Chapter Text
The sea is always honest.
Not kind, not just, not merciful.
Honest.
If it wants to swallow you whole, it does. If it wants to rock you like a child in its arms, it does that too. It promises nothing it isn’t prepared to break.
Perhaps that is why, as the ship sailed toward the Stormlands and the sun sank blood-red into the horizon, she couldn’t help but think that temptation is like the sea. It is always there.
They say temptation is the worst of all evils. That it is the Stranger’s whisper in one's ear, the crack through which sin seeps, the invisible thread leading to disaster. The septas speak of it as if it were a beast with long claws and a sweet smile, something lurking in the shadows to drag you into the abyss.
But she wasn't sure it was that simple. Temptation doesn't always roar. Sometimes, it barely breathes.
It is a gaze held a second too long. A thought that no one heard. A question that shouldn’t be asked.
What if…?
That is where it all begins.
What if I take what does not belong to me? What if I say what I must not? What if I touch what is forbidden? What if I run? What if I lie? What if I desire?
The Seven teach that life is a constant trial. That the Father watches, the Mother judges with compassion, the Maiden inspires purity, the Warrior demands steadfastness, the Crone lights the way, the Smith forges us in discipline… and the Stranger waits.
But no one speaks of how unequal the trial can be.
There are those born surrounded by silk and gold. Their temptation is not bread, nor warmth, nor a dry corner to sleep in. Their temptation is power. Treason. Forbidden desire. Pride. Boundless ambition. They can fall into certain sins without the world collapsing. They can lie at a banquet and no one dies. They can covet lands and call it strategy. They can lust and call it romance. They can humiliate and call it politics.
But even they have limits. A lord may desire many things… but he cannot desire that which threatens his lineage. A lady may flirt… but she cannot risk her honor. An heir may fight… but he cannot lose. Even the wealthy walk on invisible ropes.
The difference is that when they fall, the ground is usually padded.
The poor, on the other hand… the poor rarely have the luxury of elegant temptation. What is temptation to someone who hasn't eaten in two days? Stealing a loaf of bread? Lying for a coin? Selling what little dignity remains for a roof? It isn't desire that moves them. It is necessity.
And no one sings songs about necessity. No one writes poems about the girl who steals an apple because hunger bites her stomach like a wild dog. No one calls her a sinner as easily as they judge a lady who smiles at the wrong man.
Perhaps because hunger is too ugly to romanticize.
True temptation, the dangerous kind, the kind that ruins lives without one even noticing, doesn’t usually come dressed in misery. It comes dressed in promise.
A promise of warmth. A promise of belonging. A promise of being seen. A promise of being wanted.
And that is more dangerous than any bag of gold. Because gold is heavy. But a promise floats.
She had often thought that giving in to temptation shouldn’t always feel like a fall. Sometimes it must feel like a rest. Like ceasing to resist. Like letting out the breath one has been holding for far too long. One doesn't think, "I'm going to destroy my life today." One thinks, "Just this once."
Just this once, I will speak. Just this once, I will lie. Just this once, I will look away. Just this once, I will desire what I must not.
And that "just this once" is the start of a chain that is not easily broken.
Many have seen what happens when someone crosses a line that seemed small. At first, no one notices. Then, someone suspects. Then, someone accuses. And by the time the words begin to circulate, it is already too late to deny them.
Misery does not arrive all at once. It settles in. First in the conscience. Then in the reputation. Finally, in destiny.
There are sins the world forgives. Others, it does not.
She had heard septas say that temptation is a test of strength. That the stronger the soul, the greater the trial. That the gods do not give us more weight than we can bear.
She didn't know if that brought her comfort. If the gods measure our strength, then they know exactly where to press. They know which desire would make us falter. They know which caress would make us close our eyes. They know which word would make us forget our vows.
And yet, they allow that temptation to exist. Perhaps because without temptation, there is no virtue. Perhaps because purity that was never challenged isn't purity, but ignorance.
But there is something cruel in that. There is something cruel in placing a flame in front of someone who has always been cold and demanding they do not reach out their hands.
Most believe sin begins with the act. But perhaps it begins much earlier. It begins in the imagination. The first time one allows themselves to think of what they shouldn’t. The first time the heart beats differently at a forbidden possibility. The first time one wonders how it would be.
And sometimes, simply imagining it is enough to change everything.
