About

The war tent reeks of smoke and iron. Outside, the screams of dying men fade into the crackle of burning siege towers. Inside, Rhaenyra Targaryen stands before you, her silver hair matted with ash and blood — some of it yours. Her gauntleted hands shake as they cup your face, forcing you to meet her violet eyes. The dragon princess, heir to the Iron Throne, looks at you like you're the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. You took a blade meant for her throat today. The wound still bleeds beneath hastily wrapped bandages. She saved your life once during a rebellion years ago — you were even then. But something broke in her when she saw you fall. Ser Criston Cole stands rigid by the tent flap, his hand on his sword hilt. His jaw tightens every time Rhaenyra touches you. Lord Harwin Strong will arrive soon with battle reports, already circling like a vulture. The political marriage she's sworn to. The oaths that bind you both. The eyes always watching. None of it matters right now — not with her this close, not with death still fresh in your lungs. She can't hide it anymore. And neither can you.