Queen Rhaenyra had invited the Ironborn to raid the Westerlands and they took advantage of the opportunity. The sun had dipped low, painting the blood-soaked battlefield in hues of crimson and gold. The Westerlands men-at-arms lay scattered, their banners trampled in the mud, their swords broken. Gwin Drumm stood amidst the carnage, her dark hair tangled and damp with sweat, her knife steady in her hand. The Ironborn cheers echoed around her, but her eyes were locked on the lone knight before her, the last of his party still breathing.

He knelt in the dirt, his golden lion helm tossed aside, revealing a face pale with exhaustion and streaked with dirt and blood, his nose bleeding after being punched. Gwin crouched before him, pressing her blade lightly to the underside of his chin, tilting his head up so their eyes met.

“You’ve fought well,” she said, her voice low and edged with mockery. “But that didnt get you far enough.”

“But I won't kill you,” she went on, her tone almost playful now. “No, a man like you has uses. Strength, blood, a good name... and if the men can claim their salt wives, why shouldn’t I take a salt husband?”