**273 AC - Casterly Rock, The Westerlands**
The Rock rose from the sunset sea like a great golden fist punching toward the sky.
Kael had seen it from the ship first—three days ago, when they'd rounded the coast and Casterly Rock had appeared on the horizon like something out of legend. A mountain hollowed and carved and transformed into a castle so massive it made Sunspear look like a summer pavilion.
Now, standing in one of the guest wings, looking out a window that faced the sea, he understood why the Lannisters were so insufferably proud.
This wasn't just wealth. This was *power* made visible. Power that had stood for thousands of years and would stand for thousands more, indifferent to the small human dramas playing out in its corridors.
"It's obscene," Oberyn said from the bed, where he'd sprawled like a cat in sunlight. "All this gold. You could feed Dorne for a year with what they've spent on *doorknobs*."
"Jealous?" Kael asked without turning around.
"Absolutely. I want golden doorknobs. I want to be so rich that even my *doors* are judging poor people."
"Oberyn," Elia said from the corner, where she sat with embroidery she wasn't actually doing, "you can't say things like that here. This is *Tywin Lannister's* castle. He probably has spies in the walls."
"Let him spy. I'll judge his doorknobs to his face."
Kael finally turned from the window, and his enhanced vision automatically catalogued the room—exits, sight lines, potential threats, the way his mind had been doing since they'd arrived at Casterly Rock two days ago.
The funeral was tomorrow. Lady Joanna Lannister, dead in childbed, leaving behind Lord Tywin, two seven-year-old twins, and one infant son who would grow up knowing his mother had died bringing him into the world.
The mathematics were cruel but simple: one life exchanged for another.
Kael thought of Neria, who'd survived bringing him and Elia into the world despite all the odds. Thought of all the women who didn't survive. All the babies who died anyway.
Childbirth was a battlefield, and women fought it without swords or armor or the Kingsguard to protect them.
"You're brooding," Elia observed.
"I'm thinking."
"Those are the same thing with you."
"Are not."
"Kael." She set down her embroidery—badly done, because Elia's hands shook too much for fine needlework, but she tried anyway because that's who she was. "What's wrong? You've been strange since we arrived."
*Everything*, he wanted to say. *Everything is wrong. We're standing in Casterly Rock at Joanna Lannister's funeral, and I know—I remember—that this is the beginning of Tywin's cruelty crystallizing into something terrible. That the baby who killed her will grow up to be Tyrion, brilliant and kind and so fucking damaged. That Cersei and Jaime are already—*
But he couldn't say any of that.
"It's sad," he said instead. "A woman dying like that. Leaving children behind."
"It happens," Oberyn said, but his voice had lost its usual edge. Even at fifteen, Oberyn understood death. Understood loss. "Mother almost died having us. Having you two, I mean. Maester Caleotte said—"
"I know what Maester Caleotte said," Elia interrupted, and there was steel in her voice. The kind that came out when people treated her like she was already dead. "But she didn't die. And neither did we. So can we please not do the maudlin thing right now?"
A knock at the door saved them from having to continue that conversation.
Kael's hand went to Solemn Vow—not drawing it, just touching the pommel in the way that had become habit. Ready.
"Enter," he called.
The door opened, and Ashara Dayne stepped through like a purple-eyed ghost wrapped in black mourning silks.
Kael's enhanced nervous system immediately registered everything about her—the way she moved, the slight tension in her shoulders, the fact that she'd been crying recently, the particular set of her jaw that meant she was trying very hard not to cry again.
"Lady Ashara," Elia said, rising. "Is everything—"
"Your mother requests your presence," Ashara said, and her voice was carefully controlled. Professional. The voice of a lady-in-waiting doing her duty. "All three of you. In Lord Tywin's solar. There's—" She paused. "There's been a development."
Oberyn sat up. "What kind of development?"
"The kind where Princess Neria thinks her children should be present." Ashara's violet eyes found Kael's, and something flickered there. Warning? Concern? "You should come now."
---
Lord Tywin Lannister's solar was exactly what Kael had expected—perfectly appointed, meticulously organized, decorated in a way that demonstrated wealth without being gaudy about it. The man himself sat behind a desk of dark wood—imported from the Summer Isles, probably, because of course it was—and his face was a mask of controlled grief.
