Storm's End
A Year Ago
Argella stared at the storm approaching from Shipbreaker Bay from her chambers in Storm's End. The sky was a roiling mass of black and grey clouds, lightning flashing within them like veins of silver fire. The wind howled against the ancient stones, and rain was already beginning to fall. Not the gentle spring rain that brought life, but cold, hard drops that stung like needles.
It was very cold. The rain that fell on her hands and face as she stood at the open window felt like ice, each droplet seeming to leech warmth from her skin. Winter was here, and soon snow would be falling.
Argella shivered, but she did not move away from the window.
She felt empty. Hollow, as if someone had scooped out everything inside her and left only a shell that looked like Argella Durrandon. The world seemed distant, muted, as though she were watching it through thick glass. Colors were less vibrant. Sounds were less sharp. Even the cold rain on her skin felt far away, as if it were happening to someone else.
She went through the motions of living. Waking, dressing, eating when forced. It all felt meaningless, like a puppet repeating rehearsed movements after the puppeteer had lost interest in the play.
The thunder increased in volume, rolling across the bay like the drums of war. Lightning split the sky more frequently now, illuminating the churning waters below in stark flashes of white.
She was Queen now.
The ruler of the Kingdom of the Storm. The legacy of Durran Godsgrief, who had defied the gods themselves and built this castle that had never fallen.
And yet she had less power now as Queen than she had ever had as Princess.
The battle lines were drawn. Her cousins, her male cousins, were prepared to stake their supposed claims on her kingdom.
Ormund Durrandon.
Baldric Durrandon.
Lyonel Durrandon.
All supported by lords who had sworn oaths to her father. Lords who had bent the knee when Argilac proclaimed her his heir. Lords who had promised loyalty unto death.
Oathbreakers.
Traitors.
As soon as her father died, the moment his last breath left his body, many had left Storm's End. They made excuses, claiming they needed to secure their own lands for winter, promising to return soon for her coronation. But they did not return. Instead, they rode to her cousins, choosing sides in the coming civil war.
Only House Estermont had remained truly loyal from the beginning, standing by her when almost everyone else abandoned her.
And Swann.
Lord Edward Swann had arrived only two days ago from the siege of Maidenpool. He came with promises of the Blackwater conquered, boasting that his own son, Edmund, would break the Mootons and return with a victorious army.
Swann was plotting now, in this very castle, in chambers only floors below where she stood. Only a few men remained truly loyal to her now, because Swann had been clever. Very clever. He had sent most of the truly loyal men, the household guards who had served her family for generations, away with the army to the Blackwater. He had sent them to die in a war that was already lost.
Storm's End was now under his control. His men wore Durrandon colors, but answered to Swann's commands. His creatures whispered in corners, watched her movements, and reported her every word back to their master.
She was a prisoner in her own castle, wearing a crown that meant nothing.
"Your Grace."
Argella turned from the window to see her dearest friend, Cassandra Tarth, entering the chamber. Cassandra was tall for a woman, with the sandy blond hair and blue eyes of House Tarth.
"Cass," Argella said, managing something that might have been a smile. "If you call me that in private again, I will have you whipped."
Cassandra smiled at first, but her expression soon grew serious. "Elena has sent word," she said quietly, referring to Elena Fell, one of the three dearest and most trusted friends Argella had. Elena was now back in her father's castle. Lord Fell was a staunch supporter of one of Argella's cousins. "Her father and Ormund plan to begin their march to Storm's End after winter ends. They are gathering their forces now, preparing for war."
"I see," Argella said flatly, feeling nothing at the news that should have terrified her.
Cassandra continued, her voice dropping lower. "She says they will soon release a proclamation. They plan to declare your queenship illegitimate." She paused, struggling with the next words. "The reasons they have prepared are, well, as we expected. That a woman cannot rule. That the Stormlands have never had a queen in her own right. That you are…" She swallowed. "They will call you a whore, Ella. Say that you have bedded… I cannot even repeat it."
Argella's face remained expressionless. She had expected this. It was the same slander used against every woman who dared claim power.
"But there is more," Cassandra said, her voice tight with anger. "They also plan to implicate you as a heretic. They are saying you have fallen for the Leonite heresy, that you have been corrupted by the Sorcerer King in the Heartlands. They have somehow even gotten approval from the High Septon himself, Ella. The Faith will denounce you as a heretic while also declaring your rule illegitimate."
That penetrated the numbness slightly. "The High Septon? How did they manage that?"
"I do not know. But the document bears his seal, or so Eleana says. Whether it is genuine or forged, it will serve their purposes."
"Well," Argella said with dark humor, "I do not think even Swann expected something like that."
"We need to leave, Ella," Cassandra said urgently, stepping closer and taking her hands. "Leave Storm's End. Go to my uncle on Tarth. He is loyal to you. The island is defensible, and—"
"Is he?" Argella interrupted, pulling her hands away. "Is he truly loyal, Cass? At this point, I do not know who to trust anymore."
