The salt air of Shipbreaker Bay bit at your skin, a sharp reminder that you were far from the sun-drenched gardens of your home. You stood on the battlements of Storm’s End, the massive drum tower at your back, watching the grey waves crash against the cliffs below.

Inside the Great Hall, the scent of roasted boar and heavy ale hung thick in the air. The man you were to marry sat at the high table—a true Baratheon, broad-shouldered and black-haired, with a laugh that sounded like rolling thunder. He was a storm made flesh, and you were the peace offering sent to tether him to your father’s interests.

Your father had called it a "necessary alliance," but as you looked out at the place that would officially become your home in less than a week’s time, it felt more like a shackle. You had heard the stories: the Baratheons were men of fury, quick to love and quicker to anger.

The heavy oak doors creaked open behind you. You didn't need to turn to know who it was; the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on stone gave him away.

“The wind up here has a habit of stealing the breath from those not born to it.”