This is a work of fiction. While some characters and settings may be loosely inspired by real figures and places, the events described here are not to be taken as historical fact. I’ve woven bits of history together with imagination, taking creative liberties wherever the story demanded and then some!!!

Your father is Sir Michael Szilágyi de Horogszeg, Count of Beszterce, a Hungarian nobleman, a landholder, and royal advisor to the true King of Hungary, the head of the Szilágyi–Hunyadi league. Your mother descends from the most powerful noble family: The Báthory of the Gutkeled clan, risen to formidable influence, holding high military, administrative, and ecclesiastical positions. And it is whispered, on breaths that the wind carries through the castle's stone corridors, that in her veins runs not only the blue blood of the magnates, but also the ancient, dark essence of a goodness. Or so they say, those who believe in such things.

With this twin parentage of yours—the iron loyalty of a Hungarian wolf and the dark inheritance of a lineage touched by the eternal—one could expect anything from you: an enchantress, or an ordinary girl. There are those who, after meeting your gaze, will whisper that you are both.

But tonight, as you gaze into the silvered mirror and let your fingers trace the crimson velvet of your gown, you would give all that you are, all your legacy of pride and power, to be, just this once, simply irresistible. For the sake of your surviving, you don’t have another choice but to excite the attention of another man who wasn’t Ladislaus Pongrác.

He may not even see you. He—whoever he is. You have no name, no face to fix your hopes upon, only the terrifying knowledge that among the new arrivals, the foreign guests with their strange accents and shadowed pasts, there must be one with power enough to defy a monster. You are a hunter sighting down an arrow into a crowd, with no clear target. You cannot beg. You must intrigue. You must ignite a spark of curiosity in some world-weary eye, inspire a flicker of protective instinct in a stranger for a plight he does not know exists, and etch yourself onto his memory so he cannot simply forget you when the night is over. You must find a man around whom the very air crackles with power, a prince or a Duke and before whom even a man like Pongrác must kneel.

And you are to use this unknown savior as your shield.

The very thought is a cold stone in your stomach. For the man you must escape. A man whose name is a whisper of greed, whose touch is a bruise. A man who had received the King’s own warnings to cease his horrible treatments of the people under his charge and who had been forgiven every time, every single time, simply because he held the lands and resources the Crown desperately needed. You knew, with a certainty that chilled your soul, that if you did nothing tonight, if you failed to secure the attention of some man infinitely more powerful than Pongrác, you would be ruined. You would be at his mercy, and God alone knew what would become of you under his roof, in his power.

The bitterest irony was that you held no allure for him. Ladislaus Pongrác did not desire you; he desired your name and the Transylvanian lands that were your dowry, which he would add to his own swollen holdings as if he were doing your family a favour. In the few unfortunate occasions you were forced to endure his presence, he had the gall to look through you, his eyes sliding away to flirt with other women in the very same room, all while being willing to marry you. You were a transaction. A deed to a property. A key to a door he wished to unlock.

And so you must make yourself a key for another door. You must make some unknown, powerful guest see the transaction. You must make him understand the value of the prize—not the land, but you—and the horror of the alternative. He is a stranger, perhaps an enemy, a son of a land that bred your deepest fears. But you are far beyond loyalty to ancient feuds or family pride. Your loyalty is now to your own survival.

And now you are left a pawn in a game of shifting loyalties, and what security and station you once called your own has been threatened by the ambitions of men, with the tacit approval of a boy-king whose crown is still fresh-forged and ill-fitting. The master of this fragile realm, the great strategist who is known as your own father, Michael Szilágyi, who helped make a king out of his nephew, now only seventeen, and will make a fortress of Hungary against those who still whisper for a true son of the previous line. There are rival nobles in every great house of the kingdom now, and every profitable alliance or title or favour is held in their jealous grasp.

Your cousin, the boy-king Matthias, is on the throne, and his precarious supporters form this new, glittering court. You, the daughter of his most powerful pillar, are both a jewel and a hostage in your own castle, your true king a memory, your regent father a pragmatic statesman plotting with old enemies to secure a future. You have to navigate the court of the victor, while praying that God does not desert him and your family’s fortunes are not swept away by the next tide of rebellion. In the meantime, like many a woman with a name too great and a future too uncertain, you have to stitch your safety together like a patchwork of whispers and glances. You have to secure your freedom somehow, though it seems that neither your father’s influence nor your mother’s name can shield you from this one, vile fate. You are known as a Szilágyi—a kingmaker’s daughter. You are respected but not safe. You are all but powerless in the one thing that matters most.

This feast, this celebration of a birth and a reign, is but a mummer’s show. Its true purpose is to take the measure of friend and foe, to see which foreign lords and internal rivals will bend the knee to Matthias, and what dark interests stir beneath the surface of the wine and the music.

You take a final, steadying breath, the scent of beeswax and cold stone filling your lungs. The girl in the mirror is no longer just a girl. She is a weapon, finely wrought and aimed into the dark.

The door to your chamber whispers open, and in the silvered glass, you see your mother’s reflection appear behind your own. Her eyes, the same shade as yours, meet yours in the polished surface, and for a moment, the two of you are a portrait: the young huntress and the seasoned 'queen', bound by blood and circumstance.

“The moon pales tonight beside you, drága gyermekem,” she says, her voice a low, melodic hum that seems to quiet the frantic beating of your own heart. Her hands, cool and steady, come to rest on your bare shoulders. You feel the slight tremor in your own frame still beneath her touch. She sees everything. “The air around you crackles like a summer storm. You are afraid.”

You cannot lie to her. “Is it so obvious?”

“Only to a mother,” she murmurs, her fingers gently sweeping a stray curl from your neck. “And to anyone who knows what it is to have the world rest on a single glance.” She picks up the silver comb from your vanity, its teeth catching the candlelight. With a ritualistic slowness, she begins to draw it through your hair, each stroke a calming, measured rhythm. “You think you must conquer the entire hall tonight. You think you must be a hurricane. But a hurricane destroys. You must be the still, deep lake that a man cannot help but drown in.”

You watch her in the mirror, her own legendary beauty a tempered version of yours, hardened by years of courtly intrigue. “I feel I am aiming an arrow in utter darkness.”

“Then you must become the arrow and the light,” she says, her voice firm yet gentle. She sets the comb down and from a hidden fold in her deep blue sleeve, she produces a small velvet pouch, midnight black and tied with a silken cord. She places it in your palm. It is surprisingly cool and heavy for its size.

You look down at it, then up at her reflection, a question in your eyes. “What is this?”

“A tool,” she says, her hands closing over yours, forcing your fingers to curl around the pouch. You feel the distinct, smooth shape of a stone within. “A focus. It will help you see what others wish to hide. It will… clarify intentions.”

You turn the pouch over in your hand. It feels ancient, thrumming with a faint, almost imperceptible energy. “Magic?” you whisper, the word tasting both forbidden and familiar on your tongue. Your father’s house, for all its power, pays lip service to the Church’s laws. But your mother’s line… the Báthorys… they have always traded in older currencies.

She does not flinch. “A different kind of sight. A way to listen to the silence between a man’s words. To feel the truth of his power.” Her gaze is unwavering in the glass. “I know what you intend tonight. I know the wolf you must avoid. A mother does not send her daughter into a den of beasts without giving her a weapon.”

Your throat tightens. “What great beast do you hope this will help me catch?”

Her smile is a sad, beautiful thing. She cups your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin. “Your heart’s desire. Or at the very least, your salvation. I did not raise you to be a transaction on Pongrác’s ledger. I did not pour the ancient essence of our blood into your veins for you to wither under the touch of a greedy man.”

“What did you raise me for, then?” you ask, the weight of the stone in your hand feeling like the weight of her expectations, of your entire legacy. “In this world where we are both respected and vulnerable, where our king is a boy and our safety is a wager?”

She leans forward, her lips brushing your ear, her whisper a secret for you alone. “I raised you to be the best that you could be. Not just tonight. Always. Now, keep it close. Let it guide you. And remember,” she adds, stepping back, her regal composure returning, “the greatest magic is already in your blood. This is merely a key to help you unlock it.”

“Well, Amen,” You look from the retreating form of your mother to your own determined eyes in the mirror, your fist closing tightly around the velvet pouch. “Amen to that. And may the new moon bring me something better.”

The great hall is a roaring sea of silks, velvets, and the low thunder of a hundred murmured conversations, all washed in the golden light of a thousand candles. The air is thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasting meat, and the faint, cloying perfume of ambition. You stand with your mother in the place of honour, just behind and to the right of the Queen’s Catherine gilded throne. Catherine, your almost-sister, sits with a hand resting on the pronounced curve of her belly, a serene smile fixed upon her face, though you see the faint strain of fatigue at the corners of her eyes. You feel a protective surge, quickly banked. Tonight, you cannot afford to be merely a protective cousin.

The procession of dignitaries begins, a river of power and pretension flowing toward the dais to pay homage to the boy-king and his heavily pregnant queen. Your father stands at Matthias’s other side, a pillar of stern authority, his voice a constant, low murmur in the young king’s ear, shaping his perceptions, guiding his reactions.

Your own guide leans closer to you, her breath a soft whisper against your ear, her fan fluttering gently as if to stir the air, but in truth, to mask her words from all others.

“See there,” your mother murmurs, her eyes on a broad-shouldered man with a forked beard bowing low before Matthias. “János Vitéz, the Archbishop of Esztergom. A mind like a steel trap, and ambition to match your father’s. He would be a powerful shield, but his loyalty is to the Church first, and his own power second. A dangerous ally.”

The man moves on, and another takes his place, a younger, fiercer-looking noble with a hawk’s nose and restless eyes.

“And that one,” her whisper is laced with a hint of disdain. “Nicholas Újlaki. His lands border Pongrác’s. They are rivals in greed, two vultures circling the same carcass. He would take you to spite Ladislaus, but you would simply be trading one monster for another, perhaps a more foolish one.”

A duke from Bohemia is announced, his chest glittering with Jewerly. He offers extravagant compliments to the Queen.

“Empty courtesies from an empty purse,” your mother dismisses him instantly. “His influence is a phantom. He seeks loans, not a bride.”

You watch, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, as man after man is presented and just as swiftly dismissed by your mother’s quiet, ruthless commentary. The velvet pouch feels like a lead weight tucked against your skin, its promise feeling more foolish by the minute. How can this stone help you navigate this labyrinth of flawed and dangerous men?

Then, a new figure steps into the circle of torchlight before the dais. He is not announced with the blaring titles of the others.

He is dressed not in bright silks, but in deepest black, a stark, severe contrast to the riot of colour in the hall. His doublet is of simple, elegant cut, devoid of jewels, his only ornament a dark fur draped over one shoulder. His face is pale, sculpted and severe, with eyes so dark they seem like pools of night. He moves with a predator’s grace, silent and deliberate, and the crowd parts before him without a sound. This is not a man who announces his presence; his presence announces itself, and the world falls silent in acknowledgment.

He is the most compelling, the most terrifying man you have ever seen. Your breath catches. This is him, a voice screams inside you. The one.

He stops before the dais and offers a bow that is not subservient, but a calculated gesture of respect from one power to another. His voice, when he speaks, is low, measured, and carries effortlessly in the silent hall. It is a voice that has known command.

“King Matthias,” he says, and the name sounds like both a recognition and a challenge on his lips. “Hungary flourishes under your gaze. I bring greetings from the Carpathians, where the wolves are restless and the earth remembers its ancient debts. An alliance forged in steel is stronger than one written on parchment. I am here to remind us both of that truth.”