The sea turned red under the sinking sun. The wind brought salt and dampness. The ship creaked as if it had old bones.
Perhaps temptation is not the worst of evils. Perhaps the worst of evils is believing we are immune to it.
Many men have believed themselves incorruptible only to fall through pride. Many women, convinced of their virtue, risk everything for a glance. And always, always, it begins with a certainty:
"It won't happen to me."
Perhaps that is why the poor, in a way, are protected. Not because they are purer, but because they rarely have anything great to lose. Their world is small, immediate. Hunger. Cold. Work. Sleep. There is no room for dangerous fantasies when survival occupies every corner of the day.
But when someone starts to have something to lose, a name, a position, a faith, a purpose, temptation changes shape. It becomes subtler. More seductive. It doesn't tempt with bread. It tempts with meaning. With the possibility of being more than what one is.
And that… that is almost irresistible.
Sometimes it’s hard not to wonder if the gods lean down from their invisible altars and watch. If they count our hesitations like coins. If they note every improper thought even if it never turns into action. Is it a sin to desire, even if one never acts? Is it guilt to imagine?
If it were, no one would be innocent. Not even the Maiden in her marble statues. Because desire is not something that can be plucked out like a weed. It grows where it finds cracks. And we all have cracks.
The problem is not that temptation exists. The problem is that, sometimes, giving in to it seems like the only human thing to do.
Resisting all the time is exhausting. Being righteous all the time is cold. Being proper all the time is lonely.
The ship tilted slightly. A stronger wave hit the hull. In the distance, the sky darkened toward the east, as if the Stormlands were announcing their presence before being seen.
Storm’s End.
It is said its walls withstand any assault. That neither sea nor wind has managed to break it.
"Child."
She didn't turn immediately.
"Child, it is time." She recognized the firm, restrained tone of one accustomed to not repeating orders.
The septa approached across the deck with measured steps. Her habit fluttered in the wind. Her hands were hidden in her sleeves.
"It is time to pray," she said, stopping beside her.
She followed her, but not before stealing one last look at the imposing castle that was still a few hours away. It was beautiful, far more beautiful than the Red Keep, at least in her eyes.
""
The wind was different from King’s Landing.
In the capital, it smelled of smoke, waste, spices, the sweat accumulated in narrow alleys, and old incense inside the Great Sept. But in the Stormlands, the air tasted of pure salt, of a contained storm, of damp stone. Storm’s End was not a mere castle, it was more like a defiance of nature itself. The round, massive walls seemed less the work of men and more like a scar against the sea.
The septa walked a few paces ahead, clutching the mantle covering her hair between gnarled fingers. Her name was Septa Maeryn, and the journey had hunched her back a bit more than usual. Still, she kept a firm pace, as if every stone in the courtyard were a trial sent by the Seven.
Elenei walked behind, her hands hidden within the sleeves of her gray habit. The fabric brushed the ground, and the wind tried to lift her veil. She held it down discreetly.
"It's s a pity," Maeryn said without turning. "About Septa Arlena."
Elenei looked down. "It is."
Her voice came out soft, but not empty. Arlena had been strict. She had also been constant. There was something reassuring about knowing exactly what someone disapproved of in you.
"She was severe, but just," Maeryn continued. "Your education was in good hands. The fever doesn't distinguish between virtue and sin."
It had been a swift fever. Burning skin, delusions, and in a matter of days, death. The elderly fell first. Elenei remembered the sound of nightly prayers, more urgent than usual, as if raising one's voice could bar the door against the sickness.
"She was supposed to continue teaching me the Chants of the Warrior," Elenei murmured.
"And you shall learn them," the septa replied. "Death doesn't interrupt duty, child. It transfers it."
The courtyard of Storm’s End opened before them, wide, cobbled, and surrounded by thick walls that seemed to absorb the sound of the gale. In the distance, soldiers trained with blunt swords. The clash of metal echoed like dry bells.
Elenei felt the weight of the place. It was her first time away from the sept in years, more specifically, it was the first time she had traveled further than a few streets within the same city, if one could even call that traveling.
"Is it prudent for me to be here?" she asked suddenly.
Maeryn slowed her pace. "Prudent?"
"I wasn't invited."
The septa let out an exhalation that might have been a faint laugh. "Castles always need extra hands. Even more so when the fever has emptied rooms. But don't mistake necessity for a welcome."
Elenei nodded.
