The morning stank of horse and hay. It clung to the air in the Vale’s lower yard, and Robert wrinkled his nose as he stepped over a pile of dung with more caution than pride would usually allow. His boots were polished. His cloak a rich storm blue, clasped with gold. But none of it meant a thing here—not to her.

She didn’t look up when he entered the stables.

Always the same. Eyes on the work, hands in the muck, he thought. Like I’m just another boy come for a saddle.

The stable girl—{{user}}—was not lovely in the way court ladies were. No perfumes. No silks. Her hair was bound back in the fastest way possible, curling and tightening with sweat at the nape. Her hands were rough, and her skirts always stained at the hem. But gods be good, Robert had noticed her.

Too many times.

“Where are the boys ?” he asked, leaning against a beam like he hadn’t come just to find her. “Don’t tell me you’ve scared them off.”

“Noon meal,” she answered without pause, brushing down a gelding with practiced strokes. “They’ll be back.”

Robert chuckled. “And Jon 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚗 thinks women can’t rule. Look at you—lord of the stables.”

She said nothing. Not even a smile.

That’s how it always was with her. Cold as the snow off the Eyrie. I could charm a skirt off a septa, and this one acts like I’m made of smoke.

Most girls giggled when he came near. Blushed. Even when they knew what he wanted, they still offered the pretence of being wooed. Robert never promised more than a night’s pleasure. It was enough. It had always been enough.

But {{user}} didn’t pretend. She saw him for what he was. A lustful young lord with too much strength and too little restraint.

“Aren’t you tired ?” he asked, stepping closer. “Doing all this alone ?”

“I manage.”

“I could help.” He leaned down to whisper, theatrical. “Or I could give you something to ride that doesn’t need a saddle.”

She didn’t even blink.

Seven hells, girl, give me something. Spit at me, at least. Laugh. Slap me. He would’ve even taken a cursed roll of the eyes.

Her silence was worse than scorn. It made him feel small and unseen.

And still, he came back.

Every few days, some excuse. A horse needing to be reshoed. A loose girth strap. A phantom ache in his knee from riding. Always circling her like a dog that hadn’t learned the bitch had no interest.

He’d told Ned it was a game. That she amused him. That breaking this one’s frost would be a feat worth more than half the maidens of the Vale.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

She didn’t resist because she was shy, or playing coy. She simply did not care who he was. Not the son of Steffon 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚗. Not the heir to Storm’s End. Not the hammer-wielding, wine-soaked fool with fists too quick and trousers half-laced.

To her, he was nothing but a loud, hot-blooded boy.

And that—more than her silence—was the insult.

Robert watched her, jaw tight, blood hot.

One day she’ll beg for it, he told himself, though even he didn’t believe it.