

Brynden moved instantly, stepping between you with his arm raised to halt him—

—but you were faster.

Your dagger was in your hand before most realized it had left its sheath. In a single fluid motion, you stepped in close and pressed the edge of Valyrian steel to Aegor’s throat. A thin line of red blossomed across his skin where the blade kissed flesh. He was fortunate you had not dipped it in poison, as you so usually did.

“Careful,” You all but crooned warningly.

“Some might consider your behaviour to be one of traitor,” Brynden warned quietly, “After all, you only just managed to clear your name of any treason.”

Aegor stilled.

He had been one of Daemon Blackfyre’s most ardent supporters, convinced of the righteousness of a rebel crown. When the rebellion shattered at the Redgrass Field, when banners burned and brothers turned their blades inward, survival had demanded a different posture. He had claimed blindness and manipulation. Claimed he had been misled by ambition and false promises. He had bent the knee to Daeron and sworn himself renewed in loyalty.

It had been by the narrowest edge of royal mercy that his head had remained upon his shoulders.

And he knew it.

For a long, tense moment, he glared at the two of you, fury warred with calculation behind his gaze. Slowly, he stepped back, fists clenched in a physical effort to restrain his anger.

A throat cleared nervously.

A few steps away, a young servant stood stiff as a pike, face pale beneath the torchlight. “M-my lord,” he said, voice wavering slightly, “the Lady Shiera requests your presence.”

You fought the urge to scoff at the sound of your half sister’s name but you didn’t miss the way Brynden’s shoulder went stiff from beside you.

Aegor’s expression shifted as smug curve tugged at his mouth as he glanced at Brynden. Anger replaced by petty satisfaction at the perceived victory. Without a word, he turned and followed the servant down the corridor.

Only when he was fully out of sight did Brynden’s shoulders ease, the rigid line of him loosening by a fraction.

"Well," you muttered, the metallic snick of your Valyrian steel dagger sliding home into its sheath puncturing the silence. "He’s still the same as ever."

"He is worse," Brynden corrected, his voice a low.

When you looked at him, the edge of cold calculation had returned to his features—but beneath it was something else. 

Concern.

“Be on your guard around him,” he said seriously. “Aegor is ruled by his temper,” Brynden continued. “He won’t so easily forget such a slight against him.” His jaw tightened, the pale skin over his bone structure pulling taut. “I fear he will seek repayment.”

You snorted softly. “I’ve survived far worse than our brother.”

“I do not question your strength,” he began, his single red eye narrowing as he prepared to press the matter further, to make you understand the gravity of his warning was not just something you could brush aside—

“My lady.”

The interruption came from your left.

You turned to find a herald standing stiffly at attention, the three-headed dragon sigil embroidered across his chest in threads of obsidian and flame.

“The Hand requests your presence,” the man announced. “At once.”

You inclined your head gracefully. “Of course.”

Brynden’s jaw tightened with frustration

When you turned back to Brynden, something unspoken passed between you.

He leaned in, his voice a ghost of a whisper. “Do not dismiss what I said.”

You offered him a faint, teasing smile, the kind that had always managed to disarm his gloom. “I won’t,” You reassured, “I’ll see you later.”

He only inclined his head, standing perfectly still like a sentinel of bone and shadow, watching as you walked away.

That night, Brynden dreamed.

In his sleep, he walked a narrow path—one he had been treading for years, the earth well-worn beneath his boots. At its end stood Shiera. She wore a radiant smile across her plush lips, yet she remained perpetually just out of reach, no matter how long he walked. 

Beside him stood Aegor, blade drawn, anger ever simmering. In that future, Brynden saw the years stretching on in endless contest: challenges in the court, wars waged for a woman who belonged to neither and delighted in belonging to both. There was no peace there. No certainty. Only a lifetime locked in rivalry, chasing affection that would never root itself fully in him.

It was a life of endless stalemate for a loveless war disguised as devotion.

Then the dream shifted.

The path split.

The second road was quieter. There was no spectacles, no rivalry. Only you.

You stood beneath a sky washed in gold, your expression steady and unafraid. In this future, Brynden did not have to fight Aegor for scraps of attention. He did not measure his worth against his brother’s rage. He stood beside you—not above, not in pursuit—beside.

When he reached you, the smile you gave him was blinding, reaching into the cold corners of his soul. Your fingers came up to his pale, red-stained cheek, cupping it tenderly. You looked at him as though you saw every shadow and flaw he carried and did not recoil. As though loving him was not a challenge to conquer but a choice you happily made.

He saw then what that life could be. You, with the alliances you had cultivated from the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone to the sweltering courts of Dorne. You, who had won the respect of the realm through intelligence and strength rather than seduction and brute force. Lords who trusted you extended that trust to him. You, who would not toy with his heart, but guard it as fiercely as he would guard yours.

There was no endless duel upon this path, only devotion and love. 

When Brynden woke, he realized there was no choice to be decided. You and he had always been two halves of a whole. Shiera had been his attempt to fill the space your absence carved into him. A distraction.

Now that you had returned, there was no room for substitutes.

It would only ever be you.

But Brynden was not the only one whose gaze shifted. Aegor’s had as well, for the sole reason because Brynden now wanted you. The rivalry that had once been tempered by pride and sharpened by Shiera’s indulgence darkened the moment it centered upon you. 

Your half sister had a beauty that men drowned in with indulgence. You, however, had a beauty that sent men to their knees, begging for the smallest of tastes.

While Shiera had entertained them both, weaving the tension between Brynden and Aegor like a spider spinning silk around its prey, you offered neither invitation nor game. You did not flirt or indulge in his crass attempts. In truth, you did not even look Aegor’s way, for since you had been a young girl, it was only ever Brynden who held your heart.

However, continued denial to a man accustomed to conquest, was its own provocation. It was a month after your return when he finally found his opportunity to corner you alone.

“What does he have that draws you to his side?” Aegor demanded one evening, stepping from shadow as you made your way toward your chambers. “Is it sorcery? Or do you simply enjoy the company of things that should have been drowned at birth?”

You glared, “Watch your tongue.”

“Is he fucking you?” he demanded, his voice dropping into the gutter. He stepped closer, his bulk looming over you, the scent of wine heavy and sour on his breath. “Are you so desperate for a man that you would settle for such a freak?”

He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned down, his voice laced with a grotesque sort of arrogance that made your skin crawl. “If it’s a man you need, I can assure you I would satisfy you far better than he ever could.”

The sound of your palm striking his cheek echoed down the stone corridor like a whip-crack.

Aegor's head snapped sideways, the force of the blow jarring his teeth. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, stunned less by the physical sting than by the sheer, audacity you would do such a thing. A dark, angry crimson flared along his jaw where your hand had landed.

You let out a cold, mocking, humourless laugh.

“You reek of desperation,” you spat, your voice like winter steel. “It’s pathetic.” 

You took a step closer, forcing him to meet your eyes, refusing to be intimidated by his size. “You’re pathetic, Aegor. You’re so consumed by what Brynden has that you’ve forgotten how to be a man of your own. And that is why you will always be second to him.”

Slowly, Aegor’s head turned back toward you. The surprise was gone, replaced by a raw, white-hot fury that ignited in his eyes. "You'll regret that," he hissed.

Your other hand moved instinctively for your dagger — but this time he was ready.

Aegor caught your wrist mid-motion, his fingers clamping down hard enough to bruise. Before you could twist free, his other hand seized your remaining arm. In one brutal shove, he drove you back against the stone wall, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. Cold stone pressed into your spine as he pinned your arms above you, using his weight to anchor you.

You struggled immediately, muscles straining, trying to wrench free from his grip.

“Let me go!” you shouted, fury lacing your voice.

But he was larger — broader through the shoulders, heavier with muscle. You were fast and trained, but in sheer size you were nearly half his measure. Your wrists burned beneath the pressure of his hold as he forced you still against the wall, his breath hot and unsteady against your face.

He let out a dark, jagged chuckle, leaning in until the stench of wine was suffocating. “If you have doubts of me being a man, then let me show you. Let me show you exactly what a man can do.”

You snarled, whipping your head forward in a desperate attempt to get free. Your forehead met the bridge of his nose with a sickening, wet crack.

Aegor let out a pained howl, his grip breaking as he staggered back, clutching his face. Stars danced across your vision, and a high-pitched ringing erupted in your ears from the impact. You gasped, your hand flying to your own throbbing brow as you stumbled, fingers clawing at the stone wall for purchase. You tried to shove past him, to find your footing and flee, But Aegor recovered faster than you expected.

He surged forward with a snarl, his weight slamming into your shoulder and shoving you back against the masonry with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. One hand clamped around your wrist again, pinning it high above your head. The other hand reached out and fisted the fine Dornish silk of your bodice and tore downward.

The delicate fabric let out a violent rip and gave way beneath his rough fingers.

There was a near-manic glint in his eyes, blood from his broken nose smearing across his lips as he bared his teeth. “Let’s see if he will still desire you after I ruin you,” he spat. It was the ultimate, ugly logic of a man who equated possession with power: if he could not win your regard, he would take your dignity and call it a victory over the brother he hated.

You let out a scream, the sound torn from your throat as a searing hatred for your own helplessness flared hotter than the fear. His grip was iron, crushing the bone of your wrist, and for a fleeting, terrifying heartbeat, the world narrowed to the bruising pressure of his hand and the suffocating smell of wine on his breath.

Then—

He was torn away from you before you fully understood what had happened.

The weight was suddenly gone. Aegor staggered back, his boots scuffing violently against the floor as he fought to keep his footing. Blood poured down his face from the gushing, broken nose you had delivered, staining his beard and collar in crimson streaks.

Behind him stood Brynden. He was fury rendered in absolute stillness, his pale face carved into something cold and utterly lethal. 

Aegor laughed through the blood, a wet, breathless sound devoid of any humour. He spat a glob of red onto the floor, his eyes wild and jagged with spite as he looked from his brother to you.

Brynden’s expression darkened further when his gaze swept over you, taking in the torn fabric at your bodice, the disheveled strands of your once-styled hair, and the fear you were trying so fiercely to master.

He had tolerated much in his life.

He had endured Shiera’s games, the tension and jealousy she caused by the cruelty of her whims, the shared affections she distributed between him and Aegor. He had accepted the sting of it because that had been her choice. But this—this was not a choice.

Brynden lunged.

They collided with brutal, bone-jarring force, crashing to the stone floor in a violent tangle of limbs and raw fury. The corridor erupted in the sound of chaos—boots scraping frantically against the masonry, shoulders slamming into heavy pillars, and the sound of grunts as knuckle meeting flesh.

Aegor recovered quickly, snarling as he swung back, breath tearing from battered lungs. His fist glanced off Brynden’s jaw; Brynden answered with one to the ribs that drove the air from him.

They grappled like beasts, years of rivalry igniting in full.

Eventually, Brynden gained the upper hand.

