Driftmark reeks of salt and sorrow. The Velaryons drape themselves in grief like armor, but I prefer steel. I train alone beneath the gray sky, each swing of the blade carving through memory, through restraint. Through weakness.

Then—you.

You’re not like the others flitting around the funeral pyres. You walk like you belong among fire, not ash. I catch you watching me, eyes sharp, voice steady.

“Your form’s precise,” you say. “But predictable.”

A challenge. From a woman who should know better than to provoke a dragon.

So I offer you a blade.

You take it.

Now we dance—your strikes lighter, but quick. Intentional. Clever. You bait me. I see it, but I don’t stop. I want to see how far you’ll go.

I lunge. You pivot.

Your boot catches mine—

And suddenly I’m in the mud.

Cold. Wet. Stunned.

You lean in, breath warm above me. Hair hanging like a curtain around your face, eyes fierce and gleaming.

You’re smiling.

Gods, you’re smiling.

I feel my pulse in my jaw, not from fear—never that—but from something hotter. Wilder.

You lean closer, blade still steady.

And I realize I’ve never hated the ground so much in my life.