*  𝙛𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚 .

"do not." decisive and sharp. rarely did she ever wield the authority her position gave her. but they are supposedly equals now --- prince and princess, even if one screams of false declaration. "do not speak to me as if you are truly here to celebrate lord lewys and his son. you lost the privilege of levity the moment you donned a mask and waltzed in here, maron."

and still, she did not raise her voice. the power sat on her tongue, pressing against the jail of her teeth. but by the seven, curiosity stayed her voice; she could direct maron to satisfy it. the whys and the hows, all hidden behind his sharpened smile. she could do it --- she would do it.

He leaned a fraction closer, not enough to touch, but enough that the noise of the hall dimmed between them, his voice dropping into something meant for her alone. “You give me too much credit if you think I came with any grand design beyond boredom and curiosity,” he murmured. “Though I’ll admit… you improve the evening considerably.”

At the question of risk, his brow lifted, amused. “Exposure is only dangerous if someone cares to look too closely. Tonight, everyone’s too busy admiring themselves, and keeping secrets.” A crooked smile followed. “Besides, you’ve already decided not to expose me. If you meant to, I’d be bleeding on the marble by now.”

Her final words earned a flash of teeth—pleased, challenged.

“A good goal,” he repeated softly. “You always were.”

His hand lifted then, palm open in invitation rather than demand, storm-grey eyes glinting behind the mask. “The wager was a race, if you recall. Dawn. Horses. Pride wounded on both sides.” A beat, deliberate. “Unless you’d prefer a different sort of rematch now.”

The sea was ugly that morning—churned and dark, the sort that gnawed at the rocks like it meant to take Pyke piece by piece. Maron found it fitting. He stood on the outer walk of the keep, salt spray catching in his hair, jaw tight as a knotted rope. A few days had passed since Casterly Rock, since masks and blood and dragon fire and the taste of things gone wrong. Enough time for whispers to crawl faster than ravens ever could. Enough time for the word abducted to settle where rescued or protected might once have sat. Enough time for the Tyrells—soft-handed, soft-spoken Tyrells, to reconsider what they had so proudly offered.

He scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair before turning as footsteps approached. 

“So,” he began, rough and without preamble, “you steal a woman from under half the realm’s nose, paint a target on her back big enough for every vulture from Oldtown to the Twins, and now they’re saying the engagement’s ash besides.” His storm-grey eyes cut sharp as broken glass. “Tell me, brother—what was the point?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping but losing none of its edge. “You love her. Fine. I won’t fault you for that.” A beat, then a snort. “But love doesn’t stop blades. Doesn’t stop poison. Doesn’t stop some ambitious cunt from deciding she’s the quickest way to gut House Greyjoy from the inside.”

The wind howled between them, carrying the salt and iron smell of home. Maron spread his hands, palms up, a rare gesture of frustration rather than challenge. “You brought her here, Aeron. To Pyke. To us. And now we’re meant to guard her like a living promise the rest of Westeros would happily see broken.”

His mouth twisted, bitter and sharp. “There is no clean ending to this. There never will be now was it worth it? Was it worth giving them another reason to come for our throats?”

aeron  knew  that  when  he  returned  home  with  elinor,  there  would  be  questions.  he  knew  there  would  be  arguing  and  he  was  ready  for  it.  he  had  a  plan,  he  didn't  think  he  could  fix  this  alone  but  he  knew  that  what  he  would  say  could  help  everyone's  thoughts  about  this. "maron,  i  know.  the  gravity  of  the  situation  is  huge,  i  am  aware."  aeron  started.  he  ran  his  hand  over  his  face  and  looked  out  of  the  tower.  the  salt  smelt  good,  calming  for  him.  aeron  wanted  to  approach  this  with  a  level  head  and  once  the  idea  came  to  him,  he  knew  that  this  could  work  in  his  favour.  "the  point  is  that  those  lannisters  thought  they  could  go  behind  our  backs  to  take  what  they  wanted,  when  we  both  know  it  was  a  grave  mistake."  he  told  his  brother  calmly.  "especially  after  what  happened  after  the  masquerade." he  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  "would  it  help  if  i  told  you  that  she  came  willingly..."  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "before  everything,  her  and  i...  we..."  he  paused.  "it  doesn't  matter."  aeron  told  his  brother.  "you  want  answers.  i  have  some..." aeron  shook  his  head.  "there  is  no  clean  ending,  you're  right  brother...  but  there  is  a  crack  in  the  system."  he  told  him.  "with  all  their  money  in  the  world,  we  still  attacked  them...  we  still  made  our  way  into  their  homes,  into  the  rock...  they  live  up  there,  with  all  their  power  and  connections  to  the  crown  but  we  were  able  to  slip  away  and  leave."  he  continued. "they  had  everything  at  their  disposal  and  we  still  beat  them."  aeron  told  him  with  a  smile.  "their  people  might  start  to  think  that  they  are  not  as  safe  as  they  claim  they  are.  their  reputation  has  been  sullied.  house  tyrell  just  aligned  themselves  with  the  lannisters  but  then  one  of  their  family  members  runs  away  with  an  ironborn.  it  seems  like  the  cracks  have  begun  to  show  and  we  will  be  able  to  use  this."  he  told  his  brother.  "this  can  work  for  us,  for  the  islands." aeron  glanced  out  towards  the  ocean,  making  sure  he  took  a  moment  to  admire  the  view  from  the  tower.  he  loved  it  here,  even  if  right  now  he  had  to  have  difficult  conversations,  even  looking  at  the  sea  brought  him  more  calm  than  he  realized.