With ruthless efficiency, he forced Aegor onto his back. He braced his knees against Aegor’s ribs, pinning him to the stone. Then, his fist came down.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

And again.

The sound of knuckles striking flesh and bone echoed sickeningly through the corridor. Blood splattered across pale skin and grey stone alike. Aegor’s face became a swelling, bloodied ruin beneath the relentless assault.

Brynden did not slow; his movements were mechanical, driven by a cold, white-hot rage that had finally found its outlet. Each strike carried the weight of years of restrained fury, and in that moment, you understood with chilling clarity: if you had not moved—if you had not seized his arm and spoken his name, begging him that it was enough—he would not have stopped until he had beaten the life out of the man beneath him.

The Keep would not remember this as another brotherly fight but for a brother’s death. 

He would not be called Bloodraven.

He would be called kinslayer.

“Brynden! That’s enough!”

Your voice cut through the corridor. Your hand closed around his sleeve, halting his next move mid-arc. The fury in him did not vanish—you could feel it vibrating through his entire frame—but at your touch alone, he stilled. His fist hovered in the air for one agonizing heartbeat before finally lowering.

His shoulders heaved with ragged, silent breaths.

For a long moment, he did not move.

Then, slowly, he rose.

Aegor lay groaning on the stone, blood pooling beneath him, but Brynden no longer looked at him. His attention shifted to you instead—and whatever rage had consumed him moments before dulled beneath something far more urgent.

Worry.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

His voice was a quiet rasp, stripped of its usual icy composure. His single red eye trailed down the length of you, cataloging the damage with a near clinical precision. He took in the wild disarray of your hair, the jagged tear at your dress, and the angry, purple imprint of fingers already darkening against the skin of your wrist.

As he reached the bruises, something in his expression darkened further, a flicker of the monster returning to his eyes before he forced it back down.

Without a word, he unfastened his cloak in one smooth motion. He draped the heavy black fabric around your shoulders, the weight of it swallowing you in warmth and the faint, sharp scent of pine and old parchment.

You swallowed hard, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb, leaving a cold shiver in its wake.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your fingers clutching the silver-weighted edge of the cloak as if it were an anchor. Your gaze dropped briefly to the stone. “I should have taken your warning more seriously… I did not expect him to—”

Brynden’s hand rose to your cheek. His palm was cool against your flushed skin

The touch was so sudden and so gentle that it stilled the very breath in your lungs.

“It was not your fault,” he said, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you. “You are not responsible for Aegor’s actions. Never suggest otherwise.” 

His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw carefully. A near reverent caress that felt like a benediction— so different from the violence he displayed moments before. 

“Time has only made him more twisted,” he continued quietly. “More vile.”

Behind you, Aegor shifted with a pained groan as he slowly pushed himself to sit up.

Your gaze snapped to his broken form. The softness Brynden had drawn out of you vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating fury that mirrored the steel at your hip. Without a word, you stepped around Brynden and knelt over Aegor. Before he could even blink through the blood in his eyes, you had your dagger out, pressing the sharp point of the blade directly against his groin.

Aegor stilled instantly. He let out a sharp, hitching breath as he felt the barest, stinging pinch of the Valyrian steel through his breeches.

“Try this again,” you whispered, your voice a lethal caress, “and I will personally ensure that the next time you try to bed a woman, you’ll find you are missing the parts required for the task. I will make a eunuch of you before you can even draw a breath to plead.”

Aegor’s jaw worked, his hands balling into white-knuckled fists against the floor. Even broken and bleeding, he looked ready to strike, desperate to prove his dominance with the only tool he truly understood: violence. But the bite of the blade was the only thing that kept him at bay.

"You're a madwoman," he hissed, his voice bubbling through the blood, though his eyes darted nervously to the blade in your hand.

"I'm a dragon," you corrected him sharply, your voice devoid of mercy. "And I've spent enough time with vipers to know exactly where to bite."

With those words, you straightened up, the adrenaline beginning to leave your limbs. Brynden offered his arm and you accepted it, letting him lead you away from the wreckage of his brother. The heavy sweep of his cloak trailed behind you, a dark shroud that hid your torn dress from the prying eyes of the Red Keep.

Once inside the safety of your chambers, Brynden turned to face you.

“Do you need me to call the maester?” he asked softly. His fingers reached toward the swelling at your brow where you had struck Aegor.

You winced as the dull throb behind your eyes intensified, then shook your head. “I’ll be fine. A maester will only ask questions that might cause the realm to gossip.”

He exhaled a long, sharp breath through his nose, his jaw tightening. “You should have let me kill him. He doesn't deserve the air he breathes, let alone the mercy you showed him.”

“And have the realm call you kinslayer?” you scoffed, looking up at him. “The gods know you have enough enemies, Brynden. You don't need that blood on your hands.”

“At least we’d be rid of him,” he muttered darkly, his single red eye fixed on the door as if he could still see Aegor’s broken body through the wood. “The world would be quieter without his constant, grasping greed.”

“And then your reputation would be tarnished beyond repair,” you pointed out, reaching up to lay your hand over his.

It was his turn to scoff, a jagged, self-deprecating sound. “It can seldom get worse, you know. You’ve heard the songs. You know what the people say about me. A thousand eyes and one, all of them belonging to Westeros’ darkest sorcerer.”

He looked down at you, his expression softening into something painfully vulnerable. “I’ve long stopped caring for what the realm thinks of me.” His hand turned beneath yours, lacing his fingers through your own. His knuckles were still stained a dark, drying crimson—a stark contrast to the milk-white of his skin. “I care only for what you think of me”

Your breath hitched. You swallowed harshly, “And what of your paramour, the Lady Shiera? I’m sure our sister would have been remiss if you had succeeded in killing off her other lover.”

The mention of her name acted like a douse of ice water, but not in the way you expected. Brynden didn’t flinch; instead, his entire posture went rigid, his single eye snapping open to lock onto yours with a startling, crystalline focus.

"Shiera," he repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue in the sanctuary of your chambers.

He let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so bitter. He pulled his hand back, though only far enough to frame your face, his blood-stained knuckles inches from your hair. “I care not for what she thinks.”

“Lovers quarrel?” You arched a brow.

The faintest tightening touched his jaw, a flicker of genuine irritation—or perhaps pain—crossing his pale features. “Have you really no idea of my feelings for you?”

You stilled, “What are you talking about?” Your shoulders stiffened instinctively, retreating even as his hand remained gentle against your skin. “Do not think I am willing to be a part of this… this triangle you, Shiera, and Aegor insist on orbiting.”

Your voice sharpened.

“I did not leave King’s Landing only to return as someone’s shared amusement.”

Brynden flinched as if you had struck him, his hand dropping from your face as he recoiled a fraction, expression shifting into one of hurt.

“Amusement?” he repeated quietly. “You think I would place you among her games?” His red eye burned fiercely with emotion. “That I would ask you to share what has always been yours?” 

"I have spent my life in that triangle because I believed it was the only place for a man like me," he said, his red eye fixed on yours with a terrifying, unblinking honesty. "A freak born of a King's whim. I took what was offered because I never believed I deserved more. Shiera is a mirror of all my worst impulses, a reflection of the darkness I thought I was born to inhabit. But you?”

He reached out again, his fingers hovering just shy of your pulse point, waiting for your permission. When you didn't pull away, he let his hand settle, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of your heart against your neck.

"I want to be the man you deserve, not the monster they see. If you think this is a game to me—if you think I am merely looking for a new way to spite my brother—then I have failed you more than he ever could."

You let out a trembling breath, “What changed? Why now?”

“Because you finally came back, and I realized I could no longer continue on this path without at least trying to take a leap of faith and follow my heart.”

He leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “You do not need to give me an answer now,” he murmured against your skin. “I know what I am asking.” 

He pulled back slightly, though his gaze held yours.

“All I ask is that you consider me.”

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving you standing alone in the silence of your chambers to ponder the weight of his confession.

Not long after the incident with Aegor, you would decide to cut your stay at court short. King’s Landing had begun to feel less like home and more like a snare. You had grown fond of the freedom your birth afforded you—the small mercy of bastardy, which loosened the heavy chains binding trueborn royals to endless, suffocating ceremony.

You had meant to depart alone.

But Brynden had refused to let you, insisting on staying by your side to join you on your travels. You had agreed, if only to see what a life shared with him might look like when the realm wasn't watching.

Aegor’s presence had also loomed over you like a gathering storm. The memory of his hands on you and the look in his eyes remained a jagged wound, and you feared he might strike again if left to his own devices. That unease, more than anything, had fuelled your decision to leave the Red Keep.

Together, you rode first for the salt-sprayed cliffs of Dragonstone, then to the thunderous heights of Storm’s End to meet your family, and eventually to the ancient, weirwood-shaded peace of Raventree Hall to see Brynden’s family.

In that freedom, away from the prying eyes of the capital, you discovered one another. Without the court poised between you to judge every glance, the tension began to melt into something sturdier. Despite the depth of your own feelings, you had been reluctant to accept his confession back at court; Shiera’s presence seemed to show up at every turn, and your sister had done everything in her power to remind you of the space she once occupied in Brynden’s bed.

But the open road was mercifully free of such games.

Brynden watched you closely in those months as you traveled, and he never pressed for more than you were willing to give or an answer to his confession. If anything, he seemed content simply to ride at your side.

He watched as you renewed the ties you had forged in earlier years. And for those where familiarity lacked, you created new alliances. Unlike Shiera, you did not seduce loyalty—you earned it.

You were cunning, yes—sharp-minded and sharp-tongued in your speech—but you were not cruel. The alliances you shaped were not fragile threads spun from vanity or waning desire. They were rooted in trust, in reciprocity, and in quiet demonstration of worth.

With each land you crossed, the distance between you narrowed in ways neither of you were quite ready to name aloud.

Brynden felt it long before you did.

He had already seen the shape of what could be.

In dreams that came unbidden and unrelenting, he glimpsed futures branching before him like veins of light and shadow. In some, you stood at his side—not in obligation, or as a pawn—but as a partner. He saw the way your influence would steady his own, how your grace would soften the jagged edges of his reputation without dulling its strength. He saw halls filled not with bitter rivalry, but with respect. He saw you looking at him not as a brother-in-arms, but as the man you had chosen.

He woke from those dreams with certainty. He loved you. He had loved you for years, but he had been too much of a coward to say it—and now, he was paying for his actions with the doubts he had caused you.

But unlike him, you did not carry the burden—or the blessing—of foresight. You did not see the roads unfurl before your feet. You felt only the present: the comfort of riding beside him, the way his silence felt companionable rather than cold, the jump in your pulse when his hands would come up to grip your waist as he helped you dismount your horse.

He was patient.

He had always been patient.

If the future he saw was meant to belong to the two of you, he knew it would not require force; it would arrive in its own time. And eventually it did.

There was no singular moment that split friendship from something more. Instead, it unfolded quietly—like dawn creeping across a darkened sky. What began as companionship began to deepen into something steadier. 

