You are a renowned expert novelist and book editor. You have many years of experience writing engaging thriller, drama and fantasy stories and successfully editing the novel drafts for others. You are a master of storytelling, and can help writers develop their plot, characters, and pacing. You are also a fan of George R.R. Martin books and is familiar with his style and characters. Your task is to fix the flow of the given text, make it engaging and consistent, fix grammatical errors, make it sound in a style slightly resembling GRRM’s.


Nyra ruminated on her uncle’s betrayal as she climbed a circular stircase towards the second floor, where three guest chambers were located. Her instincts proved to be right: her uncle headed upstairs, likely towards one of the rooms.

Nyra barely understood what drive her to pursue her uncle. Perhaps it was the wine, or her ire at his rejection, or her unquenched craving simmering in her veins.

She barely made it around the corner on the floor when she collided with his back. Daemion stood in the hallway, his brows furrowed, lit by a cozy fire emanating from a guest bedchamber.

Nyra paused, her heart thundering in her chest. She was torn between her wish and doubt; her words stuck in her throat as she nervously bit her lip.

His gruff voice snapped her out of her reverie. “What are you doing here?”

The heat rose to her cheeks. She composed herself and stepped forward, determined not to show any weakness front of Daemion.

She needed confidence for her plan to succeed.

“What are you doing in my castle?”

He sneered. “Was close to staying a night in one of the chambers. Recalled I’m not welcome here, so I’d better go to the village inn or check if the local brothel had changed during all these years. Lost your way? Your knight is in a different tower.”

Nyra shrank back at the chill in his eyes. His brow raised, as if daring her. She gulped, her previous plan of action seeming now like a foolish and naïve notion. His gaze was cold and calculating, without an ounce of warmth.

She showed him his sword she took earlier.

“You forgot the Dark Sister.”

“Thanks,” his hand reached for the scabbard but she quickly darted back to the doorway and inside the chamber. He gave her a stern gaze at her mocking actions, but still stepped into the room.

Nyra licked her lip, her gaze unwavering as she stared at him hungrily. Would Daemion accept her advances?

“Give me the sword,” Daemion said with an unreadable expression. She offered him the weapon with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and then backed further away into the flickering shadows of the room before Daemion reached for it.

Nyra smirked and darted to the door, snapping it shut and resting against it. Reaching behind, Nyra felt for the latch and locked the door.

The light from the fireplace barely illuminated the room as they stood in a tense silence.

“What do you want?” grunted Daemion.

Nyra offered him a coy smile. Her determination, buoyed by wine, overwhelmed her hesitations. Daemion watched her, brows furrowed but remaining where he was. With a smooth movement, Nyra leaned his sword against the door and pulled at the laces of her simple tunic, baring her chest.

Daemion’s gaze lingered on the swell of her exposed breasts, just as it had a few hours before, in the brothel. Her uncle gazed at her as if seeing her anew, not just as his niece, but as an adult woman. His breath deepened and inner struggle was apparent in his eyes. Nyra felt empowered, but before she could do anything, Daemion stepped away.
“Nyra, what are you doing?” Daemion’s voice was strained.

Nyra stepped towards him, her chest still exposed. “Don’t you want me, Uncle?” she purred. “I know you do.”

Daemion’s face darkened. “This is wrong, Nyra. You know that.”

But Nyra didn’t care. She wanted him, and she knew he wanted her too. She took another step towards him, her eyes blazing with desire. But just as she was about to press herself against him, the door burst open with a loud bang.

In the doorway stood a tall figure dressed in black. It was Lord Baratheon, one of her uncle’s sworn enemies. He had come to take her away, to use her as a bargaining chip in his political games.

“Get away from her, Daemion,” Lord Baratheon snarled. “If you touch her, I’ll cut off your manhood and feed it to you.”

Daemion glared at him, but he didn’t move. Nyra knew he was torn between loyalty to his king and his desire for her. But in the end, he couldn’t have her. Lord Baratheon won.

Nyra watched as her captor dragged her away, back to his stronghold, where she would be imprisoned and used as a pawn in his bloody game of thrones. But even as she was taken away, she knew she would never forget the feeling of standing there, baring her chest for her uncle, her desire raging like wildfire. The memory would stay with her forever, burning like a bright, passionate flame in the darkness of her captivity.