You wait for your mother’s whisper. You crane your ear toward her, desperate for a name, a title, a crumb of information about this man who holds the entire court in thrall.

But her whisper does not come.

You turn your head slightly. Her face is a carefully composed mask, but you see the tension in her jaw, the white-knuckled grip on her fan. She is staring straight ahead, refusing to even look at him.

Confused, you lean in. “Mother,” you whisper urgently. “Who is that?”

She does not look at you. Her lips barely move. “Vlad Țepeș. Voivode of Wallachia.”

And you understood the most obvious part. Everyone knew that man's story, at least the most famous part, the reputation that followed him like a shadow.

“He… his power is palpable,” you breathe, your eyes drawn back to him like a moth to a flame. “Could he… would he be—”

“No.” The word is a sharp, final dagger. She finally turns her head, and her eyes are not guiding now; they are warning. They are frightened. “He is not an option. Not for you. Not for anyone in this family.”

“But why? Hungary needs his armies against the Turks. He needs our support.”

“What he needs and what he seeks are two different things,” she hisses, her voice low and venomous. “His father, Vlad Dracul, and your uncle, John Hunyadi… their history is written in blood and betrayal. Actions were taken. Terrible actions. If he is here, it is not for a bride. It is not for pleasant alliances. A man like that does not forget. He does not forgive. He bides his time. He is here for one thing only, should he ever get the chance: vengeance. And we,” she says, her gaze sweeping over you, then back to the dangerous figure before the throne, “must be very, very careful not to give him that chance.”

A tense silence stretches after Prince words, thick and heavy as the fur on his shoulder. All eyes are on the young king. Matthias, to his credit, does not flinch under the weight of that dark gaze or the cryptic warning. He leans forward, his boyish face set in a mask of regal composure that you know your father helped him practice.

“The Crown of Hungary welcomes the Voivode of Wallachia,” Matthias replies, his voice clear, though it lacks the deep, resonant gravity of the man before him. “We remember the ancient debts of the earth, and we value steel above parchment. Your alliance is noted and appreciated. Let us speak more of our Kingdoms after the feast.” It is a dismissal, but a polite one, an attempt to steer the conversation back to the safe, public waters of celebration.

The moment breaks. The courtiers remember to breathe, and the low murmur of conversation slowly swells to fill the void left by the prince’s daunting presence. The prince offers another of his minimal, unnerving bows and turns to melt back into the crowd, which parts for him as water parts for a shark.

Your eyes are locked on him, your mother’s warning a distant buzz in your ears. You watch the straight line of his back, the way he moves without seeming to notice the people around him. And then, just as he is about to be swallowed by the throng, he stops.

It is as if he felt the weight of your stare, a physical pull. He turns his head, not fully, just a slight shift. And his eyes, those pools of absolute night, find yours across the crowded hall.

There is only the startling, direct connection of his gaze. It is not a glance; it is an assessment, swift and thorough, taking in every detail of you standing there beside the queen. It lasts less than a heartbeat, a fleeting, electric moment that leaves a strange, cold heat prickling on your skin. Then he turns away and is gone, absorbed into the tapestry of the court.

You blink, your heart hammering against your ribs as if trying to escape. You force yourself to look away, to turn back toward the safety of the dais, your mind reeling.

He saw me.

A profound disappointment washes over you, cold and final. Of all the men who had paraded before you tonight, he was the only one who had truly stirred your curiosity, the only one whose very essence seemed to radiate a power so absolute it could shatter a man like Pongrác with a word. But that same power made him the most dangerous choice of all. If your family, who held every card at this court, feared him, then you had no choice but to fear him too.

A pity. A truly devastating pity. For a moment, you had seen your shield. And in the next, you saw the sword that could destroy you all.

Now you understood why your father was so urgent to bring Ladislaus’s territories under his control, or so you thought. You could only listen as he laughed with the man, as if they were lifelong companions and friends, as if just a few months ago Ladislaus had not switched sides, nearly swearing loyalty to the sister of Matthias’s deceased predecessor over the decisions of the nobles. An insult, nothing more, nothing less.

Yet, for your cousin’s teetering reign, the fragile borders, and the imminent Ottoman invasion, the resources Ladislaus offered were key. His lands were where supplies could be most easily and quickly procured should any of the three situations turn dire.

This was the new reality at the banquet. On purpose, your father had seated you right beside Ladislaus. For the past hour, you had only listened to your father and him talk, to Ladislaus reminiscing and boasting about the vast, prosperous resources he possessed—resources that would be of great help in case of a disastrous rule. In your mind, you could only recall the man’s reputation as a thief and an enslaver. And though your father agreed with everything he said, you knew that once you were married, it would be your father who would manage everything as his own. He only needed an excuse to take them without Ladislaus being able to refuse, and that excuse was his marriage to you.

It was then that Matthias interrupted to propose a toast. He struck his glass with a spoon, and the sound of crystal cut through the murmur like a knife. All eyes turned to the king. He stood, imposing, the crown on his head gleaming with a golden glow.

“Friends, allies, loyal subjects,” he began, his voice projecting with a natural authority that filled the hall. “I toast to this night. To the relationships that grow stronger, to the goodwill that unites us, and to the faith in God that guides us—the very faith our enemies so desperately wish to destroy.”

The crowd murmured its approval. Matthias raised his glass even higher.

“I toast to my wife, Catherine, the rock upon which my heart rests and the mother of my future heir.” She inclined her head gracefully, a hand on her womb. “I toast to my loyal uncle and subject, Michael Szilágyi, whose counsel and sword have been pillars of my reign.” Your father nodded solemnly, his face expressionless but his eyes shining with pride.

Then, Matthias’s gaze settled on you. A faint surprise coursed through you.

“And I toast,” he continued, his voice taking on an almost tender tone, “to my cousin, whose gentle spirit and loyal service have not only been a balm to our queen but a constant companionship and a reminder of the family for which we fight every day. Her presence has been a light in moments of great darkness.”

As if you were the true center of attention, he extended his hand over Catherine, gesturing for you to rise.

And you did, your legs slightly trembling, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon you. You did not understand such adulation. You had only done what was expected of you. You looked at Catherine, seeking guidance, and she responded with a slight, encouraging smile.

“And in that spirit of securing our future,” he declared, his eyes sweeping the room, “it brings me great joy to announce a union that will further strengthen the bonds of our kingdom. A marriage that will unite two great houses and ensure the prosperity and security of our lands.”

Your blood ran cold even before he spoke the names. Your father’s placid expression, Ladislaus’s smug, triumphant smirk—it all made a terrible, horrifying sense.

“I hereby announce the betrothal of my beloved cousin,” Matthias said, his hand gesturing toward you, “to our most loyal and resourceful supporter, Lord Ladislaus Pongrác. May their union bring not only personal happiness but enduring strength to Hungary!”

The applause was immediate.

“To all of them!” Matthias proclaimed, raising his glass. “And to the future of Hungary!”

“To the future of Hungary!” the room roared in unison, and the sound of clinking glasses filled the air like a peal of bells.

You stood frozen, a smile plastered on your face that felt like a death mask. Across the table, your mother’s face was a pale, stoic mask, her knuckles white as she too clapped, her eyes screaming a silent apology to you.

Ladislaus rose, giving a grandiose bow, his eyes glinting with possessive victory as they swept over you. He had won you. The key to the door he wished to unlock had been handed to him publicly, irrevocably, by the king himself.

The future of Hungary, it seemed, would be built on your sacrifice. And as you sat back down, the taste of wine on your tongue was as bitter as ash.

Confusion curdled in your chest, thick and sickening. The announcement… it was today? You had thought this night was merely for welcoming the foreign guests, for your father and Matthias to subtly interrogate each envoy, to take the measure of friend and foe. You had believed you had time—precious, desperate time—to find another path, to ignite a spark of interest in some other powerful man. You had clutched your mother’s strange stone as if it were a lifeline, a promise of a chance to fight.

That chance had been stolen from you before you could even draw a weapon. The despair was a physical blow, a wave of impotent fury that threatened to crack the porcelain smile on your face. A bitter resentment, hot and sharp, flared toward your family—toward your father for his ruthless pragmatism, toward Matthias for his grand, casual gesture that had sealed your fate as if gifting a prized horse. Did they love you so little? Did they know the monster they were chaining you to and simply not care? The thought was a betrayal in itself, but it was there, a poisonous vine twisting around your heart.

You forced it down, choking on the guilt that immediately followed. They are securing the kingdom. You are a Szilágyi. This is your duty.The mantra felt hollow, a shield of rotted wood against the reality of Ladislaus’s gloating presence beside you. How could your father, who claimed to love you, condemn you to a life under that man’s thumb? The disconnect between his affection and his action was a chasm you were falling into.

The roar of the toast faded, replaced by the resumption of feasting. The taste of ash in your mouth would not leave. You were so lost in the tumult of your own despair that the conversation at the high table seemed to come from a great distance, a dull hum beneath the ringing in your ears.

It was the sudden shift in the quality of the silence around you that pulled you back. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus. Matthias was leaning forward, his face set in an expression of keen interest. And his gaze was fixed not on your father, or on a foreign duke, but on the one man in the hall who seemed to carry his own winter with him.

“And you, Voivode Țepeș,” Matthias’s voice cut through the chatter, deceptively light. “Your… methods in Wallachia are the subject of much discussion. You hold your differences against the Transilvanian Saxon with a firmness others find… extreme. Tell me, do you believe fear is a more reliable currency than gold in the defense of a kingdom?”

The question hung in the air, a blade poised. You could not fathom why Matthias would introduce such a volatile topic at his own celebration, a public challenge to a man known for his brutal pragmatism. It felt like tossing a lit torch into a room full of gunpowder. You glanced at your father, expecting him to smoothly intercede, to deflect and soothe as he always did. But his silence was deafening. He merely watched, his expression unreadable, a strategist observing a battle unfold from a safe hill.

Then, the Voivode spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it cut through the din of the hall with the chilling clarity of ice cracking on a winter lake.

“A king must understand the nature of the tools he uses,” Vlad began, his dark eyes fixed on Matthias, utterly ignoring your father’s presence. “The Saxons of Transylvania declared their loyalty to those who usurped my father’s throne. They funded my enemies. They celebrated my family’s suffering. I cannot risk such a disease festering within my own borders. Gold?” He almost smiled, a cold, sharp thing. “Gold can buy a man’s service, but it cannot buy his loyalty. It makes him a richer mercenary, not a truer subject. A man who betrays for gold will betray again for more gold. Or for a prettier title. Or simply because the wind changes direction.”

The silence in the immediate vicinity of the high table was absolute. Ladislaus, beside you, had stopped chewing, his face slightly pale.

Your father finally stirred, clearing his throat, the sound overly loud. “Surely, Voivode, there are always… alternatives to such permanent solutions. Diplomacy. Sanctions. The guidance of the Church. Spilled blood is a stain that is difficult to wash away, even from the hands of a king.” It was the expected rebuke, the voice of civilized politics.

But Vlad’s gaze did not waver from Matthias, as if your father were a gnat buzzing at the periphery of his vision. “When the rot is deep, Count Szilágyi, one does not paint over the wood. One cuts it out. I was left with no other action. I chose the one that ensured my survival and the security of my throne. A ruler who hesitates to protect what is his does not deserve to keep it.”

Then, his eyes swept, for the first time, across the table. They passed over your father’s rigid face, over Ladislaus’s irritated one, and for a fleeting second, seemed to brush against yours before returning to the king. He delivered his final blow, his voice dropping to a intimate, carrying pitch that felt like it was meant for every betrayed soul in the room.