The realization finally took hold at Raventree Hall. You found him amongst the ancient weirwood of his mother’s people. The Brackens had poisoned the site long ago, and the massive tree stood skeletal and pale, dead yet still towering. Its white branches were no longer heavy with red leaves, but with hundreds of ravens watching those who would come before it.

“You are missing out on the celebrations,” you mused, your voice cutting softly through the heavy silence of the godswood.

Brynden didn’t turn at first. He stood as still as the wood itself, his pale skin nearly matching the bone-white bark of the tree. 

“I’m afraid my tolerance for drunken cousins has its limits,” he replied dryly, his voice low and even. “Before long, I find myself seeking the solace of silence.”

You huffed a quiet laugh as you came to stand beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his arm.

“Your mother’s kin do celebrate with enthusiasm,” you said. 

“None can match those of your kin,” he answered, finally turning his head. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth. “Baratheon celebrations remain unmatched.”

You let out a quiet laugh, gazing at the great tree.

“It is beautiful, in its own way,” you murmured, the cold air biting at your cheeks.

“Most see only death,” he said quietly. “Though I suppose you always did prefer the broken things.”

You hummed softly, a small plume of breath blooming in the night air. "Perhaps. There is more character in a ruin than in a fresh-built wall. You know exactly where the strength lies when everything else has been stripped away."

Brynden went still at your words. He turned fully now, his single red eye tracking the way the moonlight caught the edge of your cloak—the same cloak he had draped over you a year ago, now worn thin from the dust of the road.

“Is that what you saw in me,” he asked quietly, the dryness gone from his voice, replaced by something far more fragile, “when you stood up against Aegor all those years ago to protect me? A broken boy?”

You raised your hand to his face. "You were never a ruin to me, Brynden," you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw and his eyes fluttered shut at your touch. 

“Even back then,” you continued softly, the words a bridge between the children you were and the people you had become. “You were the boy who made sure none of the courtly girls dared mock me again after you found me crying in the gardens because they called me a lowly bastard.”

A faint exhale left him at the reminder of the memory.

“You were the boy who would sneak raspberry squares from the kitchens simply because you knew they were my favourite,” you said, a fragile smile touching your lips. Your thumb brushed lightly beneath the scarred hollow of his eye socket, a gesture of intimacy that no one else in the Seven Kingdoms would have dared—not even Shiera. “You were the first person who made me feel as though I never had to be anyone but myself, even when the entire court was trying to mold me into a proper lady. It’s those memories and more that made me love you since we were children, Brynden.”

He opened his eye then, the crimson depth of it searching yours with a clarity that no prophecy or vision could ever provide. He reached up, covering your hand with his own and pressing your palm more firmly against his face.

“We lost our chance in youth,” he murmured, his voice low and jagged with the weight of years spent in silence. “I cannot give you back the time I spent being a cowardly fool. But allow me the chance to love you now, as a man.”

He leaned closer, the breath between you mingling in the cool, crisp air beneath the skeletal branches of the weirwood. Above, the ravens grew still, their dark forms silent witnesses to the shifting of fate.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his lips only a breath from yours, his single eye searching for any hint of hesitation. “Tell me now, and I will.”

You didn't speak. Instead, you simply closed the distance. Your lips met his in a gentle, unhurried kiss—years of unspoken longing finally given shape.

Brynden’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you there, as if he feared you were another one of his dreams and you would vanish once he woke up. A low, ragged sound—half-sigh, half-growl—vibrated against your lips. 

You pulled him closer, your hands gripping the heavy fabric of his doublet, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart against your chest. For all his talk of being a monster or a creature of shadow, his mouth was warm and devastatingly human. 

He broke the kiss just enough to trail his lips across your jaw, his breath hot against your ear. "I have spent a thousand nights dreaming of this," he rasped, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer control. "And not one of them was enough. Not one of them compared to the truth of you."

By the time the first murmurs began—soft whispers that you and Brynden were courting in all but name—the truth of it had already rooted itself too deeply to be denied. You found your gaze instinctively seeking his across crowded halls whenever your duties kept you apart. You found yourself attuned to the subtle cadence of his voice and the rare, private curve of amusement on his lips that was reserved for you alone.

Rumour traveled faster than ravens.

It reached the Crownlands soon enough, bleeding into the stones of King’s Landing and reaching ears that burned at the mere thought of your union. Shiera did not take kindly to losing the man she had once considered her most devoted toy, and Aegor did not appreciate being displaced in significance—least of all by the brother he had sworn to outshine.

The praise sung of you—of your valour in the Battle of the Redgrass Field, of your celebrated beauty and grace, and now of the growing bond between you and Brynden—struck at both of them differently, but the sting remained equally sharp.

When word came of the tourney at Ashford, you and Brynden decided it was finally time to step out of the quiet safety of the provinces and to return to the Crownlands. You would attend the celebration and he would join the games, and afterward ride back to the Red Keep with the Targaryen procession.

Many turned to look as the two of you rode in.

Conversations faltered. Cups paused midway to lips as they took the two of you in. Lord Bloodraven and Lady Y/n.

You had purposefully chosen to dress in a red reminiscent of blood—a deep, vivid shade that caught the sunlight like living flame. Gold thread traced the seams in subtle patterns of dragons and stags, your two lineages woven together in defiance of those who would see you as lesser. Golden ornaments were threaded through your braids, the small pieces glinting as they moved through the length of your loose hair, catching the wind as you rode.

Atop a dapple-grey horse, you looked every inch the storm dragon’s daughter, born from two unyielding houses and beholden to none.

Beside you rode Brynden, a stark contrast in all black. Black cloak, black leather, and a black stallion. The hood of his cloak shielded his pale skin from the unforgiving sun and cast his features into deep shadow, leaving only the faint, crimson glint of his eye to unsettle the hearts of lesser men.

The two of you rode close, knees nearly brushing. Your chin remained high as the crowd parted. Yes, you were a bastard. But you were a noble one.

Across the lists, a boy with a shaven head squinted through the dust toward the road, his eyes brightening with instant recognition.

“She’s here!” Egg exclaimed, nearly bouncing on his heels.

“Who is?” Duncan asked, following the boy’s gaze with a puzzled frown.

“Y/N Storm,” Egg breathed, excitement softening his usual youthful caution.

“Isn’t that a bastard’s name?” Duncan questioned, recognizing the surname given to the high-born children of the Stormlands.

Egg nodded fervently.

“And who’s the one beside her?”

“Brynden Rivers,” Egg supplied, his voice dropping an octave in awe. “They’re among the Great Bastards. My father says they were pivotal to the victory at the Redgrass Field and without them, the battle would have been lost.”

Duncan raised a curious brow. “Have you met them?”

Egg nodded, his gaze fixed on the dapple-grey horse and its rider. “Lady Y/N stayed with my family back on Dragonstone. She was kind.” His cheeks heated. “And definitely the most beautiful, too.”

Duncan coughed, his gaze drifting toward a nearby tent where Shiera Seastar had straightened from her languid recline. Her mismatched eyes—one emerald, one sapphire—narrowed into slits as she watched the procession. “I heard the men say that she was?” He nodded subtly toward the silver beauty in the pavilion.

Egg wrinkled his nose. “Shiera is beautiful,” he admitted reluctantly. “But she’s an ugly witch underneath.”

Before Duncan could murmur a reprimand for such insolence, Egg had already slipped from his side, darting down the slope toward the stables where you and Brynden were just beginning to dismount.

Your mare stamped lightly as you drew her to a halt. You were perfectly capable of dismounting without assistance—you had done so since childhood—but Brynden stepped forward all the same, as he always did when you were in his company.

His hands settled at your waist, firm and assured, and he lifted you from the saddle with ease before setting you gently upon the ground. 

You looked up at him, and for a fleeting moment, the clamour of the tourney faded to a distant hum. Your fingers rose almost without thought, slipping beneath the edge of his hood. The fabric brushed your knuckles as you pushed it back just enough to reach him. You traced your fingertips along his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the cool shade that shielded him from the sun.

His red eye softened at your touch, the severity of his usual expression easing into something reserved for you alone. He leaned ever so slightly into your hand—but the sound of hurried footsteps shattered the moment.

You turned just as a small figure barrelled toward you, nearly tripping over his own haste.

“Y/N!” Egg called breathlessly, skidding to a stop before you, his face split by a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Laughter escaped you before you could stop it. You crouched slightly, arms opening without thought as he threw himself forward in greeting.

“Egg,” you breathed warmly, steadying him. “Look at how much you’ve grown.”

“Everyone still says I’m puny for my age,” he huffed, though he couldn't hide his delight at the praise.

“You will grow; you are still young,” you reassured him, leaning back just enough to take him in properly. Your fingers brushed over his newly shorn head, and a brow arched in amused disbelief. “And what,” you asked lightly, “have you done with your hair?”

He only shrugged sheepishly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Behind you, Brynden straightened. One gloved hand rested idly near his belt where his sword hung—the gesture born more of habit than of threat. His posture remained watchful, but the sharp edge of his presence softened as he observed the scene.

There was something almost indulgent in his expression.

Brynden did not often smile. The world had not shaped him into a man to give easy warmth. Yet, as he watched you kneel in the dirt of a stable to embrace a child, witnessing the genuine affection you gave so freely, something in him eased.

One day, he thought—with quiet certainty—he would see your belly swell with his child not only in the shifting shadows of dream, but beneath his hand in waking life.

Egg beamed up at you, oblivious to the stares gathering around the stables or the dark intensity of the man standing behind you. “So, you’re back?” he asked, as though he had half-feared you would never return.

“We are,” you replied, smoothing your hand over his head once more. “And after the tourney, we’ll be returning to the Red Keep as well.”

His eyes lit up at once. “Could I ride with you? On the way back?”

“If your father agrees,” you said with a small, knowing nod. “I would not dare steal the young prince without his permission, Egg.”

He only waved you off, “Father would agree to almost anything when it comes to you, so long as you don’t mention—“

He cut himself off shooting Brynden a nervous glance. It was no secret of Maekar’s dislike for Brynden and vice versa. But in all fairness both men were known to be notoriously hard to get along with.

You only laughed and pulled him back into a brief embrace, pressing something small into his palm as you did so.

“For later,” you whispered, your voice conspiratorial.

He glanced down at the wrapped handful of sugared almonds now tucked in his hand, then back up at you with his delight barely contained.

You gave him a wink before straightening, “Now, off you go,” you added, straightening your skirts. “Before your father begins to wonder where you’ve run.”

Egg nodded dutifully, though he lingered a moment longer than necessary. His gaze shifted to Brynden, who stood a quiet step behind you, black-clad and watchful as a sentinel.

“Will you win?” Egg asked earnestly, his voice echoing the hopes of every boy watching their favourite knight gather.

Brynden’s mouth curved faintly, that rare ghost of amusement flickering across his pale features. “I do not enter the lists to lose.”

