The hall was loud, awash with wine and male voices. Laughter rang out like clashing steel—sharp, full of competition. The Riverlords and Westerlands knights had gathered at Rhaenyra’s request, though it was not for her this time. The princess at the centre of their gazes was her younger sister—softer in tone, quieter in court, but not lacking in fire. That subtlety only made her all the more desirable. And for Willem Blackwood, it made her unbearable to look at for too long.

He stood apart from the noise, posture iron-straight near one of the old stone pillars, a full goblet untouched in his hand. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the chamber, dancing over the carved faces of Blackwood ancestors embroidered into his doublet—black threads on dark crimson, stark against the silver pin that bore his house’s raven.

They were all performing, the others. Boasting of bloodlines, detailing kills in the Stepstones, drunkenly offering songs and stolen glances. One man lifted his cup and toasted her beauty. Another loudly recited a sonnet—poorly. Willem said nothing. He didn’t compete in matters like this. Not with noise.

And yet, he was here. He had told himself his presence was only to honour the Queen’s invitation. It was a political necessity to remind the court of Blackwood's loyalty to the Targaryens. That his station as regent of Raventree required his attendance. All lies. Or half-truths, which were always more dangerous.

The truth—the one that twisted beneath his ribs like a knife left in the wound—was that he had been watching her for months now in the stillness between council sessions. At formal banquets, she sat beside Rhaenyra, head inclined, whispering something that made her sister smirk. In passing glances across the Red Keep gardens, when the wind caught her cloak, his thoughts lost direction. She was not like the others. Not a woman made for fire and prophecy. She was made of quieter things. Resolve. Mercy. Wit. And he... was already too far gone.

Willem took a slow breath, then set the goblet down. His hands were steady, but there was a tightness at the back of his jaw. She was not his to want. He had killed for less than the look some of these men gave her. Years ago, it had been a Bracken. A boy with a mouth too loose and a name that carried too much weight. Now, there were more polished suitors—Lannisters and Redwynes, men whose smiles were well-practised and fortunes endless. He had no silver tongue, no dragons in his blood, only a haunted name and a sword that never stayed clean for long.

Still, he found himself speaking. “I’ll ride at dawn,” he said to no one in particular, though the men beside him turned. “To the Riverlands. There’s unrest near Maidenpool. My men need my presence.” He paused, then added with quiet finality: “A man ought to be of use, if not of charm.” He left the goblet behind.

As he walked past her—gods help him, he looked. Just once. A heartbeat’s worth of eye contact. Enough to catch the slight shift in her expression, something unreadable but not unfeeling. It hollowed him out with one glance. He didn’t stop. He wouldn’t beg for affection. Not from her. Not from anyone. His loyalty would remain unspoken, folded into silence like a letter never sent. She would never know. She must never know.

The morning came cold and colourless, sky choked in ash-grey clouds as though the city knew not to wake in joy. Willem rode alone toward the outer courtyard, his armour packed, his cloak drawn up against the wind. The black and red of House Blackwood rippled behind him, and the leather saddle creaked beneath his gloved hands. He had hoped to be gone before anyone noticed.

There was comfort in leaving without farewell—without the stinging ache of goodbye, without seeing her face one last time. He'd told himself she wouldn't come. Not at this hour. Not for him. But she did. He heard her before he saw her—soft steps against frost-bitten stone. He turned, slowly, as if afraid that looking too fast would break something fragile. And there she was, standing at the edge of the gate where the city met the road. No guards flanking her. No handmaidens trailing. Just her.

Willem swallowed once. His mouth was dry. “I didn’t expect...” He paused, his voice low, strained from disuse. “It’s early. Too early for ceremony.” When she said nothing but looked at him that way, making him forget how to breathe, he continued. “I gave my word I’d ride by dawn. There’s unrest in the Riverlands. Raventree needs me. Or at least... I need the distance.” A breath of silence passed between them, weighty as a vow.

“I didn’t want to leave like this,” he admitted, softer now, the wind tugging at the collar of his cloak. “But I thought... if I stayed any longer...” He couldn’t finish. He didn’t have the strength to lie, and he didn’t have the right to tell the truth. She stepped closer. His heart ached at the sound of her boots against stone—simple, unhurried. Like this moment was theirs alone, stolen from war, blood, and expectation.

“I’m not a poet,” he murmured, voice like steel dulled by regret. “Not like the others. I don’t know how to charm a princess. I only know how to bleed for the things I care about.” He hesitated. Then, quietly, “And I care about you. More than I should. More than I dare.” His jaw tightened, not from shame—but from everything he wanted to say and could not. “If I stay, I’ll dishonour that.” He didn’t wait for permission. He reached for her hand, and pressed a gloved kiss to her knuckles—brief, reverent, and breaking. “I’ll write to you. Even if you never answer.”