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Many things could go wrong in war, Argella knew this. But it always seemed like such a far-off concept- something in the stories, the other side's problem- that when news reached her of her father's death, it felt as though Storm's End itself was coming down around her. Her father was the Storm King of these lands, and as his daughter and sole heir, she would be its queen after him. Someday became the morning she clutched the note that carried the word's of Argilac's death. Her father's men, whom he trusted more than anyone, flocked to her side to tell her what they should do.
"We must surrender, you grace," some lord told her cautiously, "We must give that Orys Baratheon and the dragons that he fights for what he wants or else we face the same fate."
The name Baratheon made her jaw twitch much more so than any of the dragon names. This was man whose sword was probably still wet with her father's blood.
"We will not give these imposters what is ours. What is mine," she announced bitterly. "We will hold Storm's End till the last man and stay true to the words that you've bent your knees to. Ours is the fury!"
Orders were given out and Argella did not allow herself to grieve over her father until the last servant left her solar. She had always imagined him being there when she ascended to the ancient throne of the Storm Kings. But the room felt cold, with the winds from the Narrow Sea blowing in through open windows. And she felt so very empty. She clutched the crown that had been her mother's remembering those few occasions in her childhood when she would be permitted to wear the threaded band of gold, though it never once sat right upon her small head. Father's crown was somewhere crumbled and broken as he was. Argella could not allow herself to think about it.
Just as she reached to place the crown upon her head, to solidify her new title, the door to her solar burst open. The last thing she remembers was the crown slipping from her fingers and hitting the floor, the few small jewels popping out of its places.
He did not expect the gates of Storm's End to open as swiftly as they did. Another battle, one that they would fail no doubt, a final attempt to keep Orys Baratheon and his party out of their beloved Storm's End. He was ready for that. But instead the beaten soldiers of the Stormlands tipped their banners and made a path for him. Oh Aegon would be pleased to hear of this victory. He'd try and keep the details of how easy it sort of was in the letter he needed to write soon.
Orys had to admit, Storm's End was a lot bigger and much more magnificent than he initially expected. It was rumored to have been built by magic, so that may have provided much of the allure. The waters from the sea could be heard crashing off its walls anywhere on the grounds. And despite how very yellow even the walls seemed to be, he knew he could truly love it here. If you can capture it, Aegon wagered, you may keep it. Truly it must've been a jape, as he and his sister-wives would want the castle for their own, compared to the the dusty ruin of Dragonstone. But the wager became a promise amongst friends.
Inside the largest tower contained the great hall, where he and his immediate party were led. Surely there would be a speech to give about this and that, thanking the garrison for not choosing death, how he would be rewarding to those loyal, so on and so forth. But before he could even find a decent wineskin to break into, the hall doors were pushed open and what had to be the household guards were clearing a path, holding something Orys could not yet see until it was right in front of him.
A woman, he realized.
"King Argilac's daughter," a voice confirmed. "We give her to you, Lord Orys. The arrogant bitch would have us die than surrender." Hands reached out to push her forward and voices rang out in disgust against her.
Did they find this flattering? Amusing, maybe? Argella, he recalled her name to be, was shaking. Her lip was bloodied, her arms pinned to her sides, as she was naked and wrapped in heavy chains. She was struggling to stand upright. Every fiber of her being was trying both not to fall and not to cry. Every second that passed was betraying her. Orys reached out, holding her shoulders and she could not hide tightly her body seized at his touch.
"I will not hurt you," he promised, trying to find eye contact. But she was staring everywhere but him. Of course she did not believe him, though how could she. He was the man that killed her father only days ago. Orys tried to find an end to the chain, to unknot the trap they encased her in. Gently as he could, he let it unravel around her, pooling at her feet. Her skin was blotched and red where the links pinched and cut. Argella still could not look at him, and she was still shaking.
His cloak of black wool was dirty and old, he’d admit, stained with mud and blood alike. But when he wrapped it around her shoulders, both to ward off the chill that wrecked her, and to hide her nudity that had caught the eye of the many men that filled the hall, the princess clutched it as if it were the finest furs in the lands.
