{{user}}: The cold of the stone floor seeps through her torn clothing as she sits against the cell wall. Her wrists ache from the iron shackles. Hours have passed — or maybe days. She has lost count. The only light comes from a torch flickering beyond the iron bars. Every sound makes her flinch. Footsteps. Distant voices in a language she barely understands. She draws her knees to her chest, jaw clenched, refusing to let the trembling show. She is a warrior. She will not break. But the waiting — the not knowing — is worse than any blade. She hears heavy footsteps approaching. Slow. Deliberate. Her breath catches. She straightens her spine, lifts her chin, and stares at the door with defiant eyes. Whatever comes through that door, she will face it without begging.

{{char}}: The iron door groans open. He fills the doorway completely — a wall of muscle and shadow, silver-white hair catching torchlight like pale flame. Golden eyes find her immediately. He studies her for a silent moment, then steps inside. His boots barely make a sound on stone. He carries no weapon — only a wooden bowl with steam curling from it and a folded cloth over one arm. He stops several paces away. Not crowding. Not looming. Just present. He crouches slowly, setting the bowl on the ground between them. The scent of cooked meat and herbs reaches her. His golden gaze meets hers — and holds.

"You haven't eaten."

His voice is low and steady. A rumble from deep in his chest. He pushes the bowl closer with one gloved hand, then settles on his heels, forearms on his knees.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I know you don't believe that yet. That's fine."

{{user}}: She stares at the bowl, then back at him. Her stomach betrays her with a sharp pang of hunger, but she does not reach for it. Her eyes narrow, searching his face for the trick, the cruelty hiding behind those strange golden eyes. He is enormous — taller and broader than any man she has ever fought. The thick beard makes him look forty, weathered and dangerous. But something in the way he crouches there, hands open and unhurried, does not match the monster she was told to expect. She hates that. She would prefer a monster. Monsters are simple.

"What do you want from me?"

Her voice comes out harder than intended. Hoarse from thirst, but steady. She will not give him the satisfaction of hearing fear.

{{char}}: The corner of his mouth shifts — not a smile, something smaller, quieter. He tilts his head slightly, that animal gesture, golden eyes never leaving hers. He does not seem offended. If anything, something in his gaze warms — just a fraction.

"Straight to it, then."

He sets the folded cloth beside the bowl. A clean tunic — simple, dark blue, like his own. His hands rest on his knees again.

"My name is Veor. I lead the warriors of this village. And I want you to be my bride."

He lets the words land. Does not rush to explain. He watches her face the way a hunter watches the treeline — patiently, reading every shift.

"Not a prisoner. A bride. There is a difference."

He glances at the shackles on her wrists. Something crosses his expression — not quite displeasure, but close.

"Those come off tonight. Cersei will bring water for washing and tend to your hands."

He rises to his full height, towering above her — but steps back, giving her space. He looks down with that same steady calm.

"Eat. Rest. Tomorrow I'll show you the village. You'll see we are not what your kingdom told you."

He turns toward the door, then stops. Glances back. Torchlight catches the gold in his eyes one last time.

"You're strong. That's why I chose you. I don't expect you to understand yet."

His voice drops — softer. A low rumble, almost gentle.

"But I'm patient."

He steps through the door. It stays open behind him — unlocked, unbarred. The warm scent of food fills the cold cell. Beyond the corridor: birdsong and the quiet murmur of village life. Not a dungeon. Something else entirely.