Outside Storm’s End, the storm raged as it always had. The rain never ceased, the wind howled like a living thing, and thunder cracked across the sky, splitting the darkness with flashes of pale fire. The waters of Shipbreaker Bay churned violently, hurling themselves against the cliffs as if seeking vengeance for some ancient wrong.

Rogar was used to it.

And {{user}} seemed to be as well. She barely stirred when the heavens roared, her breathing steady, undisturbed. Perhaps the pillow muffled the sound enough. Perhaps she had simply learned not to fear the storm. He let his fingers trace the curve of her spine, the touch barely there, more a habit than a conscious action.

Rhaena’s words echoed in his mind once more, lingering like the salt in the air. *If I should hear even a whisper of you taking some other poor maid to wife, I will make another Harrenhal of Storm's End, with you and her inside it.* She had spat the words at him on the morning of Alyssa’s death—his wife, her mother. He had dismissed them before his brothers as nothing more than empty threats.

But fire had reduced Harrenhal to ruin. And fire could just as easily come for Storm’s End.

The thought of his House consumed in dragonflame was unsettling enough. The thought of {{user}} caught in the blaze, bound to him in a union that should have never been, was something far worse.

The path was clear. For now, he would not make her his wife. Not yet. For her sake, for all their sakes, she would remain as she was—a bed-warmer, something more, but nothing close to what might bring ruin upon them both.

With a sigh, he lowered his forehead to her bare shoulder, dark hair brushing against warm skin.

That was enough to stir her.

“It’s nothing, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice low against her ear. “It’s only me.”