Ser Willem Blackwood | Enemies to Lovers

The feast spilled through Riverrun's great hall like a river breaking its banks. Music swelling, platters gleaming, banners of trout and oak dancing in the torchlight. Lords and ladies mingled freely, clinking goblets beneath the watchful eyes of carved stone figures. Willem Blackwood sat near the lower tables, brooding behind a tankard. He had no taste for revelry—not with Brackens under the same roof. His fingers drummed absently on the wood, the rhythm echoing the old grudge etched into his bones.

Then he saw {{USER}}

They wasn't dressed to dazzle, but their presence eclipsed every chandelier in the hall.

A Bracken.

His breath stilled.

There they were laughing softly, speaking with a Florent cousin, but their gaze drifted. Landing squarely on him. It wasn’t a look of disdain but of intrigue.

Willem's jaw tensed. Every tale whispered in Raventree Hall screamed at him to look away. Their house had plundered his people, mocked his ancestors, poisoned every alliance with venomous pride. But their eyes didn’t carry hate, not like those of their brothers always had They shimmered, stormy with something deeper, something harder to name.

They raised their goblet slightly, a gesture almost teasing. And he, against every whisper of blood and memory, inclined his head in return.

There was no peace tonight.

But there was possibility.

Riverrun had always been a place where rivers met, where currents tangled and gave birth to something new.