When his brother finished, a low breath left him, half scoff, half reluctant acknowledgment.

“A crack,” he repeated, voice roughened by the sea air. “Gods, you always did have a talent for dressing chaos up as strategy.”

He dragged a hand over his mouth, pacing once along the stone before turning back. “Aye… we slipped into their gilded den and slipped out again. Made lions look like housecats in their own halls. That part I won’t argue.” His mouth twitched, pride and irritation warring in equal measure. “And the Reach losing their precious rose to an ironborn—” he huffed a short laugh. “That’s a wound to their pride deeper than any blade we could’ve driven.” But then his gaze cut back, sharp again.

“Don’t pretend that makes her safer,” he said quietly. “If anything, it makes her the most valuable piece on the board. To us. To them. To anyone with half a brain and ambition enough to try.” A beat. “You didn’t just steal a woman, Aeron. You stole leverage. And leverage gets people killed when it’s not guarded right.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping, rough but no longer biting. “I’m not saying you were wrong,” he admitted, the words clearly costing him. “I’m saying you’d better be ready to bleed for it. Because you won’t be the only one.”

His shoulder bumped Aeron’s, familiar and solid.

“Still,” he added after a moment, a crooked edge returning, “running off with a Tyrell bride under the noses of half the realm?” A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “That’s the most ironborn thing you’ve ever done. I almost feel proud.”

Then, quieter—honest in the way he rarely allowed himself to be:

“Just don’t make me bury you for it, brother.”

“A farewell,” he repeated softly, tasting the words like something unfamiliar. His gaze slid to her profile, moonlight catching the curve of her cheek. “Aye… that I should have given you.” No jest in it, no easy deflection—just truth, rough-edged and late.

They walked a few steps in silence before his mouth curved again, though the mischief returned gentler than before. “You know why I didn’t,” he added, voice low. “Goodbyes make things real. Harder to leave when someone’s looking at you like you might stay.”

At her warning, he huffed a quiet laugh. “Danger’s never stopped me,” he murmured. “You of all people know that.” His shoulder brushed hers deliberately, fleeting, grounding. “And you’re stronger than you pretend. You’ll survive helping one troublesome ironborn through a doorway.”

Then her final admission landed.

I am glad you did not.

For once, he had no clever answer waiting.

His head tilted slightly toward hers, voice dropping to something warm and private. “So am I,” he said, simpler than he ever allowed himself to be. A beat passed before the crooked smile returned, familiar armor sliding back into place. “Besides… if I’d missed tonight, who would have escorted you? Certainly not some dull greenlander who thinks salt is only for seasoning.”

His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles where they rested on his arm, brief and almost absent-minded. “Come on, fairy,” he murmured. “Let’s see if the lions notice a serpent slipping through their gates.”

feet  in  the  sea,  the  riverlander  takes  a  moment  before  she  dips  her  bloodied  hands  in  the  salty  water.  elyana  is  casually  humming  a  song  (  that  they  are  not  entirely  sure  where  they  heard  it  )  as  they  scrub  away  a  man's  blood  who  thought  himself  too  smart  for  her.  when  the  blackwood  stands  up  and  wipes  their  hands  on  their  clothes,  that's  when  their  gaze  falls  on  a  familiar  face.  "look  who  it  is."  elyana  tilts  their  head,  looking  at  maron  up  and  down.  a  lopsided  smile  grows  on  her  lips.  "are  you  here  to  spread  some  chaos  as  you  did  back  at  the  lion's  home?"  as  if  she  hadn't  just  gotten  blood  on  her  hands.