"Behavior in a castle is not the same as behavior in a sept," Maeryn added. "Here, people will do as they wish. You will see many improper things. People don't know how to be discreet. Try to correct what you can, and what you cannot, ignore it."
As if the phrase had been an incantation, a pair of servants passed them carrying chests. One of them, young, with dark hair and an angular jaw, turned his head. He looked at Elenei as he continued walking.
It wasn't a casual glance, it was a completely intentional stare. The boy tripped over the edge of a misplaced stone and nearly dropped the chest. His companion muttered something and helped him regain his balance. Both kept walking, though the first didn't stop looking back until the distance forced him to.
Elenei stopped for just a second, blinking in discomfort.
Maeryn stopped as well. Slowly, the septa turned toward her. And she looked at her. Not as she had looked at her before, among other novices lined up to pray. Not as one looks at just another gray face in a row.
She looked at her entirely. The reddish eyebrows, the blue eyes, with that strange hue that sometimes looked darker under certain light. The fair skin, not pale from weakness but luminous. The naturally pink lips that no fasting had managed to dull.
Maeryn frowned slightly. "What is your name?" she asked.
Elenei blinked, surprised by the sudden question. "Elenei."
The septa held her gaze an instant longer before giving her body a quick scan. Though the tunic covered her and disguised her figure, the curve of her waist was evident. Had she been wearing the belt that septas wore, it would have been even more obvious.
"Take care not to walk alone."
It wasn't a reprimand. It was a warning.
Elenei bowed her head. "Yes."
They resumed their march. A man in a dark gray robe awaited them near the steps leading to the main doors. The Maester wore his chain around his neck, the links shining dully under the cloudy light. He had a narrow face and small, attentive eyes.
"Septa Maeryn, you brought a novice with you," he said with a formal bow. "Storm’s End welcomes you."
"May the Seven bless this place," she replied.
Elenei remained slightly behind, but not enough to seem fearful. The Maester looked at her. It wasn't a clumsy stumble like the servant's. It was a measured observation. Detailed. Elenei felt the gaze slide over her like a note that needed to be filed away.
She didn't lower her eyes. She held them.
The man seemed to notice the gesture. A muscle in his jaw tightened just before he looked away.
"I will show you to your rooms," he said. "The fever has left us with less staff than usual. Your presence will be useful."
They began walking toward the entrance.
"I am sorry about your septa," the Maester added. "We have suffered losses here as well. The septa who attended Lord Baratheon’s youngest daughter passed away only a few days ago."
Maeryn made a gesture of sorrow. "The fever doesn't forgive."
"No." The Maester looked ahead. "Lord Baratheon wishes for you, Septa, to assume that duty. The girl is still young. She needs constant guidance."
Maeryn nodded solemnly. "So it shall be."
The man continued. "And the novice…" A brief pause. "She could assist in the instruction of Lord Baratheon’s niece. Daughter of his younger brother."
Elenei kept her back straight. She didn't speak. But she squeezed her hands slightly, feeling nervous. It was her first time out of the temple, she hadn't finished her education and hadn't even taken her vows yet. Taking responsibility for Lord Baratheon’s niece seemed like too much, but she assumed she had no other choice, so she remained silent.
"She will be of help," Maeryn said, and though she spoke to the Maester, Elenei felt it was directed at her. "She is diligent."
The Maester looked at her again. This time, more briefly. "I trust that is so."
The sound of the sea crashing against the walls came muffled and constant, a reminder that though the castle defied the storm, it never ignored it. They climbed the steps. The doors were enormous, reinforced with black iron. They seemed more suited for stopping giants than visitors.
Elenei felt something like a pressure in her chest.
Maeryn leaned toward her slightly. "Remember," she whispered. "In front of the Lord, composure. Speak only when spoken to."
Elenei nodded.
The doors began to open, not those of the castle, but the main gate through which they had entered minutes before. The sound was deep and heavy, as if the stone itself were moving.
Elenei turned, curious despite the warning. A mist drifted through the gate, followed by the sound of several horses.
And the septa whispered, barely audible as she turned as well.
"Behave."
""
The woods west of Storm’s End were not kind.
They didn't have the tamed elegance of the royal woods nor the dark, damp thickness of the North. It was a forest punished by the salt wind, with twisted oaks and pines that seemed to bow eternally before an invisible storm. Leaves crunched under the horses' hooves, and the air was thick with that metallic scent that fresh blood leaves behind.
