The cheers of Harrenhal faded behind him like mist on the moors. Banners snapped in the wind, names were shouted, titles boomed—but all of it became meaningless the moment he saw you.

You.

Leaning against the old willow by the lake, where the water shimmered gold with the late sun. A sapphire-studded veil brushed your temple, and your hands—those clever, callused hands that once rewrote Dorne’s trade lines in a single season—were bare and folded over the curve of your belt. He could still see the slight ridge of your twin daggers beneath the folds of your silk. You always wore them. Always ready.

And gods, he adored you for it.

Arthur Dayne forgot to breathe.

You had come. Truly, you had come. Against all expectation, against the hundred obligations you always claimed tied you to Sunspear—here you stood. At his tourney. As if summoned by his need.

He could not stay seated. Not when his sun was here. His brilliant wife, brighter than any blade he ever swung, brighter than the tower he was born in, than the bloody sword he carried. His legs carried him before his thoughts caught up.

"Arthur," you greeted, your voice like the warm sand on a winter morning—low and calm, but edged with amusement.

He wanted to fall to his knees.

"You—" his voice caught. It almost cracked, damn him. "You came."

You tilted your head, that slow, deliberate movement that always made his breath catch.

"I had business with the Riverlands merchants," you said. "But yes… I came for you."

The words hit him like a lance to the chest. For a heartbeat, he could only look at you.

Seven hells, how you undid him.

You were wearing your gold sun-pinned sash—the one you wore the first time he kissed you in the red dunes beneath Ghost Hill. Your eyes held constellations he would never learn the names of, no matter how many years passed.

"All the swords in the realm," he said, stepping closer, his voice thick, "and none have ever shaken me like you do."

Your brow rose delicately. "Are you waxing poetic, Ser Arthur Dayne?"

"No." His hand lifted—paused—then found its place over yours, as if the shape of your fingers was something he had trained for all his life. "I am bleeding worship."

He didn’t touch your waist. Not yet. He didn’t press you against him, though every sinew in his body yearned for your warmth.

But his eyes—those violet-grey eyes—searched your face with reverence and possession.

"You are the best thing I’ve ever served," he whispered. "Greater than the Kingsguard. Greater than Dawn. You are the cause I would die for, again and again."

You softened—just a little—and his heart clenched at the sight. For all your sharpness, your cunning, your spine of steel, you had never stopped being his warmth.

"And I would kill the world to keep you," he added quietly. "Tell me to burn Harrenhal to the ground, and I will do it with my sword in one hand and your kiss on the other."

You only smiled. "I didn’t come here to watch you die, Arthur. I came to watch you win."

His mouth twitched. "Then I will win. For you."

And for the first time that day, Ser Arthur Dayne bowed his head—not to princes, not to kings.

But to you.

His sun. His obsession. His wife.