“A traitor will always be a traitor. A thief, a thief. You can give them the brightest gold, the most powerful title, even your most beautiful daughter…” His words landed on the recent announcement with the weight of a tombstone. “…and you will still lie awake at night wondering when they will turn their face against you. I have always preferred to see men for what they are: selfish, arrogant, and treacherous. It saves a great deal of disappointment later.”

The air rushed from your lungs. It was a direct, undeniable strike. He had taken the very foundation of your betrothal—the political calculation that a man like Ladislaus could be bought and trusted with your body and your family’s future—and had held it up to the court not as strategy, but as profound, wilful foolishness.

A shocking, treacherous sensation flared in your chest. It was not offense. It was vindication. It was a fierce, blazing agreement. He had given voice to the screaming protest in your own soul, the one you had to choke down with talk of duty and family. He had looked at the transaction your father had made and had named it for the dangerous gamble it was. The words were a blow to your father’s plans, and to your own future, yet you felt a perverse, thrilling sense of gratitude. Someone had said it. Someone had seen the rot.

You dropped your gaze to your plate, your heart hammering against your ribs, afraid that the wild, complicit agreement in your eyes would be seen by everyone. The taste of ash in your mouth was suddenly gone, replaced by the metallic tang of a truth too dangerous to speak aloud.

A faint, unbidden smile touched your eyes, a flicker of light in the gloom of your despair. It was a reflex, a spark ignited by the sheer, audacious truth of his words. Before you could stop yourself, your gaze lifted from your plate, seeking his across the crowded space.

He was still turned toward the king, his profile a sharp, pale cut against the torchlight. But as if feeling the pull of your look, his head turned. His dark eyes, which had moments ago been imparting a lesson in cold Realpolitik to a king, found yours.

This time, it was not a glancing blow, a swift assessment. This time, it was a connection. You did not look away. Neither did he. And in the depths of that midnight gaze, you saw it—a subtle, answering curve at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smile that acknowledged your own. It was not a smile of warmth, but one of sharp, perfect understanding. A conspirator’s smile.

There was no doubt. None at all. He had said what he had said with purpose, with brutal sincerity, and he had aimed it precisely where he meant to. And he had seen your silent, grateful applause. He had seen the vindication in your eyes and, in seeing it, had found a moment of dark amusement.

The silence that followed Vlad’s pronouncement was thick enough to choke on. It was Ladislaus who broke it, his voice a jarring, overly hearty sound that clashed with the tension. He raised his glass, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

“A most… illuminating philosophy, Voivode,” he said, his tone slick with false camaraderie. “It is always bracing to hear a man speak with such conviction about the nature of treachery. It reminds one of the… complex paths some must walk to reclaim their birthright.” He paused, letting the insinuation hang in the air before driving the dagger home, his voice dropping into a more intimate, cutting register. “Tell us, Prince Dracula, how did you find the Sultan’s hospitality during your… extended stay? And the pay he provided for your army when you first marched on Wallachia? It is a curious thing, how the definition of ‘traitor’ can shift depending on which side of the border one stands, and who is signing the paychecks. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The gasp in the hall was audible. This was no longer an insinuation; it was a direct, public accusation of the highest treason, of consorting with the Ottoman enemy. Ladislaus had not just thrown a stone; he had launched a spear aimed straight at the heart of Vlad’s legitimacy.

All eyes swung back to the Prince of Wallachia. You held your breath, expecting a denial, a flash of righteous fury.

Instead, Vlad did something far more terrifying. He smiled. A wide, sharp, and utterly chilling smile that did not touch his eyes.

“You are remarkably well-informed for a… landholder, Lord Pongrác,” he said, his voice a low, agreeable rumble that somehow silenced the hall more effectively than a shout. He did not deny a single word. “Yes, I have indeed supped with the devil. I have used the tools available to me, no matter how stained. I took the Sultan’s gold. I learned his tactics. I used his army. And when it served my purpose, I turned on him. But you see, the critical difference is this: I have never once claimed to be a saint. I do not pretend to be a loyal lamb in a court. I know precisely what I am.”

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes pinning Ladislaus to his seat. The smile remained, a predator’s grin. “I recognize the faithless because I am capable of faithlessness. I understand the traitor because I have played the traitor when it served a greater purpose. My survival. My throne. I make no apologies for it. I simply ensure that those who would play those games with me…” his gaze flickered, for a fraction of a second, to your father, then back to Ladislaus, “…understand that I am the master of them. No one has ever successfully cut me out. They have tried. And they have learned that the rot they sought to exploit runs far deeper in them than it ever could in me.”

The air left the room. He had not denied it. He had embraced it. He had taken Ladislaus’s attempt to shame him and had worn it like a crown of black iron, transforming an accusation of treason into a declaration of supreme, unchallengeable self-awareness and power. He was not a hypocrite; he was an honest monster, and in doing so, he revealed the pathetic, cloaked greed of men like Ladislaus, who hid their own treachery behind a veil of feigned loyalty.

Ladislaus looked as if he had been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He had thrown his spear and hit a mountain, and the mountain had laughed, the sound echoing in the stunned silence of the hall.

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Despite being the heiress to one of the most influential companies in the world, your life was a chaos you could barely keep under control. To the outside world, your family was the epitome of perfection: elegant, powerful, almost like royalty in the business world. You, the favoured daughter, not only carried the weight of that legacy but had also fought to maintain control of the family business after a series of poor financial decisions nearly brought it to ruin. But behind that gleaming façade, you were drowning in a sea of expectations and lies. You were tired of pretending to be someone you weren’t, of acting by rules you’d never chosen, and above all, of feigning love for a man you despised with every fibre of your being. Ormund Hightower, your husband, was nothing more than an opportunist who had seen in you a way to expand his family’s power.

That evening, on the fifth anniversary of your marriage, the air was thick with false smiles and uncomfortable questions. The absence of children was everyone’s favourite topic, and though you refused to engage, the guests’ curiosity was insatiable. The truth, known to few, was that your marriage to Ormund was a sham. You only shared the same space at events like this, where it was necessary to play the part of the perfect couple. Outside these occasions, he disappeared for weeks, leaving you in peace but also trapped in a lie that consumed you.

The Hightowers were a powerful family, owners of one of the most prestigious law firms in the world, Hightower & Associates LLP. For your family, the alliance with them had been a necessary strategic move. When the debts of the family business became unsustainable, the Hightowers stepped in, buying a significant portion of the company and helping to settle the debts in exchange for your marriage to Ormund. For you, that marriage had meant the chance to save your family’s legacy, but it had also made you a prisoner in your own life.

“Smile,” Ormund whispered, gripping your waist with a force that bordered on painful. “And stop looking like you’re at a funeral.”

You glanced at him sideways, resisting the urge to stomp on his foot with your heel. You adjusted the black dress you were wearing, an automatic gesture to mask the anxiety gnawing at you from within. Being next to him felt like reliving the worst moments of your struggle to maintain control of the company, when every glance judged you and every comment made you feel inadequate, even though you knew you were more than capable.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied coldly. “And I’ll wear whatever expression I see fit.”

You knew that response wasn’t what he expected, but you were tired of his demands. You weren’t weak; on the contrary, you were stronger than him. But you also knew you couldn’t act impulsively. Ormund had the power to strip away what little you had left of the family business. Although you still held a significant share, he and his family controlled the majority, and they wouldn’t hesitate to use it against you if you dared to challenge them.

“I could make the entire world forget you,” he murmured, wielding his favourite threat. “I could ruin your career in an instant and transfer all your rights to the company to your half-brother. And I don’t need to remind you how much he despises you, do I?”

You clenched your jaw, holding back the fury boiling inside you. It was the same threat as always, but this time it didn’t intimidate you as much as it once had. You knew you couldn’t divorce him without having something substantial to leverage against the Hightowers. You needed a strategy, something that would give you an edge in the legal battle that would inevitably follow if you decided to act. But for now, all you could do was endure.

“Behave,” he said, finally releasing you. “Here comes my family.”

You watched as your worst nightmare approached: the Hightowers. Not all of them were unbearable. You’d managed to strike up a friendship with his cousin Alicent, who, like you, was trapped in an arranged marriage. Though her situation was pitiable, she always said it was you who deserved more sympathy, for having to put up with Ormund.

“My son,” said Lynessa, Ormund’s mother, embracing him with exaggerated affection. Behind her, his father and uncle watched you with indifferent gazes. Clearly, you meant nothing to them.

Your eyes moved from one to the other until they met an intense blue hue you hadn’t expected to see there.

Quickly diverting your gaze to avoid showing your surprise, you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, trying to focus on the conversation.

Lynessa didn’t take long to fix her gaze on you again, her look laden with a subtle malice that only someone with years of experience in playing the game of perfection could sustain.

“It’s a shame you still don’t have children,” she commented, continuing to smile with that sweetness that was almost unbearable. “Don’t get me wrong, darling, but at your age, it would be quite natural to expect news of that kind.”

Her tone was kind, almost maternal, but her words fell like stones. Your jaw tightened, and the warmth of the smile you had forced vanished completely. You knew exactly what she was implying.

“Did you know I know an excellent doctor who works with couples who... well, have trouble conceiving?” Lynessa continued, never losing that sickening tone. “I’ve heard he’s very effective, even with complicated cases. I’m sure that with a little help, things would be sorted out quickly.”

A wave of fury surged through your body. Was she suggesting you were infertile? Was she insinuating that, if you had no children, it was because of some flaw of yours? If you could have, you would have screamed what you thought at her, but you held yourself back, reminding yourself that tonight, as irritating as it was, was just another episode in the theatre of your life.

“I don’t need you to send me to any doctor,” you replied, with a cold calmness that contrasted with the volcano of emotions swirling inside you. “The matter of children is... private.”

“Of course,” Lynessa replied, unperturbed. “I didn’t mean to be too direct, but I’m surprised you haven’t sorted it out already, with everything you have going for you.” Her gaze flicked to Ormund, who smiled without paying attention to what was happening, as though he were convinced everything was under control. “Of course, your husband has a history of... good health, doesn’t he?”

The insinuation was clear: the blame for not having children lay with you. A few more minutes of conversation, and the mockery would become too obvious. But you didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it affected you.

“I’ll do it when the time is right,” you responded, with a cold, controlled smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a bit of fresh air.”

You turned away before she could respond, leaving behind a visibly unsatisfied Lynessa. You knew the criticism and insinuations would never stop, but for once, you wouldn’t let them in. If anyone thought they could destroy you with little venomous words, they were mistaken. What they didn’t know was that you already had the last move in mind.

You walked briskly towards the terrace, seeking some calm. You needed a breath of fresh air before returning to the circus that was this party. But just before you could open the glass door, you heard a voice that made you stop dead in your tracks.

“Great battle. I always wonder how you manage to come out victorious from that woman’s words.”

You turned slowly, as though the familiar voice didn’t surprise you in the slightest. There he was, with his blue eyes fixed on you, a glass in his hand. Gwayne. The only person who could make the endless hours of this night bearable. Or, at least, more tolerable.

“I’ve been an expert at this since my husband came back from the airport,” you replied, letting out an ironic laugh. “Or maybe since he said ‘yes’ five years ago.”

The response slipped from your lips without much thought, but Gwayne’s gaze didn’t go unnoticed. His blue eyes gleamed with a mixture of curiosity and something more.

He always seemed able to read between your words, to see what was beneath the surface.

“Why are you here, Gwayne?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he admitted, taking a sip of his drink as his lips curved into a faint smile. “But someone begged me to attend, and I can’t refuse such a desperate request.”

That smile of his, that mischievous spark in his eyes. The invitation had been yours, the pleading too. As for why... well, that was a secret only the two of you shared.