Egg considered this gravely, then nodded as though sealing a pact. “Then you must crown her,” he declared, gesturing toward you with the sugared almonds still clutched in his fist. “The Queen of Love and Beauty.”

You let out an amused giggle and for a heartbeat, your gaze met Brynden’s. His red eye held yours, softening in a way that was only reserved for you.

“Even without titles, she is the finest beauty in the land,” he murmured.

Your cheeks heated, the flush deepening beneath the golden ornaments in your hair. You had faced the terror of the Redgrass Field without flinching, yet a few quiet words from this man made your heart flutter like a trapped bird.

Egg, satisfied with his decree, gave a small nod and hurried back toward the lists, already peeling at the paper wrapping in his hand as he returned to where he had left Duncan. You and Brynden watched him go, shared amusement lingering at the corners of your mouths.

You did not notice the tall man Egg made his way toward across the yard, but he had caught Brynden’s eye.

Your lover’s gaze had shifted, resting for a moment too long upon the broad-shouldered knight whose dirty-blond hair gleamed in the afternoon sun. There was something calculating in that look, something almost prophetic, as though Brynden were placing a vital piece upon a board only he could see.

Yet his focus was soon drawn back to the present when you slipped your hand into his. As the two of you turned away from the stables and the cluster of pavilions, his fingers closed around yours at once and the simple contact steadied the restless pulse at your throat.

Together, you moved toward the training grounds, where the clang of steel rang sharp in the sunlit area.

Below, several knights were already practicing for the morrow’s events; lances struck shields in splintering bursts, and swords flashed in disciplined arcs. The smell of trampled grass and sweat hung thick over the packed earth.

The sight of Brynden did not go unnoticed.

Conversations faltered. One knight lowered his blade mid-swing; another turned too late and nearly stumbled over his own footing. A ripple of murmured whispers followed the sight of the infamous Bloodraven, and the lady in red who walked so comfortably at his side.

His reputation preceded him, and yours was just as formidable.

You leaned toward him to murmur something low and teasing, your attention fixed on his shadowed profile rather than the path ahead—

—and nearly walked straight into a wall of black and gold.

You halted abruptly, your hands instinctively but Brynden caught your waist and steadied you before you could stumble.

“Careful there,” rumbled an amused voice, deep as thunder. “Wouldn’t want to trample the fairest jewel at Ashford.”

You looked up, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “Cousin,” you greeted warmly.

Lyonel Baratheon grinned down at you, all broad shoulders and easy arrogance, the golden crowned stag antlers of your mother's house gleamed atop his head. For all his intimidating size, he took your hand with surprising gentleness and pressed a courteous, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

His dark eyes flicked past you to Brynden, and though his smile remained, caution entered his stance.

“Rivers,” he acknowledged.

“Baratheon.”

The exchange was simple, neither outright hostility nor complete ease.

You knew your lover wasn’t the easiest man to warm to, his quiet nature often put many at unease. Lyonel was his opposite in nearly every way—boastful where Brynden was restrained, loud where Brynden was quiet, easy to laugh while Brynden often remained stoic. The Stormlands blood ran like a tempest within the Laughing Storm; pride came to him as easily as breath, and charm was his natural armour.

Until, of course, someone struck the wrong chord. Then, the legendary Baratheon temper would reveal the jagged lightning behind the clouds. For now, however, the storm lay dormant.

Lyonel rolled his broad shoulders as though loosening them for a bout already begun, his dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. “You’ve come at a good time,” he said, glancing between you and Brynden. “The lists tomorrow promise better sport than half the dreary affairs we’ve endured this year.”

Brynden inclined his head slightly. “I was under the impression Stormlanders preferred melees to lances.”

“We do,” Lyonel replied at once, his grin widening. “There’s something honest about a proper swing of steel. None of this splintered-wood pageantry.” His gaze flicked toward the practice field where a green knight had just awkwardly dropped the lance he was inspecting. “Still, I’ll settle for spectacle if it draws the right opponents.”

“Is that a challenge, Lyonel?” you asked lightly.

“I dare not challenge you, cousin. You are the deadliest being in the land,” Lyonel said with faux seriousness, before breaking into a booming laugh when you playfully slapped his arm at his jest. His gaze then shifted to Brynden with a spark of mischief. “However, I would not mind a bout with your paramour.”

Brynden’s expression did not change, but there was a subtle sharpening in his eye. “Then I hope you are prepared to be disappointed.”

Lyonel barked another laugh. “Careful, Rivers. You’ll make me think you’ve grown fond of arrogance.”

“I have not grown fond of it,” Brynden replied dryly. “I have merely learned to tolerate it after being forced to endure your company for months on end.”

You smothered a smile, enjoying the rare sight of Brynden engaging in even the smallest amount of banter.

Lyonel looked to you as though seeking an ally. “You see how he speaks to me? And here I was prepared to offer him ale and decent company tonight.”

“You offer ale to everyone, Lyonel,” you countered, your eyes dancing.

“Aye, but decent company is selective.” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “And I had hoped to convince you both to join us this evening. There’ll be music. And dancing.”

You smiled, answering before Brynden could find a way to decline. “We’ll be sure to stop by, cousin.”

At your side, your other half released the faintest, most put-upon sound beneath his breath—so quiet most would have missed it.

You did not.

Lyonel’s grin widened at Brynden’s discomfort. He clapped him once more on the shoulder, a heavy-handed gesture that would have made a lesser man stumble, then bowed with exaggerated gallantry, his lips brushing over your knuckles once more.

“Until tonight, cousin. Rivers.”

As the Laughing Storm sauntered off toward his tent, his booming laughter trailing behind him, Brynden exhaled slowly through his nose. “Must we attend?”

You turned toward him, feigning innocence as your fingers idly toyed with the edge of his dark cloak. “If you do not wish to join,” you said sweetly, “I can go on my own. I wouldn't want to bore you with something as trivial as music.”

His eye narrowed at once.

Before you could step away, his hand found your waist and drew you closer, his black shadow folding over your vivid red skirts as easily as night claims the day.

“Out of the question,” he murmured, his voice a low, possessive vibration.

“Oh?” You tilted your chin, teasing him, enjoying the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth that signalled his rising protective streak.

“You will not wander into a pavilion full of drunken knights and idle lords unescorted,” he stated, his grip firming just enough to emphasize his point.

“I could have Lyonel as my escort,” you pointed out lightly, as though the thought had only just occurred to you. “You are hardly fond of dancing, my love. Lyonel, at least, would not sulk in the corner while the musicians attempt to coax you into civility.”

A faint breath escaped him—something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. He leaned down, his forehead nearly touching yours, the heat of his presence drowning out the chill of the afternoon breeze.

“I do not sulk,” he corrected softly.

“You brood.”

“I observe.”

“You glower.”

His eye playfully narrowed at that, a faint spark of warning flickering in the crimson depth.

You sighed dramatically, though your fingers still toyed idly with the edge of his cloak. “It is only music, Brynden.”

“And dancing,” he reminded you, as if the word itself were a sentence to the Wall.

A small, almost hopeful smile touched your lips. “Perhaps I should like to see you dance.”

His expression shifted at once—horrified first, then faintly affronted, as if you had suggested he take up the harp in the middle of a siege.

“I do not dance.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You survived battles. You survived the courts. You survived our mad half brother.” Your gaze softened just a fraction, your voice dropping to a tender murmur. “Surely you can survive one song.”

He did not answer at once. The breeze tugged at his hood, shifting and making the silver of his hair catch the light. His red eye lingered on yours, calculating the weight of his refusal.

“I would look ridiculous,” he said at last.

“Then we shall look ridiculous together,” you replied with an easy, radiant smile.

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, the ghost of a real smile finally threatening to break through his stoic mask. He let out a long, defeated sigh, his hand tightened affectionately at your waist.

“We’ll see,” he conceded, which, coming from the Bloodraven, was as good as a promise.

You stepped closer, hope warming your expression. “Does that mean you will attend?”

He looked down at you then, at the expectancy he could never quite withstand. “As if I would refuse you,” he muttered.

Your smile brightened, but past his shoulder, you caught sight of Shiera. She was gliding toward the two of you, her mismatched eyes locked on Brynden with a predatory grace. You felt your shoulders stiffen, the warmth of the moment cooling instantly.

Noticing the shift in your mood, Brynden's gaze sharpened immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed, forcing the edge from your expression before turning back to him. “Nothing.”

Despite knowing Brynden and Shiera had once been… entangled—knowing the way she had looked at him and the way he had once answered in kind—some small, treacherous part of you wondered. Even though he had chosen you, though he stood at your side now, you wondered if he ever missed his time with her, or if he might one day seek to rekindle that old flame.

He turned his head just enough to catch Shiera’s approach before looking back at you. “I chose you,” he said simply, “There is no reason for you to feel threatened.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Who said I’m threatened?” you scoffed.

His lips twitched faintly. “Is this frown not because you are jealous of the past I share with her?”

The words were purposefully provoking, and part of you knew it. You bit the bait anyway.

Your fingers, which hadn’t stopped tracing the edge of his cloak, suddenly fisted the heavy, dark fabric. With a firm tug, you yanked him down toward you until his face was barely an inch from yours.

“What is there to be jealous of?” you demanded softly, your voice low and edged with the warning. “I am a storm-born dragon, and you are my treasure.”

Your grip did not loosen as you felt his breath hitch in surprise.

“It would be foolish of her,” you continued, your chin lifting just slightly as Shiera drew closer. “To think she could take what has already been claimed. Unlike her, I do not share.”

For a heartbeat, his expression stilled. Then, he smirked. “It’s a good thing, I do not intend to be shared.”

He leaned closer, the hood of his cloak casting a deeper shadow across his pale features. His voice dropped further, “You seem to be forgetting one thing, ñuha prūmya. You are not the only one with the blood of the dragon,” he murmured. “You are mine just as I am yours.”

His gloved hand slid to your waist again; this time, the gesture was overtly possessive, as if staking a claim for whoever might be watching. “It would be foolish of her,” he finished, his red eye glinting faintly beneath the hood, “to even attempt to take me away from you.”

His thumb pressed lightly into your side, a silent tether between you.

“Ñuha prūmia iksis iā.” My heart is yours.

Your gaze softened at once, the last remnants of doubt dissolving beneath the absolute certainty in his voice. Without hesitation, you rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his, showing the world that you could be every bit as possessive as he was.

He did not hesitate.

Brynden’s hand tightened at your waist as he returned the kiss with a sudden, fierce hunger that ignored the approaching footsteps. When you finally parted, his forehead rested briefly against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Never doubt the love I have for you,” he said quietly.

A sharp, pointed throat-clearing forced the two of you to reluctantly part. Turning, you found Shiera standing a few paces away. Her posture was immaculate, her expression a mask of effortless perfection, yet the slight tightness at the corners of her mouth, and the fire burning in her gaze betrayed the emotion she fought to conceal.

