A ring-necked dove found its way into his room and flew about in a panic, unable to find the window again. He chased after it, trying to catch it so he could let it out, but every time the tips of his fingers brushed the dove’s feathers, it fluttered out of his reach.

Finally, it landed on his bed and he grabbed it, but with far too much force. He looked down at the limp dove in his hands, its beak parted in a gasp, the lids of its little black eyes slowly closing.

Such an impossible, overwhelming feeling of terrible regret and sadness overwhelmed him that he was forced awake with a cry.

Tristan lay in bed, breathing heavily as the stress of the dream wore away. The sun had yet to rise.

He shoved the heavy mountain of blankets away and got out of bed, wincing as he walked across the cold stone floor, fumbling his way in the dark.

He broke the layer of frost that covered the dish of water on his dressing table and washed as quickly as he could, hoping to sneak down to the kitchens before anyone else woke.

He was accustomed to waking up this early. Since the day he woke to the smell of something burning, going to the window to see the burning pile of clothes and furniture in the dark, he found that it was difficult to sleep for more than a couple hours at a time. And certainly never past a certain hour of the early morning.

On days like this he would dress, and go down to the kitchen to smuggle a scrap of food before the kitchen maids gathered there. Then he’d walk the Hall. He would find Bran, count the heads of all the people who slept in the hay there. He’d press his ear against the new Queen’s door to make sure she was still there, snoring.

He didn’t linger by them, just walked past them quickly enough that he could be certain that they were still there, still breathing, that no one had been dragged out to the bog in the middle of the night—

He crept out of his chambers and nearly ran into a pair of girls, startling him so much that he shrank back against the shadowy wall. They didn’t notice him, whispering excitedly as they hurried down the corridor, holding their candles in one hand and their skirts out of the way in the other, scurrying toward the Hall as fast as they could without their flames going out. He stared at their backs, shocked. Tristan hadn’t heard anyone laughing in the Tower since winter had begun.

Wearily he followed them, inexplicably nervous.

The Hall was lit by a crowd of servants and soldiers, all holding their own lanterns and candles, creating a warm globe of light. Standing in the center of it was the knight that had appeared from the snowstorm the evening before, his chest wrapped tightly in bandages and his cloak thrown unclasped over his bare shoulders. A crescent of both men and women crowded around him, leaning against each other to get even an inch closer.

Word must have burned through the Tower that something interesting was happening, and it was standing white-haired and half-nude in the middle of the Hall. Tristan was too far to hear, but the man was smiling and speaking animatedly, gesturing wildly despite his injuries.

Bran’s huge shoulders were effective in keeping the crowd from getting too close to the injured man. He stood next to him, holding a steaming goblet, which he nearly spilled when he noticed Tristan standing there. He raised a hand to greet him while the rest of the crowd turned and bobbed at him, more out of reflex than respect. Tristan hesitated, then stepped forward to join them.

“My Lord, this unfortunate scrap is called Morgan,” Bran told Tristan, “The doctors just finished. They spent the night treating him, and he’s been telling us stories while they work, like he doesn’t feel a thing! And now he refuses to sit. It’s as if the man doesn’t feel pain!”

The man was shorter than Tristan, and had a heart-shaped face with delicate features aside from the very dark brows that stood out from his white hair. Pale, shining scars cut across his mouth and his cheek, and they glinted ever so slightly as he turned to look up at him.

The man, Morgan, cocked his head to the side just slightly as if it helped him see Tristan better. Those scars on his lips pulled as he smiled, tight and self-assured. He stepped forward.

Bowing low, he took Tristan by his offered hand. But instead of keeping his eyes to the ground, Morgan looked up at him. There was a familiarity in his eyes, like they’d known each other forever, like they were not Lord and Knight.

“My Lord,” he said, his voice low, “Tristan, was it?”

Tristan and the rest of the crowd were too stunned to notice the rudeness, as they watched in shock as the man’s bandages began to bleed red from the movement.

There was a flurry of movement as someone brought a chair that Bran all but picked him up and set him on. The man laughed at all the commotion on his behalf, and Tristan found himself leaning forward to better hear it.

“I’m quite fine,” Morgan protested, “Look at me, my friends, I am more pincushion than man.”

The cloak that covered him had slipped away from his shoulders. The knight’s skin, what was visible around the bandages, was a lattice of pitted and torn flesh, raised and red or shining white, the scars crisscrossing themselves in layers. One arm looked as if it was covered in bright, crimson lace; the remnant of a burn that wrapped itself around the lean, defined muscle of his arm and shoulder.

“A pincushion? You look more like something chewed,” Bran quipped. Morgan and the men in the crowd laughed. Color stained the women’s cheeks, their eyes shining and warm.

Tristan was quiet, still transfixed by the burn, lost in an imagining of this man aflame and burning as if the fire was a part of him. He swallowed, tracing the mark up his skin, to the white hair that brushed his shoulders, to the scarred and wine-stained lips, to the dark brow.

Tristan startled as he met his eyes. Morgan’s gaze was fixed on him, smiling, ignoring the clamor and fuss around him, ignoring Bran as he retrieved the fallen cloak and covered him with it again.