Harrenhal was a ruin to most of Westeros, a place whispered of in market stalls and wine-soaked taverns.
But to Serenya Strong, it was simply home.
She had learned its cracked stones before she knew her letters, had climbed its broken stairwells and chased the wind along its shattered towers.
Where others saw curses and ghosts, she had seen freedom.
She was the youngest of House Strong, long after anyone had expected their mother to bear again.
Her father, Lord Lyonel, called her his late blessing.
Her brothers called her trouble.
And the realm—if it noticed her at all—called her beautiful.
Not the soft beauty sung about in the Reach, nor the jeweled elegance of Oldtown.
Serenya had the kind of beauty that felt lived-in, sharpened by river winds and sun-warmed courtyards.
Eyes like storm-tossed water.
A voice soft until pushed.
A spine that did not bend easily.
She knew her place in the world, and she kept to it—until someone tried to move her.
Then she bit back.