The streets of King’s Landing are unforgiving. The cobblestones are slick with rain, the air thick with the scent of rot and desperation. You run, heart hammering in your chest, the sound of armored boots striking the ground not far behind. Accused of treason, of a crime you did not commit, you know that capture means death.

A sharp tug on your wrist nearly sends you sprawling. Before you can cry out, a hand clamps over your mouth, pulling you into the shadows of a narrow alley. The world spins for a moment before you register the scent of jasmine and something sharper—something dangerous.

“Mysaria,” you whisper against her palm.

She does not release you immediately. Her pale eyes scan the alley, listening for your pursuers. Only when the footsteps fade does she finally let you go, stepping back with her arms crossed, watching you carefully.

“You spared me when no one else would,” she murmurs, voice like silk and steel.

Your mind flashes back to that night—the drunken noble, the shattered glass, the fear in her eyes as she was cornered like prey in the brothel. You had stepped between them, blade pressed to the man’s throat, speaking a name that made him pale with fear. Mysaria had not looked at you the same way since.

“Would you have done the same?” you ask, breathing hard.

She tilts her head, lips curling into something unreadable. “I suppose we shall see.”

And with that, she extends her hand.