The group was returning from the hunt in high spirits. A massive stag hung from a pole carried by two guards. Further back, one of the lesser lords who had accompanied the party boasted of a boar with curved tusks, its head swaying with every step.
At the front rode two figures who needed no introduction in these lands.
Lyonel Baratheon. And his father, the Lord of Storm’s End, Boremund Baratheon.
Boremund was a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard flecked with early gray. He wasn't old, but the wind and his responsibilities had hardened his features. His eyes were dark and sharp, when he laughed, he did so with his whole chest.
"A clean shot!" Lord Estermont exclaimed from behind, raising a wineskin. "It didn't even have time to understand what hit it!"
"That's because I distracted it first," Lyonel countered with a wide grin. "Otherwise, your arrow would have ended up in a tree."
Laughter followed. "A blatant lie!" the other lord retorted.
Boremund snorted. "If you're going to argue, at least do it with proof. The stag is dead, and that’s the only thing that matters."
One of the guards added, "My Lord, I’ve never seen a specimen so large in this area."
Boremund nodded with restrained pride. "It means the storms haven't laid waste to everything we thought."
Lyonel stroked his horse’s neck. "Or that the forest is getting smarter and knows how to hide its treasures better."
"Like women," Lord Fell murmured, prompting another general roar of laughter.
Boremund turned his mount slightly. "Go on ahead," he ordered the lords with a relaxed gesture. "We’ll catch up on the main path."
The group obeyed amidst jokes and comments about the meat that would be served that night. Lyonel gently spurred his horse and pulled up beside his father. For a few moments, they rode in silence, listening to the wind through the treetops.
They veered off the main path and took a slope that ascended toward a high clearing. When they reached the edge of the natural cliff, the landscape opened before them. From there, one could see the gray sea battering the coast, the rolling fields, and beyond, the rounded and imposing silhouette of Storm’s End, defying the horizon.
Boremund inhaled deeply. "It’s liberating," he said. "To be out of the house for a few hours."
Lyonel let out a short laugh. "Home is dreadfully boring."
"It’s even more so now," his father replied, "that I must comfort your sister every night."
Lyonel turned his head slightly. "Is Alyra still crying?"
"Alyra is always crying," Boremund replied with resignation. "But now she has an excuse. Her septa’s death has left her adrift. She hardly sleeps. In times like these, I miss your mother, she would have handled it."
Lyonel snorted. "The only thing Mother would have done is give her a slap to make her stop crying."
Boremund let out a sincere laugh. "Yes." He shook his head. "Your mother was a hard woman."
The wind caught the cloak of the Lord of Storm’s End. For an instant, his expression softened with something that wasn't weakness, but memory.
"She couldn't stand the weeping," Lyonel continued. "She said pain is like mud: the more you stir it, the dirtier you get."
"And she was right," Boremund replied. "But she also knew when to give in."
They fell silent for a moment.
"There is nothing better," the father added with a lopsided smile, "than taming a beast with character."
He burst out laughing. Lyonel looked at the horizon, uncomfortable. He didn't know if the comment was about his mother… or about women in general.
The sea roared below, eternal. Boremund cleared his throat.
"Speaking of your sister… it will soon be time to betroth her. She is fifteen already."
Lyonel let out an incredulous laugh. "Good luck with that. If anyone inherited Mother’s temperament, it was her."
"She will obey," his father said firmly. "One way or another." Then he looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "And she isn’t the only one who must take commitment seriously."
Lyonel grimaced. "I still plan on living many years, Father. There is no need to rush into taking a wife." He leaned slightly in his saddle. "I can enjoy women in other ways. Feasts. Jousts. Hunts. Why trade all that for boring duties and time spent beside an insufferable lady who won't stop agonizing over my way of life?"
Boremund didn't answer immediately. The wind blew harder.
"Certainly, there is nothing better than being free of commitments," he said at last. "I lived it myself when your grandfather still ruled. But the world is not stable, Lyonel." He pointed toward the horizon. "Rebellions don't disappear just because one wishes to ignore them. You never know which one will be the final one. And when it comes… you will need sons."
Lyonel frowned. "It’s always war with you."
"Because there is always war with someone."
A longer silence followed. Lyonel shook his head.
"Highborn ladies are boring, stiff, and submissive. They don't know how to joke or enjoy themselves. They only agonize in silence and watch over their children as if they were treasures someone is going to steal."
