An inexplicable tension filled silences that had once been comfortable. An electric pull that led Kvothe’s dark eyes over the familiar lines of the Lagoon’s General, seeing him as if for the first time. And in a way, perhaps the red woman was. For the longest time— far beyond the last time he’d turned away— she hadn’t seen anyone but Ironclad. She couldn’t. The grey stallion’s face followed her everywhere she went, chasing her even in the Lagoon’s shadows. Haunting her in the memory of his silence and the unbridgeable chasm it had opened between them. But even so, she’d still loved him— had still yearned for him with a quiet desperation that seasons could not touch. She’d still waited, and dreamed, and hoped of the day that the Prince of her heart would return.

Until— without knowing how or when or why— she began to wait for something else. To dream and hope of someone else.

Lifting her dark gaze to meet Tyr’s in the moment he began to speak, the chestnut Friesian felt her heart twist at the evidence of his pain and uncertainty. Without thinking, she stepped forward, reaching for the stallion. Pressing her muzzle into the hollow of his throat, and breathing deeply of his scent. Sweat and damp soil and a heady musk all his own. Together, they’d come to represent a refuge from solitude and sorrow. Together, they smelled like home.

For a moment she was lost in the confounding tangle of her own emotions. When Kvothe resurfaced, it was to the deep rumble of his voice, and the continuation of his previous words. Even if he is doing this to prove himself… The solemness of her expression deepened at the revelation Tyr’s words offered— the glimpse into a side of him she’d never understood. She’d never considered that there might be darkness in his past, and it made her heart to think of a Frey-sized Tyr being violently brought to heel by a stallion over twice his size. “No,” she whispered brokenly, pushing the image away even as her lips found a scar just below his throat and traced its jagged edges. “Whatever your father’s methods… we can’t, Tyr. I— I couldn’t bear to see him hurt.” She pulled back, her brown eyes lingering on his again. Sharing the words she’d left unspoken.

Or you. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt, either.

“—he is capable though, isn’t he? And eager to learn?” The slender mare continued, the syllables falling faster and faster from her lips. “Couldn’t you offer to teach him, with the promise that you’ll support him when he’s ready? Couldn’t you groom him as your successor? It’s what he wants, Tyr, and it might bring him closer to you. And— and even if it doesn’t, he’s not the only son you have. He doesn’t have to be the last, either.” Kvothe tucked her chin at the boldness of those words, letting the fiery veil of her mane tumble down to hide her face. It was the first time she'd actually offered to carry his child; the first time that she wanted him to want her that way.

And the first time— since fleeing from Ironclad in the Falls— that she’d left the door to her heart open, even knowing how painfully such vulnerability could end.