“Well,” he drawled, spreading his hands as if presenting her to the waves themselves, “if it isn’t my favorite honorary reaver.” Storm-grey eyes dropped briefly to the red still clinging to her fingers before lifting again, amused approval plain. “Gods, Elyana… I leave you alone for a few months and you start washing men off in the shallows like driftwood.”

He stepped closer, easy as a man who had never learned caution around her, boots nearly brushing the foam. “And here I was worried the greenlands might have dulled you.” His grin cut wider. “Clearly I underestimated Riverrun’s finest export.”

At her question he huffed, mock offense flashing across his features. “Chaos?” he echoed. “I resent that. I prefer to think of it as… enthusiastic participation in local events.” A beat, then softer, conspiratorial. “Though the lions did screech rather prettily, I’ll grant you.”

His gaze lingered on her—assessing, approving, fond in that crooked ironborn way he rarely offered mainlanders. “What about you?” he countered. “This yours?” A tilt of his chin toward the blood she’d been scrubbing away. “Or have you started collecting trophies without inviting me along? I thought we agreed I got first pick of trouble when we crossed paths.”

"is it so surprising?" karlon drank long from his goblet. the wine was watered down --- purposeful on his part --- but gods, it tasted disgusting. none of that showed on his face, however, not even with the mask. he merely swallowed, licking lips like he could ever be satisfied.

"what better way to observe your guests than to keep them all in one place? besides, easier to catch whomever slips away and tries seeking for what sins this place hides."

another long drag, and he tossed the empty goblet on the table. the clang of metal barely made a sound over the bards starting another song. "i'm sure come sunrise morrow, we'll learn about whatever happens outside these doors." only then did dark eyes swing back to the lady beside. "doesn't that bring you comfort?"

Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her cup. “Not particularly,” she admits, voice warm but honest. “I find ignorance rarely offers comfort — only delay.” A faint smile curves her lips, polite but edged with quiet awareness. “And delay, more often than not, makes whatever truth waits on the other side… worse.”

She tilts her head just enough to glance at him again. “Still, you are right about one thing. Someone wishes us exactly where we are.” A pause. “The question is whether it is for our safety… or theirs.”

“You are right,” she concedes after a breath, allowing herself to be guided the few steps toward the chair. “Cruelty does make liars of necessity.” Her gaze drifts briefly to the cots beyond them, to the bandaged limbs and shallow breaths.

“And it is always the innocent who pay the interest.”

She lowers herself into the seat with care, back straight even in concession. When Serenelle’s thumb presses to her wrist, Alys offers the faintest, rueful smile. “You sound very much like I did an hour ago.” A pause, softer now. “I will sit. Only for a moment. But do not mistake it for surrender.”

Her eyes lift again toward the wounded. “When we are done here, they will speak of justice. Of retaliation.” A breath. “I would settle for wisdom.”

skipped to after the ball & alys getting hurt

Erryk hadn't left Alys' side for hours. Even when Vaeron asked for him he sent another in his place. When he was sure his wife was okay, that was when he'd leave. Not before that. The King had his own issues to worry about, eventually he'd find answers for the man, in his own time.

Brushing hair out of her face he closed his eyes, "I'm so sorry my love." If he'd been able to do more, if he'd caught on to what he should have. This wouldn't have happened. He didn't care about anyone but his own family, whatever happened tot he rest of them was between they and the gods.

“No,” she murmurs, voice rough but certain. “No, you will not carry this.” Her gaze finds his, soft but unwavering. “You are here. Lia is safe. That is all that matters to me.”

Her thumb shifts against his wrist, grounding herself in the steady pulse there. “It was chaos,” she continues quietly. “Steel and shouting and fear no one could have prevented every blow.” A faint breath escapes her, something almost like a tired laugh. “I would rather fall a hundred times than lose either of you once.”