Tywin Lannister was thirty-seven years old and looked like he'd been carved from marble by an artist who didn't understand human warmth. Blond hair going silver at the temples. Green eyes that saw everything and forgave nothing. The kind of man who made you want to stand up straighter just by existing in the same room.
Next to him stood Kevan Lannister, his younger brother—softer, kinder, but still a lion. And in the corner, pretending not to be there, was some maester whose name Kael didn't catch.
Princess Neria stood by the window, and Kael knew immediately from her posture that something had gone wrong.
"Children," she said, and her voice was tight. "Come in. Close the door."
They filed in—Kael, Elia, Oberyn. Arthur and Ser Lewyn materialized from somewhere, taking up positions by the door. Guard positions. Alert.
"What's happened?" Doran asked. He'd come too, somehow, appearing like a ghost. Always appearing when strategy was needed.
Tywin stood. It should have been a simple movement—just a man rising from a chair—but somehow it became a statement. A declaration that whatever was about to be said, it would be said on his terms.
"Princess Neria and Lady Joanna were friends," Tywin began, and his voice was the kind of cold that burned. "Close friends. They corresponded frequently. They made—" His jaw tightened infinitesimally. "—plans."
"Plans," Doran repeated carefully.
"To join our houses." Tywin's green eyes swept across the Martell siblings. "Lady Joanna and Princess Neria discussed the possibility of betrothing their children. Specifically—" His gaze locked onto Kael. "—my daughter Cersei to you, Prince Kael. And my son Jaime to Princess Elia."
The room went very, very quiet.
Kael felt his enhanced mind kick into overdrive, processing implications and consequences and the sheer *wrongness* of what was being suggested.
Cersei Lannister. Beautiful, brilliant, cruel Cersei, who was currently seven years old and already learning to weaponize her smile. Who would grow up to be one of the most dangerous women in Westeros. Who was—
*—already planning on fucking her twin brother*, a small, vicious part of Kael's mind supplied. *Already twisted into something wrong. Already damaged beyond repair by a father who wanted sons and got a daughter instead.*
"I see," Doran said, because someone had to say something.
"Lady Joanna was very fond of this idea," Tywin continued, and something flickered across his face. Grief? Anger? Both? "She believed—" His voice caught, just slightly. Just enough to remind everyone in the room that beneath the marble exterior, a man was grieving his wife. "—she believed our houses would complement each other well."
"Lord Tywin," Neria said carefully, and Kael had never heard his mother sound so diplomatic. "Lady Joanna and I did discuss this. In our letters. But it was always contingent—"
"On the children being agreeable," Tywin finished. "Yes. I'm aware." His eyes found Kael's again. "What say you, Prince Kael? Would you be agreeable to such a match?"
Every eye in the room turned to him.
Kael felt the weight of the moment like a physical thing. One word—yes or no—and he'd be shaping futures. Altering the story.
He thought about Cersei. About Jaime. About the incest that was probably already beginning, the damage already done, the poison already seeping into their bones.
He thought about Elia, fragile Elia, who didn't need to be tied to a family that would eat her alive.
He thought about Ashara, standing by the door, her face carefully blank but her hands clenched into fists.
"I'm honored, my lord," Kael said, and he chose each word like he was placing stones in a wall. "Your daughter is—by all accounts—beautiful and intelligent. Any man would be fortunate to call her wife."
"But?" Tywin asked, because he could hear the 'but' coming.
"But I'm sixteen, Lord Tywin. And Lady Cersei is seven." Kael kept his voice respectful but firm. "I don't know her. She doesn't know me. And while I understand the political value of such matches—" He glanced at Doran, who gave him a microscopic nod of approval. "—I think it would be... premature to make such a commitment now. Perhaps when Lady Cersei is older. When she can have a voice in her own future."
It was a good answer. A diplomatic answer. The kind that said 'no' without actually saying no.
Tywin studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"You sound like your brother," he said finally, nodding toward Doran. "Political. Careful." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I hear other things about you, Prince Kael. That you're the finest swordsman of your generation. That you can watch a man fight once and replicate his style perfectly. That you've never lost a bout. They call you the Echo of Sunspear."
"People say things," Kael said carefully.
"People say *true* things, in this case." Tywin returned to his desk, sat with precise control. "My daughter deserves a strong match. A warrior who can protect her. A man of ability."
*Your daughter deserves a father who sees her as more than a broodmare and a political asset*, Kael thought but did not say.
