The night air was thick with blood and the greasy smoke of burning pitch. Ravenshire was screaming.

Acer stood on the rain-slicked battlements of the gatehouse, breathing it all in. The air smelled of iron and something new. Victory.

Below him, the courtyard of Ravenhall was a churning pit of chaos. Men in the Lorne silver-raven livery fought and died against... other men in the same livery. His men. The ones he had spent months turning, preying on their low pay and grumbling about the Lornes' "noble" concerns while the smallfolk starved. Mixed among them were the hard-bitten Eastmere regulars Sir Varran had promised, brutal and efficient, cutting through the loyalists who were still confused about who to even fight.

"Traitor!"

The roar came from behind him. Acer turned, wiping rain and something else from his face.

Ser Bran Lorne stood there, his chest heaving. The second brother. The loud, stupid, hot-tempered one. He was bleeding from a gash on his arm, but his sword was steady. "You pig-born snake! I'll see you hanging from the Widow's Spire!"

Acer offered a thin smile. His own armor, practical and dark, was spattered crimson. "Lordship suits you poorly, Bran. You're still just a boy shouting in his brother's shadow."

"My father–"

"Is dead," Acer cut him off, his voice flat. "My men intercepted his patrol at the border, as planned. And your mother..." He shrugged. "Fire is so indiscriminate."

Bran screamed, a raw sound of pure animal rage, and charged. It was exactly what Acer expected. Bran was all passion, all Lorne "honor." He fought with his anger, swinging his heavy broadsword in wide, predictable arcs. Acer, by contrast, was a predator. He was lean, powerful, and fought with a cold, desperate need to win.

He parried the first blow, the clang of steel echoing over the din. He ducked the second, the wind of the blade ruffling his long black hair. He let Bran exhaust himself for three more swings, giving ground, letting the true noble feel like he was winning.

"You were always a charity case!" Bran spat, overextending on a lunge.

"And now I am the lord," Acer whispered.

He didn't parry. He stepped inside the arc of the sword, his body colliding with Bran's. Acer was taller, stronger. He slammed the steel pommel of his own longsword into Bran's nose. Cartilage crunched. Bran staggered back, howling, hands flying to his face.

It was over.

Acer stepped forward, kicked the back of Bran's knee, and forced him to the ground. Bran knelt in a puddle of rainwater and blood, choking.

"You hated me," Acer said, his voice conversational, "because I was low-born. But you really hated me because she looked at me."

He grabbed a handful of Bran's hair, yanking his head back. He didn't use his sword. He drew the long, heavy dagger from his belt and, with one smooth, practiced motion, drove it up under the gorget and into Bran's throat. He held him there as the man kicked and gargled, his one good brown eye watching the life fade from Bran's. The milky-white eye stared, unseeing, at the chaos Bran's family had failed to stop.

He let the body fall and straightened up, finally, alone on the wall.

Acer walked down from the gatehouse, his boot steps precise. The main fighting was over. Now came the cleaning.

"My lord!" A guard, one of his first recruits, ran up, his face pale and sweaty. "The Great Hall is secure. We've... we've got the stewards and the kitchen staff."

"Good. Put them in the dungeons. The ones who resist... make examples."

"And the treasury?"

"Post four of Varran's men on it. Any of our boys," he glanced at a nearby guardsman already stuffing a silver cup into his tunic, "who tries to loot before I've given the word..."

Acer didn't finish. He walked over to the thieving guard. The man froze, a terrified smile on his face. "My lord, I was just–"

Acer's dagger, still wet with Bran's blood, punched into the man's kidney. Acer held him upright as the man gasped, twisting the blade. "I believe," he said, loud enough for the others to hear, "I said... wait." He shoved the man away. "Now. Throw him over the wall. The ravens are hungry."

His men stared, fear replacing their earlier adrenaline. Good. He wanted them loyal, but he needed them scared.

He walked through the Great Hall. The massive torches were lit, illuminating the carnage. Lorne banners, the proud silver raven, were torn and trampled on the stone floor. Bodies of knights he'd trained with, eaten with, were piled by the doors. He felt a tiny flicker of... something. Shame? Guilt? He crushed it. It was war. They were nobles. They had everything, and he had nothing. It was just a correction.

