Deep in the belly of the Red Keep, where cold stone swallowed sunlight and memories clung like damp moss, Brynden Rivers sat alone. The years had left their mark upon him—his white hair hung lank around a face carved by hardship and judgment, his single red eye staring into the gloom, the socket of the other covered by a black patch. He did not speak, nor move, until a knock echoed against the iron bars.
"Lord Rivers," came the voice of the guard. "You have a visitor."
He said nothing. But he knew who it must be.
The cell door opened with a low creak. Boots clicked against the flagstones. Then came the perfume—jasmine, smoke, and sea salt. She never changed her scent. Never needed to.
Shiera Seastar.
She stood before him wrapped in a gown of midnight blue, her silver-gold hair spilling like moonlight over her shoulders, her mismatched eyes—one deep blue, one bright green—still as disarming as when she first turned them on a boy named Brynden.
"You look older," she teased, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Worn, weary, gray as the stones you sit on."
"And you," Brynden rasped, "look just as you did the first time I asked you to marry me. And the first time you refused."
She laughed. It was a low, silken thing, like a secret whispered in candlelight. "I should hope so. You never did ask a third time. Perhaps you knew I'd only break your heart again."
He chuckled, bitterly, the sound rasping like wind through dead leaves. "Or perhaps I grew tired of chasing ghosts."
Shiera's smile faltered. Behind her mismatched gaze lay a shade of sadness, subtle and fleeting. Brynden saw it but did not speak of it. Some truths were better left unvoiced, even at the end.
"Tell me," he said, leaning back against the wall. "What now for you, my lady of stars and shadows? Will you linger here, whispering in the ears of kings, as I once did? Or will you fly across the sea, as you always threatened?"
"Do you think I'll follow you to the Wall?" she asked, arching a pale brow. "They say no women are allowed at Castle Black. Not even witches."
He snorted. "The Night's Watch wouldn't survive a week if you were there."
Shiera circled the cell like a cat, her fingers trailing along the damp stone. "There is no place for me in King's Landing now. The ladies of court call me a whore behind painted fans, and the men once too bold to do so now keep their distance. The whispers have changed. You were the only reason I remained."
"You'll go to Essos, then?"
She nodded slowly. "Perhaps. I have cousins in Lys. Or maybe I'll find a ship to Braavos, and drink shade-of-the-evening with mad priests who speak to ghosts. Or Volantis. The Red Temple is always hiring spies."
He smiled faintly. "So this is farewell, then."
She stopped before him, and for a moment they were young again—the Bastard of Bloodraven and the Witch of the Court, before crowns and swords and deaths stained their names in history.
Without a word, she stepped into the cell, and he rose to meet her. They stood close, the silence louder than any words.
Then she kissed him.
It was not a kiss of youth or lust, but of loss—of all the years never shared, all the moments that passed between shadows and duty, betrayal and silence. It lingered like a final spell, cast by two who had played the game of thrones and lost too much.
When they parted, Brynden's red eye did not shine. "Go," he said.
"And you," she whispered, brushing his cheek. "Keep your red eye on the snow. There are things in the cold darker than even you, my love."
She left him with a look. Not one of sorrow, but remembrance.
The cell door closed behind her with a finality that echoed long after she was gone.