Three days had passed since the mission fell apart. Morning sunlight spilled gently across Tesmee's room, painting her in gold as she sat at her vanity, slowly combing through the length of her thick black hair. The silence wasn't empty — it echoed with unspoken thoughts.
She stared at her reflection, eyes narrowed, a whisper curling from her lips.
"What would've happened if his heart hadn't softened… just a little?"
A deep sigh followed. Her fingers paused in her hair, comb gripping halfway through.
"Damn, that was a reckless move." Her voice was low, laced with both irritation and grudging amusement. "He's not like the rest. I can't just move impulsively on him — not anymore. He's too sharp. Too calculated."
Tesmee leaned closer to the mirror, eyes locking with her own like she was confronting another version of herself. "What the hell was that heat? That shock when he touched my waist…"
She let out a short, breathy laugh.
"God, I'm such a bitch."
A louder chuckle escaped her throat — raw, honest. "Dammit," she said again, shaking her head. "And worst part? I'd do it again. I'd throw myself right back into his arms without hesitation."
She dropped her gaze, a twisted smile playing on her lips.
"Tesmee… no," she whispered. "Don't be that girl."
But she knew better. That girl — the one who ached even while holding a blade — was exactly who she was.
"Am I weak around him?" Tesmee murmured, her eyes still locked on her reflection. She paused, then shook her head. "No… I'm not. I just love wasting time admiring his goddamn face."
Her fingers traced the edge of the vanity. "Maybe burning him alive will fix that. Kill the attraction. Maybe then I won't see that fearsome posture… the way he moves... his voice… his skin…"
A low, smoky laugh escaped her throat.
"Ahhh, maybe I should taste him one last time—when the end is near." Her lips curved into a devilish smirk, but the smirk faltered into a sigh.
"Fuck no… What the hell am I even saying?" Her voice dropped as she leaned back in her chair, shoulders relaxing. "Though it's not like someone's listening. He's good at everything. Especially in bed."
She tilted her head, eyes hooded, a wicked little smile growing. "Damn..." she said it slowly, letting the word curl like smoke on her tongue.
Another sigh.
"Okay. Enough," she muttered to herself with finality. She stood, smooth and elegant, gathering her thick black hair and tying it back in a firm knot — sealing the moment away. She didn't glance back at the mirror. She didn't need to.
At the Hale estate, the family gathered in the living room, warm light bouncing off polished wood and glass. They sat in a circle—Tom in his usual armchair, Tywin perched comfortably on his grandfather's lap, the rest of the family lounging across the couches, nibbling on snacks and murmuring about politics, business, and war.
Tyson stood off to the side, hands buried deep in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
"Father," he said suddenly, his voice cutting clean through the casual noise.
Tom looked up slowly, meeting his son's gaze.
"What happened to Aunt Athena?"
The room dipped into a strange silence. Tom's eyes cooled. "She died. You were too young to remember."
Tyson didn't flinch. "She was married, wasn't she?"
"Yes," Tom replied curtly, already growing irritated.
"To whom?"
A pause.
Tom exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. "I don't think it matters, Tyson."
But Tyson's voice had gone low. Intent. "It matters to me."
Tom's grip on Tywin shifted slightly.
The others fell quiet, eyes darting between the two men. There was weight in the air—something ancient and unfinished pressing on the edge of the conversation.
Tom's gaze hardened. "Let's not talk about her. She's gone…"
A beat passed. Tyson studied him, lips twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"If you say so, old man."
And with that, he turned on his heel and left the room, his silence louder than the question he'd asked.
At dusk, Tesmee moved quietly through her kitchen, music humming in her ears through her earbuds. A pencil danced in her fingers, sketching in a notebook between stirring pots. The smell of spices lingered in the air, mingling with her steady rhythm—draw, stir, taste, draw again.
Then a thought hit her. Without hesitation, she pulled out her phone and called Lorenzo.
He arrived not long after, stepping into the kitchen with his usual guarded expression. She didn't bother greeting him formally—just pointed at a chair, earbuds still in, music still playing.
"How's your week off?" she asked coolly, pencil gliding over the paper again.
Lorenzo scoffed, leaning back. "Week off? There's no such thing for me."
Tesmee smirked. "Well, happy birthday to you then."
He narrowed his eyes. "That what you called me here for?"
She pulled out an earbud and turned to him with a teasing coldness in her voice. "Do you mind having supper with me?"
Lorenzo sighed and rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious saying that's what this is about."
Tesmee laughed under her breath. "We'll talk about it when we eat."
The food was ready. They ate in the living room, each lounging on opposite couches—no need for formalities between them.
"You know, I was wondering…" Tesmee said mid-bite, pausing as she chewed.
Lorenzo looked up. "What is it?"
"Do you remember Frank?"
His brow lifted. "Frank? You mean old man Frank?"
"YES, LORENZO. The old man," she rolled her eyes dramatically.
He chuckled. "Why are you asking?"
"Can you find him? And send word that I'm looking for him?"
"Yeah, I can do that. But... what's this about?"
She scoffed, casually picking at her plate. "I'll let you know soon."
Lorenzo nodded slowly, clearing his throat. "If you say so. Still, sometimes I wonder... why didn't Tyson just marry a woman who can cook like this?"
Tesmee smirked. "His loss, I guess."
They both laughed, the ease between them settling like an old, familiar song.