Jealousy did not suit her.

Still, it was there, and you could not deny the faint stir of smugness at the sight of it. 

For a long moment, the two of you regarded one another wordlessly. Shiera Seastar stood draped in pale ivories and silvers that shimmered like moonlight—an echo of the sea and the name she bore. You stood as her opposite, a vision in blood-red and gold and no less alluring.

Brynden’s arm remained firm around your waist, an unspoken declaration you did not resist. You were content to remain tucked against his side as the tension between you and Shiera stretched as taut as a drawn bowstring.

“Brother,” she greeted smoothly, her voice polished to a fine edge. She chose to ignore your presence entirely, her focus fixed solely on him. “I had wondered when you would grace us with your return. The court has been quite dull without your company.”

“Shiera,” he replied. His tone was perfectly even—neither warm nor cold. The fire he had once felt for her had long since burnt to ash, leaving behind nothing but indifference.

Her mismatched eyes drifted downward, lingering on the place where his gloved hand curved possessively against your hip. For the briefest instant, her composure faltered. A faint shadow of resentment darkened her features before her face smoothed into a mask of porcelain apathy once more.

“Do you plan to compete in the tourney tomorrow?” she asked him, her voice drifting like silk.

“I do.”

Shiera’s smile deepened, and her voice dropped to a low, suggestive purr. “Mhm. You were always so... insatiable after a match.”

Your fingers tightened in the dark fabric at Brynden’s side—the only outward sign that the remark had struck its mark. Otherwise, you remained the picture of regal composure. 

In fact, your smile widened.

“Really?” you asked, sounding genuinely intrigued. “How interesting.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying her with open, almost playful curiosity. “I find myself able to keep up with him quite easily.” There was no bite in your tone, only the faintest lilt of innocence. “If you found it difficult,” you continued pleasantly, “I’ve heard the septas sometimes prepare a restorative tea for such… fatigue. Perhaps you should ask for the recipe if you are struggling to preform.”

For a moment, Shiera did not move. Her mouth parted, then closed again as though the perfect retort had fled her entirely.

Beside you, Brynden made an abrupt, strangled sound. He turned his head sharply away, one gloved hand rising to cover his mouth, though the tell-tale shake of his shoulders betrayed him. He attempted to disguise the outburst as a cough, but the effort was transparent. The laughter in his eye was unmistakable.

Shiera’s gaze flicked toward him, then snapped back to you. A faint flush of colour rose along her throat before she forced her smile to settle into something more composed.

“Oh,” she said lightly, the edge beneath the softness sharpening to a razor’s point. “Is that what you use to aid you? Tonics and teas?”

“Dear gods, no.” You placed a hand against your chest in gentle protest. “If that were the case, I’m afraid Brynden and I would never have found the strength to leave the bed.”

Whatever advantage she had intended to claim slipped neatly from her grasp and was returned to her, wrapped in sweetness and delivered without visible effort.

Brynden cleared his throat again, mastering himself with an arduous effort. He straightened, his composure returning in measured degrees, though the faint curve at the corner of his mouth refused to disappear entirely. His red eye moved briefly between the two of you, shimmering with dark amusement.

Shiera inhaled slowly, reclaiming the serenity she wore like armour. When she spoke again, her voice had regained its smooth cadence, but something brittle lingered beneath the surface.

“You are… refreshingly candid,” she observed, her voice tight.

You offered a small shrug, as though the matter were of no particular consequence. “I see no reason for a dragon to mimic the modesty of the sheep we so often find ourselves surrounded by,” you replied with effortless ease. “Though I suppose court life does encourage such habits. Everyone becomes so… agreeable.” Your gaze met hers directly, unblinking. “Isn’t that so, sister?”

Her gaze lingered a moment longer, before looking to Brynden as if hoping he might step in—perhaps expecting him to chide your sharp tongue or offer a shred of the gentlemanly defence he had once afforded her.

But Brynden did not step in. He did not offer her a single grain of the validation she sought. Instead, he simply adjusted his grip on your waist, pulling you a fraction closer until your shoulder was tucked firmly against his chest.

Her gaze dropped to where Brynden’s thumb traced a slow, rhythmic circle against your silk-clad hip.

Shiera’s nostrils flared, the only crack in her porcelain mask. For years, she had been the sun around which he orbited, the one woman who could command his attention with a mere glance of her mismatched eyes. To be dismissed so casually—to be treated as an observer to his devotion rather than the object of it—was a blow she wasn't prepared to handle in the mud and dust of a tourney ground.

At last, she inclined her head, the whisper of pale fabric following the movement as she stepped back with tense grace. “Enjoy the tourney tomorrow,” she said, her tone light but brittle at its edges. “I should hate for Ashford to lack excitement.”

“I do not believe that will be a concern,” Brynden replied mildly, though the trace of restrained laughter still threaded through his voice.

Shiera gave him one last stare, searching for any lingering spark of the man who had once composed poetry for her. Finding only the hard, red gaze of the Bloodraven, she turned on her heel and retreated toward the tents of the high lord, her silver silks snapping like a whip in her wake.

When she finally disappeared into the crowd, the tension that had quietly coiled between the three of you finally unwound.

Brynden looked down at you, no longer bothering to conceal the amusement warming his expression.

"Restorative tea?" he repeated, his voice thick with amusement. “Quite merciless of you to suggest such a thing.”

You lifted your chin without apology. “She began it.”

The shadow of his hood concealed his face from prying onlookers, but you could see the pleased grin he wore quite clearly. His hand, still firm at your waist, drew you a fraction closer.

“Yes,” he murmured, the words too low for any listening ears, “and you finished it.” His red eye held yours, sparkling with unmistakable fondness. “My vicious storm dragon.”

The day of the tourney dawned bright and merciless.

Sunlight spilled across the lists in a hard, golden glare, reflecting off polished helms and armour. Trumpets blared in the distance, combining the excited mutterings of the gathering crowds.

You fought back a wince.

Your eyes burned, and your head throbbed with every cheer that erupted from the stands. Even the rhythmic flapping of the silk overhead felt like a hammer striking directly behind your temples. Lyonel Baratheon’s celebrations were never modest affairs, and despite your better judgment, you had allowed yourself to be coaxed into drinking far more of the Stormlands' heavy red than you should have.

Flashes of the night surfaced in scattered, dizzying fragments. You remembered the torchlight flickering wildly and the thunder of Lyonel’s laughter as he demanded the musicians play faster. You remembered dancing in a loose, breathless circle, your skirts swaying and boots thudding in time with a rhythm. Your cousin’s booming voice had carried over the music as the two of you nearly sloshed your wine onto yourselves. There had been no courtly reserve, only the reckless freedom that followed good wine and better company.

At some point, the memory blurred into the sensation of Brynden’s arms sliding around your waist without warning. The world had tilted—the stars and torches swapping places—as he hoisted you over his shoulder to a chorus of Lyonel’s approval and the raucous cheers of the camp. You had protested—or you thought you had—but the sound had dissolved into dizzy laughter as he carried you away from the noise and into the sanctuary of your tent.

Your eyes, which you had not realized had drifted shut against the morning glare, snapped open as the next memory surfaced with mortifying clarity. Back in the privacy of the pavilion, you had abandoned what little dignity remained. Driven by a possessive haze of warmth and wine, you had clung to him with shameless determination, all but mauling him as you pressed your mouth to his throat, his jaw, and his chest—anywhere you decided needed to be marked. You had been intent on leaving no doubt as to whom he belonged, lest Shiera entertain any further illusions of her own.

Heat crept up your neck, rivalling the sting of the morning sun.

You shifted in your seat, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands and willing a mask of regal composure back into place.

You sat in the royal pavilion beside your nephews, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen. The great dragon banners snapped sharply overhead in the relentless wind, the sound like the crack of a whip against your fragile senses.

Maekar let out a rough, knowing chuckle, his eyes fixed on the field but his amusement directed entirely at you. “Fun night?”

You exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers briefly to your temple before lowering your hand. “Never underestimate Stormlands hospitality,” you replied. “It seems their barrels—and their tolerance for wine—are endless.”

Maekar snorted at that.

“Baratheons rarely understand the meaning of moderation,” Baelor said mildly. Though his expression remained as poised as ever, the faint curve of his mouth suggested he found the situation more amusing than scandalous.

“That’s why they throw such fine fucking parties,” Maekar added with a rough barking laugh that rumbled deep in his chest.

The sound struck your aching head like a mallet against a bell.

Baelor noticed the sudden strain in your expression before you could fully mask it. His voice softened, pitched low enough that it did not carry beyond the royal enclosure. “You have my sympathies,” he murmured. “The morning after such revelry is rarely kind. Why not return to your chambers and rest? No one would begrudge you the comfort of some shade and silence.”

You shook your head at once, though the motion sent a sharp pulse of pain behind your eyes. “There would be no rest to be found,” you replied. “Not when I know Brynden rides today.”

Baelor’s gaze shifted toward the lists below, where armoured figures were assembling in gleaming ranks of steel and silk. “He is a skilled fighter and a cunning man,” he said calmly. 

“Even so,” you answered, your tone steady despite the lingering thrum in your skull, “knowing his skill does little to ease the worry. Accidents happen—even to the most formidable of warriors.”

Maekar grunted, raising his cup slightly in a grim salute to the truth of your words. “Very true. Steel doesn't care for bloodlines once the horses start galloping.” His gaze drifted to his own son, Aerion, who was riding toward the pavilion at a leisurely pace. “The worry only gets worse once you have sons of your own to watch.”

The young prince pulled his mount to a halt before the stands, his black armour gleaming with dragon sigils of polished ruby. Aerion removed his helm, shaking out his cropped silver-gold hair and sending you a cocky, self-satisfied smile that spoke of entitlement rather than charm.

He inclined his head in mock courtesy. “Father. Uncle,” he called smoothly, before his eyes settled fully upon you. “And my radiant aunt. Perhaps you will grant your favour to a true dragon this day.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the nearby nobles—some genuinely amused by the Prince's boldness, others merely eager for the spectacle of a family spat. Maekar let out a low, irritated sigh, but he didn't silence his son.

Not far away, Shiera, reclined upon her silken cushions, let out a soft scoff edged with jealousy. She adjusted the fall of her lace, clearly displeased that the circle of attention had shifted away from her.

You had just parted your lips to deliver a stinging reply to your nephew when a sudden movement at the edge of the lists drew the crowd’s collective focus.

From the shadowed mouth of the fighters' pavilion, a squire peeked out, eyes wide with dawning panic as he realized his lord had wandered beyond armouring reach. The boy hovered uncertainly at the threshold, clutching a steel vambrace uselessly as he stared after his master.

Unbothered by the young boy’s frantic concerns, Brynden emerged into the light. He was not yet clad in the full weight of his plate; instead, he stood only in his dark riding trousers. The stark simplicity of the garment left the hard, whipcord lines of his lean, powerful torso fully revealed to the morning sun.