“Have you all lost your fucking minds?” Orys was now fuming. “Is this how you treat your women in the Stormlands? Much less, your sovereign? Is this what I can expect from all of you?!”
The hall was now silent, as his voice boomed against the stone walls. The garrison that presented her to him nearly looked ashamed. But not as ashamed as he wanted them to be. How dangerous could a princess be, as fair and young as she was? There were few things that Orys could think of few acts that deserved such a treatment of degrading humiliation, such a mutiny from one’s own people.
He ordered them all out, save for a few servants who lingered and could not help all the pity they felt for their princess. At least loyalty remained somewhere in this ungodly large castle. Orys urged her to sit in a pulled out seat at the high table, which she did so almost too eagerly.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, knowing the answer, but just wanting to hear her voice. He sat in a chair next to her.
“You killed my father,” she said coldly and oh yes, there was no scared little princess in this hall that was for certain. Orys almost felt guilty when he nodded.
“Then yes, Orys Baratheon,” her voice was tired, but angry. “I know exactly who you are.”
He had food brought out and insisted that she eat, as he almost did not want to ask when the last time she was fed. Any courtly manners that her septa had instilled in her since birth had gone out the window when she skipped over the utensils and began to tear apart pieces of bread and meat and stuffing them into her mouth. It was very obvious that she was not aiming to impress anyone in this hall. Wrapped in a cloak of filth, sitting in her father’s hall with the man that killed him, after being imprisoned in chains after gods-knew-how long. It seemed that her quota for caring had been used up quite a while ago.
“What do you plan to do with me, Lord Orys?” Argella asked after a large gulp of summerwine. “You’ve taken my father’s life, his castle, his title, what’s next?”
He truly had not thought of that part, and he was not ready for that question when she looked at him dead in the eye. Her eyes deep and pure as any fine sapphire, pouring into him, as if with one glance she could tell all his faults and weaknesses. There was no mistaking that there was king’s blood in her.
“Well I hadn’t intended on killing you, if that’s what you thought, princess.”
He could hear her scoff. Argella wiped her hands and mouth on a cloth napkin, suddenly poised and regal. “Of course not,” she said. “If I were my father’s son, perhaps you would. But as I am a woman, it seems raping me and then killing me, or raping me until I die, would seem most appropriate.”
Perhaps King Argilac did not spare any detail of war from his daughter. And Orys did not have an answer for that. He had never intended on raping the princess. But the chances of her believing that were slim. She was much too smart for him.
“Though I assure you,” she continued, “You did not have to bestow kindness before doing it. I was ready.”
That was a lie, he wanted to say. No woman is ready for that. He’d been in this war of conquest long enough to know it.
“If its any consolation,” Orys said instead. “I shan’t take up your father’s title.”
Argella stared at him, trying to find his meaning.
“I do not intend on being crowned Storm King,” he explained. “I suspect Lord of the Stormlands would suffice, do you not think?”
Argella continued to stare at him blankly. “Are you asking my approval?”
Orys suddenly realized how stupid he sounded; asking the king’s daughter what his new title should be of the birthright he’d only just taken from her. “No,” he shook his head with an almost-laugh, “I suppose I’m not.”
Though she did not find it as amusing as he did. When most of the food had gone, and the sun was beginning to set behind the castle, he motioned for a few servants to come over to the table. “Go to your chambers, Princess Argella. Bathe, rest. We shall resume discussions of the political sort at another time.” He tried to not make it sound like an order.
She did not thank him or curtsey, and he did not expect it.
Argella was given the courtesy of being left alone for a few days. The cuts on her the fleshy part of her thighs and stomach had faded into scabs, but the ghost of the constricting tightness of the chains still lingered. Whether she was not allowed out of her chambers, she did not know. Food was brought to her, as were baths every other day. From her balcony she could overlook the ocean and the rocks from which the water crashed upon. She did not want to leave her rooms, even if she were permitted to. When her men stripped her naked, called her things used to even shame whores, and bound her in iron, she resigned her right to care.