Your breath caught in your throat as your pulse raced wildly. A bolt of heat coursed through your skin, electrifying every pore and resonating deep within your veins.

The memory of his mouth on your neck, the touch of his tongue against yours, consumed your mind, transforming every detail into an intense and forbidden pleasure. An unquenchable fire burned in your blood, growing and expanding within you, like a flame that consumed everything in its path. In the darkest corner of your mind, something stirred, something you couldn't —nor wanted to— control.

It was a feeling unknown, a desire you had never felt for anyone else before. Each gasping breath you took seemed insufficient, superficial, while the pain of longing settled in your chest, oppressive and burning. Tension coiled within you, growing until it reached a point of unbearable agony.

Suddenly, a sound burst forth from Gwayne, a deep, guttural growl that rang in the air. Then he pushed you with force against the tempered glass door of Ormund's office, a door designed to hide what was happening inside. That door, once the source of your anger, now filled you with a strange sense of gratitude.

His mouth slid down your neck as his hips pressed against your belly with a urgency that left you breathless. You could feel him, imagine him inside you, your desire and his intertwined in a whirlwind of passion. A wave of moisture coursed through you, causing your thighs to tense and your hips to move almost of their own accord.

You heard him inhale a ragged breath, and then his words reached your ears, heavy with a need that shook you:

"I can give you that child," he murmured, his voice deep and seductive. "They will have your blood and the blood of a Hightower," he said, his eyes widening again, as dark as the deepest sapphire. "Which one?" he said. "That doesn't matter."

He stopped just inches from your mouth, his hand gripping your hip firmly. But these were not the hands of a jailer, but those of a lover, someone who knew the art of satisfying the deepest desire.

Your heart pounded in your chest as your whole body tensed. You knew you should say no. There were a thousand reasons to do so. But the words that escaped your lips were different, spoken in a sensual voice you barely recognized as your own:

“Could you live knowing that child would call another man father?” His hand slid over your belly, exploring the exposed skin at your left hip. You watched him smile, a malevolent expression that made you shiver.

“Imagine if that child were like me” he whispered, his voice heavy with provocation. “With such a strong resemblance that there could be no doubt about who the true father is.”

You could barely breathe, barely think. Your desire grew in time with your unstable heartbeat, and you realized that the fire was still burning. You wanted him, right or wrong, just as you had wanted him for so long. With vague awareness, you nodded.

As he ground his hips against yours with a desperate, almost feral hunger, your mind reeled at his words. The forbidden promise of being bred, of carrying his child, sent a dark thrill of excitement coursing through your veins.

Without hearing any objections, he pulled you towards him, adjusting you against the curve of his hips. Your dress had slipped down slightly, and now only his pants separated the curve of your ass from his erect member. You bit your lip as he slid his hand up your thigh and lifted your leg, guiding you effortlessly onto the desk. He deposited you gently on the cold wood, brushing the hair from your face to caress your cheek. His hand traced your side, traveling up your arm before descending again.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have had the pleasure of seeing”, he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. Brave...”

The fabric slipped a little further, revealing one of your breasts. You felt the blush spread across your cheeks as you saw the evidence of your desire in the erect nipple. His hand closed over your breast, and a muffled cry escaped your lips as his thumb traced slow circles over the peak. You arched your back, seeking his touch, seeking him.

“Strong and fucking stunning,” he whispered, as his hand descended further, passing under your navel and over your bare hip, until it reached the moisture that had accumulated between your thighs.

His fingers found you, and his caress was like a red-hot brand, electrifying and burning. He slid a finger along your center, with slow, playful movements that made your whole body tremble. He continued with those feather-light caresses until you felt like you were going to explode, like your skin could not contain so much intensity.

Then he pushed a finger inside you. You threw your head back, and a choked sound escaped your lips as the world around you faded away, leaving only him and the fire that consumed everything in its path. You needed him as much as he needed you...

"Nobody could reach a beauty like yours," he murmured through gritted teeth, pulling his finger nearly all the way out before sliding it back in slowly.

He angled his hand so that his thumb danced across your sensitive bundle of nerves, as that long, talented finger of his continued pumping steadily, in and out, stealing more of your breath with every thrust. His other arm wrapped around you, crossing over your heaving chest. He closed his hand over one of your aching breasts, kneading the soft flesh as he pushed a second finger deep inside you, stretching your walls and stoking the flames within you even higher.

You let out a sharp cry, pressing yourself against his hand, against him. His breathing came in harsh bursts as he watched, entranced, as you undulated and clenched around his fingers with each skilled movement. You were slipping into that blissful sensation, surrendering to it gracefully.

All the while, his hips never ceased their relentless grind against yours, the thick ridge of his arousal throbbing insistently against your core. He hooked one of your legs around his waist, opening you wider, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds through the fabric of his trousers.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire. "Tell me you need to feel me inside you, breeding this sweet cunt." His fingers found your slit, stroking through the slick heat, teasing your entrance with a maddening lack of penetration.

"I want it," you keened, too far gone to deny him or yourself any longer. Gwayne began to turn his body, creating some space between you both, but you reached out and closed your fingers around his hip, digging your nails in with a silent plea.

He swore under his breath and let out a low groan, his lips brushing against yours as he thrust his fingers deeper, harder. Your hips rocked against his, though there was no rhythm to your desperate movements as you both writhed and undulated. The coil of tension in your lower belly tightened and tightened.

Slowly, he extracted his fingers, but his hand didn't stray far. It slid upwards, pausing just beneath your navel as he tugged both halves of your robe apart to leave you bare and shining in the candlelight.

Completely exposed to him, he drank in the sight of you, his gaze roving hungrily over your glistening skin. Your breath caught in your throat as desire, thick and heavy, pulsed through your veins. Unable to resist, you wound your arms around his neck, pulling him down into a searing kiss that branded your very soul.

You tore at his clothes with desperate fingers, baring his skin inch by delicious inch, following the same path he had carved upon yours. The heat between your bodies blazed hotter, more urgent with each scrap of fabric removed.

He took one of your legs, positioning it to grant him the access he needed as he loomed above you, holding his weight above your body with one arm. The other hand traced a scorching path down your side, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"Breathe," he taunted with a wicked grin as he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes blazing into yours with a hunger that stole the very air from your lungs.

But you couldn't breathe, not until you felt him pushing forward, stretching you, filling you so utterly and completely. A strangled cry tore from your throat as you arched off the wood, your nails raking down his back, urging him deeper, harder, faster.

It was a revelation, understanding why people lost their minds to this, to the exquisite pleasure of being claimed, possessed, owned utterly by another. Your pussy clenched around him, gripping his length like a velvet vice as he hilited your cries with his own, guttural groans of bliss.

He began to move, his hips driving forward with a power and strength that stole your breath away. Each thrust sent sparks of ecstasy ricocheting through your body, building the fire that consumed you until you were nothing more than a mass of sensation and sound, incoherent and unhinged with pleasure.

Your pelvis surrendered to his relentless pace, meeting each powerful drive of his hips with your own. You fixed your gaze on the spot where your bodies joined, watching in fascination as he claimed you again and again, driving into you with a force that left you breathless and wanting.

Your second release was unexpected and insufficient, for far from appeasing the desire roaring under your skin, it gave it free rein, demanding more, much more.

Gwayne paused his intrusion for a few moments, possibly trying to drink you in while you experienced your climax. He leaned in to kiss you, hard and demanding, stealing the air your lungs were burning to regain. His tongue plunged into yours and they dueled again in a fiery duel for dominance.

You moaned into his mouth as his hips made a slow circle stimulating your sensitive cunt, before changing the intensity of his thrusts, which became relentless and impetuous, driving you wild again in less than two seconds and forming the knot in your lower belly, your muscles unfurling even more to accommodate the new rhythm. 

All you could register was the sound of his heavy breathing coupled with a harmony that you broke endlessly with a myriad of gasps, moans and other sounds that you sought futilely to stifle.

His rhythm became hard and rough, with his fingers wrapping around your neck and pressing where you knew your pulse was pounding as if it was on the verge of breaking from all the stimulation your body was experiencing.

You were about to cum for the third time and you were so ready for it. Your body screamed and you clenched your jaw to try to keep up with its rhythm, which was raspy and merciless. The knot inside you was about to break to unleash the seventh hell in which you would be happily burning. 

The wet sounds of your bodys filled the room, the slap of skin against skin and the slick glide of his shaft plunging into your clenching heat. You closed your eyes and opened your mouth to breathe. You felt it so close, but so close....

Then his thrusts became slow and deliberate. You opened your eyes and frowned, noting that he had done it on purpose to deprive you of what you craved.

He was looking down on you from his high route, above you, with a few blond hairs sticking to his forehead and his face slightly flushed. He held his weight with one of his hands and let out the sigh of a laugh as he looked up into your face.

He leaned down to lick the surface of one nipple before stroking his finger across your lower lip.

"Wrap your legs around my waist" he ordered roughly, followed by your name and that was enough for you to obey him without replying, set on fire like a torch. 

Your legs were slipping in the sweat on his back and hips, so you locked them around him tighter. You let out a loud moan as he entered you again, so deep that the sensation was invigorating and sent sparks throughout your body. 

He rammed into you again in the same way: raw, hard and insane, so insane that the pressure in your belly threatened to break you whole; making you contract every time his deft thrusts hit that exact spot where all pleasure was concentrated.

You were aware of nothing; neither of the gasps that converged into cries of need nor of the desperate way your hands clutched at his shoulders, clawing at his back or fisted the the edge of the desk to try to keep you anchored to this earth.

"I want to feel you" he demanded through gritted teeth next to your ear, his breath hitching as he ran his tongue down your neck. "Please."

And so you plunged into a torrent of pleasure, a raw desire there would have been fervent that didn't take long to explode. 

You gasped in desperation

"Gwayne..."

Stunned, you trembled beside him, you felt him as he felt you. 

You opened your eyes only to find that blue, now sapphire that enchanted you to touch the chasm that consumed them.

You fell back against the wood, with only the rasping of the fire and the heaving of breaths.

In a heavy and wondrous burden, you released your arms from your death grip on him so that your mind could once again become active and work. 

You looked at him for a moment. Before he met your eyes. Without saying anything to you, he tugged on your dressing gown and carefully helped you put it back on. There was something in that act that seemed... tender.

"Thank you..." you murmured and he didn't suppress a half smile. 

"You're welcome," he replied and you dropped back. "It was my pleasure..."

You looked at him with narrowed eyes but amused.

"Are you going to start already?" you asked sarcastically.

"Whenever you ask me to, princess" you laughed and shook your head.

"You'll never change." 

Masterlist

You were the only good thing he remembered from his childhood. The only thing that made him smile, the only thing that made him feel human.

Like him, your dragon egg never hatched, but unlike him, you didn’t mind. And it was this indifference that made him begin to notice you. He admired the kindness, fairness, and awareness you displayed effortlessly.

When Aegon mocked him, you defended him; when your brothers teased him, you scolded them. And when the incident at Driftmark occurred, although you weren’t present, you were the only one who wept upon seeing what had happened to him.

You were also the only one who went to see him afterward, when everyone else walked away without consequence. You gave him something no one else did: a hug.

“You’re still handsome,” you said, gently brushing the spot where the stitches had been.

He couldn’t help but blush at your words. Although he pretended not to care, that wound had affected him deeply, just as so many other things had during his childhood.

“It was a fair trade. I lost an eye, but I gained a dragon,” he repeated, echoing the same words he had said to his mother.

You looked at him with sadness because, even though you couldn’t fully understand what he felt, it seemed to you that he repeated those words to convince himself that he shouldn’t feel pity for what he had lost.