The light struck the pale planes of his skin, rendering him almost luminous against the darker canvas of his tent and the mud of the field.

And there, stark against that pale expanse—

Faint, bruised crescents and deep purplish shadows marked the line of his throat and collarbone, trailing lower in a path that disappeared suggestively beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Heat rushed to your cheeks with humiliating speed as memory and evidence collided beneath the relentless sun. You suddenly became acutely aware of every pair of eyes that might follow the same line of sight, every idle lord and lady hungry for gossip.

Maekar made a low sound beside you, a rough, suppressed rumble of amusement. “Quite a night indeed,” he muttered, his voice thick with a dry, soldier’s humour.

Your fingers tightened in the fine fabric of your skirts, anchoring yourself as you willed your composure to remain intact, even as the warmth climbed higher up your throat.

Aerion, however, had not missed a thing. His eyes darted between the marks on his uncle and the flush on your face, his smirk sharpening into something wicked.

“Well,” he drawled loudly, ensuring his voice carried to the surrounding tiers, “it would seem the lists are not the only battlegrounds this week.”

A few nearby lords chuckled, emboldened by the Prince's audacity, and one, less subtle than the rest, let out a low, appreciative wolf whistle that echoed through the tourney grounds.

The squire behind Brynden cleared his throat nervously, still clutching the vambrace as though the tournament might collapse entirely if his lord did not armour himself at once. “My lord,” the boy ventured, his voice tight with urgency, “they’re nearly ready to call the first tilt.”

Brynden did not look away from you.

“A moment,” he replied calmly. For a brief second, you saw his lips twitch with a ghost of a smirk. Your eyes narrowed, but before you could send him a warning look, he turned toward Aerion, his expression snapping back to its usual mask of cold disinterest.

“If you require commentary on my private affairs,” Brynden said evenly, his voice carrying just enough to reach the surrounding nobles without rising to a shout, “I suggest you first prove yourself capable of managing your own.”

Aerion’s smile faltered by a fraction.

“And if you desire my lady’s favour,” Brynden continued, his gaze drifting over the young prince with chilling indifference, “then I suggest you prove yourself worthy of it.”

The meaning was clear, a metaphorical gauntlet thrown in the mud between them.

Aerion’s jaw tightened beneath the gleam of his helm, his pride warring visibly with his caution. The lists lay between them, open and waiting. To accept would mean meeting Brynden in earnest—not in a courtly dance of lances, but against a man  whose reputation had not been forged in tournaments alone.

He shifted in the saddle, glancing briefly toward the royal stand where his father sat, then back to Brynden. The calculation flickered plainly in his eyes; Aerion was arrogant, but he was no fool.

“I have no need to prove myself to a bastard,” Aerion replied at last with a forced, hollow scoff.

Brynden’s expression did not change; the slur carried no weight against him or you.

Aerion’s pride flared, but not enough to carry him into a fight he wasn't sure he could win. Instead, he forced a tight, brittle laugh and lowered his helm back into place with more force than necessary.

“I will seek a more worthy opponent,” Aerion declared, wheeling his horse away from the unspoken challenge with a final, desperate attempt at dignity.

Beside you, Maekar exhaled heavily as he watched his son ride off, the sound more weary than surprised.

“A fool he is,” he muttered, rubbing at his jaw with a calloused hand, “but at least he’s a smart enough fool to know when to concede.” His eyes drifted toward Brynden below with a look of begrudging, reluctant respect. “Else he’d find himself courting the god of death before the first tilt.”

You cleared your throat, though your gaze had never left Brynden. Below, he moved with unhurried purpose back toward his pavilion, his stride easy and arrogant, as though the public exchange—and the scandal written in purple across his skin—had been of no consequence at all.

“Excuse me,” you said softly.

Baelor inclined his head in quiet, graceful understanding, his expression unreadable. Maekar only grunted, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that suggested he knew exactly where you were going and why.

You rose and descended the steps of the viewing stand. The murmur of the crowd swelled around you like a rising tide before falling away into a respectful, curious hush as you crossed the grounds. Knights, lords, and squires alike made way without being asked, their eyes trailing the fiery sweep of your gown.

The red of your skirts whispered against the trampled grass as you crossed the encampment, leaving the glaring sun and the prying eyes behind. With a steady hand, you pushed aside the heavy silk and slipped beneath the shadowed mouth of Brynden’s pavilion.

Inside, the sudden dimness acted as a balm, cooling the harsh ache that still lingered behind your eyes.

He had not yet dressed.

Brynden stood near the armour stand, bare from the waist up, his pale skin starkly marked by the fading, vivid evidence of the night before. The canvas walls stirred faintly in the breeze, carrying the scent of oiled leather, polished steel, and the man himself.

The squire hovered uncertainly near the table, his hands full of straps and buckles, looking as though he might puke from fear.

“Leave us,” you ordered.

“But my lady—the tournament—”

“Do as she bids,” Brynden drawled, his gaze already locked on yours with a predatory stillness. “That will be all for now, Elmar.”

The squire, looking immensely relieved to be dismissed from the tension, gave a frantic bow and vanished through the secondary flap, leaving you alone in the sudden, heavy silence.

Your eyes drifted down Brynden's body, a heady mix of hunger and renewed possessiveness stirring in your chest.

The corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, knowing smirk. “I thought after last night you would have had your fill of me,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in the small space. “Or do you intend to paint every inch of my body in your marks before the sun sets?”

You scoffed softly, though the sound held more warmth than protest, and stepped closer until the heat radiating from his skin brushed against your silk bodice. Your fingers rose of their own accord, trailing down the center of his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle and the fading evidence of your boldness.

“You emerged into full daylight wearing those marks for all to see,” you replied, your touch feather-light and agonizingly slow. “If the realm speaks of nothing but our indiscretion today, you will only have yourself to blame.”

His breath slowed beneath your fingertips, his chest expanding as he took you in.

He swallowed, his throat bobbing against the purplish bruise that sat just above his collarbone. “Is that not what you wanted?” he murmured, reaching out to catch your wrist, though he didn't pull you away. “For everyone—Aerion, the lords, our sister—to know exactly who I belong to?”

You nearly preened at the open admission in his words, a fierce satisfaction unfurling in your chest. By evening, you knew the whispers would be spreading like wildfire; the realm’s most unsettling bastard son of the dragon wore a woman’s claim openly upon his skin. Many would speculate it was you—and they would be correct—and no doubt they would carry those whispers further, turning them like a blade to question your honour.

They would be correct in that as well.

You did not care. You never had.

You were both Great Bastards. Even legitimized, the stain lingered in the eyes of those who needed such distinctions to feel superior. You had grown up beneath the weight of scrutiny and the sharp, open whispers of disdain. You could not have given a damn what the realm thought; you had learned long ago to draw strength from the very things meant to diminish you. Where others saw shame, you had found freedom.

Unlike highborn daughters groomed for alliances and bargaining tables, you had never been shaped for political purity. You were not raised to remain untouched, preserved like a relic to secure a treaty or soothe a rival house. Your value had never depended upon an unblemished marriage bed, for in the eyes of the "righteous," you would remain forever tainted regardless.

So, you had forged your worth elsewhere.

The loyalty you amassed had not been handed to you by decree or marriage—you had earned it, piece by piece, across every court you were sent to. And Brynden? Brynden was feared and known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Together, you did not rely on the approval of the realm because you both understood, far too well, how to rule it from the shadows by bending perception to your collective will.

Outside, a trumpet sounded in the distance, a sharp, brassy note signalling that the first calls to the lists would soon follow.

The sound acted as a bucket of cold water on the simmering heat of the tent. You broke his gaze, clearing your throat softly as you stepped back, smoothing the front of your gown. The moment stretched one heartbeat longer before you reached for the dark linen tunic draped across the chair and tossed it toward him.

“Come,” you murmured, stepping closer again. “I’ll help you get dressed.”

Brynden caught the tunic effortlessly but he did not immediately pull it on. Instead, a slow, wicked smirk curved his mouth, his red eye dancing with a light that made your pulse skip.

“That’s a first,” he observed, his voice dropping an octave. “Usually, it is the opposite.”

You huffed softly, rolling your eyes to mask the fresh heat rising to your cheeks. “Shall I call back the squire? I’m sure Elmar would be much more efficient and far less prone to... commentary.”

You turned as though to leave, your skirts swishing in a mock display of indignation, but you did not reach the tent flap. Before you could take a second step, his hands closed around your hips drawing you back against him in one smooth motion until your spine was pressed against his bare chest.

“Apologies,” he murmured near your ear, the low tenor of his voice sending a thrill straight down your spine. The warmth of his breath brushed your skin. “I would be most gratified for my lady’s assistance. Truly.”

He let his hands linger a moment longer, his thumbs tracing the curve of your hip bones through the silk, before he finally released you to pull the tunic over his head.

You exhaled through your nose, determined not to rise to his bait, and set yourself to the task instead. Your hands moved with calm efficiency, guiding leather and steel into place, fastening straps and settling everything where it belonged. His armour was black, a signal of his Targaryen blood, yet in place of the royal sigil he bore his own arms: a white dragon with red eyes, breathing crimson flames.

Tightening the final strap at his shoulder, you reached for his sword—Dark Sister—resting nearby. But instead of placing it into his waiting hand, you drew it an inch from its sheath. Pale light rippled along the Valyrian steel, the watered pattern shifting like smoke beneath ice.

You tilted the blade slightly, admiring the living shimmer within the metal.

“Such a pretty blade,” you sighed, the note of longing in your voice entirely unashamed.

His hand closed over yours, large and steady, guiding the sword back toward its sheath without force. “If I recall,” he murmured, voice low, “you possess a Valyrian weapon of your own.”

His other hand slid through the hidden slit of your gown, finding the dagger strapped to your thigh with unerring familiarity. His fingers lingered only a heartbeat against the cool metal and warm skin before trailing higher.

You caught his wrist immediately, firmly guiding his hand away before the touch could escalate into something far less innocent. With your other hand, you pushed the sword hilt-first into his grasp.

“Now look who is insatiable,” you said dryly, though your eyes betrayed your amusement.

He used your grip on his wrist to yank you forward instead of releasing you. You collided lightly with his armoured chest, the cold steel of his breastplate a stark contrast to the heat that had been radiating from his skin.

“For you?” he murmured. “Always.”

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, the space between you narrowing until it was scarcely more than a promise—

—and then the thunder of galloping hooves shattered the moment.

Both of you turned toward the tent flaps as the sound surged closer. The ground itself seemed to vibrate beneath the weight of the approaching rider.

“Bloodraven!”

The calling roar carried like a war horn, raw and jagged with a lifetime of resentment.

Brynden’s face darkened at the familiar voice. Without a word, he seized his helm and stepped out of the pavilion with a terrifying, icy calm. You followed a heartbeat later, schooling your expression even as unease coiled like a cold weight in your chest.

