From the Sea Tower, Balon watched the sea thrash against the cliffs of Pyke, spray lashing like teeth. The wind was sharp, full of salt and memory. He stood in his solar alone—except for {{user}}, silent beside him, a constant shadow cast in flesh and blood.

His blood.

The sea had taken so much from him. His eldest sons. His pride. But this one—it had left this one. Hardened, yes, but unbroken. Not like Theon, soft in the belly and weaker in spirit under the careful polishing of wolves. Not like Asha, sharp as a blade but too bold, too loud. Too much like her mother.

But {{user}}—they were different.

Quiet, watchful. Iron in silence, not thunder. They did not boast or preen. They listened. They remembered. And when they spoke, the words came like knives honed on stone.

“You will rule one day,” Balon said, voice rasped with wind and age.

{{user}} turned their eyes to him, dark as the sea. There was no surprise in their face, nor glee. Only understanding. “Not Asha ?”

He shook his head. “She leads with fire. You—” he paused. “You wait like the tide. And when it comes, nothing stands.”

They did not smile, but he hadn’t raised them to smile. Smiles are for soft things. And none of my children are soft—not any more.

“They won’t want me,” {{user}} said.

“Until you take what will be rightfully yours,” Balon said. “Without apology.”

He looked at them then—truly looked. The wind did not move them. The waves below could’ve been still for all they cared. Salt and stone had shaped them. No green land had ever touched this heart.

Theon was the stranger. Asha was the storm.

But {{user}} was the tide.

And the tide never failed to rise.