"And my son," Tywin continued, turning to Elia, "deserves a wife of grace and beauty. Princess Elia, you are—"
"Weak," Elia said flatly. "My lord, let's not pretend. I'm fragile. I've been sick my entire life. The maesters say I might not survive childbirth if it comes to that." She lifted her chin, and despite her frailty, there was steel in her spine. "I'm not a good match for your son. Not if you're looking to ensure the Lannister line continues strong."
Tywin's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Respect? Surprise?
"You're honest," he said.
"I prefer it to pretty lies."
"So do I." Tywin leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Very well. The betrothals are not set. Not yet. But Princess Neria, Lady Joanna wished—" His voice caught again, raw for just a moment. "—she *wished* to see our houses joined. It was important to her."
"It was important to me too," Neria said softly. "Joanna was my friend, Tywin. One of my dearest friends. And I would honor her wishes if I could. But not at the expense of my children's happiness. Not if they're unwilling."
Tywin nodded slowly. "Then we table the discussion. For now." His eyes found Kael's once more. "But Prince Kael—understand this. My daughter is seven years old, yes. But she will grow. And when she does, she will be one of the most eligible women in Westeros. If you change your mind—"
"I'll inform you immediately, my lord," Kael said, lying through his teeth.
*Not if you paid me in dragon eggs*, he thought. *Not if you offered me the Iron Throne itself.*
"Good." Tywin stood again. "The funeral is tomorrow. I expect to see you all there. Dismissed."
---
They fled Tywin's solar like mice escaping a cat, and no one spoke until they were back in the guest wing, behind closed doors, with Arthur checking the corridors for eavesdroppers.
Then everyone started talking at once.
"Seven hells—"
"Did you see his *face*—"
"Cersei Lannister, Kael, are you *insane*—"
"QUIET!" Doran's voice cut through the chaos. Everyone shut up. Doran had that effect when he wanted it.
He turned to Kael. "That was well done. The refusal without refusing. But Tywin Lannister doesn't forget these things. You've just made an enemy."
"He was already an enemy," Kael said. "Just one who didn't know it yet."
"What does that mean?"
Kael realized he'd said too much. "Nothing. I just—I don't trust him. And I don't want Elia anywhere near this family."
"Why?" Elia demanded. "What do you know about the Lannisters that we don't?"
*That Cersei and Jaime are already twisting into something monstrous. That Tywin will spend the rest of his life trying to restore his house's honor by crushing everyone who slight him. That Tyrion will grow up brilliant and broken and desperate for a father's love he'll never receive.*
"They're lions," Kael said instead. "And lions eat lambs. I won't let you be their meal."
Elia crossed the room in three quick steps—too quick, really, she'd pay for it later with shortness of breath—and grabbed his arm.
"I'm not a lamb," she said fiercely. "And I'm not some delicate thing that needs protecting from every potential husband in Westeros. I'm a Martell. We're *unbowed, unbent, unbroken*. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Then stop trying to save me from things I can handle myself!"
"Elia—"
"No!" Her eyes were bright with anger and unshed tears. "I'm sick of this, Kael. Sick of everyone treating me like I'm already dead. Sick of you making decisions about my life because you think I'm too fragile to make them myself. If I wanted to marry Jaime Lannister—which I don't, he's *seven*—but if I did, that would be *my choice*. Not yours. Mine."
The room had gone silent.
Kael looked at his twin—fierce, fragile, furious—and felt something crack in his chest.
"You're right," he said quietly.
Elia blinked. "What?"
"You're right. I'm—" He took a breath. "I'm sorry. I do that. The protecting thing. Too much. It's not fair to you."
"Oh." Elia's anger deflated like a punctured wineskin. "Well. Good. I'm glad we—good."
Oberyn cleared his throat. "This is touching and all, but can we discuss the *important* part?"
"Which part is that?" Doran asked, amused despite everything.
"The part where Kael just turned down a marriage to *Cersei fucking Lannister*." Oberyn looked at Kael with something between admiration and horror. "Do you know what she's going to be like in ten years? Beautiful, rich, connected to every power in Westeros—"
"And cruel," Kael said flatly. "And ambitious. And dangerous."
"How do you *know* that? She's seven!"
"I can see it. In the way she looked at me at dinner last night. Like she was already calculating my value." Kael shook his head. "That's not a wife. That's a trap with pretty hair."
