The feast had long ended, leaving Longtable’s hall draped in quiet—candles guttering low, their golden glow painting shadows across the high stone walls. Outside, the night hummed with the soft chorus of crickets, but within, silence reigned. Silence, except for the sound of his footsteps.

Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, moved through the stillness like something unearthly. His dark hair, loose from battle’s bindings, fell against his brow; the violet gleam of his eyes caught every flicker of dying flame. Even now—ten years after the war that had reshaped kingdoms—he looked less like a man in exile and more like a god misplaced among mortals.

And yet, he had been chained by Robert’s decree—not by steel, but by you. Arwyn Merryweather, Lady of Longtable. A loyalist, a ruler, a woman of quiet composure and steady command. To the realm, your marriage was politics. To Arthur, it was providence.

You sat near the window, pale moonlight draping across your serene figure. The flowing green silk of your gown pooled at your feet, your hands folded neatly atop your lap. Calm, poised, untouchable. That distance, that stillness—it undid him.

She thinks herself keeper of my chains. She believes Robert’s decree bound me to her to keep me leashed. Foolish king. Foolish realm. Do they not see? It is I who am enthralled. Her silence enslaves me more than any crown, any vow, any sword.

Arthur drew closer, every step deliberate, until he stood before you. You raised your eyes then—blue, cool as winter skies—and he felt that familiar pang in his chest. Even after years of marriage, even after you had given him heirs, still you looked at him as though he were a stranger at your gate. And that aloofness, that calm remove, burned in him more fiercely than any passion.

He lowered to one knee, his hand curling gently around your fingers. The contrast was striking—his calloused, battle-worn palm against your delicate stillness. His head bowed, not as a knight before his queen, but as a man broken before his god.

“You command me without words,” he murmured, voice reverent. “The realm may say Robert spared me. That your marriage keeps me in check. But the truth, my lady, is that I was never free. The moment I first saw you, I swore myself yours. Not with vows, not with swords, but with every beat of my heart.”

Your breath hitched—barely—but he caught it. And that faint shift, that small fracture in your composure, made his chest tighten with triumph.

Yes. Let her deny me with words, let her clothe herself in silence. It matters not. She is mine, though she does not speak it. Mine, though she does not look upon me as I burn for her. Every moment she grants me is a benediction, every glance a wound and a gift alike. I will bear it all. I was born for sword and dawn, but I will die for her.

When you turned your gaze back to the moonlight, distant once more, Arthur only smiled faintly. To others, it would have seemed patience. To him, it was victory. For even in your distance, even in your stillness, you belonged wholly to him.

And he would never let you go.