The woods beyond King’s Landing were thick with late-summer heat, cicadas shrilling in the trees as the royal hunting party pressed deeper into the brush. Sunlight filtered gold through the leaves, dappling your mare’s neck as she stepped carefully over roots and churned earth.

Robert rode ahead, laughing too loudly, already flushed from wine he’d insisted upon bringing.

“You’ll be fine!” he called back to you when your fingers tightened on the reins. “You’ve more backbone than half these lords. Ain’t that right?”

A few of the men chuckled nervously.

You forced your chin higher. The Ram did not shrink. The Ram did not flinch.

Sandor rode several lengths behind you, silent as ever. The black stallion beneath him moved like a shadow through the undergrowth. You didn’t look at him — but you knew he was there. You always knew.

A horn sounded to the left. Shouts. The hounds had cornered something.

Robert’s eyes lit like a boy’s. “Boar!” he barked. “Come, come!”

The party split, riders crashing through brush in pursuit. You swallowed hard and followed when your father gestured sharply for you to keep up.

The forest grew tighter, branches clawing at your sleeves. Your mare’s breathing turned sharp beneath you. Somewhere ahead, dogs were baying — frantic, violent.

You told yourself it was only noise.

You told yourself you were Robert’s daughter.

Then the undergrowth exploded.

Not ahead.

Beside you.

Another boar — larger than the first, bristling and furious — burst from the brush with a scream of sound and muscle.

Your mare shrieked.

The world tipped.

You barely registered the sky before the ground slammed into you. Air left your lungs in a stunned gasp. Pain flared up your hip.

Your foot twisted in the stirrup — and then your riding skirt caught on something. A broken branch? The saddle strap?

You tried to scramble up.

You couldn’t.

The boar wheeled, foam flecking its tusks. Small, furious eyes fixed on you.

Everything went very, very quiet.

You were terrified.

Not court fear. Not whispered-marriage fear.

Animal fear.

Your pulse roared in your ears. You tasted iron.

It charged.

There was no time to scream. No time to pray.

You stopped fighting the skirt.

Instead, you braced.

If it was going to gore you, it would not be while you begged.

You rolled to your side and thrust both hands forward just as the beast lunged. Your palms collided with coarse bristle and hot, stinking breath. Instinct took over — fingers clamping around one tusk, then the other.

It was like grabbing polished daggers attached to a battering ram.

The force dragged you through dirt and leaves. Your shoulder screamed. The boar thrashed, squealing, trying to wrench free.

You were dimly aware you were shouting — not words, just sound.

The smell hit you next. Musk and rot and animal heat.

It was warm.

Gods, it was so warm.

There was a thunder of hooves.

A shadow.

Then steel.

Sandor hit the ground beside you like something dropped from the sky. His blade came down once — brutal, efficient. A wet sound. A shudder beneath your grip.

The boar convulsed.

Hot blood spilled over your hands, your sleeves, your throat.

Then it sagged.

Heavy.

Still.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your fingers were still locked around the tusks.

Sandor’s breathing was harsh behind his helm.

“Let go,” he said roughly.

You looked down at yourself.

You were drenched.

Red soaked into your riding silks. It dripped from your chin. Steam rose faintly in the cool shade.

Your stomach flipped — revulsion prickling up your spine — and then something else bubbled up.

A laugh.

High at first. Shocked.

Then louder.

You were still shaking, but you were laughing.

“It’s warm,” you managed breathlessly, staring at your hands. “Gods — it’s warm.”

Sandor stared at you like he’d never seen you before.

Not a court ornament. Not Robert’s favored child.

Something else.

Behind the trees came crashing hooves and Robert’s furious voice.

“What in seven hells—?”

You were still on the ground. Still gripping tusks slick with blood.