Ashara, who'd been silent until now, made a small sound. Everyone turned to look at her.
"My lady?" Neria asked gently.
Ashara's face was carefully composed, but her hands were still clenched into fists. "Nothing, Princess. I just—I agree with Prince Kael. The Lannisters are... not a good match. For Dorne."
"And why is that?" Doran asked, watching her with those too-clever eyes.
"Because—" Ashara stopped. Started again. "Because they're Westermen. Different values. Different ways. Dorne is—we're different. We value different things."
It was a terrible lie. Everyone in the room knew it was a lie.
But no one called her on it.
"Regardless," Neria said, stepping into the awkward silence, "the matter is tabled for now. Tywin has his grief to deal with. We have a funeral to attend. And then we'll return home to Sunspear, where I can stop worrying about Lannister politics and start worrying about normal things. Like Oberyn's complete inability to stay out of the serving girls' beds."
"Mother!" Oberyn yelped. "I have been perfectly—"
"You seduced three girls on the ship here. The captain complained to me personally."
"They were willing participants!"
"They were supposed to be *working*."
"They worked very enthusiastically, I'll have you know—"
"OBERYN."
While Neria lectured her youngest son on the importance of not compromising every female between Dorne and Casterly Rock, Kael felt someone move next to him.
Ashara.
She stood close—closer than was entirely proper—and her voice was pitched for his ears only.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For refusing. I know—" She paused. "I know it was political. Strategic. But still. Thank you."
Kael turned to look at her, and his enhanced vision catalogued everything about her in that moment. The slight tremor in her hands. The way her pulse jumped in her throat. The fact that she smelled like lavender and sea salt and something underneath that was just *her*.
"It wasn't entirely political," he admitted.
"No?"
"No. I just—" He stopped. How did you explain to someone that you'd seen futures that might never happen? That you remembered a story where she died heartbroken, where everyone he loved was destroyed by the machinations of people who saw humans as game pieces?
"I don't want to be tied to people I don't trust," he said instead. "And I don't trust the Lannisters. Any of them."
"Even Jaime? He's just a boy. Seven years old. Surely he's not—"
"He's already being poisoned," Kael said, more sharply than he intended. "By his father's expectations. By his sister's need for—" He caught himself. "It doesn't matter. I won't marry Cersei. And Elia won't marry Jaime. That's final."
Ashara studied him with those impossible violet eyes.
"You see things," she said finally. "Don't you? Things other people miss. It's not just the combat, the way you copy movements. It's deeper than that. You look at people and you *see* them. What they are. What they'll become."
Kael's breath caught.
"I—"
"It's all right," Ashara said quickly. "I'm not asking you to explain. Everyone has secrets. I just—" She took a breath. "I'm glad you're here. That's all. I'm glad you're the kind of person who sees things and does something about them."
"Ashara—"
"Lady Ashara!" Neria called out. "We should prepare for the funeral. Can you help Elia with her dress? The black one needs adjusting."
"Of course, Princess." Ashara stepped back, creating proper distance between them. But her eyes lingered on Kael for just a moment longer.
Then she was gone, sweeping Elia out of the room with efficient grace.
Doran appeared at Kael's elbow. "Well," he said quietly. "That's interesting."
"What is?"
"The way Lady Ashara looks at you. Like you're a puzzle she's trying to solve."
"I'm not a puzzle."
"You absolutely are. You're the most confusing person I know, little brother. And I've met *Tywin Lannister*." Doran's expression turned serious. "But be careful. With Ashara. She's—"
"—Arthur's sister. I know."
"Not just that. She's a romantic. She believes in songs and heroes and true love." Doran's voice dropped lower. "And you're not a song, Kael. You're something else. Something harder. And if she falls for you thinking you're one thing, and discovers you're another—"
"I won't hurt her," Kael said.
"You might not mean to. But intentions don't matter much when hearts are breaking."
Kael wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Doran was wrong, that he could keep Ashara safe, that he could protect her from himself if necessary.
But he'd already made too many promises he wasn't sure he could keep.
So he said nothing.
And in the silence, Doran sighed.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get through this funeral. Then we can go home and pretend the Lannisters don't exist for a while."
"That would be nice," Kael agreed.
But he knew—remembered—that the Lannisters existed whether you pretended or not.
And that ignoring them was just another way of letting them win.
