The damp chill of the Red Keep’s septry seemed to cling to the fine silk of {{user}}’s gown, a cold reminder of the king’s final, cruel whim. Aegon IV had been a man of many appetites and even more whimsies, but forcing this union felt less like a royal decree and more like a sentence handed down from a dying man’s bed.

{{user}} kept their eyes fixed firmly on the floor, tracing the patterns in the stone to avoid looking at the man standing at their side. Brynden Rivers did not smell of rot or malice—he smelled of crisp parchment and the faint, herbal tang of pennyroyal—but his presence felt like a shadow cast in a room full of candles.

When it came time to join hands, {{user}}’s skin crawled. Brynden’s hand was bone-white and unnervingly cool. Up close, his skin wasn't merely fair; it was the translucent, porcelain pallor of something that had never seen the sun, making the veins beneath look like frozen blue rivers.

And then, there was the mark. As they turned to face the septon, {{user}} caught a full glimpse of the wine-stain birthmark that crawled up the side of Brynden’s neck and onto his cheek. It wasn't just a smudge of color; to {{user}}’s frantic mind, it looked exactly like a blood-red raven taking flight from a field of snow. It was a macabre splash of violence on an otherwise frozen face.

Worst of all were his eyes. He possessed two eyes of a startling, unnatural red that seemed to catch the torchlight and glow like burning coals. Unlike a blind man or a corpse, Brynden tracked every movement in the room with a predator’s focus. He did not look at {{user}} with the heat of a groom, however. His gaze was sharp and distant, as if he were constantly listening for a whisper from a mile away.

Everyone in the court knew where his heart truly resided. Even now, with his fingers interlaced with {{user}}’s, Brynden’s thoughts were likely miles away, tangled in the silver-gold tresses of Shiera Seastar. He was a man possessed by a sister who did not want him, now bound by his father's command to a spouse who was terrified of his very touch.

"You tremble," Brynden remarked. His voice was soft, melodic, and entirely devoid of warmth.

{{user}} didn't answer, their throat tight with the realization that this was no longer a nightmare to wake from. The King was dead, but his final joke was just beginning.