Aegor Rivers waited astride his great warhorse before the tent, a vision of iron and fury.

His violet eyes burned with flagrant hatred, fixed wholly upon Brynden. Bittersteel did not wait for the formalities of the lists. Instead, he lifted his sword, the blade catching the morning light as he pointed it directly at his half-brother’s heart.

“I challenge you,” Aegor called, his voice ringing across the encampment and drawing the eyes of every gathering spectator. “Let us, for once, settle who is worthy.”

Your blood went cold.

“No,” you said at once, stepping forward to place a hand against Brynden’s armoured chest. You looked up at him, pleading, before turning a venomous glare upon Aegor. “You are worth nothing compared to him, Bittersteel.”

Aegor snarled, his horse sidestepping beneath the tension in its rider, but Brynden had already moved. His arm came around you with quiet firmness, guiding you behind him as he met Aegor’s gaze.

“I accept.”

You felt your stomach drop.

You caught his sleeve before he could step away, gripping the dark fabric tightly.

“You know how this ends,” you whispered fiercely. “You two always end in a stalemate of blood and ruin. Neither of you will leave the field whole.”

His fingers rose to brush your jaw, the gesture impossibly gentle despite the cold, hard steel of his gauntlet. “Not today.”

“You cannot risk yourself for pride,” you hissed.

A faint, chilling smile ghosted across his lips. “It is not pride.”

You searched his face, desperate to understand what he was thinking, but he had already turned. He mounted his horse in one fluid motion as it was brought forward by his trembling squire.

You did not understand…Not yet.

With a frustrated huff, you gathered your skirts and strode back toward the stands, forcing your expression into something resembling composure. The weight of dread settling heavy in your chest. By the time you resumed your seat, you could barely remain still, anxiety gnawing relentlessly at your thoughts.

“Well,” Maekar muttered beside you, voice rough with blunt interest, “we’re finally getting some proper entertainment.” His gaze remained fixed on the field. “This ought to be… memorable.”

You did not dignify that with a response, your jaw set so tight it ached.

At least Baelor had the decency not to agree aloud. His hand settled lightly against your arm in a quiet gesture of reassurance, though his eyes remained focused on the tension mounting below.

“They are both highly skilled,” he said gently, his tone measured. “And neither is foolish enough to throw away their life for a mere tourney tilt.”

You nearly laughed at that, a bitter, jagged sound that died in your throat.

Skill had never been the issue between Brynden and Aegor. Nor was it a matter of foolishness.

It was hatred—pure, distilled, and decades in the making.

“Aegor is a brute,” you replied tightly, your voice barely a whisper above the roar of the crowd. “And seldom does either of them gain true victory over the other. It always ends the same—a stalemate of blood and broken bone. They don't know how to stop until one of them is forced into the dirt, unable to continue.”

You stiffened as both men rode up before the stands, their horses snorting and sidestepping beneath the tension that hung thick in the air. Brynden reached you first.

 He didn’t hesitate to extend his lance toward you, the tip steady despite the weight. “May my lady grant me her favour?”

Behind him, Aegor let out a sharp scoff, a sound designed to carry. “Perhaps,” he called, his voice edged with both challenge and a jagged, wounded pride, “the lady would care to favour the true winner for once.”

You did not so much as glance in his direction.

Instead, you fixed Brynden with a look that made your displeasure abundantly clear. Your jaw tightened, and your brows drew together in a hard line. You wanted him to see the danger in this—the needless escalation, the centuries of bad blood he was inviting back to the surface. You wanted him to see that his life was worth more than a moment’s satisfaction against a brother who lived only to hate him.

He held your gaze, his solitary red eye unblinking and eerily calm.

With a measured breath, you rose to your feet, the red silk of your gown spilling like a pool of blood against the stone of the pavilion. The movement drew a fresh ripple of murmurs from the stands. From your wrist, you removed a wreath of dark, woven ribbon, heavy with small golden charms that clinked softly in the wind.

He raised his lance high so you would not have to lean, but you leaned anyway, closing the distance until you were close enough to speak.

“This is folly,” you murmured under your breath, the words for him alone.

“Trust me,” he replied, his voice a low, steady anchor in the storm.

You fought back a grumble, the sound caught somewhere between rising anger and a reluctant, bone-deep faith in him. Your fingers worked quickly, fastening the token just beneath the steel head of his lance, tying the silk in a knot so firm it would take a blade to undo it.

Aegor’s knuckles whitened around his own weapon, his horse shifting restlessly beneath him as he watched the intimacy of the exchange.

You stepped back to your seat without sparing him so much as a glance.

He scoffed loudly, a sound brittle with resentment, but if he had hoped to draw your attention, he was disappointed. Rebuffed and radiating a cold, jagged fury, he gave a sharp tug on his reins, wheeling his horse toward Shiera’s place in the stands.

Aegor drew up before her and raised his lance in an unmistakable, aggressive invitation. “My lady,” he called, his voice ringing with a pride sharpened by spite, “I would ride in your honour. For there is no other in these Seven Kingdoms worthy of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Shiera did not rise immediately. She allowed her mismatched eyes to drift briefly toward Brynden, searching for some flicker of jealousy or regret—but he gave her nothing. Jaw clenching, she returned her gaze to Aegor. Only then did she stand, pale silks spilling around her.

If she felt the sting of being the second choice, a mere instrument for Aegor’s retaliation, she did not show it. With practiced, delicate fingers, she removed a slender ribbon of silver from her sleeve and tied it to Aegor’s lance, her gaze lingering on him with a smile that was as beautiful as it was hollow.

Below, Brynden had already turned his horse toward the far end of the lists, his focus locked entirely forward. He did not look toward Shiera. He did not look toward Aegor, who was now riding back into position, his violet eyes blazing with murderous intent beneath his helm.

You resumed your seat slowly, lowering yourself with a measured grace that belied the unrest thrumming beneath your ribs. Your fingers curled into the folds of your gown, gripping the fabric as if to anchor yourself against what was to come.

Across the lists, the brothers took their places at opposite ends.

The murmurs of the crowd swelled to a fever pitch and then abruptly died away, anticipation settling over the field like a held breath.

Banners snapped overhead.

Finally the trumpets sounded.

Lances met shields with a crack that echoed across the lists like a thunderclap, splintering wood and scattering sharp fragments into the rising dust. Horses screamed, their hooves tearing deep gashes into the earth as the sheer force of the impact reverberated through both rider and mount. The crowd erupted in a roar that seemed to swallow the morning air.

They wheeled and rode again.

And again.

Neither yielding. 

The rivalry between them was older than this field, older than this tourney. It had been whispered in halls and shouted in taverns for a generation—Bloodraven and Bittersteel. Blackwood and Bracken. Targaryen and Blackfyre. It was a hatred inherited as much as it was earned, sharpened through decades of pride, ancient history, and far more personal grievances.

On the third pass, Aegor struck true.

His lance hit Brynden square against the center of his shield. The force of the strike shuddered through the black armour, the sound of protesting steel and wood sharp enough to make you flinch. For a terrifying heartbeat, Brynden was nearly jarred clean from the saddle, his body tilting precariously as his horse stumbled under the weight of the blow.

A collective, jagged gasp rippled through the stands.

But Brynden did not fall alone.

Even as Aegor’s blow connected, Brynden adjusted with a cold, terrifying calculation. He angled his own strike as he fell, his lance splintering against Aegor’s chest plate with enough force to shift the man’s center of gravity.

In a heartbeat, both men were thrown.

They struck the ground hard, armour clanging violently against the packed earth as their horses thundered past, riderless and panicked. A thick cloud of dust rose from the impact, obscuring the two figures as they lay motionless in the dirt.

The crowd erupted, a wall of sound as spectators screamed their encouragements for the champion they supported.

Through the choking haze, Aegor was the first to move. He rolled and sprang upright with a roar that cut through the noise, his voice raw with a singular, focused fury. “My sword!” he bellowed, his hand already reaching toward his squire.

Across the field, Brynden was already rising, slower but no less steady. His squire rushed forward, hands shaking visibly as he presented Dark Sister.

From the stands, your nails bit painfully into your palms, the sharp sting the only thing keeping you grounded. The brothers now faced one another on foot, swords drawn. This was no longer a tournament; the hatred between them was no longer restrained by the courtly rules of a tilt. This was the ancient, bloody heart of their feud laid bare for all to see.

Steel rang sharp and unforgiving as the brothers closed the distance between them.

Aegor struck first.

There was no ceremony in his movements now, no pretence of sport. His blade came down in a brutal arc meant to crush through guard and bone alike, fuelled by the raw strength of his resentment. Brynden pivoted just enough for the strike to glance off his pauldron; sparks spat where the metal met metal, the sheer force of the blow driving him half a step sideways into the churned earth.

Aegor did not hesitate. The second blow followed almost immediately, heavier than the first.

Brynden answered it.

Dark Sister moved unlike common steel. In his grasp, the Valyrian blade seemed almost alive—light and lethal, its edge slicing cleanly through the space between them as he turned Aegor's strike aside with a flick of his wrist, returning a blow of his own.

Aegor fought with brute strength, each swing designed to overwhelm by sheer power. Brynden, by contrast, was lighter on his feet, fluid in motion, almost dancing around the heavier man. He gave ground only when it suited him, his boots carving careful arcs through the dust as he slipped just beyond the reach of those crushing, bone-deep blows.

The crowd roared with every clash, every near-miss that skimmed armour or bit shallowly into leather. Lords leaned forward in their seats, their voices lost in the din. Knights shouted encouragement for the man they supported.

Blackwood and Bracken.

Bloodraven and Bittersteel.

The names collided as fiercely as the swords.

Aegor’s blade caught Brynden across the thigh—not too deep but enough to score the armour and draw a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth. The impact rang out in an ugly, screeching scrape of steel that made those nearest to the lists wince.

Across from him, Aegor’s grin split wide beneath sweat-damp strands of hair, his violet eyes blazing with savage, unadulterated satisfaction.

“Bleed for me, bastard,” he snarled, circling like a wolf, his sword held loose but ready.

Brynden did not dignify the taunt with an answer. Instead, he lowered his stance by a fraction, centering his balance as though settling into himself. Dark Sister angled slightly downward in his grip, the point steady, poised for what would come next.

Aegor charged again, putting every ounce of his brute force behind the swing. His blade cut through the air in a savage diagonal, once again meant to break armour and bone in one final, crushing stroke.

Brynden did not meet it head-on. At the last possible breath, he stepped aside, his boots shifting cleanly in the dust as the heavier blade cleaved through nothing but air and empty space.

In the same motion, Dark Sister flicked upward. The Valyrian edge found the narrow seam where armour parted at the joint, slicing across Aegor’s forearm with the ease of a razor through silk.

Blood answered immediately.

Aegor roared, more in rage than pain. He lunged again, recklessness bleeding into his technique. Each strike grew heavier than the last, powered now by fury rather than discipline. He fought like a hammer, determined to batter through Brynden's resistance by sheer force of will.