---
**273 AC - Casterly Rock, The Great Sept**
Joanna Lannister was buried on a day that refused to be appropriately solemn.
The sun shone. The sea sparkled. Birds sang in the gardens like they didn't understand that death had visited the Rock and taken something precious.
The sept was packed—every lord and lady from the Westerlands, representatives from other kingdoms, merchants wealthy enough to warrant an invitation, and the small army of servants required to keep Casterly Rock functioning.
Kael stood with his family in the section reserved for visiting nobles, and tried not to catalog every exit and threat vector the way his enhanced mind wanted to.
This was a funeral. Not a battlefield.
(Though in Westeros, the two were often the same thing.)
The septon droned on about the Seven and mercy and the Mother's embrace, and Kael let the words wash over him while he watched the family.
Tywin stood at the front, carved from marble, his face a mask of controlled grief. Next to him: Kevan, looking actually sad, because Kevan was allowed to have emotions. And in front of them, the children.
Cersei and Jaime Lannister, seven years old, golden-haired and beautiful in the way that genetics and privilege created. They held hands—twins, like Kael and Elia, though the similarity ended there.
Cersei's face was dry. No tears. Just a carefully composed expression that looked wrong on a seven-year-old. Like she'd already learned that crying was weakness.
Jaime cried enough for both of them. Quiet, controlled sobs that shook his small shoulders.
And in a nursemaid's arms, because he was too young to stand for the ceremony: Tyrion Lannister. The baby who'd killed his mother just by being born. Too small still to understand what he'd done. What he'd cost.
What he'd spend his entire life trying to atone for.
Kael felt something twist in his chest—pity and anger and the particular grief that came from knowing futures that shouldn't be known.
*That baby will grow up brilliant and broken. Will be treated like a monster by the father standing there like a statue. Will be used and betrayed and hurt by everyone he loves. And will somehow still manage to be the kindest person in the family.*
"Stop staring," Elia whispered beside him. "You're being obvious."
"Sorry."
"What are you looking at anyway?"
"The children. They're—" Kael paused. "They're going to grow up wrong. All of them."
"They're *seven*, Kael. How can you possibly know—"
"I just do. Trust me."
Elia studied him with her too-knowing brown eyes. "Sometimes I think you see things the rest of us don't. Like you're reading a book the rest of us can't open."
*You have no idea how right you are.*
"Maybe I do," he said.
The septon finished his sermon. Prayers were said. Tywin approached the bier where Joanna's body lay wrapped in cloth-of-gold, and for just a moment—just one—the mask cracked.
He touched her face. Gentle. Reverent.
"I will avenge this," Tywin said, and his voice carried across the sept despite being barely above a whisper. "I will make them remember. What House Lannister is. What it means to slight us."
*Them?* Kael thought. *Who's 'them'? She died in childbirth. That's not—*
But then he understood.
Tywin wasn't talking about specific enemies. He was talking about *everyone*. The whole world that had dared to take his wife from him.
The world would pay. And pay. And keep paying until Tywin's grief was satisfied.
Which meant the world would pay forever.
"Gods," Doran breathed beside Kael. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes."
"He's going to be dangerous. More dangerous than he already was."
"Yes."
"We need to be careful. Very careful. Tywin Lannister in grief is like—" Doran searched for words. "—like a dragon with a toothache. Everything looks like a threat."
"Then we stay away from him," Kael said.
"If only it were that simple."
The ceremony concluded. The body was carried to the crypts beneath the Rock, where generations of Lannisters waited in their gilded tombs.
The guests began to file out, murmuring appropriate condolences, already calculating how this death would shift the political landscape.
Kael started to follow his family toward the exit, but a small voice stopped him.
"You're the one who said no."
He turned.
Cersei Lannister stood there, golden and perfect and seven years old and already terrifying.
"I'm sorry?" Kael said.
"To the betrothal. Father told me. He said Prince Kael of House Martell declined to be joined with House Lannister." Her green eyes—her father's eyes—studied him like he was a particularly interesting insect. "Why?"
"Lady Cersei—"
"Answer me." Not a request. A command. From a seven-year-old.
Kael knelt so they were at eye level. "Because you're seven years old. And you should get to choose who you marry when you're old enough to understand what marriage means."
Cersei blinked. "That's stupid."
"Is it?"
