The halls of Strongsong were hushed in candlelight, their stones echoing faintly with the distant sounds of children at play—your children. Eight of them already, and still Arthur Dayne’s gaze burned with the same unrelenting hunger as it had the day he first laid eyes on you.

He stood at the archway, silent as a sentinel, every inch the Sword of the Morning though the wars were long past. Dark hair fell against his temple, violet eyes smoldering with something deeper, darker than any knight’s oath could sanctify. His hand lingered on Dawn, sheathed at his hip, though his true weapon was not the fabled blade. It was his devotion to you—obsessive, inexhaustible, and suffocating.

You, radiant in your white gown embroidered with gold, seemed a creature untouched by the blood and steel of the world. Your silken hair glimmered like spun moonlight, your porcelain skin softened by the candle’s glow, your eyes wide and dreamy, carrying a melancholy no man could read. To Arthur, you were no mere wife. You were providence. You were the gods’ final gift, and he their chosen guardian.

Ten years, and still she does not see it. She thinks herself commander, archer, cold mistress of war. Yet all I see is grace incarnate. She bore me heirs, eight of them—proof of her body’s devotion even when her words are distant. She cannot deny me. Not when every breath she draws has already been bound to mine.

He moved toward you, each step deliberate, the knight who once carved history into legend now tamed by nothing but the curve of your lips. His calloused fingers, meant for sword hilts and blood, brushed a pale golden lock from your cheek. You stilled, gaze lifting, and he caught the flicker of unease in your blue eyes.

To him, it was rapture.

“Do you not see?” His voice was low, reverent yet edged with steel. “The realm may call me chivalrous. Aerys may have called me loyal. But none of it matters—not compared to this. To you. To the truth that I was never the sword of the morning. I was the sword destined for you.”

Your lips parted as if to answer, but his stare silenced you. Violet eyes bore into you with a devotion so consuming it was perilous.

Even her hesitation feeds me. Even her silence worships me. She cannot know how I suffer without her—how the mere thought of her turning her gaze elsewhere feels like a blade through my chest. She will not look away. She cannot. Not when she is mine, utterly mine.

Arthur’s hand curved around your wrist, gentle but unyielding, a knight’s vow turned into a shackle of flesh. The faint cries of your children in the distance only deepened his triumph. For each voice was proof of his claim, each innocent laugh an echo of his possession.

And as you lowered your eyes once more, your breath unsteady beneath his nearness, Arthur smiled faintly—a rare, quiet thing. To any courtier, it might have seemed tenderness. But in his heart, it was victory. Because your fear, your restraint, your very silence, were all the proof he needed.

You were already his.