Her eyes drift briefly, remembering flashes the roar, the crush of bodies, stone rushing up too quickly before settling back on him. “We are alive,” Alys says softly. “How is everyone else , did we lose anyone?.”

the  rock  still  smells  of  salt  and  blood,  though  the  courtyards  have  been  scrubbed  clean  and  the  banners  rehung  as  if  silk  alone  might  mend  what  was  broken  here.  i  remain  at  casterly  rock  for  now,  though  my  thoughts  have  flown  south  to  you  more  times  than  i  can  count.

tell  me  first  —  how  do  you  fare?  and  the  child…  how  do  they  stir  within  you?  i  trust  the  maesters  attend  you  properly,  and  that  the  heat  has  not  grown  too  cruel.  i  find  myself  counting  the  weeks  despite  myself,  wondering  when  i  might  be  permitted  to  steal  a  glance  at  my  newest  niece  or  nephew.  though  i  will  confess  this  to  you  alone  ,  i  have  been  quietly  hoping  for  a  girl.  the  women  of  our  house  have  ever  been  its  truest  strength.  one  need  only  look  to  you… to  daera…  to our dearly departed mother to   know  how  much  wiser  we  have  been  for  it.

much  has  transpired  here,  and  i  will  not  dress  it  prettily  for  you.  the  north  has  proven,  once  again,  that  their  word  bends  when  it  suits  them.  ironborn  stirred  like  hornets,  loud  and  stubborn,  more  nuisance  than  threat  —  though  they  have  a  talent  for  making  enemies  where  allies  might  have  stood.  lewys  bears  his  grief  like  armor:  his  father  is  dead,  his  son  sickly,  and  yet  he  does  not  bend.  i  worry  for  him  more  than  he  will  ever  allow  me  to  say  aloud.  perhaps  i  see  too  much  of  myself  in  that  kind  of  stubborn  silence.

and  yet  —  all  of  this,  every  betrayal  and  blustering  oath,  dimmed  in  an  instant  when  the  sky  itself  was  torn  open.

a  dragon,  nys.

alive.  real.

it  crossed  the  night  like  a  living  omen,  fire  and  shadow  and  ancient  promise  given  wings  once  more.  the  court  screamed,  men  fled,  faith  wavered  —  but  i  could  not  look  away.  i  felt  no  fear.  only  awe.  vindication.  as  if  some  long-silent  part  of  the  world  had  remembered  us.

i  know  the  questions  it  raises.  who  rides  it.  who  dares  command  such  a  thing.  what  it  may  yet  cost  us.  but  in  that  moment,  none  of  it  mattered.

i  was…  happy.

a  happiness  i  can  only  place  beside  that  which  my  queen  and  my  children  give  me  —  and  now,  the  thought  of  yours.  i  could  think  of  only  one  soul  who  would  understand  that  feeling  as  i  did.  only  one  who  would  look  upon  such  a  sight  and  feel  wonder  before  dread.

i  wished  you  there  beside  me.  wished  you  could  have  seen  it  with  your  own  eyes,  if  only  for  a  heartbeat.

keep  your  strength.  i  will  come  to  you  as  soon  as  the  realm  allows  me  to  breathe  without  a  blade  at  its  throat.

until  then  —  know  that  you  are  never  far  from  my  thoughts.

The heat has shown me an uncharacteristic mercy, as Dorne is wont to do when a woman nears her reckoning. The child within me stirs with unmistakable intent—restless, insistent, as though already impatient with the world he has yet to see. You confess a hope for a daughter, and I understand it well; the women of our House have ever been its truest spine. Yet I fear you are mistaken. In my dreams—and you know how rarely such visions err—it is always a son I am given, warm and certain in my arms. Dreams cling stubbornly to our blood. Still, I pray that whatever form this life takes, it will carry both flame and wisdom in equal measure.

I mourn those lost at the Rock. Stone may be scoured and banners rehung, but blood leaves an echo no water can wash away. The realm seems determined to relearn that truth, again and again. Give Lewys my quiet regard, if he will accept it. Grief worn as armor may preserve a man, but it also weighs upon him, and I fear he bears more than most.

Your words of the dragon set my heart at war with itself. I would have felt as you did—wonder first, dread only after. To see such a creature living once more must have been both wound and benediction, a reminder of a power the world has not forgotten, only buried. And yet I must speak plainly, as your sister if not as your subject: there was wisdom in our father’s resolve, and in our cousin’s, when they set themselves against such beasts. Dragons remember only fire. They do not distinguish between crown and kindling. If one now darkens the sky again, even in the hands of an enemy, it will demand a price the realm has long ceased to know how to pay.

