The year is 131 AC, after the ashes of dragons have settled and a boy king now sits upon the Iron Throne.

A quiet chamber far from court. No banners, no feast. Only the hush of two souls meeting again, not as lord and lady, but as man and woman, once shattered, now whole in each other’s presence.

The lantern's flame flickered gently behind sheer curtains, casting long, softened shadows upon the walls. There was no music. No revelry. No drunken kin to cheer them on. Only silence—tender, watchful, and heavy with all the words they had not spoken.

Tyland sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his sightless gaze fixed somewhere in the dark. A man once proud now bears the ruin of fire and steel upon his face.

“You do not have to stay,” he murmured, his voice low and cracked. “I would understand. If you wished for the ceremony alone... not the man.”