At the tourney raised to distract the court from its own debts, he saw her among foreign silks and banners that did not belong to those lands. She came from a maritime house, rich in ships and coffers, people shaped by salt, by gold, and by distance. When she passed before him, the long waves of her hair caught the light as if holding an ancient fire, and the curved design of her body forced him to lower his gaze, lest he spend the entire joust lost in the generous contour of her breast.

The marriage came swiftly, sealed more by the kingdom’s necessity than by any promise of tenderness. Even so, there lived in him an incurable hunger for the future, fed by dreams that visited him at night with burning symbols, indistinct omens, and voices no one else could hear. To bear the weight of that gift, he sought relief where he could: heavy wine, milk of the poppy, long absences that returned him blurred at dawn.

Life together unraveled the enchantment without clamor. There were no shouts at first—only silence. Then closed doors. At last, contempt, colder than any insult. He burned at the mere sight of her, yet was always pushed away with a weary gesture, shoved aside when he approached in drunkenness, left alone while she slept in another chamber. He tried to persuade her with gentleness, then with desperation, even with a lie: he said he had dreamed that a small dragon must be placed within her womb by the will of the gods. He knew she respected the dreams of his blood. Still, nothing changed.

He yielded then to the familiar shadows of the lower city, seeking in brothels a purchased warmth that vanished before sunrise. A single week was enough for the blow to fall. He learned from his own wife—who had made no effort to conceal it—that Ser Roland Crakehall, knight, former friend, a white-cloaked man sworn to his house, had lain with her. And he knew she could be many things, but never a liar. There was no duel. No accusation. Only a command whispered into the night, sending the man away, and a hollowness that could no longer fit inside his chest.

When he confronted her, sword trembling in his hand, the words shattered before they could wound. He shouted, wept, begged for any reaction—yet she remained unmoving, as though he were smaller than the very blade he raised. The fury died there, replaced by a deep, silent shame. In the days that followed, he abandoned wine, poppy, and flight. Only the raw weight of himself remained.

Until, unable to bear the distance, he walked alone to her solar. He carried no sword now. At the sight of her, his legs gave way. He fell to his knees upon the cold stone, bent like one seeking absolution before a mute altar. He wept without dignity, sobs tearing through his chest, his hands outstretched without courage to touch—trembling, empty, useless.

“Please…” His voice faltered as he pressed his fingers against his own chest, as though trying to contain the pain spilling over. “Let me at least have a kiss…” He bowed a little lower, his brow nearly touching the floor, his weeping making each word uneven. “Let me lie with you tonight…” He drew a broken breath, shoulders shuddering, his hand lifting into the air only to fall again, strengthless. “I have nothing else.”