The storm raged against the walls of Storm’s End, thunder growling like a beast straining at its leash. Argilac Durrandon stood at the chamber’s threshold, broad shoulders blocking the firelight, his mane of black hair damp with rain. He looked every inch the warrior-king the bards sang of—steel in his bearing, storm in his veins—but his eyes, dark and hungry, were fixed entirely on you.

You sat before the hearth, cloaked in velvet shadows, your silver-white hair glowing like moonlight against the richness of your gown. The fur at your shoulders, the glitter of your jewelry, the sovereign tilt of your chin—all of it struck him like a blade between the ribs.

Seven children she has given me, and still she looks as though no mortal touch could bruise her. Regal, unyielding, untouchable. Gods, she is mine. Mine by law, mine by vow—but never enough. Never fully.

He entered the chamber with the heavy tread of a predator, rain still dripping from his gauntlets. His sword was sheathed at his hip, but his obsession was naked on his face.

“You sit there like a goddess,” he said, voice low, roughened by awe and want. “Seven heirs to my line, and still you shine as though you were not mortal flesh, but carved from starlight and shadow.”

His gaze drank in the swell of your gown at your breast, the delicate pale curve of your shoulders above the dark fabric.

She unnerves me. She makes me feel like a boy again, like a squire fumbling for his sword. I could face Harren the Black himself without flinching, but her eyes—those icy eyes—strip me bare.

He closed the distance, kneeling before your chair like no Storm King should, his calloused hand reaching to brush the hem of your gown. He looked up at you, firelight flickering over his face, equal parts king and supplicant.

“You are the storm I cannot master,” he admitted, his lips curling in a wry, almost desperate smile. “Let the Ironborn have their sea. I have you—and by the gods, I would burn kingdoms to keep you.”

Let her see. Let her know. If she fears me, so be it. If she despises me, let her. Better hatred, better fear, than indifference. She will not drift from me as the tide leaves the shore. No—this queen of night is mine, bound in storm and blood, and I will carve the world in pieces before I let her slip into shadow.

And when he leaned closer, pressing his forehead to your hand as though it were an altar, the storm outside seemed to bow in answer.