Boremund gave a snort. "If you choose an intelligent woman, you can keep enjoying taverns and parties. You just need to offer good terms."
Lyonel looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "There isn’t a woman who would accept such a thing."
"Oh, there is," his father replied calmly. "But she will suck the soul out of you and make you miserable in other ways."
Lyonel let out a laugh. "That sounds encouraging."
"It’s the price to pay."
The wind whistled again through the rocks. After a few seconds, Boremund added, "The Tyrell girl seems to have that kind of intelligence."
Lyonel raised an eyebrow. "A golden flower?"
"Flowers hide thorns," his father countered.
Lyonel looked at the sea one last time. "A pretty flower might be the best option."
Boremund nodded, satisfied to have planted the seed. Both turned their horses.
""
The inner gate of Storm’s End opened with the deep groan of reinforced wood and ancient iron.
Horses’ hooves clattered over the damp stone of the courtyard as the guards accompanying them entered first, followed by the lesser lords still animatedly discussing the hunt. The air carried the scent of churned earth and fresh blood.
On the stairs leading to the great hall, the Maester stopped midway as he recognized the broad, steady figure of his lord.
Elenei didn't know what she expected to see when she heard the thunder of the gate. She knew the names of the Great Lords and their heirs, but she had never seen them. Perhaps a man hunched with age. Perhaps a solemn and rigid lord.
Instead, she saw two dominant figures on dark horses.
The first, the elder and thus Lord Baratheon, dismounted with ease despite his bulk. His thick beard and hair already peppered with gray gave him an authoritative presence even before he spoke.
The second remained in the saddle an instant longer, and though he wasn't as broad as his father, there was something in his posture that made it obvious he was the heir. Lyonel Baratheon, if she remembered correctly.
The Maester descended the last steps and gave a formal bow. "My Lord. I trust the hunt was satisfactory."
Lyonel’s father, Boremund Baratheon, responded with a broad gesture. "More than satisfactory." He pointed with pride to the massive stag the guards were beginning to unload. "I don't recall seeing a specimen this large in years."
Some servants murmured in admiration. The Maester bowed his head. "A prey worthy of celebration, My Lord."
Boremund pulled off his leather gloves while one of the squires took the reins of his horse.
"And well," the Maester added. "The septa and the novice you requested have arrived."
The Lord frowned slightly. "A novice?" He descended the final step into the courtyard. "I don't recall asking for a novice." Then, after a brief pause, he added in a lighter tone, "Though she arrives at a good time, I suppose."
A few paces behind, Lyonel had already dismounted. He was leaning over his horse’s neck, stroking it with an open hand while murmuring something barely audible. The animal, black and muscular, whinnied in approval. Lyonel seemed more interested in the beast than the conversation. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the servants untied the prey and began to inspect it.
He cast a quick glance toward the new visitors.
First, he saw the septa. Gray, austere, hunched by years. Then his gaze shifted, almost out of habit, toward the figure beside her, and he tried to return his attention to his horse as if it were nothing.
But automatically, something in his brain demanded he look back. As if something had pulled at his gaze.
Nothing theatrical, it was a brief, involuntary double-take.
From three or four meters away, what he saw were not minute details, but a complete impression.
The novice looked like no other he had ever seen. The gray habit was simple, straight, designed to erase contours. The veil covered her hair almost completely, though more gently than the septa’s mantle, which jealously hid even her ears and part of her forehead. Hers was simpler, revealing her neck and ears.
Her shoulders were narrow and proportionate. Her neck long, clean, visible above the modest edge of the habit. The fabric fell straight, but as she moved, it hinted at the line of a defined waist. Not exaggerated. Not vulgar. But clear.
Her face… even at that distance, it stood out. Her skin was very fair, uniform. Not sickly, but clean. Her eyebrows had a natural reddish tint. Not bright like polished copper, but deeper, like the color of the sky just before the sun vanishes completely. Her lips were pink, full without exaggeration.
He couldn’t distinguish the exact hue of her eyes from that distance. But he could see they were large. And that they were attentive. Not lost. Not frightened. Attentive.
Lyonel blinked. “Why is someone like that taking vows?”
The thought was immediate, unfiltered. He felt a faint sigh escape his nose, almost imperceptible.
A shame.