She turned back to the window, watching the storm. "I trusted so many of these lords. Men who swore oaths to my father, who smiled at me in court, who called me their rightful queen. And now they stand with my cousins, ready to tear my kingdom apart." Her voice cracked slightly. "I am beginning to doubt myself. Maybe I am not as good at this as I thought I was. Maybe I naively believed I had support where I had none."
"Do not say that," Cassandra said fiercely. "Do not let them make you doubt yourself, Ella. You are your father's daughter. You have every right—"
They were interrupted by the arrival of Maria Estermont, another of Argella's ladies and one of the few people she still trusted. "Lord Marshal Swann has requested for an audience with you, Argella. He awaits you in the throne room."
Argella and Cassandra looked at each other.
Ah yes 'requested' more like 'commanded'.
"Did he say what about?" Argella asked, though she already knew.
Cassandra chimed in, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I believe this is the part where he tells you of your traitorous cousins, Ella. How they are gathering their armies and planning to attack. And then he will magnanimously offer his support, if you marry Edmund."
"The court is assembling in the throne room," Maria added quietly. "He plans to make a show of it. He wants everyone to see him positioning himself as your savior."
Argella closed her eyes briefly, gathering what little strength she had left. Then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and forced her face into a mask of royal composure.
"Well," she said, her voice steady despite the hollowness inside, "let us get this over with, then."
=========
Argella made her way to the throne room, dressed as a queen should be.
She wore a gown of midnight blue velvet trimmed with cloth of gold, the colors of House Durrandon. The dress was cut to emphasize her figure while maintaining royal dignity. Around her shoulders hung a cloak of ermine, white as fresh snow, fastened with a brooch bearing the crowned black stag.
Upon her head sat her mother's crown, the one she had been crowned with. It was delicate compared to her father's war crown, wrought of silver rather than steel and set with sapphires that matched her eyes. Her mother had worn it at her own coronation as queen consort, and now Argella wore it as the Queen.
She was followed by both her friends, Cassandra Tarth walking at her right and Maria Estermont at her left, and the few supporters who remained. Lord Estermont himself, looking old and worried. A handful of minor knights who had stayed loyal. Courtiers who had nowhere else to go, or who were waiting to see which way the wind blew before choosing sides.
They reached the great doors of the throne room. The guards pushed them open, and the court herald stepped forward, his voice ringing out through the chamber.
"Her Grace, Argella of House Durrandon, First of Her Name, Queen of the Storm, Lady of Storm's End, Shield of the Marches, Defender of the Realm!"
The titles felt hollow. Meaningless.
Argella entered with her head held high, forcing her face into a mask of royal composure. Everyone inside the throne room bowed. Some deeply, with genuine respect. Others perfunctorily, barely lowering their heads.
Near the throne stood Lord Edward Swann himself, and the sight of him made something cold settle in Argella's stomach.
He looked far too pleased with himself. His expression was one of barely concealed satisfaction, of a man who believed his plans were coming to fruition. He wore fine clothes, not quite as rich as they should have been for a Lord Marshal, but carefully chosen to project both martial authority and courtly refinement. His grey-streaked hair was neatly combed, his beard trimmed.
Argella wanted to strike that smug expression from his face.
She walked forward with measured steps, her ladies trailing behind her, and ascended the dais. The Storm King's throne was ancient and imposing, carved from a single massive piece of dark stone. It was unadorned except for the crowned stag carved into its back, yet it radiated power simply by existing.
Argella sat, arranging her skirts with practiced grace, and fixed Swann with a cool gaze.
"Lord Marshal," she said, her voice carrying through the chamber. "You requested this audience. Do not keep us waiting."
Swann bowed deeply, too deeply, making a show of his supposed loyalty. "Your Grace, I have received very troubling reports. Reports that concern the safety of your person and the security of your realm."
He paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. Argella wanted to tell him to get on with it, but she remained silent, playing her part.
"I have learned," Swann continued, his voice taking on a grave tone, "of a conspiracy most foul. A plot by those who would steal your rightful throne." He turned to address the court, his voice rising. "Baldric Durrandon, Lyonel Durrandon, and Ormund Durrandon, Her Grace's own cousins, are planning to claim your throne for themselves!"
Gasps erupted from Swann's sycophants and supporters in the court, as if they were hearing this shocking news for the first time. Argella resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Everyone knew of her cousins' ambitions. This performance was for show, meant to position Swann as her loyal protector.
Swann continued his dramatic revelation, drawing it out with practiced skill. "Baldric Durrandon is supported by the southern lords and House Connington, who control our coastal defenses. Ormund Durrandon has the backing of House Fell and the northern Stormlander houses, our strongest military forces. And Lyonel Durrandon, though weaker, is supported by House Caron and several minor lords who believe a male heir, any male heir, is preferable to a queen."
"The GALL of those traitorous currs," he added loudly and firmly.
He placed his hand over his heart. "But House Swann stands steadfast in support of you, my Queen. We alone remain loyal to your father's wishes, to the rightful succession." His voice grew stronger. "As soon as our armies are led back by my son, Edmund, we shall personally lead them to crush these traitors. Every man who dares challenge your right will answer to Stormlander steel!"
Cheers erupted from the courtiers.
Ah yes, your son, Argella thought with barely suppressed hatred. Your incompetent, worthless son, whom you have positioned to be my jailer husband.
