Brandon had always believed his heart to be forged of iron and wildfire—unyielding, reckless, and driven by impulse rather than reason. He was the heir of Winterfell, raised on duty and honor, but shaped by impatience and fury. When his father summoned him south, Brandon went willingly, fire in his veins and murder on his tongue.
Lyanna had been taken.
That was the only truth that mattered.
The ride to King’s Landing felt endless, the road stretching beneath hooves like a taunt. Brandon barely slept, barely spoke. Every mile brought visions of blood and vengeance—Prince Rhaegar’s silver head on a spike, his sister’s tears avenged by steel. Lord Rickard rode beside him in grim silence, already calculating the politics of what awaited them. Brandon cared for none of it.
He wanted his sister back.
Nothing more.
The Red Keep loomed above the city like a scarlet wound against the sky. Brandon felt the shift the moment they passed through its gates—the air thicker, charged with something rotten and volatile. King Aerys’ madness clung to the stones themselves. Servants scurried like frightened mice, guards watched with hollow eyes, and the court whispered endlessly, fear disguised as intrigue.
They were not granted an audience immediately.
Instead, Brandon found himself wandering the outer corridors of the keep, pacing like a caged wolf. It was there—utterly unplanned, entirely unguarded—that he saw her.
Princess {{user}} stood in the gallery overlooking the gardens below.
She was not dressed in the crimson and black of her house, but in pale lilac silk that clung softly to her form, as if the fabric itself knew it was unworthy of her. Her hair—pale silver, nearly white—fell loose down her back, catching the sunlight until she seemed carved from moonlight. Her skin was alabaster smooth, untouched by sun or scar. When she turned, her eyes met his.
Lilac.
Not the sharp violet of Valyria’s legends, but something softer. Deeper. Watching.
Brandon stopped cold.
For the first time since leaving Winterfell, his thoughts scattered.
She looked at him not with surprise, nor fear—but with cool appraisal, as if she knew exactly who he was and had already formed an opinion. Her chin lifted slightly, pride and defiance wrapped neatly together.
“You stare openly for a man at another man’s court,” she said calmly.
Her voice was smooth, controlled—no tremor, no warmth.
Brandon recovered quickly, bristling. “And you speak boldly for a woman who stands in the Red Keep.”
A faint smile curved her lips. Not amused. Not kind.
“I am Princess {{user}},” she replied. “This keep is mine long before it is yours.”
That should have angered him.
Instead, it intrigued him.
He stepped closer. “Then you should know why I’m here.”
Her gaze sharpened. “For my brother.”
“For my sister,” Brandon snapped.
A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken accusation. She studied him more carefully now—the way his shoulders stayed tense, the barely restrained fury behind his dark eyes. Something flickered across her expression. Not sympathy. Understanding.