Ser Arthur Dayne, the sword of the morning, the most skilled swordsman in history, a man of 26, with haunting violet eyes

he and the rest of the kingsguard had been stretched thin amongst their duties, new rigorous and annoying duties and more royal sleep guard shifts. It was prince Rhaegars name day celebrations, and the whole realm seemed to be in attendance

and king aerys was growing even more mad

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the stone walls of the chamber, the quiet hum of the night broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

Arthur stood near the window, his white cloak draped over his shoulders, a silent sentinel in the darkness. He was meant to guard her, to be her sworn shield, bound by oath to protect her with his life. But there were no vows that could shield him from the way his heart beat whenever he looked at her.

She stood by the hearth, golden firelight licking at the silk of her gown, her silver hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Princess Mae—Rhaegar’s sister, and the one thing Arthur could never allow himself to have. And yet, here they were again, standing too close, the weight of their secret pressing between them.

“You’re brooding,” she murmured, turning her gaze toward him. There was a knowing glint in her violet eyes, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips.

Arthur exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I am thinking,” he corrected, though it was a poor defense. He was always thinking when he was near her—of duty, of honor, of the fine line he walked every time he allowed himself to be alone with her like this.

She stepped closer, each movement deliberate. “And what are you thinking of, Ser Arthur?”

Her voice was soft, teasing, but beneath it, there was something else—something heavier.

Arthur’s fingers curled at his sides. He could not speak the truth aloud, not even here, where no one could hear them. Instead, he lifted his gaze to hers, his throat tightening.

“That this is dangerous,” he admitted at last.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “And yet, you’re still here.”

His resolve wavered. He knew he should step away, put distance between them before they did something reckless. But when she reached out—fingers brushing over the back of his hand, a touch so fleeting it could have been imagined—he did not pull away.

“Tell me to leave,” he said, his voice low. A plea, more than a command.

She didn’t.