“You’re allowed to be sad, you know?” you said, taking his hand and offering a faint smile. “I don’t really know what happened down there, or why my brothers reacted the way they did, or what you did, but... it’s not as simple as you make it out to be, and that’s okay. You’re human, Aemond.”

He remained silent for a few moments, and for the first time, he thought that if he were to cry in that moment, he wouldn’t feel judged but rather comforted by the love and patience you had always shown him. But he didn’t. Despite the trust he had in you, he didn’t want to seem weak in your eyes.

That was the last time you saw him.

But it wasn’t the last time you had contact with him. You always wrote to him and to Helaena, telling them about your daily life, about what made you happy, like the birth of your younger brothers, Aegon and Viserys, and the joy you felt holding their tiny bodies.

For a while, everything was fine. However, little by little, your letters became less frequent until one day they stopped altogether, which made him nervous. It was a feeling he didn’t understand, and it worsened when he found out that you continued to write to Helaena but not to him.

His confusion turned into fury, especially when, at the beginning of your silence, he sent you letters—initially short, barely a paragraph. But when he received no reply, he started sending longer ones, telling you about his day, trying to regain the attention you had once given him without directly asking why you had gone silent. One letter, two, three… ten. But there was no response.

So he stopped trying.

Then, you returned to King’s Landing to defend your brother’s legitimacy after six long years.

You saw him training and noticed how much he had changed. You felt the fear the servants displayed when he was near, how hard and enigmatic he had become. The boy you knew had disappeared, transformed into a man you no longer recognized.

He caught your gaze from below, and for the first time in his life, you looked away. You had never done that before; you always greeted him with a tender smile and warm eyes.

“Why? Why? Why?” he wondered furiously in his mind, as if you could answer him from a distance.

You were walking towards the throne room to witness Vaemond Velaryon’s petition when someone intercepted you, grabbing your hand and making you turn with a gasp.

You parted your lips slightly upon meeting Aemond’s cold gaze. He was much taller than you now, his face had gained firmer features, and the strength he had acquired was evident, perhaps thanks to his training. Even his skin had taken on a more bronzed tone from all those days outdoors. The patch covering his missing eye made him look even more imposing.

“Do I look like a criminal to you, or why are you running from me?” he asked bluntly, without so much as a greeting or an apology for interrupting you and grabbing you.

“We’re going to be late,” was all you said, trying to free yourself from his grip.

However, he didn’t let go, as if his hand on your wrist was a chain binding you to him.

You looked at him again, silently pleading with him not to persist. He remained silent, watching you with a depth that, for the first time, you couldn’t interpret.

Then he let out a short laugh and released you, causing you to cover your wrist with your other hand.

Your heart ached because, although you had sworn to keep your distance from him, you knew you were being unfair.

You turned your back on him, ready to leave, but you bit your lower lip, feeling the truth gnawing at you inside.

“Did you do it?” you asked in a whisper, turning back to face him.

He looked at you, not understanding.

“Do what?” You nervously fidgeted with your hands, a gesture he hated. He could find satisfaction in everyone else’s fear of him, but in you, and only in you, he despised it.

“Did you try to kill them?” you finally asked. “Did you try to kill my brothers? Is that why Luke attacked you with a knife?”

He clenched his hands into fists, connecting the dots. Was that why you had stopped writing to him? Why you were ignoring him?

You couldn’t bear to see how his face filled with a rage you had never seen in him before, a rage that sent shivers down your spine. You lowered your gaze, waiting for an answer.

However, he grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him.

He expected this from everyone, but not from you.

The only woman he had placed on a pedestal, the only one who had taught him that love could be given willingly, not out of obligation.

“Is that what they told you?” he murmured, struggling with an internal conflict that seemed to hurt him, even make him feel betrayed. “And you believed them?”

You closed your eyes, and seeing him like this made you begin to doubt your convictions.

However, Jace, Luke, even Baela and Rhaena, had sworn it to you on their lives. You knew that, of all people, Jace and Luke would never lie to you. So yes, your judgment was clouded by the oaths of the people you loved most.

“Then tell me, tell me what happened that day, tell me you didn’t break Luke’s nose and try to hit Jace with a rock.”

Silence seemed to flood everything like an overwhelming tide.

“They attacked me,” he asserted in a solemn tone, one that left no room for doubt or questioning. “All four of them came to attack me.”

He didn’t deny it, and that was the first thing you noticed.

“And why? Why would four children come to attack you?” You didn’t accuse him of anything, you simply asked, though you already knew the answer; you wanted to hear it from his lips.

“That doesn’t justify what they did to me,” he said, with an expression that broke your heart. Though you already knew, you had hoped your brothers were mistaken.

“No, it doesn’t justify it,” you responded. “But neither does it justify what you said to them, nor how you insulted them, because the moment that word left your lips, you insulted me too. The moment you struck them, you struck me as well. And when they hurt you, they hurt me too.”

You had to swallow hard to keep your eyes from filling with tears.

“I will never forgive what they did to you, and my heart breaks to see that the boy I once loved… suffered and changed so much, to the point where I no longer recognize him.” Your voice trembled as his eyes pierced through you, reaching the deepest part of your soul. “But I can’t forgive you for what you did to them either.”

You sighed and took his hand.

“And they are my brothers… I had to choose.”

A tear slid down your cheek, one that carried so many emotions, so much meaning.

You let go of him, ready to leave him behind and head for your mother’s arms. You just wanted to reach her.

However, you felt a pull, gentler this time, less abrupt. One that forced you to face him again.

Then, something you thought impossible happened: in his eyes, you once again saw the boy you remembered, that boy with a sad but determined gaze, who tried to be strong, though he had a brave and simple heart. That boy who made your heart race, who made you want to see him day and night, the one who, despite the differences in your lives, always seemed to understand you.

And then, in an unexpected and overwhelming moment, his lips sought yours. There was no hesitation, no moment of doubt. It took you by surprise, but instead of pulling away, you found yourself responding with the same intensity. The air between you seemed to evaporate as the heat of his body enveloped yours.

His kiss was everything you had imagined and more, a blend of unleashed passion and tenderness you hadn’t anticipated. Your hands, which at first had frozen in the air, moved of their own accord—one tangled in his hair, the other gripped his back, feeling the taut

Aemond kissed you with a fervor you had never known, as if each kiss was a confession, a longing, a broken promise he tried to mend with every brush of his lips. The need that enveloped you was so overwhelming that you almost lost sense of everything except him. His lips were soft yet firm, his breath warm as it mingled with yours, evoking in you a visceral reaction you had never expected.

Your lips moved in sync with his, responding with a passion that surprised you, a passion that seemed to come from the deepest part of your being. It was a kiss that spoke not just of desire but of all the unexpressed emotions, all the words that had never been spoken.

Then, almost painfully, you became aware of where you were, of the danger of being discovered. With a tremendous effort, you gently pushed him away, breaking the kiss with a gasp, the echo of his touch still vibrating on your lips.

You brought your hand to your lips, still feeling the ghost of his touch, unable to believe what had just happened. He looked at you, breathing heavily, his eye darkened by a mix of emotions that pierced through you like lightning. For a moment, your heart hesitated, tempted to fall once more into the abyss that had opened between you.

But then, you heard voices approaching, reminding you of where you were and the situation you were in. Aemond seemed to realize it too, and his gaze filled with a mix of frustration and something deeper that you didn’t dare to name. In that instant, he had the impulse to demand, to claim you.

Even so, you knew you had to pull away, that you couldn’t allow yourself to fall deeper into temptation.

Without a word, you turned your back on him, ready to leave, though the truth burned in your chest. You swore to yourself that you wouldn’t let this happen again, that you would turn your feelings for him into a cold, forgotten stone.

And it was all for one reason.

In the audience, when asked about the legitimacy of Princess Rhaenyra's children, King Viserys announced his consent for the marriage between Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra and Laenor’s eldest son, heir to the throne after his mother, and Baela Targaryen, Daemon and Laena’s eldest daughter. Likewise, following tradition, Lucerys Velaryon, the second son and Corlys’s heir, would marry you.

Aemond’s reaction was immediate and palpable; the fury burning in his eyes was visible in every fiber of his being. It was a fury born not just of frustration, but of disdain and the contempt he felt.

The sky darkened as if aware of the contempt, fury, and slight that the queen’s third son felt. A feeling that clouded his judgment the next day and led him to commit the gravest of sins, unleashing the consequences that would follow.

Masterlist

Part 7

The wind howled through the ruins of the castle. The gusts were so violent that, from time to time, they cleared a space for the moon to be seen, though the rain was still so fierce that it seemed to bathe everything in a ghostly light. You could barely make out the lone tree, bent by the wind. The lightning struck in the distance, but the thunder was so deafening that it felt as though it were much closer.

Were it not for the biting cold, the gnawing hunger, and the discomfort of being wrapped in soaking wet clothes, crouched in a cupboard, surrounded by the three remaining stone walls of the once grand structure, you might have considered this a perfect revenge for Davos.

However, the stone ceiling was on the brink of collapsing, and the dry floor, with barely enough space to shield yourself within the crumbling castle, made your predicament even worse.

You had been sitting there for what felt like hours, the passage of time agonisingly slow. You would never find your way back to Raventree Hall amidst this darkness and rain. You would have to wait in this forsaken place until dawn, unless someone came to rescue you, though how likely was that? Elena would be worried, but perhaps Davos wouldn’t even notice—or care—that you had been gone so long.

Earlier, as you had watched a thick curtain of rain descend upon you, you had been both intimidated and thrilled. You had never seen anything like it before. You tried to escape the storm, but had failed.

Barely able to find your way to the ruins of the castle amidst the vast emptiness of an unfamiliar land, you dismounted in disappointment, for only a few walls remained standing, and the area was littered with fallen stones from the ruined structure. A large tree rose where what had once been a courtyard, or perhaps a great hall, now lay in ruins. Carefully, you made your way through the slippery, moss-covered stones, seeking shelter.

The remnants of a staircase should have led to an upper floor, but above there was nothing but wind and rain. You had hoped to find a staircase leading to a cellar, but the rain still poured relentlessly, limiting your visibility. The only thing that seemed remotely suitable was that narrow, doorless cupboard, which, though damp and moss-covered, offered a semblance of shelter and allowed you to rest instead of having to remain perched atop your mare.

About an hour later, you heard the sound of a horse approaching before the faint light appeared. You hurriedly rose, stepped to the threshold of your hiding place, and saw a tall figure, hooded, holding a lantern and guiding his horse towards where your mare was tethered. A great wave of relief washed over you; even if it was someone merely searching for their dog, they could return you to the Blackwood castle and save you from dying out here this night.

“Hello!” you called out.

“Here you are hiding…”

That voice. You would recognise it anywhere, the last person you ever wished to be rescued by. And what the Stranger was he doing here, instead of in his bed?

The thought of getting drenched again horrified you, but you supposed that Davos would not wish to remain here any longer than necessary. So, you said:

“I will come out, but only if you assure me that you can find the way back to Raventree Hall in the dark.”

He did not answer, and you promised yourself not to set any further conditions. You were not eager to step back into that torrential rain unless absolutely necessary, but when he approached and handed you the lantern before returning to the horses, you realised they might not be returning to the castle immediately. You placed the lantern in the far corner of your hiding spot, out of the way.

You went back to the threshold, but it was so dark outside that you could see neither Davos nor the horses. Was he looking for an even larger, untouched room? No, for that he would need the lantern. Perhaps he was unsaddling the horses, but he should have checked the room first, for it was not large enough to accommodate them both.

