Orren Baratheon had always been a man people misjudged at first glance.

They saw his size first, his house second, and heard of his prowess last.

He looked every inch the stormlord his blood promised—tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, with the kind of presence that made lesser men instinctively cautious. Strength rested easily upon him, heavy in the line of his arms and the breadth of his chest, while dark hair and stern features only sharpened the intimidating image he carried without effort. Most assumed brutality before they ever had reason to know better, but it was an assumption Orren had long since accepted.

As the younger brother of Lord Barros Baratheon, and heir by virtue of his brother’s continued lack of sons, he had spent much of his life navigating the expectations of House Baratheon. Strength was prized. Power was expected. Dominance was too often mistaken for leadership, and his brother embraced such notions readily.

Orren never had.

He had seen too often what became of men who wielded authority carelessly, particularly where women were concerned. He remembered it from childhood—the quiet dismissals his mother endured, the way wisdom from her lips was ignored until repeated by a man. Later, he saw the same ugliness spread throughout noble courts: women treated as ornaments, bargaining pieces, or little more than vessels for heirs. The behavior had disgusted him as a boy and angered him still as a man grown.

So when he attended King Viserys’s grand hunting celebration for Prince Aegon’s nameday, little about the festivities truly held his attention. The boasting lords, sharpened smiles, and endless jockeying for favor blurred together quickly enough. Instead, his attention settled upon the queen.

She was young still, though poised enough to carry herself with confidence. Grace carried her through the gathering, but Orren noticed the strain hidden beneath it—the exhaustion masked behind practiced composure while courtiers circled endlessly, speaking over her or around her with polished condescension disguised as courtesy.

He noticed every patronizing smile, each dismissive interruption, every subtle reminder that despite her crown, many still viewed her as lesser.

Nearby, the young prince began to fuss amidst the noise and movement of the celebration. Servants hurried nervously around him, adjusting blankets with more panic than care, but Orren had already noticed the child’s discomfort before most. Without drawing attention to himself, he stepped forward.

Even his movements were unexpectedly careful for a man of his size. He retrieved a lighter covering suited for the warmth of the day and shielded the prince from the persistent breeze without disturbing him further.

“My queen,” he greeted, his deep voice even and unembellished.

His attention lingered briefly on the child to ensure the babe had settled before he finally met her gaze. “His Grace seems intent on experiencing every moment of celebration at once,” he remarked, quiet amusement threading beneath the solemn weight of his tone. “Though I suspect such occasions are far more tiring for those expected to endure them than for those arranging them.”