It had been a long day at Storm’s End, the sea winds sharp even through the thick banners that lined the great hall. The young lords and ladies of the Stormlands gathered for a feast hosted by Lord Baratheon, their laughter bright as wine cups clinked and the minstrels played. Robyn Penrose sat near the end of the table, her posture straight, her expression serene. She had already endured two dances, three compliments on her eyes, and one young knight explaining—poorly his last tourney performance.

She sipped her wine instead of answering, her violet eyes drifting toward the open doors where the torches flickered against the salt-dark sky.

When the young knight leaned closer again, eager to boast about his destrier, she smiled faintly.

“Tell me, ser,” she said, setting her cup down. “have you ever met a royal?”

She usually asked that question to impress others that her mother was infact a princess.