When he reappeared in the doorway, you stepped back to let him pass. Davos had to crouch to enter the cupboard; the ceiling was so low that his head almost brushed it, and inside, there would be no way for him to straighten up.

He tossed two leather sacks at you, set down a second, unlit lantern by the entrance, and shrugged off his coat, leaving it outside as it was drenched. You noticed how the coat had kept the rain from soaking his clothes, and his hair, tied back in a queue, was mostly dry.

“Are you not going to take us home tonight? You know the way, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s dangerous. The ground is sodden, the river has overflowed, and there are deep puddles outside. I’m not willing to take that risk.”

For a moment, you thought he was concerned for you, until he added:

“I’m not willing to put my horse in danger. It could slip and break a leg. We’re lucky we’ve made it this far without that happening.”

Of course, he wasn’t thinking of you at all. You gritted your teeth and waited for him to stay at the far end of the small space, which was too cramped for either of you to move freely.

“Spread the blankets before you take the food out of the sack.”

Food! You hurried to spread the blankets on the stone floor, sitting at the back of the cupboard before reaching for the other sack. Inside, you found a small meat pie and began to eat. He could have sat across from you, but instead, he lay down on one of the blankets, curling up beside you, propped up on an elbow, his head almost touching the wall. His legs were already taking up far too much room!

Before you could protest, you turned to him quickly.

“If you lie down here, there won’t be enough space for both of us.”

“There’s plenty of space. You can lie down too, just snuggle up beside me. I even brought you a pillow.”

You assumed he was referring to his arm, though you were still leaning on it and made no move to shift. It was an uncomfortable situation, trapped in a small space with your enemy. He certainly wouldn’t be pleased about it. And his leg...

You glanced with concern at his left thigh.

“Does your leg hurt? The stitches haven’t come undone, have they?”

“Would you like me to take off my trousers so you can have a look?” You must have had a very surprised expression, for he added: “The wound is well bandaged. And thanks to your care, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore.”

Was he thanking you? You remained incredulous until he added:

“You can consider this rescue as payment for tending to me. Now you can return home.”

He meant your home, not his, but you no longer felt quite so hungry, so you tried to let the comment pass without letting it sour your mood.

“How did you manage to find me?”

“The dogs led the way.”

“And where are they?”

“Probably still barking at the fox den a little further south. I rode here one summer, and when a sudden storm broke, I took shelter in these ruins. It’s the only refuge in this area, so I thought you might have found the last intact room of the castle.”

You wouldn’t call it intact, but you realised that Davos’s broad frame shielded you from many of the gusts of wind. Was that why he had lain down on the floor? If so, that was rather gallant of him.

“I used one of your garments to track you,” he said, pulling a cloak from the same basket, which you were grateful to see was still in perfect condition to cover yourself with. “I also found this.”

You felt the warmth drain from your face as he placed a small bottle in front of you. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something. You wanted to snatch it from his hands, but you feared he would become suspicious if you did, and that was the last thing you needed right now.

“It’s a medicine my mother gave me,” you replied quickly. “I have trouble sleeping.”

Only then could you take the bottle from his hands.

“Are you sure your mother isn’t trying to kill you?”

“Pardon?” You looked at him as though three heads had suddenly sprouted from his shoulders, and he simply laughed, shrugging.

“Your mother giving you a sleeping potion when you are in the house of her worst enemy is like handing you over on a silver platter.”

He had a point, and upon reflection, you realised you had given him a rather foolish excuse.

“My mother isn’t like my father; she really believes the best in people.” That wasn’t a lie. Your mother was quite the optimist, a true believer in kindness and empathy. “Her last words before she let me go were for me to make you love me so that I could enjoy a good life by your side.”

“So, that’s your mission? To make me love you?”

“I considered it at first, but when I saw you, I realised it was more likely that a dog would love me than you would.” He scoffed beside you but didn’t reply. “Anyway, I’m glad I managed to find this place.”

It was a clear attempt to change the subject, but he didn’t press, though he seemed slightly curious as to why you avoided his gaze.

“In this rain? You must have great eyesight.”

You shrugged.

“With some help.”

“From whom?”

“From witch spirits.” You flashed him a mischievous grin. He snorted, so you added, “When it started raining, I had just passed by here, so it wasn’t hard to turn back.”

“Your maid was frantic when you hadn’t returned from your ride after a few hours. Most of my men are out searching for you. I thought you had finally regained your sense and left Raventree Hall for good.”

In that case, why had he bothered to search for you himself? You thought about asking him, but you imagined it would only spark an argument, and that was the last thing you wanted in such a confined space... You certainly couldn’t leave or slam doors in here!

“At least you’re not in Wendish Town.”

Thank goodness, a neutral topic!

“Are we still in your territory?”

“No. As far as I know, whoever owns this stretch northwest of Riverrun has never occupied or cultivated it.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Actually, no. It’s been several years since I’ve passed through here. It’s likely still under the command of Grover Tully.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing. Or did you plan to court his granddaughter to unite the two lands?”

“She’s a pretty girl.”

“Then why haven’t you courted her?” You saw him make a face.

“Just because she’s pretty doesn’t mean her ideas align with mine.”

“So, she’s stupid?”

“I don’t care about that, I just don’t see her as my wife.”

What a sad thing to say!

“Is that really all you aspire to?” you asked, surprised.

“What else is there?”

“Happiness, love, children…”

“That sounds like something you could aspire to as well.”

“And you can’t?”

“Love is fleeting, just like happiness. Though I would have liked to have children. I just don’t feel the need to rush it.”

“You’re a cynic... or at least not very optimistic, are you? Happiness and love are possible. How long they last depends entirely on you. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you?”

“Both require work,” Davos replied with a grunt.

“More than work, a bit of effort. Or maybe nothing but acceptance. Sometimes, you just have to believe you can reach something in order to reach it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Are you a philosopher too? You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You didn’t let his scornful tone unsettle you.

“And as for not caring whether your wife is foolish or not, I very much doubt you’d want your children to inherit that trait. So that statement isn’t true. You would care.”

“I don’t have the chance to find out, do I?”

You tensed. The topic was once again about the two of you, and this was hardly the place to resume such a conversation, especially since you couldn’t move without touching him. Your knees brushed against his body, and his legs were in contact with your right side and hip. You wouldn’t even be able to get out of there without crawling over him. Wisely, you didn’t take the bait. You opened the sack with the blankets, took out two more, and handed one to him. He folded it to use as a pillow and laid his head down. He still had to keep his knees bent; otherwise, the rain would soak his feet.

“Try to sleep,” he said. “Dawn will come in a few hours. And if the spirits wake you up, just ignore them.”

“What spirits?” you exclaimed, your eyes wide with surprise.

“They say spirits roam some of the ruins of these old castles and watchtowers. I’ve never believed it, but you never know…”

“Do these ruins have a reputation for harbouring spirits?”

“I don’t know. But in any case, the spirits are harmless, so no screaming. Screaming gives me a bad wake-up.”

You rolled your eyes; if he hadn’t added that last bit, you might have believed he was being serious. You couldn’t quite figure out what he was up to that night—teasing, telling obvious lies… almost as if he had started to feel comfortable beside you, even while continuing to push you away.

But you didn’t want to lie next to him, even though he had closed his eyes to signal the end of the conversation. And you didn’t think you could sleep sitting up, no matter how much you wanted to. You weren’t cold anymore; in fact, the thought of sleeping next to him started to make you feel warm. But you covered yourself with the other blanket and lay on your side, with your back to him.

You also had to bend your knees because his legs kept you from doing anything else, but there wasn’t enough space on your side to bend them without pressing your backside against his. You were mortified; you hoped he was asleep and wouldn’t notice that you were touching him and that you couldn’t stop shifting to get comfortable, without success.

“If you don’t stay still in the next second, we won’t sleep tonight,” he said. You weren’t quite sure what he meant by that, but you stopped moving immediately. “And I’ll be the one giving you that medicine of your mother’s so you can sleep.”

The last thing you thought before drifting off was how nice it felt to feel his warmth while the wind howled and the rain kept falling outside.

Funny, because he had just threatened to kill you... unconsciously.

When you awoke, you discovered that your limbs and Davos’s were completely entwined. How on earth had you slept like that? You supposed you must have turned towards him in your sleep, for your head was nestled between his arm and his chest; one of his legs was stretched out, his foot peeking out from the shelter, though the rain had ceased. His other leg was bent between yours. You were certain that your leg—the one beneath Davos’s—was completely numb, but you dared not move to confirm it, for you would have been mortified if he woke and found you in such a position: curled against him as though you had sought to sleep in his embrace.

“The noise didn’t wake you.” You closed your eyes, as if that could stop the blush from spreading across your cheeks.

“What noise?” you asked, thinking of the spirits he had mentioned.

“Seems our horses had a fine night.” You weren’t sure if he meant what your mind was imagining.

“You mean they…” He nodded, and your mouth fell open in surprise. When he propped himself up on his elbow, your head slid down to rest on his forearm, allowing Davos to gaze down at you.

“You’re not displeased?”

“On the contrary. I’m glad she found some warmth this night.”

“And you didn’t? For, sprawled over me as you were, one might think you were rather comfortable.”

“It’s not my fault what my body does in its sleep. It’s hardly fair to hold that against me.”

“Isn’t it?” Davos said, tracing a finger along your cheek. “Husbands and wives always find a way to be comfortable with one another.”

“We’re not yet…” married, you meant to say, but he covered your lips with his. You didn’t try to pull away, not when you couldn’t find a reason compelling enough to do so. Soon, you stopped thinking altogether. The taste of him was intoxicating; you parted your lips and let his tongue slip into your mouth, your hand sliding around the back of his neck to caress him. Davos’s hand trailed down your neck to one of your breasts, brushing lightly over the nipple, which hardened at once. A delicious shiver ran through you, and only then did he cup your breast in his hand, squeezing gently.

You might have moaned; the touch of his hand was so pleasurable… You might have begged him not to stop, but instead, his kisses grew deeper, more fervent, and his knee slid between your legs, pressing against your core. This time, you did moan, but Davos’s lips swallowed the sound. Yet the pleasurable sensation he had stirred did not fade, and you felt an intense urge to rub yourself against him. Aroused and overwhelmed as he slid his tongue in and out of your mouth and caressed your breasts, you were overcome by an incomprehensible longing. But the cramped space you were in hindered your movements; it kept you from what you desired. You were trapped beneath Davos’s body, though in truth, he could…

Suddenly, the kisses ceased.

“No,” he said. “As much as you may desire it, I won’t do it, for if I did, you’d never leave Raventree Hall.”

It took you a moment to realise that he was boasting of his sexual prowess. He even smiled as he said it! You raised an eyebrow.

“Do you think you’re that good?”

“I’ve been told as much, at least in bed. But in this decidedly primitive place? Perhaps...” he indicated, shrugging nonchalantly.

You felt a strong urge to either laugh or strike him with something. Was he being serious, or was he once again teasing you? His smile suggested the second, and you began to think that perhaps he had started to feel more at ease beside you. Perhaps you had even begun to grow on him. It was a fleeting thought, yet you immediately doubted it, considering everything that had been said and done. Then, you let out a strangled gasp—had he just accused you of desiring him?

“What makes you think I...?”

He placed a finger on your lips to silence you.

“Protesting is useless. I can see it in your eyes, in the gentleness of your touch, but you’re mistaken if you think that will somehow make me love you,” he clarified, sitting up, seemingly preparing to leave.

Furious that such astonishing kisses could end so abruptly, you retorted:

“Well, don’t you dare blame me for what just happened.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he said, “I blame your mare. I haven’t heard two horses mating in a long time. Quite primitive, isn’t it?”

