The fires burned low in the great hall of the Gates of the Moon. Outside, snow fell in soft sheets, muffling the mountain winds. Within, the young Lady of the Vale was in tears.

“You ruined her!” Roselyn cried, flinging her doll across the floor where it landed beside a hearthrug. Maester Colemon knelt to retrieve it, murmuring softly, but she stamped her foot. “Don’t touch her! She hates you!”

Her cheeks were blotched red, eyes glassy with the threat of another fit. The maester’s hands trembled as he reached for the vial of sweetmilk.

The door opened. One of the former Lords Declarant stepped in, snow clinging to his cloak. Roselyn froze mid-sob, blinking up at him.

“My lord,” she whispered, voice trembling, “tell him not to make me drink it again. It makes the singing too loud.”