RUNNER UP (team) for PyarKaTropeFest entry #2
graphic-er : Sevenstreaks/ Sandya
Trope: Enemies to lovers, second chance romance
setting: Historical
characters: Anthony Bridgerton from Bridgerton and Sansa Stark from Game of Thrones
The Edge of Rivalry
The evening sky over the Bridgerton estate was painted in hues of molten gold and crimson. The annual treaty summit between the Northern Duchy and the Bridgerton lands had long been an affair fraught with tension, whispers of old wounds festering beneath layers of polite smiles and half-hearted toasts.
Sansa Stark stood by the grand balcony, her corset cinched tight, her gloved hands resting upon the marble balustrade. Her copper hair, like woven fire, cascaded over her shoulder as she watched the gathering below. Men and women in resplendent silks and velvet, adorned in jewels, whispered and plotted, their smiles as sharp as daggers.
And then, there he was.
Anthony Bridgerton.
Her supposed rival. The Viscount. A warrior of impeccable reputation and the heir to his family’s estate. As much she did not like him much, she could never ignore the beauty of the man. It should have been illegal to look the way he did. He stood with his back straight, a glass of wine in one hand, his gaze scanning the crowd with measured discipline. Their eyes met across the room, and though neither spoke, the air crackled with unspoken words, unyielding pride and crackling with something deeper.
It had always been this way between them. Their families bore grievances older than their fathers, built on long-forgotten betrayals. Yet, Sansa could never quite dismiss the way Anthony carried himself—staunch, strait-laced, and honor-bound to his responsibilities. He was a man of order, of structure. She, on the other hand, thrived in chaos. A storm beneath silk, daring and unpredictable, she had never shied away from a fight.
All beneath the posturing, there was something else. A history of loss, of heartbreak. Sansa had already been burned in love, left to pick up the shattered pieces of trust, while Anthony had long abandoned the notion of a second chance, believing duty left no room for something as fragile as hope.
But admiration was a dangerous thing when buried beneath layers of loathing.
The attack was unexpected, without an hint of warning. One moment, the summit hall brimmed with polite conversation, and the next, a shattering of glass, the roar of fire, and masked assailants storming through the grand doors.
Sansa had her blade unsheathed before she could think.
Anthony moved in tandem with her, their backs against one another as they fended off the attackers. They were outnumbered, but not outmatched. Sansa’s sword danced through the air, her strikes precise and fearless, her footwork aggressive and unrelenting. Anthony was a disciplined force of nature, every motion calculated, every strike an embodiment of control.
For the first time, they fought not against each other, but as one.
“Sansa!” Anthony barked, parrying a strike. “Behind you!”
She pivoted, grinning at the thrill of battle, and drove her blade into the enemy’s side before he could react. A dagger whizzed past her cheek, grazing skin, but Anthony’s arm was there before she could stumble.
Their movements became synchronized, a silent language written in steel and instinct. They were equals in battle—fierce, unyielding, unstoppable.
As the chaos unfolded, she caught glimpses of him in the heat of battle—the determined furrow of his brow, the effortless precision of his strikes. He was methodical, unwavering, a man who fought not for glory, but for duty. And yet, she knew she was not just another ally to him in this moment. There was something unspoken between them, something neither dared to acknowledge.
By the time the last of the attackers had fallen, the estate was in ruins, the night thick with smoke and the cries of the wounded. The enemy had not succeeded in taking the summit, but they had left destruction in their wake.
Sansa found herself in the stables, tending to a wound on her arm when Anthony entered, his sleeves rolled up, his jaw clenched.
“You fight well,” he said gruffly.
“So do you,” she replied, not looking at him.
A pause. And then—
“They came for both of us,” Anthony admitted. “It was not just an attack on my house. It was an attack on yours as well.”
Sansa met his gaze then, her heart pounding.
“This feud between our families…” She exhaled, voice steady yet challenging. “It is nothing but a ghost we have allowed to haunt us.. for too long.”
Anthony stared at her for a long moment before nodding. “Perhaps we have let old wounds fester too long.”
For the first time, they saw each other not as adversaries, but as two souls who had suffered losses too great to bear, bound by duty, chained by expectations, and wary of love, not willing to take a second chance on something that had failed them before.
As the night wore on, their words softened. Anthony reached for her arm, his fingers brushing lightly over her bandage. “You should let someone tend to this properly.”
She smirked. “I hardly see you seeking a healer for your own wounds.”
He exhaled through his nose, a half-laugh escaping him. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are,” she countered, her voice quieter, more thoughtful.
He didn’t move away. Instead, his fingers lingered against her wrist, the warmth of his touch sending an unfamiliar shiver down her spine.
The summit was postponed, but both Sansa and Anthony stayed. As the estate was rebuilt, so too was something unspoken between them.
They sparred in the courtyard, neither willing to yield but neither wishing to win. Anthony followed the rules, ever disciplined in his stance, while Sansa fought with daring unpredictability, pressing him just past his comfort. And when the world quieted, when dusk settled over the land and the air grew heavy with unspoken words, they simply sat in silence, knowing that for once, they were not alone.
One evening, as the embers of the fire flickered low, Anthony found her on the balcony once more, her eyes lost in thought. “I never thought I would find myself here,” he admitted.
Sansa turned to him, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Neither did I.”
After a moment, she added, “I have been burned before, Anthony.”
His gaze softened. “So have I.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve. “Then what do we do with this?”
He stepped closer, his breath warm against her temple. “We stop running from it.”
When it was time to leave, Anthony took her hand, a simple gesture, but one that spoke of change.
“We need not be what they expected of us,” he said.
Sansa’s lips curved into a teasing smirk. “No, we need not. But where would the fun be in that?”
And then, for the first time, she did something reckless.
She leaned in, pressing a passionate kiss to his lips—brief, but lingering. When she pulled away, Anthony was still, as if caught between disbelief and something softer, something unnamed.
“When I return,” she whispered, “let us speak not of the past, but of the future.”
His fingers tightened around hers, his gaze warm, steady, but still resolute. “I will hold you to that, Lady Stark.”
And with that, she walked away, the night wind carrying with it the promise of something new. Something neither of them had dared to hope for before but could not let go of now.
A second chance and a love worth fighting for.
XXXXXXX
approximately 1210+ words.
Bade Achche Lagte Hain Naya Season
Cricket
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