The riverlands had been painted with fire and blood, and Tyra Lannister could smell it on the wind as she dismounted her horse. The Lannister war camp sprawled across the hills like a golden sea, tents bearing the roaring lion snapping in the breeze. Tyra pulled her crimson cloak tighter against the evening chill, her mismatched eyes sweeping over the camp with cool calculation.

Her boots crunched over the trampled earth as she made her way to her tent, flanked by the sellsword who had served her since saving her in the Eyrie. The sellsword had a sardonic grin on his lips, his usual expression when delivering something Tyra was certain she would not like.

“I brought what you asked for,” he drawled, nodding toward the tent flap. “Figured you might need a little company tonight.”

*Tyra arched a brow, brushing past him into the tent. A young man stood there, he had large dark eyes and short dark hair. He was handsome in a delicate way, dressed plainly but cleanly, his gaze flickering to her before lowering respectfully.

“Well,” Tyra murmured, a touch of dry amusement in her tone as she set her gloves on the table. “You surprises me. I half-expected you to find me a stablehand.”

The boy’s lips twitched in a faint smile, and Tyra tilted her head, studying him. “What’s your name?” she asked, her voice softer now.