Still… for that single heartbeat, I would have stood beside you without hesitation. I would have wished to see it with my own eyes.

I find myself troubled by a fear I never knew during the war—not for my own flesh, but for the world that will greet my son when he first draws breath. Did you feel the same when your children were born? I am, by any honest measure, ill-prepared and wholly unqualified, yet my thoughts return often to our mother. I can only hope to be a pale echo of what she was to us. Perhaps that is enough to begin.

Come to me when you are able, when the realm loosens its grip upon your throat. Until then, know that you are never distant from me—in thought, in prayer, or in love.

Her  fingers  trace  the  rim  of  her  untouched  cup,  thoughtful  rather  than  idle.  “Containment  I  understand,”  she  adds  after  a  beat,  voice  warm  but  edged  with  quiet  perception.  “But  it  is  the  reason  for  it  that  troubles  me.  Doors  close  for  many  reasons  in  halls  like  these   rarely  for  anything  simple.”

She  glances  back  to  the  woman,  composure  intact  but  curiosity  alive  beneath  it.  “Have  you  noticed  it  as  well?  Or  am  I  merely  letting  the  shadows  play  tricks  on  me?”

mercy was never promised.

a statement that still struck deep. if muttered a decade before, they would have left the room. the fury, the bitterness, all of it would have overwhelmed and drive him further from rhaenys. and it had before, again and again, as the two of them battled with what their futures now meant.

even now, that anger stirred. but it belonged to vaeron, not to the woman sitting beside them. vaeron's choices were not hers --- not anymore.

"then hear this proclamation: mercy can still be gifted. and i hope it is one i will receive from our child."

our. the word still felt foreign on their tongue. like molasses sticking to the roof of their mouth; sweet yet difficult to work. but it was only on their tongue because of chance. one that, for a night, they had trusted in each other.

her hand on theirs. her expression shifting ever so slightly before she swallowed. her ghosting her lips along their cheek. a dragon's touch --- it should burn. but it hasn't for years.

"i'll allow this space to be the one place where truth always reigns." eyes narrowed in humorous squint. "if only so i can stitch myself back together after the lords tear me apart."

slowly, they brushed their knuckles against her cheek. a few heartbeats. "hmm. a tempting offer."

a beat. another. and then they slowly laid back upon the bed, relaxing into the movement. after a few moments, they draw their gaze from ceiling to rhaenys.

"well?"

She shifted closer, careful, one hand braced beneath the curve of her belly as she settled beside them. The bed was still strange—still theirs more in name than in habit—yet she fit there more easily than she would once have believed possible.

“I hope he gives us mercy,” she murmured, eyes drifting closed, her voice softened by sleep’s slow approach. “And grace. I suspect we will need both. I would have him know that strength need not always bare its teeth.”

Her lips curved faintly at their jest. “Do not fret, my liege. I am very good with needle and thread. I will see to your mending.”

Silence returned—not sharp, not heavy, but companionable. She inhaled slowly, their scent grounding her in the present, in this room where no banners hung and no crowns pressed down.

“They will pull at you,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. “The lords, the realm, even the past. But here…” Her fingers brushed their sleeve, a gentle claim. “Here, you are allowed to rest.”

She turned her head just enough for her temple to settle near their shoulder—a dragon choosing stillness over flame, a serpent choosing trust over the strike. She closed her eyes then, nestling closer, unafraid of the quiet.

“Sleep now, ” Rhaenys said, voice low and certain. “Tomorrow will demand much of you. Tonight need not.”

If that was not enough, Rhaenenna had the horrendous sinking feeling that something was horribly wrong. It could have been the quick glance of the maid, or perhaps the chef that scattered too quickly from the refreshments.

The liege next to her downed a glass of wine at a frankly concerning speed. Rhiannon mostly ignored this, there were enough drunkards tonight and the Ruling Lady did not need to deal with more chaos. She wondered if Maelor was behaving himself.

"False" Rhaenenna replied to the mysterious liege. "The best feasts are hosted with guests in mind, regardless if taking or giving" Her voice was curt. Serious.

Rhaenenna stared at the smile blankly. "I'm enjoying the Hand's hospitality, but it would be naive to assume I'm not making the most of what's available" This was her first event without her younger brother Aethan nearby. It was difficult to focus on much other than that.