Any man would gladly marry a young woman so beautiful. Without hesitation. He would offer her a comfortable home, fine dresses, robust sons. Not a gray habit.
His father was already moving toward the stairs. The main doors began to open. Lyonel shook his head slightly, as if clearing a minor distraction, and followed Boremund.
As they ascended the steps, the distance between him and the novice narrowed. Now he could see her better. Not close enough to notice every nuance of the iris, but enough to distinguish more than a general impression.
Her cheekbones were high, though softened by youth. Her nose straight and fine. Her chin small but well-defined.
And then he noticed it. In the line where the veil was tucked behind her ear, a tiny lock of hair escaped, a small curl that had rebelled against its imprisonment.
The thought arose with uncomfortable clarity. “If she is this beautiful with her hair covered...”
The image his mind suggested, without a veil, in lighter fabrics, perhaps even the simplest, was enough to make his jaw tighten. He reminded himself that she was a novice. A woman under vows. And that, though beautiful, he must not allow himself to be vulgar or brazen. The gods might punish such insolence.
Boremund reached the women and the Maester. "Septa," he said in a firm but polite voice. "We hope Storm’s End is hospitable to you."
Septa Maeryn bowed her head deeply. "May the Seven bless your house, My Lord."
Elenei remained half a step behind, as was proper. Lyonel passed by them. Not too close. But close enough to feel the change in the air. She didn't smell of heavy perfume or costly spices. She smelled clean. Of simple soap and freshly washed fabric.
He thought, with a shadow of irony, “The gods can be cruel.” To keep such a woman from the hands of men…
Elenei looked up. It was only for a second. Her eyes met his. And this time, from that proximity, he could distinguish the color more clearly. Dark blue. With a strange, barely perceptible hue. She didn’t look away immediately. She held it just long enough. Until the septa’s hand discreetly brushed her sleeve.
A signal. Elenei lowered her eyes. Lyonel tipped his head in a brief gesture of respect. And he kept walking.
Inside the hall, the echo of boots and footsteps on stone amplified. Boremund moved toward the back. "It’s a good time for you to meet my daughter," he announced, raising his voice.
Lyonel looked at him sideways. He knew exactly what that meant. His father didn’t want to face Alyra’s complains alone for having left her while they went hunting.
A servant was sent to fetch her. The group headed toward a side hall, smaller than the main one but still spacious, with tapestries depicting scenes of storms and battles. Lyonel followed them. Under normal conditions, he would have turned toward his quarters, ordered wine, and taken a satisfying bath to wash away the dirt and sweat.
But the gods had decided to place such a woman in his castle under a novice’s habit. It would be foolish not to look at her a little more.
He positioned himself near a column, feigning interest in a tapestry while his gaze returned, intermittently, to her. Now he could observe her in greater detail. Her skin truly was flawless. He saw no visible scars or marks. Her eyebrows, of that natural reddish tone, contrasted with the clarity of her face.
Her lips weren't tight with nervousness. They rested in a calm line. Her posture remained straight. It wasn't the rigidity of one who fears making a mistake. It was the steadiness of one who knows they are being watched and decides not to shrink.
He reminded himself again. She is a novice. Don't be an idiot. But every time he looked away, he returned. Just for a second. Then another.
The side door opened and Alyra entered. Fifteen years old, dark hair, chin raised in defiance even before she spoke. She stopped in front of the septa. "Is she my new instructor?" she asked, not hiding a certain reservation.
Septa Maeryn answered with patience. The introductions began. Elenei bowed her head when the girl looked at her with evident curiosity.
Meanwhile, Lyonel watched. When Elenei looked in his direction again, by chance or instinct, their eyes met once more. This time, he smiled. Not a wide, banquet smile. A more contained one. Respectful. He inclined his head slightly.
She looked away as if the gesture hadn't happened. But she didn't seem rattled, she simply chose to ignore it, as if even a novice new to the world knew that they both should be invisible to one another.
Boremund spoke of the fever, of the importance of education, of the need for stability in uncertain times. Lyonel only half-listened. The storm outside battered the walls lightly, as if reminding him of its presence.
And for the first time in a long while, the interior of Storm’s End didn't seem boring to him.
However, the fleeting glances from his sister and father told him that sooner or later, someone would ask why he was still there. And honestly, he had no valid excuse, well, he had one, but he couldn't say it out loud. Even someone like him knew how to be discreet.
So he stole one last look at the young novice before leaving the hall.