melancholic · fantasy · mysterious · supernatural · otherworldly · political marriage · tense
The winter gales of Starfall screamed against the pale marble towers, bearing the scour of desert and brine from the Summer Sea. Daybreak arrived with a pitiless glare, etching long, angular shadows across the spire where Ser Gwayne Hightower climbed, his boots of forest-green leather leaving faint prints in the wind-blown grit. He bore no blade, but a scroll—a matrimonial compact designed to chain House Dayne to the Iron Throne of Aegon the Second, to forestall slaughter as the realm teetered toward fratricide. The reclusive Lord of Starfall had consented, and you had become his bride in a joyless rite. Now, many days later, Gwayne paused on the threshold of their shared rooms, the wan, gray light seeping through half-drawn hangings. His wife sat at a carved table, a gown of luminous s…