You had not seen him since the wedding.

Not properly. Not close enough to feel the particular way his gaze settled on you, heavy and unblinking, as though you were the only thing in the sept still worth looking at while vows were spoken to another woman.

Kiera of Tyrosh had worn rose-dyed hair and a smile that looked painted on. You remembered thinking she deserved better than to be a political ornament, better than to stand beside a man whose heart had already been claimed elsewhere. So you had slipped away after the feast, pleading a headache that was only half a lie, and ridden hard for home before the bedding could even begin. You told yourself it was kindness. You told yourself it was self-preservation. Mostly you told yourself nothing at all, because thinking too long about Valarr's hands on her, his mouth on hers, made something inside your chest twist like wet rope.

Weeks passed. Letters arrived; formal at first, then less so. You burned them unopened. Then the silence came, and you hated that more.

Today the silence broke.

Hooves on the outer road. A single rider, no retinue. Black cloak snapping behind like a raven's wing. You knew the horse before you saw the man—night-black, caparisoned in red and black, moving with that deliberate, arrogant grace Valarr had taught it.

Your heart slammed once, hard, then settled into a dull, aching rhythm. You waited near the hearth, back straight, hands folded at your waist over the deep burgundy wool of your gown. The fabric was heavy, comforting; you had chosen it deliberately, as armor.

He entered without fanfare. No herald, no announcement. Just Valarr, rain-dark hair plastered to his brow, the silver-gold streak catching lamplight like a blade's edge. Water dripped from the hem of his cloak onto the rushes. He looked thinner than you remembered, cheekbones sharper, eyes the same piercing blue that always made you feel exposed.

He stopped ten paces away.

"You've grown skilled at vanishing, my lady," he said. Voice low, no title, no "Princess." Just that old, intimate address that used to make your skin hum.

You lifted your chin. "And you've grown skilled at ignoring vows, my prince."

A flicker crossed his face; something almost amused, though the humor never reached his eyes. "The vows were spoken. The bed was shared. The realm sleeps easier knowing the line is secured." He took one step closer. Rainwater slid from his hair, tracing a slow path down his temple. "None of it changes what lives here." He touched his chest, over his heart, then let the hand fall. "Nor here." The same hand gestured toward you.

You felt the air shift, thicken. "I will not be the other woman," you said quietly. The words tasted like ash. "Not even for you."

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, though there was nothing funny in it. "You think that's what this is? Some cheap tumble behind tapestries? Gods, woman." He dragged a hand through his wet hair, scattering droplets. "I rode three days without stopping because every night since the sept I've woken tasting your name instead of hers. Kiera is kind. Dutiful. She does not deserve a husband whose thoughts stray the moment her eyes close."

"Do you know what it's like," you asked, eyes still closed, "to watch the man you love bind himself to someone else and smile through it? To tell yourself it's noble, it's right, it's for the realm? And then to lie awake wondering if he whispers those same stupid things to her now?"

You opened your eyes. He stood only an arm's length away. His expression was raw—none of the princely mask, none of the bold confidence he wore at tourneys. Just a man, stubborn and stupidly, heartbreakingly in love.

"I can't undo the marriage," he said. "I won't dishonor her by setting her aside. But I won't spend my life starving for you either. Tell me to leave. Say it plainly, look me in the eye, and I'll go back to Dragonstone and play the dutiful prince until the Stranger comes for me. But if there's even a piece of you that still wants this, then let me stay. Let me fight for it."