The halls of the Red Keep were shining from the summer sun. Bittersteel stood by an open window, the summer air warm against his skin, the scent of the Blackwater drifting in.

Calla turned, violet eyes glinting with something unreadable. She leaned against the stone, one hand idly toying with the golden chain at her throat as she leaned on the window beside him.

"You always look so serious, Uncle," she mused, voice low, teasing. "Tell me, is there ever a moment when your mind is not on killing him? Or is it her your mind is on?"

She teased lightly looking up at him with her head tilted.