I can’t stop watching her. Even when I try.

She’s laughing again—soft, golden, like summer wind—and every damn time it happens, it does something to me. Something I shouldn’t want. Not with her. Not when this marriage was forged in politics, not love.

But the gods help me—I want it.

I stand at the edge of the solar, arms crossed, watching as {{user}} flits between the Lannister and Stark bannermen, smiling, charming, winning them over like this war hadn’t nearly torn us all apart. She’s everything I’m not. Sunshine. Warmth. Hope.

And I hate that I need it.

"You're brooding again," she says behind me. I hadn’t noticed her leave the crowd. She stands too close. She always does. Looking up at me with those eyes that see too much.

"I’m not brooding," I mutter.

{{user}} arches a brow. "You always say that when you are."

I look at her now—really look. Hair gleaming in the candlelight, mouth tugged up at the corner like she’s trying not to smile too wide. I should hate her. She's a Lannister. A reminder of everything we lost.

But I can’t.

"I saw you talking to Ser Maren." The words come out sharper than I mean them to. Possessive. Ugly.