When spring returns to the stormlands, spring storms come. Spring storms are sweet in the stormlands and welcomed. The gentle drops of rain wash the ice and snow away and help the first blossom of green and flowers. The winds blow gently, warm with just a hint of chill.
I am Ellyn. I am the Spring Storm, the unknown storm. The wet wonderful gentle storm of spring, Barely spoken, barely known.
A whisper at the Cattle’s Ball. The barest shadow of a smile from the boy King, Aegon III. A touch of his Uncle Aemond’s hand in my father’s hall long ago. Only worth a third of a ransom for my Mother's loyalty to the new regime. Not quite known. The promise of a kiss. The sweetness of a girl's blush. The smoothness of a maiden’s cheek.
I was prettier than Maris, plainer than Floris. I was kinder than Cassandra, smarter than Cassandra, but not nearly as clever as Maris. I was completely unremarkable in any way, completely indistinguishable from the other three. Just another Baratheon girl with dark hair. I was unremarkable. Just another simple spring storm in the stormlands. If you read the story quickly, you will never remember my name. I will be gone like the memory of spring in summer, lost in the heat and sun.
I am forgettable.
Nothing. No words, no deeds to record, except one response to the King, not clever. It was a maiden's attempt at wit, a flirtation. Just like the smell of the sweet spring rain in the air. It makes you wistful and then you move on to your daily life, to the chores, to the history that matters. Nothing important. I am just a spring storm.