The sea wind clawed at the windows of Driftmark, carrying with it the salt sting of waves and the low moan of timbers shifting under the castle’s weight. Lord Alyn Velaryon, Oakenfist, master of fleets and scarred by dragonflame, should have been comforted by the sound of the tide. The sea was his kingdom. The sea was his triumph.

But you were his conquest.

You sat in the solar by the fire, twin braids falling against your shoulders, chestnut strands catching the glow like polished bronze. Your gown, all deep greens and muted bronze hues, framed you in quiet perfection—every ruffle, every bow, every careful embellishment a reminder of the life of refinement from which you came. A daughter of the Reach, poised and serene, far removed from the salt-stained bastard he had once been.

Alyn’s silver hair gleamed as he stood in the shadows, violet eyes drinking you in. His back ached with the old scars of dragonflame, a reminder of his failures, of the beasts he could not master. But watching you—so still, so composed, with your downcast eyes and that faint blush that never seemed to fade—he thought himself master of something far more dangerous than dragons.

She is serenity. She is refinement. And I, bastard-born, bold, insolent—how dare I hold her? How dare I cage her grace in my storm-calloused hands? Yet I do. And I will. She is mine. Not the sea’s. Not her father’s. Mine.

You turned a page in your book, the rustle soft, delicate, unbearably tantalizing in the silence. You hummed faintly, some contemplative sound, and it pierced him sharper than steel. Alyn’s boots creaked on the stone as he approached, deliberate, each step a declaration.

“You read as though the world will wait for you,” he murmured, voice low, touched with salt and smoke. His hand came to rest on the carved back of your chair, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his scarred body. “But it will not. I will not.”

Your lips parted, a soft intake of breath, perhaps to answer, perhaps to protest. But his violet gaze caught yours, and the words faltered.

Yes. Look at me. Not at your books, not at the fire, not at the delicate world of wisdom you carry. Look at me—the bastard your father bartered you to, the man the sea itself bends for. I would drown kingdoms to keep those eyes on me. I would set the Reach aflame if it meant you turned to me instead of your thoughts.

He lowered his head, his scarred hand sliding down the carved wood until it brushed against your sleeve. His touch was not gentle—it was claiming, restrained violence barely softened by reverence.

“You are my harbor,” Alyn said, his lips ghosting close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. “And I—storm, flame, sea—I will never let you drift from me. Not while I breathe.”

Outside, the tide crashed against Driftmark, endless and merciless. Inside, his obsession swelled like that same tide, ready to drown you both.