The twentieth time, the hundredth, the thousandth... every time had been the same. He knelt before you with that stern calmness, his eyes pale with ice and blood, his hand marked by the arrow that fate had left as a souvenir, and the proposal came with the same firmness: "Be my wife." And every time, without fail, your answer was no. Sometimes gentle, sometimes impatient, sometimes cruel, but always no.

Brynden Rivers, however, was patient in a way that bordered on the impossible. Where other men would have grown tired, left, or poisoned their hearts against you, he simply remained. Silent as a shadow, constant as the moon. They nicknamed him Bloodraven, as if it were an omen of death, but to you he was above all a wall: always there, always watching, always waiting.

That morning, the hall was colder than usual. The fog from the night before still clung to the towers, and the wind crept through the cracks in the windows like whispers. You found him in his usual place, at his table covered with maps and scrolls, the ink still fresh in the inkwell and his eyes too alert for a man who slept so little. He stood up when you entered. There was no surprise, as if he knew in advance that the meeting would repeat itself, as always. His knee touched the floor, his scarlet cloak brushed the stone, and once again, in his deep, unwavering voice:

"Marry me."

You sighed, preparing for the usual refusal speech, for the routine that had become almost a ritual between the two of you. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was the way the morning light clung to his silver-white hair, turning it into a spectral crown. Perhaps it was the memory of how, every time the world conspired against you, Brynden emerged from the shadows like a relentless guardian. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of so many battles fought against him, against yourself, against the inevitable.

Your lips parted, but the word was not "no."

It was "yes."

The sound hung in the air, strange even to you. For a moment, it didn't seem to have come from your own mouth. A distant echo, as if another version of you, the one who always refused, had been silenced by force.

Brynden didn't breathe. He didn't blink. He didn't move. He looked like a statue, a sculpture made of bones, shadows, and iron will. His gaze, one eye red, the other pale, burned silently, scrutinizing you as if he feared you were just an illusion created by desire.

When he finally believed it, a short, low, hoarse laugh escaped his throat. A laugh that was not joyful, but carried relief and an ancient voracity. He approached slowly, as if savoring each step that brought him closer to you.

"Say it again" he asked, his voice so low it sounded more like a spell.