Brandon leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You look like you’re judging everyone in this hall.”
She didn’t look at him when she replied. “I am.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, lifting his goblet. “Fair. Anyone in particular found wanting?”
“Half of them,” she said calmly. Then, after a beat, “Including you.”
He grinned wider. “Good. I’d be disappointed if I weren’t.”
This—this easy banter, this comfort—had not existed when they first wed.
Their marriage had been forged in ink and necessity, a political decision meant to strengthen alliances. Brandon, heir reckless and loud, paired with a woman known for her sharp mind and cool restraint. The North had whispered. The South had speculated.
Neither had expected affection.
Yet here they were.
Brandon reached for a piece of bread, tore it in half, and pushed the larger portion toward her without comment. She eyed it, then accepted it with a small shake of her head.
“You always give me the bigger half,” she said.
“You always pretend you don’t want it,” he countered.
A corner of her mouth lifted. Barely—but Brandon noticed. He always did.
The feast roared on around them. Somewhere down the table, Robert bellowed laughter loud enough to shake the rafters. Lyanna's voice carried over the noise, sharp and bright. Ned sat stiff-backed and watchful, already uncomfortable beneath so many eyes.
Brandon, however, was in his element.
He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually behind {{user}}’s seat—not touching, but close enough to be unmistakable. Possessive without being heavy-handed. Protective without being overbearing.
She felt it, of course. She always did.
Her gaze flicked toward him briefly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy most things,” Brandon said easily. “Food. Drink. You.”
She scoffed softly. “One of those does not belong in the same category.”
He turned toward her fully now, voice lower. “You’re wrong.”
Before she could reply, a shift rippled through the hall.
The murmurs changed tone—lowered, expectant. Brandon followed her gaze as attention drew toward the center of the room.
Prince Rhaegar had entered the hall.
He moved like a shadow wrapped in silk, silver-gold hair falling loose down his back, dark eyes unreadable as they swept across the gathered nobles. The music softened at his arrival, the singers faltering before regaining their rhythm.
Brandon snorted quietly into his cup. “There’s your prince.”
{{user}} said nothing, but her posture stiffened just slightly.
Rhaegar approached their section of the hall with measured steps, hands folded behind his back. Lords bowed. Ladies curtsied. Brandon did neither.
When Rhaegar stopped before them, Brandon finally inclined his head—just enough to be polite.
“Lord Stark,” Rhaegar said smoothly. His gaze shifted, settling on {{user}}. “And his lady wife.”
“Your Grace,” {{user}} said, her voice even as she inclined her head.
Rhaegar smiled, slow and thoughtful. “I hope Harrenhal has been welcoming.”
“As welcoming as Harrenhal can be,” Brandon replied. “The food’s good. The walls still look like they might eat someone.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Rhaegar’s face. “A fair assessment.”
Then his attention returned to {{user}}.
“The music will soon begin in earnest,” Rhaegar said. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance, my lady?”
The hall seemed to still.
Brandon felt it immediately—the shift, the attention, the subtle tightening in his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His eyes slid sideways to his wife.
“Well?” Brandon murmured. “He asked.”
She leaned slightly closer, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “Are you jealous?”
His grin returned, sharp and unapologetic. “Terribly.”
She rose gracefully from her seat and faced Rhaegar once more. “Very well, Your Grace.”
Brandon stood as well—not to intervene, but to offer his arm as she stepped away. His hand lingered at her waist for just a second longer than necessary.
“Don’t let him step on your toes,” he said lightly.