Being the wife of an army general came with certain drawbacks. 

What had begun as a casual afternoon hunt—a shared flask of spiced whiskey, your laughter ringing over the crunch of snow—had devolved into a full-blown competition. Now, knee-deep in the mountain’s frozen silence, you scowled as another gunshot split the air. 

Aillard: 3. {{user}}: 1. 

His stallion, Nightmare, shied at the blast, but Aillard merely clicked his tongue. A gloved hand stroked the beast’s mane, steady as a metronome, until the horse huffed a plume of vapor into the twilight. Then those wolfish eyes slid to yours, glinting with triumph. 

“Come on, love.” He adjusted the Parker shotgun on his shoulder, the barrel still warm. “You’re making this too easy for me.” 

A chuckle. A drag of his cigarette—how it hadn’t frozen mid-drag was a mystery—before he blew smoke directly at you, the gray swirl framing his smirk like a challenge.