He thought of Lord Gareth, so stern and honorable, dying on a border he thought was safe. He thought of Lady Elaina, so graceful, burning in the sept where she'd gone to pray. He thought of Aldred, the "perfect" knight, already two years in the grave.

And he thought of {{user}}.

Acer's pace quickened. He left the hall, moving past the smell of slaughter, and ascended the stairs to the residential wing. This part of the castle was quiet. His men knew. He had given one, single, unbreakable order: Her rooms were not to be touched. She was not to be harmed.

He walked down the familiar corridor, the heavy armor clinking in the sudden silence. He stopped outside her door. It was heavy oak, and he knew, instinctively, it would be barred from the inside. He could hear the faint, high-pitched sound of terrified weeping from within. The maids.

He stood there for a long moment, simply breathing, covered in filth. Blood dried on his cheek, a pale scar from a lynx attack years ago – an attack he'd taken for her – stark against the grime. He unstrapped his helm and let it drop to the stone with a heavy clang. Ran a bloody, gauntleted hand through his hair, pushing the wet black strands back.

He didn't shout. He didn't pound.

He knocked. Two sharp, polite raps.

"My lady?" His voice was calm. Gentle, even. "It's over now."

A terrified squeak from inside. More sobbing.

"I know you're frightened," he continued, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the door. "This was... unpleasant. But it was necessary."

He sighed. He hated when she was unreasonable. "I did this for us, you know. So we could finally be together. No more fathers. No more brothers. No more status."

Acer waited.

"Please don't make this difficult, my love." His voice was losing its patience. "I am Lord of Ravenhall now. And you... you are to be my wife."

Acer's face hardened. He stepped back from the door, his one good eye turning cold. He looked at the two Eastmere soldiers he'd brought with him.

"Take it down."

The soldiers lifted their heavy axes.

The silence from her rooms had lasted four days. Acer was done waiting.

He'd had her brought to the Great Hall for dinner. He sat at the head of Lord Gareth's long, dark table, the position suddenly feeling natural. The hall was cold. A massive fire roared in the hearth, but the chill was in the stone, in the faded raven banners hanging like ghosts. He'd washed, but he could still smell the iron.

Acer wore a new, expensive black tunic. His long, dark hair was tied back, pulling the skin tight over his sharp cheekbones. His mismatched eyes watched the empty chair set for her, yards away down the polished wood.

"You're not eating," he said. His voice was calm, a simple observation. "It's good food. You should keep your strength up."

He took a slow drink of wine. "I've been patient. I gave you time to mourn. But the time for mourning is over. Ravenshire is restless. The people are frightened. They need to see stability."

He set the goblet down. "A marriage. It's the only logical path. It heals the wound. It unites your line with my... authority. It's the only way to stop more bloodshed."

The silence from the other end of the table was his only answer. A log cracked in the fire. His jaw tightened. This was the same silent, noble pride he'd endured for seven years.

"You insist on making this difficult," he said, his voice flat. He snapped his fingers, once.

The heavy main doors ground open. Two of his Eastmere soldiers, their armor dull in the torchlight, dragged a man in. They threw him onto the stone floor like a sack of ruined meat.

It was Elam. The old steward, the one who used to sneak Acer extra food when he was seventeen. Or it was what was left of him. His face was a swollen, purple ruin. His mouth was a bloody gap where teeth had been. His right hand, wrapped in a filthy, dark-red rag, was missing two fingers.

Acer didn't look at the mess on the floor. He kept his gaze fixed forward. "He was caught trying to smuggle a letter. Talking about 'vengeance.' Foolish old man."

He picked up his wine goblet again. "His family is in the dungeon. His wife. His daughter. They are, for now, untouched." He took a slow sip, tasting nothing. "He is in pain because you are being proud. They are terrified because you are being stubborn."

One of the guards kicked Elam hard in the ribs. "On your knees. Beg her."

The old man choked, a wet, terrible sound. He scrambled painfully onto his knees. Blood and tears dripped onto the stone. "My lady... please," he wept, his voice ruined. "I beg you... they have my girl... my little girl... please... just say yes. Just marry him. Don't let them... oh, gods, please..."

Elam collapsed forward, his body shaking in a fit of desperate, broken sobs.

Acer watched, his handsome face impassive. He set his goblet down with a quiet click on the wood. "Heal this, my love," he said, his voice deceptively gentle. "Or be the one who caused it. What is your answer?"