Her heart is breaking, her whole world close to shattering into a thousand pieces she will never be able to put back together. This doesn’t change anything, it can’t change anything; her father is still dead, her family still destroyed, and she still has no future beyond catching rats in dying castles. But if Ser Voyne has already suffered for it—if Ser Voyne tells her that she has thought of Treila every day, even though Treila was just a girl, just collateral damage, then Treila doesn’t know who she is anymore.

Because Treila was betrayed by Ser Voyne, and hates Ser Voyne. And right now, she doesn’t feel hate. She feels—raw. Out of control. Desperate and needy and longing.

She lets herself be seated on the same bench. Stares as Ser Voyne kneels at her feet.

All around them, impossibly green shoots push up from the earth. Young plants, plants that should have sprouted months ago, were eaten weeks ago. But here they are, incontrovertible. Food, fresh food, and Treila should not be so delighted, because she needs to get out, not stay. Everybody must get out, not stay. Food here is worthless if they can’t break through the siege.

And yet all of her reason feels as distant as her rage. She’s too giddy. She stares back at Ser Voyne, and can’t stop herself from asking, desperately, “Where has your doubt gone?”

“Far away,” Ser Voyne says with a small, sheepish smile. “I understand now how foolish it was, to be so surprised by your presence. To mistrust it so. Of course you’re here, because . . . because I have need of you.”

Treila can’t stop the shocked sound that ekes out of her throat.

Focus. She never thought she would have Ser Voyne so close, with all her armor shed. Treila has a knife at her belt, a knife that would fit so perfectly in the notch between her clavicle and her ribs, right into her lungs, and it would be so sweet to hear her gasping, breath bubbling as she thrashed on the ground.

Wouldn’t it?

And wouldn’t it be even better with Ser Voyne hanging on her every word, kneeling at her feet like this? Yearning for her touch?

Because she is yearning. Treila can see that. Shaking, she reaches out, fits her palm to Ser Voyne’s cheek. The older woman leans into it. Her eyes close in decadent pain.

“My lady,” Ser Voyne breathes.

Treila’s lower lip trembles. Her free hand hovers above the hilt of her knife, then falls.

She can’t do it. This devotion is too much. It makes her feel powerful in a way that feigning fear never would have.