If her people were so quick to hand over all that was theirs to some stranger with dragons at his heels, then let them. When he proves to be a failed lord or king or whatever title he chooses for himself, Argella would have the satisfaction of knowing that she was right. Soldiers could not instantly become good rulers. She was trained for this since the day she could understands letters on a page. Everything that the princess spent twenty three long years preparing for was so easily stripped and given to an outsider who did not know these lands nor these people as she did.
And she did not know whether to hate this Orys Baratheon, her betrayers or herself.
After a week of her self-imposed exile, requests began to come from Orys. To dine with him, to take walks. As if she were some ditzy little lady to be courted. Argella refused each time, just wanting to be left alone, and not wanting him to have the satisfaction of thinking that he was worth any of her time. Surely he’d give up, and bring in a girl much younger than he from a minor house.
They’d move into her father’s chambers, she’d wear her mother’s fine jewels and gowns. He’d sit at her father’s desk, they’d rule over the Stormlands and the Durrendon line would die in her chambers like a pouting little child having proved nothing to no one except that she knows how to stay out of the way like an obedient little princess should. And for that, it was enough to hate herself. Why did her father have to die? Why did her men have to betray her. Why did she have to grow up where there’s no one here to tell her what the best decision to make is.
Maester Olwyn came to visit one morning when the skies were grey and black. He had been her maester for as long as she could remember and the only real comfort Argella found in these times. He sought after her health, whether or not she was eating or sleeping. She told him he was fine, knowing that he learned to spot her lies a long time ago.
"Tell me Maester Olwyn. What is Orys Baratheon like?" Argella tried to maintain her disinterest.
"It seems," Olwyn sighed, "That he has found comfort in his new role. But I believe that the people will still see him as the thief that stole your father's throne."
"Good," Argella said bitterly.
"He would like to speak to you, my princess." the old maester said, making her jaw clench. "Of matters he would not disclose to me."
Orys was careful to treat the princess with as much kindness and grace as he could. If he were to mistreat her, how would the people react to this? Would he really start off his reign as the lord of Storm's End with maiming the people's princess? The very least that he could do was give her room to breathe. He had never been stripped and bound as she had, and such an event had to have taken a toll on a woman, most of all. And there was still the grieving over her deceased father that he gave her room for. Storm's End was a large enough castle that if she wanted to stay away from Orys, Argrella would not have to try very hard.
But word reached him from the servants, when he asked after her, that she would not leave her chambers. The maester of the castle, Olwyn suggested inviting her to sup with him, of which she refused over and over again.
"She needs time," the old man said. "She is her father's daughter, stubborn but smart. Let her adjust in her own time."
Orys could do that. Besides, he was a lord now, there were lordly things he needed to attend to anyways instead of a princess who locked herself away. Naturally, ruling over people after a war was not exactly as easy as Aegon made it seem. All men desired power, but what good would that do anything if he did not know how to properly wield it? There were names he couldn't remember, court customs he didn't exactly understand, and he found himself becoming lost within the castle walls on more than one occasion. There were displaced peoples sparced throughout that came to Storm's End looking for help. And through problem after problem, Orys found himself wondering if Argella would have an idea of how to deal with them? If she would tackle them all at one time or deal with them one at a time? If the people would trust her as a ruler or doubt her every word.
He wrote to his best friend, who'd crowned himself the king of the seven kingdoms, expressing his concerns about his current position. Aegon Targaryen wrote back simply, telling him to just marry the princess- get her out of the way, and as a gesture of good faith towards his new peoples.
It seemed like a simple-enough solution in theory. She was quite comely, when he thought back on it. Hair blacker than he'd ever seen on someone with blue eyes more vibrant. She was smaller than he was, but she was strong. Argella did not cower easily, and Orys liked that. He did not know what to do with the young maids who would catch his eye at feasts as they're not the ones you're allowed to just have your way with because they're too high born. Marrying Argella could mean having someone to help him understand the stormlands better. The servants still loved her, even if the soldiers were still ashamed to admit what they'd done. Most of all, she was a ruler the people could listen to.