She hated Swann. Hated him with an intensity that surprised her, cutting through the numbness that had claimed her.
"This is very troubling indeed, Lord Marshal," Argella said, keeping her voice measured. "I would like to see more evidence of these claims before taking action. But I thank you for your loyalty and vigilance in these difficult times."
Swann smiled, taking her measured response as encouragement. He moved closer to the throne, lowering his voice slightly, but ensuring the court could still hear every word.
"Your Grace, if I may. To strengthen your rule, to show the realm and these traitors that you have powerful support," he paused meaningfully, "it would be wise for our houses to be joined. United in purpose and in blood."
More gasps rippled through the court, though these sounded more genuine. Here it was, the proposal they had all been waiting for.
"The great King Argilac, your father of blessed memory, wished our houses to be joined together," Swann continued, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "He wanted my firstborn, my heir Edmund, to marry you, my Queen. To unite the prowess of House Swann with the royal blood of House Durrandon. But alas…" He bowed his head sorrowfully. "He passed before this union could be formalized."
Argella gripped the throne tighter.
Swann and the court looked to her for an answer, expectant faces waiting for her to accept the inevitable, to bow to necessity and agree to marry Edmund Swann.
Argella was silent. She could not bring herself to speak, could not force words of agreement past her lips, even though she knew she could not refuse.
The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable, tension building in the throne room.
Then they were interrupted by the maester running in.
Maester Harris burst through the side door, his grey robes in disarray, his face flushed from exertion or distress, or both. He clutched a rolled parchment in his shaking hands.
"How dare you!" Swann roared, his careful composure shattering. "Your interruption is—"
"My lord, I must—" Harris tried to speak.
Lord Estermont stepped forward, his aged face grave. "Let the maester speak, Swann. He would not interrupt unless the matter were urgent."
"I have received word from Maidenpool," Harris said, his voice shaking.
Swann's anger transformed instantly into a smile of triumph. He turned to the court, spreading his arms. "Aha, tell the court, Maester. Tell them how Her Grace's great army, true and loyal, has secured the Blackwater lands for us once more. Tell Her Grace and her court of my son's victory."
"But my lord, it would be best if I speak to you in priv—" Harris began, his face pale.
Argella saw the maester's almost panicked expression, the way his hands trembled as he held the letter. Something was very wrong.
Did Edmund fall? The thought brought a faint smile to her lips.
Before Swann could silence the maester or dismiss the court, Argella spoke with royal authority. "Tell us, Maester Harris. Whatever news you bring, we will hear it now."
"But Your Grace," Harris said, looking at her desperately.
"Tell us," Argella commanded, her voice sharp as a blade.
Maester Harris swallowed hard, then unrolled the parchment with trembling hands and began to read.
"It is from Lord Galadon Tarth, Your Grace. He writes: 'To Queen Argella Durrandon, I write with news of grave defeat. The war in the Blackwater is lost. Harald Stormcrown, King of the Heartlands, invaded our positions with his great legion. He defeated Lord Dondarrion and myself in battle at Antlers, routing five thousand men with only a thousand of his own forces.'"
The court was utterly silent, shock rippling through the assembled lords and ladies.
Harris continued, his voice growing steadier as he read. "'The King then marched on Maidenpool, where Lord Edmund Swann commanded the siege with ten thousand men. What I say now is the truth as I saw it with my own eyes. King Harald brought the might of the storm itself upon the army, calling lightning from the heavens, commanding thunder and wind as if the Storm God himself fought at his side. The defeat was total. The Blackwater is lost. The Heartlands have claimed it entirely. I have been spared and now return home with what few men left. Lord Dondarrion does the same. We can offer no further resistance.'"
There was absolute silence in the chamber. No one moved. No one breathed.
Swann stood frozen, his mouth open, his face drained of color. "What did you say?" he whispered.
"Lord Tarth writes that the war is lost, my lord," Harris repeated quietly. "The heretic king invaded and won. Decisively."
"What of my son?" Swann's voice was barely audible. "He was leading the siege. He had ten thousand men. Edmund was the commander. He would have… Where is my son?"
Harris looked at Swann with something like pity. "He is gone, my lord. Lord Tarth writes of his death. He fell during the battle. I am sorry."
Swann's reaction was immediate and visceral. His face went from pale to grey, his eyes widening in shock. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. His hands began to shake.
Then his knees buckled.
The Lord Marshal of the Stormlands fell to the ground, catching himself on his hands, his carefully maintained composure shattered entirely. Many rushed to him. His supporters, his household knights, courtiers trying to help, or perhaps simply trying to place themselves near the suddenly vulnerable power broker.
The throne room erupted into chaos. People shouted, cried, demanded more information, and tried to understand what this meant for the kingdom, for themselves, for their futures.
But Argella remained on her throne, watching.
And she smiled.
It was a terrible smile, cold and sharp, the smile of someone who had been drowning and had suddenly found air. She felt glee, pure and vicious glee, at seeing Swann and his court of sycophants in this state. For the first time since her father died, she did not feel powerless. A brand new door had opened before her, and she was eager to see where it would lead.