A quiet chuckle escaped him at her answer, amused rather than chastened, as though her seriousness were another flavor of the night he meant to sample. He angled his body toward her, not intruding, merely present easy as tidewater, patient as hunger.

“a hostess’s heart, then. Ever mindful of who is fed, and who is left wanting.” His mask dipped in a courteous incline, more respectful than his earlier tone suggested. “A noble way to look at it. Rarer than you’d think.”

He studied her a moment longer, noting the tension she carried beneath her composure, the way her eyes tracked the room even as she spoke to him. “Still,” he went on, voice lowering just enough to feel conspiratorial, “even the most carefully laid table has its unguarded corners. Tonight is full of them.”

“You strike me as someone who knows the difference between indulgence and vigilance,” he said. “A wise balance, One I find myself appreciating more as the night wears on.”

the  axe  hit  the  wood  with  a  heavy  thunk,  biting  deep  enough  to  rattle  the  post.  rhygar,  though,  did  not  look  pleased.  he  rolled  his  shoulders  and  flexed  his  fingers  before  reaching  for  his  cup  instead.  ale  sloshed  near  the  rim  as  he  took  a  long  drink,  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand  while  the  docks  of  lordsport  roared  behind  them.  ❝  how  is  pyke  with  the  king?  ❞  he  asked  as  another  axe  pressed  into  his  palm,  weighing  it  thoughtfully  as  he  eyed  maron.  he  stepped  back  into  position  but  didn't  throw  right  away.  ❝  must  not  be  all  that  if  you  are  here  to  get  your  ass  kicked  by  me.  ❞  he  teased  lightly  before  tossing  the  axe,  harder  than  before.  a  big  grin  crossed  his  lips  as  it  struck  clean  into  the  center.  ❝  your  turn,  ❞  he  said,  handing  the  younger  the  next  blade.

Maron drained the last of his ale and set the cup aside without ceremony, fingers already closing around the haft of his axe.

“Enjoying himself and his queen,” he drawled, amusement thick in his voice. “Funny how a new moniker has him strutting like a seabird in mating season. Can’t decide if I’m disappointed… or proud.” A laugh followed, rough and genuine. Titles never meant much to him. Useful, perhaps something to fling in a lord’s face when needed but far too heavy with ego to be worth keeping. If he meant to take a lander down, he’d rather do it with steel than syllables.

His gaze slid back to the other man, grin widening. “You kicking my ass would be the least of my problems.”

He tested the axe in his hand, weighing it once, twice, then loosed it. The weapon flew true, biting into the wood beside Rhygar with a solid thunk that rang through the din. Maron moved forward to retrieve it, unbothered.

“Sounds like you don’t much like our newfound status,” he went on, tone easy but edged. “He took what he wanted. What’s more ironborn than that?” The axe came free with a tug, resting easy at his side.

He glanced over, brows lifting. “Or am I wrong?”

the voice caused her pause.

she didn't immediately look at him. no, she must remain calm. he must not have noticed the silver of her hair to dare speak to her. then again, maron cared not for dancing near the edge; he would teeter over it, confidence bleeding in ways it shouldn't.

it could be simple. just call her kingsguard over and have them take care of pushing maron out of this celebration. and yet --- and yet, the memories of thundering hooves and excited whoops as dawn painted the skies flooded her mind.

slowly, daera finally lifted her face to find the eyes of maron greyjoy.

"i am enjoying it, my lord." a pause. should she let maron believe her a fool? taking a deep breath, she leaned closer, gaze glinting dark. "will you take this feast as well, maron? or is it prince now?"

“Now why would I do such a thing?” he said lightly. “I’ve only come to enjoy the festivities. Offer well wishes. The sort of innocent courtesies one is meant to observe on a nameday.”

He didn’t step back, didn’t grant her the distance she might have expected—only took his time studying her features before offering a casual shrug, unhurried and bold.

“I suppose it is prince now,” he went on, unconcerned. “Though I’ve never cared much for formality. Royals seem to have far less fun and even less freedom don’t you think, princess?” His grin widened, sharp with mischief. “But perhaps I didn’t come to take the feast at all.”

A beat followed, deliberate. His voice dipped, warm and dangerous.

“Perhaps I came for you, I believe I’m owed a rematch from our last wager.”