"She's exactly that." His response is brutal in its honesty. "Divine blessing or accident, she's here, she's marked by Cupid's pigment, and she's become the symbol the clan needs to believe winter won't break them."
The words sting because they carry truth I don't want to acknowledge. I've watched the subtle changes in clan dynamics since Saela's arrival—increased optimism, renewed faith in traditions that have guided Frostfang survival for generations, the kind of collective hope that makes harsh seasons bearable.
All hanging on a relationship neither she nor I wanted, built on misunderstanding and political necessity.
"She's been through enough," I say quietly. "Forcing public displays of affection?—"
"Who said anything about forcing?" Bronn's tone gentles slightly, though his eyes remain implacable. "Spend time with her. Let the clan see you together, see that this blessing means something real. If genuine feeling develops, better. If not..." He shrugs eloquently. "Learn to fake it convincingly."
The casual suggestion makes my hands clench involuntarily. The idea of performing intimacy, of manipulating Saela's trust for political theater, sits like poison in my throat.
But refusing isn't really an option. Not when clan stability depends on maintaining faith in traditions that have carried us through decades of hardship and uncertainty.
"How long?" I ask.
"I'll give you two more weeks, Brother. By then, the clan needs to believe this binding will happen." His steel-gray eyes bore into mine with uncompromising intensity. "Make it convincing, Kai. Too much depends on it for personal squeamishness to interfere."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing among ancestral monuments with the weight of impossible expectations pressing down like winter itself.
I'm still wrestlingwith Bronn's ultimatum when Shae finds me an hour later, her warm green eyes bright with the kind of enthusiasm that usually means she's discovered something she thinks I need to hear.
"The human is remarkable," she announces without preamble, settling onto the stone bench beside me with the casual familiarity of someone who's known me since childhood. "Truly remarkable."
"Saela," I correct automatically. "Her name is Saela."
"Yes, Saela." Shae's smile carries gentle reproach for my defensive tone. "She spent the morning visiting families, learning names, remembering details about children and crafts and concerns that matter to people. Natural leadership instincts."
The compliment warms something in my chest that I try to ignore. Pride, maybe, or the satisfaction of knowing someone I'm responsible for is earning genuine respect rather than polite tolerance.
"She's intelligent," I agree carefully.
"She's more than intelligent. She's compassionate, observant, genuinely interested in people rather than just going through social motions." Shae studies my face with the intensity of someone looking for specific reactions. "The clan women adore her already."
That shouldn't matter as much as it does. Female approval within Frostfang culture carries significant political weight, determining everything from resource allocation to conflict resolution. If Saela has earned genuine acceptance from the women's council, it changes the entire dynamic of her position here.
"Good," I say, aiming for neutrality and probably failing.
"Is it?" Shae's voice carries a gentle challenge. "Because sometimes you act like her integration is a problem to be managed rather than a success to be celebrated."
The observation stings because it hits closer to truth than comfortable. I have been treating Saela's growing comfort here as complication rather than positive development, worried about implications and expectations instead of appreciating her resilience.
"It's complicated," I say finally.
"Most worthwhile things are." Shae shifts position to face me more directly, her expression serious despite the warmth in hervoice. "She told me she's never really had a home before. Never had someone she could depend on completely."
The words twist something painful in my chest. I think of Saela's hyperaware tension, the way she scans for threats even during casual conversation, the careful distance she maintains even when accepting kindness.
Survival instincts carved by loss and disappointment, shaped by a life where safety was temporary and trust was dangerous.
"Sometimes," Shae continues quietly, "two broken people can help heal one another. If they're brave enough to try."
"We're not broken," I protest, though the words feel hollow even as I speak them.
"Aren't you?" Her green eyes hold mine with gentle persistence. "You've been carrying grief like armor since Lyanna died, convinced that caring too much leads to inevitable loss. She's been running from connection because everyone who mattered to her either died or disappeared."
The mention of Lyanna makes my breath catch. Shae is one of the few people who knew about my relationship with the woman from the northern enclave, who understood what her death meant beyond political complications.
"That's different," I say.
