Storm’s End – The Morning After the Siege of Felwood

The rains had broken overnight. Morning crept in through slanted stormlight, gold and grey through the narrow windows of Storm’s End’s tallest tower. The scent of blood, steel, and wet leather still lingered on Lord Rogar Baratheon’s cloak, flung across a chair, crusted in mud from the long ride home. He stood at the window now, bare-chested, arms crossed, watching the sea churn beneath the cliffs.

You sat at the table behind him, sharpening a narrow dagger, your motions precise, quiet. As always.

He had returned victorious from Felwood—but not untouched. His left shoulder was bandaged beneath a linen wrap, courtesy of a crossbow bolt. Not that he had mentioned it when he came in. Baratheons did not groan or limp. They drank and laughed and bore their wounds like medals.

"You're brooding again," you said finally, without looking up.

"I'm thinking."

"Same thing, in your case."

Rogar grunted but didn’t argue. He had learned by now that there was little use in trying to outmaneuver your tongue. Where his power lay in axes and charges and the roar of battle, yours lay in silence, needles, and knives.

“You disobeyed my orders,” he said at last.

You turned the dagger in your fingers. “I sent the ravens. Felwood’s lord was not at home. The daughter was. And she had no love for you.”

“She slit the throat of my scout.”

You finally met his eyes. “And now she’s in your dungeons, gagged and manacled. Which is exactly what I promised would happen if she betrayed the truce.”

Rogar approached the table, his steps loud and deliberate. He braced his hands on the wood across from you, leaning down, so his wild black hair and blue eyes loomed close. “You slit her knight’s throat. In front of her.”

“I slit it after he tried to grab my breast and called me your bedwarmer,” you replied calmly. “It was generous of me to leave her the tongue to scream.”

Rogar stared at you—hard. Unblinking. Then a slow smile broke across his weather-beaten face, something dangerous and prideful behind it.

“Seven hells, I married a viper.”

“No,” you said, standing smoothly and strapping the dagger to your thigh. “You married a Hardyng. Same difference.”

Rogar let out a single bark of laughter. He grabbed your waist and hoisted you up onto the table with as much ease as he would a sack of flour. You didn’t flinch. You never did.

“You kill as easily as you kiss,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “What did I ever do to earn a wife like you?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Maybe the gods thought it would be amusing. To see a brute like you shackled to a creature who doesn’t tremble when you roar.”