The only setback was the fact that she hated him. Lucky for her, Orys was not too particularly picky.
He urged the maester to get her to come to sup with him at least once. And though stressing the importance of why he needed to speak with her without giving away too many details about his current predicament, there was still a chance that she would deny him yet again. Of course he could just go to her chambers himself, but there was always that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that it was not his place- he was still an intruder here and he did not belong. So he always stops himself from climbing the stairs and another day passes.
One of the guards opened the door to the solar, announcing that the princess Argella had arrived. It's a good thing Orys remembered to shave and dress properly. The woman that entered was not the she princess that he'd first laid eyes on. No more cuts or bruises. She dressed in fine green silk, with a single braid hanging over her shoulder. Her head was held high as she gave the slightest curtsy, just enough to be courteous. "My lord," the words left her mouth with that same bitter tang that she last spoke to him with.
"My princess," Orys suddenly remembered his manners. "You look lovely this evening. Much more so than the last I saw you."
She cocked an eyebrow before sitting. "I should hope so, my lord. As the last time you saw me I was naked in a cloak with mud and blood upon it."
He did laugh at that, sitting in the space across from her. "You've got me there, princess."
A moment passed between them before she said, "Why do you call me 'princess' still? I am no longer, as you made so sure of it. Surely you have not forgotten already.”
There was something in her voice that did not sound angry or bitter, but just confused. Orys simply shrugged. “I have not met many princesses in my time,” he said. “But I look at you, and you truly are. Title or no.”
Her jaw clenched at his miserable attempt at flattery. It was true though. He had not met many princesses. Despite the company he found himself keeping in the present years, court and royalty had always been a world he did not belong to. Low-born, preferring boiled leathers and good mead to velvets and foreign wines. He was not old, not even thirty. And taller and broader than most men his age. And despite his simplistic nature, found his own gift out of commanding men. You did not have to be born high as the heavens to do that. Just able to understand men, which was not as hard as one might expect.
“The reason I asked you to come tonight is because it seems that when I said that we’d discuss things of a political sort at another time, that time has to be now.” Orys tried to sound as dignified as possible. No flattery, no sugar coated words, just the truth. She sat with her hands in her lap, her jaw clenched, waiting for him to continue.
“I know you hate me for slaying your father,” he then said. “But he knew the risk when he opted not to yield. He might’ve yet kept his life, but instead he chose to meet me on that field and he lost in combat as any soldier would have. No one can say that he died a coward.”
Argella’s face softened a bit, knowing the truth in his words. She had to have known the proposals the dragon king gave; the ones her king father, (The Arrogant some called him), so foolishly disregarded. She was just a girl who missed her father. If Orys had a father to miss, he supposed perhaps maybe he’d feel the same way.
He continued, “You know Storm’s End perhaps better than I ever could. The people, court, what it means to rule the stormlands-”
“So?” she cut him off.
“So marry me, princess,” Orys blurted. Her eyebrows pulled together tightly as she stared at him in disbelief.
“Marry you,” she scoffed, “Why on earth would I-”
“Because you need Storm’s End just as much as it needs you," now it was his turn to cut her off. "I’m not asking for you to love me, but you very well can’t spend the rest of your days locking yourself away where you’re no damned use to anyone.”
Orys wasn’t sure just how candid and blunt he could get away with being, with a girl much more high-born than he. If she’d find him insulting and storm out.
Instead she sat back in her chair, resting her elbows on the arms of it, and said, “For a marriage proposal, that wasn’t very romantic, my lord.”
Orys found himself smirking. “I was never much the romantic type, I’m afraid.”