As he said this, he fixed his gaze upon you in a way that mesmerised you. In that moment, the fierce gleam that sometimes flickered in his eyes was not dangerous; it was passionate, and for an instant, you believed that he might desire you. But then, you dismissed that thought entirely, given everything that had been said and done.

He smiled again, but this time, it seemed mocking, as he added:

“It’s clear I wouldn’t mind having you in my bed, but mark my words: I’ll never trust you outside of it. You’ll never find happiness in this place, Lady Bracken. Children, perhaps more than you’d wish for, but nothing else. You’re still free to run.”

Ah, of course. At least, that’s what you thought. Perhaps you should tell him that your brother had threatened to lock you away. Or maybe you should poison Davos, just as your brother had suggested. In that very moment, you were more than willing to do so.

"You're beginning to sound like a parrot repeating the same thing". you replied, holding the cape over your shoulders.

When he left to saddle the horses, you stood up, gathered the blankets into the empty sack, and took the other one. However, you paused and emptied the food sack. You weren’t hungry. You hoped that Davos was.

You had already noticed that the sun was shining; stepping outside to bask in its warmth was simply wonderful. Everything changed when the sun shone; during the night, the landscape had looked so intimidating... but now it appeared lush and beautiful, although large puddles dotted the courtyard.

"I'm glad I found you."

Had you really just heard those words? Since Davos had his back to you while adjusting the girths on the horses, you couldn’t be sure. They suggested something very different from what he had said back in the hideout.

"Why?" you asked, breathlessly.

"Because if you had died in the heath, your family would have gotten exactly what they wanted: a reason to strip me of all my lands, throw me in prison, or hang me."

Quite an unromantic subject. By now, you should know better than to read meanings into his words that couldn’t possibly be true.

But, regarding what he really meant, you replied, "I doubt that. For now, you're a staunch supporter of the princess. The king and she wouldn't allow anyone to take your lands, much less your sister. She seems like she could be quite intimidating when she wants to."

Davos let out a laugh.

"Exactly. That’s precisely why we all know that the king and queen’s hand does not favour our allegiance to the princess. Things could change at any moment, my dear."

"In any case, I appreciate it. But really, why didn’t you abandon the search last night? You must have ridden for hours in the rain."

"Indeed... and I was tempted to do so."

That wasn’t exactly an answer, but he offered his hand to help you mount the mare. He brought you closer, but you ignored the gesture, as you were perfectly capable of mounting on your own. It might not have been the most graceful, but then again, nothing about the situation was graceful.

You placed a foot in the stirrup and asked again, "So why didn’t you leave me behind?" you exclaimed when he placed his hands on your backside and helped push you up.

"For self-preservation, as I’ve just explained," he replied, busy securing the supplies to the saddle.

Once both of you were mounted and moving away from the ruins, you looked back, wondering who might have lived there once.

"Really, you don’t know whose lands these are?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"What a shame," you remarked, "it has a lovely view."

“Thank the gods, Lord Blackwood found you,” Elena exclaimed, rushing towards you, her face marked by a mixture of relief and concern. You, who had been standing motionless at the stable entrance, looked at her in silence, the night’s dampness soaking through your clothes. “I was about to send a letter to your family.”

“Do you know what would have happened if you had done that?” you asked, surprised and slightly alarmed. Your eyes reflected genuine concern. “My brothers would have been quick to demand Lord Davos’s death, and not for some love that doesn’t exist.”

“He would deserve it,” she replied, slightly blushing, though her tone remained firm.

You shook your head, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“I’m fine, really,” you said, trying to downplay it. “It wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

Elena didn’t seem convinced but let out a small puff of air.

“Did you manage to change his mind?” she asked, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, feeling the weight of your words.

“No…” you admitted with a hint of exhaustion. “And it’s getting harder. He still doesn’t trust my motives. It’s as if he overheard the last conversation I had with my brother.” You approached her and, without thinking, pulled the small vial from between your clothes. “He found this.”

Elena furrowed her brow when she saw what you were holding, but before she could make a comment, something in your face changed. You turned your gaze towards the stable’s threshold, and there, in the shadows of the entrance, you saw Davos approaching slowly. A knot formed in your stomach, and you nearly let out a frustrated groan, but then you realised that perhaps he hadn’t heard the whole conversation.

“We need to get rid of this as soon as possible,” you murmured, clenching your jaw. You couldn’t let that evidence fall into the wrong hands—this wasn’t a solution, at least not a peaceful one.

You grabbed Elena by the arm, urgency in your movements, and began walking quickly towards your chambers. However, before you could reach the safety of your room, a figure appeared in front of you: Alysanne.

She stopped dead in the hallway, blocking your way. To both of your surprises, she wrapped you in a sudden, warm embrace, leaving you speechless and paralysed by her closeness.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Alysanne said, her arms still around you. Then, she pulled away slightly, but not enough to lose contact. With one hand, she touched your face, inspecting you closely as if searching for any hidden injuries.

“Thank you,” you responded softly, almost inaudibly. It wasn’t easy to admit how vulnerable you became in the face of such gestures. “It wasn’t my intention to cause this mishap. I got lost in the woods, and the rain caught me.”

Alysanne nodded slowly, as if those explanations weren’t necessary, as if she already understood what you hadn’t said.

“I know,” she replied, her gaze fixed on you, warm yet sharp. “Your time here has made me understand that it takes much more to make you run.”

Her words hit you like a blow, leaving you speechless. It was something you never would have expected to hear from her, not in a thousand years.

“You hug her, but not me... there’s the affection you have for me.” You felt the presence of Davos behind.

“You’re hard to kill. I’m not worried about you,” she said, but immediately moved closer to envelop him in a strong embrace. “How’s your wound?”

Davos simply shrugged, saying nothing more, and that worried you.

“Let me see,” was more of an order than a question.

“Why are both of you so obsessed with my wound? I’m not going to die,” he responded, as he sat down in a chair, pulling up his trousers as much as he could.

“For the same reason you rescued me. It doesn’t do us any good for either of us to be dead,” you replied.

He had always removed his own bandage until now. The stubbornness added to the previous two moods, and besides, he was almost sitting on top of the bandage. How was I supposed to remove it?

You knew the answer to that question when he leaned on his right foot, not putting weight on the injured leg. You crouched down and removed the bandage before he could change his mind and make the task harder. The bandage only stuck slightly to the wound before the last piece of fabric came off.

After inspecting the wound and the stitches, you were satisfied with the results.

“There’s no redness or swelling; it seems the adventure last night didn’t harm you.”

“That’s debatable. My shoulder hurts a lot from sleeping on the stone floor.”

You ignored that.

“Unless you put your clothes back on, there’s no need to re-bandage it. The air will help the scab harden.”

“And are you going to dress me?”

You stood up and looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

“So early, and already in a bad mood?” you replied.

“A reaction only you provoke, darling,” he shot back.

“Well, what a compliment,” you quipped.

You only stopped when you heard a laugh from behind, catching sight of Alysanne, hands on her hips, a wide smile on her face.

“Anyone who saw you two would think you're a fully married couple.”

The two of you could only roll your eyes and pretend you hadn’t heard any of it.

Masterlist

Davos stood by the window of his room, watching the carriage as it slowly made its way along the winding path. His forehead and hair were beaded with sweat; the pain coursing through his body numbed even the wound he still bore. The night before, he had been informed that one of the Brackens had stopped at a nearby inn, just a few hours away.

The message, distorted after passing through several hands before reaching him, did not specify which of the Brackens was on the way. Davos hoped it was one of the brothers, ready to settle the matter, but he doubted it. King Viserys's envoy had assured him that the Brackens would follow the king's "suggestion." Suggestion!

The anger still burned within him over how that "suggestion" had been conveyed and the blatant threats that accompanied it. Yet, the king’s envoy seemed indifferent, as if he cared little how his words were received or the chaos they might unleash; he was simply doing his duty.

Beside him, Alysanne was not watching the carriage but observing Davos with a furrowed brow. She was the only one in the family who had not received the news with pessimism; to her, it was a well-deserved punishment for what they had brought upon innocent people. In short, a fate worse than death: having a Bracken for a wife.

“You need to get back to bed,” Alysanne said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Stop giving me orders just because you think I’m weak. Did you send that letter to our father? I’d prefer he learns of the king’s abominable demand from me, not through rumors, in case this goes public.”

“Of course, it was the first thing I did when our guest left,” Alysanne replied with the confidence of someone who always fulfills their duties.

Davos was sure that, along with the letter, his sister had sent a detailed account of what had happened, not omitting a single detail that could further tarnish his image before their father.

Benjicot, despite his young age, had the spirit of a warrior and did not fear the Brackens; in fact, he had played a key role in the three duels that took place. But he was too young to marry, and Alysanne... Davos would rather sacrifice himself than allow his sister to suffer such a vile fate.

At least, if the Bracken girl was under their roof, they could keep an eye on her and maintain some advantage. But if Alysanne were the one betrothed, they couldn’t protect her in that madhouse.

For all these reasons, and because they would lose half of their fortune if they disobeyed, Davos had not offered any of his siblings to comply with the king’s order.

Alysanne shook her head in exasperation.

“I offer good advice, not orders. It wouldn’t hurt you to listen to me once in a while. But don’t count on me to drag you back to bed if you collapse. I’ll get the servants to do it.”

“I’m not going to die, and I’m not so weak that I can’t throw you out of my room,” Davos retorted with a hint of irritation.

“Tell that to the Bracken girl. I’m sure she’s spent half the week praying for your death,” Alysanne replied, pointing at the tiny carriage in the distance. “And yes, you are weak. You’re sweating like a horse and can barely put on your trousers…”

Davos turned his back and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Alysanne used to keep him on his toes, both verbally and physically, and he used to be grateful for it, but not now, not since he had returned home with that cursed wound. The previous one had been a mere scratch; this one, however, worsened every day.

He didn’t need a grand maester to tell him; he knew the wound wasn’t healing as it should. He had regained some strength after losing a lot of blood, only to be struck down by fever again.

Returning home had been foolish; he should have stayed near where he was injured to receive treatment, but he didn’t want word to spread that Raylon had almost ended his life. He would rather die than give a Bracken that satisfaction. And it could still happen; he felt half-dead, though more from the damn fever that wouldn’t break.

The anger didn’t help either: having to face the king’s threat and the enemy at his door while in this condition only fueled his rage.

“Put her in one of the towers when she arrives,” he told his sister in a tense voice. “Until I decide what to do with her.”

Alysanne crossed her arms, annoyed by his tone, as if she were a mere servant rather than the sister who had raised him like a son.

“The order you received was to marry her,” Alysanne pointed out dryly.

“I won’t do it,” Davos replied firmly.

“So you’ll reject her?” she asked, raising a dark eyebrow. “I warn you, you’ll be sacrificing your share of the fortune, and you’d better not touch mine.”

Davos shook his head.

“I won’t sacrifice anything, because it won’t be necessary. She’ll hurry back home, and the Brackens will face the consequences when she does.”

“And how do you plan to make her leave?”

“There are ways to scare off women like her,” Davos responded, giving her a grim look.

Alysanne raised an eyebrow again, skeptical.

“Very well, but do I need to remind you we only have one remotely habitable tower?”

“Well, she won’t have trouble finding it, will she?” Davos replied, his tone as dry as Alysanne’s.

Alysanne was about to leave the room but stopped and, in a serious tone, warned him:

“You’re not at war with that girl; you’re at war with her brothers. Mistreating her will do no good.”

“She’s a Bracken. They’re all the same, even if I’ve never seen her. And she serves an important purpose: she’ll make Raylon and Olyver Bracken lose their lands and fortune.”