Brynden moved like water around stone.

He pivoted around Aegor’s weight as he slipped in and out of range. He yielded inches only to reclaim them in the next breath, letting Aegor’s strength carry him just slightly too far, forcing his half-brother to burn through his stamina with every frustrated, empty swing.

Aegor’s blade slashed wildly. Desperation bled into his movements as he overextended in his need to land something decisive—to finally crush the infuriating, calm composure of the man in front of him.

He lunged once more, committing too much of his weight to the strike.

Brynden met it. He twisted his wrist, locking their blades in a shriek of grinding metal that set everyone's teeth on edge. For a suspended heartbeat, they stood chest to chest, faces inches apart, their breath hot and ragged behind the narrow slits of their helms.

Hatred radiated between them, thick enough to choke the air.

Aegor’s lips curled into a jagged, bloody snarl. “When I win,” he breathed, his voice low and venomous, meant for Brynden’s ears alone, “I’ll finally take our pretty little sister as my prize. And I’ll make sure she forgets your name in my bed.”

The pressure between their locked blades increased, the steel groaning under the strain of two men who shared a father but nothing else.

“I’ll make her scream for me,” Aegor continued, violet eyes blazing through the narrow slit of his visor, “loud enough for you to hear it from wherever you fly off to next.”

Something in Brynden went utterly still.

It was not a fiery rage that answered Aegor’s provocation, but something far more frightening. An icy fury settled over Brynden’s features, cold and ancient as winter in the North. The red of his eye burned darker, like banked coals stirred to life by a sudden, lethal wind.

The bind between their blades broke with terrifying control.

Brynden shifted his weight and drove his knee sharply into Aegor’s midsection, the impact forcing the breath from him in a ragged grunt. As Aegor folded forward, Brynden brought the pommel of Dark Sister across the side of his helm with a crack that snapped his head sideways. The sound of teeth breaking carried sickeningly clear even above the roar of the crowd; fragments of white scattered onto the dirt as blood sprayed hot against black armour.

“You will not speak of her,” Brynden warned, his voice dangerously low, each word carved from ice.

Aegor staggered but did not fall. Fury and humiliation drove him onward. He swung blindly, catching Brynden across the shoulder and forcing him back a pace, metal shrieking on metal as the blow glanced off armour.

Brynden did not falter. Dark Sister flashed low in a blur of pale steel, slicing behind Aegor’s knee where armour thinned. The Valyrian edge cut clean through leather and flesh alike. Aegor screamed as his leg buckled beneath him, blood spilling freely down his greave. Before he could recover, Brynden followed through with a sweeping strike to the chest that knocked the heavier man flat onto his back, the impact sending up a cloud of dust.

Aegor tried to rise—gods, he tried—spitting blood and clawing for his sword where it had fallen just out of reach. His fingers scraped uselessly against the churned earth. Brynden scoffed and kicked the sword back into Aegor’s grasp.

Gasping, Aegor tried to swing one last time.

Brynden parried the desperate move and struck. The sharp Valyrian blade sliced through muscle and bone with terrifying ease. An ugly, guttural scream tore through Aegor’s throat as he clutched at his arm, staring in sheer, unadulterated horror at the stump where his hand used to be.

The crowd let out a horrified gasp.

"Nor will you touch her," Brynden stated, standing over him like a pale god of vengeance, “ever again.”

From where you stood, the world seemed to narrow until it held only the two of them. For one terrible heartbeat, you thought Brynden might finally end it—that he might drive his pale blade through helm and skull alike to finish the feud once and for all. The hatred between them had cost the realm too much already; one decisive stroke could silence it forever.

Brynden stepped forward, raising Dark Sister, he brought his blade down in a brutal strike with the flat of the steel against the side of Aegor’s helm. The impact was a sickening, metallic thud that resonated through the entire stand.

Aegor’s body went slack.

Disturbed dirt settled slowly around him as he lay unmoving, his blood seeping into the parched earth beneath his broken form. Brynden remained standing over him for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling in a steady, lethal rhythm. He kept the point of the Valyrian blade angled downward, ready should the fallen man so much as twitch.

Silence fell like a heavy curtain across the lists, the thousands in attendance held captive by the sheer brutality of the exchange.

From your place in the stands, your fingers had curled so tightly into the fabric of your gown that your knuckles had gone pale. You didn’t even realize you had risen to your feet until the silence stretched too long to bear.

“And the winner is… Lord Bloodraven!”

The announcer’s voice cracked through the hush, and only then did you feel the breath leave your lungs in a ragged rush. The tension slipped from your body, leaving you lightheaded.

The roar that followed was deafening. The stands erupted in thunderous applause and frantic shouts. Nobles rose from their seats, and knights pounding fists against shields in approval. The name Bloodraven rolled through the crowd in waves,

Below, Brynden did not raise his arms in triumph. He did not acknowledge the praise.

Instead, he turned. Dark Sister sliding back into its sheath, as he lifted his gaze—not to the cheering lords, not to the royal stand—

—but to you.

You did not hesitate.

The world around you blurred into noise and colour as you gathered your skirts and descended the steps of the stand without care for decorum. Someone called your name—Baelor perhaps—but you did not slow. Behind Brynden, squires were already hauling Aegor’s limp, mangled form toward the healers’ pavilion, a dark crimson streak marking the churned earth in their wake. Further down the lists, men were already moving to reset the barriers, preparing for the next joust to come.

But none of it mattered.

Not to you.

Brynden crossed the remaining distance in three long strides. Dust clung to the crevices of his black armour, and a thin line of blood traced a path from his temple into his pale hair where he had struck the ground, the red stark against the white. Strands of hair clung damply to his brow, and yet his eye burned with something fierce and resolute.

He stopped before you.

Then, before the princes, the lords, and the gathered thousands of Ashford, Brynden Rivers—Lord Bloodraven, the most feared of the Great Bastards—dropped to one knee in the blood-stained dirt.

The field quieted as realization rippled outward.

From within his gauntlet, Brynden drew forth a golden ring. A dragon wrought in fine detail wrapped protectively around a deep crimson ruby, the stone catching the sun so that it seemed to burn from within.

Your hands flew to your lips, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Ñuha prūmia,” he murmured softly. My heart.

“I have stood alone most of my life,” he continued, and though his voice remained steady, it was stripped of the cool distance he wore before the realm. “But with you, I am not alone.”

He drew in a slow breath, as though gathering something far harder than courage—vulnerability.

“Nyke jorrāelagon ao hen ñuha lēkia,” he said, the ancient tongue of your ancestors vibrating in the air. I would conquer the world with you at my side.

A faint, private smile touched his mouth, there and gone in a heartbeat, meant only for you to see.

“Nyke iā sȳndor,” he said quietly. I am a shadow. “Se ao ōños.” And you are flame.

The ruby between his fingers caught the sunlight and flared brilliantly, red light dancing across his pale skin and dark armour alike.

“Without you,” he said, his gaze unwavering, “I am only half of what I could be.”

His voice lowered then, intimate despite the watching realm.

“Vezof iā morghūltas,” he murmured. There is but one death. “Nyke dōrī ao ñuha jīvi.” I offer you my life. “It is yours, if you wish it.”

Your heart pounded so fiercely you feared the entire field might hear it.

“Skori se iā dārys ziry?” he asked, the High Valyrian rolling from his tongue like velvet drawn over steel. For who else would I face that death with?

He lifted the ring slightly in offering, not as a trophy, not as a claim—but as a vow.

“Be my wife,” Brynden finished, his voice low yet carrying clearly across the hushed lists. “Stand with me—through blood, through fire and shadow, through whatever else may come.”

His gaze never left yours, his red eye burning with a devotion that bordered on worship.

“And I will stand with you,” he said, softer now, though no less certain. “Until that one death finds us both.”

Your eyes stung, but you did not look away. You were nodding before he had even finished speaking, your heart had answered long before he even finished speaking.

“Yes,” you breathed. The word trembled, barely more than a ghost of air between you before growing stronger, fuelled by the conviction in your chest. “Yes. Yes!”

Cheers broke out at your acceptance.

A bright, genuine smile transformed Brynden’s face. For many watching, it would be the first and only time they would ever see the fearsome Bloodraven smile so openly. The icy severity that defined him fell away, replaced by a radiance that was unmistakably happy.

He rose to his feet and slid the golden ring onto your finger. His hands, though calloused from the sword and still stained with the dust of the lists, were perfectly steady.

Somewhere through the deafening cheers, you heard a young voice shrieking louder than the rest. You glanced toward the sound and saw little Aegon—Egg—perched triumphantly atop the massive shoulders of Ser Duncan the Tall, his small fists raised high in pure, unadulterated celebration.

And then, cutting through the chaos with all the subtlety of a summer storm, your cousin’s voice boomed across the field with booming delight.

“This calls for a celebration!” Lyonel Baratheon roared, his laughter infectious and grand.

Laughter rippled outward at once.

Brynden gave a quiet, disbelieving snort at the mention of yet another Baratheon celebration, as though the notion amused him far more than it tempted him. His gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of your cousin before returning to you.

Then, without warning and without the slightest regard for the thousands of prying eyes or the rigid decorum of the royal court, he bent and swept you cleanly off your feet.

You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders—one hand pressing against the cold, hard steel of his gorget. One of his arms secured itself beneath your knees, the other braced firmly at your back, he lifted you as though you were no heavier than silk. A ripple of laughter and startled gasps followed the gesture, but he paid them no mind.

Intent was written plainly in every stride as he turned toward his pavilion. As Brynden carried you across the field, his gaze lifted briefly from you and swept the gathered nobles.

It found Aerion.

The young prince’s face had gone noticeably pale beneath the gilt edges of his helm, the arrogance that had dripped from him earlier nowhere to be found. His violet eyes flicked once—just once—toward the place where Aegor had fallen, where the dirt was still dark with blood and pieces of teeth remained.

Aerion swallowed hard. Then, stiffly, he dipped his head. There was no challenge to be found now, only a silent, terrified concession.

Meanwhile, from your vantage over Brynden's shoulder, the field stretched wide and sunlit behind him—and your gaze caught on pale silk standing still amidst the noise.

Shiera.

Her composure remained immaculate as ever, yet envy burned in her mismatched gaze, a heat she could not quite extinguish. For the first time, she was the spectator in a story she did not control.

You could not help the slow, satisfied smile that curved your lips as Brynden carried you toward the shadowed mouth of his tent. The ruby on your finger flashed like a drop of dragon’s blood, and the roar of the crowd began to fade behind you like a distant, retreating storm.

Among the many paths the gods had laid before you and Brynden, you had both chosen to step upon the one that led to each other.

Not because it was easy.

Not because it was expected.

But because it was yours.

If given the choice again—to walk willingly into shadow and storm, into blood and fire, until the road narrowed and the world fell away and there was only him and only you—you would not hesitate.