Argella mulled over the proposal for a few minutes, as the food was being brought out before them. In truth, Orys did not have much of an appetite anymore. And it seemed that she didn’t either. The rain was beginning to pour, there was something eerily comforting about the incredibly bad weather in the stormlands. The oceans seemed to respond ten-fold, swelling and crashing against the castle wall. He once met a sailor from a chain of islands in the North who told him that hard places breed hard men. Surely that could apply to women too, as the the lightning and lightning that shook one of the servants as she walked out, did not phase Argella in the slightest.
“Will you at least consider it?” Orys asked when the room was finally empty again.
“Will you stop calling me ‘princess’?”
“Only if you wish it,” he said taking a sip of whatever was poured into his glass, “princess.”
Argella looked away, rolling her eyes. But he could see the smirk she was trying to stifle, and he thought against commenting on it.
The princess returned to her chambers that night too full and wanting to escape from the bodice that bound just a bit too tight. The feather bed greeted her like an old friend when she eventually collapsed on it. The rain had eased up a bit, but in no time at all, it would surely lull her to sleep. There was never a need for dreamwine or any other concoction to get her to sleep from the maester when a nice storm was present.
She found herself thinking of her dinner with Orys which was truly not as horrible as she was anticipating. Though she honestly did not know what to expect at all from him. He was not born a lord, that much was for certain. But he was not an animal by means. His laugh was a bit too loud, his jokes got all the more terrible the more he drank. Orys’ attempt at flattering her stopped being annoying after a while and almost became endearing. He asked about her upbringing in Storm’s End, where else in Westeros that she traveled, what she preferred to do in her spare time.
Argella thought about his proposal. In truth it was a safe option. Secure her role as the lady of Storm’s End as she was always meant to be anyways, ensure any children she may have and their children and their children will always remain in this place. Would it be so bad if the name Baratheon took the place of Durrendon? Blood is what mattered most of all, and if she had the power to keep hers in Storm’s End, then she should do it, right?
Orys was not very hard to look upon, when he bothered to make himself presentable. He was not old or cruel. He was a soldier, so a lacking in courtly manners could be a forgivable offense. He asked for her hand, did not take what he wanted. He wanted to try.
If it all felt like such an easy decision to make, why did it all sit in the bottom of Argella’s stomach like a betrayal against her house and her blood? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
She did not expect to find Orys in the sept the next morning. It had been the first time she ventured there since her father left for battle- she sat before the Warrior, praying to give him the strength to come home. Same as she knelt before the Mother to make hers well again. Both failed her. It just felt foreign now.
“You didn’t strike me as the religious sort, Lord Orys,” she greeted standing beside him in the center of the room.
When he looked down at her, Argella could feel for the first time just how small she truly was next to him. She barely came up to his shoulder, though she was always considered rather tall for her age. He smiled at her, shifting to one side.
“I can’t entirely say that I am,” he said. “Just curious, I guess.”
Argella found her presence with the Baratheon lord more comfortable this morning, than tense and irritated the night before. For just a moment, she allowed herself to imagine her place by him with the septon before them, binding them in marriage. The idea of it did not feel as insulting as it did before.
“I want to keep my sigil,” Argella said firmly, turning towards him. “And words.”
Orys cocked his head, “What?”
Argella took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “The stag of Durrendon has been the only sigil since the first Storm King. ‘Ours is the fury’, has been the only words as well. They are all I have left, and I wish to keep them.”
Orys looked at her for a moment, before nodding. “Strong words and a strong sigil, princess. I would be honored to call them mine as well.”
“And another thing,” her voice dropped from her authoritative tone. “I never did thank you for what you did for me. You were kind when you did not have to be. A lesser man would not have been as gracious as you were.”
She found herself looking away, as if suddenly a child. Almost embarrassed by having to admit that she was actually grateful for him removing those chains that cut and bruised, and indirectly restored whatever dignity they tried to strip from her. Thinking on it now, she could not imagine marrying any of those men who were so quick to turn to treachery at the first sign of fear. Perhaps that was her own arrogance to believe that loyalty was unconditional.
“I don’t require any thanks, princess,” Orys shook his head, reaching out to take her hand. He smiled when she did not pull away. “Just stay a while.”
And so she did.