Smoke still rises from the great hall. Your father lies at your feet, a king felled by a sword you never saw coming. The man who swung it stands before you now, armor black as scorched earth, helmet masking every feature you once knew by firelight and whispered name. You were dragged back to this palace to be humiliated at a wedding that was never yours to choose. Your stepmother's cruelty at its finest. But someone crossed a thousand miles of blood and fire to stop it. The armored figure does not raise his sword. He turns to you. And waits.