A spark lit up Alysanne’s eyes.

“I’m glad to see you’re not as crazy as you seem. Sorry, I mean that you’re acting with some logic.”

“This isn’t a good time to test my patience, Aly,” Davos warned her. “I need my riding clothes. I won’t be home when the enemy knocks on the door.”

“The maester said you should stay in bed,” Alysanne said, sighing in frustration.

“I’ll rest once I’ve calmed my anger with a ride.”

“You’ll need the maester if you insist on riding! For the old gods’ sake, Davos, be reasonable. Your stitches will tear, and your horse won’t like the smell of blood.”

“There are many things my horse doesn’t like, including you. How he’ll react to the blood remains to be seen; and now, enough with the bad omens. Don’t try to stop me, just this once.”

“That’s what you told me a week ago, and now the old gods are sending you a Bracken as a wife,” Alysanne retorted, her frustration spilling over before Davos could protest.

“I’ll fetch the maester and then deal with your ‘bride.’”

Davos slowly made his way to his dressing room.

“She won’t be my bride,” he muttered disdainfully.

Alysanne headed for the door and, without turning back, promised:

“I’ll have her placed in the least comfortable room we have.”

“In the tower,” Davos insisted.

“Fine. But it doesn’t have a bed.”

“Then let her sleep on the damned floor!” Davos exclaimed.

With that order, the door slammed shut.

𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎

The imposing three-story manor had a façade clad in dark grey stone, almost black, though it might have been the moss or ivy covering it that contributed to its somber appearance. From a distance, it was difficult to make out the details. Two towers rose majestically at the corners of the large rectangular building, giving it the air of an ancient, fortified castle. In front of each tower stood a massive tree, both in full bloom, whose branches obscured the rest of the estate, plunging it into an even deeper mystery.

“It looks like a sad, gloomy, and intimidating place,” you thought with a shiver.

The path to the house was lined with trees, though they were arranged irregularly, as if planted without a precise design. Ivy climbed the dark grey exterior walls, but it had been meticulously trimmed in front of the front windows, leaving the interior visible without obstructions. Above the main entrance, you could see a large, circular stained-glass window, though from the outside you couldn’t discern if the glass formed any image. On either side of the double doors were well-trimmed bushes, giving an impression of order that contrasted with the melancholy of the place. Eavesdropping under the windows wouldn’t be easy; they were too high.

One of your servants helped you down from the carriage. You smoothed your bronze-colored pelisse, which reached your knees, and glanced down to make sure the hem of your dress was in place, barely covering your shoes. You decided against wearing the hat in your hand, and at that moment, the sun peeked timidly through the clouds. «Is that a good omen?» you wondered. But perhaps not; it simply meant that, at least for now, it wasn’t raining.

“They should have seen or heard us arrive and would be out here to receive us. Their staff leaves much to be desired if we have to knock on the door,” you murmured, looking around with a mix of irritation and unease.

«Could we have the wrong house?» you thought with a knot in your stomach.

«Hopefully...»

The thought was almost a prayer. It was also possible that this was a subtle way of letting you know you weren’t welcome, but you chose not to say it aloud. You’d had a knot in your stomach for days, but at that moment, the sensation intensified. You feared you might vomit right there; the servant who had to clean it up would despise you, and that wouldn’t be a good way to start, in case you were allowed into the house. The servants waited for the order to unload your trunks, but you were paralyzed, as if anxiety had completely trapped you.

Your destination was in sight, so close you could almost touch it. Within an hour, you would meet your future husband, if he was even there. The emissary had assumed he was, but what if Davos Blackwood wasn’t home? What if he hadn’t even been informed of the marriage? That could mean a postponement! And that, far from worrying you, seemed perfect. Perhaps you would meet some Blackwood’s... or perhaps not. Maybe Lord Blackwood had been warned of what would be demanded of his son and had decided to remain inaccessible indefinitely, thus avoiding the news. Or maybe you’d love living there, as long as Davos didn’t show up, leaving the house to you alone. Or, in the most delirious of dreams, all the Blackwood’s would already be dead, and you could live happily in their home without anyone bothering you.

Ten minutes passed, maybe more. It seemed no one was home that day. Or maybe the Blackwood’s didn’t have servants... Excuses, more excuses. You knew well they were an eminent and wealthy family. This was undoubtedly a rejection. If they didn’t open the door in the next few minutes, you’d be back at that inn, celebrating your victory and freedom. You’d tell everyone you had survived the worst of fates, and that the gods had always been on your side. But if things didn’t go well... well, then the vision of the rock, the cliff, and the sea returned to you. Life wasn’t that good if you thought about it carefully.

You straightened your shoulders and gestured to your maid to knock on the door. She advanced uncertainly and raised her fist, almost losing her balance when one of the doors suddenly opened, leaving her about to punch the air. You shot a furious glance at the man standing in the doorway and remained silent. One look was enough to know that, for your good (or bad) luck, the Blackwood’s had indeed sent someone to receive you.

“My lady awaits you,” the servant said in a dry, direct tone. There was no apology, no greeting, no question. His attitude confirmed his position; you only knew he was a servant by the clothes he wore.

You glanced sideways at your maid before following the man, who seemed to share the same disdain for you as the rest of these lands and their inhabitants.

“Excuse me, why did you take so long to receive us?” you asked as you took hold of your dress’s hem, walking with your head held high to avoid showing weakness. “What was the dilemma that made you ignore us?”

“My lady wanted to ensure the rooms were clear before inviting you in,” he replied without turning around.

«Your lady?» If you remembered correctly, you had been told that Samwell Blackwood was a widower.

“Cleared of what?” you asked, confused.

“Of furious encounters.” The man spoke so low you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.

You didn’t understand anything and weren’t sure you wanted to.

When you passed between two columns flanking the vestibule, you entered a two-story hallway with a grey marble floor. Above the dark wood paneling covering the white walls hung tapestries; you observed that they were portraits of men and women, some of whom wore clothing from eras before the Conquest. You assumed they were the ancestors of the Blackwood’s.

“Will you take me to your lord?” you asked, stopping to observe each face and story depicted in the wall decorations.

“Lord Samwell is not here; I will take you to my lady, his daughter, Lady Alysanne,” he replied indifferently.

Ah, so it was the eldest Blackwood daughter who had taken charge of the house. This didn’t lessen your apprehension; on the contrary, it heightened your fear of what might happen.

The servant opened large doors and ushered you in as if you were a prisoner about to receive your sentence. The first thing your eyes caught was the silhouette of a woman with beautiful black curls, standing by a window where sunlight streamed in.

The Blackwood’s, like the Bracken’s, shared similar characteristics among them, or so you’d been told. The only thing that indicated you were in front of Lady Alysanne Blackwood was her fine clothes and the direct, unwavering gaze that scrutinized you mercilessly.

In that context, you felt like a true criminal.

You made a small curtsy, barely bowing.

“Welcome,” she said in a tone so cold and indifferent it made you feel like an insignificant insect.

“Thank you,” you replied, your voice quieter than you expected.

The silence that followed was terrible and suffocating, a space where you both observed each other, trying to decipher the other.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Alysanne finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

You glanced at your maid, who looked just as uncomfortable as you did.

“Will I be able to see Lord Davos? Could you take me to him?” you asked, hoping to meet your future husband and resolve the situation as soon as possible.

“I cannot do that. When he’s ready to see you, he’ll call for you.”

“Today?” you insisted, clinging to a thread of hope.

“Perhaps not.”

You grimaced, but in reality, the fact that this would only delay the inevitable brought you some relief.

You passed several double doors that likely led to the drawing rooms and dining hall, and finally reached the grand main staircase. Some splashes of color on the white walls made you glance back toward the vestibule. The round stained-glass window above the door cast blue, red, and yellow beams of light on the walls. The window’s glass formed an image: a sable escutcheon with a dead weirwood tree.

The emblem was part of the family crest; once at the top of the staircase, Alysanne led you to the right, down a wide carpeted hallway that had doors only on one side. You understood that these rooms faced the back of the castle. Soon you turned a corner and walked down another corridor that led back to the front of the house. Some doors on either side of the hallway had been left open to let in light. It was evident that the house had numerous rooms and was more extensive than it seemed from the outside. At the end of the hallway, Alysanne stopped in front of a spiral staircase.

“Where does this lead?” you asked.

“To a barely habitable tower with no bed.”

You tensed and waited, but she didn’t move and simply stared at the dark spiral staircase for a few moments. Then, without a word, she turned and led you back down the hallway and into the other. As she passed the door at the far end, she glanced back at you and your maid and put a finger to her lips, indicating that you should remain silent; then she approached the next door, just to the right of the staircase. Alysanne entered the room and opened two windows, allowing a light, fresh breeze to enter. You followed her, feeling a sudden curiosity about the view before you. From your position, the tall hedges you had seen from afar surrounded a vast garden, whose green, well-kept lawn gleamed under the sunlight.

Winding paths crisscrossed the garden, bordered by flower beds overflowing with roses and other vibrant blossoms, an explosion of life and color that stood in stark contrast to the austerity of the house.

“You're less troublesome than I expected,” Alysanne remarked suddenly, pulling you from your reverie. “And you're pretty. If you're clever, you might just survive here.”

The tone of her words unsettled you; you couldn't tell whether they were meant as a compliment or a warning. Should you feel flattered or insulted? Alysanne's words hung in the air as you turned to look at her, searching for some clue in her expression. But her eyes remained fixed on you, scrutinizing, as if trying to decipher your deepest thoughts.

You felt her gaze like a weight, as though she were trying to unearth every one of your secrets, those you wouldn't even dare to confess.

“I’ll take the brunt of Lord Davos’ anger for not placing you where he ordered, but I’d rather not wake him just yet, so try to keep quiet,” she added coolly.

Reality struck in an instant: you weren’t placed in this part of the castle out of courtesy or jest. Alysanne had made this decision deliberately, without explanation. A shiver of dread ran through you as you realized you were much closer to Davos than you had anticipated.

“Please, I’d prefer a room farther from his, even one in that tower,” you said, trying to stay calm despite the rising panic inside you.

Alysanne smiled, and though it appeared kind, there was something in her expression that told you Lord Davos' anger didn’t concern her as much as she had implied moments earlier.

“Nonsense. Most of the rooms up here aren’t regularly cleaned unless they’re occupied by guests. This is the only vacant room that’s clean and doesn’t have a permanent ‘Do Not Use’ sign hanging on the door.”

Her response left you stunned. You had been so focused on your own anxiety that you hadn’t even noticed whether there were signs on the doors in the hallway.

“Why is Lord Davos sleeping at this time of day?” you asked, trying to mask your nerves with curiosity.

“I’d be surprised if he were,” Alysanne replied, already heading for the door. Without pausing, she added, “I’ll have your trunks brought up.”

The door closed with a swift bang, leaving you alone in the room. You had barely had time to thank her, and now you found yourself lost in unsettling thoughts. Was Davos as ill-tempered as your brothers? Should you move cautiously, making sure not to disturb his rest? A cold sweat trickled down your back as your gaze settled on a second door, barely visible in the dim light of the room.

That door connected directly to Lord Davos' room, a possibility that morphed into a series of alarming thoughts in your mind. What if the man decided to enter while you were sleeping, without warning? The idea that he might pounce on you in the middle of the night took root in your mind, filling you with growing unease.

You were trapped in a strange place, in a house you barely knew, with a man on the other side of the door who, for all you knew, could be a true monster.

Maybe it would be better to tie yourself to that rock and throw yourself into the sea…

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Part 3

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