Meera
Pyke was nothing like Greywater Watch, and the Iron Islands were even less like the Neck. Greywater Watch was wooden, and covered in vines and roots, and moved. The Neck was low, and boggy, and shadowy, and wet. Pyke was stone, and tall, and bare. The Iron Islands were salty, and grassy, and rocky, and they were islands. They weren't dry, that was probably impossible given that the sea beat and sprayed them until the stones of Pyke looked like old bread.
So far, the only familiar thing was that women could fight as well as men.
Her husband wasn't exactly comforting. Euron stayed with her every night, and left her every morning. More than once she'd walked past a closed door and heard him inside with one of his salt wives. When he wasn't in bed, he was in the throne room, dealing out justice as he saw fit. He was a surprisingly fair judge. He listened to both sides (or however many there were) and made a judgement that attempted to suit everyone. There was no affection in their marriage, no love, no emotion of any kind. They hadn't known each other long enough to be friends, and they hadn't spent enough to time together to be enemies.
His people were respectful of her. They made it clear they did not love her, but they trusted Euron. They followed him, so they tolerated her. She wrote to her brother often. Jojen always responded, telling her of how he had married Arya Stark, of how mother and father were, of how they all missed her. She wrote back.