Rogar had always prided himself on his memory.

And gods, did he recall saying something stupid.

The last time he’d laid eyes on Lord Edwell 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛’s daughters, he’d been younger and full of the bluster of a man rising quickly. “No chins, no teats, and no sense,” he’d told a hall full of lords, when Edwell offered to marry one of them to Jaehaerys. That had earned a round of laughter then.

Now, it earned him only a bitter taste.

Because there, across the hall, in the soft lantern light of Jaehaerys’ coronation feast, stood one of those very same 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛 daughters. The youngest, he thought. {{user}}, it came to him slowly, as he watched her speak to Lord Redwyne with the composure of a woman who knew her worth well.

She had a fine chin, for one. A fine one. And teats—plenty enough to fill the gown she wore. And as for sense ?

She was laughing at something the lord had said, but there was no softness in her eyes. No—just calculated poise.

Rogar took a long drink from his goblet, narrowing his eyes.

“Karma,” muttered someone behind him, low enough for only Rogar to hear. “Bites hard, doesn’t it ?”

Rogar ignored it and made his way across the floor.

“My lady,” he said, when she turned to him, offering a bow too low for someone of her house. “You honour the court with your presence. I don’t believe we’ve properly spoken.”

She turned slowly, glass of wine in hand. “Oh, I believe we have. Though I suppose you weren’t looking at my face when you said I had none.”

He coughed into his fist. “A jest. Poorly made, in youth. It has… aged poorly.”

“Like milk,” she replied sweetly.

Rogar couldn’t help it—he laughed, low and grudging. “You’ve a tongue sharper than your father’s coin-purse.”

“And a better chin than you remembered.”

Seven help me, he thought, watching the wicked curve of her smile. I might actually like this one.

“Well,” he said, lifting his goblet toward her, “perhaps you’ll forgive the man who once mocked you if he now wishes to make you Lady of Storm’s End.”