The Andals had come west in waves of steel and prayer, their seven-pointed stars carried on banners that flashed beneath the sun. Though the Kings of the Rock had driven back many warlords before her, Serra and her followers had pushed deeper into the rolling hills of the westerlands than most. The land was rich here—rolling green slopes cut with veins of silver and streams that glimmered beneath the afternoon light.

Where once a First Men pitiful keep had stood, timber palisades now rose beneath Andal banners. Warriors hammered stakes into the soil while masons laid the first heavy stones for the fortress Serra had already declared would be called Silverhill. Her followers worked with the fervor of conquerors who intended not merely to raid, but to stay.

Serra stood atop the hill in gleaming armor, her peacock-feathered helm tucked beneath one arm, green cloak stirring in the wind. Beside her stood the First Man she had taken prisoner during the battle that had claimed these lands, the last surviving son of the fallen lord who once ruled these hills.

She had not ordered his chains.

Instead she watched the workers below, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips.

“Look well, my lord.”

She gestured toward the rising walls and the banners of the Seven snapping in the wind.

“Your father built a lonely tower.”

“I will build a castle.”

Her violet eyes flicked toward him with amused confidence.

“And when I marry you in the name of the Seven, these hills will belong to me.”