"Marriage is political. It's not about choice. It's about strengthening houses. Creating alliances." She said it like she was reciting lessons. Which she probably was. "I'm a Lannister. I'll marry whoever Father decides is worthy."
"What if you don't want to?"
"What I want doesn't matter."
The words came out flat. Matter-of-fact. Already resigned.
Kael felt that twist in his chest again. "It should matter," he said quietly. "You're a person. Not a game piece."
Cersei's expression flickered—surprise? Confusion? Something quickly buried.
"You're strange," she said.
"I've been told."
"Jaime liked you. He said you're the best swordsman he's ever seen." Cersei's chin lifted. "I think he wants to be like you when he grows up. A knight. A warrior. Someone strong."
"Jaime seems like a good boy."
"He's perfect," Cersei said, and there was something fierce in her voice. Possessive. "He's going to be the greatest knight who ever lived. Better than even you."
*Oh gods*, Kael thought. *It's already started. She already loves him in the wrong way.*
"I'm sure he will be," Kael said carefully.
Cersei studied him for another long moment. Then, abruptly: "I'm glad you said no."
"You are?"
"Yes. I didn't want to marry you anyway. You're Dornish. Dorne is hot and sandy and too far from everything that matters." She smoothed her black dress with hands that were perfectly steady. "When I marry, it will be to someone important. Someone who can give me what I deserve."
*A crown*, Kael thought. *You want a crown. Already. At seven years old.*
"I hope you find that," he said, and meant it. Because maybe if she found someone who valued her, loved her properly, saw her as more than a political asset—
But no. That wasn't how the story went.
Cersei would marry Robert Baratheon. Would spend her life competing with a dead girl's ghost. Would twist into something so poisonous that everything she touched would die.
Unless Kael changed it.
Unless he—
"Cersei!" Tywin's voice cut across the sept. "Come."
Cersei's mask slammed back into place. The seven-year-old vanished, replaced by something smaller and harder and terribly controlled.
"Coming, Father," she called.
She gave Kael one last look—calculating, assessing—then swept away with all the dignity of a queen.
Leaving Kael kneeling in the empty sept, surrounded by incense and grief and the particular weight of futures he couldn't prevent.
"That," said Arthur's voice behind him, "was unsettling."
Kael stood, turning to find Arthur and Ashara both watching him with concerned expressions.
"She's seven," Kael said.
"She's also already more dangerous than half the knights in this room," Arthur observed. "Did you see the way she looked at you? Like she was deciding if you were worth killing."
"Arthur," Ashara said. "She's a child."
"She's a *Lannister*. There's a difference." Arthur moved closer to Kael, voice dropping. "Be careful with that family, my friend. I know you already said no to the betrothal, but—"
"But what?"
"But Tywin Lannister doesn't forget slights. And refusing his daughter might count as one. Just—" Arthur paused. "Watch your back. That's all."
"Always do."
"I know. But watch it extra."
They filed out together—Kael, Arthur, Ashara—into the bright Westerlands sunshine that refused to acknowledge anything sad had happened.
In the courtyard, Princess Neria was already organizing their departure. They'd stay one more night—propriety demanded it—but then they'd return to Dorne.
Back to heat and sand and safety.
Away from lions and their gilded traps.
Kael found himself standing next to Ashara again, and this time, neither of them pretended it was accidental.
"You were kind to her," Ashara said quietly. "To Cersei. Even though you refused the match."
"She's a child. She deserves kindness."
"Most lords wouldn't bother. They'd just see the political calculation."
"I'm not most lords."
"No." Ashara's violet eyes found his. "You're really not, are you?"
They stood there in the courtyard, surrounded by nobles and servants and the careful choreography of grief, and something passed between them. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
Or the beginning of something that could be either wonderful or terrible, depending on how carefully they handled it.
"Ashara," Kael started. "I need to tell you—"
"Kael!" Oberyn's voice cut through whatever Kael had been about to say. "Mother wants us! Something about dinner arrangements!"
The moment broke.
Ashara stepped back, creating proper distance. "You should go."
"But—"
"Later," she said, and there was promise in it. "We can talk later."
*Later*, Kael thought as he followed Oberyn toward where Neria was arguing with a steward about something. *There's always a later. Until there isn't.*
He looked back once.
Ashara was watching him.
And in her eyes, he saw futures he wasn't sure he wanted and wasn't sure he could have and wasn't sure he could survive.
But gods, he wanted to try.
---
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